Angst - Blog Posts

Watcher 1-1

Part Seven <3

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: (technically) main character death, written descriptions of injury, gore and blood talk. Included reference and experience with post-surgery symptoms of various degrees of seriousness. One character affectionately refers to another character as "slutbag"

Keegan is a good man.

You learn this quickly, as you get into moderate, common spats with the United States healthcare system.

In the days that narrowly follow the surgery, when you're more often unconscious than awake, you often wake with the nurse (technically certified, but you really have no idea if he actually works here) at your bedside who's just... doing whatever in the corner.

You're lucky you haven't been snippy enough to shove him away from you, just yet.

In your own defense, your dignity has been directly removed by most of this terrible shit.

You can't even get up to use the bathroom, anymore. It's a bedpan.

And apparently, you're still lucky. Because you're going to get your drainage tube out of the lovely leg wound in a few days.

You are, for all intents and purposes, about to kill someone or yourself. But Keegan is still often there, answering your questions or giving you just a bit of humor to hold onto as you go increasingly stir-crazy from waiting for Laswell to finally come and give you the rundown of the tatters that must remain of your career.

If you got lucky, she wouldn't be too upset. Maybe, if you were really lucky, she would tell you where the boys are. Why none of them have dropped in to see you yet.

It'd only be another week. You weren't sure you could last that long.

As if an angel somewhere has answered this thought, the door opens again.

"Hey, slutbag. I finally found you some enrichment."

Keegan's voice is playful, and he wears a shit-eating grin as he tosses a small bag to your bed, hitting you almost-square in the chest.

"Mm. Poor aim, Mr. Russ."

You may be tired, in pain, and you may be in a frankly terrible mood, but that doesn't mean you're not funny. Your name isn't Price.

Still, you open the little bag, and there's a box inside. You open that too, as Keegan plops himself in the chair that hurts his back because he can't be assed to bring in something better.

It's... a lock, casted out of clear plastic, with a small set of tools to pick it. Also a set of keys, which you already know you'll refuse to use for pride's sake.

Two watchful, fond blue eyes are scanning your motions and you can feel him smile, without even looking.

"I could have given you a manual, but I think you'd like it better to do it all yourself. Was I right?"

The tool's handle is smooth as you hold the lock steady, fighting to not immediately fiddle with the thing in front of Keegan. He would be too damned smug about it.

"...Thank you, Russ."

He did deserve that thanks, as far as you thought. You were pathetic right now, useless and bed-bound and panicky. And still, Keegan was willing to look upon you, he still willingly chooses to see you.

This thank you encompasses all of those things. You know you've been less than fun. Less than useful. And you know Keegan deserves to know that he's been good to you. Better than you've ever deserved.

He's quiet, for a time, but then you hear a warm chuckle as he reaches forward to give you a gentle pat on the shoulder.

"Don't say that like you owe me anything, kid," You really should interrupt him, tell him that, if you're not older than him, you definitely outrank him, but you don't. "You're much better than working in a shit-hole like this."

Your eyes find his, and you can see him smile as he lowers his mask. You're noticed that he only seems to do this in the room, with you. And only when you're both alone.

"...I know some people who could change that."

"Really?"

"I'm missing my leg, I still have my connections, Keegan."

His smile is worth the scolding you know Lawell will give you for trying to promise to pull him into the service.

You don't care. He's medically smart enough, and pliable enough to train into shape.

Maybe, if you can't serve anymore, you can bring someone who was more brilliant that you ever were. Maybe, your debt is still something you can repay.

His smile isn't wide, but it's happy. Something in your chest squeezes too hard, but he's kind enough to ignore how your heart monitor beeps faster. You know he notices, because his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"D'you want me to give you some hints to pick that lock faster?"

For once, you see that offer for help, and it doesn't strike you as a direct insult to you. You can see, right there before you, someone who wants to get close.

And it's so very stupid to trust someone. But something tells you that you will never be too slow for Keegan.

He seems fine with waiting for you to catch up.

Maybe that's why you nod at that question.

Maybe that's why he sits on the side of your bed, and starts to explain the basics, gently leading your hands into proper position as he starts to gently wriggle the tool agains the pins.

You would have never allowed this, otherwise, but it feels surprisingly good to have him there. Not because he thinks you're weak. Not because he thinks you'd be better if he taught you this.

Keegan is teaching you this because he thinks it's something you want to learn.

The tool turns before you're ready, and the lock pops open under your hands. Keegan's hands too.

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Watcher 1-1

Chapter Six!!!

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).

Warnings for this specific chapter: (technically) main character death, written descriptions of injury, gore and blood talk. Included reference and experience with post-surgery symptoms of various degrees of seriousness.

Sometimes, during major traumas, people can "see" what is often described as a snapshot of a particular moment, sometimes several.

You can mentally hear a sweetened voice, masculine but tender, reminding you of that, even in the depths of your own bruised brain.

There's a loud beeping beside you, and everything hurts. Your head, your chest, your legs... it's varied, too. A throb of agony with each beat of your heart in some places, a wave-like wash of dull pain in others.

Something is wrong with you, and you don't know what.

You know, however, that your eyes are heavy, and your lips and nose are covered by an oxygen mask. The straps, thin and stretchy, still dig into your cheeks a bit.

The pain in your leg is the most present, but the monumental task that has become opening your eyes is interrupted by something else opening.

The door, to the white-walled room where you sit.

A curly-haired head is peeking through, and there's a gasp when they seemingly see that you're not dead.

"Holy shit. I have to call someone."

That's all the warning you're granted before they're scampering off, leaving the door ajar, and you to your own devices.

Your first attempt at movement incurs a harsh punishment from the binds that are your injuries.

The flash of tearing pain and hot blood in your veins is a cloying, clawing thing, and it pulls a noise from your throat, but it doesn't stop you.

No, no, what stops you is what your minds sees fit to conjure, at the sight you see.

The wrinkles of the blanket around your legs... it flattens, beneath the knee of the leg that was under rubble. Your left. There isn't anything there anymore.

Like a sick search engine, you're trapped in the moments you couldn't yet remember, stuck and helpless. Watching.

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

Price and Ghost stand over your body, talking heatedly as the Lieutenant fights to overturn the piece of concrete pinning you to the ground.

"I'm telling you, they're a liability, Simon. I won't put my team at risk just because you're partial to the first rookie you see that isn't utter dogshit."

His tone is final, but you can't look up, you can't plead your case.

You can just sit there and feel it, even as adrenaline starts to choke your senses and make your fingers tingle and jitter.

"So you're going to leave one of your own to get mutilated and immediately transfer?"

You feel your body tense. In the memory, in the real moment, you're not sure which. It might be both.

The Mancunian is harsh-voiced, like he's maybe one wrong look away from pistol-whipping Price over this. You can't see the look the captain gives him, but you know it must be bad, because his posture tenses so fast you hear his clothes rustle between the ringing of your ears.

"You want to risk it? Do you want to risk losing your Soap? Because they're too slow?"

Your chest is too tight for you to breathe right now, like you're being pressed in a vice, it only gets tighter. And still, your mind is racing too fast to handle any of this.

The oxygen is pumping into your veins, flooding your system more and more with every ragged, too-fast breath you take. It only makes you panic more, choke on the ugly, hard, confused sobs that want to leave your throat.

You don't know how long this state is the only thing you can feel, how long your existence is defined by this blind panic, but you know what pulls you from it.

"Hey. Did you know that frogs vomit by flipping their stomachs out through their mouth and cleaning it with their stupid frog hands?"

The question forces you to take a breath, shuddering as it is, and point wet eyes up at who's talking to you.

There's a man before you, crouching next to your side. He's your age–maybe a bit younger, he has suspiciously nice skin for someone who's wearing nurse scrubs–but he smiles crookedly as you realize how far you're falling.

