#//i smell a new ot3

[captainbfresh]

Can you believe that Eddie has a crush on Buck but Buck has a crush on Tommy but Tommy has a crush on Eddie what fresh hell is this

[theinfinitedivides]

kid??????? kid spotted??????? kid in distress spotted???????

[theladyragnell]

ooohh, leverage ot3 talking late into the night?

(Set early in the Boston era.)

More often than not, it’s the three of them on Nate’s couch long after Nate’s gone to sleep.

After all, Alec is his landlord, and he’s not going to be a shitty landlord. He splashed out for the good internet connection, the kind that can handle the sort of load Alec works with regularly, and the bar and the apartment are in a neighborhood with enough utilities that nobody’s going to think twice about that kind of load, so it’s safer than doing the work in his own brownstone that he largely picked for the view and so he could enjoy people’s expressions when he says he lives in Beacon Hill.

All that to say, when Alec’s got work to do, and no matter what his teammates say he’s always got work to do, he does it at Nate’s, while Nate sleeps or pretends to sleep or makes whatever terrible choices Nate is making this week.

There’s no real reason for the other two to stay. Eliot claims he only sleeps four hours a night, and Parker thinks wandering around the Isabella Stewart Gardner at night trying to solve their unsolved heist is a good use of recreational time (which it is, but also her theories are wrong), but their work doesn’t take the kind of preparation and long hours of filtering through security footage his does.

When Eliot stays, he makes excuses about it. The rest of them are animals who never do the dishes from team dinner, or the mark’s security looked shifty and Eliot wants to make sure nobody followed them, or Nate’s kitchen has better wild yeast for a new sourdough starter, which was a wild conversation but the resulting bread was good as hell.

Parker doesn’t make excuses. She just twists herself up in a pretzel a few pieces of furniture away from him or finds some way to hang from the ceiling and hangs out. When Eliot makes a late-night snack of homemade soft pretzels or Swedish meatballs or spinach balls, she eats them. Sometimes she steals Alec’s orange soda, which she doesn’t even like.

So Alec talks to them. It’s sort of his natural state, talking to people, keeping up a running commentary on what he’s doing, and with Parker and Eliot, they’re pretty likely to chime in with something helpful sometimes.

Neither of them are chatty people, which is why he doesn’t really notice it when they do start chatting. He’s so used to one-sided conversations, and then he looks up from a laptop at two in the morning and realizes that Parker’s spent the last ten minutes telling him where she would put cameras if she wanted a thief as good as she is to know they’re there, that Eliot’s sometimes chiming in to argue with her about maybe tailoring their plans to make thieves a little less good than she is paranoid.

“What?” Eliot demands, a little aggressive like he can sometimes get, when he catches Hardison staring at them a few minutes later, fingers hovering over his keyboard while he puzzles over the situation and then puzzles over why he’s puzzling.

“Nothing, man. Just wondering if you guys need to get some sleep, that’s all. Don’t you have that early meet with the mark? Or am I doing all this work on identifying his security team for no good reason?”

Parker, who is upside down on the couch in a way that would have Alec dizzy if he tried it out, makes a face like she smelled something. “Oh, I’m not going to bed before that. I’ll sleep later.”

“I’ve got plenty of time,” says Eliot, who definitely doesn’t. “Especially if Parker is going to be wrong about parking lot cameras—”

“I am never wrong about security cameras!”

“You’re both wrong about security cameras,” says Hardison, who has looked at more footage than both of them combined, and hits his last few keystrokes before he can shut the laptop, work done, and argue with them for a few more minutes until Eliot admits it’s time to go to bed.

[innytoes]

A/B/O Prompt List

In honour of Knot In My Name, the ‘Omegaverse is fucking up AI writing because they keep stealing fanfic’ fest, I made some A/B/O prompts, because fuck AI scrapers.

First heat

I know we’ve only just started dating but my heat arrived and I need you

Scent marking

I stole your sweater because it smells like you and it makes me feel safe

“Please, I want your knot.”

Why is it that I, the only beta in this OT3/4/5+, am the only one who knows what to do?

Pack dynamics

I’m trying to get things done but you smell so good

Heat caught them by surprise

Our Alpha pack member is having their rut and we’re doing rock-paper-scissors on who gets to help them out first

“You’re so cute when you’re needy.”

