Watcher 1-1

Damaged, but not beyond repair

Warnings: deep pain and sadness (reader), big, ugly mental issues and also chronic pain caused by past neglect and injury. Pneumonia. Kortac finally getting a feature! Say hi to my garbage takes on König, Horangi, and Swagger. Yes, I wanted to add a whimsical Polish man (and yes, this urge was founded by yooo-lets-go). Characters playfully threaten cutting off each other's penis (flirting).

"Not everyone's made for the SAS. We see a fair share of... disappointments, every year. The people who just can't hack it."

The voice ringing in your ears makes you push harder still, redoubling your efforts to break your limits one more time, to push through and make it, to get this done.

A sharp, hot flash of pain chases its way up your ankle as you re-rack, letting the weight finally leave your tired hands, but it's worth it to hear the quiet, for just a minute.

Of course, it can never be that easy. No, you can take it. You don't want it easy. You can take it.

Maybe that's why you reach directly over the Austrian sitting on the bench next to you, grabbing your own water bottle instead of the one offered to you in a thick-fingered hand, and taking a few short sips. Too short, and you know it.

He knows it too, and König quickly makes it your problem.

"You are not drinking just that, yes? It is not enough."

He sounds almost annoyed. You'd rather he was, because you can hear the choking tentacles of concern staining his words, and it makes you scoff as you set the water bottle back into your gym bag, wordlessly leaving the small olive branch to rot in the soil beneath.

König quietly holds that feeling, counts to ten, and lets his eyes follow the way you favor one leg as you leave.

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Time always passes, but only cowards let it escape them.

Papers shroud the neat, smooth dark wood of your desk, clashing doubly with the flat surface and your own skin. Something tries to dig itself up in your mind, but you dutifully shove it back down and pick up your pen, jotting down the post-mortem of another mission in smooth, inky strokes. If you can't train, you will work.

Paper's texture has always let you drift away from the moment you're locked in. The rolling of the pen's ball scratches almost silently, filling what was once (and still is) soulless, bureaucratic nonsense with your work.

There is much to do, and you are nothing if not productive, so you do it. You work weeks ahead, and it's somehow a relief.

Your hip and ankle have been flaring up more and more lately, but the papers let you push that slow creep back for just a little while longer.

And, before you know it, it's been hours, and a Korean is at your door, with knit brows and a quiet voice.

Your name leaves his masked lips first, and it draws your attention to the following string of words you can't quite parse.

"괜찮으세요?"

When you raise a brow, still flat-faced and just itching to get back to your work, Horangi musters the nerve to ask in a way you'll understand.

"Are you okay? You've been working longer than me, and the day's over."

His voice is accented, clipped in spots you don't recognize. Then again, every sounded different here, who were you to judge?

"Sou bem, gato."

You're clipped, irritated, but he knocks on the doorframe twice, a silent call for translation. Blast that stupid Austrian and his little niche bullshit rules.

"I'm fine, Horangi."

He leaves unsatisfied and a bit annoyed. Your pen embosses the paper with the new force behind the nib.

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There's this one new rookie that keeps popping up around base and bugging you.

He doesn't seem to be malicious, but he's... fuck, he's actually not that bad. Even if he approaches you halfway through your meal time and stares for a good while before sitting down across from you.

You peep a small Polish flag on his vest, so imagine your surprise when you hear him greet you.

"Bonjour."

What the fuck.

"Oh, you're French."

Some deal of shame actually hits you, and you narrowly follow your words with a polite apology.

"Sorry, It's been a time since I heard the language."

There's a muffled noise (you hope it's a chuckle) beneath the gas mask you see, before it's taken off and set on the table.

His nose is thin, but the corners of his lips are twitching up as he looks at you, one brow raised in playful question.

It brings a shame that you didn't know you had, and you cough into your elbow to clear your throat, waving your other hand as if to silently waft away the social faux pas.

Swagger–no, you're not joking, that's his callsign–doesn't let you forget it.

Not for months, as he slowly pries his way into your routine. You know what he's doing, but you don't stop him.

