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Shattered Echoes -
{Erasermic angst} TW: Death
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In the desolate aftermath of a catastrophic battle, Aizawa Shouta trudged through the debris, his soul weighed down by the heavy burden of grief. The once-vibrant city now lay in ruins, mirroring the shattered pieces of Aizawa's heart.
Amidst the wreckage, he discovered Mic's lifeless form, a stark contrast to the dynamic hero who once filled their lives with laughter. Aizawa cradled Mic's cold body, his anguished sobs echoing through the desolation as he clung to the remnants of a love lost in the chaos of heroism.
The days that followed were a numb blur for Aizawa. He moved through life like a ghost, haunted by the absence of Mic's infectious energy. UA High felt empty without the sound of his partner's laughter reverberating through the hallways.
Aizawa's erasure quirk, once a symbol of control, now served as a bitter reminder of his inability to erase the pain within. The hero known for his stoicism found himself crumbling under the weight of sorrow, unable to escape the suffocating darkness that enveloped him.
As the city began to rebuild, Aizawa remained a solitary figure, a silent guardian haunted by the specter of loss. The world moved on, but Aizawa existed in a perpetual state of mourning, forever tethered to the memories of a love that once illuminated his life but was now extinguished in the relentless march of tragedy.
DO NOT SUPPORT SALVATION ARMY
“Hey. Don.”
“what.”
“I bet I can get more votes than you~”
“.. aight bet Nardo.”
“how much? How much are you willing to give NEON LEON”
“I’ll give you fifty.”
“*scoff* please- I’ll bet ya a hundred.”
*donnie wins* *leo loses a hundred dollars*
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."
The Mistakes That Have Been Made
Part 2.5 (bonus for the people. I think you guys need some good soup, from moi <3)
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.
The team dynamics of the 141 have always been messy, ugly things, but this is ugly. You wouldn't wish it on anyone, really.
When you'd walked back to your own room, you'd heard Soap railing the daylights out of Gaz, cussing your name beneath his breath as the other sergeant groaned, high and throaty.
As awful as this feels, at least he's not doing that to you.
Johnny's always been a bit of a... rough bed partner, you know that, he's so eager to get into the heat of it that he never gives himself the time to warm up or cool down. Tends to be so enthusiastic that he doesn't offer much aftercare before he falls asleep, either.
Still, walking past Gaz's room brings back memories of that nasty, sick feeling that follows every intimate experience you've ever had.
It's the feeling that your body is somehow wrong, too tight in some parts and too loose in others, like the very existence of your form is a contradiction that just can't stand a second longer.
The way you hold your laptop shifts, pressing the metal into your chest to somehow remedy this ill. How? You're not sure. It doesn't work very well.
You try to shake it off as you open your door and sit on your bed, but the moans still breach your walls.
God, since when did Gaz sound like that? It feels like it's choking the air out of the room.
You put your best effort toward minding your own business, but you felt like you were losing your mind a half-hour into that endeavor, and instead thumped your fist on the wall, loud enough to send the message. Learning how to sign and trying to ignore... that was simply not a feasible task.
The moaning and creaking stops shortly after, and the sigh you heave is like no others, though you know damn well those two will definitely be pissy with you tomorrow.
Finally.
Plastic buzzing against the "wood" of your nightstand (shitty plywood painted white, as is standard issue) draws your focus away from that, if only for a second.
Heyhey! Do u wanna train together tmrw?? I think you'd do good if you took it easy w/me 😊 <33
The rubber and plastic of your case isn't all that comfortable in your hands, but you hold the magical little glass box in your hands anyway, peering down at the screen before chuckling to yourself.
Why should I?
Is your reply. It doesn't strike you that it might have been a bit on the nose, or that Gary might have read it differently, until the text bubble appears and disappears several times in a row, and you re-read it.
Oh no, you sound like an absolute asshole.
Sorry. I do want to, I just wanted to tease.
He's typing for another few seconds, before the bubble disappears one more time, and it starts to make you panic. More than you want to be panicking over him.
Don't be mad please, I'm sorry. I want to train with you.
How the mighty have fallen.
Look at you, desperately prostrating yourself before a rookie because you're absolutely moronic, praying that he'll offer you a reply. Whatever happened to four times the love?
