* SURVIVOR'S GUILT.

selective & slow reply agent washington of rvb. penned by mads.

[freelancer-intel-256]

Could you put that in a memo and label it “Shit Everyone With an Internet Connection Could Know?” Everyone knows that that is the best security there is.

[saoirseronan]

Armie Hammer - ‘The Man from U.N.C.L.E.’ portrait session during Comic-Con (July 2015)

[hungandreckless]

[toastyhat-deactivated20180203]

some blues

they look pretty icon-a-licious so feel free to use with credit? if you wanna? idk

[nemichen]

‘monday left me broken…’

sloppy armour strikes again! definitely one of the coolest duets of red vs blue. 

[palsplssl-deactivated20200105]

[renaroo]

Someone stop me plz

[onegun-deactivated20181103]

guess we’re not so different after all

[javierbardem]

uh… well now you’re putting me on the spot, I don’t really have an answer for that, just seems like a bad idea though. karma?

[papanorth]

What’s Wash listening to that’s so embarrassing? 

[suckersluck]

✕   CAROLINA.

          she can’t remember the last time she saw HIS FACE. it’s like staring into the past, a reminder of everything ––– everything they had been, could have been. lines on his face sing stories of their friends, the faded light in his eyes whispers about her father, old scars speak to her of north, of york. there’s that SWELL again, emotions that threaten to suffocate her –– but she CAN’T look away, doesn’t want to look away.  ( all she wants to do is sit and stare at his face with all it’s lines and stories and tales of HEARTACHE for the rest of the evening, to let herself get lost in him. )  she almost considers reaching out, to trace calloused fingers along the contours of his cheeks just to determine whether or not he’s REAL –– really there, not just a ghost taunting her. like all those damn EMOTIONS. 

         “ you’re WRONG. “  no one would have known. maybe. carolina likes to think they never knew ––– but she loved him. YORK. the truth was, she loved him the moment she met him but she was so driven so DETERMINED to be at the top of the leaderboard, to be the head of the project that she told him NO.  ( again and again she told him no, though it broke her heart. ) but he was always there –– and so was she. when the grenade went off, the ai implants. if only she had listened. if only she had GONE WITH HIM. ––– maybe she’d be sitting with him here. not someone who seems like a memory of him.  “ it’s when it’s gone that it SUCKS but when the person you love is right there… “

        there’s a sneaking tightness in her throat that threatens to make her voice CRACK. maybe there’s even a glimmer of tears under vibrant pools of peridot. –– carolina looks away, dips her head down to SWALLOW it all: the emotions, the new glass of bourbon, the pain that’s licking at her ribs. it’s too much.  “ ––– being IN LOVE, it reminds you you’re alive. “  ( no wonder her father was so obsessed. all she wants to do is see YORK one more time, to feel that rush one more time. )  

                    HE  DIDN’T  KNOW.   HOW  COULD  he?   back  then,   ROOKIE,   he  was  just  a  soldier,   doing  what  he  was  told  because  he  knew  he’d  get  into  trouble  one  way  or  another,   &   he  might  as  well  do  it  with  pistols   &   power  armor  instead  of  with  his  fists.   he’d  broken  his  fingers  one  too  many  times.   he’s  still  surprised  every  time  he  splits  his  knuckles   &   they  still  have  blood  to  GIVE.   he’d  been  a  good  soldier,   albeit  skeptical  of  the  mother  of  invention   &   her  high-tech  equipment,   warm  food,   adequate  water  pressure   ------   you  see,   he  was  used  to  being  in  the  ARMY,   being  in  the  part  of  the  unsc  that  focused  its  efforts   &   funds  towards  the  training   &   grooming  over  good  fighters,   loyal  soldiers  instead  of  towards  technology,   state-of-the-art  living  conditions,   artificial  intelligence  programs.   (   damn  private  sectors.   )   he  hadn’t  had  the  time  to  worry  about  his  teammates’  love  lives,   regardless  of  how  many  hours  they  spent  throwing  back  contraband  cold  ones   &   throwing  down  good  money  on  bad  poker  hands.   he  knew  how  york  felt  because  york  never  shut  up.

