Sorry To All Y'all, I'm Being Evil. The Lie Is Only Technically A Lie. If Requested, I Will Tell The

Why Hobie disappears

Not very long, just a little thing I wrote! Features/warnings:

Hobie is protrayed as very much being genderqueer in some way, shape or form, and is referred with he/they/she throughout the story + one instance of the reader calling him "girly" which Hobie explicitly enjoys and is implied to have talked about beforehand.

Reader is implied to also be genderqueer, and Hobie refers to them as "big man" once, they also stim when they get excited. Other than that, gender neutral reader and no warnings, just silly fluff!

It's widely understood that Hobie in himself is a wild sort of enigma. This is why no one really seems to question where he's going or why, what he plans to do. Hobie is just... Hobie, and he Hobies around until he leaves and presumably Hobies around some more wherever he trotted off to. Gwen and Pav wonder about this, because after every mission (or, at least, the few that Hobie bothers with), he just sort of magically slips off and reappears sometime later. It's Pav that suggests tracking him down, but Gwen would be a liar to say she's not also curious.

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

You sit on the floor, cross-legged with a punk at your side and a sewing machine in front of you. Tartan weave rubs against your fingers as you sew darts into the fabric, ensuring it would fit just a bit more snugly at the waist, because Hobie really liked that sort of thing in clothes. "Y'want a cinch, right? Nothin' too far off your usual?" Just in case, you double check. Hobie looks up from his guitar, and nods. You don't really note that he's smiling, and he knows you aren't, but the corners of his lips twitch up anyway. "Yeah. Thanks again, bruv, couldn't ever do that shit like you." There's something in his voice that makes you smile, nod a little firmer than normal. Hobie knows that. "Yeah, yeah, 'nuff with the flattery, I'm on it." Truth be told, this little symbiosis of Hobie giving you projects to work on and you giving him much better clothing in return has grown into something much more significant. Friendship. Even when you weren't working on anything, taking a rare break to clear your head, Hobie would let you sit near him (regardless of if you were in a talking mood or just wanted to be quiet for a few hours), sometimes talk about what he was doing, sometimes teach you a little tidbit about his universe's idea of how punk works. It was similar, for the most part, but you liked to learn new things anyway, so it never hurt. Your skilled fingers thread the machine before you as Hobie continues plucking at quiet chords with the guitar. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gwen and Pav felt like this search was endless. For at least an hour, they had found a grand total of nothing, like Hobie really had vanished into thin air. He wasn't at his place Gwen had checked, so he was probably somewhere at the Spider Society, but tracking down someone so rebellious that no one bothered to ask where he was going was proving to be ridiculously difficult. It takes another half hour to find one of the smaller rooms of the Spider Society, a little sort of craft-haven and quiet space. Pav cracks the door, and gasps a little. "Gwen, Gwen, look at this." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ When you take the now-fitted shirt off the machine (with a slight skirt you'd added made of scrap fabrics), you grin, and toss it to Hobie. "Try it on, fucker, should be perfect." Your confidence isn't misplaced, it seems, because when Hobie taps your shoulder to signal that it's good to turn back around, they're a fucking vision. Smudged eyeliner, torn pants, and the little suspenders, all the same, but with your work, cinching at the middle and showing off the wonderful lines of form, tracing down their hips until the skirt cuts off mid-thigh, Hobie looks so much more at home in it. "Fuck yeah!" Hobie smiles when you jump up and flap your hands a little, lets you circle them like a hungry shark as you rave about the new thing you'd tried, a different stitch or something. Hobie couldn't care less what you did. It was something you had made, and that was enough. "Beautiful, can't believe you're lookin' so good, girly." The tender, feminine nickname makes Hobie's chest thrum a little with satisfaction. She knows you know that she loves it when you do that, when you use other pronouns just to show her that you know and care for her preferences. "Thanks, big man. 'Preciate it." Now its your turn to grin, and wrap the punk up in a tight hug from behind, stupidly happy and content. Hobie is nonchalant. You are not. It works well. The lanky Brit smiles, and pats your hand around their waist. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Gwen and Pavitr had stood stock still as they watched this exchange. It was deeply shocking to them. Hobie, who was hanging out and being nice with some random, excitable spider that neither of them had met before. And this other spider seemingly knew things they didn't if Hobie's little smile was anything to go by. Gwen, however, softens. Hobie had his confidants, and she has hers. Maybe that's why she gently pulls Pav back, and smiles at him. "C'mon. Let's get lunch. Hobie's doing his own thing."

(◡‿◡✿)

(ʘ‿ʘ✿) “what you say ‘bout me”

(ʘ‿ʘ)ノ✿ “hold my flower”

Watcher 1-1

Part Seven <3

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

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

Keegan is a good man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mm. Poor aim, Mr. Russ."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"...Thank you, Russ."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Really?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He seems fine with waiting for you to catch up.

Maybe that's why you nod at that question.

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

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

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

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

First chapter | Previous chapter | Next chapter

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

Watcher 1-1

Part Five!!!

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

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

Good luck, soldiers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Prick!"

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

"Arsehole!"

Is his response.

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

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

"Still got my six, Ghost?"

"Affirmative. Keep goin'."

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

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

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

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

Fuck. Why did Price take a shot in here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You will.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

First chapter | Previous chapter | Next chapter

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

Watcher 1-1

Part 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.

First chapter | Previous chapter | Next chapter

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

+ one(1) ✨vintage✨ ghoap

part two of ???

I'm dead. Deceased. I have passed away. HOW??!?! My god, I reckoned there would be cool people here but I never thought I would get this far. Thank you so much, to all of you <3 [Pssst, by the way, new chapter up today or tomorrow. Just so you know ;)]

Been looking for this for at LEAST three years.

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

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

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

The Mistakes That Have Been Made

Part Three <3 The fluff before the storm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doing other things, bug.

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

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

"I was right about you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you want me to help?"

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

When you nod, he gets to work.

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

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

"You're good to me, Gary."

He nods. It makes you sigh.

"I really want to be with you more."

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

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

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

"Why are you so good at this?"

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

Huh.

Oh. Oh, shit.

"Gary-"

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

I'm like you.

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

Let me help you. I want to.

You're in deeeeeeep shit.

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