Good News, Gays And Theys (and Others) So I Actually Haven't Been Writing At All The Past Few Days (lmao

Watcher 1-1

Warnings!: The 141 will be criminally stupid, fumblers, all of them. Death (canon-typical), Violence (canon-typical), loss of limb (no, I won't tell you who yet >:), but I will cover the symptoms as well as possible) They do get kissy, but no smut (that I'm writing, but it's very much implied).

Laswell's office is a familiar place to you. Be it for reprimand (lighthearted), or the ongoing search for an actual field team, you've never been a stranger to these walls.

She looks flat-faced, as per usual, but you sense a crackle in the air that wasn't there before, so when you step in, you set your bag down quicker. Just by a tad.

"Good, you finally figured out how to tie your shoes."

Her tease doesn't go over your head, but it isn't met with a snarl or a dare to say that one more time, I fucking dare you, it's met with a familiar warmth that encompasses your mind, comforts you after another round of brutal training.

"You're excited. Don't drop the pantyhose just yet, okay? Save that for your wife."

Had you been anyone else, you would have been met with a shouting so loud it shakes the very foundations of the building. But you're not anyone else, so it's instead a smack to the shoulder, and the soft swiping sound of manila folders on her pretty, dark-wood desk.

Despite your own rebellious streak, you don't touch any of the information until she opens the first, revealing maybe the single most Scottish name you've seen in a while.

John MacTavish.

She must read through your confusion, because she smiles in that way she thinks you can't see, a slight twitch upward of her lips, only the corners.

"I found a team."

Everything stops right then. The air flowing in the room slows, your heart skips a beat (maybe more than one), and you feel yourself single in on that information, feel your brain grind to an achingly empty halt.

"What?"

It's stupid, you know you heard her right, but you have to ask. You just have to.

"You've got a team, kid. I found a team, they need new intelligence, intelligence that works on the field, too."

You might have just came in your pants. Laswell pats your shoulder, trying to bring you back to the land of the living, smiling wholeheartedly.

"Kid. Kid."

You finally brought yourself back into your brain to realize your fists are clenched and shaking a little, too excited to physically contain yourself.

"I'm listening, Laswell. I'm up." "Good, because you've gotta learn, too."

The conversation that results is one of the longest you've had, but infinitely worth it. It's your in, a short synopsis of these men you're going to be entrusting with your life, something that even the most dedicated reader couldn't gleam from the clinical, militaristic profiles that Laswell has her paws on (though you know getting those must be an already-impressive feat).

Mentally, you start to assemble a list by age, giving yourself advice to learn and test. For science, maybe, or just to game-ify this new experience. To find how to "win" this, because there just has to be a way, if you play your cards right.

Price is firm, yes, and steady in applying pressure, but he's also very clear when he gives approval.

Ghost is his second in command. Quiet, sarcastic. Not open but expecting no vulnerability. Respectable.

Kyle Garrick. Sergeant. Formerly non-military, recruited just a short while back. Playful, but willing, obedient. If you should shoot to emulate anyone, it's him. At least, until you see this dynamic in play.

John MacTavish. Often referred to as "Soap", sometimes "Johnny". Bomb tech. Passionate and fiery. Useful, but he comes on strong. Only play your cards like that if you already have their favor. Being stubborn either makes you a genius or an idiot, and having people think you're stupid isn't a good first impression.

"You think you can hack it, hun?"

You smile at the endearment (doubtlessly acquired through Laswell's habit of picking up her wife's manner of speech), bite back your nerves, and nod.

"Yeah."

"Good. Meeting's next week, so you should start resting up now. Write your lines, make a script, do whatever you need. Just come off as well as you work, and you'll be fine."

Her voice is the finally thing that makes you stand from the chair, beaming at her like a little kid. You know you look silly, but you feel... excited. Much more than usual, and you can't help how you express it.

Laswell knows that, and it is a mercy she offers, but you shake your head, dig your nails into your palm.

She understands. Your new team might not. It'd be best to keep a handle on things, for now. "Thank you, Kate."