You let him bring coffee sometimes, but you return the protein bars he keeps trying to get you to eat, because the things are genuinely repulsive.

It seems to put off König, but Horangi seems to be in a much better mood, lord knows why.

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This goes well until the misfortune of your biology forces you into an unprompted state of weakness.

It's been a long time. Or, at least, you think it has.

The world around you is warping, twisting like the drawings of a drunkard. Your sparsely-decorated walls are bending beneath their own weight, every noise sounds more and more like the foundation of your mind snapping beneath itself, threatening to crumble.

You only feel how sweat-soaked your sheets are when the door opens, prompting you to raise your iron-weighted head as much as your neck will allow.

There's a noise, a hollow, death-rattling wheeze that accompanies the movement. You don't know where this noise has come from. It seems to stress the figure in the doorway, it speaks to something you can't see.

The words are wiggly and clumsy, like they were shifted in just the wrong way in your ears to somehow make them illegible despite being spoken. Maybe it's just your mind shutting down.

Hands are everywhere. On your face, forehead, thighs. You don't know why, but it feels as though you're being submerged in a cloud, allowed to drift free of the mortal shackles that bind you to a faulty body, even though it must not be the case.

The force holding you up to the sky struggles briefly, and you feel something trying to worm its way up your throat as you're jostled. More hands, this time on your chest, and a soothing croon that you can't decipher.

You're tired. The hands let you sleep.

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Wakefulness is back before you know it.

The walls are straight again, and the wetness in the sheets beneath you is gone. It makes you groan, tired and confused.

A head pops up, and a stressed string of German greets you.

It makes your brainstem throb with discomfort, and the discomfort must be on your face, because two scarred, big hands reach forward. One takes your shoulder, and the other dares to reach to a small box of tissues, plucking one to gently sponge away the moisture on your face.

You want to be angry, but you let this moment hang in the air of the room, allow König his closeness to you, for just a little bit.

He hesitates before speaking again, watching your face for discomfort.

"...You are very sick. Should have told team."

He masks his frustration just for you, wraps up the feeling and jams it into the back of his mind. There must be a reason you're so unwilling to open your mouth and let your mind talk, he knows it. It will take time.

König can be patient, for you.

Your own eyes take more note of the room around you.

Another body rests near the bed, a head of somehow-messy, pin-straight hair is leaning against the bedpost, sleeping on the floor. Horangi.

"How long have you been here?"

Talking seems to agitate something in your throat, tracing the vibrations caused by your voice down to waterlogged lungs, drawing out a cough.

It doesn't stop at one. More and more liquid phlegm finds its way into your throat as you hack and shudder, trying desperately not to vomit at the sheer volume.

König shifts closer too quickly, gathering you up as distantly as possible–one hand on your upper back, the other on the crown of your head–to keep you steady. He looks wired, but in the stressed way, like a mother hen.

"Spatz." He mutters, following his words with a gentle shushing noise, trying to gently guide you back down from the coughing fit.

Horangi is awake again when König coaxes you into spitting the fluid into a tissue, and he takes it upon himself to wipe the tears from the corners of your eyes.

He worries over your wrist with his thumb, keeping a gentle hold over your hand with his free one, more gentle than the normal playfulness he shows you.

Dark, monolid eyes look you over, and he cringes under his mask, clicking his tongue.

"You look good for a corpse." Kim's voice is sleepy, still, a little bit deeper than normal despite him trying to pass it off as normal.

Before you can react, König smacks the back of his head (a little too hard), cussing once or twice before scolding the Korean beside him.

"Scheiße, do not flirt! They are pneumonic!"

"That's not how you use that word." Kim snarks back, undeniably wearing a shit-eating grin beneath the fabric that shrouds his mouth and nose. This earns him a scoff.

"Shut up."

He doesn't.

"Why do you hit me when the weird Polish one is still outside? Hit him!"

The bickering brings you some comfort, but you have to pause when you hear a reference to someone you think you might know.

You've learned your lesson from speaking, so you whisper a question. Its answer will either confirm or deny your suspicions.