Fuck. Don't think about that.
im not mad, ur fine just thought you might be a little grouchy from the meds or smth, wasnt sure if i should ask
You breathe a real sigh of relief at the returned messages, already more than tired by the day, but slightly soothed as you look down at the blue light of the screen, and send your last message of the day.
I'll see you at 0630. Goodnight.
A little red heart appears over your message, in the top left corner of the rounded bubble.
You plug in your phone and try to ignore how something in your chest squeezes at being deemed worthy of making plans more than two hours in advance.
It's a shockingly new thing, but goodness does it feel good, even if it brings on a sting of a more somber feeling.
Gaz and Soap sure as fuck didn't do this. Ghost either. You never expected Price to do that for you in the first place. Did they just... not think you were enough to make plans for? Was this pity?
You try to shake off the feeling as you bunch your blankets around your body, allowing your tired form to sink into the mattress and rest. The morning will clear your thoughts.
First | Previous | Next
The Mistakes That Have Been Made
Part two :)
Warnings!: Angst, angst, and more angst. Reader will be MAD sad for most of this. Poorly-practiced, unhealthy polyamory. Reader will experience a LOT of gender and body dysphoria over the course of this (though I will do my best to keep it gender-neutral throughout, bear with me), but there WILL be comfort over that.
You spent most of the night following the surgery in a light doze, after a certain man named Gary walks you to your room, only slightly entertaining your efforts to walk upright on your own two legs.
Of course, he can't stay, he's got things to do, and he's not your fucking nurse, but he still makes you unlock your phone and watches you set the timer so you take your antibiotics first thing in the morning.
He still leaves to fill up his own water bottle, and sets it by your tiny, shitty nightstand, and he still brings the thing to your lips to make you take a couple sips, even as you try not to drift off right then and there.
When you look up with tired eyes, he offers a small, sympathetic smile, and leans down to gently bump your forehead with his own.
It's... an oddly endearing gesture, considering that's a grown-ass man, but your delirious smile seems to inspire more of that gentle treatment, because when his hands are free again, he's finger-spelling to you once more.
I googled some stuff for the recovery. Should I send you the links to the articles?
You melt, just a little bit, but nod, tiredly resting your heavy head on the pillow beneath it, just really soaking in not feeling like you're dying. Feels great, you've gotta say.
"Yeah. That'd be real sweet of you, luvie. Thanks for all the help."
He beams at you. You hate to admit it, but you smile, too.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The day after is slow for you. Seeing as you're one organ down, it feels perfectly fit to work quietly in your own small office space, finding more information for prospective ops down the line.
It's comfortably-paced, much unlike how you'd been before your mistake. Back then, you were frantic, under a deadline you knew wasn't realistic trying to find documents that didn't ever exist.
Your job feels so much better without Price and the team on your ass. They never understand how discovery works, they think it just happens in a way that's frankly, stupid.
And, you're no liar, you'll say that getting periodic texts from your new friend really does brighten your mood.
Roach was a riot. And you forgot how it felt to be with that energy, the spark of new meat that you had felt yourself losing in the team.
He's a good lad, might have to get him a dinner, as-
Your train of thought is (rudely) interrupted by your door opening, without a knock or anything, and an irritated Johnny standing behind it.
"Mind tellin' me why ye werenae runnin' feckin' drills today? Ye said ye'd fuckin' spot me."
You're not surprised that his voice is supremely annoying to you right now. Normally, that Scottish slang is a comforting noise, a reminder of the company you hold, and how they've always had your back.
This time, you kind of want to knock him in the jaw for it.
This anger, it will pass.
Maybe.
"If you've got an issue, go to Price. It's not my job to fill you in on every little detail of my life, and I have a job other than training that I need to be up-to-date with."
The metal of Gary's water bottle makes a quiet noise on the textured plastic of your desk as you raise it to take another sip, effectively silencing Johnny for just a second as you hear him sputter to himself.
"Th' fuck are you- you're not drinking coffee."
Of course that's the thing he notices. He can't notice when you're on death's door begging for help, but he knows how you take a morning beverage.
You really wanna punch him now.
"Detox."
You answer is terse, not quite like you, and he furrows his brows.
"Ye're hidin' somethin', ain't ye? S' it 'cause of the mission? 'Cause that was a stupid call, an' you can't fix stupid."
What a way to make amends, Soap, show up at my door and insult me after a brief interrogation. Charming.
