#one step away from dishonorable discharge

[bressynonym]

Clover!!!! 🍀

my combat medic oc who runs a tight ship in the medbay on base!! will def make it hurt!! hehe

bonus guy 🔽 🪙 lol

[beloveds-embrace]

(Poly 141 x farmer reader: John gets dishonorably discharged, and finds a new purpose in accepting your farm job advertisement, and the rest of the taskforce task force slowly mould themselves into your life

This was inspired by @devil-in-hiding’s wonderful, amazing On the Run series! Make sure to send her and the fic so, so much love! 💕💞💕 truthfully, this isn’t much and it definitely didn’t turn out the way I hoped it would, but I still hope it’ll be enjoyable <33)

The creak of old wood and the faint hum of bees in the garden welcomed John as he stepped onto the porch of the small farmhouse. His boots, scuffed and caked with dried mud, felt heavier than ever, broad shoulders sagging under the invisible weight he carried. The sharp scent of freshly tilled earth and blooming wildflowers should have been a comfort, but John barely noticed it among all the thoughts swirling within his head.

It had been weeks since the dishonorable discharge (as if he’d ever leave his own men behind. As if.) , weeks of wandering aimlessly, a hollow shell of himself. The military had been his life, his purpose, and to be stripped of it so publicly left him untethered. The scars he’d accumulated over decades of service seemed trivial compared to this- the one wound he couldn’t bandage, couldn't let heal so it could turn to a forgotten scab.

The farm job advertisement he’d found on the bulletin board of a dingy diner while aimlessly driving had been a last-ditch effort. He needed something- anything- to keep his hands busy and his mind from spiraling.

And now here he was, standing at your door.

When you answered, he was struck silent for a moment. You weren’t what he had expected. A soft curve of a smile greeted him, paired with eyes that seemed to hold the warmth of the sun itself. Your frame was wrapped in a well-worn but clean dress, your body curvy and full in a way that instantly set you apart from the wiry, hardened edges of his old world. There was something disarming about the way you stood there, your hands dusted with flour, your hair slightly mussed from whatever you’d been working on before he arrived.

You were what he’d worked so hard to protect. To keep from seeing the horrors that were kept hidden from the larger public.

“You must be John Price,” you said, your voice soft but firm, like the lull of rain against a tin roof. You offered him a hand, strong but gentle, calloused with years of hardwork. “I’m glad you came. I’ve been needing some help around here.”

John nodded stiffly, his voice rasping from disuse. “Happy to help.” He said simply, though the words felt foreign in his mouth.

You studied him for a moment, taking in the set of his jaw and the way his blue eyes seemed darker than they should have been. You didn’t press, didn’t ask why he was here or what had brought him to your quiet corner of the world. Instead, you gestured for him to follow you as you began pointing out the work that needed doing.

The farm was modest but well-kept, with rolling fields of golden wheat and neat rows of vegetables that hinted at how hard you worked to keep everything running. Your tone shifted as you explained things, clear and confident as you outlined his responsibilities- though you had those written in the ad as well, and so he knew what to expect. There was no hesitation in the way you moved, and John found himself admiring the way your body seemed made for this life- strong and soft, with a natural grace that made him feel clumsy in comparison. A foreign feeling to him.

The work was grueling, but John threw himself into it with a determination that surprised even him. Fences were mended, fields were tilled, and hay was hauled, the strain in his muscles a welcome distraction from the heaviness in his chest, the daily routine providing a purpose he’d been searching for. You worked alongside him every day, your hands as dirty as his by the end of it. You didn’t shy away from the harder tasks, your body bending and lifting with an ease that left him stealing glances when you weren’t looking.

It didn’t take long for you to notice the cracks in him, though. The way his eyes seemed haunted in the quieter moments, or how he would pause, his hands clenching into fists as if fighting off a memory. He wasn’t sleeping well- you could tell by the dark circles under his eyes and the way he moved in the mornings, sluggish and stiff, gratefully accepting the tea you’d make. He wouldn’t talk about it, but you saw the weight he carried, and it broke something in you.

You began helping him in your own quiet way. A warm, full plate of food at the end of a long day, a soft blanket folded neatly on the porch swing when you knew he’d sit there at night. You didn’t pry, but you’d offer him small comforts, like the way you’d linger for a moment longer when handing him a glass of water, letting your fingers brush his.

“You’re doing good work here, John,” you told him one evening as you set a plate of stew in front of him. Your voice was gentle, though it left no room for argument. “Thank you. I’m glad it was you who came by.”

He grunted in response, but the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He appreciated your kindness, though he didn’t know how to express it. He couldn’t shake the way you made him feel- not just useful, but seen.

The first visitor arrived a few weeks later, just as you were finishing up the morning chores. Simon- whom John introduced as Ghost, military callsigns were strange to you- was as imposing as his name suggested, his tall frame and masked face almost startling you when you turned the corner of the barn.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, low and gravelly. His dark eyes studied you carefully, as if trying to assess whether you were friend or foe. “Heard John was here. Wanted to check on him.”

Simon stayed, though he didn’t say why and you didn’t ask. At first, it seemed like he was just there to make sure John was alright, but soon enough, he was pitching in, fixing broken tools and hauling heavy loads with an ease that belied his quiet nature. He was efficient and methodical, and your german shepherd dog, Riley, adored him from the get-go.

You noticed the way he watched you, his gaze lingering when you didn’t think he’d notice. Simon had a way of positioning himself near you, as if he could ward off any harm just by being close. He’d take over heavy tasks without you asking, broad shoulders and strong hands making easy work of things that left you breathless when John was busy doing something else.

The rain brought Kyle “Gaz” Garrick to your doorstep after Simon, his clothes soaked through and his face muted with exhaustion. He knocked once, and when you opened the door, his lopsided grin and the sparkle in his brown eyes immediately disarmed you.

“You must be the saint putting up with Price,” he’d joked, though his voice was warm as you fluttered and flitted about to bring him some towels, warm food and a chance to warm up. “Mind if I dry off before I drown?”

Kyle brought a lightness to the farm that you hadn’t even known had been missing, his laughter and teasing filling the air like birdsong. He quickly took to the work, his lean frame surprisingly strong as he helped with everything from repairing the chicken coop to plowing the fields. But you caught the way his eyes softened whenever he looked at you, his smile lingering when you were near, and especially bright whenever you’d poke back at him.

“You sure you’re not too soft for this kind of work, Garrick?” you teased after he groaned about the weight of a hay bale, hands on your hips.

“Soft?” he shot back, flexing an arm, and then he winked at you. “These are prime muscles, love. And don’t think I haven’t noticed how you keep sneakin’ looks.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed at the accusation, and Kyle smirked.

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish arrived with the same energy as a summer storm, his laughter echoing through the fields before you even saw him. “Hope you’ve got room for one more!” he declared, his broad grin making you smile despite yourself.

Johnny was impossible to ignore, his enthusiasm infectious. He worked tirelessly, his hands calloused but gentle as he helped. He had a way of making you laugh, his jokes and compliments leaving your cheeks warm more often than not.

He immediately took to helping you with the animals especially, affectionately naming every goat and chicken, and teasing you about how they seemed to follow you everywhere.

“It’s because they know a good soul when they see one.” he said one evening, brushing hay from your hair. His fingers lingered a second too long before he pulled back, and you pretended your smile wasn’t bashful and your heart wasn’t thudding faster than baby goats running to drink their milk bottles.

The four of them fell into an easy rhythm just like that, their camaraderie seamless, and you truly understood just how close of a unit they must have been.

But what you didn’t notice was the way they watched over you. Whether it was John stepping in to take a heavy load from your hands or Simon silently following you to make sure you were safe, they all seemed to share an unspoken agreement to protect you.

And then there was the way they looked at you- not just with admiration, but with something deeper. John admired the way you carried yourself, your curves soft yet strong, a quiet confidence in every step. Simon found himself drawn to your steadiness, your calm presence soothing the chaos in his mind. Kyle loved your kindness, the way you always seemed to know what they needed without asking. And Johnny? Johnny adored everything about you, from your laugh to the way your body moved with an effortless grace.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, you all sat on the porch, the scent of freshly cut hay hanging in the air.

“You’ve all been such a big help,” you said, your voice soft and happy as you looked at them, Riley curled near your feet. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

John’s eyes met Simon’s, and Kyle and Johnny exchanged a glance.

“We’re not going anywhere,” John said finally, his voice steady. “Not if you’ll have us.”

You smiled, a warmth spreading through your chest as you looked out at the fields.

You had�� truly never expected your precious little farm to become such a sanctuary for others as it was for you, but you were glad. It meant you were doing something right.

Something very right, going by the way you caught them looking at you.

At first, you hadn’t thought much of it. You were used to glances- it came with being a little softer, a little curvier than most women. People always seemed to look a little longer than they needed to, whether out of judgment or admiration, though you’d long since stopped trying to figure out which.

But this? This was different.

John’s gaze lingered when he thought you wouldn’t notice, sharp blue eyes tracing the curve of your hips and the swell of your thighs as you bent to collect eggs or reached up to pull a stubborn weed. When your skirts brushed your legs in the breeze, you swore you saw his jaw tighten, the flicker of something restrained in his expression before he turned back to whatever task he’d assigned himself for the day.

Simon was harder to read, but not impossible. He was quiet, his eyes shadowed under the brim of his cap or the mask he still occasionally wore out of habit, but there was a weight to the way he watched you. He never let you out of his sight if he could help it, always a step behind you when you carried something too heavy, his broad frame so steady and reliable it made your breath catch sometimes. When your hands brushed- accidentally, at first- he didn’t pull away quickly like most men would. Instead, he lingered just long enough for you to notice, just long enough to make you wonder how it would feel to have his fingers dig into your softness.

Kyle was far less subtle. He flirted openly, grinning whenever he managed to make you blush, which was often. He’d find any excuse to compliment you- how strong you were, how beautiful your smile was, how lovely your hair looked in the sunlight. It was playful at first, but then came the moments when his teasing turned quiet, almost tender, like when he brushed dirt off your cheek or tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His hands always hovered, careful but close enough to leave you wondering if he’d reach for you properly if you just gave him the smallest sign.

And Johnny? Johnny was a walking storm of affection. He wasn’t shy about how much he adored you. From the way he complimented your cooking- “I swear, love, you’re a magician in that kitchen”- to how he always seemed to find a reason to be near you, even when he wasn’t working. He’d lean against the doorframe, arms crossed and a crooked grin on his face as he watched you knead dough or arrange flowers in a vase. And then there were the touches- small, fleeting things, like his hand on the small of your back as he passed by or the way his fingers grazed yours when he handed you tools.

You’d been blind to it at first, convincing yourself it was just gratitude for the work, for the meals, for the home you’d offered them. But as the days stretched into weeks and their gazes grew heavier, their presence closer, it became harder and harder to ignore the truth.

They admired you.

Not just as a caretaker or a friend, but as something more- something deeper.

It was there in the way John’s voice softened when he spoke to you, the way Simon’s posture shifted when anyone unfamiliar stepped onto the property, putting himself between you and whatever potential threat he saw. It was in the way Kyle’s jokes always seemed to circle back to how lovely you looked doing even the simplest things, and the way Johnny’s laughter died in his throat whenever you smiled at him just a little too long.

And the realization left you flustered- unsure of what to do with the warmth that bloomed in your chest whenever they lingered too close or brushed against you without meaning to.

They all cared for you, and in a way that went far beyond just gratitude.

The knowledge sent your heart racing whenever one of them looked at you like that- like you were something precious, something worth protecting. Like you were worth staying for.

And maybe- just maybe- you were ready to let them.

[ghostlysoaps]

With barely a sound

Inspiration courtesy of @fludderpy and this artwork + snippet of theirs cont. where they left off. tw: explicit. 🔞 read at your on discretion.

Perhaps that's why he says it. To bring a sense of normalcy, a taste of their regular banter, the back-and-forth they'd perfected over months of missions together, into a still-life picture taken from a magazine. Or maybe it's as simple as him having little to no filter in the early mornings – whether they're in the field or on base. Words never fail to crawl their way out of his throat then, when he's at his most vulnerable, and what slips out always seems to be steeped in longing.

"D'ye wan' some help?"

He expects Ghost to sigh. Perhaps, if he plays into John's stupid game, he'd ask him to fetch Gaz for him as if Soap isn't well aware who his favourite sergeant is. Tell him to get fucked if he'd woken up on the wrong side of the sleeping bag.

"Alright."

Ghost drawls it, warps the first letter with his gravelly baritone until it resembles an o. And as if it were a siren's song, John takes an unconscious step forward. Towards the steam billowing from the cracked open door where a floorboard creaks. Ghost's hands still where they'd been rubbing over his face, one-quarter profile hidden in shadow. Through the gaps in his fingers, John finds him staring back at him with brown eyes so dark they rival the colours he wears.

Trembling, Soap undoes the velcro strap of his throat mic. It's too loud in a world holding its breath. As is the clink of his belt buckle. The swish of his shirt being dragged off. The rasp of jeans kicked to the side. 

He stands naked in the hall, teetering on the threshold under Ghost's burning gaze, unsure of what's expected of him.

Ghost tilts his head in a wordless beckoning and Soap heeds his call as if it were an order in the field.