First chapter | Previous chapter | Next chapter

When the worst comes to pass (Part One: Johnny)

WARNINGS: Reader dies! YES, there will be written gore and YES, the boys will be very sad. (vomiting, bleeding, guts, choking, drowning, all of it) Hurt/no comfort.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Everything hurts. That's the first thing Johnny notices when he manages to open his eyes, flat on his back on a cobbled road, smeared with blood that isn't just his.

When his mind comes back to him, Johnny feels his stomach both drop and slingshot into the stratosphere.

Fuck. The building, the objective, this was bad.

He scrambles to his feet so fast that his head pounds that he nearly misses an incoming transmission on his radio. It's Ghost, roaring into hie ear as he runs somewhere.

"What the hell was that, MacTavish?! The rookie's in there!"

Everything in the world quiets for a dragging moment as those words finally make it to his (probably bruised) brain. The rookie. How could he have forgotten the rookie was in there? Oh god. The rookie was in there. He hadn't known that when he blew that shit sky-high to finally clear it out.

Still, when he looks to the steaming rubble, so hot that some of the glass is melting, he knows it's a hopeless endeavor.

He knows it's hopeless, but that doesn't stop him from screaming your name, callsign, anything, trying to get a response.

Even as Ghost yells his ears out over comms. Even as Price joins in. Even as Gaz reports that he's at exfil, injured but okay, shaky-voiced like he's barely holding it together.

His knees sizzle and burn when he's on all fours, hopelessly scraping at the concrete and steel, overturning everything he can in some prayer to a god deaf to this moment to find you.

You, who'd stumbled ass-backward into this team and managed to root yourself down like a dandelion, so tenacious that even the usual harsh treatment had been anything more than an obstacle, another checkpoint in the game-ified quest system that you used to organize your life.

You, who'd been the first person to grab Johnny by the collar and scream so loud his ear had popped when he had knowingly slighted you to look better at the end of your first op.

You, who made him work for your time, who hadn't been scared to tell him straight to his face that you hated his guts.

You, who warmed up slowly.

You, who had become Johnny's very closest confidant, because you weren't afraid to call him on his shit, but always tried to understand.

You.

And now, like always, Johnny has done something too fucking rash. Made the wrong call, blew the bomb too soon to keep himself safe and now you're under the rubble of his mistakes, being crushed under the weight.

But he'll fix it. It doesn't matter that his skin is peeling back and singing off in his hands, or that one of his nails was pulled all the way out from a burr in the steel getting caught on it. It doesn't matter that Johnny knows he smells too much burnt flesh for it to just be his own. It doesn't matter that he can't see your form yet, because he knows that if he digs long enough, you have to be in here. And you'll be hurt.

But you'll be okay.

You'll be on his ass about this for years, and you'll chew him out when he patches you up, but you'll be okay.

He's not sure how long that frenzied state lasts. Not really, but he knows there's a hand on his shoulder when he tears a window from it's frame, cutting his hands.

It's Simon, standing over him. Johnny doesn't look back, but he knows, because it's too quiet.

"...Johnny. Exfil."

His voice is mercifully soft. Gruff, but soft, because Simon knows this stings Johnny far more than it does him. You'd been... good. He didn't let you close, but he knew he wouldn't have regretted it if he had.

You would have been a good soldier. Much better than him or Johnny. Fuck, maybe even better than Price if you really buckled down like you wanted to. You had been smart, just stubborn enough.

Kyle was already a mess in the helicopter, halfway to snapping as Nikolai talks him back down. Johnny was far more stubborn.

"No. M' gonna find 'em, Simon, m' gonnae fuckin' find 'em because they've gotta be in here somewhere an' I cannae just leave them behind-"

It's now that Johnny realizes he's been crying. The drops are fat and heavy, rolling down dirtied cheeks and cutting clean pathways, drawing lines of his own tanned skin.

He hears Ghost sigh, and a loud crack as the butt of a pistol is slammed into his head, and his thoughts are cut off.