"My god, would it kill you to shut your mouth just once? Is that too big an ask, now?"
Harsh. That was harsh. You know it was, and that it was a mistake, but when you open your mouth to apologize, Johnny beats you to it.
"Fuck you."
The slam of the door makes you cringe, and look back down to your documents, the little notes you've drawn in the margins and the highlighter that's smudged the pen just a little bit.
Before you dwell too long, there's a quiet ping.
A small, stupid looping video pops up when you open the offending chat.
It's a poorly-rendered cockroach, spinning is stupidly whimsical circles and turning colors as a song you don't care to name plays in the background. The text under it is what makes you soften.
medicine checkk in!!! take the medcine if you havent :)
His spelling is amateurish at best.
You're really fucking screwed, with that one, and you know it, but still, you set the phone down, and open a new tab.
British Sign Language basics. You could do that.
Part One | Previous | Next
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.
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.
Part One
Part Two
Part 2.5
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
The Mistakes That Have Been Made
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.
Shout out! This fic was inspired in part by the lovely @cielosafeplace's post. I will be taking liberties, but the bones are all from there. Thanks again for letting me use this, friend <3
Since you were young, you've been very aware that you aren't like very many other people. That's fine, really. Being weird is no sin, or at least, not one you care about. If you happened to have crushes who happened to overlap, that was no one's business but your own.
That being said, the yearning, gooey parts of you were something that you never did entertain, for your own sake.
Still, when there were four men who all seemed not just willing, but enthusiastic to fill in those needs, of course you let them.
Of course, why wouldn't you? When Kyle kissed you so nicely, when he took you apart to heal you back together? When Johnny showed you passions that you'd been missing out on? When Ghost had you at his side, with the lights off and the blankets warm? Why wouldn't you let them have you?
They were your team anyway, those four made damn well sure you were alright.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Actually, that might be too nice a judgement.
You know your team has been... very upset with you, lately.
Most of that is your fault. It was a bad call, and Ghost nearly got shot coming to help you. Really, you do understand that anger, but it's gotten lonely.
Price has stopped talking to you outside of orders, just like Ghost. Johnny gave you a verbal lashing you might never forget, and Kyle scowled at you in a way that made you head inside your room for the rest of the day just to avoid him.
It's been a couple days, and you're still on a very short list with all of them.
But something's off.
It doesn't hurt too badly yet, you must admit, but something feels like it's wrong.
A bit of pain, near the center of your belly, right below the navel. Sure, you're grown, you've had your bellyaches. It's not too bad, but it's a sort of new that you don't trust. Not even a little bit.
So, you go to your captain. Of course you do. He's got the most power, why shouldn't you?
Smooth, dark wood knocks clear and sharp under your knuckles, and a gruff "Come in." is all the command you need.
"Hey, Price. I was going to ask-"
"Is there a reason you saw fit to come in during the busiest week of the year not on fire?"
The interruption makes you still as the pain fades just a bit, seemingly also slinking away as the nervousness takes root.
Sure, you might have made a wrong call last mission, but were they this upset with you?
"Uh- I wanted to ask you something-"
You shouldn't be nervous. Price is your captain. He's just a little grumpy, nothing more. He'll answer, or he'll know who to ask. You're one of his, he shouldn't hate you.
"Find someone else, then. Your incompetence isn't my problem."
You know better than to disobey that tone, even as the prickle of pain returns to you, so you shut the door.
It feels a little worse now, and an uncomfortable tightness rises as you step back, but it's easy enough to push away with a deep breath or two.
Alright. Ghost might know. He's not under the pressure Price is, making up for your mistake.
So, you seek out your lieutenant.
He's in the gym. Training rookies, but it seems you've gotten lucky, because he's just told the newbies to spar each other, and is currently watching over them.
The sharp spike of hot pain makes you gasp a little bit, but your voice calling to him is what makes the man turn.
"Ghost."
"Yes, Crash?"
Your callsign makes you smile, just a little bit, but his tone doesn't. He sounds... really stern, more upset than he usually is when he's on training duty.
"I think something might be off, my stomach's hurting and-"
The relief of finally getting to tell someone about this odd pain is cut as you're, once more, interrupted before you can finish.
"Take a painkiller."
Okay, now this is getting annoying to you.
"I already have, you're not-"
"Not your bloody nursemaid, that's what I'm not."
