When The Worst Comes To Pass (Part One: Johnny)

Watcher 1-1

Part 2!!!!

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).

The transport over the pond has never been a fun one, for you.

Not like you're scared of heights or anything, but it's a very long flight for your tastes, and you've never been the best at sleeping while sitting up.

Still, it elapses, and the oddly nice pilot (Nikolai, you thought his name was, though you weren't entirely sure), pats your shoulder with a smile when you step out, giving you some cryptic tease about being thankful the boys finally have someone new, a chew toy.

You're sure he's kidding, but even while you smile, it kind of unnerves you.

You'll be a hell of a lot more than a chew toy.

That spark is smothered when you see a group of four walking over the tarmac, hear the thick rubber soles of boots aggravating the landing surface. You shut your mouth immediately, straighten your back, blank your face.

The man in the front–Price–is the first to look you over, hard-eyed and stern as crystal blue eyes look beneath your skin with the strength of diamond behind them, like he's peering at every single part that makes you up, taking them apart and putting them together to see what ticks and how to break each one.

It's nauseating, especially when it comes from four sets at once.

The lieutenant is almost worse, wordless, blank eyes beneath a crude skull-bearing mask, a gaze that makes you think he's waiting to see you take some damage, to watch you snap like the fragile wings of a bird in his cruel hands.

You can't put words to how the sergeants are looking at you before Price speaks to you, making your head to snap to his the second he starts.

"You're Laswell's recommendation?"

He sounds almost... unimpressed, and it makes you straighten, puff out your chest like a rookie would. He thinks you're too green. you have to prove him wrong.

"Yes, captain."

Your voice is a bit deeper than normal, in your nervousness, but it doesn't sound unnatural. You see Kyle–the second sergeant–look away from Price for only a second, and you see him swallow.

The confirmation is met with nothing but a grunt at first, then he turns.

"On me. I need to make sure you're not as green as you look."

MacTavish chuckles, makes that weird "ooh" noise like a schoolboy.

"Training day, huh sir?" He's peering at Kyle as he says that, like he's trying to tease the other sergeant. Garrick doesn't look at him, pointedly.

Price nods, and they all fall into step behind him, making you jog to keep up.

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outside :(

One wishes to go outdoors, to ensure their health and better their situation, it is a simple desire.

And yet, it rains.

The Mistakes That Have Been Made

Part Four <3 This is where shit will get GNARLY, lovelies, so mind the gap (between Reader and their three awful boyfriends [not counting Gary, obv])

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're comfortable there, in that bathroom.

Gary, even after he's wiped you down, treats you gentle. Sits you up in your own little corner and has you sip on some water as he showers in one of the stalls.

It felt nice, just letting yourself cool back off, but not really being on your own.

Gary was very kind with you.

Should bring him food, some part of your lizard brain supplies, he looked like he was struggling a little his last set.

With the new mission in mind (and a spare* hoodie that Gary keeps in his gym bag), you knock on the shower wall to alert him that you're leaving, and shove your phone from your own bag into your pocket without even taking a glance at it.

The calmer, almost content feeling abandons you as soon as you open the door and spot Gaz walking into the gym room.

Of course, his hazel eyes catch onto you, and of course (because you really can't catch a fucking break), he trots over.

He doesn't greet you as he typically does, not with a sweet endearment and a firm hug. Instead, you're met with an appraising, almost judgy glance–knowing Gaz, he probably is judging you–and a cocked brow.

"Didn't pick up your phone before you showered?"

The question rings out to you, but you know he's not all that in your answer. It's not a warning, but a reminder that Gaz has never been the most patient. He's never liked to wait.

"Haven't checked it in a couple days, actually."

You impart in kind, crossing your arms over your chest for your own sake. You really don't want to have any face-downs today. You'd been feeling so good before.

He looks you up and down once more. It feels like his eyes peel your skin back, taking in the appearance of the ugly, squishy bits inside you before he clicks his tongue and steps back a bit.

"Right then. Just so you know, Johnny's right miffed with you. Told me you were being a prick last night. You know why?"

You hate this. You hate this so much. You would have never signed up for this if you knew It would be so draining.

Soap who couldn't keep it in his pants long enough to treat you like a partner, Gaz who seemed to want to cut your head off every time tension arose, and Ghost. The romantic equivalent of an absent father you only see on Christmas or birthdays.

Maybe you're letting the anxiety of the last few days talk. Maybe it's rash (no, it's definitely rash), but you can't handle a second more of this.

"Yeah, I was, sorry." You pause, before just coming out with the rest of it: "I'm thinking about cutting off this... thing. Thought you should know."