Knotting toys

The pack has one coveted article of clothing they all share

Courting

“I didn’t want to bother you at work so I kind of got started without you.”

Nesting

I didn’t know Omegas could have such big dicks and now I’m all flustered

“I want [Beta] to take care of me.”

Heat bond

We met via the Knottr app for a casual heat hookup and oh shit you’re my crush

Deciding to let someone new into the pack

Dystopian A/B/O AU

I love you, but your heats are so intense and I need back-up

Cute scent-based nicknames

Fuck all that, we are strong independent Omegas who don’t need an Alpha

Silly ways to pass the time while being tied together by a knot

Heat/Rut agency

“You get a little stupid when you have your rut, it’s cute.” 

Reciprocal heat

I know we’re both Alphas but I still want to climb you like a tree.

I have a specific A/B/O prompt in mind I’m gonna send you instead

[leverage-ot3]

thinking a lot about leverage crossovers and the one currently on my mind is a spy x family one

parker and eliot coincidentally ‘move in’ (set up headquarters) into the empty apartment next to the forgers and immediately clock something really fucking weird is going on.

sophie knows a grift when she sees one and can smell that fake-marriage-fake-family from a mile away

breanna pretends to be a few years younger and gets enrolled as sophie and harry’s adopted child (adoption? THE ELEGANCE!!!). she keeps noticing this one really young girl giving her really obvious stares (that her friend keeps trying to shake her out of doing). breanna knows something is up with that kid but is too busy doing her part of the con to figure out exactly what

hardison (who is back from space) has been spending most of his time as hacker in the apartment set up, shut in so that he doesn’t blow parker and eliot’s cover as newlyweds by randomly coming and going. and the living situation? oh no. it’s only a one bedroom apartment and there’s only one bed and three of them.

it all comes to a head when parker is sneaking through the school at the same time as loid, both so quiet and undetectable that they don’t notice each other until they basically stumble into one another. across the city, eliot is taking out some goons that coincidentally got on the garden’s bad side and yor busts down the door like the kool aid man and they both stare at each other like 😐 (the goons are too stunned and weirded out by the sudden vibes in the room to run away)

from there parker and eliot separately try to convince their counterparts that they should come clean to their partners because, trust me, it’ll be fine it will work out for the best because if there’s one thing they can’t do it’s mind their own business lmao

even after they finish their con hardison isn’t letting them leave until the forgers come clean and realize their true feelings because he’s a romantic like that (like y’all aren’t too, I see you parker and eliot)

anya has no idea what’s going on but is having the time of her life and has now also adopted herself a new crime family

it’s now her turn to match make the ot3 into finally getting together (anya can read your mind eliot, you’re DONE FOR)

[ahmedfreepalestine]

My story and some pictures, please read them:

https://gofund.me/708653bf

https://gofund.me/708653bf

https://gofund.me/708653bf

https://gofund.me/708653bf

https://gofund.me/708653bf

https://gofund.me/708653bf

https://gofund.me/708653bf

Hello, everyone

can I take two minutes of your time to read my story that made our lives lifeless and without the colors that decorate our lives as they were before? I am Ahmed from Gaza, 29 years old

The whole world has witnessed the tragedy that befell our lives in Gaza, where my family survived many previous wars. But today we are facing the most dangerous and fiercest battle in the current war. We are in dire need, as we have nothing left, and we cannot secure our basic needs of food, water and safe shelter.

This is our story - On October 7, our lives changed forever, as my family was evacuated several times in the hope of returning soon, but this was not destined for me. It was a new house that I built before the war, and my shop and shoe store cost me a lot of money and I could not be happy with it. It was besieged, burned and then completely destroyed.Our home, store and shop that was once a bastion of hope and work, and my family’s livelihood, now lies in ruins, a stark reminder of our shattered dreams.

What I heard from my family. The sounds of bombing were everywhere, making a loud noise that seemed to pierce our souls. Each explosion shook the ground like an earthquake, sending waves of fear through our trembling bodies. We were filled with fear. The smell of destruction and blood hung in the air, making it difficult to breathe. When dawn came, they saw the devastation all around them.

In Gaza, we are facing genocide and famine. It is horrific, and we need your help for our family. This donation is a beacon of hope, our only lifeline in the abyss of despair. With a heavy heart, I ask for your generosity as we go through this inexplicable ordeal. Your donation could mean the difference between survival and oblivion for my family, and for that, we are eternally grateful.