The door clicks shut behind him but Soap pays it no mind. Even if it had been thrown wide open he wouldn't have cared, dishonorable discharge be damned. All that matters is Simon. Simon, who seems to falter in his confidence when Johnny draws near, as if John doesn't think him the most beautiful man in the world. Holding his breath when they're face to face as though Johnny wouldn't kiss him through his mask if that was the only way to have him.

He cups Simon's cheeks, strokes his thumbs over his cheekbones and the smeared paint there. Trailing his fingers further up, John rubs them through the suds in Simon's hair before bringing them back down again to work the stubborn grease off his skin – warm and malleable under John's attention. Even the scars are soft to the touch. He traces over them in silent awe. Drinks him in while Simon's heavy-lidded eyes return the favour, looking at John as if he'd been crafted by Pygmalion himself.

Simon's lips part. They're tinged a delicate pink, like that of peaches at the height of ripeness. Soap kinda wishes to take them between his teeth too. Lick at his saliva to see if it tastes as sweet as fruit juice when the rind breaks.

But he falters for too long and Simon shoulders the burden of command with the ease of expectation. He starts massaging shampoo into John's hair and scalp. Firm, short circles that liquify his brain right in the cradle of his skull. The world goes black and when it aligns itself again, Simon is smirking at him. Teeth glinting and charmingly crooked.

Soap blinks his bleary eyes with a dazed smile and steps into the spray of water to rinse himself off. He bats Simon's hands away when they reach for him again to lather his own and run them down the ladder of Simon's ribs. It earns him a full-bodied shudder. A gasp as light as the beat of a dragonfly's wing. John draws no attention to it as he learns what the curves of Simon's body feels like. Afraid to shatter the fragility of the moment.

There's an understated sort of intimacy to learn one another's bodies this way, rather than in the heat of passion. John finds he quite likes it. Delighting in every twitch and shiver he elicits from his lieutenant. It's what he'd imagine plucking at the strings of an instrument would be like whilst haltingly teaching himself the best way to make it sing.

Every sigh and hitched gaps and quiet groan are stowed away in his memory. Johnny finds a particularly sensitive spot to worry, right where Simon's glutes meet his pelvis, and tries to see if it has a mirror on his left side.

By the way he twitches as if he'd dipped his fingertips into an electric socket, Johnny figures he does.

He pets over the dark blond fuzz at the apex of Simon's thighs, entreating, in askance, never dipping below the invisible line drawn in the sand until Simon nods at his unspoken question.

When he wraps a perfunctory hand around Simon's prick, he finds it swollen and hot. He doesn't mean to linger. Sets to cleaning it in the same detached manner he would his own when it thickens further in his grasp. Besides, Simon sighs all sweet and saccharine, grasping Johnny around the waist to guide him closer. There's no denying, pressed close as they are, that John has taken an interest too.

His own cock is dripping like a leaking tap, curving towards his belly, flushed a ruddy pink at the tip. He stares at it in abject betrayal right up until it disappears within pale fingers.

John hitches a moan and tucks his face into the faded motif of Simon's tattoo. It's not a comfortable perch. His shoulder is too defined to be of use so he shifts to bury his face in the crook of Simon's neck instead. Beneath a wafer-thin layer of skin, his pulse is beating a mile a minute and tastes like generic soap under Johnny’s lips. Not that he's able to focus very hard on anything other than Simon doing his damndest to wring his soul out through his dick.

Clumsy with desire, John returns the favour. Composes his own symphony from the sounds Simon makes nestled in the background noise of slick skin and pattering water.

They come like that. Twined together like two vines racing up a brick facade. Tilts his head at the very last second to muffle his cry against Simon's lips, to kiss him as if the air from his lungs is what Johnny needs to breathe. Swallows the reverberating groan he receives in response with helpless gratitude.

They weather the aftershocks together, still mapping each other's mouths – alternating chaste presses of lips with twining tongues. Their own corner of the world, painstakingly culminated from stolen glances and yearning, kept under wraps by the skin of their teeth.

"Come home with me," Johnny whispers, heart bared and bloody for Simon to gawk at.

Simon merely kisses the delicate patch of skin below Johnny’s earlobe and taps a repeating rhythm up and down Johnny’s spine until they're forced apart by the world at large and its expectations for them. Back to the exfil point where Nik is waiting, back to relaxing against the enforced hull of his helicopter, back to another grueling assignment halfway around the world. But through it all, Johnny grins bright enough to rival the roiling magma at the earth's core, fingertips dancing a familiar beat under Ghost's watchful eye.

– – –  – • –

O.K.

[ljz002-world]

Verdun and Somme, Part 4

Thomas eyes widened slightly while Finn and Michael looked almost disgusted, they knew atrocities were committed during the war, but that was wretched. Doing something so horrendous to someone like Y/N, she seemed like such a king soul, such a sweet girl. How could any man sleep soundly knowing he had done something like that? “How’d you know?”, Finn asked Arthur who looked down at the floor as he answered, “Saw it when she was wiping down some counters, she put her hair up, thought she was alone. I saw it. Two metal bars on her right ear.” “Did any of you three take any trophies?”, Pol asked the three oldest, John and Arthur shook their heads while Tommy looked at his aunt, “Some of my men had one I think. I’ll be back”, with that Thomas left the house and made his way to the Garrison where he found Y/N, her right ear covered by her hair as usual, no other patrons were in the pub. “Mr Shelby”, the girl smiled softly at the man.

“Show me.” “Huh?” “Show me your ear.” Y/N took a shaky breath, now was her time to act. She removed the band holding her hair together and let it fall naturally, Thomas walked closer to her, stepping behind the bar and walking until Y/N could feel his breath hitting her forehead. The second oldest Shelby man raised his hand to remove her hair from her right ear, seeing the two metal studs in her upper ear. “I’m a soldier, I was in France, I know of the meaning of those.” Y/N took a shaky breath as she looked up, “And now?” “And now I want you to tell me when, and where”, Thomas leaned a bit back, resting his hands on his hips as he looked at the young woman in expectancy. “It’s a long story-“ “We have time and alcohol.”

Y/N took a shaky breath but nodded, “I took my brother’s place in the army, my parents had me and a boy, I was a difficult baby so they gave me to my uncle when I was old enough to not need my mother’s milk anymore. He raised me, and then the war started, my parents were back, well my mother, my father had died years before that. My mother came to me and asked me to volunteer in my brother’s name as he was engaged to some rich girl who didn’t want him gone and in the war. I signed up in my brother’s name, cut off my hair and joined the army. My brother died during the war of some illness. While I fought at the frontlines. The first time was at Verdun, my division was caught by the British, they wanted to execute us all. But before that they wanted to rob us of all honor by raping us. Not because they wanted to explicitly, just because they could. They found I was a girl then. Shot my men dead, and kept me for a bit, gave me the first stud.”

Thomas was shocked at the girl’s words. She did not look like someone who had served. Not only because she was a woman, but more so because of how weak she looked. Looked like she couldn’t even hold a rifle without her arms shaking. But she continued after having taken another deep breath, “I ran away from them, killed three without a weapon, and two with their weapons, I took one of my comrades uniform as mine was torn, returned to my comrades and told them they had tortured me for information for the battle. That was what I told them why I was kept alive, I had bandaged my ear, told them they cut piece of it off. Then I was moved to the Somme, the first battle there was hell. Maybe even worse than Verdun. I fought again, and then the ground blew up behind us, caging us in with even more Brits. They wanted to do the same again. Had heard that there was a woman under the Germans. There I got my second stud.” “How’d you get out there?” “I killed them, ten men, and hid. I returned to my comrades but by then they had already told my sergeant. I was sent home, honorably discharged they said, because I did fight a lot and even earned medals, but never received them because I was a woman. Told me to be happy I was honorably discharged and not dishonorably or even executed for defying orders and signing up when I was a woman.”

“Men that hurt you survived the war. Right?” “Yes.” “The war was hard on us all, but nobody should go through that.”

Y/N was shocked, even now, Thomas did not recognize her. She just nodded as the man wanted to leave the pub. To leave the girl with an insatiable rage against the man and all of his soldiers. “Mr. Shelby.” “Yes?” “You won’t tell anyone, right?” “I don’t even tell me brothers about my plans until the day of. Your secret is safe with me.” Y/N just nodded as the man left the pub, the girl dropping her big teary eyes and shaking voice as she scoffed before tossing a cloth onto the other side of the counter before tying her apron off and hanging it up on the wall.

=

Y/N was in her rather small home, standing before the stove as she was cooking some broth her aunt used to make for her back when she was a small child. Humming the melody of a lullaby as she slightly swayed to the memories of her childhood. It hadn’t been an easy one, of course not, but it had its happy memories.

Memories she did not share with her parents but instead with her uncle and aunt, the people who had truly raised her, raised her and still denied her access to their home when she had told them about what had been done to her in the war. Sometimes she felt sad about it, but then she remembered how freely she was able to life now, earning her own money and not being dependent on any man. Back at home she was dependent on her uncle, he had planned for her to marry one of his colleagues, then she would’ve been  dependent on that man. But now? Now she wasn’t dependent on anyone else.

Rushed knocks ripped the young woman out of her reality, causing her to rush to the door, wooden spoon still in hand as she ripped the door open, letting the droplets of the rain into her home. Before her stood Thomas Shelby, drenched from the rain and holding a suspiciously large briefcase in one hand. “Can I come in?”, Thomas asked, and he usually wasn’t one to ask to enter one’s home. “Y-Yeah Mr. Shelby”, Y/N stuttered, moving to the side to let the man enter, he removed his cap and coat, hanging them in the entry-way, following the girl into her kitchen where he observed her closely. Watching how she returned to stirring the broth as he was standing inside of the door-frame. “What’re you cooking?” “Chicken-broth, helps the immune system, I’m not used to the rainy weather you have up here. Want me to make you a plate as well?” “That’d be lovely”, Thomas spoke calmly, watching how the girl poured the broth into two sunken in plates.

“Can I ask why you’re here Mr. Shelby?”, Y/N asked, breaking the deafening silence between the two. The man looked up from his plate, noticing how she still kept her hair covering her right ear, “This is good broth.” The girl just let a sigh out as she shook her head, “Why are you here Mr. Shelby?” “Was it just British soldiers?”, he asked, gesturing to the girl’s ear, causing the girl to lower her gaze as she was chewing on the inside of her cheek before slowly nodding. “Verdun and the Somme, right?” Another nod came from the girl. “Which months?” Y/N looked up with confusion, “February to July in Verdun, July to November at the Somme.” Thomas nodded calmly, “Don’t tell a soul what I’ll tell you, eh?” Y/N nodded unsure of the man’s next words. “I know that you know that I served in the war as well, I’m a Sergeant Major. I know where which men served. I’ll take care of it.” “Why should I not-“ “I’m not a nice man Y/N. I’m anything but a nice man. Can’t have people knowing I’m showing some empathy.”

[wordsonamission]

hi! can I request Icemav 7 of 14 for the kiss prompts please?

Thanks so much! Sorry for the delay, these ran away with me and got a lot longer than I had originally planned. I hope you like what I ended up writing!

7 – Forehead against forehead

Ice usually found these sorts of places vaguely claustrophobic. A bit rich, coming from someone who made a career out of living with thousands in a floating sardine can, but there was a difference between carrier living and the way that a club’s atmosphere affected every one of his senses. The throb of the music’s bass reverberated in his stomach, the strobing lights gave him a headache, and the endless crush of bodies touching and sweating and writhing together was sensory overload hell.

He retreated out to the patio. His fingers itched to reach for the pack of cigarettes that he no longer carried. A promise was a promise, and he couldn’t go back on a pinkie promise to someone as doe eyed as seven-year-old Bradley Bradshaw. The boy was right, it was a dangerous and disgusting habit, but Ice had always needed something to fiddle between his fingers and the nicotine took a nice edge off of situations like this. Thankfully there were only a couple of smokers on the patio to tempt him with the scent.

“Wolf said I’d find you out here.”

Ice rolled his eyes but didn’t turn. He hoped the night sky would hide the flush on his cheeks that bloomed every time Maverick tucked himself into Ice’s personal space so confidently.

“There’s a bit too much going on in there,” Ice admitted finally. “And it’s not like I want to watch Wolf and Wood go at it in public like that. They have no decency.”

Maverick snorted. “That’s fair. But they’re really happy.” Ice pretended not to hear the wistfulness in his tone.

 “Of all of us, I’m surprised that they’re the first to get out,” Ice said as Maverick stayed silent.

“Wood said he didn’t think he’d pass the sight test anymore.” Mav’s voice was down to nearly a whisper. “But while I guess that could be true, it’s gonna be a lot easier for both of them if they aren’t living with threat of dishonorable discharge dangling over their head every day.”

Ice wet his suddenly dry lips. Now he was the one scanning to make sure they weren’t being overheard. The four other people on the patio weren’t paying any attention, three were chatting with each other and the fourth was heading back inside. Still, his jaw ticked. “There’s always risk.”

“They can actually live together,” Maverick breathed, watching Ice’s face closely.

Ice squirmed under the attention, twisting his lips downward bitterly. “Just because they’re out of the military, that doesn’t mean they’re safe. You know that as well as I do.”

“Still,” Maverick shrugged, “it’s a chance.” He wet his lips, looking up at Ice through his lashes. “D’you think we’ll ever get a chance?”