"He speaks French?"

"How do you know that?" König tries to ask, before being interrupted by Horangi.

"He speaks French? He's Polish!"

Or it won't. Sure, that works.

"Gas mask?"

König nods.

"Ele é meu amigo. Let him in."

Neither knock on the nightstand to make you translate, but there's a confused glance they share before König opens the door, and shakes a silhouette sitting on a plastic chair in the hallway.

Swagger almost trips over himself, but wakes up quickly, dumping his ass right next to you on your bed, almost bringing on another cough.

He jams a small styrofoam container into your tired hands with his own, followed narrowly by a spoon.

"Peux-tu manger seul?" The thick accent makes you look up tiredly, and it seems that he's answered his own question, shaking his head as he opens the container.

Soup. It's not warm anymore, just room temperature, and it's composed of a very thin broth, but you only scowl when he tries to get you to drink from a spoon that isn't in your own hand.

"Mon ami, I will cut off your penis. Eat."

You shouldn't laugh at the threat, but you do, and it makes you cough (thankfully, less than before), into your hand.

"Merda, you're stupid."

You return, but just before you can close your mouth, he gently kisses the seam of your lips with the spoon, trying to guide you into eating.

And, despite yourself, despite the fact that both König and Horangi can doubtlessly see you being that vulnerable, you let the liquid into your mouth, swallowing it down slowly.

"Bon. See? Not bad, is it?"

You chuckle once more, but let yourself take another spoonful before your speak, silently thankful for how the salty sustenance soothes your raw throat.

"It's room temperature." You rebut, smiling just a little.

"You're room temperature."

The pair behind him loom, one over each shoulder, and Swagger doesn't realize this until Horangi is hissing threats into his ear.

"항문, don't talk that way."

König doesn't need to make threats, the force of his grip is enough. Swagger squirms in his seat, unable to pick which one to glare at first.

"Hey, I-"

"He's just that way. It's fine."

Three pairs of eyes lock onto you, and you sigh.

There is much explaining to do.

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Recovery is mercifully short, but pneumonia has left you with three grown men who trail behind you like dogs.

König looms, straight-backed and menacing, watching as you work, spotting you as you train. He's been acting up less, so it's probably fine.

Horangi likes to push you forward through teasing. Just enough to get you to push more, not too much. He's become a good sparring partner, for you.

Swagger is that one weird dog that follows around the first person that feeds it. He's constantly with you, regardless of what's going on. Does he even have authorization to be in the range? You're not sure. But he chatters your ear off anyway, every time.

You find yourself falling into their silly little rituals more and more regularly.

In the mornings, you make the coffee. Swagger raids the cafeteria, and König glares at anyone who gets too close to the corner as Horangi wakes you back up with the stupidest shit known to man.

You have no idea why he has an account for a website that just repeatedly shows him a rainbow cockroach spinning weirdly (and several other digital curios), but you won't complain. You always thought cave divers were a little dumb, anyway.

Your head rests on Kim's shoulder as you take a bite out of a slice of buttered bread, reaching out to like the video before he can even try.

He chuckles. Swagger un-likes it, just to be a punk, before re-liking it himself.

"Hah. Very funny."

"It is very funny, mon ami, I am glad you think so."

"I'll cut off your penis." you retort.

Kim snorts, König pipes up.

"All of you are freaks."

You watch a grown man with military clearance (Horangi) blow a raspberry at his commander. Swagger chuckles.

"You love us, shirtman." He tries to tease.

"Not you." The Austrian retorts.

"Aww."

"Está tudo bem, cachorro. I like you." You pat his back. He grins, eagerly pressing his cheek into your face, hugging a bit too eagerly.

"Mon moineau, so kind." He flirts in turn, drawing another chuckle from between your lips.

Kim is doing that side-eye bullshit again.

"I don't want to hear it, Hong-jin. You've done worse for less."

He laughs, and wordlessly leans against König's side. The taller man doesn't stop him. In fact, he puts a wide hand on his shoulder in approval.

This is nice. Very nice.