Ooh. Spoken with tact. Good job. Your own thoughts mock, but the very worst part of this is that Gaz seems to finally snap out of whatever haze he was caught in. His face twists, and your stomach twists with it as you watch his brows pinch and hear his voice quiet.

"...What? Love, you can't-"

You've pushed him to the back foot now, and it feels horrendous. So, you try to harness the grossness you always feel when he touches you, the aching emptiness of your room when you hear Soap on top of Gaz.

Or the knowledge that Soap and Ghost stay with him longer than they ever have you.

You were too green, too new to the team and too stupid to remember that of course the others wouldn't offer too much. But something between waking up from emergency surgery alone and making friends with the guy who dragged you away from death's door made you open your eyes to it.

"It's fine. Not your fault, just my mistake."

"Mistake, what do you even mean mistake? We were supposed to be partners. You're supposed to be my partner, luv, can you not see that-"

"You're not missing out on much, don't worry. I can't fuck anybody for at least another week anyway."

"What the bloody fuck are you talking about?"

The door to the bathroom opens behind you at maybe the worst moment in history, revealing Gary, still a little damp-haired from the shower. His boots squeak against the floor as he pauses in his step, watching the conversation confusedly.

Gaz's eyes widen, and before you can stop him, he's giving you the nastiest glare you've got in your life, spitting words like venom.

"Oh, so that's why you've been so distant, huh?"

Words choke and tangle in your throat as you look forward at him, watch the resentment in his eyes undoubtedly grow into a bruning hatred.

"It's not-" You try to start, but you never get to finish.

"No no, I get it. Must be real hard hiding how much of a slag you are from the team, yeah?"

You're not sure if you want to punch him or cry out of anger. You end up doing neither, clenching your hands into fists to avoid dishing out pain.

Gary looks confused, and you lack the control to hold any amount of civility anymore. He didn't need to be involved with this.

You didn't want Gary to think you were some sort of slut. Not him.

"I had an appendectomy, you stupid prick! Days ago, if you really wanna know"

You've never been one to raise your voice. It feels rude, but when Gaz quiets, there's nothing to be done but go in for the kill.

"You didn't pick up. I could have died in a bathroom stall because you were so busy that you couldn't check your phone and help me."

Gary puts his hand on your shoulder as you step forward, silently talking you back from wailing on Gaz in the middle of the gym.

When you look back, he signs to you.

There's time for that later.

You grit your teeth, but nod, offering a simple affirmative sign in return before turning back to Gaz with venom on your tongue.

"Fuck you. If I see your face before the end of my break, I'll make sure no one ever calls you pretty again, hear me?"

He could beat the shit out of you. But he doesn't. Gaz looks... upset. You can't muster sympathy right now.

"Break?"

Gaz questions, quiet-voiced and not quite looking you in the eyes.

"Yeah, the brass gives you breaks after fuckin' surgery, numb-nuts. Might as well take it if I've got it, right?"

You're verbally shoving his face into the curb, grinding your boots down on his throat. It feels better than you thought it would, finally just letting it all out.

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

*Gary packed an extra hoodie because you seemed to like them. He's a little sad you didn't get to enjoy it too much. He has a feeling he might have more work to do for you to feel that comfortable again. (P.s. really just need to get it out of my drafts at this point, looking at it makes me sick now. So, enjoy what you can. Take it, my children.)

remembered that I accidently created a whole folder of these so here's part two of ???

give it up for the 141 and friends! (they're all unhinged your honour)

Winding down

Synopsis: A mission's end is always an odd thing to live through, but you've found ways to manage, WARNINGS!: depiction of injury, pain, description of gun sounds and bullets. Canon-typical violence (mission) Little notes: Hurt my thumb (big typing finger for me) so if there are any errors with spelling, please don't mind This blog is still very much new to me, so if you have any little silly comments or requests for bonus stuff, send an ask! It'll make my day :) enjoy! (but only if you wanna)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------- There was dust in the air, swirling like a typhoon that simply ached to consume you and all you held dear. It doesn't throw anyone off, though, you've all been trained better than that. Price's voice is in your ear again, biting out the order to "get out of there, you dolt, bomb's off in thirty seconds." It's nothing you've never heard before, you know you've cut it closer and got out fine, so you wait until you have to reload to push the button on your radio and bite back a response. "Give me ten, Cap, and I'll be clear. Stragglers." You can hear him growl under his breath, but quiet. Some part of you would smirk in satisfaction, tease the old man over knowing damn well you could pull your weight, but there isn't time for that now. You're on the clock, and it ticks much too fast The familiar, satisfying click soothes any remaining thought as you slam the gun's magazine into your thigh to push it in the rest of the way, peek out from behind your cover to unleash another spray of shots into the idiot who was trying to creep up on you. Fifteen seconds