Ice’s heart lurched. The words were right on the tip of his tongue – no, they wouldn’t ever get to live the way they wanted. Unless a lot of things changed about society, their love would always have to be a dirty little secret, the ticking time bomb that threatened their security and happiness. But Maverick was a dreamer and lived so fearlessly. He was more uncomfortable living a lie than he was afraid of the consequences of being caught. Ice envied his courage and didn’t have the strength to deny his hopes.

“I don’t know, Mav. Maybe someday.”

Pain flashed across Maverick’s face but he hid it well. He nodded to himself as much as to Ice, dropping his gaze to the concrete. He kicked at a couple of cigarette butts with the toe of his boot and hunched his shoulders as if he was suddenly cold.

Grumbling a curse, Ice stepped forward and grabbed Maverick’s elbow. Mav startled, off-balance, and looked up in shock. Ice knocked their foreheads together gently, lingering a bit too long as warmth seeped between their skin. The contact was as sweet as any kiss and carried just as much heady promise. Maverick inhaled on a shuddering breath and clutched at Ice’s sleeve to hold him close.

“I hope so,” Ice confessed, his voice raw and ragged. “God, I hope so.”

Ice bunted his jaw against Maverick’s temple before he stepped away. One last point of searing contact. If anyone had been watching them closely, they might have seen how Ice’s lips briefly connected with Maverick’s hairline. Or they might have seen how Maverick squeezed Ice’s arm before releasing his white-knuckle grip. But no one was paying attention, so they were safe for another day.

14 – Kissing under the stars

 The waves rushed in and out over the sand, their ebb and flow as predictable and soothing as a cat’s purr. Maverick lost himself to the sound and let himself float. Everything hurt, despite the painkillers he had been forced to take, lest he be forced to endure the wrath of Ice’s infamous Disappointed Eyebrow. The meds gave him a floaty head and slowed his reflexes in exchange for turning down the brightness of the agony along his spine.

The canvas beach lounger next to him creaked. Ice made as few concessions to his age as possible, but conceding that it was easier to stand up from an actual chair than directly from the sand was one of them. He retaliated by keeping one foot off of the lounger, his toes buried in the sand, as he turned the pages of his book.

“Light's going,” Maverick said into the comfortable quiet between them. The sunset was faded to its final orange and pink blush. He watched as the color danced across the water’s surface. Maybe the pills were stronger than he thought.

Ice hummed thoughtfully but didn’t look up. Maverick knew from experience that he could read with very little light. And no, that was not the reason for his glasses, though they’d had that argument before. Maverick didn’t want to hear about how white pages reflected light and knew that Ice wouldn’t bear any repeating of the electronic reader discussion, so he just laughed and watched the water glitter while listening to Ice’s steady breathing.

There had been a while when it didn’t seem like they’d get to have these quiet moments ever again. Cancer was a bitch, treatment for it was somehow worse, and Maverick couldn’t help but throw himself into dangerous situations just to feel some sort of control. But now Ice was firmly into remission and Maverick was home. He tried not to think about the fact that they would both be retired within the year. Ice had earned the rest and the proper send-off. It was Maverick who didn’t feel ready.

Time slipped away like the grains is sand that he carded between his fingers. The temperature dropped precipitously without the sun, reminding him that it was November. Even sunny San Diego conceded that it was best to spend a few months of the year with cooler weather. Maverick found the edge of coolness exhilarating, but the night air would make Ice cough.

Ice, in tune to Maverick’s moods as usual, sighed and put down his book. His face tipped up to the sky, watching as a few stars poked through the purply dark of the urban night sky.

 “Light pollution ruins the view,” Ice grumbled.

“We should spend some time at the hangar,” Maverick agreed. “You’d love the sky out there.”

Ice hummed again. Maverick laughed softly. Dragging a beach creature like Ice that far away from water always took some extra special coaxing.

Maverick pushed up off the sand and straddled Ice’s lap, pressing his sandy palms against Ice’s cheeks. Ice raised an eyebrow and smirked but didn’t complain. His hands rose automatically to Maverick’s hips, absently sneaking up under his shirt to press on bare skin.

 “Wanna head in?”

 Ice shook his head. “The view’s too pretty to leave yet,” he purred, smirk deepening as Maverick blushed. More than thirty years together and his flattery still went straight to Maverick’s heart.

“Surely you don’t mean this,” Maverick said, gesturing to his face. “I’ve been called out for being an old man more in the last couple of weeks than I’ve heard in the last couple of years. It’s starting to get to my head.”

“You’re not old, you’re experienced. Those hotshot children haven’t lived long enough to know the difference.”

Maverick grinned. “Look at you. Mr. Iceman, gone all soft and sweet.” He rubbed his sandy thumbs into Ice’s stubble, just to make him complain about the itch.

“Still incorrigible, I see,” Ice snorted. He seized the back of Maverick’s neck and drew him down to kiss. Maverick leaned into the embrace, relishing their easy give and take. Ice kissed confidently and touched Maverick in exactly the right way to have them both panting in no time.

“We’d better go in,” Maverick said regretfully, “or someone’s gonna complain.”

 “Who?” asked Ice, gesturing to the empty beach. “It’s just us.”

“It’s getting cold. And we have much more comfortable furniture in the house.”

 “That’s true.” Ice pretended to consider the options with all the gravity of his four-star status. “I suppose the suggestion has merit.”

The only warning Maverick got was a playful glimmer in Ice’s eyes before he pinched Maverick’s waist, making him squawk and fall off of Ice’s lap back into the sand.

“I can’t believe you actually did that!” Maverick complained, feigning displeasure. Ice just laughed, heaving himself out of the chair.

“The fastest way to get you moving is to give you the right motivation,” Ice deadpanned gravely. “Now come on, let’s take this discussion inside.”

Maverick leered and made a great show of snapping his beach towel against Ice’s butt in retaliation, even though he knew that the heavy put-upon sigh was going to be the only response he got. Sobering fast, his step faltered as he followed Ice up the beach with their stuff to the house.

Their house, where they shared the same bed every night. Friends visited them there openly and the address was listed on their Navy paperwork. It was no secret that they were in love and that they were married.  There were some benefits to the passage of time, and Maverick would take some aches and pains if it meant that he no longer had to hide how much he loved Ice.

[cod-dump]

Can we see y/n getting drunk nd boldly flirting everything they see? have 141 along with Rudy, alejandro nd Konig see her chaoticness 🤣 Have a good day! and love your work too 💜💜

Yeeeessssssss! Personally I’m a clown when drunk

Also I hope you dont mind the worst pickup lines that I can think of ;)

________

It was Price’s idea to go out for drinks, so it was his fault that they were in this situation. He bought the first round of shots, and it all lead from there. Y/N was reluctant to drink but once she got started a whole new side of her that no one had seen before revealed itself.

Rudy and Alejandro were the first victims. She sat in Alejandro’s lap without warning, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

“Ya know, Mr. Vargas. They say Disney World is the happiest place on Earth. Well, they clearly never been on your lap before.”

Rudy chokes on his drink and Alejandro’s jaw just drops. Soap and Gaz laugh loudly from wherever they were in the room. Y/N keeps eye contact with Alejandro as she takes his drink and downs it before sliding off his lap and moving over to Rudy.

“Rudy! I have a question for you. Besides being sexy and kicking ass professionally, what do you do for a living?”

Rudy is unable to respond due to shock as Y/N leans close to him, staring at him for a moment before blinking and leaning back.

“Sorry, you’re so hot that I forgot my pickup line.”

Rudy blushes despite the horribleness of the pickup line. Y/N grins and goes for his drink which was left undefended by this point. She takes a sip before choking some, “Oh my god that’s straight tequila!”

Y/N gags as she steps away. She composes herself for a moment, noticing that the music wasn’t to her liking. So she went to the bar to demand that they turn it up. After a moment of harassing the bartender someone comes up to her and gently pulls her away.

Y/N grins at the sight of Price.

“Private L/N, how about you come sit down.”

“Only if the seat is your lap, Captain~”

Her attention immediately goes to his hat and she snatches it off his head before he can get his response out.

“Does the cowboy hat rule apply to you? What do you say, are you up for some tactical insertion?”

Price has to clear his throat at that, unable to look her in the eye. Y/N cackles before running off with his hat. She ends up at a table where Gaz and Soap are. They grin when they see her and offer her a seat between them.

“Someone’s causing some mayhem, eh bonnie?”

Y/N grins and slaps Price’s hat down on the table in front of them. Gaz snorts, “Looks like we owe Horangi money. He did say if anyone was going to be able to take Price’s hat that it would be you.”

Y/N stretches out, “What can I say? I’m the favorite!”

Soap takes a swig of his drink before leaning closer to Y/N, “Say, wanna know why they call me a ‘drill’ sergeant?”

Y/N leans into him, “Only if you plan on putting your gun in my holster ~”

Gaz laughs, “God that’s terrible!”

Y/N whips around to face him, “Feeling neglected, Garrick? Need help dishonorably discharging?”

Gaz can’t help but laugh, color forming on his cheeks. Y/N moves closer to him, “When I’m general, I expect your private to be standing at attention.”

Soap wheezes at that one and Gaz flushes red as he laughs. Y/N joins in on the laughter and grabs Soap’s drink when he wasn’t looking. Their peace is short lived when Y/N sees König and Alex. The grin on her face was comparable to the Cheshire Cat. She excuses herself from Gaz and Soap who were both struggling to breathe. Alex sees her coming first and makes a “oh shit” face. Clearly they were aware of the chaos she had been causing all night.

“Hello, boys!”

König looks at Y/N and visibly braces himself. Y/N knew he would be very easy to fluster so she focused on Alex first.

“Alex, are you aware that Uncle Sam isn’t the only one that wants you?”

Alex forces himself to keep a straight face. Y/N frowns at this. That won’t do. She steps closer and lowers her voice, “Mind if I get a peak at your little battle buddy?”

Alex has a hard time keeping himself from smiling at the horrible joke. Y/N smiles sweetly and steps even closer, “Permission to enter friendly lines?”

Alex gives, “Permission granted.”

Y/N wraps her arms around Alex’s waist and hugs him. Her head was buzzing and she needed a moment to lean on something. Alex sighs and wraps his arms around her shoulders.

“Who knew you had such a wild side.”

The sound of König’s voice seems to restart Y/N’s engine and she pulls herself away from Alex (much to his dismay) and turns her attention on the large man. König’s eyes widen and he steps back, unsure of what was about to come out of Y/N’s mouth.

“Is that a gun in your pants or are you just happy to see me?”

One shot and König was down. Y/N couldn’t see his face due to his mask but his eyes told her everything she needed to know. Plus he immediately covered his crotch with his hands in response. Y/N laughs and is about to say something else despite knowing König couldn’t handle another pickup line (no matter how cringey they were) when the sound of heavy boots gets her attention.

She turns and there stands Ghost. She was honestly surprised considering she was unaware he even came with them to the pub since he was incredibly antisocial.

“Lieutenant!”

“You have been trouble all night. Captain told me to come deal with you.”

Anyone else would’ve known that the jig was up the moment they saw Ghost. But Y/N was a different story. Alcohol wasn’t called liquid courage for nothing. She looked at Ghost’s hulking frame and saw a challenge. She grins and Ghost’s eyes narrow in response. This was going to be fun.

She steps forward daringly and hooks a finger through one of the belt loops on his pants and attempts to pull him closer. He doesn’t budge but that doesn’t deter her.

“Say, LT. How about we ditch this joint and go have some private drills. Just you and me… Unless you want a third~”

Ghost scoffs and grabs the back of Y/N’s shirt and starts to lead her through the bar.

“Is this a yes?”

Ghost says nothing and keeps walking. Y/N grins and grabs a drink from passerby and downs it before Ghost could take it from her. Her energy was finally weaning and she started to drag her feet. Ghost catches her as she trips.

“You’re so strong~!”

Ghost goes to say something before Y/N promptly passes out right there. Ghost groans and picks her up and throws her over his shoulder as Price walks over.

“I think it’s time we left.”

“Definitely… did she tell you what she did with me hat?”

Ghost let’s out the world’s shortest laugh before turning and leaving the pub. It would be a miracle if Y/N remembered anything from tonight, let alone what she did with Price’s hat.

[nerdanel01]

Dilemma

Emmrich Volkarin/F!Rook 5k+ wc | SFW, CW profane language (Johanna drops some f-bombs) EXCERPT: “Ah, yes, Emmrich. Come in. Close the door behind you.”

That had the alarms in his head ringing. What did Johanna have to say to him that she did not want anyone else in the Mourn Watch to overhear? His stomach flipped, terrified that she had ill news to share with him.

“Did you find something?” he asked, his voice both keen and fearful. “Is she—”

“No,” Johanna said, shaking her head, dragging the heels of her palms over her forehead as though she were trying to smooth away a budding migraine. Bitterly, she continued, “No, there is still no sign of her. It is like the Maker himself scooped her up in his hands and set her down half a continent away.” But then, with a frustrated sigh and a shake of her head, Johanna changed tact. “But I did not call you here to talk about her. I wanted to talk about you.”

“About me?”

“Yes, you.” Johanna put both her elbows on the desk, folding her hands together, and gave him an unbearable look of concern. “How are you, Emmrich?"