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KorTac often works with other military companies, or, on the odd occasion, some special service teams.

This is a routine sort of change, and you've long since become used to it.

Horangi naps on the plane on purpose. Swagger falls asleep despite always claiming he doesn't. König likes the one-on-one time with you, as you each hold your respective people, but he doesn't get to enjoy it as much as usual.

He worries about you. You're so fucking strong, and endless source of energy for the purpose of violence and rebellion, but you are not without damage.

The British have hurt you, specifically the ones you're about to be working closely with.

He knows you've chosen to do this. He wouldn't dare accept an assignment that didn't have everyone on board with it, but still.

It's you. And he knows you still struggle with telling others of your pains. So he asks one more time.

"You will be okay, spatzi?"

Your voice is gentler when you have Swagger sleeping in your lap.

"I'll be alright."

He nods, but reaches out a hand for you. You take it, and kiss his knuckles before releasing it. He sighs.

"I'll tell you if I'm not." You add, and it seems to bring him some relief, because you hear a short sigh, and he nods.

You follow through on this promise, but you don't end up having to tell König very much.

Seeing your old team standing next to the transport evokes... nothing but pity.

It is a scar now, the skin is healed and dull and numb to further prodding.

And you've got better people to worry about, now.

Much better people.

Task Force 141 headcannons- art/paper

Warnings!: Nope, not any today. I'm being possessed by the spirit of creativity right now and I NEED to yap. Shoutout to @h1ccu9 for just being incredibly nice and amazing, and to all of you for your support! It means a lot <3

Johnny has always been an artist, in his mind. It's a fact that permeates his whole being, though it didn't come about how most think it did.

There was no single moment when he decided that it would be what consumed every other free moment he has, no Christmas present that spurred creativity any more than the others.

Slowly, when he was younger. Stupid drawings of cartoons he'd liked, the typical stuff for a kid. Then, more quickly. In Chemistry, he was so bored of hexagons, of compounds bound by singe and double lines and rote memorization.

So, he started with circles. They were ugly, at first, but he picked up shading, and then it spilled outward.

Stupid drawings of his teachers, made to draw a chuckle from classmates, drawn with the 5-pack of pencils that would last the whole year, no matter what.

Even in his adult life, when what fills his sketchbook is chicken-scratch and sketches of buildings (only sometimes people) it's only pencil.

A quiet tribute to the young boy in a big house where money was tight. Colored pencils and good graphite would be wasted on him. He has what he needs in his palm, and he's used to that. Sometimes, black and white works well enough.

Price is somewhat similar, but his skill is technical. Sharp lines composed of quick flicks of a controlled wrist (never mind the slight ache when he repeats the motion too many times) come together to form rough ideas, a tool more for communication more than anything else.

It's not a skill borne from anything too creative, no, it just boils down to the things he needs to know. Maps, structures from top-down and isometric angles. Plans of attack represented by smooth, even arrows like men haven't died following paths he's drawn.

John doesn't like to draw outside of work, not when he remembers how many lives have been mistakenly cut short by how he controls the ballpoint pen.

He's tried, once or twice. It always ends in a deep, stabbing guilt that takes a practiced hand to shake from his shoulders.

Kyle didn't have an affinity for art until his teen years. He'd gone to museums, sure, he knew it took skill, but it had never really piqued his interest in the way it seemed to captivate some people he knows.

He'd been stressed when he picked it up from a friend. Squiggles encased in squiggles on the margins of the page. His English teacher did nothing but mark down his essays for it, but dammit did forcing himself to focus on something else work.

His mother had soon gifted him a set of ink-basked, black liner pens. Middle-of-the-road, in both quality and price, but it was more than enough.

A simple notebook had soon become a haven for him. Dots on dots on dots, lines, big, swooping curves, you name it, it's there.

He holds one rule: No "drawing".

Of course, this feels silly when he tells it to people, but it matters. If he goes into the project with a thought of a desired result, it will just frustrate him more, when it inevitably turns out as less-than-flawless.

So, it's all amorphous. Sometimes it's spiky, sometimes he's almost scarily methodical, adding more and more detail until a whole spread is swallowed up, and his head is mercifully clear.