His voice rises in a way that makes you swallow once more. The way you brace a foot behind you makes the ache come back, flaring in your gut, a bit lower this time. It's so loud a few of the recruits turn to look, one or two snickering, making shame and anger roil in your hurting stomach.
Your silence seems to allow for more speech from the man, because the scowl you just know is under his mask hardens, and his voice gets even louder, purposely projecting so the full gaggle of rookies can hear him.
"It's not my responsibility to take care of a faulty informations "Specialist". If you're not going to be useful, leave."
He says your job title like it's a fucking joke, goes to the efforts of doing air-quotes around it. The rookies laugh like it is one.
The shame and anger meld into an ugly thing, burning behind your eyes and making the stabbing pain just that much worse. You understand. They're angry, you did something stupid. That's fine. The fact that Ghost deemed it necessary to shoot you down like that in from of the fucking rookies is shitty.
But that's still your lieutenant. And you're still bound by his word. So you do leave, return to the small space you call your office and see if this is something that you can ride out.
Maybe you were being some sort of dramatic, maybe nothing was ever hurting, even if you feel it getting worse by the hour.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That might have been the worst mistake you've made in your life, because here you are, bent over the toilet, emptying your guts again.
You're losing track of how many times you've watched the swirling bowl swallow your vomit just to be refilled, but you feel abysmal, bad enough to check your phone for the fifth time this hour as the thing sits on just one percent of its usual battery.
An unread text sits on the screen, sent to a group chat cheekily titled "the sergeants" by one John MacTavish.
Something's wrong, please come help me
Delivered, but not responded to. Neither are picking up their phones.
Fuck. This isn't good.
The nausea has started to pass, but the pain hasn't. It feels like a hot spear is jabbing into your abdomen, lighting up the entire right side with a burning pain that's only starting to intensify further.
It hurts so fucking bad, every breath is a harder task than the last. You can't bear to rise from your haunches. The movement would be too much, it would make the pain spike to a level you know you can't handle. Pressing your hands to the pain that's stabbing into you is useless, but you do it anyway.
The realization that something is very wrong sinks in, and you can't help the fact that you start to cry. When you turn to try and send another text, a more urgent plea, your phone shuts off with a dead, black screen.
You think you might be dying. It's only getting worse, and the door's locked. No one's coming to help you. You're alone, and your dead brick of a phone won't fix that.
Crying is doing nothing to help you. In fact, it makes the pain worse, but there's no logic left for you.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The thing that pulls you from this is a quiet rapping on the bathroom door.
"Hey, um, are you good? You're kind of- crying."
It's not a voice you don't know. Awkward and fumbling, like they haven't used it in a while, and a little raspy. You choke a word of thanks as the pain spikes again, and sob once more.
"It fucking hurts. Please get a medic."
Your own voice is wet, it feels foreign to you. But thank the stars, the message gets across really well to whoever's on the other side.
A thick-soled boot makes quick work of the lock with the force of a good kick, and there's the rustling of clothes next to you. You don't move to look.
Almost delicate hands (when compared to your own team, of course) cup your own, putting just a bit too much pressure on the lower right side of your pained body and making your breaths trip again.
"Shit, I'm so sorry, just- I'm going to pick you up, okay? I- you look really bad."
His voice is gentle, the softest you've heard in the service. It's a relief to you, and you nod shakily as he hauls you up into comfortable arms, walking you over to the base's medical room as fast as possible without jostling you.
You'll admit that the next hour or so is... blurry, to you.
You remember the medic looking not-that-concerned when you came in, pressing their hand to your belly, the lower right side. When you whined in pain, they started looking worried.
Soon after, you were introduced to the emergency surgeon. She wasn't really clear, and kind of strict, but getting your stomach pumped was not a fun experience.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Waking up from anesthesia is an ugly, uncomfortable thing, but you know the feeling while it hits you.
Your eyes are bleary, too-dry and unfocused, and your head is fuzzy with more than the anesthetic itself. Pain meds. Feels like... awful.
There's a little gasp when your eyes open, and you glance to the side to see maybe the last person you thought you would.
Not Price, or Ghost, or Soap or Gaz. No, it's the soft-handed, quiet voiced man, sitting in the chair and staring at you.
You're not sure what you expected, but you're not greeted verbally. It's an excited wave, followed by a lot of British Sign Language.