Watcher 1-1

Part 3!!

Warnings!: The 141 will be criminally stupid, fumblers, all of them. Death (canon-typical), Violence (canon-typical), loss of limb (no, I won't tell you who yet >:), but I will cover the symptoms as well as possible) They do get kissy, but no smut (that I'm writing, but it's very much implied).

Also, bonus note for the special day!!! HAPPY NEW YEAR!! I hope none of you are reading this on release because MAN you should be having a good time right now <3

You've never been trained so hard in your whole life.

Granted, yeah, Laswell warned you it would be brutal, but this is more than brutal, this is murder.

Four miles of running, then a full round of strength training, and there was still more to do.

Maybe the only good thing about this is that, as much as you're suffering, so is everyone else.

Soap tugged you up the final wall on the obstacle course, Kyle passed you his water bottle when yours ran empty (You would have proposed right then and there, if you'd only had a ring). Ghost did this weird blinking thing once, you're not sure what it was about, but it felt reassuring to you. Price just watched.

Now, you've worked with men before (shocker), but there is one trick of their you've never been able to shake.

The playful teasing they did to rile you up, talked down like they were just a little bit better. It always worked.

Johnny figured it out remarkably fast, early in your sparring match. Kyle was sparring Ghost. Price watched over your form like you would spontaneously combust.

"Issat really all ye've got, firecracker?"

You know he's trying to tease you, you know. Still, it lights a fire under your ass like no other, makes you duck under his swing and meet it with a jab to the gut.

Johnny's a big man. That's no issue, really, but the way he stands is, rooted to the floor like a tree, too stable to just swing for the legs.

But, fortune does favor the bold.

"C'mon, rooks, let me see all that skill Laswell talked about-"

Maybe that's why, as you circle around him one more time, instead of playing it safe, chipping at his stamina until he's too tired to really fight you off, you load all your strength into your legs and launch your body into Johnny's.

It sends the pair of you crashing to the mats, and before the Scot can think any better, you're on top of him and snarling down at his stupid, mohawked face as you gather his wrists into your hands, knowing damn well the leather of your gloves is digging into tanned, sweaty skin.

"Maybe you'd still be up if you knew how to shut that big mouth of yours, MacTavish."

You don't know who's speaking, but, in that moment, you're not fully sure it's you.

It's met with a hard buck of Johnny's hips, his feet flat on the mat as he tried to dislodge you. Cheap trick, not enough to catch you off your guard.

Maybe you're some sort of inept, but you don't see the way the tips of his ears are turning a reddish color, or hear the way his breath catches in his throat like the inside of his esophagus is suddenly closing in on itself when you slam your hips back down over his, keeping him pinned to the mat in an act of sheer defiance.

"Stay down."

There is nothing more fun than being the one who calls the shots after a good spar, It's endlessly satisfying to lock your free hand around his throat, only barely squeeze down on either side.

Yeah, yeah, you've not actually strangling your co-worker, but to Johnny it must feel that way.

His breaths are ragged beneath your hand, tired to the point that he can't steady the ins and outs anymore. It makes your feral grin soften a little, to something more sympathetic.

He's also tired, you remember. He's also pretty new to this team, he's your peer now. With that thought, you don't press him for a clear submission or formal surrender, you spare his pride and stand, with his body between your legs, and offer your hand.

Johnny swallows, but he grins widely, and takes it into his own.

He's not wearing gloves, that's the single cursory note your brain makes before you realize that he's only inches away from you, smiling and looking at you with warmed, bright blue eyes, panting a little faster than before.

"Tha's... feck, yer better than I thought you'd be, Firecracker."

Johnny says it differently this time, like it's your title now, but that thought is cut by him quickly stepping away, saying a couple words to Ghost, and getting a curt nod in turn before he scurries off to where you think the bathrooms are.

Before you really have the time to question that, Kyle is at your side, offering a playful smile.

"He's right, you know. Bold, but not bad." A stupidly pretty London accent rings into your ears, makes you tense for a second before realizing who's behind you.