9:52 Dragon

He would have thought it impossible, but it was true: after all these years, so late in his life, Emmrich was still discovering new things about himself. Though he had never before felt himself inclined towards habitual self-loathing and self-punishment, he had found himself, over the last two years, developing a taste for such masochism. 

When, by chance, he had seen the promotional poster for The Elixir of Love displayed outside the opera house, he had made an immediate beeline for the box office. Not unaware of the pain it would cause him to sit through the performance—indeed, perhaps in anticipation of it—he impulsively bought out the whole box he had shared with Agnes during their first outing at the theatre so long ago. 

The music that had once felt so sweet and buoyant to him now tugged painfully at his heart. How utterly stupid he had been—nearly as foolish as Adina, the opera’s heroine, though she at least had realized her mistake before it was too late, before Nemorino was lost to her forever. He could not escape the memory of Agnes, her parted lips colored with red pigment as she had watched the opera, breathless. 

He leaned back into the shadows of the box so that no one else in the theatre would see his wet cheeks shining in the dim performance light. 

And, unable to bear even the first melancholy opening notes when Nemorino took the stage for his final aria, Emmrich stood up from his seat and made a discreet exit. 

‘What more need I look for? She loves me! Yes, she loves me, I see it, I see it.’

But instead of returning to the Necropolis he had waited on the opera house steps, trying to calm his eager, hopeful, thundering heart while he waited for the performance to conclude. As the audience began to stream out of the theatre, Emmrich stood, facing the lobby doors and scanning every face, just as he had scrutinized the audience from his box before the curtain rose on the production. There was no reason to believe Agnes was still in Nevarra City. Two years, they had been searching for her; the other Watchers, that they might officially and dishonorably discharge her from their ranks for her abandonment of her post; and Emmrich, that he might fall at her feet and beg her forgiveness. And as the crowd swelled, then thinned to a trickle—as the ushers began to snuff the theater lamps and lock the doors for the night—Emmrich should have acknowledged his defeat. 

Still, he held out an impossible hope. The crowd had been thick; the theatre packed. Emmrich made his way to the public gardens, and posted himself on a bench beneath the watchful gaze of Caspar Pentagahst, mere feet from where he had danced with Agnes over seven years ago. Where he should have kissed her, fully and deeply, had he not been a coward and a fool. If she were here, if she had been drawn back to the city, to the opera, might she retrace their steps, as Emmrich himself now did? An impossible hope. Still, Emmrich sat in the park through the night, tormented by ghosts and regrets, languishing in memories, until dawn cracked the sky. 

Though Emmrich had tried to hide it, losing Agnes had changed him. He was less ebullient than he had been, more withdrawn. Slower to make connections with the younger initiates that joined the ranks of the Mourn Watch. His work, to which he had always been devoted, took on the mania of obsession. When an unfortunate incident in the Necropolis had claimed Wilfred, he had virtually locked himself in his study. Only eating when Myrna brought him food from the dining hall and bullied him into forcing down a few bites; only sleeping in fitful starts in his armchair. He had emerged at last two and a half weeks later, unshaven, haggard, and over a full stone lighter, with Manfred—his most splendid creation yet—trailing sentiently behind him. Compared to his predecessors, Manfred was so complex, so alive, that he was a perfect proxy for genuine human contact. And rather than resting, rather than celebrating, and allowing himself a respite from his work, his success with Manfred had only thrown him deeper into it. 

One day, after this had gone on for three months, Johanna had summoned him to her office. Emmrich had stood in her doorway, exhausted and listless from another late night in the study. “You wished to speak with me?”

Johanna looked up at him, set her spectacles down on her desk and rubbed wearily at her eyes. At the time the search for Agnes had still been fully active; the failure to find her was weighing on Johanna, though Emmrich could have told her months ago that she would not succeed in her pursuit. Perhaps, if Agnes had genuinely intended to betray the Mourn Watch by profiting from the sale of its secrets, there might have been a trail to follow. But Emmrich had been certain her only goal in departing the Mourn Watch had been to disappear entirely. 

“Ah, yes, Emmrich. Come in. Close the door behind you.”

That had the alarms in his head ringing. What did Johanna have to say to him that she did not want anyone else in the Mourn Watch to overhear? His stomach flipped, terrified that she had ill news to share with him.

“Did you find something?” he asked, his voice both keen and fearful. “Is she—”

“No,” Johanna said, shaking her head, dragging the heels of her palms over her forehead as though she were trying to smooth away a budding migraine. Bitterly, she continued, “No, there is still no sign of her. It is like the Maker himself scooped her up in his hands and set her down half a continent away.” But then, with a frustrated sigh and a shake of her head, Johanna changed tact. “But I did not call you here to talk about her. I wanted to talk about you.”

“About me?”

“Yes, you.” Johanna put both her elbows on the desk, folding her hands together, and gave him an unbearable look of concern. “How are you, Emmrich?"

“How am I?” he repeated, incredulous. Had she called him here to talk about his feelings? “I’m fine.”

Johanna hummed, looking at him skeptically. “Not sure I believe that, frankly. You have not been yourself, not since…” Johanna’s voice trailed off, reconsidering, but she did not need to say it. Not since Agnes left. Neither of them had spoken her name, and yet her ghost was just as present in the room, as material as the both of them. Johanna’s voice became gentler. “I thought perhaps you would like to take some time off. Visit your family’s estate in the countryside, before winter is upon us.”

Emmrich had not spent any real length of time with his family since he had joined the Mourn Watch. He did not think he would enjoy the curiosity and questions, the gossip his sudden reappearance after all this time would provoke. “You were thinking I could?” he asked, a barbed edge to his tone. He knew he was being surly; he could not help it. “Or you are insisting that I do?”

“Are you asking me if that’s an order?” Johanna asked, unable to hide her faint amusement. “Emmrich, I know you well enough by now to know that I could not force you to do anything you do not want to do yourself.” Again, an uncharacteristic edge of concern crept into her voice. “But I am worried about you. I’m not the only one.”

“Then leave me to my work,” Emmrich insisted. “It is what I am good at. What I am best at.” “Emmrich—”

He cut her off; he would say it more plainly, if he needed to. “It is the only time I do not feel utterly wretched,” he told her, emphatically. “It is the only time… the only time I am not thinking about it. When I am working. I need the work, Johanna. If I were to stop…”

If he were to stop, Emmrich feared it would break him. The agony he felt at her loss, at that terrible severance, was difficult enough to bear with the distraction of work. If he did not have his studies—if he were consigned to the Nevarran countryside for some tortuous, indefinite period, forced to politely sip tea with his sister and play lawn games and do nothing of interest or of use to anyone—the grief would open its jaws and swallow him whole. 

For a moment, Emmrich feared Johanna would fight him. Certainly she had never shied from a confrontation in the past. But something in his face must have convinced her, because finally, she nodded. 

“Very well,” she acquiesced. “But Emmrich—you are not alone. Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you.” “You already have,” Emmrich told her, honestly. “You looked.” For different reasons, perhaps, than Emmrich’s, but they both wanted her to be found, and Johanna had done everything in her power to make it happen. “That she was so determined to vanish, that she left no trace… I do not hold you responsible for that.”

Without missing a beat, Johanna flung the question at him: “But you hold yourself responsible?”

Emmrich blinked at her, surprised she even had to ask. “Of course.” 

‘It was my fault, all of it, from beginning to end. If it were not for me, she never would have come here; if it were not for how I treated her, she never would have left.’

“Oh, Emmrich.” The pity and the compassion in her voice—two traits Johanna often kept in reserve—were devastating to him. She rose from behind her desk, circled around it to his side. In a rare display of intimacy and warmth, she lay her hand down on his shoulder, and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“If there is anything at all I can do—if you change your mind and want to take some time—please do not hesitate to let me know.”

That had been over a year ago. In the ensuing months, Emmrich had only retreated deeper into his work. He did resume taking his meals in the dining hall with the other Watchers, and made better efforts to keep himself as immaculately groomed as he had always been before. But these were hollow gestures, rituals performed out of the fear that if he did not improve, Johanna might change her mind and take things into her own hands, placing him on a forced leave of absence after all. At dinner, he no longer smiled or laughed as he once did. At night, when Myrna had left the study and returned to her own quarters, he sometimes found himself pulling out the special folio he had purchased for Agnes’ drawings, running his fingers over the fine linework and reminiscing. He felt himself becoming every bit as bitter and distant as his own father, and hated himself for it, but saw nothing he could do otherwise to stop it. To move through the world in any other way—to be present in it, to fully confront the totality of his loss and contend with it—would have been far too painful. 

Even his partnership with Myrna was strained. She had been one of his dearest friends in the Mourn Watch before they had been assigned to work together. Now, Emmrich suspected there was a part of her that resented him. After what had happened with Agnes, Emmrich had, perhaps, overcorrected. His partnership with Myrna he was determined to keep formal, clinical, professional; although he would also begrudgingly admit that it was anything but professional that Myrna was often forced to bring him food from the kitchens out of the fear that Emmrich was inadvertently starving himself. They shared the study, but even when Emmrich was just across the room from Myrna, he was worlds away, easily distracted, lost in rumination and self-recrimination. Even when the study was full—Emmrich, Myrna and Manfred altogether, working busily alongside one another—the room still felt empty, an essential warmth missing.

“Hello? Emmrich? Emmrich!”

With a start, Myrna’s voice pulled him out of his morose reverie. Across the study, from where they were working in tandem on some alchemical concoction, Myrna and Manfred were both staring at him; Manfred with concern, Myrna with no small amount of impatience. 

“Do you intend to answer that, or should I take your silence to mean that you expect myself or Manfred to do so on your behalf?”

‘Answer what…?’ Emmrich almost asked, but just then he heard Johanna’s voice, cast from the enchanted sending-stone set near the entrance of the study.

“Emmrich! Emmrich Volkarin! Are you going to answer me, or are you going to make me come down there myself?”

“Apologies, Myrna,” Emmrich answered, leaping up from his armchair and hastening to the crystal. “Lost in thought.”

He did not miss the soft, chididing, ‘as per usual’ that Myrna whispered under her breath, head bent conspiratorially with Manfred’s over their experiment. 

Stepping over to the doorway, Emmrich touched his fingers to the yellow facets of the carved stone, gleaming with prisms of magical energy as they transmitted Johanna’s voice.

“Yes, Johanna, I am here.”

“Excellent,” Johanna’s voice replied, unusually quick to forgive the sloth with which he’d answered her call. “Would you please join me in the public parlors, please? With all haste…!” And with that, the sending stone grew clouded.

“She’s in a remarkably good mood,” Myrna commented from across the room. She had not failed to notice the odd sweetness in Johanna’s voice, rare to begin with but rarer still in the last few weeks. Of late, the disturbances in the Necropolis had reached a fever pitch, exceeding even the danger that they had experienced when the Breach had opened in the South ten years prior. 

Emmrich had not missed it, either. “That cannot be a good thing,” he replied, with no small amount of trepidation. 

“Eager as she is, it will be worse if you keep her waiting,” Myrna added, which was all the impetus Emmrich needed to get on his way. 

But Johanna was not waiting for him in the public parlors. Curiously, she had posted herself up in the corridor leading in their direction. The past months had worn on her, aged her. Now, however—even from a distance—Emmrich could see that she was literally bouncing on the balls of her feet with excitement, her hand clasped briskly behind her back. The Mourn Watch insignia gleaming white upon her breastplate matched the glint of her teeth, revealed by the too-pleased grin on her face. 

Approaching her, he asked, “I thought you were going to meet me in the parlors?”

“Couldn’t resist.” Johanna’s grin widened. “You are not going to believe it. I didn’t believe it myself, when the docents came to tell me.”

“To tell you…?”

“Who was waiting for me,” Johanna replied, sweetly, “on the Necropolis steps.” 

Johanna gestured for Emmrich to follow her, turning and leading him down the corridors, to the public parlors the Mourn Watch staged to receive visitors. “You recall, of course, how the lower levels of the Necropolis have devolved into a quite literal den of horrors after the sky opened up and started spitting out demons a few months ago?”

“It is impossible to forget,” Emmrich answered, cagily. What did that have to do with the visitor they were on their way to greet? And why was Johanna in such high spirits about it? Johanna was his friend, and it was good to see her happy, but he did not like the smug look of satisfaction on her face one bit—

“Guess who just showed up offering to help us with that particular problem.”

Emmrich’s mouth and throat went dry. “Who?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Johanna teased, giving an exaggerated, theatrical shrug. “Could it be, perhaps, one of the best Watchers I have ever had the pleasure of serving alongside? Perhaps even someone I proudly recruited myself?” Emmrich’s heart dropped into his stomach. ‘She cannot be saying—’ “Perhaps, someone you chased out of my guard over two years ago? But that would be crazy! What are the odds?”

The door to the public parlor was just coming into view around the curve of the hallway. From within, Emmrich could clearly hear a set of voices, raised in argument.

“Oooh,” Johanna said, furtively, “it sounds like the girls are fighting.”

“Johanna,” Emmrich said, fighting to keep his voice even, commanding. “Who is in there?”

Johanna only lifted an eyebrow at him, too self-satisfied, it seemed, to give him a straight answer. As they neared the entrance, the voices within the parlor became more distinct:

“…able to face the Elvhen God of Rebellion, but not your old boss?”