@90-ghost @heritageposts @gazavetters

@neechees @butchniqabi

@fluoresensitivearchived @khanger

@autisticmudkip @beserkerjewel @officialspec

@xinakwans @batekush @appsa @nerdyqueerr

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@feluka @dirhwangdaseul @jdon @ibtisams

@sawasawako @memingursa @schoolhatergirl

@toesuckingoctober @ot3 @lapithae

@ryo-yamada @opencommunion

@anneemay @tamamita

[malkaleh]

for the hurt/comfort prompts, 3 and 6 for the OT3? :D (or for anyone else you'd rather, if you'd rather!)

"Can you just look at me? Please?"

Liz Wykes wants to kill a man. It’s not a new feeling - growing up in a family of traveling merchants means she has seen more of the world than many women and that has included human nature. But she’s never felt it this deeply.

That Thomas would think he was unworthy of her.

“Love, look up at me. I love you - whatever that man did, I will never not love you and one day I will have his head on a platter for you.”

She means every word.

"Please talk to me. I need to hear you."

You would laugh at me Liz, if you could hear my thoughts - gently but you would likely laugh at me for my worries - though perhaps not. Perhaps you might be angry for the choices I have made, the risks I have run by taking this path.

Later, Later Thomas is sleeping and he, it does not feel like a dream, when he opens his eyes to the garden of the little house in Florence they had had together. He can smell the scent of lemons, of lavender and the climbing jasmine Liz had loved so much.

And suddenly, suddenly she is there. Liz who had worn a subtle perfume of lilies and who kept her honey coloured hair clean with lily soap but had never tamed it. Liz who is smiling at him.

“Thomas, my darling husband - you are worrying at far too much. How can I not be happy for your happiness, for Gregory’s. Besides, you have excellent taste - I’d happily kiss them both, you know.”

He had forgotten how much she could make him laugh and blush at the same time.

[belmottetower]

fic rec fun

So wanted to get some hiatus rec lists going and encourage some self promo in my friends so how about sharing your top fics no matter how big or small - give us the links to your wonderful words with the Most hits/Most kudos/Most comments/Most bookmarks /Most words/Least words Tagged by @valonia47 Most hits:

and i'm known for giving love away The first fic in my main ot3 series, and probably the fic of mine that has been most popular since season 3. I'm not surprised really, if you left that season a fan of ot3 this might be the one for you. 26,302 hits. Summary:

Apparently this isn’t some fantasy scenario Keeley has dreamed up, and Roy is on board with the whole threesome thing. Jamie doesn’t need any more encouragement before saying yes to sex with two of the hottest people he knows. How the fuck do you cope with the beard. It’s so scratchy. Hate to think how raw you are down there. Keeley doesn’t take long to reply to his text. Shut up! Heard the second conversation went better than the first? 😏👨❤️💋👨 ------- In the first week back of pre-season training, Jamie’s misstep at the funeral finally comes back to bite him. Or does it? When Keeley and Roy approach him with a very unexpected offer — an invite into their bed — Jamie isn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, even if he wishes it was more than just sex.

Most kudos

This is the same as above and has 1,649 kudos so I'm going to cheat and plug my second most kudosed fic too.

I Get By With A Little Help

This is the first in a Roy/Jamie, canon divergent season 2 AU that follows the events of the season fairly closely, but with one change at the start affecting Jamie's relationships and actions. 1,030 kudos. Summary:

He can’t hang out with the boys, but he hates going home too. He hates being alone in his new flat, terrified that his dad will find out where he lives now and send them after him again. He’s taken to hanging round the club after training. He’ll find a quiet place to sit, pull out his book, and settle in for as long as he can before the stadium locks up for the night and he's forced to leave. He’s onto the 34th book to read before you die — Emma — and is surprised by how much he likes it. In comparison to his own drama, gentle scandals and gossip are a nice escape. Today’s reading location is the boot room. The new kitman has some magic way of making it smell of lavender instead of sweaty feet, and if Jamie puts a couple of towels on the bench, it makes a nice pillow to sit on. Mr Knightley is in the middle of yet another stern lecture — in his head, Knightley looks a lot like Roy, but he's not sure Keeley quite fits as Emma — when the door bangs open. Jamie jumps and is surprised to see Keeley standing there instead of Will, a guilty look on her face. — After a traumatic event Jamie falls apart, then puts himself back together again. He does the hard work, but he has a little help. Most comments

Most bookmarks

Okay the first here was and i'm known for giving love away with 564 bookmarks. The second was I Get By With A Little Help with 387 bookmarks. I won't do a full summary of number three, but I'll cheat again and link to it. It's in a language that you can't read just yet, another ot3 fic with 229 bookmarks.