"That trick always works."

He's uncomfortably smug, but there's a sort of sympathy in his eyes that makes your breathing halt as he gently slips the oxygen mask down just enough to let you breathe through your nose, taking in slower, shakier breaths. Like Laswell taught you to.

Maybe it's to comfort you, maybe it's because you look stupid, but the man grabs a tissue from your bedside and gently sponging off the tears from the corners of your eyes, cooing at you while he does.

"Right. You're okay, alright? Technically, I'm breaking the law by being here, by the way."

Your voice shakes terribly when you try to talk, raspy from disuse and strained from your own panic.

"What."

It doesn't sound like a question, but he answers anyway.

"I'm not any of your nurses, sugar. HIPPA violations, y'know?"

"... Still... leaving a veteran to wake up alone with one less leg than before don't sit with me."

His voice is gentle, and he's still sat in the plastic chair by your bedside, treating you like a piece of gold foil. Gently.

It should make you mad. You should want to beat his ass, for thinking you would ever need to be coddled like this. But you're tired, and the haziness of a painkiller cocktail is starting to nibble at your sense again. So you lay back down, slowly.

His hands help you by habit, even though he removes them from your shoulders when he sees you tense.

This is the first time you take a good look at him.

He's got a prominent nose, with a bump at the ridge, like it's been broken and reset. Blue eyes, that catch the sterile light and glint. You shudder at how it reminds you of Soap. of John.

But he's different. his stubble is lighter, trimmed closer to the cheek. His jaw is stronger, his hair is different. He wears a simple, thin black mask, for sanitation's sake.

There's a stupid little name-tag pinned at his breast, written with borderline chicken scratch. It reads: Hi!, my name is Keegan.

He knows you're looking down, and he smiles just a little bit. When you open your mouth, try to talk. He cuts you off.

"I already know your name from the charts. Don't strain yourself, I think the stern lesbian woman would kill me if I made your condition even a little bit worse."

The smile, the stupid joke makes the tiredness subside, for even a second. He grins when he sees your lips twitch up a little bit, his eyes crinkle at the corners, warm and playful. Almost fond.

It will take a long time. And a lot of work. But you have... someone here. Not a friend. Not yet. But he's still someone.

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Watcher 1-1

Part Five!!!

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).

Warnings for this specific chapter: (technically) main character death, written descriptions of injury, gore and blood talk

Good luck, soldiers.

The early morning sun streaming into your room is a lovely little bit of accoutrement to getting ready for another mission, even if you're trying to persuade the prettiest man you know from sticking to your back like moss.

"Kyle, I'll be back by dinner, I swear to you-"

Your plea gets nowhere, as a light nibbling at your neck drives a squeal between your lips and a chuckle from the man behind you, a tender squeeze from the thick arms wrapped about your body as you try to squirm out of the warm, tempting hold.

"But I'll miss you, Firecracker, you can't just go out without me an' Soap like this..."

The whine is muffled on your skin, spoken through lovely, soft lips, still warm and a little swollen. You puff up a bit in pride, know that's your work, but mentally force yourself back to focus.

"C'mon, Ky. Just twelve hours or so."

He huffs in response, leaves one more kiss on your skin for good luck.

"Fine, but don't expect me to save a spot for you in the shower if you take any longer 'n' that."

You grin at the tease, and gently tug Kyle in by the shoulder for another little kiss, affectionate, before pulling back.

"See? That ain't too hard, is it?"

He swats your shoulder as he walks out. You chuckle.

There isn't much time to give Johnny a goodbye, but he manages to steal a short, teasing peck in the hallway, and he playfully smacks your ass in a way that just tells you he wants you in his room tonight before walking off with his usual swagger, outwardly unbothered.

"Prick!"

You call out after him, cheeks flooded with a familiar, pleasant heat.

"Arsehole!"

Is his response.

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

During the mission, your steps feel lighter, like you're somehow floating ever so slightly above the ground beneath you. You deem it adrenaline, and push forward.

"Still got my six, Ghost?"

"Affirmative. Keep goin'."

The thick, Mancunian brogue is what motivates you now, pushing further into the compound silently, trying to locate the objective as you listen for anything, even another footstep.

The tense silence is all you have, other than the beat of your heart or the way blood rushes too-quickly in your ears. You shouldn't be this nervous, this bad feeling is silly.

You're already here, opening the door to find your objective. It's almost time to go back.

The thumb drive fits neatly into your palm, but almost exactly after you take it, you hear a gunshot.

Fuck. Why did Price take a shot in here?

Every hair on your neck stands up, and they only get taller when you hear your captain in your earpiece.

"Tangos are alerted to our presence, roll-out in two minutes.''

Your blood is icy cold as you hear footsteps flooding into the hall, and you pocket the drive as you pray they'll pass in time.

"Sir, I'm on the third floor, I have the objective but I won't have the time-"

"We roll-out in two. Minutes. If you're there or not."

A hard shudder passes through your spine as you fight for a breath, to rebut this, to tell him that you just need time, you'll get back out. Simon does it for you.

"Thir'y more seconds won't bugger anythin', sir." Simon says that word like it's an insult.

You can hear their voices arguing through your headset as you bolt through the brutalist hallways, narrowly dodging and ducking but not covering enough distance.

An alarm starts to sound, a self-destruction and a warning to get into designated safety bunkers.

But you can't move, not fast enough, you're darting through the halls and you're not going anywhere, you must be going insane.

When you see the doorway out, you wonder if you're in heaven. The chorus of angels is welcoming you, telling you that you're going to make it.

You will.

The door is locked, and it wastes thirty precious seconds to open, slamming the butt of your gun against it as you fight the steel for your life.

When it opens, you can see the helicopter, you can see Nikolai behind the control panel, you can see Price and Simon and you see your lieutenant look at you.

And then, in the blink of an eye, it's all wrong.

Your ears are ringing, and you're on the floor, surrounded by fire and you only know that because you can smell the telltale odor of burning flesh and fabric.

A voice calls to you, but two sets of feet are in front of you, imposing and dark, thick-booted.

"Easy, Firecracker, we're going to get you out."

You can't look up, but when he tries to lift you, your leg feels like it's being pulled right off, like gnarly, twisted claws are digging between muscle and peeling them away from each other, burning and too much. The hot shiver of agony is making your entire calf throb, and you could swear the noise that comes out of you isn't real.

Tears, hot fat and heavy, are rolling down your cheeks like watery marbles, and your vision starts to blacken as a sick gush of blood leaves your damaged limb, making you feel like you might be dying.

You hear a few words exchanged, and there are no hands on your shoulders anymore.

The fall is short. You're out before you hit the ground.

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(Post-fic note:) Yippee! This chapter was unexpectedly hard to write, but I'm glad it's out. As always, enjoy sillies! New chapter might also take a while because of research, I wanna make it as good as possible :D (just found out I could copy-paste tags, holy shit that's crazy)

Watcher 1-1

Part Four

Call this shit the silly before the storm because they're getting SILLY!!!

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).

"This is Firecracker, completing final equipment check."

You can hardly keep the tremor from your voice as you grin into the radio, finally wrapping up your very first official mission on the 141.

It went just as it should have, a quick in and out, with the exception of a small gash on your thigh, an order not followed quickly enough from Price's end that left you in the hot seat. Ghost was watching your six the whole time, just like he'd promised on the fly in.

He'd said I always will, sergeant. Something in your gut squeezed when he did, but you ignored it.

Now, that skull-masked Brit sits across from you in the big belly of the helicopter–a stupidly pretty Pave Low that Nikolai was flying, as per usual–and you see the fabric rustle a little on his cheeks.

Like he's smiling.