“…sounds like an appropriate division of labor! I brought you here, Lace. Now I’ll handle Fen’Harel, and you can deal with the Mourn Watch—”

Hot and cold all at once, mind blank and fuzzy, paralyzed with hope. Emmrich nearly tripped over his feet, forgetting how to walk, how to breathe as he reached for the doorknob. He knew that voice, he was sure of it—!

And if he had not been—if there was even the tiniest part of Emmrich that was not wholly confident of what he was about to find—it was not left to wonder long. Because as soon as she had thrown those words in response to whomever it was she was arguing with inside the parlor, Agnes had flung open the door.

Her eyes met his, and she froze like a stag, a prey animal trapped on the threshold between fight and flight. Emmrich could not think, could not breathe, possessed of but one beaming, brilliant thought: ‘It is her!’ Changed subtly by the two years she had been gone (the scar on her brow, the lines around her eyes) but still certainly Agnes, Agnes Gallatus, beloved , standing before him. He had given up hope. He had resigned himself to the belief that he would breathe his last with only the memory of her to comfort him. He wanted to laugh; he wanted to weep; he wanted to wrap his arms around her and draw her against him, press her body to his to be sure she was real. But the sight of her arrested him, elated him even as it threatened to asphyxiate him, and all he could do was stand dumbstruck before her, drinking in the sight of her.

It did not matter that she was unhappy to see him—and that was clear from a mere glance at her grey eyes. Irrelevant, too, that she had clearly been trying to sneak back out of the Necropolis and avoid this encounter entirely. All that mattered in that moment was that she was here, alive, in front of him. A gift he was certain he did not deserve. It felt so selfish to be happy, to be so pleased to see her here again. Perhaps he was just a selfish old man, after all. Emmrich fought the urge to fall to her feet, to wrap his arms around her calves so that she could not go until he finished debasing himself, begging for her forgiveness. 

So tight was the ache in his chest, so loud the pounding of his blood, he could barely draw the breath required to speak her name. "Agnes?"

Grief and shame pulled at her face. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then favored him with a maddeningly neutral expression of defeat. 

“Hello, Volkarin.”

An uncomfortable silence fell between them, only to be interrupted by one of the visitors seated in the parlor beyond the doorway. 

“Whoa. Is it just me, or did the vibe in here get really weird all of a sudden?”

Over Agnes’ shoulder, Emmrich saw a red-headed dwarf deliver a chastening shove of her elbow to the tattooed elf beside her, hissing, “Bellara!”

Taking that as her cue, Johanna stepped around Emmrich, placing herself squarely between himself and Agnes in the doorway. Sickeningly sweet, she asked: “And no greeting for me, after all this time?”

At the sight of Johanna, Agnes’ face flushed red with shame. She dropped her eyes to the floor, acknowledged her with a respectful, dutiful dip of her head. “Hello, Commander Hezenkoss.”

“Watcher Gallatus!” Though her back was to him, Emmrich could tell from the tone of Johanna’s voice alone that she was favoring Agnes with the same smarmy grin she’d worn the whole journey down the hallway. “The prodigal daughter returns! I have to say, I was confident we had seen the last of you.” Pausing for dramatic effect, she then added, “I am going to be charitable, and assume we are not catching you thusly on the threshold because you were about to embark on yet another hasty departure.”

Johanna had her pegged; Agnes’ blush deepened, the distress on her face plain. “Of course not, Commander.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Gallatus,” Johanna told her, pleasantly. “Come. Let us sit.”

Agnes bowed her head once more, then backed into the room, retreating to the tufted red velvet sofa against the far wall. She sat at the leftmost edge, next to the Dalish elf—Bellara, Emmrich guessed. On Bellara’s opposite side sat the red-headed dwarf; Johanna dropped into the high back chair beside her, forcing Emmrich to assume the only remaining chair in the room—not two feet from where Agnes sat on the sofa, her posture painfully straight, looking like she was ready to bolt from the room at the first opportunity granted to her.

The parlor was dimly lit by a magnificent chandelier that hung from the center of the ceiling, an artwork of wrought iron and pink glass that cast the room in a warm, rosy glow. As was customary, tea had been set out on the table for the guests, but it looked like only Bellara had welcomed herself to it. The elf anxiously passed her eyes between Johanna, Agnes, and Emmrich, then back to Agnes again; the awkwardness between them must have been painfully obvious.

“Hello, Commander Hezenkoss,” she chirped at last, raising a hand to wave, attempting to dispel the tension by the power of her cheer alone. “I’m Bellara Lutara, and this is Lace Harding,” she said, gesturing to the dwarf at her side; then, waving at Agnes, she added, “And of course, you already know Rook. It’s a delight to meet you! I love all the cute little skulls on your tea cups.”

“Rook?” Johanna said, grinning with interest, turning her eyes from Bellara back to Agnes. “What an enigmatic little moniker! No wonder we couldn’t find you, no matter how we searched.” 

Not one to eschew decorum, however, she relieved Agnes at last of her scrutiny and turned back to Bellara. “It is a pleasure to meet you both, Bellara Lutara and Lace Harding. You have my deepest gratitude for whatever role you played in reuniting us with our dear Agnes once more.”

Bellara smiled back at Johanna, not quite in on the joke. “Oh, believe me, it took a lot of convincing—”

But Agnes’ hand closed over Bellara’s, squeezing firmly enough to turn her knuckles white, the unspoken directive in the gesture immediately obvious: ‘I am begging you to shut the fuck up . ’

Johanna’s grin only widened, to near cheshire-cat proportions. She leaned forward, pouring herself a cup of tea from the steaming kettle on the table. “The docent who admitted you told me the most fascinating rumor,” she said at last, her voice still in that pitch of near-sadistic sing-song delight. “That you have come looking for our help. That is, the help of the Mourn Watch Guard.”

“That’s not quite the whole story,” Lace said, shifting to sit on the edge of the couch, the better to meet Johanna’s gaze. “We aren’t here to hold our hands out, looking for charity. We want to help you, too. We’re a part of the Veilguard…”

Lace went on, but Emmrich was hardly paying any attention to their exchange. He could not help himself from stealing glances at Agnes—Rook?—out of the corner of his eye. She would not look at him—would not look at anyone. She had at last released Bellara’s hand and folded her own tightly in her lap, and she was staring at the floor, somewhere between her legs. Her legs! In all the years that he had known Agnes, Emmrich had never seen her wear anything but skirts. That she now wore trousers was the most shocking part of her transformation, far more so than the slight wrinkles in her face or the strands of white beginning to weave with the black of her hair. What had happened to her, in the two years that she had been gone? Had they reshaped her into a different person entirely?

“So let me make sure I am understanding correctly,” Johanna said at last, folding her arms over her chest as she leaned back in her chair, looking directly at Agnes. “You, Agnes Gallatus, want to help me? Assist me, even? A prospect which was apparently unbearable, unthinkable to you two years ago? Maker, how things can change in time.” Then, sliding her eyes to Emmrich (having not failed to notice, he was sure, how he had been unable to keep his eyes off of Agnes since he had seen her) she added, with just as much dry humor, “And yet how many things stay the same. Wouldn’t you agree, Emmrich?”

For the first time since they’d nearly collided in the doorway, Agnes glanced at him, however briefly. Emmrich only locked his eyes on Johanna, praying that Agnes had not also caught him staring. He shrugged, made only a vaguely tortured, noncommittal noise in response. 

Johanna turned back to the others. “Lace Harding, you do not know me, nor do you seem to be fully privy to the drama surrounding Watcher Gallatus’ dishonorable desertion from the Mourn Watch in the first place. So you do not understand the true depth of pleasure it would give me to tell you, Miss Lutara here, and your companion Rook to fuck right off and leave my city, and never return.” 

Bellara blanched at Johanna’s language. For a brief moment, Agnes looked almost hopeful. 

Then Johanna sighed, uncrossing her arms, leaning her elbows on the chair’s armrests and steepling her fingers. “That being said,” she continued, “I cannot deny that patrolling the Necropolis has been an absolute shit show for the last few months.” Johanna’s voice was sober, now, no teasing to be heard in it. “We have lost more Watchers to incidents in the Necropolis in three months than we have in three decades. Our ranks are thinning faster than we can replenish them by training new initiates. In short, we are in over our heads. I am many things, but I am not a fool; and no matter how spiteful I may be, I would not do something so foolish as to refuse help when it is freely offered and so desperately needed.”

“However,” Johanna said, lifting a hand to point up an emphatic finger (and here her voice took a turn for the sharper), “therein lies a dilemma. Because when it comes to you, Agnes Gallatus,” Johanna said, pinning Agnes under her gaze, “the trust has been broken. I am truly and utterly incapable of believing that you, or by extension your associates who are outsiders otherwise unknown to me, will conduct yourselves as instructed and keep me apprised of your progress. And yet, because of how completely fucked we are at the moment, and because of the unique position of leadership in which I find myself, I am truly and utterly incapable of carving out the time or the energy to keep a close eye on you myself.”

Emmrich’s heart had begun to pound against his ribs; he wondered if the rest of them could hear it, frantically beating like a dance drum. 

Agnes was staring at Johanna, her jaw set. He saw by the muscles in her cheeks and her neck that she was grinding her teeth. A strained edge to her voice when she asked, “How do you propose we resolve that dilemma, Commander?”

And at that, the smug note returned to Johanna’s voice. 

“Well, it just so happens I have a solution.” 

And she extended her hand, palm up, to gesture at Emmrich.

“Johanna—” Agnes began to protest.

“Do not,” Johanna said, with a light and deeply unamused laugh, “‘Johanna’ me. We are not friends; we are not even colleagues. You saw to that.” Johanna took a deep breath, regaining control of her composure. Quietly, evenly, she explained: “A long time ago, I recruited you to the Mourn Watch to keep an eye on Emmrich, to make sure he did not get himself into any sort of trouble he couldn’t get himself out of. Emmrich, it is now your chance to return the favor. Is that acceptable to you?”

Immediately it was clear to Emmrich that Johanna had planned this all along, from the moment she had called him down from the study by the sending crystal. That she thought herself terribly clever, pairing the two of them off, making them each other’s problem and no one else’s. As for what he thought of it himself, Emmrich could not say. He could barely wrap his head around the reality that Agnes was here, beside him; the idea of descending with her into the Necropolis again after all of this time was almost too much to fathom.

Taking care to use her new chosen name, Emmrich answered, “I am not confident it is acceptable to Rook.”

Without missing a beat, Johanna snapped right back, “Well Rook and her friends will have to stomach it, because those are the terms.” Then, with a malicious gleam in her eye, Johanna turned to Agnes. “Or if you prefer, I can call Watcher Rolf down here to accompany you instead…?”

For a minute Emmrich thought Agnes was actually considering it. She was not looking at him, but he could see the wheels turning in her head, just the same. Weighing the options. How deeply it cut him! The thought that even after two years, her anger with him was still so fresh that she would prefer the company of a man Emmrich knew well she found to be an intolerable dullard to having to spend even a moment longer with Emmrich himself. Emmrich was not a fool. He did not think for a minute that after all this time and everything he had done to obliterate the bond between them, that any part of Agnes still loved him. Perhaps it was bold of him to hope that she would tolerate him, even just for a few days. But what a blessing it would be! What a pleasure, to discover what sort of woman she had grown into while she had been away from him—even if the years had hardened her into someone who could never forgive him. He did not deserve it. Selfishly, holding his breath, still he hoped for it.

At last, ever so slightly, Agnes dipped her head in Johanna’s direction. 

“Thank you, Commander Hezenkoss. Watcher Volkarin will be an acceptable escort.”

--- This piece is Part XI in a series of XI. [ Start from beginning ] [ Nerdanel’s Fic Masterpost ]

[literatecowboy]

Dr. Feelgood

11. Almost Domesticity

Summary: You've been in trouble at work several times before for "lack of professionalism" but now you've gone too far. You've been reassigned to Task Force 141 as a temporary doctor to replace the ones they've made quit out of frustration. You must either prove yourself and earn your former position back at a prestigious military hospital in California or face dishonorable discharge. Author's Notes: Wrote most of this in a post-organic chemistry exam haze. Nearing the end! I'm thinking ~1 more chapter and than an epilogue to slap a wholesome happy ending bow on this fic. What should I write next? Trying to start/keep writing more frequently as a brain break bc all of my classes are hardcore STEM Warnings: Hospitals, minor mention of broken bone

Masterlist

-----

“Fucking– yes!” you shrieked, throwing yourself at Simon and wrapping your arms around him, squeezing him tight. He chuckled, setting the box on the ground and sitting down, pulling you into his lap. He kissed you gently, tangling his fingers into your hair as you kissed him back. You pulled away and rested your forehead on his, smiling as you stroked his cheek. 

“I love you, Simon,” you murmured, laying your head against his cheek and snuggling into him. He didn’t get a chance to reply before you winced and pulled away, rubbing at your cheek and giggling. 

“You’re pokey, you need to shave,” you giggled, caressing his cheek. He took your hand and pressed a kiss to your wrist. 

“I used to dislike my facial hair,” he mused, and you furrowed your brow. 

“Oh, what happened to change your mind?” you asked, leaning your head on his chest. 

“It grew on me.”