"I'm... I'm sorry, luv. I only learned how to finger-spell back in basics."
He doesn't look too dejected, which is honestly a relief. He switches over seamlessly, taking the individual letters slowly, for your sake.
It's okay. He spells the words slowly, forming the letters cleanly and precisely with practiced fingers that tell you he's been doing this for some time. You had appendicitis. The nurse said you were really lucky to get here when you did, and that they called your captain to tell him you'll be out for a day or so.
"Oh."
The cocktail of painkillers mutes your reaction, lowers it from sheer rage to a simple, tired acceptance. In that moment, you don't question why you're alone, sans this stranger. You just soak it in, really.
"What's your name, then?"
Gary.
"Oh, I'm sorry."
He looks confused, but spells it again for you, slower this time.
"No, I know your name is Gary, I'm just sorry."
You realize what you say the second it leaves your mouth, and shut your eyes to cope with the mortification. Instead, you hear a giggle, followed by a laugh.
It's a squeaky thing, Gary's laughter. He only seems to make noise when he draws in the breath, and it makes a high-pitched, slightly raspy sound, like he's taken damage to the voice box or throat before. You would liken it to a dying goose, if you were meaner.
I like you. We should talk more.
He's smiling. He's looking at you and he is smiling. It makes you feel useful again, like there is still something to be salvaged of the errors you cause.
You do, in fact, talk more with him.
A lot more.
Next chapter
When the worst comes to pass (Part Two: Kyle)
WARNINGS: Reader dies! YES, there will be written gore and YES, the boys will be very sad. (vomiting, bleeding, guts, choking, drowning, all of it) Hurt/no comfort.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Sorry, Garrick. No living prisoners." The soldier's voice in his ear breaks every last thing Kyle knows and holds dear. – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –– – – – – – – – – –– – – – – – – – – – – – –
Work for the SAS is an odd sort of thing. Kyle likes to think of it like standing in the ocean, dipping your feet in the waves and letting its state consume you. Some days, it's just simple and easy. Filling out a few papers and letting everything pass over you. Some days are rough, and some are brutal. Just like the ocean, though, this line of work is more than deadly. It's a constant risk that every single soldier has signed themself off to that at their own discretion, they all know that the date of their death could well be tomorrow. But there's an element of pride that comes with that. It's humbling, sure, but the pride is there, because you've operated in situations the average person couldn't even hope to manage, pulled off odds that inspire both a nauseating fear and a spark of courage that only grows into a raging inferno the more you do it. Still, Kyle sits with you at his side in the armory, making jokes and sharpening his kit as you polish yours. If he had to pick a favorite person he had met in the service... it would be you. Don't get him wrong, Price is a phenomenal captain, just like Ghost is a clinically effective lieutenant and Soap is a great work buddy and gifted sergeant, but you... god, none of them could even hold a candle to that. His loyalties lie with the team, yes, but everyone knows where the heart of that fierce, caring nature funnels. And why shouldn't it? You were like him. Quiet, but clever, a problem solver in your heart of hearts and Kyle was a sucker for someone who had at least a little bit of emotional intelligence about them. He still remembers the moment that really endeared you to him. He'd been injured, nearly fatally on a mission, but you... stayed with him. After he'd gotten a not-that-gentle sponge bath from a stressed-looking nurse, you had stepped in, done something that not many would dare to do. Washed his hair. Sure, it might sound small, but it wasn't. Your deft hands worked for an hour at least. Sectioning first, saturating the coily hair with water, shampooing it, everything, taking his broken body into your hands like he was a baby bird and fixing what you could, keeping him warm enough to last the night. You'd been wordless, too, apart from gathering his consent to help him clean up fully. You just... did that. For no other reason than you wanted to see a teammate thrive as much as he could. After that, you'd been inseparable. Maybe that's why his eyes are so adoring as he watches you sharpen your (favorite) knife, an old gift from him, but he'll never tell. Your voice is flooding the space, neatly tucking into every last corner and leaving every gun and ammo case with the beautiful, ghosting memory of you like oleander flowers. Deadly, but bright and lovely all the same, burned into the folds of his brain. He never wanted to lose that. – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
Kyle hadn't been on the mission that took you away from him. He remembered how you described it to him before you left, soft-eyed and quiet as you finally let him out of the pin you'd had him in on the sparring mats, helping him up with a hand despite knowing full well he wouldn't need it. He takes that hand. "It'll be easy, Gaz, I swear. Just an in-and-out. Easy as pie, right?" He didn't worry then. He hadn't had any reason to. He remembers it so well, feeling his cheeks round with a smile as he bumps his forehead against yours, how you grin and playfully pat his ass in response. "Right. Don't fall out of any transport." His voice was soft, then. Cheeky as he teases you just to hear you joke back with him. "I think that's your job, sergeant."