Before you can really ponder that, or why it makes you want to see it again, Johnny is attaching himself to your side, waxing poetic about how good ye were, leannan, I knew we were right to go wie ye.

You grin wider than you would like to admit as you shove him lightly, one hand right on his waist to hold him at least a little further back, to pretend you weren't stupidly fond of him already, like he hadn't proven himself to be a wonderful teammate and... fuck, a good friend to boot.

Helping you unjam your gun, correcting your posture with a sort of gentleness you never knew you were deserving of.

Of course, thoughts of Johnny always bring thoughts of Kyle, too.

You can see him there, sitting next to Price, looking like an outside observer, like he's just passing by.

It makes you frown.

"Gaz?"

His head perks, stupidly pretty brown eyes locking onto yours without a moment of delay, always at the ready.

Goodness, you're terrible for finding him so pretty.

"Fuck're you sitting over there for? With the geezers? Did we suddenly get boring or something?"

The toothy grin you give must be enough to prevent the individual wrath of both your lieutenant and captain, because when Price gives you a look, Simon taps his thigh, just once. John huffs, but relaxes again, still looking squarely at you with something sharper than before in his eyes.

When you look away, slightly unsettled, Kyle's there beside you too, and you gladly pull him in to your little predicament with one very clingy Scotsman.

Yes, you're all grown adults. Does that make tussling in seats that should only be sat in any less fun?

Absolutely not.

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

You're not exactly sure why or how you let this happen.

All you're fully aware of is that Johnny and Kyle managed to drag you out to an actual bar to celebrate.

It's a small spot, but cozy and playful, balmy in atmosphere with some temptingly good hip-hop that you don't quite recognize, but listen to anyway.

Kyle sits on the end of the booth that's pressed to the wall, Johnny on the other side. You pick the wall, get a good look at the men before you.

Johnny's wearing a nice deep red shirt, unbuttoned enough to show off the glint of dog-tags on his pale skin, and the fabric of Kyle's thick cargo pants brushes against your thigh, forcing you to swallow as you smile.

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

Most of the night, the chatter is sweet, you'd be hard pressed to understand how you got here.

Something is roiling in your gut, but it's most definitely not the shot you've just knocked back, it's hotter.

Johnny's since taken up his place by your side, already flushed from how tipsy he is. You're gonna need to flag a cab home, all three of you, considering Kyle was just as blasted as the two of you, even if he's drinking you and Johnny under the table. you have no idea how he does it.

"Fuuuuucckkkkk..."

You groan as the sting of alcohol wears away to leave the bitter taste of the shot itself. It's not worth how bad your head is going to hurt tomorrow morning, but the way Kyle's looking at you is.

His eyes are terrible in the way they make you desperately try not to shiver, a beautiful brown yellowed to a lovely syrupy color in the warm lighting of the bar.

Before you do something stupid, or worse, say something stupid, you force yourself to comment on the shot instead.

"Is... is this 80 proof, Kyle?"

Your voice is tripping over itself a little, tongue slowed in your mouth until its motions are clumsy. You know he hears you, and you know he understands by how he swallows before meeting your eyes, opening his mouth to reply before he's cut off by a slightly pink Scotsman.

"Och, feckin' naughty dog, aye? Wha' do ye think we should do wie him, Firecracker?"

Johnny's breath is right against the column of your throat, teasing at the side with a warmth it has no right to have. A hot shiver grips you by the base of your spine, and you can feel your breath get caught in your throat for just a second too long.

"Johnny, you're-"

"I ken. Jus' havin' a wee bit of craic, tha's not a crime, is it?"

You're too focused on the blue-eyed menace to spot how hungrily Kyle is looking at the pair of you, the way his hand reaches out until it's holding you by the chin, gently guiding your face up to his.

"You know, you do things to people, Firecracker. He's just returning the favor."

His voice is ever so slightly lower, a little blurred by the liquor, but fuck it makes you swallow all of your pride anyway.

"Do I really?"

You're trying so hard to tease, you really are, but even you can catch how breathy you sound, and you can see Kyle's plush lips turn up at the corners, you watch him lean down until there's barely any space between your faces.

Maybe it's habit, maybe it's a mindless craving, but your head tilts to the side, and you watch him chuckle.

That's all that you can really see before there are lips on yours.

He's so warm, you can taste the sweetness of his old scotch when he parts his lips, tenderly traces his tongue on the seam of your own, like you're something to be revered, durable but deserving of good treatment.

You can feel your cheeks flame with color so fast it's nearly dizzying, every single system of your body lighting up as your gut flutters and your brain shuts itself off, focused entirely on the sensations that envelop you.

Johnny's at your back now, so very close to kissing at your neck, his breath ghosts over your pulse, and the feel of a strong body behind you makes everything double, forcing a muffled groan that Kyle eagerly swallows up before pulling away.

"Shit. Johnny was right."

Truth be told, Kyle had held his reservations about this. But having you there, flushed and hot and swollen-lipped from his kissing, he's struggling to think of any of those reasons.

Instead, he cradles your flushed face in his hands, and you spot him leaning down to peck Johnny's lips, too.

"You're gonnae be good, leannan, I cannae wait to have ye."

Johnny isn't as gentle as Kyle, you can feel his eagerness in the way his teeth catch a little against your skin before he really plans to, kissing and nibbling at your flesh as he suckles on it.

Kyle's grinning now, and he presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth, playfully licking into you with an energy that makes you want to sob.

It felt so wonderfully good. Terribly good, it makes you grip at his shirt, trying to pull him close enough to get a real kiss.

You can feel him smile against your lips, shift enough to give you what he knows you need.

It's wonderfully filthy, hot and heavy and you know you won't last much longer.

Johnny and Kyle know this, too.

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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.

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I’m trying to prove a point

Good news, gays and theys (and others) So I actually haven't been writing at all the past few days (lmao sorry about that), BUT I found a really good comic series. It's called The Glass Scientists, and it's got two volumes right now, go read.

Alllllllllsssssoooooooo, if I have some free time, I have quite the fun project coming down the pipeline soon, and it's mega sad! Yay!!!! Get excited about a sad, stupid little guy who's going to lose a major body part!!!!!!!

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

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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

I’m not a perfectionist, but finding a typo or a grammatical error in my own already-published fic is like stepping on a Lego honestly

When the worst comes to pass (Part Two: Kyle)

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.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Sorry, Garrick. No living prisoners." The soldier's voice in his ear breaks every last thing Kyle knows and holds dear. – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –– – – – – – – – – –– – – – – – – – – – – – –