It took a moment for the joke to register and when it did your jaw fell open and you pushed away from him, unable to hide your laughter. 

“You terrible man!” you shrieked. “The wedding’s off!” you giggled, turning to run out of the med bay. You only made it a few steps down the hall before he grabbed you by the waist and hefted you up from the ground, making you shriek and giggle and playfully push him away. 

“Let me go!” you giggled, but he only held you tighter, cradling you as he carried you toward his bedroom. 

“Not gonna happen, love. You’re all mine,” he said. 

—

You and Simon were conspicuously late to breakfast in the mess the next morning, prompting grins from Soap and Gaz. 

“Ye know LT, those med bay walls aren’t as thick as ye think,” Soap said. Gaz elbowed him in the side and Soap shot him a look. 

“What makes you say that?” you asked, your brow furrowing as Simon sent the sergeants a withering glare. 

“Guess I didn’t peg you for a giggler, that’s all,” Soap said, wiggling his eyebrows. You felt Simon tense in his seat and rested a hand on his knee. 

“We weren’t having sex,” you said, rolling your eyes. “I save that for when I get the chance to visit your mother.”

This made both Soap and Gaz laugh, and Ghost relaxed under your touch, rolling his mask up to sip the tea the boys had made him. You reached into your shirt and pulled out the necklace Simon had given you the night before, letting it rest against your shirt before returning to eating your breakfast. 

It took them a minute to notice it. Gaz was the first to pause, his eyes fixed on the glittering metal as he elbowed Soap. 

“Ow, what was that for?” the Scot grumbled, rubbing his side. He only looked up and found what had fascinated Gaz when the other man extended a finger to point directly at the thing. They were both frozen then, eyes wide and mouths agape. Soap was the first to look up. 

“Is that - are you gonna get married to the LT?” he choked, the excitement evident in his voice. 

“Yup! We’re engaged now,” you said happily, leaning your head against Ghost’s shoulder. He just kept eating, ignoring the sudden commotion until Soap sprang from his seat and practically launched himself at the lieutenant. 

“Well done, mate! We oughta figure out where to have the stag party!” he shouted, pulling Simon into a bear hug. Simon indulged him for a minute before shaking him off and letting him slide to the ground. 

“Don’t want one,” he grumbled, downing the last of his tea and rolling his mask back down. 

“Come on, LT, going into a club or something wouldn’t kill ya. Think about it - all your drinks paid for, spending time with your mates, gettin’ a good bite after - doesn’t it sound like a grand time? Won’t even hassle you about dancin’!” Soap said. Ghost thought for a moment, then shook his head with a sigh. You rested your hand on his shoulder. 

“Love the enthusiasm, but why not something quieter? Hit the seaside, grill up some food, enjoy a day in the sun. Maybe a bonfire, just the lot of you spending time together.” you suggested. This made Ghost perk up a little, which made you smile. 

“I’ll think about it,” he said eventually, rising from his seat at the table. “Gonna go write up mission reports.” This made Soap groan and stand as well. 

“Fuck me, I’ve got recruit duty today. Just remembered. I’ll catch you later,” he said, trotting off after putting his tray in the dirty pile. 

“That leaves you and me. Want to go pick up the Captain from the hospital? He’s being discharged sometime this morning - told me to show up around 9:30.” Gaz said, offering you a smile. 

“Of course! Wouldn’t miss seeing that old grump for anything.” you said. 

—

It didn’t take long to reach the hospital, and as you were passing through the entrance, a familiar face caught your eye. The ER supervisor you had assisted previously was coming out of the doctor’s lounge, water bottle in hand, and seemed pleasantly surprised to see you. 

“Good morning!” you called out, offering her a smile as you approached. 

“It’s good to see you again! I’ve been meaning to call you - I heard about the court martial you’re being put through.” she said, a frown creasing your features. 

“I hope it has nothing to do with you assisting us here. I haven’t been contacted for any information, but I wanted to reassure you that I’d be happy to testify to your competency and decision making skills. You and your task force have served us well and I’d love to return the favor,” she said. You froze, shocked still by her words. 

“Thank you,” you murmured, your heart swelling at her kindness. “That really - it does mean a lot to me. You could really save me here.” 

“What are they trying to call malpractice? I saw to your captain when he came in the other day and he told me it was a life-or-death situation. Any reasonable medical professional would’ve been forced to come to a similar conclusion.” she said. 

“The charges are bogus. Someone is trying to take the doctor away from my squad. We can’t go on missions without medics nearby - it’s almost like someone is trying to keep the task force offline.” Gaz said, folding his arms, his brow furrowing. 

“My opinion is that the case will get thrown out the moment the judge examines the facts in the pretrial hearing. But, if you need me, you know where to find me for testimony. And please, don’t let this scare you and your task force away from continuing to volunteer here.” the doctor said, offering a smile as she turned and headed back toward the emergency room. You smiled. 

“Guess word of the 141 doing volunteer work these past few months has gotten around. You all seem to like it though, right?” you asked as you and Gaz made your way to the elevator, heading up to Price’s room. 

“Honestly it’s more fun than it seemed at first. I’m glad Price signed off on letting us spend a few hours here every week. It’s refreshing.” Gaz admitted as you stepped off the elevator and turned down the first hallway. 

Price was already up and out of bed, arguing with a nurse as she tried to get him to sit in a wheelchair. 

“Really, this isn’t necessary, ma’am. I feel well enough to walk.” he said. The woman was unflinching, her arms folded over her chest as she nodded at the wheelchair. 

“No, sit down. Would you rather spend another night here? I won’t have you collapsing in the hallway, sir.” she barked, pointing a finger at the wheelchair. 

“Best listen to what she has to say, Captain. We’ve got work to do. Can’t have you stuck here for the rest of your life.” you teased. He sighed and begrudgingly sat down. The nurse passed Gaz his things in a clear plastic bag and then you all set off for the car waiting down below. 

“Missed you, Cap. Got some news you might be excited about,” you said, hopping into the car and buckling your seatbelt as Price and Gaz did the same. 

“Did the charges get dropped? I’ve been laid up in that bed with no intel. Laswell’s working on it but nobody would tell me anything. The nurses kept saying I need to ‘heal.’” he grumbled, gazing out the window as Gaz pulled out of the hospital lot and toward the 141’s homebase. 

“Not yet, but I spoke to a colleague who said she’d be willing to testify on my behalf. It seems the charges are likely to be thrown out at the first hearing.” you said, fishing the necklace out of your shirt and turning around in your seat to show it to Price. 

“What’s that?” he asked, leaning forward to get a better look at it but wincing as his abdomen contracted. 

“Simon and I are getting married,” you said with a smile, taking the necklace off for him to better examine the thing. His eyes widened and a smile grew across his face as he took it in his hands, examining the delicate metal thoroughly. 

“Congratulations, love, you two work well together. I’m happy I’ll have you around for good now,” he said, the corners of his eyes creasing as he smiled. 

“Soap wants to have a stag party for ‘im but he’s a bit resistant to the idea. Help me talk him into it?” Gaz asked, looking in the rearview mirror. Price nodded. 

“Gonna talk to him as soon as we get back. Need to tell him I’m damn proud - I’m sure I can weasel in the suggestion of a little celebration.”

—

That night as you were busy treating a recruit’s broken wrist, Price slipped out of the med bay and made his way down to Ghost’s office near the back of the building. He didn’t have to knock more than once before the door opened. 

“Good to see you, cap. How do you feel?” Ghost asked, showing Price inside before shutting the door and sitting back down at his desk. 

“Good, now that I’m back here. Never much liked doctors or hospitals, but that woman of yours - she’s different. Makes me feel safe when she’s around.” he said, sitting heavily on the couch. 

“Me too.” Ghost murmured just softly enough that Price barely heard it. 

“She told me you asked her to marry you. I’m proud of you, son. You’ve got a good woman and you’re smart to keep her.” he said, producing two cigars from his pocket and offering one to Ghost, who took it and rolled up his mask. 

“I love her.” Ghost admitted frankly, rolling up his mask and accepting the light offered by Price. They sat in silence for a while, smoking together. 

“Soap wants to throw you a party. Doesn’t have to be anything outrageous, but you should let him. If he doesn’t throw one for you, he will for her, and who knows what kind of trouble they would get up to,” Price said. 

“Was thinkin’ - have an idea for something we could do,” Ghost said, leaning back in his seat. “It’s a bit big. Would need your approval.”

“Hit me with it.” Price said. 

“Want to take her back home to California for a little surprise vacation. Would bring the rest of you too. Could call that a joint stag and hen thing,” Ghost said. Price nodded. 

“Good idea as usual, Simon. We’ll go as soon as everything here is settled.”

—

The next day, as you were supervising training (and occasionally joining in) an official bearing documents from the legal department came in to notify you of your court date - three weeks to the day. You were set up for an appointment with your appointed lawyer. Everything was set. 

The time passed slowly. You spent your days with the 141: helping Soap and Gaz train recruits during the day before going out for drinks at night and keeping Price company as he healed and helping him manage the operations of the task force. You spent more time with Simon, though - cooking together, watching movies, going on dates and making love. You would almost use the word domestic to describe your life. 

Every week you’d wrangle the boys into the car to go volunteer at the hospital. Ghost was a delight in the NICU - babies, when placed into his large arms, would stop crying instantly. Soap was a preferred playmate in the pediatric ward and thoroughly enjoyed coloring with the children. Gaz spent his time at the hospital charming elderly women in their knitting circles and modeling their creations. Price also volunteered with the elderly but spent most of his time on the ward swapping war stories with old veterans. You assisted in the emergency and trauma departments where you could, having more than earned the trust of the medical professionals there.  

But the court date loomed, and before long, it arrived. You showed up to the courtroom early, the rest of the 141 at your back, but they were not allowed to sit up front with you. Instead, they sat in the bench directly behind you, all well-dressed in suits. Ghost had even swapped his balaclava for a black medical mask. 

You had helped him tie his tie earlier in the morning, and he had pulled you in for a long kiss and a reassuring word before you set out. 

“Whatever happens in there - whatever happens to us from here until forever - I’ve always got you.”

-----

Taglist: @iamaliceinwonderland, @itsmeamysworld, @ghostlythots, @oranoyaora, @keiva1000

[purelyfiction]

the name of someone i no longer know

Jake Seresin x F!Reader

Word Count: 1,406 words

Summary: it's stick season what can i say? also maybe this is whump-tober coded who knows

Content Warning:  alcohol use/abuse, maybe alcoholism, dui mention, police interaction, drunk jake, a little aggression, heartbreak and all around sad

Author Note: what the summary said

Jake had loved California for the reasons that it never seemed to rain. It was flooded with lots of sunshine, beaches and bars. Good music, good friends, good girls and bad decisions to be made.

Until he was sent back to the thick of it - sent to Annapolis to be shipped off for some form of deployment, only to be delayed due to concerns for the ship. Instead of sending him back to California, they'd kept him in Maryland.

Maryland was his personal Hell on Earth.

Flooded with memories of the cooler months, pumpkin patches filled with your laugh, dive bars he'd lost himself in like corn mazes he'd held onto you in. This place haunted him. Especially when it rained and God, did it rain in this damned state.

Another Friday of work slips away from him, until he's at the old bar whose name had been a weapon in the fallout. Jake sits peeling labels of a local beer - they were out of Bud. The jukebox plays a song he doesn't recognize and a couple laughs in the corner of the bar top.

That corner had housed the two of you all those years ago. Conversations about drunken college nights, holidays spent with friends instead of family while deployed, promises made that he'd broken only months later.

His collection of beer bottle caps is turning into a small mountain in front of him. Until the bartender is tapping the wood in front of him. "Last one, pal."

Green eyes groggily flip up to meet his, brows furrowing. "Huh?"

"You've had enough for the night, man." The bartender slides his receipt toward him, the pen alongside it rolling off and onto the floor. The blonde sits up with annoyance.

"I'm fine, first off," Jake slides from the barstool to retrieve the pen off the floor - only to crack his head on the underside of the bar when he stands up, "fuck!"

The man from the corner comes to his side, "Are you alright? That looked like it hurt." When the stranger grabs his arm, Jake rights himself and shoves him back into a barstool.

"Don't touch me." He spits. The stranger holds up his hands to show he's backing off.

"You need a ride." The bartender is pulling his phone from his pocket, Jake shakes his head.

"No, no I'm-" a hiccup breaks his train of thought. The sum of the bill catches his eye and he groans, dropping his initials onto the paper.

"I'll just order you an Uber, where you going?"

"I said no, I can drive." The barkeep nearly gives Jake the stink eye now. As the blonde fumbles his way to the front door, he nearly eats it at the front stoop. He manages to find his way to his truck - a rental no less - he pauses at the sight of an old Jeep Liberty.

The last time he was in Annapolis, he'd bought a cheap one exactly like it off of Facebook Marketplace. He'd needed a way to get around, and considering how often he bounced around, there was no need to buy anything worthwhile.

That same Jeep that you'd refused to get into the passenger seat of one night. You were leaving a friend's Thanksgiving. He'd had too much to drink. You begged him to let you drive, seeing that you were sober - he wouldn't have any of it.

He'd left you in the driveway of your friend's place along the water, snow and all. Annapolis police had him in their custody not even twenty minutes later. Jake had friends in the navy ranks in Maryland, that had helped him avoid a dishonorable discharge at the time - he no longer had those friends.