If your ear serves you right, only one left. if you take him out in five, that leaves you ten to get out. Risky, but the odds aren't zero. Your radio buzzes back to life, but now it's the other John yapping at you, something something "Get out of there." and then your name. Johnny doesn't use your callsign, but your name. It pulls you back from the edge of bloodlust just long enough for your mental count to hit ten. "Right. Clearing out." That's all you bother with before setting on your mad dash for the exit of the decrepit concrete rectangle that is this building. West's compromised, too piled with bodies to be a safe bet for running, and East is blocked. So you run North, through unfamiliar, winding hallways, for your life. Six seconds

The thumps of your boots aren't alone. You were right, though, there's only one more soul in this nasty shit-hole. Five seconds You hear a magazine getting knocked into place, cuss to yourself and push even harder, try your damnedest to get out of this unscathed. It isn't looking good now. Four seconds A bullet tears through the wall right next to your head when you turn the corner with a resounding crack. Fuck. The thrum of adrenaline is the only thing that supports you as you continue the mad dash for the door, see it at the end of a long, straight hallway. Three seconds This is getting worse by the second, and you know it. This fucker has good aim, there's no space to zigzag or dash in a random direction like a flighty, scared animal. Two seconds Time to run the gauntlet. Glass crunches beneath the soles of worn boots, you fly through the hallway as fast as your legs will allow, silently screaming a prayer to a god you know never listens. One second

Right as you cross the doorway, there's another crack of a bullet, but it's drowned out by the bomb finally going off. The shockwave is so intense that it launches you into the air (it feels much higher than it is), and, all at once, you turn to get a look of who almost managed to put you in a box. They're all dolled up in tac gear, but you know the look in their eyes the second you spot it. It's the same determination that drives you forward, raw and feral and it's tinged by the rush of adrenaline you live for. Young, too, they couldn't be older than you were when you first joined the task force. Then, when the ceiling above them cracks and stars to come down, it's fear. Your memories of the minutes after are loose at best, but you try to piece them together. You know that, at some point, you rose to your feet, made the jog back to the evac point with that rookie's blood sprayed on the vest that caught their last bullet. It would have hit you right between the ribs. You know that Kyle wordlessly sets a cigarette between your parted lips, pulls you in by the neck to light it with his own, hazel eyes focused as he calms himself back down. You know that he's there, next to you, like always, it warms you, if only slightly. Kyle doesn't press, doesn't try to talk, but he makes a point to show you that he's there. You know that Johnny breathes out a plume of that weird vape shit he's been swearing by (it smells like a public restroom if it was mint flavored), makes a bad joke about "butt fucking" because that's what they call bumming a light in Scotland. You think his friends just picked it up from shitty American movies and lied to him. You know that, when you finally take a drag, the nicotine shocks your systems back into full function. You know that when you open your eyes again, the world is clear. You see Price trot forward and let out a breath of both annoyance and pride. He used to tear you a new one every time you pulled a stunt like this, but now he knows better, knows you operate at your best in the split second between like and death. So now, you feel his hand pat the shoulder of your vest, resigned but proud. You feel your cheeks round with a small smile when you finally pull the cig back from between you lips, finally yourself again. "Not bad, ain't it? All targets neutralized." Your voice is just a little raspier than normal, tinged with the fading of your adrenaline high. From the corner of your eye, you see Ghost, leaning on the helicopter's side. He nods. "Aye, that was feckin' pretty, ye stupid lil cunt!" Your snort seems to make Johnny beam even wider than before, you feel the warmth of his side as he pulls you into a firm, one-armed hug. Out of sheer habit, you retch jokingly, and shove him back. "Gross! You're fucking sweaty, Soap, don't muck up my good shirt!" Your 'good shirt' is torn at the bottom hem, has a fine spray of blood on it, and is half-covered in concrete dust from the former building that is now a pile of smoking rubble a few hundred meters away. It'll all come off in the wash, just like today's sins will spiral into the drain of a weird-smelling communal shower room. And you know, come tomorrow, you'll be training with your boys once more, trading quips and barbs and soaking in camaraderie. For now, that's more than enough.

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.

Breakup day drabble! (Part one: Johnny)

I missed Valentines day, I know. I planned to feed you guys but I ended up sleeping fourteen hours almost consecutively. Sorry gang, my bad.