Work for the SAS is an odd sort of thing. Kyle likes to think of it like standing in the ocean, dipping your feet in the waves and letting its state consume you. Some days, it's just simple and easy. Filling out a few papers and letting everything pass over you. Some days are rough, and some are brutal. Just like the ocean, though, this line of work is more than deadly. It's a constant risk that every single soldier has signed themself off to that at their own discretion, they all know that the date of their death could well be tomorrow. But there's an element of pride that comes with that. It's humbling, sure, but the pride is there, because you've operated in situations the average person couldn't even hope to manage, pulled off odds that inspire both a nauseating fear and a spark of courage that only grows into a raging inferno the more you do it. Still, Kyle sits with you at his side in the armory, making jokes and sharpening his kit as you polish yours. If he had to pick a favorite person he had met in the service... it would be you. Don't get him wrong, Price is a phenomenal captain, just like Ghost is a clinically effective lieutenant and Soap is a great work buddy and gifted sergeant, but you... god, none of them could even hold a candle to that. His loyalties lie with the team, yes, but everyone knows where the heart of that fierce, caring nature funnels. And why shouldn't it? You were like him. Quiet, but clever, a problem solver in your heart of hearts and Kyle was a sucker for someone who had at least a little bit of emotional intelligence about them. He still remembers the moment that really endeared you to him. He'd been injured, nearly fatally on a mission, but you... stayed with him. After he'd gotten a not-that-gentle sponge bath from a stressed-looking nurse, you had stepped in, done something that not many would dare to do. Washed his hair. Sure, it might sound small, but it wasn't. Your deft hands worked for an hour at least. Sectioning first, saturating the coily hair with water, shampooing it, everything, taking his broken body into your hands like he was a baby bird and fixing what you could, keeping him warm enough to last the night. You'd been wordless, too, apart from gathering his consent to help him clean up fully. You just... did that. For no other reason than you wanted to see a teammate thrive as much as he could. After that, you'd been inseparable. Maybe that's why his eyes are so adoring as he watches you sharpen your (favorite) knife, an old gift from him, but he'll never tell. Your voice is flooding the space, neatly tucking into every last corner and leaving every gun and ammo case with the beautiful, ghosting memory of you like oleander flowers. Deadly, but bright and lovely all the same, burned into the folds of his brain. He never wanted to lose that. – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Kyle hadn't been on the mission that took you away from him. He remembered how you described it to him before you left, soft-eyed and quiet as you finally let him out of the pin you'd had him in on the sparring mats, helping him up with a hand despite knowing full well he wouldn't need it. He takes that hand. "It'll be easy, Gaz, I swear. Just an in-and-out. Easy as pie, right?" He didn't worry then. He hadn't had any reason to. He remembers it so well, feeling his cheeks round with a smile as he bumps his forehead against yours, how you grin and playfully pat his ass in response. "Right. Don't fall out of any transport." His voice was soft, then. Cheeky as he teases you just to hear you joke back with him. "I think that's your job, sergeant."

There it is. Kyle feels his heart squeeze around nothing, pumping his blood just a little faster. He's so glad you can't see the blush on his cheeks, because he just knows he'd be so nervous he'd pass out right then and there. "Yeah yeah, go fuck yourself."

Your smile is crooked, but it's every last thing he needs. It's the food in his belly and the blood in his veins and he loves it so fucking much. – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –– – – – – – – – – –– – – – – – – – – – – – –

"Sorry, Garrick. No living prisoners." The soldier's voice in his ear breaks every last thing Kyle knows and holds dear, hands him a small bag containing the items they thought were yours. It's been weeks already, he knows the odds are slim, everyone knows the odds are slim, but he held out for that miracle. A miracle that never came. It feels... empty, now. That night, when transport came back without you, Kyle had been fucking outraged. He had stormed to Price's office and chewed out his own captain because how in the hell could this have happened? Why were you left behind? No one had any answers, but the sympathy offered almost felt worse. Soap's quiet solemnity around him felt like some sort of insult, though Kyle knew it wasn't. Ghost's... weird hanging around and staring was a sweet gesture, but deeply saddening. But it's now, after all of that, that his worst fears come to life. Every feeling seems to flare and broil and Kyle excuses himself to his quarters before he falls apart. Most of the job is mental. You can be the most physically strong person on the field and you can still lose because you couldn't hold it together well enough. Kyle knows that. But part of that mental aptitude comes with knowing the grief he feels is necessary. He doesn't want to let you go. He clutches your dog tags in one hand, and your favorite knife in the other as he sobs with a force he hasn't had since being a little schoolboy, crying to his mother after scraping his knee. This is no scraped knee, though. This is an injury that will likely never scar, it's ugly and it will always hurt and Kyle knows that, but he would take this over letting you go any day. Because, when all is said and all is done, Kyle knows himself, and he knows that there is no one who would ever hope to compare to who you had been for him. When his mind clears, he holds the knife in shaky hands, and kisses the flat of the blade before polishing it the rest of the way. It still sits there now, on his dresser. Take a look for yourself, wouldn't you? Just don't touch. He treasures the thing.

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.

Why

Why

WHYYYYYY

😭😭😭

I was sick now I’m sad.

Stray dog (Part 2)

To find the most recent chapters, please go to @doggoboigaugau 's masterlist

Sorry it took me quite long lmao TToTT School and work deadlines are killin' me.

Pairings: Ghost x Soap x Male Reader

Summary: Male Reader is traumatized and refuses to open up to 141. Soap found out something horrible going on with him and told Ghost about it.

Word count: 1910

Warnings: Smoking. Mention of attempts to self-h@rm.

The next morning you woke up with a throbbing headache. It was so bad that you felt like hundreds of needles were jabbed into your eye sockets and every time you blinked, those needles plunged into your brain, sending a sharp and chilling pain to the crown of your head. This was by no means a strange occurrence for you though, given the fact that every night the base celebrated a party you always indulged in this self-sabotaging habit. 

Still, no matter how bad the situation was, you still had training to attend to, tasks to get done, reports to compile, and a miserable life to live. You turned your head to look at the clock, silently praying that it wasn’t too late. 

It was 13:00 in the afternoon already. 

“Shit!” You threw an arm over your forehead. Nice, you missed the morning training session. It was your responsibility today to train the new recruits and now you messed up the whole Task Force’s schedule once again just because you could not handle your pathetic emotions properly. The thoughts of giving up flooded your mind yet again since it was no use in waking up anyway, it was too late to do anything useful. The other team members were already aware of how irresponsible you were as you continuously failed to be on time for training the newbies. And what about the newbies’ impression of you? Probably an unreliable man who was no longer fit to be a member of a special Task Force that was particularly famous for its efficiency. Or maybe you were never fit to be one to begin with. 

Why didn’t the others wake you up? You had worked here long enough to know how scary and irritated Ghost could get when people missed his training session. There were even times when he immediately had the unpunctual soldiers pack their things and get sent to another department because he couldn’t fuckin’ stand people disrespecting his schedule. 

“Maybe they forget about my existence. Maybe I wasn’t that big of a part of this Task Force.” You mumbled to yourself, trying to pull your tired body out of the heavy blanket. As much as you wanted to give up, the desire to be important to someone, something, or some organization, …just anything, urged you to wake up and keep trying. You wanted yourself to be seen.

Upon opening the door of your stuffy room, you instinctively covered your eyes as they were attacked by rays of blinding sunlight. Your room was too dark and gloomy, doors and windows tightly shut all day and night, no wonder you would react so unfavorably to the bright sunlight that is often associated with positive moods by most people. 

The base was unusually quiet. You didn’t meet a single soul on your way to the kitchen to fill your hungry stomach. No Soap cracking stupid jokes with his heavy Scottish accent and laughing loudly to them himself, no Gaz cursing at his jokes, no Roach laughing at the two dumb manchildren, no Price sighing and telling them to at least be less raucous. You tried to shrug the nasty nagging feelings off, but it soon became unbearable when you walked into the kitchen and saw all the dirty dishes in the sink. 

“They have finished their lunch.” And they had it without you. The people you considered to be your own family, much closer than the biological family that you had cut all contact with, didn’t wake you up from your drunken sleep, totally forgot your existence, and enjoyed a meal together like there wasn’t anything missing. You knew damn well that you were overexaggerating the seriousness of the situation, but you just couldn’t help it. 

‘What am I to them?’ That question kept spiraling inside your brain, worsening the headache that you were already having. In a brief second, all the nagging feelings were anthropomorphized into a disgusting creature with multiple heads and mouths by your ailed mind, shrilly screaming out your deepest thoughts that were fraught with insecurities. Your legs were rendered weak and you collapsed on the floor. Supporting your weakened body with all four limbs, you took heavy breaths, trying to calm yourself down.

A few minutes later, you managed to put yourself together enough to stand up and get out of the base, on the way you didn’t forget to grab a pack of cigarettes. You felt stupid to resort to nicotine as a way to fight against all those feelings, but you didn’t know a better way. There were times when things were so bad that you had no energy left to hide your conditions from your teammates, and Price was concerned. He used to have you talk to some therapists, and not surprisingly to you at all, they could not handle you for long. No one ever could. 