He also no longer had you.

Jake makes sure his rental is locked before he starts down the road in the direction of the naval base.

His steps are uneasy, a bit sporadic as he walks aimlessly in one direction. A film reel serves as his entertainment for his walk back. Scenes from two years of love, a whole six months of downward spiral toward heartbreak. Total, gut-wrenching and life wrecking heartache. Self-inflicted he now realizes.

The breakup was sharp. His things were packed up. Put into the Liberty. You'd taken your key back, deleted your number from his phone and told him to forget you even lived on the same continent. He'd promised you'd never hear from him.

Jake looks up after a cold round drop plops onto his head. Followed by another. His feet stop walking as he stares up at the rain beginning to fall, the street lamps serving as a backdrop as the downpour begins. He stands there. Watching the rain. His head drops to meet the river running under him, the bridge he stands on giving a viewing point as the speed picks up.

A car slows to a stop just behind him. The headlights make him squint, slowly moving a hand up to block the LEDs that blind him.

"It's a bit wet out here, don't you think?" A voice calls from the side of the vehicle, the door shutting in tandem to another on the symmetrical side of the car.

"Rain'll do that." He snidely retorts, leaning into the jersey barrier along the bridge.

"You think you might wanna find a dry place to settle in? It's getting late, afterall." A second voice consoles him, and Jake realizes why the lights are so damn bright. He'd recognize the striping of the Anapolis police anywhere.

"Ah, I'm-" Another hiccup, "I'm trying to." An older male comes in the rain, graying facial hair, a well trimmed beard as he approaches.

"You look a little lost there, boy."

If only this damn officer knew the half of it.

Neither of them mention his slow reaction times. Or reveal that they'd received a tip from a rather concerned bartender. Instead, they carefully guide him to the backseat of the cruiser. No handcuffs are involved, no harsh words spoken, not a single arrest made.

That doesn't stop Jake from reciting your name, your address and phone number.

Anapolis' police station is dated. The linoleum is scuffed and worn - a creamier brown than he remembers.

"You.. wanna call somebody to come get you, son?"

"I've got- I'll just call her. She'll come." When he pulls his phone from his pocket it's either too cold, too wet, or too dead - or some combination of the three.

The officer with the mustache that matched that of an old friend's hands him two dollars in change, pointing him in the direction of the payphones.

Nine digits. He's got them memorized, though he swore he would forget them.

One ring. Two rings. Four.

Finally- "Hello?"

Your name leaves his lips like a prayer.

The end tone sounds like a gunshot.

Another pair of quarters.

Dial tone. Ring three. Ring four. Voicemail.

Two dollars gone.

"Alright, kid, lets get you sat down for a minute." Jake firms up like an oak tree when the officer grabs his shoulder.

"Hold on, just- I need a charger. Something- she'll call. You've got more change? Just a quarter-" He turns to a nearby woman, desperately leaning toward her, his balance wavering enough that the cop comes to his shoulder again to keep him upright.

"Have you had much to drink tonight, son?"

"I- Didn't- she's gonna call." He mumbles as the officer slowly guides him to a seat. Green eyes look up at the older man and then to the tinted window at the end of the corridor.

"Hate to tell you this... but I don't think she will."

Jake shoots up again, almost falling on his ass.

"She will- I- let me call her again- just one more time-"

The officer resists Jake and his sluggish effort to move back to the phones, finally gripping onto the pilot.

"Sit. I'm gonna get you some water and we-"

"Fuck that. Sir. I just need to get her on the phone- she's not far she-" His words begin on a carousel. Coming back again and again, repeating in the same pattern.

The plastic cup of water in his hands grows warm as he sits in the station. Two officers talk among themselves as they keep an eye on him, mentioning your name. Your address.

The phone number you refuse to use if he is on the other end of the line.

And he waits.

[murdockbilaws]

The Flags:

R. Bill Flag Senior, 56, 5'10, Gay; army general who has been helping to lead one task force or another since the age of thirty. Listed as "Retired" but was truthfully put on reserves just in case his son ever fucked up. Had his one and only child, Junior, because he got his high school sweetheart pregnant prior to graduation and married her as a result. Eventually deciding to run away from his unhappy marriage and duties of fatherhood by joining the military a few months later, at only 18. Which was where Rick Sr. first discovered just how much of a homosexual he truly was. And although his marriage eventually fell apart and dissolved before he ever led a task force, Rick stepped up to be a better dad when he was present for his son.

R. Rogers Flag (Junior), 38, 6'3, Bi; army colonel who joined the miliary in his father's footsteps. Lead his first special operations task force at the age of twenty-seven. Unlike his dad, Rick joined the military due to an authentic and naive sense of patriotism. The younger Flag wanting to follow the same path his old man took, but also believing he could work to serve and better his country as a whole. And though a lot of military personal attributed his highly successful career to his dad's influence, Rick knew it was mostly thanks to his own hard work. Junior putting nearly two decades of dedicated loyalty into the army until a failed mission and near-death experience left him completely disillusioned. And as a result, he was dumped back into the states with nothing more than a dishonorable discharge at nearly forty years old.

[ncisfranchise-source]

“It’s wonderful to look back on David’s life of 90 years. The amount of life that he lived is pretty, pretty incredible.”

Listening to Brian Dietzen, who since Season 1 has played NCIS‘ Dr. Jimmy Palmer, reflect on the life and legacy of David McCallum, it becomes especially clear that he deserved to have a hand in crafting the episode that pays tribute to both his late castmate and Dr. Donald “Ducky” Mallard.

Nearly five months after McCallum’s death, CBS‘ NCIS this Monday at 9/8c will air “The Stories We Leave Behind,” which Dietzen co-wrote with executive producer Scott Williams. In that can’t-miss episode, as NCIS mourns Ducky, the agents find some comfort in working on one of his unfinished cases involving a woman whose father was dishonorably discharged from the Marines.

Here, Dietzen speaks with TVLine about honoring “not only the character of Ducky, but also David McCallum, in a proper way”….

TVLINE | When this episode came along, did the producers instinctively reach out to you, as a longtime scene partner of David’s, or did you step forward and volunteer your writing services? BRIAN DIETZEN | Before David passed, we had that work stoppage with the WGA and SAG strikes, so I had said to Steven Binder and David North, our showrunners, “I don’t need to write this year,” because we only have 10 episodes. I didn’t want to insert myself. But then when David passed away, Scott Williams, my co-writer, volunteered to do this episode and he said to me, “I thought it was only right that you co-write with me.” And then everybody in the room said, “Yeah, that’s perfect. That’s what should happen.” And I said, “Absolutely, I’d be honored to.”

TVLINE | Who in the process comes up with the basic framework for an episode such as this? Scott and I talked about it, and decided we still wanted it to be an NCIS show — it wasn’t going to be entirely a clip show of “Ducky’s Greatest Hits.” We wanted to have a case, and thought we should come up with a case that’s thematically linked in some way to losing a valued and loved team member. So we came up with this concept of how, when we’re done with with life, the stories that we leave behind are what’s important. What’s important is what’s left to our loved ones.

TVLINE | The episode opens by jumping back a bit in time to show Jimmy actually finding Ducky, passed away, when you could have instead picked up with the phone call at the end of the season premiere. What was important to you about including that particular moment? I think everyone knows that we want to honor not only the character of Ducky, but also David McCallum, in a proper way, and what was important about it was showing that this is a family — how you come in and take care of your own, how you are there for your loved ones. This is a part of Jimmy’s daily existence, going into Ducky’s house and picking him up to bring him to work, dropping off some coffee, maybe just checking in on him as you do with with a family member. I thought that it was really important to show how hard this team is hit, how hard they’re rocked by this loss. And the person that certainly was closest to him was Jimmy.

TVLINE | It would make sense that this episode focuses a bit more on Jimmy, a bit more on McGee, because they’ve been around for the whole stretch. Is that how it ended up panning out, that their reactions got a little more emphasis than others? Since Jimmy worked so closely with Ducky, for a couple decades, it made sense that a lot of the story would be retold through his eyes and his memories. And certainly, McGee had been there with him as well, but what was really important to Scott and I, and to the whole crew, was that we honor Ducky’s relationship with the larger team, not meaning just the current team of Parker and Knight and Torres and McGee and Kasie, but also the teams that came before. We wanted to make sure that some of these memories, and some of these loved ones and family members from past iterations of the NCIS team, were represented, and that his relationship with with those characters was honored as well.

TVLINE | Along those lines, what are you at liberty to say about how you navigated that sticky wicket of giving viewers a sense of how, say, Gibbs takes this news? That’s one of those things where every idea under the sun was thrown at us, from the network on down. “Can we get every person that’s ever been in the history of NCIS, and all of its sister shows, back together for one scene where everyone’s sitting together?” Logistically, those things aren’t really a possibility, unfortunately, so we tried to have shout-outs to these other field offices around the country, throughout the show, and also show tokens of admiration and honor that are coming from past team members — as well through flashback scenes, or even gifts that they’re sending, tokens of love.

TVLINE | One thing that always fascinates me, technically, about episodes like this is: Whose job is it to cherry-pick incredibly perfect archival sound bites and flashback moments? That’s us. That’s that’s me sitting here with a Paramount+ account, man, watching NCIS until my eyes bleed. Yeah, Scott and I watched a ton, and a few of our writers, writer’ assistants and specifically [producer] Justin [Kilmer] watched a lot, as well. We knew, “OK, we want this sort of scene,” “We want that sort of scene.” And there’s almost a bit of a reverse engineering where you go, “I remember this really great thing that we did in the [Season 10] episode ‘Detour,’ where we’re running through the forest and it’s snowing and we’re arguing over who’s should have the gun and who shouldn’t,” and I’m like, “I want to add that in there somewhere, but I’m not sure where,” so you craft the scene so that it works within the scene.

TVLINE | If you don’t mind me asking, when had you last spoken to David? I spoke to him on his birthday, which was on Tuesday [Sept. 19], and then he passed away that Saturday, on the 25th. So, yeah, it was it was a couple of days before. That was his 90th birthday, a few days before he passed away. We got to speak, we got to chat. He was coherent and all that…. I’m really, really glad that I got to speak to him one last time. It was really wonderful.

TVLINE | How would you say that David’s passing recontextualized the otherwise long-awaited return to work for everyone, after the strikes? It was very interesting, because, yeah, it puts a lot of things in perspective, obviously. I mean, we all know that we’re blessed to be on the show, man. You certainly know that, you’ve been covering the show for a long time. It’s a wonderful group of people, and it’s not lost on us at all how blessed we are to have the jobs that we do, to tell the stories that we do. So, I think every single one of us was really champing at the bit to get back to work.

Then when David passed away…. I was walking on picket lines and there were a lot of people I would see, that I didn’t even know, that would come up and extend their condolences, just because he had meant a lot to them and I was the closest thing to a “family member” or something. It’s not like his kids, or his wife, are walking out there, so they’d come up and say, “I’m so sorry, I know you guys are really tight.” That was wonderful to see and hear. And I’ll tell you what, when shooting this episode, there were a lot of David McCallum stories flying left and right, a lot of fun stuff that’s happened over the course of 20 years. A lot of it we were fortunate enough to capture in the script and show some memories. But there were some [stories] that we were like, “That’s just for us. That’s just for our people that are making the show, and that stays in the family.” It was cool to explore both.

[bressynonym]

Hello! It is I, the OC loving Anon! I have been sent to ask about your OC... Ahh... *Checks hand* Clover? And his life as he gets together with a certain Fledgling.

Please info dump about this big guy. The people want to know more! 🤍

hello !

HAHA okay so like clover is my combat medic OC that basically just bullies his way into @bunnysnared's fledge's life after his several visits to the medbay.

sit tight and let's talk about all things clover! (ㅅ´ ˘ `)

bare essentials (what makes clover... well, clover):

• big lad (6'3ft/190cm) • 31 y/o • rank: sergeant? (he's been PMC for a while) • clover has this choppy mullet situation because he hates short hair, but needs the sides trimmed for his headset to sit snuggly. u won't see his forehead often lol • piercings that def need to be taken off for an op - 3 on his right ear - 5 on his left ear - a labret piercing (lip) - and many more! (😏) • a neck tattoo of a stag skull and a wreath of laurels surrounding it • his lucky coin (that he bets other's lives on) • a freggie charm (a weird frog thing he adores) • an ambiguous accent (sounds like he's from london, but he definitely isn't)

the story so far or whatever:

Clover was a medic for a task force specializing in interrogations and intel gathering, but was thrown to the wayside after a traumatic back injury that temporarily takes him out of the field. Retirement isn't an option for guys like him, so he's made a medic on a uk base with his own little office. he hates paperwork, but what can u do, ykno. his bedside manners are horrible and his superior Fish isn't too happy about that, but he's too good at what he does to let him go (and even has clover trained for a position as head medic to replace him lmao). he settles into the routine of a sterile environment and possibly says goodbye to getting back out into the field. but here arrives fledge, in for a patch up. and another. and another. clover becomes a lil obsessed with him (read: falls in love with him) to the point of training to get back into a task force fledge's on as their combat medic. the captain likes him, so he's inducted in without any problems. or smth. LMAO. the rest is clvrfldg history.

what the bastard is like:

clover doesn't care for regulations. its obvious in the way he looks. he's one step away from being kicked to the curb and dishonorably discharged from medical malpractice. (i.e: coin tossing if u live or die or if he should give you anesthetic lmao) but he's damn good at his job, so they don't want to lose a great asset like him. all smiles that don't reach the eyes, and eyes that never shine, he's unreadable. you won't get a lick about his past or anything about himself. its like pulling teeth because he'll redirect a conversation back to you. very observant (and a bit of a sadist lol). uses it to his advantage as a medic, its what keeps him sharp (and a bit mean). will notice the little details and patterns and use what he can to turn things in his favor. manipulate mansplain manwhore or whatever lmao

also clover isn't his real name it's [REDACTED]

ty for reading this far and for the ask! hopefully this gives a better understanding of my baby boy!!