There it is. Kyle feels his heart squeeze around nothing, pumping his blood just a little faster. He's so glad you can't see the blush on his cheeks, because he just knows he'd be so nervous he'd pass out right then and there. "Yeah yeah, go fuck yourself."
Your smile is crooked, but it's every last thing he needs. It's the food in his belly and the blood in his veins and he loves it so fucking much. – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –– – – – – – – – – –– – – – – – – – – – – – –
"Sorry, Garrick. No living prisoners." The soldier's voice in his ear breaks every last thing Kyle knows and holds dear, hands him a small bag containing the items they thought were yours. It's been weeks already, he knows the odds are slim, everyone knows the odds are slim, but he held out for that miracle. A miracle that never came. It feels... empty, now. That night, when transport came back without you, Kyle had been fucking outraged. He had stormed to Price's office and chewed out his own captain because how in the hell could this have happened? Why were you left behind? No one had any answers, but the sympathy offered almost felt worse. Soap's quiet solemnity around him felt like some sort of insult, though Kyle knew it wasn't. Ghost's... weird hanging around and staring was a sweet gesture, but deeply saddening. But it's now, after all of that, that his worst fears come to life. Every feeling seems to flare and broil and Kyle excuses himself to his quarters before he falls apart. Most of the job is mental. You can be the most physically strong person on the field and you can still lose because you couldn't hold it together well enough. Kyle knows that. But part of that mental aptitude comes with knowing the grief he feels is necessary. He doesn't want to let you go. He clutches your dog tags in one hand, and your favorite knife in the other as he sobs with a force he hasn't had since being a little schoolboy, crying to his mother after scraping his knee. This is no scraped knee, though. This is an injury that will likely never scar, it's ugly and it will always hurt and Kyle knows that, but he would take this over letting you go any day. Because, when all is said and all is done, Kyle knows himself, and he knows that there is no one who would ever hope to compare to who you had been for him. When his mind clears, he holds the knife in shaky hands, and kisses the flat of the blade before polishing it the rest of the way. It still sits there now, on his dresser. Take a look for yourself, wouldn't you? Just don't touch. He treasures the thing.
When the worst comes to pass (Part One: Johnny)
WARNINGS: Reader dies! YES, there will be written gore and YES, the boys will be very sad. (vomiting, bleeding, guts, choking, drowning, all of it) Hurt/no comfort.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Everything hurts. That's the first thing Johnny notices when he manages to open his eyes, flat on his back on a cobbled road, smeared with blood that isn't just his.
When his mind comes back to him, Johnny feels his stomach both drop and slingshot into the stratosphere.
Fuck. The building, the objective, this was bad.
He scrambles to his feet so fast that his head pounds that he nearly misses an incoming transmission on his radio. It's Ghost, roaring into hie ear as he runs somewhere.
"What the hell was that, MacTavish?! The rookie's in there!"
Everything in the world quiets for a dragging moment as those words finally make it to his (probably bruised) brain. The rookie. How could he have forgotten the rookie was in there? Oh god. The rookie was in there. He hadn't known that when he blew that shit sky-high to finally clear it out.
Still, when he looks to the steaming rubble, so hot that some of the glass is melting, he knows it's a hopeless endeavor.
He knows it's hopeless, but that doesn't stop him from screaming your name, callsign, anything, trying to get a response.
Even as Ghost yells his ears out over comms. Even as Price joins in. Even as Gaz reports that he's at exfil, injured but okay, shaky-voiced like he's barely holding it together.
His knees sizzle and burn when he's on all fours, hopelessly scraping at the concrete and steel, overturning everything he can in some prayer to a god deaf to this moment to find you.
You, who'd stumbled ass-backward into this team and managed to root yourself down like a dandelion, so tenacious that even the usual harsh treatment had been anything more than an obstacle, another checkpoint in the game-ified quest system that you used to organize your life.