Maybe this is the first time you've looked at Kyle this close, but you think you know why he doesn't talk as much as Johnny.

It would be unfair to the competition.

That thought makes you shake your head, try to clear the rancid thought from your skull. Co-workers. You're gonna watch this guy kill people, don't get hot and bothered about it.

"You think so?"

"Mhm. Always good to see someone get a little gnarly. Though Soap appreciates it much more than I do, I'm sure."

It's that moment that you recognize Kyle is teasing you, when he playfully pats your shoulder with a warm hand, shuffles just a tad closer to your side and watches as a smile breaks across your face.

That's the moment when Price nods, but you don't see it. Kyle doesn't either.

First chapter | Previous chapter | Next chapter

Masterlist

For Joanna:

Synopsis: Nikolai has been trying to find the right person to repair his beloved helicopter for a while too long, now. And then, he meets you.

Status: Completed!

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

Watcher 1-1:

Synopsis: You used to be a star member of the Task Force 141. Good things never seem to last, and change paves over your old friendships. Now, the only issue is that those old friendships are staring at you across the table, with anger in their eyes.

The Mistakes That Have Been Made

Synopsis: Sometimes, things don't work out. Sometimes, you're going to be the idiot on the wrong end of a deal. It hurts the most when you're training the next idiot in line.

Valentines

Synopsis: You've been on the team for a while now. It's been a task to get used to, but you've been getting on just fine with the boys. Or maybe, juuust maybe... better than fine.

Drabbles: Winding Down

Fiber Arts S/O!

Wisdom Teeth

Breakup Day (Johnny)

Damaged, but not beyond repair

Watcher 1-1

Part Eight

Warnings!: The 141 will be criminally stupid, fumblers, all of them. Death (canon-typical), Violence (canon-typical), loss of limb (I will cover the symptoms as well as possible, but any and all corrections are welcome) They do get kissy, but no smut (that I'm writing, but it's very much implied).

Warnings for this specific chapter: Clear depiction of severe emotional distress, a very strongly-worded recommendation of transfer that will be heavy. If requested, I will section it off and add a TLDR, but it is very plot relevant.

Days seem to pass much faster when you have things to do with your time.

Wheeling around in your new chair. Learning how to switch from your chair to your bed to the toilet. Finally getting the dignity of tossing your bedpan in the biohazard bin, blasted thing.

Slowly, the inner workings of the simple lock Keegan gifted you have become a second home to your (formerly) achingly empty hands.

It's become your latest single-minded obsession, even if the tools are frankly, garbage and the lock is now your single closest companion. Maybe second to Keegan.

Speaking of, the man himself gently interrupts you halfway through another round of single-pin picking, gently tugging your reddened thumbs into his much less callused hands, frowning at you as he gently pries the lock from your fingers, pick still in the keyway.

"Jeez, hun."

The gentle tangling of fingers is what follows, as Keegan horsed around in his pockets for at least a minute, silently swearing at his own clothes until he produces a small band-aid and some ointment for your not-even-broken skin.

"You know, you're not going to need to use-"

"Shut up. You're hurtin' yourself."

His voice is just a little more firm, and, for just a second, you're quiet, and it makes the nurse seemingly regret the words and correct himself.

"I'm sorry, that was-"

At that singular second, you simply have to say otherwise, you've got to tell him that no, he didn't upset you, he never would. He couldn't ever do that, not to you. Never.

"No."

The force in your voice is the thing that makes him pause. Truth be told, it also surprises you.

"N-I- I'm not mad with you. Not with you, never. I would never be mad with you for trying to help me."

The blue eyes that look into yours make you weak. Uncomfortably so. You shouldn't be this weak, you should be strong. This time, not for your own interest. This time, it's for Keegan's.

He deserves someone who can keep themself in check.

You aren't fully sure how much time passes while you're staring into those endless pools of blue, or what exactly the man before you is thinking, until the tender wrappings of his accented voice are flooding back into your ears.

"Do you know what it is that you do to me? By being the person that you are?"

Oh.