You were now standing in the parking lot with a cigarette in your mouth. You sighed, clearly satisfied with how strongly its bitter taste stimulated your taste buds. When you first arrived here as the newest member of Task Force 141, Soap and Gaz always joked that you’d become Price’s smoking buddy, but that did not happen. The image of you standing with Price awkwardly because you two couldn’t find a mutual topic for a conversation made you feel too uncomfortable to even try, so you kept avoiding the older man or pretending to not hear his offer until he just stopped inviting you. It was so obvious that the men wanted to get closer to you, they wanted to earn your trust, to make you feel at home and be yourself among them, yet you kept pushing them away. And now perhaps they had stopped trying all together. It was not their fault. It was yours. 

But why it was so painful? You were supposed to feel relieved that they had given up so that you didn’t have to blame yourself every time you turned their kind offer down and saw the sadness drawn on their faces. ‘Why do I keep feeling like shit no matter what I do?’

Feeling that the intense emotions that were barely suppressed by the nicotine started to get out of hand again, you cupped your head with both hands, the half-burning cigarette fell to the ground. Suddenly, your eyes caught the red burning tip of it, together with how the paper wrapping around the nicotine was slowly burnt to black. At that very moment, a dark but familiar thought popped up in your mind. You bowed down to pick up the cigarette, blankly staring at it resting between the two fingers of your right hand. Then, your eyes turned to your left hand, examining your spotty lower arm. It was full of the small round scars that were caused by burning your arms with the burning tip of a cigarette. You had noticed Ghost looked at these scars of yours many times; luckily he never asked about them. The army was a place filled with people who had different background stories and bore numerous scars, so it wouldn’t be abnormal for you to have some that were a bit funny-shaped.

‘Should I do this again?’ 

Maybe you should. It helped with the emotions. Well, temporarily, but that was good enough.

Just as you were about to press the burning tip into your lower left arm, someone threw their whole weight into you. You were hugged by two strong arms and the cigarette was again dropped to the ground.

“There you are! I’ve been finding you everywhere!” It was the Scot man. “Are you smoking? Gosh, I hate this smell! Price’s cigars are much better!”

‘The ones that smell good are never bitter enough.’ You thought to yourself.

“Have you had lunch, pretty boy?” Soap pinched your dumbfounded face.

“Not yet.”

“What? Unbelievable! Get to the kitchen with me right now, Sergeant.” The man literally manhandled you straight from the parking lot into the base, leaving you no time to object.

As you two arrived at your destination, Ghost was already sitting there, sipping some coffee. Soap forced you to sit down right next to him while he proceeded to walk to the fridge and pulled out a dish, putting it inside the microwave oven. 

“Here you are, babyboy~” He put the hot meal in front of you. You chose to ignore the pet name and his flirtatious voice simply because he had started doing it to you ever since you start working here. It was just one of his signature thing, you should not fall for it and mistake it as a sign of interest that could develop into romantic feelings. 

“Thanks, Soap.”

“Aw, don’t be so all worked up and formal, babyboy. Ya’ welcome~”

Silence fell over the three of you, until you just felt so awkward that you had to speak up, “So… how was this morning?”

“It was fine. Ghost stepped in your place and took care of the training.” Soap replied.

You carefully glanced at Ghost, just to find that the man already looked at you, which made you tremble slightly. The skull mask on his face made him too difficult to read, you couldn’t tell whether he was annoyed or he just gave up on expecting something greater from you. 

Soap laughed at your reactions, “It’s okay. You were drunk so Price agreed to let you sleep. Also, Ghost volunteered to help you with the training so he probably doesn’t hold a grudge. Am I right, Ghostie?”

The masked man didn’t answer; instead, he turned back to his cup of coffee.

You quickly finished your meal and left, saying that you should do training by yourself. The truth was you couldn’t stay there any longer, you didn’t want to disturb Ghost and Soap’s rare peaceful time together. You had already made too terrible an impression on Ghost, it’s best that you did not mess up again. As a result, you also missed their conversation. It was not intended for you to listen to anyway.

“You’re right. He did it.” Soap’s voice was solemn, with no sign of flirt or unseriousness like a few minutes before.

“You mean the scars?” Ghost looked up at him from the cup.

“Yeah, the round scar marks that you’ve told me many times.”

“It was just my guess. How do you know he really did it?”

“I found him in the parking lot. He was holding a burning cigarette and about to press it into his left arm.” 

A few minutes of silence passed until Ghost spoke up, “Fuckin’ hell.”

“I asked Price about his past, I know it’s a nosy thing to do, but I wanted to help. Unfortunately, Price knows nothing either. Y/n… the boy never opens up to us.”

The two men sat quietly, exchanging worried looks with each other. If only you could know how much they cared for you, maybe you would find it easier to accept their love and help. Yet, even if they told you, even if they desperately showed you so many times that they cared and loved you so much, would your brain allow your heart to welcome them just like how it used to welcome other people you had met earlier in your life, the ones who left you wounded and made you the way you were today? 

If someone asked you that question, you’d just offer them a weak smile and simply say: “No”. You're now too tired to hold on to any crumbles of hope left in your broken soul. You'd like to give up.

to be continued i guess :")

Taglist: @aphroditeslovr @prestigeghoul @edgyboi10000 @c0nny3917 @peter-the-pan @lovecats123451

and now heaven will smite you

Fellow Tumblonians, should I cook up a BKDK fanfic, more specifically a ghost!Izuku x Katsuki

I don't know...im feeling a bit angsty

ᱬ⛧ not meant to be ~ k. bakugou

ᱬ ࣪𖤐 an old work from a few years ago; taking a quick break from a w.i.p.

g/n! reader and sfw. could you class this as angst? you decide!

as always, reblogs/likes are always appreciated! enjoy! ᱬ ࣪𖤐

word count: 994

links: bnha/mha masterlist | masterlist

although he would never admit it in a million years, he had it bad when it came to you. he knew it from the moment he couldn't stop thinking about you whenever he was alone. everything about you just made his heart and body feel completely different to what he was used to and for that, he hated you for as long as he could manage.

what started as your stereotypical love/hate relationship when you were both children started to develop slowly over time until he could feel his heart beating painfully each time he heard your name or saw you about his daily life.

the great bakugou had caught feelings for you and he had a hard time accepting that. harder than most people would think. he loathed that he had begun to feel this way about you, well at least in the beginning he did because you were nothing more than another distraction to him along with that nerd and annoying extra, midoriya.

as he grew, he started to learn what this somewhat foreign feeling was, especially after asking masaru which seemed to make the eavesdropping mitsuki grin wildly.

the older he got, the worse his feelings got. they seemed to get worse when the two of you were alone, be that walking home or just in school. of course, he had a bad boy image to upkeep and that included bullying the green-haired friend you both shared.

the only exception to his bullying was you, he'd never make you a target of it, always finding ways to do it out of your view.

he was hopeful that being in school would help distract him from his feelings, and he threw himself into his studies as well as his tough-guy act. grinding to be the best around, all while ignoring that ache in his chest whenever you were around.

the feeling wouldn't go away no matter how hard he tried.

then came the ua days. when he saw you in that uniform, he couldn't still the painful way his heart began beating again. he thought he had escaped you for a while but he knew he was kidding himself, especially with your quirk. you’d make the perfect pro hero.

bakugou still came across as the same aggressive boy he always had been, the complete opposite of how others viewed you. was he surprised? not at all, that's just who you were. was he annoyed at the way he felt about you still? absolutely. he tried fighting as hard as he could but it was impossible. nothing seemed to dim the fire lit deep within.

slowly, very much unlike him, he worked up the courage to finally ask you out. to be the one he'd give every inch of his being and soul to.

then came the day he finally convinced himself to do it. he was going to ask you to be his.

clammy hands stuffed in pockets as he began searching for you. you had to be around the school somewhere as you were in none of your usual spots.

the ripple of murmurs reached his ears as he walked along. his heart pounded relentlessly at what he heard. it had to be a joke. something the two of you idiots had conjured up to mess with him.