This is gonna be a longer drabble, split into parts for each Tf141 member (and others, if requested and I can write for them), and one final poly breakup (separate from the others, obvi). I haven't fed y'all and I feel like an absent father lmao

Warnings!: Big sad. Yelling (it is VERY regretted), terrible boyfriends (all four of them are fumbling the bag like CRAZZYY)

Also I wrote this tired as fuck, so if I made any oopsies here, absolutely correct me <3

You've got no issue with a little fire in a partner. In fact, it's something you've come to seek out as you grew up.

It's only logical, isn't it? You need someone who can keep up, someone who's not going to be holding you back from getting orders out of the way.

Work hard, play harder.

Of course, you liked Johnny for many more reasons than just that one.

He was an absolute sap at just the right state of drowsiness, he drew you like you were a downright deity, he... he really fucking cared.

You didn't regret making it official, getting to know damn well that Scot was yours when the day was over and it was time to sleep.

That being said, every relationship has its rocky patches, and you've got the feeling you're about to be in the middle of an ugly one.

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

You don't regret making the call. Not even a little bit.

This mission wouldn't have made time if you hadn't buckled down and pointedly ignored both Johns in your headset calling you a moron in a strained whisper from cover.

The objective was secured. There were a good chunk less terrorists in the world because you put them down. A little gash in your side, but that's no issue, so you'd deem it successful.

Unfortunately, Johnny doesn't seem to think the same way. You can feel the roiling, stirred-up and not calming back down like usual.

You let him stew on the flight back to base, quietly bandaging your own wound with a small antiseptic wipe Gaz had wordlessly put into your hand when he first saw you trotting up.

Price is tired, but he's not as upset as he used to get over this sort of stunt from you. It's a fatherly sort of exhaustion, you're half-sure at some point he said that you're giving him gray hairs.

You earned three days' work cleaning the bathrooms for snorting, but no more. You would have earned many more days if you asked if he was finally going soft, even if he was.

Still, after a few hours, Johnny doesn't seem to have cooled down. He's pointedly silent, fuming in his little corner.

It takes a special sort of bitchiness to make Ghost look like a put-together, social man. You've long accepted that your man is a little bit of a child on occasion.

So, as any reasonable partner would, you leave it alone. Let Johnny sort though these feelings, because you know he doesn't want to hear it from you right now. If he wanted to talk, he could ask.

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

Well, lo and behold, it only took five hours.

The knocks on your door are familiar. A three-beat rap-tap-tapping. Firmer than usual.

"Luv? You ready to talk about it now?"

You open the door to a sight. Not a great one, mostly because you know it shouldn't make you giggle a little.

A grown-ass man. Not just that, a sergeant, pouting.

"Bayonet."

He must see the way your brows pinch at your callsign being used instead of your name, but Johnny doesn't do a thing to stop himself.

"Are ye feckin' stupid, or jus' having a little craic on the clock?"

"Callsigns stay at work, Johnny. Unless you've got full intentions of this being a professional meeting."

That long-standing agreement was something you really did like. Johnny had agreed to use it a long time ago, and the only lapses (before this one, of course) were simple mistakes, easy to excuse and forgive.

"Och, this is professional alright, what the fuck were ye thinking?!"

His voice is raising, but it brings no fear, just annoyance.

"If I have to remind you, it worked. We wouldn't have made it back to Nik on the clock if I hadn't. No major injuries, either."

Johnny's starting to fume. His brows are knitting together, usually-bright face drawing down into some ugly mixture of anger and something else you don't quite have a word for right now.

"Are ye actually-"

"MacTavish, it fucking worked. I only take risks when I know it's something I can handle, and frankly, if you're upset about me doing my job, then you should handle it the way we agreed to handle it."

Calmly. Slowly working through the issue, training together, anythinig as long as it wasn't a screaming match or a contest. Not this.

"You're a fucking liability is what I'm trying to tell you! Your callsign is Bayonet fer a feckin' reason, you daft cunt!"

You're not sure who made him think he could talk to you like this, but he just. Keeps. Going. It makes your chest heat to a fever, though you keep your face measuredly ice-cold, flat so Johnny can't gleam anything from your expression.

"Ye're a gamble at best, a last resort, ye should'ave stayed off the line an' let someone else handle it! Ye got hurt because you dinnae listen to th' orders!"

Ohhhhh, that's not professional anymore. A slight on your own callsign, when he wasn't even there to see you earn it.

Asshole.

"Watch it, Soap." Is the only warning you can bring yourself to offer, glaring into those baby blue eyes with the vitriol provoked by the man before you.