Most words

A Little Better, All The Time The Roy POV sequel to I Get By With A Little Help, so you'd probably want to read that first! 46,825 words. I'll be honest I think a couple of my other WIPs either are already longer, or will definitely end up longer, but not in terms of published words. Summary:

He’d known Tartt could do it, but knowing it and fucking watching that masterpiece of a goal happen with his own eyes are two very different things. And best of all, he got to feel responsible for it. He had gotten to set that in motion for Richmond, for his player. Ted grabs him in celebration, and Roy’s still roaring and oh, fuck. Careful what you wish for, Kent. Jamie’s seeking out his gaze, flipping him off from the middle of the pitch and smirking before accepting praise and hugs from the rest of the team, and Roy had wanted Jamie to spark some emotion in him, but this? This is electric, this is overwhelming. Roy wants to fucking run out there, grab him in a bear hug of his own, and not let go. This might become a new problem. ___ Roy wasn't about to admit it, but he'd been sort of excited to see Tartt again. Except when he returns to Richmond, Jamie is... different. On the pitch and off it, he’s quieter, more reserved, a shadow of the person Roy remembers from last season. He’s determined to get to the bottom of the change.

Least words

funnier than step brothers

Okay this is one of my AUgust fills, for a prompt where I was otherwise I bit stuck as to what I wanted to write. A rogue pairing for me - Colin/Isaac and very silly, but I will stick to the rules and link to it anyway. Word count 374. Summary:

“This is your fucking fault,” Isaac hisses at Colin from their place on the front pew. Colin’s not paying him any attention though, too busy wiping away his tears as he watches his dad marry Isaac’s mum. — Ted Lasso AU-gust Challenge Prompt #8: Adoptive Family

This was a lot of fun! I tag @goldiegaytime and @liesmyth to do it should you fancy it, no pressure though!

[thebluestbluewords]

OT3 Week Day One: Meet-Cute

a sea ot3 meet-cute of sorts :) I'm going to be trying my best for the @ot3-week prompts! Mostly Gil and Uma, pre-ship, more of a meet-ugly than a meet-cute. Because they're terrible adorable children and I think Gil is an underrated sweetheart even when everyone else is being terrible all around him.

+

“I HATE YOU!” 

“I HATE YOU MORE!” Uma shouts back, balling her hands into fists so she’ll be ready when he stupid slimy ex-best friend starts swinging at her. “YOUR MOM IS STUPID AND YOU’RE EVEN STUPIDER BECAUSE YOU’RE JUST MINI-HER.” 

Mal, daughter of Maleficent, the undisputed queen of the Isle of the Lost elementary school playground, narrows her eyes. “Take it back.” 

Uma, daughter of Ursula, the queen of nothing except for possibly her mother's bad graces, sticks her tongue out. “No. You’re mean and boring and so’s your mom.” 

“Take it back, Uma! Or you’re not invited to my birthday party!” 

“You’re not having a party,” Uma sneers. “Nobody has parties anymore, not after what your mom did to the last girl who left you out. You’re the one who ruined parties for everyone, because you’re the worst, and you’re not even interesting about it. You’re just a baby who hides in your mom’s shadow all the time, and you–” 

“TAKE IT BACK!” Mal screeches. Uma’s plenty accustomed to screaming. It’s her mom’s main way of communicating with the staff at the chip shop, and Uma is seven years old now, which is more than old enough to be considered part of the staff, by both her mother’s expert opinion, and her own assessment of her precocious skills. She can catch fish with her mom, and slice the bones out of a flounder faster than any other kid she’s pulled off the docks, and she hardly ever drops ice cubes into the fryer anymore, even when she’s carrying a whole tray of drinks from the icebox and has to lift it over her head to dodge the knives Petey the main cook throws at her sometimes. 

What she’s less accustomed to is her former best friend launching herself at her teeth-first. 

“FUCK!” Uma screeches back. “Biting’s cheating! You’re not just a boring baby, you’re a boring, stupid, mean cheater!” 

“Take it back!” 