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Picking Up The Pieces

“Bloody hell, Oggy, let ‘im be!”

Nick has to use all his strength to grab his best friend by the shoulders and pry him off the split-lipped hipster that he’s pinned to the pub’s floor. And it’s only thanks to Cormoran’s state of inebriation and a possible concussion that Nick manages to steer his loudly protesting friend to the exit, past curious and mildly shocked patrons, and then out and into the street.

“Lemme go!” Outside, Cormoran shrugs out of Nick’s grip, swaying. “That fucker deserves another…” He trails off as he swings back to the pub’s entrance.

Nick, relatively sober, steps between him and the door with raised hands.

“That ‘fucker’ is going to get you arrested,” he warns sternly. “And you’ll get court martialed. Dishonorably discharged. Kicked out of SIB. Or at least demoted.”

“I don’t care.” Blood dripping from one thick eyebrow onto his camouflage jacket, Cormoran stares at the door with big, maddened eyes that carry just a hint of sadness.

“Yeah, you do,” Nick contradicts him. “And you’ll regret this deeply if you don’t walk away now.”

For a moment, Cormoran just stands there, half-leaning his large torso against Nick’s impeding palms. Nick can see the cogs turning in his mate’s bull-headed, intoxicated brain. Slowly. Fuelled by rage that seems to have become a terrifying, constant companion of his lately. But Oggy is thinking, and that’s a start.

“Hey, come on, mate.” Nick pats his shoulder. “One stupid army slur is not worth it. The guy had no idea what he was talking about. Spoiled hipster brat.”

Nostrils flaring once more, Cormoran exhales. Then he grunts and shakes his head, like an angry bull who’s decided to let the matador live another day. 

“Lucky I din’ kick ‘is teeth all the way to Kabul,” he grumbles. With a huff, he turns away and almost loses his balance doing so.

“Whoa, okay!” Nick rushes to grab Cormoran by the arm and steady him. There’s quite an alarming amount of blood on his face by now, originating from a wound by his hairline. “Let’s take a few steps and go somewhere I can look at you without the police swooping in. Not sure someone didn’t call them.”

He leads a still-reluctant Cormoran down the street and around two corners until he finds a bench under a streetlight and sits his big friend down. 

“Lemme see that,” he announces and reaches out to inspect Cormoran’s forehead. 

“Oy!” Cormoran swats at him. “What the fuck-”

“You’re bleeding.” 

“So what?”

Annoyed, Cormoran wipes at his face, smearing the blood all over his cheek. 

“‘S nuthin’,” he states when he looks at his reddened hand.

Nick sighs. Stupid Cornish bravado.

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

“Med school already gettin’ to yer head, is it?” Cormoran raises one condescending eyebrow but Nick isn’t offended. This is the alcohol talking, amplifying their usual brotherly teasing of each other.

“Well, tonight, my medical training may help keep you out of A&E, and I know how much you love going there, so shut the hell up and let me see that stupid head of yours!”

Grudgingly, Cormoran surrenders. He holds still, exuding indignance and beer fumes while Nick tilts his head and looks for the source of the bleeding. He finds a cut that is partially hidden in Cormorans very short but very dense curls and extends almost to his temple. The area around it is swollen and already starting to turn purple. 

“You’re gonna look really pretty tomorrow, mate,” Nick says, prodding gently.

“Ow!” Cormoran flinches dramatically.

“Oh, come on…”

“Wha’? That hurts.”

Nicks rolls his eyes. His friend has clearly entered the pouty stage of tonight’s bender, and, from experience, melancholia will follow close behind. Both are better than all that pent-up anger Cormoran has been carrying around lately with no place to go. Nick knows that every person grieves differently, but it’s been more than a year that Leda died, and Cormoran seems to have become stuck in the rage stage. And Charlotte’s latest escapades haven’t helped with that.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

Nick is waving his hand in front of his friend’s face.

Cormoran squints. “Three.” 

“Good. Follow my finger with your eyes.”

Nick runs him through the basic concussion protocol, satisfied that Cormoran’s disbalance and slurred speech seem to be a result of too many beers rather than being caused by the head wound. The cut, however, is still bleeding sluggishly.

“I’m sorry, Oggy, but this’ll need stitches.”

It’s Cormoran’s turn to sigh now, deeper and longer than Nick. He looks up at him with doleful eyes.

“Can’t you do it? Stitch me up?” 

Frowning, Nick studies his best friend for a moment. Intimidating and utterly terrifying only minutes ago, Cormoran now manages to look small and forlorn, misery rolling off those broad, drooping shoulders like a heavy mist.

“Alright,” Nick finally agrees. He’s not a certified doctor yet, and, technically, he should take Cormoran to an ER. But what harm can a little suturing do? He’s certainly practiced it enough. “We’ll have to make it to my place, though. And I’m not a plastic surgeon. It will leave a scar.”

Cormoran waves a floppy hand.

“Who cares. `S not like there’s anything to ruin.”

There it comes. Melancholia.

“Alright.” Nick fishes a fresh paper tissue from his jacket pocket and pushes it against the wound. This time, Cormoran barely flinches. “Keep pressure on that while we walk.” He hooks one hand under his friend’s armpit and pulls. “Up you go, come on!”

Groaning like Atlas, the world on his shoulders, Cormoran pushes himself up off the bench and, not minding Nick’s supporting arm, they begin their trek to Nick’s apartment. 

[dick-helmet-magneto]

for the fandom asks: i, q, r, t, u

I - Has Tumblr caused you to stop liking any fandoms, if so, which and why?

Okay I used to be very into Sherlock (specifically mormor) I still ship it but I had to step back from the fandom. It was a bit much, that ship feels like one big clique and impossible to get into.

Q - A fandom you’ve abandoned and why.

See above honestly. I haven’t been in many fandoms but that was one where I just had to step back from

R - Which friendship/platonic relationship is your favorite in fandom?

Is this platonic in my eyes? Or canon platonic? Because I know it’s made to be seen as a relationship but Erik and Raven. Like whatever is going on there. I just see them as chaotic disaster friends

T - Do you have any hard and fast headcanons that you will die defending? 

The number of cherik headcanons I have. I don’t even know where to start. I will defend them all. Mostly the headcanon that Charles and Erik adopt on Genosha and raise a little family of their own.

U - Three favorite characters from three different fandoms, and why they’re your favorites.

Magneto. I don’t think this is a shock to anyone. I love a fool. I enjoy a good idiot who is so sure of himself and at the same time so uncertain. A man who believes in what he believes and won’t consider anything else. He is stubborn and stupid for it. But he’s also right and I respect him for that.

House. See above. Another man who is a fool, an idiot. Smart but so stupid. He seems like fun you never know what’s going to happen. He’s a disaster and somehow also the most sane one in this show at the same time. He’s sarcastic and an ass, I aspired to be him when I was younger.

(I’m struggling to come up with a 3rd)

Sebastian Moran. As much as I’m away from the fandom, he’s still up there. Though it is mostly the fan created version of him. Loyal to a fault, a smart man, educated and well rounded. Covered in scars after he fought a tiger. Like any smart man would do. Love a good scar. A military man with a dishonorable discharge.

[ragingbookdragon]

She kept casting glances back and forth down the hallway, half afraid someone was going to spot her, but she sucked up the worry and knocked rapidly again, only stopping when the door swung open and there stood Hangman, hair sleep-mussed and the crankiest expression on his face, scowl darkening when he registered it was her at the door. “Can I do something for you, Lieutenant Commander Kazansky?” he griped.

“Move. I need to come in.”

“According to Article 134 of the UCMJ, fraternization is against the rules,” he shot back.

“Between enlisted and officer, jackass. In case you forgot, we’re both officers.”

“I’d rather not take the chance of being dishonorably discharged for fucking my superior in the same command.” He gave her a look. “I know you’d get a slap on the wrist.”

A thinly-veiled anger split across her face and she growled menacingly, “Jake Seresin, open the goddamn door and let me inside or I’ll tell Cyclone it was you who hid Phoenix and Bob’s domes the other day.” For a split second, she saw his eyes widen before they hardened and he moved, arm shooting out to yank her inside and shut the door behind her. She yanked her arm away with a hiss of, “Do not manhandle me like a fucking rag-doll.”

They stood apart from one another, and he gestured between them. “What do you want?”

She crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her chin up. “You’ve been short with me the past couple of weeks since all this started. What’s up your ass?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Oh, that’s bullshit, and you know it,” she retorted. “Something’s up your ass and while I usually don’t mind you being an asshole because it’s just your genuine personality, it’s like you’ve all the sudden decided you wanted to sprinkle in some extra ‘Be a dick’ spice into your attitude.” She searched his face. “So, what’s the matter with you? What stick did you get shoved up your ass?”

Hangman’s jaw clenched and she knew whatever it was was going to come out of him but rather calmly, he turned his cheek, stared out the window to the darkened flight-line and griped, “I don’t like him putting his hands on you.”

“Excuse me? You don’t like who putting his hands on me?”

“Bradshaw,” he explained and looked back at her. “I don’t like him touching you.”

She cocked a brow, arms slacking beside her, and her stance screamed ‘I’m no longer joking around’. “I am not your personal fucking property, Jake. Bradley and I are friends. We grew up together. I’ve known him a lot longer than I’ve known you.”

“And I know you a lot better than he does,” Hangman argued, stepping up to her, nose to nose. “Or have you forgotten that it was you and me who were drunk on the hood of a mustang in the middle of the fucking Mohave when you told me you hated being Iceman’s kid because everyone assumed he got positions for you when in fact you worked your ass off for every fucking rank you’ve gotten? Maybe you forgot it was me you said you loved the last time we broke up and that we’d always come back to one another because we just couldn’t get enough of breaking each other’s fucking hearts?” He thrust his finger into her chest. “That cock-head knows the childhood friend, but I know you. I’m the only one who ever should.”

Stunned into silence, she took a step back, collapsing to sit on the bed, like the wind had been knocked out of her. Hangman took one look at her and sighed before kneeling in front of her, resting his head on her thighs; unconsciously, her hands moved to lay on the broad expanse of his back. He let out a sigh, warm breath shifting across her skin. “I don’t like him touching you because I’m afraid you’ll look at him the way you look at me when I touch you,” he muttered, words muffled against her legs.

“Jake,” she whispered, one hand coming up to thread in his short brown hair.

“I don’t want you looking at any other man like that. I…I couldn’t take it.” His hands came around her calves, squeezing tightly. “I don’t want any other man knowing you like I do.”

She didn’t know what to say, so she said the only thing she could; she lifted his head from her thighs and gazed at him, confessing, “You’re the only man who does, Jake.” She took his face in her hands, bending down to press her forehead to his. “You’re the only one.”

His lips brushed hers, and he murmured, “Promise?”

“Don’t I always?”

[stormkobra-5]

hi darling! i hope youre good :)

in response to this post: imagine being childhood friends with marc (and you found out about his DID) and hes been in love with you for ages but then you meet layla and-

idk im in the mood for some angst. if you're busy don't worry I know your inbox is full x

This is probably one of the best fic ideas ever??? Okay I’m??? Trying not to lose my shit rn??? (Also I’m sorry it took me like. Weeks to answer this lmao; I’m also sorry it’s not like a one-shot or drabble or anything 🥺)

But I can picture you and Marc being extremely close. You tell each other everything. Even about Steven, and you of course find out about Jake without Marc’s knowledge. So while you’re keeping Jake a secret, you’re keeping both of them a secret from Steven. And of course you’d fall for each of them differently, but they also fell for you. So when Marc leaves for the military, only to end up getting dishonorably discharged from the Marine Corps, you don’t hear from him for awhile. You worry for him. You search for him. Until you finally find him.

And he’s married.

Has been for at least a couple years now. You don’t confront him, because in your mind he deserves to be happy, but you can’t help but feel abandoned. So you slink away, back to your home.

Little do you know that, while Marc loves Layla, he never found himself worthy of you. He’d already done Layla wrong (so he thinks), and he wouldn’t be able to bear it if he did the same to you.

Jake watches over you from afar. He doesn’t want to step back into your life and ruin Marc’s relationship with Layla, but he also doesn’t think you’ll want anything to do with him anymore. So he stays back, no matter how much it hurts him.

It’s Steven— who was head-over-heels in love with you, who was always wanting to see you, and who now lives with only your memory in photo albums and old recordings with no idea of where you are in the world now— that thinks you abandoned him.

(Ofc in my mind this would probably end up being a poly relationship after all the angst and confusion lmao)