"have you heard that (y/n) is dating deku?".

"are you serious?".

"they're such a cute couple".

as cliché as it sounds, he felt his world fall apart at the seams. he had to be hearing things, just some dumb extras making up shit to make sure he was in a bad mood for the rest of the day.

there was no way in hell you were dating that nerd. he knew you had standards and deku was not up to those.

turning quickly on his heel, he made his way to the homeroom he shared with you and the rest of 1-a. opening the door, the rumours he heard hit him full force in both his face and his heart. there you were, standing beside midoriya, his arm wrapped snugly around you as you looked at him, that lovestruck grin on your face as you laughed at something mina had said to the pair of you.

small explosions started to crackle in his hands before slamming the door. storming away like a little child who couldn't get their favourite treat when out and about.

your shouts behind him fell on deaf ears as he continued to walk from the situation. he wouldn't let either of you see him defeated.

he began to keep a safe distance. he hated seeing the two of you together, knowing he was not the one who was holding you like that. the one peppering soft kisses on your face and comforting you whenever you were hurt.

he spent many nights after seeing the pair of you looking back over the few photos you had taken together.

a sad smile now resting on his face when he looks at you, your infectious smile there as usual. his heart hurting for an entirely different reason, knowing it was slowly breaking the more he thought about it.

he had lost his chance to be the one that made you smile for the stupidest reasons, the one you poured your heart out to with all your hopes and dreams but most importantly, the one you would bear your very soul to.

part of him wished you and that nerd would call it off knowing he would be the one to swoop on and pick you up, making sure you were treated like the royalty you deserved.

the other part of him knew that he would only fuck things up big time if you two were to ever date now.

he had to spend the rest of his life, which felt like an eternity, watching you smile and be happy in the arms of another man.

a man that should have been him.

permanent tags;

@ani-net

© springismss 2025 - don’t repost, copy, translate, steal or modify.

out of all of the genres tgcf could belong to

i always first think of it as a romantic comedy

SCREAMING CRYING I LOVE YOU @mcntsee

Decade

Summary: Kaz Brekker x sister! reader. Facing the aftermath of crows’ departures, a dangerous job was proposed, tensions rose, and Kaz’s façade wavered and a sacrifice was made. Based on this request.

Warnings: Sacrifice, violence, grief, “death”, Kaz is ooc at one point

Y/n and Kaz stood at a crossroads, both literally and metaphorically. The sprawling city, a web of treachery and ambition, seemed to mirror the shattered remains of their once-undefeatable crew. The passage of time had etched lines of experience on their faces and shadows of pain in their hearts, leaving Y/n to bear witness to the transformation of her brother, Kaz, into a colder, more enigmatic version of himself.

As each crow had departed, Kaz had grown increasingly desperate and reckless. Inej had set sail to find freedom on the open sea, Wylan and Jesper had left the criminal life behind for a “normal” existence, and Nina had been taken from them after the heart-wrenching loss of Matthias. With each departure, Kaz’s grasp on control seemed to slip, his grip on the world loosening as if trying to reclaim the pieces that had been stolen from him.

The glint of determination in Kaz’s eyes had given way to a consuming darkness. A storm of unresolved emotions that raged beneath his meticulously constructed façade. Each separation had chipped away at the carefully crafted armor he had worn for so long, leaving raw wounds that festered in the shadows. His desperation, once buried deep, now oozed to the surface in the form of reckless schemes and increasingly dangerous jobs.

Y/n had borne witness to this transformation, watching as her brother’s demeanor grew colder and his tactics more extreme. The warmth that had once lingered in his gaze when he looked at his fellow crows had faded, replaced by a calculating edge that had been honed in the crucible of their struggles. Kaz had become a riddle even to those who had known him best, his actions driven by a relentless pursuit of control and vengeance.

The dimly lit room seemed to hold its breath as Kaz’s voice wove intricate tales of danger and deception. The details of the new job hung heavily in the air, but Y/n’s growing unease was impossible to ignore. “This sounds like a suicide mission.” she had finally blurted out, her voice a mixture of frustration and genuine concern.

Tension crackled in the air, an electric current charging the atmosphere. Kaz’s gaze bore into Y/n’s, his defiant expression a reflection of the turmoil that churned beneath the surface. Their words clashed, leaving wounds that cut deeper than any blade.

In the midst of the storm of words, Y/n’s voice softened, a tremor of vulnerability threading through her words. “I miss the old you, Kaz.” she confessed, a sense of longing in her voice. For a fleeting moment, the impervious façade that Kaz had constructed wavered, revealing a glimpse of the brother she had once known. “That version of me is dead, Y/n.” he replied, a touch of sorrow tainting his words.

The charged exchange reached an impasse, marked by an intriguing directive. “Meet me outside the club in three hours.” Kaz commanded, his words heavy with an unspoken weight.

Their rendezvous led them to ascend a towering building, the sprawling panorama of the city unfolding below them. With each step, the weight of their shared history pressed upon them, the bond that had once united them now stretched thin. The rooftop awaited, a stage where the threads of fate were manipulated by Pekka Rollins, orchestrating a cruel and twisted dance.

The confrontation erupted in a sudden burst of violence. Guards emerged from the shadows, their movements swift and practiced, ensnaring Y/n and Kaz in an iron grip. Pekka’s grin held a malevolent gleam, a puppet master relishing his control over their destinies.

Pekka positioned Kaz in front of him, the barrel of a gun trained unwaveringly on Kaz’s form. Y/n was restrained across from them, held captive by a guard’s steely grip. A chill crept down Kaz’s spine as Pekka’s grin twisted into a sinister snarl. “I’ve had enough of you, you barrel scum.” Pekka spat, his words dripping with venom. The unmistakable click of the gun’s safety being disengaged sent a shiver through the room, the sound amplifying the threat that hung in the air.

Y/n’s heart raced as the tension reached a fever pitch. In a moment of heart-stopping determination, she lunged forward, her elbow connecting with the guard’s nose with all her strength. The guard staggered back, blood streaming from his nose, and for an instant, the grip on Y/n loosened.

With an adrenaline-fueled burst of energy, Y/n sprinted towards Pekka, her eyes fixed on the gun pointed at Kaz. The guard reacted quickly, his gun drawn and fired. The first shot found its mark, striking Y/n in the shoulder. Pain exploded through her, but she pushed on, her resolve unbroken.

The second shot seared through her calf, a fresh wave of agony crashing over her. Yet, fueled by sheer determination, she continued her charge. With a surge of strength, Y/n launched herself at Pekka, a whirlwind of determination and fury that shattered the room’s fragile balance.

Their bodies collided, a tangle of limbs and desperation, as Y/n tackled Pekka over the building’s ledge. In that split second, the world seemed to freeze as Pekka’s eyes widened with shock. The wind howled around them as they plummeted, the abyss below consuming them.

Kaz’s senses sharpened as a heart-stopping clarity settled over him. “No!” he roared, his voice a raw and desperate plea. His heart thundered in his chest, his eyes locked on the figures plummeting into the abyss. His sister—his world—disappearing into the endless darkness.

As Y/n fell, a whirlwind of memories swirled through her mind. Moments of shared laughter, secret confidences, and the unbreakable bond she shared with Kaz danced before her eyes. With a final, steadying breath, she closed her eyes, embracing the unknown that awaited her.