“No! You’re a boring baby and so’s your mom!” 

“You’re boring! You’re so boring that you don’t even know how to use the swings!” 

Uma shakes Mal’s teeth out of her arm, and shoves her back with both hands. “I know more than you.” 

Mal bares her teeth again. One of her front ones is loose, and there’s a scrape mark in the neat imprint on Uma’s arm that matches up with it. “Do not.” 

“Do so. You’re not invited to parties because everyone hates you. Because you can’t do anything without your mom there to make people do it for you.” 

Mal narrows her eyes. “I bet you I can make everyone kick you off the swingset. And the climbing bars. And the tower.” 

“You can’t.” 

There’s a dangerous green light in her ex-friend’s eyes. “Can so. You can have the sandbox. It’s for babies. Not even a baby like you can have fun in there.” 

The sandbox is widely regarded as the worst part of the school sulking ground. It smells like cat pee and cigarette butts, and not even the cats that pee in the alleys around the school will go in it anymore. 

It’s also boring. Nobody ever falls off and breaks their face on the sandbox, and you can’t do flips off it or anything. There’s no gold coins buried in the sand like there sometimes are on the real beach, and there’s not even any sharp shells left after the first group of elementary school kids, the ones a year or two or even three older than them came through and pulled them all out for makeshift knives. 

Sometimes being the second group of kids born on the isle sucks even more than usual. 

“Make me.” Uma snaps. 

Mal’s eyes flash green. “I will.” she spins around to the crowd of dirty boys who’ve been climbing up the rickety wooden tower that’s the best place to play. “HEY GUYS. I HAVE A NEW GAME. IT’S CALLED KEEP SHRIMPY FISH LOSERS OFF THE TOWER.” 

The boys stare. 

Mal sighs. “I mean, GET HER OUT OF HERE.” 

The future brainless henchmen of the isle already understand how to follow orders. “GET HER” is pretty clear even to a brain-damaged kid, so Uma makes her second smart decision of the day (the first being ditching Mal, because ugh) and turns to sprint to the sandbox before the boys realize that the base of their precious tower (with all the cool climbing spots and platforms and places to hide and pretend to stab each other) is built on a pile of small, easily throw-able rocks. 

“This isn’t over, princess!” Uma shouts. Even though it is. She’s smaller than the henchmen boys, even though she’s strong enough to work in her mom’s shop already, and she can throw rocks back, but she’s better than fighting against henchmen. She’s going to be a captain of her own crew someday, and she’s got to out-plot her slimy, cheating ex-best friend. 

“IT TOTALLY IS.” Mal shouts. 

“It’s totally not,” Uma grumbles under her breath. “I’m gonna be so much cooler than that ass-kissing baby. She just follows her mom and calls it cool, and everyone’s too scared to tell her anything else. I’m not gonna be like that.” 

She kicks a lumpy patch of sand. “Stupid. Stupid slimy Mal.” 

The sand– 

Uma kicks the sand again. Sand isn’t supposed to move like that, and even though she’s pretty sure that nobody at school is powerful enough to do magic under the barrier, because even her mom can’t use magic with the spell, and nobody at the elementary school is more powerful than a real sea witch, even one without most of her powers, there’s a lot of bad stuff and dangerous stuff and stuff that wants to hurt kids on their island, and she’s not too sure that the sandbox is actually clear, because it’s the worst and nobody’s played there for weeks. Partly because they haven’t had school in a week, because they only have Dr. Facilier and Mother Gothel as teachers, and they both left to do some other stuff that was “more important than teaching brats like you lot” last week, but also because the sandbox is the worst and nobody wants to play in it. Because it sucks. 

“Hey!” The lumpy sand says. 

Ume jumps back. “Are you a creep? Are you going to start licking my toes? My mom says creeps do that to little girls who don’t stay away.” 

“I’m hiding.” 

Her mom’s stories about creepy men don’t include many details about them hiding in sandboxes. “Have you considered not hiding?” Uma asks. “I could use a minion right now.” 

“Oh. No. No thanks.” 

Thanks? 

“Who the fuck says thanks?” Uma asks. “Are you sure you’re not a creep?” 

“I’m sure.” 

“That sounds like something a creep would say. One who’s lying.” 

Finally, the sand shifts again. “I’m not!” it says indignantly. “I’m just hiding a little bit.” 