Oh, dear. The way your cheeks are hot is not something you had been accounting for. This was not planned.

"Keegan-"

"No, no, listen."

You do. Dammit, you listen to him. You finally abandon your pride and look at him, really look at him, and see the single most daunting sight you ever have.

That is a man who is devoted. And it is scary, but not in the way you expect it to be. Because this look is not familiar to you. It is new and it is potent. It makes your chest ache in a way that makes everything in your body stutter before it starts chugging again.

"I'm going to put on the ointment. And I'm going to put the bandage on your finger, alright? And then, I will ask if I'm allowed to kiss you, because I really want to."

Your body is getting ever more fuzzy and hot and wiggly in all the ways you hate but cannot ignore. Your heart is pounding. Your mind is reeling. You know this feeling, but you don't want to admit it.

"Alright."

It feels disingenuous. You feel terrible, like you're lacking every ounce of vulnerability that Keegan offers to you. Like you're taking and not giving back.

He smiles, just a little. Only a little bit, it's a simple twitch of his lips upward, and you catch it.

"Good."

Keegan's hands are efficient, but you've seen him practice sutures and the like in front of you, and you see him nearly slip as he wraps the raw skin of your thumb in the fabric bandage. He's going faster than usual.

"You're rushing."

"Yeah, well, I really wanna kiss you."

Thank goodness that he isn't looking for the blush on the cheeks or the way your eyes are a little bit wider than they usually are. Keegan chuckles, and gently holds your callused, scarred hands in his own.

"You know you don't have to. You can say no. I'll never ask again."

You're still sitting there, one leg down and actively trying to start your brain back up again. No one's ever said something like that to you before. Sure, it was always implied, always written in little letters between the lines, but Keegan seems incredibly willing to just... give that power over to you.

You seemingly don't answer fast enough, and the nurse slowly eases himself back, out of your space.

This kicks off what you can only describe as a panic response.

Your arm moves so fast it bumps the lock to the floor, but that does little to deter you. Your hand finds short-cropped, dark hair, and pulls the nurse forward until your lips are crushed together.

It isn't gentle. It's not what someone like Keegan deserves, and you cringe when your teeth clack just a little in your desperation.

"I'm sorry."

Are the first words out of your mouth when you pull back just enough to say them, bashful and flustered that you'd been so easily picked apart by any odd nurse who bothered to really pursue you.

His grin is wide and boyish, even if his lips (chapstick-moisturized, you noted in that desperate second) are a little shiny with spit.

"Don't be."

The peck that follows might be the single best thing that's ever happened to you.

Two big, gentle hands are holding your face, stroking your hot cheeks like he's soothing a bird fresh from the cage, taking your frayed nerves and twisting them back together.

A quiet noise comes from your throat, though its foundation isn't immediate pleasure, not like it used to be. It's a grateful contentment, quiet and almost unstated except for that.

Keegan smiles against your mouth, and kisses you again. Not any harder, or deeper, or any of those bullshit words that say he wants any more. Just the same, almost loving press that is quickly lowering any of the remaining walls that surround your too-fragile heart.

You have no idea how he's done this. You don't want him to stop.

Unfortunately, a very familiar clearing of the throat sounds from the doorway. A voice you know, well.

"Glad to see you're making friends."

Laswell. Fuck.

Keegan is quick to efficiently end the short coupling of your mouths, and look up to the woman, sheepish.

"Real good friends, ma'am."

You should smack him for that, but some part of you that has become frustratingly understanding knows what it is he's doing. Taking her attention from you, funneling it into that stupid joke and hoping she'll have mercy on your pathetic ass.

It's admirable, and Laswell must catch the way you look at him, because she just sighs.

"Yes, well, you can kiss later. I have things to discuss with my soldier, so it really would be great if you-"

Keegan hauls ass. The door is shut before she can even finish talking, and Laswell shakes her head in a way that seems less disappointed and more... amused, almost.

"That settles that."

She sits in the chair next to your bed. You turn to face her, stump forward and leg folded over the edge of the terribly uncomfortable surface.