Kaz’s gaze remained riveted on the void, his knuckles white as his fists clenched. He strained to catch a glimpse of Y/n’s form, his silent prayer echoing in the night. But as seconds stretched into an agonizing eternity, a cruel reality settled over him. She was gone. “No…”

Ten years had passed since that fateful night, a decade of shadows and whispers that wrapped around Kaz like a suffocating cloak. In the aftermath, he had become a phantom, rarely seen beyond the confines of the Crow Club's walls. He had exacted vengeance upon each of the men who had played a role in Pekka's ambush, leaving a trail of death in his wake. But the weight of his sister's sacrifice lingered, an indelible scar etched into his soul.

He had returned to the Crow Club that night, his movements robotic and his demeanor cold. Locking himself in his office, he had shut himself away from the world for months, consumed by a maelstrom of guilt and grief. Jobs became an afterthought, the thrill of the heist no longer able to fill the void that had been left behind.

However, a decade later, Kaz had finally mustered the courage to venture into Lij to meet with a contractor. The air hung heavy with memories, each step a reminder of the past he had tried to bury. As he navigated the streets, however, he found himself haunted by visions of his sister—fragments of her, an older version, lingering at the periphery of his vision. He dismissed them as figments of his tormented imagination, a cruel trick his mind played on him.

After signing several contracts, Kaz found himself wandering the market, surrounded by the hum of life that continued to thrive even in the face of his own despair. It was there, amidst the bustle and noise, that he heard a voice call his name—his real name, not the alias he had adopted to shield himself from the world. He spun around, muscles tensed, ready to face a threat. But instead, he was met with a sight that sent his heart into overdrive—Y/n, standing before him, her smile a bittersweet echo of the past.

Kaz's breath caught in his throat, his mind a whirlwind of disbelief and confusion. He muttered something under his breath, his voice wavering. "This is not real. You've lost it, Brekker." His instinct was to retreat, to put distance between himself and the haunting apparition that stood before him.

Yet, Y/n stepped forward, her gaze unwavering, and spoke words that cut through the walls he had built around himself. "You'd think after ten years my brother would be happy to see me again." Her words held a lightness he had long forgotten, a playfulness that once defined their relationship.

In that moment, something shifted within Kaz. For the first time in his life, he found himself battling the ghosts of his past, his fears, and his overwhelming need for control. His brain urged him to flee, to escape the impossible reality that seemed to mock him. But there was something different this time—an ache in his chest, a yearning for the connection he had lost.

Y/n's smile was a lifeline, an anchor in the storm that raged within him. In a swift motion, he disregarded the barriers that had once kept him safe. With a vulnerability he had long suppressed, Kaz closed the distance between them and enveloped Y/n in a hug—an embrace that was both desperate and tender.

Y/n laughed, the sound a melody that echoed through the market. She hugged him back, the weight of a decade's worth of absence and longing evaporating in that simple gesture. While their bodies were locked in the embrace, Kaz's voice trembled as he finally uttered the words that had haunted him for years. "I thought you were dead."

Y/n's response was soft, her hands gently cupping his face as she drew back slightly. Her left arm trembled, a detail that didn't escape Kaz's notice. Her words were an invitation, a lifeline thrown to a brother who had long been lost in the darkness. "Let's have some tea and catch up?" she suggested, her voice carrying a warmth that melted away the years of isolation and pain.

Kaz nodded, a simple gesture that belied the torrent of emotions surging within him. For the first time in a decade, he allowed himself to lower his guard, to let go of the fears and ghosts that had held him captive. As they walked side by side, the bustling market around them fading into the background, Kaz dared to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, he could find a sliver of light amidst the shadows.

Y/n began to walk, and Kaz followed in her wake, a hesitant anticipation in his steps. Before long, they reached their destination—a modest house that held the secrets of his sister's life over the past ten years. Y/n attempted to unlock the door, her left arm trembling once again. He stepped forward, a silent offer hanging in the air. "May I?" he asked, his voice gentle. Y/n's smile was her response as she handed him the keys, her gratitude evident in her gaze.

As they entered the house, Kaz's eyes roved over the surroundings, each corner a tableau of memories he had missed. He moved from picture to picture, his gaze lingering on each frame as he studied the portraits adorning the walls. His sister and a man stood in one photograph, their smiles frozen in time. He continued his exploration, his eyes tracing the presence of the same man in several portraits. There was a story woven within the frames, one that begged to be unveiled.

His steps carried him to a picture of two children, their innocent faces frozen in a moment of laughter. He opened his mouth to inquire about their identities, but before the words could escape, a cacophony of joyous voices shattered the silence. Two children burst into the room, their boundless energy a stark contrast to the years of solitude Kaz had endured.

"Ma!" they exclaimed in unison, their arms reaching out to embrace Y/n. She welcomed them with open arms, the love in her eyes a testament to the years they had shared. As the children released their hold, the older brother pointed at Kaz and asked a question that tugged at the corners of Kaz's lips. "Who is that, ma?"

Y/n's laughter filled the room, a melody that danced upon the air. "That would be your uncle Kaz," she replied, her voice carrying a hint of mirth. Kaz's gaze shifted from Y/n to the children, his heart a mix of awe and surprise. The younger of the two gasped, his small hand covering his mouth as realization dawned. "You have the same name as me!" he exclaimed, his eyes wide with wonder.

“Kaz, this is Jordie,” said y/n while pointing at the oldest who in response gave a shy wave, “and this is Kaz.” she said while pointing at the youngest. Kaz found himself speechless for a moment, his mind swirling with emotions that defied description. The sight of his nephews, the legacy of the family he had believed to be lost forever, left him humbled and amazed. With a steadying breath, he knelt down, his movements deliberate as he met the gaze of the two children.

"Can I get a hug?" he asked, his voice soft but sincere. The response was immediate and joyful, a chorus of laughter and footsteps that rushed towards him. Small arms enveloped him, their embrace soft but firm none the less.

As the echoes of their joyful laughter began to fade, Y/n gently turned to her children, her voice filled with warmth. "Why don't you two go upstairs and play for a while?" she suggested. Without hesitation, the young boys bounded away, their laughter and excitement filling the air. With a shared glance, Y/n and Kaz watched them go, a silent acknowledgment of the profound moment they had just shared.

"Tea?" Y/n's voice broke the stillness, the simple question carrying a sense of normalcy amidst the extraordinary circumstances. Kaz nodded, his gaze lingering on her as he made his way to the table. Y/n quickly prepared the tea, her movements deft but accompanied by the persistent tremor in her left arm. She placed the cups on the table and settled down beside Kaz, the fragility of her condition at odds with her unwavering strength.

Kaz's eyes shifted from the tea to Y/n's arm, his curiosity piqued. "Why is your arm shaking so much?" he inquired, his voice carrying a note of concern. Y/n looked down at her trembling arm, her fingers gently tracing the path of the trembling. Her words were soft, carrying a weight that only a decade of silence could give. "It hit one of the rocks in the water when I fell ten years ago." Her fingers moved in a soothing rhythm, a gesture of self-comfort as she spoke the words that had haunted her.

"Nerve damage," she continued, her voice tinged with resignation. "Hasn't stopped shaking since." Kaz's gaze shifted from her arm to meet her eyes, the concern etched on his features palpable. He regarded her with a mixture of understanding and compassion, a silent acknowledgement of the pain that had woven its way into her life.

His next question was gentle, a gesture that sought to bridge the gap between the years they had spent apart. "Does it still hurt?" he inquired, his voice low and tinged with a vulnerability that he had rarely shown. Y/n's response was honest, her eyes holding his as she offered a glimpse into her reality. "Some days more than others," she admitted, her words a testament to the resilience she had cultivated over the years.