                    he  hadn’t  gotten  to  know  carolina  until  she’d  had  everything  ripped  from  her   ------   now  twice.   it  is  not  immediately  obvious  how  close  carolina  was  to  epsilon,   but  wash  knows  you  can’t  spend  that  much  time  with  someone   (   especially  someone  who  loves  the  sound  of  their  own  voice  as  much  as  epsilon  did!   )   &   not  get  to  know  them  enough  to  mourn  their  death.   wash  will  never  say  a  word  about  how  he  genuinely  misses  the  warm  buzz  of  epsilon’s  presence  in  the  base  of  his  skull,   the  ragged  edges  of  epsilon’s  existence  cutting  against  where  his  mind  begins,   just  sharp  enough  to  remind  him  he  likes  to  bleed.

                    so  maybe  he  has  been  in  love.

                    he  stares  into  his  glass.   it’s  strange  not  to  have  a  hud  to  tell  him  the  glass’s  contents,   the  type  of  wood  the  bar’s  made  of,   the  decibel  at  which  carolina  speaks.   he  feels  naked   ---------   but  this  wouldn’t  be  the  first  time  he  recreated  himself.   why  is  he  agent  washington  AGAIN?

                    (   so  maybe  he  has   ---------   )

                    ❝   almost  dying  makes  you  feel  alive  too.   ❞

[washnoob-blog]

So awesome he became my pen name.

Agent Washington from Red vs Blue.

- WasH 

[suckersluck]

"..Do you wanna do this again sometime, maybe?" // :) :) :)

                    THE  WINDOW  IN  DAVID’S  CHILDHOOD  bedroom  in  chamberlain  hills  faced  a  shell  station.   every  night,   the  pale,   flickering  yellow  of  the  SHELL  sign  played  hell  with  the  shadows  on  his  ceiling   &   slowly  lulled  him  to  sleep  on  even  the  worst  of  nights   ---------   nights  when  the  insomnia  came  out  to  play  or  worse  still,   nights  when  brock  came  home  drunk.

                     one  of  those  nights,   hours  after  the  sea  to  the  west  had  absorbed  the  red  late-summer  sun,   a  couple  of  gang-bangers  robbed  that  shell  station,   &   during  a  shoot-out  with  the  nineties  version  of  the  lspd,   someone  shot  out  the  s  in  the  shell  sign.   little  david  had  missed  the  extra  light  from  that  single  panel  when  he  tried  to  fall  asleep  at  night,   but  as  he  aged   &   the  station  owners  never  bothered  to  fix  their  sign,   (   though,   in  hindsight,   it  might  have  kept  them  from  going  bankrupt   )   he  found  it  fitting  that  the  sign  now  read  HELL.

                    los  santos  is  not  a  place  for  the  pious,   nor  is  it  a  place  for  old  money  or  the  do-gooders.   los  santos  is  a  city  filled  with  the  hopeless   &   the  desolate   ;   those  who  are  stuck  in  a  rut   &   those  who  don’t  know  any  better  than  to  stay.   it’s  a  place  for  addicts  of  every  kind   :   drug  addicts,   tech  addicts,   fame  addicts,   money  addicts,   &   sex  addicts.   he  used  to  think  himself  above  the  typical  los  santos  resident.   now,   staring  at  the  ring  around  his  partner’s  neck  as  she  pulls  her  jeans  up,   he’s  not  so  sure  he  still  qualifies.   sleeping  with  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  richest  men  in  los  santos  is  nearly  commonplace  in  a  city  full  of  rich  men   &   their  daughters.   sleeping  with  a  coworker  is  bound  to  happen  in  a  city  that  runs  half  on  drugs   &   half  on  sex.   sleeping  with  a  friend  is  an  activity  reserved  for  the  futile.