You, who'd been the first person to grab Johnny by the collar and scream so loud his ear had popped when he had knowingly slighted you to look better at the end of your first op.
You, who made him work for your time, who hadn't been scared to tell him straight to his face that you hated his guts.
You, who warmed up slowly.
You, who had become Johnny's very closest confidant, because you weren't afraid to call him on his shit, but always tried to understand.
You.
And now, like always, Johnny has done something too fucking rash. Made the wrong call, blew the bomb too soon to keep himself safe and now you're under the rubble of his mistakes, being crushed under the weight.
But he'll fix it. It doesn't matter that his skin is peeling back and singing off in his hands, or that one of his nails was pulled all the way out from a burr in the steel getting caught on it. It doesn't matter that Johnny knows he smells too much burnt flesh for it to just be his own. It doesn't matter that he can't see your form yet, because he knows that if he digs long enough, you have to be in here. And you'll be hurt.
But you'll be okay.
You'll be on his ass about this for years, and you'll chew him out when he patches you up, but you'll be okay.
He's not sure how long that frenzied state lasts. Not really, but he knows there's a hand on his shoulder when he tears a window from it's frame, cutting his hands.
It's Simon, standing over him. Johnny doesn't look back, but he knows, because it's too quiet.
"...Johnny. Exfil."
His voice is mercifully soft. Gruff, but soft, because Simon knows this stings Johnny far more than it does him. You'd been... good. He didn't let you close, but he knew he wouldn't have regretted it if he had.
You would have been a good soldier. Much better than him or Johnny. Fuck, maybe even better than Price if you really buckled down like you wanted to. You had been smart, just stubborn enough.
Kyle was already a mess in the helicopter, halfway to snapping as Nikolai talks him back down. Johnny was far more stubborn.
"No. M' gonna find 'em, Simon, m' gonnae fuckin' find 'em because they've gotta be in here somewhere an' I cannae just leave them behind-"
It's now that Johnny realizes he's been crying. The drops are fat and heavy, rolling down dirtied cheeks and cutting clean pathways, drawing lines of his own tanned skin.
He hears Ghost sigh, and a loud crack as the butt of a pistol is slammed into his head, and his thoughts are cut off.
I've needed to see this. It's the little things that keep us going, it really is...
…I almost killed myself
I put on my sunglasses, to hide my swollen eyes, over my tears. I cried all my makeup off. Went inside to have a milkshake. I don’t know why. I wanted something to drink as I figured out what I would do. I got a soda and a milkshake. Medium. The cashier looked at me and with a line around the corner of the counter he rushed away from the counter “Hold on “ he yelled to a coworker.
I filled my soda and went back and saw him looking all over. I go up and he gets close and says “I made it a large”.
That was seriously enough for me not to do it. His kindness. Someone went out of their way and as I went back in my car to cry I realized I could muster through a few other days. A few more weeks. Then I came down from that panicky high of anxiety, depression, and pain. I finished my shake. And it was enough time to let me feel better. I… I’m alive. I’ll make it through.
Try and be nice today. Tomorrow. Something as much as a smile. It helped so much.
Thank you man at McDonalds.
The milkshake saved my life
i don’t like my old art, but i was cooking with some of the graphic design.
my favs from my april sketchbook
Goodbye… new friend…
the Boss's Office Elevator Revolving Door skit is still one of the funniest bits in the game. Narrator getting petty about off-course decisions and 'yes and'-ing them into the ground in revenge kills me every time
(Original Video: 'british guy plays the stanley parable for the first time part 2' by Loona)
The promise of this update is currently keeping me together
Pls, open the image, tumblr ate the quality😭
Sorry for the song lyrics, lmao
im feeling down but theres nothing i want to do or buy i dont even wanna buy food which is something i always wanna do whenever im upset
was supposed to play overwatch with a discord server im somewhat active in but like no one showed
i hate having no friends. being alone is fun until youre reminded that youre truly alone
and like i really want to share the fact that im having bottom growth and have people tell me in that moment that theyre proud and happy of me but i have no one :’)
might just post it randomly to a discord server im in meant to tmen and get my validation from there
and im constantly like “i wish i had a bf” but i really dont wanna use dating apps they fucking suck
grindr is so damn scary and comes off as “scam the app” then i feel like shit using any other dating app i dont wanna swipe on ppl thats mean
idk. just sad and lonely rn