It's enough to pull him in, but the art always lets him go again, and that's what he needs out of it.

Simon doesn't draw.

That's not to say he doesn't make art, but his is different.

Origami is his trade. It has been for a long time. He'd tear the corners out of pages in school binders, find ways to fold them to make them more interesting.

A book from the local library was what had taken it from a child's passing interest to the work of the rest of his life. More patterns. A way to understand how to make patterns, of his very own.

But, perhaps most importantly, origami was a simple, cheap hobby he could pay for with quarters found on the side of the road. And it was easy to hide

A shoebox beneath his bed was where it resided for about a decade, and then he enlisted.

His first tour, an acquaintance had given him a good set of proper origami paper. He can't remember their name for the life of him, but he remembers them every time he sits at his desk.

Actually, to be fair, he remembers them every time he enters his room at all.

The walls are adorned in paper sculptures, some truly origami, some not. Some composed of thousands of fold and over a hundred hours of work, and some just five-minute warm-up cranes.

It's a soothing reminder that his life is his, now. No matter how bitter the past may be, the tamed roughness of paper on his burned fingertips is there, and his mind gets to shut off as he takes on a project.

He knows how to make cranes by heart, now.

Masterlist

For Joanna:

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

Status: Completed!

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

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

Watcher 1-1:

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

The Mistakes That Have Been Made

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

Valentines

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

Drabbles: Winding Down

Fiber Arts S/O!

Wisdom Teeth

Breakup Day (Johnny)

Damaged, but not beyond repair

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.

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*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.)

The idiot's guide to fan-fiction (and fan spaces)

Hey, ladies, gents and in-betweens. I'm writing this because I've seen a really big up-tick in people in fandom (both readers and writers) acting in ways that are generally unsavory, and wanted to share the advice that I think is relatively common sense to not be a dickwad!

This will mostly focus on how to behave. If someone wants a version with writing tips, I would be happy to provide, but I also recommend you ask someone smarter than me (I know my limits lmao)

This will be divided into two sections: Readers and writers (obviously), but I'm going to start with....

Readers:

• First things first, be nice. I cannot stress this enough, be nice. Not just to your authors, but to each other. No author wants to come to their comments and see a catfight.

• If you do have advice or criticism, make sure it is constructive! If you need to run your phrasing by someone else or use tone tags, absolutely do! Remember, when people feel hurt by something you said, they're not likely to listen to you very well.

• Now, this is where my rules get much less popular. Be mindful of the person writing your fic. Writing, like any other creative process, can be very draining, and writers have lives outside of their work, too! If you see a lull in output, don't comment on it. It's a bummer, yeah, I get it, but keep those feelings to yourself or complain to a friend. Don't harass a writer. You don't know what they're going through on the other side of that screen.

• Another thing I don't think I should have to say (mostly because tagging is a really popular thing), but you should probably make sure you're in a relatively good state of mind when you read. If it's hurt/no comfort, make sure you can handle that. No writer wants to know their work really fucked up someone else's day.

• I will say my single hottest take. You can be rude if you see fucked-up shit entirely untagged (think: extreme, not-canon-typical violence or abuse, + other subjects that can very much trigger a good deal of people). Things that come with real trauma. Leave a firm comment, but, again, be respectful.

• Yes, you as a reader are responsible for what you read, but there is a clear boundary of disrespect for both the platform and everyone on it when an author purposely leaves a very traumatizing thing untagged when they are very much aware of it. TLDR: Don't be a dickwad! Be nice and Support other readers and writers, but point out shitty behavior if you see it. Remember, any writer worth their salt wants to be accountable for what they put to paper. Be nice, but hold people accountable for their decisions.

Writers:

• I feel like I have less to say here, but that does not mean I won't say anything.

• Right off the bat, take care of yourself. Your work will directly suffer if you are suffering. If you're too sick to write, then don't. It's as simple as that. This is not your job, you get no (or not much) money from it. You are under no obligation to get your next chapter out right this very second. Yes, even if you said it would be out by Thursday, I don't care.