You watch her glance down, in sympathy or in pity, you're not sure.

"I'm on pain meds."

Her brows pinch, and she lets her head drop a little. Like she doesn't like what she's about to say to you.

"I know, peanut. I'd have everyone here out for malpractice if you weren't the closest to fine you could be. Just- God, this is a mixed bag."

You raise a brow, and she starts to elaborate.

"I've talked to doctors. Odds are, you can go back into the field, if you want to. If everything goes well, you could probably pass selection for the SAS or Special Forces again."

The smile that you hold is tempered by the fact that she doesn't look overjoyed by this. No, she still looks upset somehow. But you also know Laswell doesn't lie. At least, not to you.

"Something is wrong. And you don't want to tell me what it is."

She sighs, and pinches the bridge of her nose. Not out of annoyance, but some sort of empathy.

"No. I really don't want to, but I've held it back for too long already, and I know you'd like it if I came clean."

You nod, after a brief hesitation.

"You've been transferred out of the 141."

She lays it out there, plain and simple, and you're silent.

It makes so many hurtful things click. The emptiness of the small counter next to your bed. The reason none of your teammates have come to visit, why you haven't even gotten calls.

Because you really are a liability. Too slow, and now one leg down on the competition.

Laswell pipes up before the pain can entirely take you over, pulling your mind from the rapid downward spiral it was gearing up to take.

"I want to tell you now, that I read the letter that recommended the transfer. It was a load of shit, and I hate all of it. But, it got the brass on board anyway."

"I... also want to tell you that, for your own good, I'd steer clear of talking to any of the boys for a time." She gently sets your phone on the small "nightstand" beside your bed, again, almost hesitantly.

"They're a bit... heated, right now. Last I heard."

You can't talk. Or, if you can, you really don't want to. Your throat feels tight, and your eyes feel hot, and it's all too much. But you look up at her anyway, and she tried to give you the closest thing to a smile she can muster.

"Take your time, alright? You've always been a good soldier. Better than people think."

Laswell stands, then. You do nothing to stop her as she leaves the room, but you hear what she says to Keegan at the door.

"I don't know you, but they clearly do. Don't do something they don't deserve."

The instructions ring through your hollowed skull as you look toward the linoleum floor in front of you, and see the lock.

The fall must have bumped it just right, because it's open. This time, the pick looks like its stabbing into the cast-iron body.

First chapter | Previous chapter | Next chapter

The Mistakes That Have Been Made

Part Three <3 The fluff before the storm

Warnings!: Angst, angst, and more angst. Reader will be MAD sad for most of this. Poorly-practiced, unhealthy polyamory. Reader will experience a LOT of gender and body dysphoria over the course of this (though I will do my best to keep it gender-neutral throughout, bear with me), but there WILL be comfort over that.

Training with Gary was a good idea, no matter how much you hate to admit it.

He forced you to take it easy, as much as you griped at him for it. You could do more. You knew you could do more. But the both of you knew damn well that you shouldn't be doing any more, either.

It was a simple hour. He did the exercises with you, mostly simple stretches and the like.

As infuriating as it was, you felt much calmer after. Maybe that was because you'd managed to avoid your team up until now. You hadn't had to look at any of them today.

That was oddly relieving, but the way he was looking at you wasn't. Gary was scanning you like he was trying to figure something out, between friendly jokes and quiet banter. It wigged you out a little, but when you tried to go to the showers, as usual, he stopped you with a hand on your hoodie-clad shoulder.

"You know you're not supposed to wet the dressings, right?"

His soft voice is right next to your ear, the muffled heat of his breath thankfully not making you shiver as it usually would, thanks to the mask.

"But I've still gotta shower, y-"

Gary chuckles gently, and pulls you (gently, he gives you more than enough leeway to wriggle free if you really want to) into the smallest bathroom attached to the gym.

You've never been in here before, but you don't stop him when he turns you around, and starts to sign again.

You didn't read the articles I sent, did you?