As they sipped their tea, the room seemed to embrace the fragile peace that had settled between them. Y/n's eyes held a genuine curiosity as she turned the conversation toward him. "What have you been up to in these past years?" she asked, her voice gentle. Kaz's response was measured, his words guarded yet filled with a quiet certainty. "Just casual business."

The exchange led to a shift in the conversation, and he inquired about her life with equal curiosity. Y/n's smile held a hint of nostalgia as she began to speak of the man she had met—Ezra. His name resonated in the air, a key to unlocking the chapters of her life that had been hidden from him. "We got married," she explained, her gaze distant yet filled with a quiet contentment. "And a little while later, came the kids."

In the quiet of that moment, as the teacups sat forgotten between them, the years of separation seemed to fade into the background. The echoes of a past that had haunted them both began to soften, replaced by the tentative hope of a future that held the promise of healing and renewal.

@thescorpioscrow

*Proceeds to make a mocktail with all of these + a splash of mango for angst ig*

come get ya juice

Sometimes, I want to be issued an apology that I’m going to refuse anyway. I’m glad you recognize that what you did hurt me, that doesn’t mean I forgive you. That apology doesn’t fix anything, I want you to do better. To BE better. A failure in deliverance makes me feel like you don’t know how you affected me, or you don’t care. And I’m not sure which is worse.

The duality of knowing that your parents really did do the best they could by you, and knowing that you needed more than what they could ever give you.

I want my mother; the woman both a room away and ten years out of reach.

Isn’t it funny?

A tear turns into sniffles turns into sobbing turns into six years old with hands outstretched.

Hands soon to be smacked away by the bite of thoughtless words.

Hands that learn it’s better to cinch at the waist lest they get smacked once again.

Hands that soon don’t even bother to squeeze back once taken back in an effort to mend.

The tears that don’t seem to stop, even when the pain has long since passed.

The urge to cling and beg for mother’s attention that will not be given.

A woman who is not at fault, but will shoulder the blame anyway because to place it elsewhere is to place it on the intangible.

A woman who sleeps only a room away yet stays ten years out of reach.

Might I offer you some fluff, in these trying times of chap 117?

Shin Soukoku co-parenting Aya.

Please tag me in the fics.

I just saw this?!?!

Like, I’m sure we all know that something happened to Raph and Donnie, but I’m pretty sure this confirms they’re dead. But we also never saw anything?! Like, those are their masks! What type of angst did we get offscreen?! I wanna know!

Ok, you all know the book “The Outsiders” right? Right. And I’ve been having an angst scene in my head with Ghost and Soap with this one quote. “Johnny was the only thing Dally loved. And now Johnny was gone.”. Now what if Soap dies or something and Ghost goes fucking 𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 and absolutely loses it. He just loses himself and nothing is helping. I welcome you all to this amazing writing prompt!

Thinking about Sevika who one day just realises that you're "too good for her". She would watch you make her breakfast in the morning with sadness and anger in her eyes instead of the usual adoring and loving stares. She would sit on the dining table and play with her food, when she tries to eat she can't swallow it because there's an invisible lump in her throat. She feels like she doesn't deserve you. You deserve someone whose job doesn't involve violence and danger.

She would stay up all night to watch you sleep, she would often check your breathing, her hand on your stomach or her head against your chest to hear your heartbeat. And one day, she's had enough of it. She succumbs to her thoughts. On your final night, she would make love to you in the most gentle way possible. Not the usual fucking, no insults or name calling, no spanking and pulling your hair, just softness. She would caress you gently, kiss your most sensitive places, whisper I love yous and I care for you in your ear.

She would run you a bath, clean the whole room whilst you're relaxing in the bathroom so she could get rid of her smell. Of any traces that she left.

She would hum songs that her mum taught her to you whilst you drift off to sleep and she would cry and kiss you before leaving you on the bed, taking her bag filled with her belongings with her before she leaves the apartment. Forever.

FRRRR

me: i love reading angst

me reading angst:

_Wildflower_

Everytime you touch me I wonder how he felt

Pairs: #Satoruxreader and Suguruxreader

Tw: angst, literally sad

Inspired by the song Wildflower by Billie Eilish, you know it's about to be heavy on the heart

_14th February 2017_

"Suguru?"

The quick breath he let out was immediately sucked back into his throat as he raised a rough palm over his face making sure to wipe at the bottom of his eyelids, he was already short of breath and his head felt heavy of the constant-

"Are... Are you crying?"

At his side in less than a second you wrapped your arms around his frame and hugged him, his been alone for alittle bit to long in the bedroom of the hotel you booked for valentines day

"I got some of that heart shaped chocolates from the store down at the lobby"

Your voice soft and your tender hands rubbed at his temples to soothe any ache, fingers softly caressing his head and lead down to his soft, slightly wet from the shower he took, long strands of hair.

"The ones with the caramel inside?"

His voice was hoarse and cracked with each word, just how long has he been crying by himself?

"Yeah, you wanna talk about what's wro-"

"I found this movie Satoru suggested we could watch"

Suguru's warmth left your body as he got up from the bed and walked to the TV to set it up, Satoru hasn't spoken to him-or you since you announced your relationship.

_30th June 2016_

"I don't-I don't fucking understand why... Why she would just up and L-leave like that"

A angry huff of air escaped his nose, he paced the hard wood floor and dragged a hand down his face, his teeth clenched so hard he could break his molers, Satoru was pissed and fucking heartbroken, it hurt so bad that he couldn't breathe properly

"Satoru... I'm sorry"

"No suguru it's not... It's not your fault, I fucking I fucking l-loved her so much"

Gojo couldn't stop the crack in his voice for the second time, unbeknownst to himself a lone tear from his face down his pale cheek and til he tasted the salty liquid he shook his head and covered his face with both of his hands

Crouched down into Suguru's arms he wailed til his body shook, his tall frame felt so small into his best friends arms. Even though you left Satoru, Suguru have never seen him cry

"It's gonna be okay I promise, you'll get through this"

_July 2016_

Blue eyes met Purple irises, Gojo bumped his shoulder against Geto as he passed him

"Wait-Satoru.."

"Shut up"

Suguru choked up and he clutched his phone tighter, Satoru saw your ID caller on his phone as they stood outside the candy store before the start of the movie

"... What about the movie"

"I thought... Fuck the movie, don't ever fucking speak to me again-You... YOU FUCKING HEAR DON'T FUCKING SPEAK TO ME!"

Blue eyes blown out in anger, the silence so loud Suguru could practically hear the shatter of his heart, couldn't even speak a word to stop Satoru from walking away from him. He tried, he really tried to say something to ease some hurt to not get that fucking look from his best friend each time they crossed paths.

_December 2018_

"Suguru... I love you"

The warmth that spread across his chest made him feel so hot that the redness was evident from his eyes to his neck and cheeks

"I-im sorry for springing this on so quickly I just really wanted to express my feelings I know it's been really awkward this year but I feel so... I feel so comfortable with you, your so understanding and and helpful and I couldn't imagine being with someone else-"

The feeling of his lips onto your own felt like a rush of cool air on a hot day, like warmth on a snow day, it felt like it was meant to be. You made mistakes in the past but Suguru is not going to be another mistake that's a promise.

His hands smoothed over your flushed cheek as you slept fast asleep, your swollen lips dried with the mixture of his and your saliva, your skin tattered with his marks. Satoru... Why does he think of Satoru everytime you are together, it hurts sometimes, like he was burning on the inside

"I know... I crossed the line-"

Suguru spoke against your hair as he moved closer and hugged your body closer to his own

"But... Do you ever think of him... See him in the back of your mind when you look at me too?"

Subconsciously he hugged your body tighter against his own muttering how he should just put it all behind him. It's been two years since he last saw his best friend and you were already... Carrying something so precious inside you.