"Nae, ah'm not gonnae watch it! Ye pull shite like this, an' I have to come o'er an' pretend I wannae patch yer stupid arse back up!"

You've never been in the business of cutting someone off before they can finish their sentences, but you're starting to doubt your ability to be civil.

Soap's refusing to meet you on any agreed-upon grounds, he's not separating your relationship from work and that's a slippery slope.

And you're fucking upset. This anger isn't something you can tamp down, it's the worst kind.

The sort that twists you in the guts and makes your eyes hot. The sort that makes a headache sparkle to life and the small wound in your side throb and ooze into the bandages a little bit more.

The sort that makes you want to scream. But you won't do that. Not to Soap.

"This isn't how we agreed to handle conflicts. Come back when you can sort your feelings enough to keep yourself from screaming."

Icy, you know it is, but Soap grabs the door before you can finish.

"Close this fucking door on me, and I will skin you." The threat rings hollow. Oddly similar to the sound of the plywood door sliding shut.

Soap moves his fingers away just before they gain a set of new joints in all the wrong places.

There's a frustrated growl, and a series of footsteps thumping away, in the direction of the gym.

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

You slept awfully that night.

The frustrated tears cleared easy, but the anger itself didn't, because really, how dare he. Showing up to your space, calling you a dunce, and breaking the most fundamental rule of your relationship.

Luckily, a small ping pulls you from the continuation of this spiral. A text from one Kyle "Gaz" Garrick.

What did you put up Soap's arse? Just asking.

You snort.

Nothing. Reckon he'd be in a better mood if I had.

The three dots appear, vanish, reappear before you get a response.

He's being a cunt today. Think you should steer clear.

That dampens the mood a bit, but again, it's not too far from your expectation. Johnny had his feelings big, and loud. It was honestly overwhelming sometimes, but you'd learned to handle it over time.

You hated it most when he made issues he had with you a team issue.

Girls' night then? I got that oil for your hair

...I'll bring the bonnets

You smile despite yourself, and rise from bed to get yourself ready for an easy day.

Unfortunately, the next notification is one you miss until you come back to your room, exhausted but satisfied after writing the mission's postmortem.

I'm done wie yer shite

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Most of the "girls' night" Kyle wanted to share with you is making sure you don't cry so hard you pull your stitches.

Never really thought I would get tagged in something like this but I think it's cute, so I'll join :D.

Thanks Cheese for the tag!

last song: Little Girl Gone-Chinchilla (character inspo.) Squabble up-Kendrick Lamar (because I like it)

Favorite color: Yellow! (Specifically brighter shades, but nothing neon)

last book: Comic-The Glass Scientists. Book-World War Z. Both are great, do give them a read.

last film: School of Rock (w Jack Black).

last tv show: The oldest View (analog horror, it's on YouTube).

sweet/savoury/spicy: Savory. I love my salt fam. Mmmm, salt.

relationship status: Having a wonderful, perfect time w my partners whom I love very very much <3

last thing i googled: Amputation recovery timeline w/ prosthesis (It's for a fic I have all my limbs)

current obsession: The glass scientists. Currently learning how to pick locks with my old 8 dollar lockpicking set from Wish <3

looking forward to: Writing a couple new chapters for Watcher 1-1, opening the new cylinder lock I got :)

@loveydovey489 @laswells-ashtray (the only people I know here)

10 things for 10(ish) people you'd like to know better

thanks @se7entyrell for the tag!

last song: spooky by dusty springfield (bc i'm on my 60s vibes shit — again)

favourite colour: any shade of blue!

last book: divine rivals, by rebeca ross (loved it! it's been a minute since i've read a book front to cover so fast)

last film: woman of the hour

last tv show: the consultant

sweet/savoury/spicy: savoury for food, bitter for drinks!

relationship status: single. forever.

last thing i googled: xo kitty season 2 date

current obsession: i've been watching any romcom that is recommended to me, old or new, good or trash.

looking forward to: start my new job, write a few more chapters for death defying acts and the tortured firefighters department, go out with my friends to celebrate

tagging: @munsonsreputation @live-love-be-unique

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

+ one(1) ✨vintage✨ ghoap

part two of ???

sorry to all y'all, I'm being evil. The lie is only technically a lie. If requested, I will tell the truth after the poll's over. Update: all of you were SO wrong. My god.

fuck it. tag game

make a poll where the options are two truths and one lie and have your followers guess the lie

I’ll go first

npt: @starkissed-mars @l1ve-l4ugh-lov3craft @garden-of-runar @loozerboykisser @aesthetic-writer18 + anyone else who wants to <3