You sigh, and give him a slightly sheepish glance as you sign back (much more clumsily, to be sure, and slower.

Doing other things, bug.

Do you know the sign for "Roach"? No. It doesn't stop you from hearing Gary's little gasp, and watching the way his cheeks round with a bright smile as he slips his mask down, revealing maybe the brightest grin you've ever seen.

Before you're fully aware of it, you've been engulfed in a firm hug, and you're being squeezed tightly by the gentle man before you, an ungloved hand splayed over the small of your back.

"I was right about you."

His voice is still raspy, almost whispered, and you frown just a little at the way he's straining to talk, even if you want to smile at the words.

"You've done a lot for me, luv, I practically owed it to you. Don't strain yourself."

The silent bounces of laughter rock your chest as Gary gently rests his face on your shoulder for just a moment, seemingly fond of the way this feels.

What makes you pull back is the way you feel a warm, scared hand under your hoodie (and over your undershirt, thank goodness) right after leather hits the floor.

Gary seems to sense your unease, and gives you a reassuring smile.

You can't wet your dressings, so I brought wet wipes for you. Figured you could use the help.

He uses more complete sign than before, only bothering to finger-spell the harder words to gleam in the sentence. You pick it up well, but still squirm a little when you see yourself in the mirror.

Gary knows it, because you pointedly look away from the wall behind him. The confirmation makes his smile fade a little, but his hope skyrocket.

You're more like him than you think. Even if you don't know it yet.

He clicks his tongue, and turns so you're facing the wall, pulling the small pack of sanitary wipes from his bag and handing them to you.

"Do you want me to help?"

You can't reach every part of your body just yet, but Gary still offers to let you do it yourself. He lets you choose. It makes you a little weak.

When you nod, he gets to work.

It's maybe the best thing you've ever felt. His hands are cloaked by the wipes, smoothing over your skin, wicking away the thin layer of sweat that clings to it. Soothing you in a way no one has every bothered to before.

Your phone pings somewhere in your gym bag. You ignore it, opting to lean into a gentle swipe over the broadest part of your back.

"You're good to me, Gary."

He nods. It makes you sigh.

"I really want to be with you more."

He nods again. This time, he gently hooks his chin over your shoulder, pulling your hoodie up just enough to clean around the small bandages you changed just this morning. When you tense, he scoots his head a little closer to your neck, to comfort you. It works well.

It's a hard balance to strike, but he's pulling it off. You feel seen, but somehow just as much you feel like he's not really looking. It takes that ugly, twisting feeling away, and puts it to bed.

Your body may be wrong, but right now, it doesn't matter. Gary doesn't care. That makes you feel... good. Maybe not good. It makes you feel understood, for the first time.

"Why are you so good at this?"

You feel him smile, and gently take hold of your hand, before leading you to feel a scar that stretches beneath his chest.

Huh.

Oh. Oh, shit.

"Gary-"

He interrupts you when he releases your hand, and signs once more.

I'm like you.

"I... Fuck, luv, I'm not- I mean, I- I-"

Let me help you. I want to.

You're in deeeeeeep shit.

"Alright. Yeah, as long as you stay."

What I say to my partner when we both know damn well neither of us are in possession of a penis of our own.

thsi is literally fucking killing me

The Mistakes That Have Been Made

Part two :)

Warnings!: Angst, angst, and more angst. Reader will be MAD sad for most of this. Poorly-practiced, unhealthy polyamory. Reader will experience a LOT of gender and body dysphoria over the course of this (though I will do my best to keep it gender-neutral throughout, bear with me), but there WILL be comfort over that.

You spent most of the night following the surgery in a light doze, after a certain man named Gary walks you to your room, only slightly entertaining your efforts to walk upright on your own two legs.

Of course, he can't stay, he's got things to do, and he's not your fucking nurse, but he still makes you unlock your phone and watches you set the timer so you take your antibiotics first thing in the morning.

He still leaves to fill up his own water bottle, and sets it by your tiny, shitty nightstand, and he still brings the thing to your lips to make you take a couple sips, even as you try not to drift off right then and there.