• My real thesis with that is to give your writing time to breathe. Of course, how much you write and when will vary based on who you are and what the other facets of your life are like, but this is fan-fiction. Don't stress yourself into your casket over it.

• Now, I know I said a lot to the readers, but I do have a qualm with some of y'all, too.

• Respect the source material. Yeah, sure, it's fiction. Yeah, sure, you can do whatever you want. But I can tell you upfront that your fic will suffer if you don't care about the characters in it.

• Do a character study. Look at their reactions. Read into the why. Know them so well you could fully predict how they would react to at least four conversations off the top of your head. Yes, even if they're written to be mysterious. Know them anyway.

• Now, here is where I'm going to get a little heated. So, I'm going to be upfront. In this part, I'm going to talk about tagging your fics, and why it's so important to do so. Cancer is discussed, for the sake of my example and also because I am still pissed about the incident I reference.

• Remember that your work is public. Other people can and will see it. You can put who you prefer see your work in your bio if you want, but that doesn't mean that your readers will care.

• I say this specifically for the people who will post a fic to, say, Tumblr, where minors are, and then complain about a minor reading their work. Tell them you don't want them there, but beyond that, there is nothing more you can do. Drill that into your head. If someone wants to read your public work, they will. That's just what happens when you post your work publicly.

• Now, I'm gonna head into some more heavy shit. If you don't wanna hear a mention of cancer, scroll down to the asterisks.

• Let me paint a picture for you real quick. I find a sick-fic. Its tags are simple, nothing too extreme, and so I think it'll be nice and fluffy, a sweet thing to read before bed.

• I am sorely mistaken, as the writer proceeds to give their main character entirely untagged cancer, and then kill them. Again, with no warning for either from the tags! (and the fic was misleadingly well-tagged otherwise)

• I am a cancer survivor. I lost some of my first friends in that ward and I almost died there myself. Do you know how fucking stupid it is to leave something so big untagged??? Where anybody could stumble on it?

• Someone who just lost a family member to cancer could have read that fic. Someone much less mentally stable could have read that fic, that writer could have dug up hurtful memories at a time when someone wasn't ready to think those things. And they gave no warning.

************************************************************************

• This is what I ask of a writer. I don't think it's a very tall ask: Respect your readers. All of them. Respect everyone who might come across your page, by warning them what they're getting into.

• Especially if you're dealing with something that causes a lot of trauma. If your fic features domestic violence, an eating disorder, anything of that tune, tag it. I cannot say this enough, tag it.

• Yeah, sure, you technically don't need to tag everything (and some little things can very much be excused for me, personally), but I will tell you to your fucking face that I think you're a sack of shit for leaving major, traumatic things untagged. Respect your readers, they're taking time out of their days to spend it with you and your work. If you write things that might trigger trauma, tell them.

• I'm not saying you can't write about a heavy topic. In fact, seeing a heavy topic handled well in fic makes me happy! It means people's struggles are being given a realistic voice, no matter how small.

• I'm telling you that if you really cared about the struggles you're writing about, you would know some people aren't ready to confront them like that. So tell your readers what you're doing. Be transparent with them.

TLDR: Take good care of yourself. Your work is never to be placed before your health, physical or mental. Tag what might be triggering. Even if you don't think it necessary. Tag it anyway.

That's all I really have to say for now, but if you have something to add, please leave a comment! I would be more than happy to elaborate or hear people out on their own takes or further justify my own.

Have a nice day, writers and readers! Much love to all of you :)

Watcher 1-1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John MacTavish.

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

"I found a team."

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

"What?"

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

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

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

"Kid. Kid."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You think you can hack it, hun?"

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

"Yeah."

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

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

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

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

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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.

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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.

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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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Can you please reblog if your blog is a safe place for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, asexual, aromantic, pansexual, non binary, demisexual or any other kind of queer or questioning people? Because mine is.

For Joanna (pt. 3/3)

Warnings: Nikolai is a less-depressed bisexual man! kiss on the cheek, kiss on the mouth (yes, in that order), Joanna finally gets to rest peacefully in her hangar.