                    (   here  he  sits,   sheets  pooled  at  his  hips,   less  ashamed  than  he  should  be.   )

                    ❝   ---------   depends.   are  you  going  to  get  me  drunk  again?   ❞

                    (   he  was  doomed  the  first,   second,   &   now  third  time.   )

( M E M E . )   ( N O T   A C C E P T I N G . )

[suckersluck]

Looks like a cinnamon roll but could kill you: North, CT

Looks like a cinnamon roll and is an actual cinnamon roll: Wash, Florida

Looks like they could kill you but is a cinnamon roll: Maine

Looks like they could kill you and could actually kill you: Carolina, South, Tex

Sinnamon Roll: York

[suckersluck]

"Good morning, hope you don't mind me borrowing your shirt..."

                    IN  RETROSPECT,   HE  CAN’T  SAY  how  it  happened.   alcohol  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,   of  that  he  made  sure.   he  isn’t  sure  what  he  thought  their  first  time  would  be  like   ------   right  up  until  it  was  actually  HAPPENING,   he  was  sure  they  would  break  up  before  they  ever  got  this  far.   now  his  shoulders  ache,   his  hair  is  disheveled,   his  sheets  are  a  mess   ---   his  clothes  are  missing,   though  connie  seems  to  have  found  last  night’s  tee.   she  swims  in  it.   he  remembers  quite  vividly  what  she  looks  like  underneath.   he  drags  his  fists  into  his  tired  eyes  as  he  pushes  his  head  back  into  the  pillows.

                    ❝   uh,   yeah,   ❞   he  grants  her  permission  around  a  yawn,   ❝   go  ahead.   i’ve  got  plenty  of  others.   ❞

( M E M E . )   ( N O T   A C C E P T I N G . )

[pitchscribbles]

Wash noooo insomnia is a serious issue

[suckersluck]

lone wolf.

Wolves travel in packs. Wash knows this because there was a time when he was young when all he wanted to read was books on wolves, books on the woods, books on the animals that could kill him and where they called home. He grew up in a nocturnal city, in a city that never sleeps, a city where sirens are never get a rest---where an hour with no sirens is too quiet. He knows all about the animals that could kill him, and he grew up next door to them, went to school with them, trained with them---has one of them in his crosshairs.

The lone wolf. That expression doesn’t make any goddamn sense. Wolves travel in packs, and the ones that don’t do so because they choose to, or because they’ve lost their pack. He’s injured; he staggers across the black ribbon street; inky red streetlights and tail lights hemorrhage all over the street, all over the visor on his white helmet. Alpha. A fitting name for the ringleader. This is the first time they’ve seen him without Epsilon, and there’s certainly something eerie about the way Alpha struggles down the street by himself, his head bobbing in and out of Wash’s crosshairs. His solitude sits uncomfortably in Wash’s gut because his crew always hits when the city least expects it.

Wash wonders what it would be like to be so feared. Even from behind a sniper rifle in a window 2,000 feet away, he keeps his finger, though it itches to squeeze the trigger, away from it. He gets the feeling that even if he took the shot, his bullet would fall short just out of respect. He’s the undeserved messiah of Los Santos, walking down the yellow line, parting the red sea of tail lights, ( no wonder people followed him like toy soldiers ) and Wash hates him.

His finger trembles. He can’t bring himself to do it.

Do you have any idea how many of our men he’s killed?

He’s alone.

Something’s wrong.

It’s been ten days.

It’s unnerving, how harmless one of the most dangerous men in the city looks limping and matted in sticky crimson blood. Wash knows if the situation were reversed, he wouldn’t be breathing right now. But there’s something dishonorable about shooting an animal when it’s down. He knows plenty about animals, and this is the only thing separating the wolves from the house dogs.

Alpha stops as though he’s heard the crackle of Palomo’s voice over the radio from that far away, and he turns his head like a predator, like a wolf. Chills settle in Wash’s spine; he swears he can see himself and his rifle in the reflection of Alpha’s shining gold visor.

< Wash? Do you have visual? >

It’s like a staring contest with the sea. Endless and intimidating and---serene. Alpha can’t see him---there’s no possible way---but Wash feels as though they’ve come to an understanding. He pulls his rifle up as he straightens his back, hand on the radio pinned to his chest.

“Nothing. I can’t see anything.”

< Dammit. Alright, bring it in. We’ll get ’em next time. >