When you look up with tired eyes, he offers a small, sympathetic smile, and leans down to gently bump your forehead with his own.

It's... an oddly endearing gesture, considering that's a grown-ass man, but your delirious smile seems to inspire more of that gentle treatment, because when his hands are free again, he's finger-spelling to you once more.

I googled some stuff for the recovery. Should I send you the links to the articles?

You melt, just a little bit, but nod, tiredly resting your heavy head on the pillow beneath it, just really soaking in not feeling like you're dying. Feels great, you've gotta say.

"Yeah. That'd be real sweet of you, luvie. Thanks for all the help."

He beams at you. You hate to admit it, but you smile, too.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The day after is slow for you. Seeing as you're one organ down, it feels perfectly fit to work quietly in your own small office space, finding more information for prospective ops down the line.

It's comfortably-paced, much unlike how you'd been before your mistake. Back then, you were frantic, under a deadline you knew wasn't realistic trying to find documents that didn't ever exist.

Your job feels so much better without Price and the team on your ass. They never understand how discovery works, they think it just happens in a way that's frankly, stupid.

And, you're no liar, you'll say that getting periodic texts from your new friend really does brighten your mood.

Roach was a riot. And you forgot how it felt to be with that energy, the spark of new meat that you had felt yourself losing in the team.

He's a good lad, might have to get him a dinner, as-

Your train of thought is (rudely) interrupted by your door opening, without a knock or anything, and an irritated Johnny standing behind it.

"Mind tellin' me why ye werenae runnin' feckin' drills today? Ye said ye'd fuckin' spot me."

You're not surprised that his voice is supremely annoying to you right now. Normally, that Scottish slang is a comforting noise, a reminder of the company you hold, and how they've always had your back.

This time, you kind of want to knock him in the jaw for it.

This anger, it will pass.

Maybe.

"If you've got an issue, go to Price. It's not my job to fill you in on every little detail of my life, and I have a job other than training that I need to be up-to-date with."

The metal of Gary's water bottle makes a quiet noise on the textured plastic of your desk as you raise it to take another sip, effectively silencing Johnny for just a second as you hear him sputter to himself.

"Th' fuck are you- you're not drinking coffee."

Of course that's the thing he notices. He can't notice when you're on death's door begging for help, but he knows how you take a morning beverage.

You really wanna punch him now.

"Detox."

You answer is terse, not quite like you, and he furrows his brows.

"Ye're hidin' somethin', ain't ye? S' it 'cause of the mission? 'Cause that was a stupid call, an' you can't fix stupid."

What a way to make amends, Soap, show up at my door and insult me after a brief interrogation. Charming.

"My god, would it kill you to shut your mouth just once? Is that too big an ask, now?"

Harsh. That was harsh. You know it was, and that it was a mistake, but when you open your mouth to apologize, Johnny beats you to it.

"Fuck you."

The slam of the door makes you cringe, and look back down to your documents, the little notes you've drawn in the margins and the highlighter that's smudged the pen just a little bit.

Before you dwell too long, there's a quiet ping.

A small, stupid looping video pops up when you open the offending chat.

It's a poorly-rendered cockroach, spinning is stupidly whimsical circles and turning colors as a song you don't care to name plays in the background. The text under it is what makes you soften.

medicine checkk in!!! take the medcine if you havent :)

His spelling is amateurish at best.

You're really fucking screwed, with that one, and you know it, but still, you set the phone down, and open a new tab.

British Sign Language basics. You could do that.

Part One | Previous | Next

Been looking for this for at LEAST three years.

me holding a gun to a mushroom: tell me the name of god you fungal piece of shit

mushroom: can you feel your heart burning? can you feel the struggle within? the fear within me is beyond anything your soul can make. you cannot kill me in a way that matters

me cocking the gun, tears streaming down my face: I’M NOT FUCKING SCARED OF YOU

always wanted to make one of these myself, so here's the propaganda blorbos!

+ one(1) ✨vintage✨ ghoap

part two of ???