Good things can't last forever.

Nikolai knows this. You know this too.

Still, you've exhausted every last avenue before finally admitting that there are just somethings that are no longer fixable.

It's a slow trudge to your apartment, one that apparently wakes the sleeping bear that is your favorite Russian, napping on your couch like he didn't have your full (repeated) permission to use your bed.

Nikolai perks, but his brows furrow when he sees your slight exhaustion.

"механик?" His voice is soft, gently probing just how badly you've managed to overwork yourself in the few hours he's been unconscious. Judging by the new scrape on the elbow and the small burn on the side of your palm, far too much.

He sits all the way up just in time to catch you as you fall onto him, grunting in response to the new weight but handling it well, all things considered.

"I'm sorry, Nik."

There is no question that this single moment is solemn. In some silly way, you'd also grown attached to Joanna, busted as she was. She was your best project yet, your most impressive feat.

It was also the project that introduced you to your best friend, and that was something you couldn't ever replace.

Still, Nikolai holds you to his big, warm body, sighing heavily as he nestles his chin into the nook between your neck and shoulder, taking in your warmth and gently scratching the skin with his dark stubble. Just a bit longer than usual. "I know. I shouldn't have taken her to you, just the scrapyard."

He's quiet, too quiet, and it prompts you to maneuver backward, brows set in a firm line.

"Woah, woah, Nicky-boy, don't get too far ahead of me. Not yet."

He raises a brow, prompts you to continue. There's a sparkle of hope in his eyes.

"One last flight. You can give her one last, gentle flight."

God, you're a fucking angel. Nikolai feels his pupils turn into what might as well be cartoon hearts at the news.

He squeezes you so tight that something in your back cracks. The little squeal it pulls from you makes his heart thrum in his chest terribly fast.

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Nikolai could swear he had never set up for a flight so quickly as he did today.

He was just a man, one who was very much weak to finally getting you where he was the expert, quizzing you to see just how much you knew was going on when he was in the air.

You were still dead-out on the bed. Well, more like halfway on the bed, considering your whole left side was hanging over the edge, hand most definitely cold in the harsh cold front bringing the chill inside.

Who is Nikolai to do anything but warm it for you? What kind of friend would he be if he didn't tenderly take your hand into the both of his, gently breathe out a puff of air to bring heat back to the extremity.

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Your eyes open with an incoherent grumble and a glare.

"Whatthe fffuhhhk, Nik?"

His smile is the first thing you focus on, an overly excited smile like he's a child on Christmas, breaking into their parent's room to wake them up far too early, too.

"Up. Fly time."

Your brain takes a second or two to chug back into "able to think" station, and you sit up with a long yawn.

"God, It's like-" You turn to read the small alarm clock on the side of your nightstand, the softly glowing letters are too dull to see without a squint. "It's 0530 hours." Nikolai answers right as you read the digits, and snickers to himself when you groan.

"Contrary to your beliefs, I can, in fact, read."

"Yeah, but you take a long time. I am much faster."

You groan again, just for dramatic effect, before raising up the covers to get ready.

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Being behind the wheel (?) of one of these things is something you can admit you haven't done in a damned long time.

Still, Nikolai looked so... excited, who were you to not let him have this little thing? Of course you hopped on, let him narrate your way into the air.

Your only qualm was the music, really. Nikolai, he is truly a wonderful, wonderful man, but that fucking metal is godawful. Saying what needs to be said of not distracting your helicopter pilot, you reach over and change the station anyway.

Everyone likes Queen anyway, it's not like Nikolai will care that much.

Wrong. Apparently, the universe is plotting against you, because right as the new song starts, a very familiar piano backing track and one Freddie Mercury is singing about gay longing again.

Goodness dude, now?!

When Nikolai grunts in your general direction, tenses a bit in his seat, you shrug.

"That garbage metal is a risk to your fucking person, Nik. Eyes forward."

You try to bark the order, but you're smiling, and so is he.

"Sure, but this one? Are you trying to send a message, perhaps?"

He's got this stupid, shit-eating grin on his face, but you don't bat at his shoulder like you usually would, for fear of actually throwing him off (you know you won't, but you still worry).

"Ssssshhhhhh, quiet. Focus."

You can see Nikolai rolling his eyes, but he smiles, keeps on flying.

It's... perfect, really. Your hand fits comfortably into the hold, but you don't use it, because you trust the man piloting this thing with your life.

The scenery is dark, illuminated almost entirely by the moon, but the first rays of the sun are already spilling over the horizon in their beautiful rivulets, staining the sky with oranges and pinks, tattooing the undersides of the wispy, feather-like clouds with their hues.

For the rest of the flight, there are not words exchanged, just the quiet sounds of the music and the rotors, muted by the thick headset Nikolai had given you so the noise wouldn't be overwhelming.

That made your chest warm, you can admit it. You were in no drought of little favors and good deeds, not with your Russian hanging around so much.

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Still, none of those things could have prepared you for landing.

Sunrise was in full swing, and you figured it's be cute to watch it with Nikolai, but he seemingly had other plans.

The second he helped you out of Joanne's seat, he pulled you close to his chest, wrapped you up in thick arms, and pressed a firm kiss to your cheek.

He feels your cheek heat beneath his lips, craves it like nothing else, but Nikolai still pulls back sheepish, smiling halfway like he was doing anything wrong.

"And... what's that for, Nik?" You question through a smile, not even taking a moment to question it. Just excited to finally have this moment, to finally get it all out there.

"You are–" The tips of his ears are red, he knows it from how you giggle, and he grumbles the rest of it "You are good, механик. Too good."

You seize the opportunity the second it's presented to you.

It's a snappy motion, but a smooth one, as you manage to capture Nikolai's lips with your own, slotting your mouth to his without hesitation nor remorse. No more pussy-footing around this.

Seemingly, fortune does actually favor the bold, because Nikolai melts like butter in your hands, crouching just to lift you up into his arms, not once breaking the connection between you two.

There is no heat. No pressure. No want for anything but each other.

When he pulls back, it's a moment Nikolai truly mourns. He could have died right then, and died happy. Still, seeing you like this, bundled up in his arms and smiling, he knows he's got a lot more living to do.

Not just surviving. Living. With you, if you'll let him (spoiler: you will).

"I'll make breakfast, механик." He lets the words leave his lips in a lovesick sigh, so dreadfully weak before his darling engineer, a simple man aching to finally have them as close to him as possible.

"Oh, you're only getting better." When you coo down at him, you pretend to be much more confident than you are. You know, though, you're no better than him, a lovestruck idiot so hopelessly caught in the snare that you're enjoying your time here.

You hope he never lets you go. Nikolai hopes for the same.

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You don't learn until years later, long after Joanna is decommissioned and a small scrap of her metal lies around both your and Nikolai's ring fingers in a thin band, that you learn he still names his planes.

His new thing, still fresh. A C-130 Hercules. Much too big for your space, but you also don't do very many repairs for your fiancé unless it's basic woodwork, either. Metal work gets tiring fast, and now that you had someone to take breaks for, why shouldn't you take them?

It's a casual dinner when he brings it up, tells you that you do have a plane named after you, actually, and that it's his, too. Beaming so bright he could rival the sun.

"Mhm? What do you call it, Ласточка?"

He could melt at your voice speaking his mother tongue, but he finishes the thought anyway.

"неразлучник."

Guys if any of you see a silly little poll from someone asking if they should post their fics to tumblr, say YES to it.

My partner (whom I adore) writes so good but they're kind of nervous about posting and also if we finally find each other's tumblrs (ongoing scavenger hunt we play) then we can be gayer, FASTER.

I know the odds are slim, but I need to flirt with them more than I already do.

Also new chap in a couple hours I'm going to bedb.

UPDATE (literally the day after I posted this lmao): the poll said yes <3 Thanks tumblr gods (and y'all, really) for allowing me to be goofy and read my pookie's works when they eventually post it :D