Uma plops down next to the sand, which now that she’s actually looking at it, is all disturbed in a big pile right around where the kid is hiding. She hadn’t noticed before, due to being so mad that she wanted to spit on everything and maybe burn down the stupid play tower. Which isn’t even real. She’s not even kicked off a real tower, which would be something cool and evil and not lame at all. 

“Why’re you hiding anyway? All the kids are busy kicking me off the fun stuff anyway.” 

The pile shakes a bit more, and a blue eye emerges from the sand sort of near where Uma’s feet are. “Are you sure?” 

She snorts. “Sure’s snakes.” 

“Shakes?” 

“Snakes. Like, hiss hiss?” 

“Oh.” The pile shakes a little bit more, and a freckled nose peeks out. “I know what snakes are. I’m only a little bit stupid. My brother Third, he brought home a dead snake one time, and he wanted to put it in a stew, only my dad wouldn’t, and Third put it on a stick instead and roasted it over the fire, and then Dad said we couldn’t eat it cause the scales weren’t safe for kids, only I was awake later, and he totally said that ‘cause he was just waiting for us to go to bed so he could eat it himself.” 

Uma wrinkles her nose. “Gross.” 

“No, it looked good! I mean, wicked. It looked– tasty, I mean. Yeah.” 

Uma snorts, but not because she’s annoyed anymore. “You’re not very evil, are you?” 

“I’m super evil!” 

“Then why’re you hiding?” she shoots back. “Evil kids don’t hide from each other. We fight, like villains.” 

“You’re hiding,” the sand-kid points out. “In the corner with me. That makes us both not very evil.” 

Uma’s chest does a little flip at that. She’s the most evil. She’s just…plotting. “I’m taking a tactical retreat. To plot my next move. I’m super evil. Even more than you, blondie.” 

The kid shakes his way loose of the sand pile. He’s really blond, more than just the little pieces of hair that were sticking out with his nose before. He’s like a bleached broom, all pale and fluffy and covered with dirt, even though it’s mostly sand.  “It’s okay to hide with me. If you want. I’m Gil.” 

Uma sticks out her hand to shake like her mother does with new staff. “Uma.” 

She squeezes, just like her mom does. It’s not quite the same, because she doesn’t have tentacles and octopus strength behind her grip, but that’s okay because she shouldn’t care what some loser who buried himself in the sandbox thinks about her. 

He squeezes back. And smiles. 

What a weirdo. 

“You’re cool!” Gil announces, dropping her hand abruptly. “You should come meet my other friend!” 

“We’re not friends,” Uma says, because this is important to her. She doesn’t have friends anymore. She has enemies and people who aren’t her enemies yet, and she’s the coolest, evilest, most independent future-ruler of the school. She doesn’t need friends, not like that stupid fairy. She’s better than that. Better than all of them. “I don’t have friends.” 

Gil blinks at her. He’s tall, and he’s got big arms, Uma realizes. He could probably throw a rock a lot further than she can. He could get one all the way up to the second or third layer of the tower, maybe. “I have friends.” 

“No, Gil. Villains don’t have friends. You can be…” 

It’s a bad idea. It’s a monumentally bad idea. Villains don’t have friends, and she shouldn’t want to use weird boys who hide in the sandbox, but she doesn’t have many other options. “You can be my sidekick,” Uma finishes. “Just for today.” 

Gil beams at her. “I like that! I’ll be your sidekick every day, Uma. Let’s go get Harry now!” 

He grabs her hand and starts tugging. 

“Gil.” 

He stops. Perfect. A useful sidekick follows orders. 

“What?” 

“I’m the leader,” Uma explains, tossing her braids over her shoulder. “That means I lead the way, and you’re the one who follows me.” 

“Oh. But– but I know where Harry is, and you don’t know him yet, so I could show you? If you want?’ 

Sidekicks. Never the brightest. “You can tell me where he is,” Uma explains. “And then I can lead us both to him. Because–” 

Gil picks up on the cue this time. “You’re the leader, and I’m your sidekick. Got it, Uma.” 

“Perfect! Now, where’s my sidekick number two?” 

Gil frowns. 

He spins in a circle. 

“Um.” 

Oh, evil.

 “Is he real?” Uma asks, with enormous patience, considering the circumstances. Playground exile is no laughing matter, and she can still ditch this kid if he’s the sort of baby who still talks to imaginary friends. It’s not like anyone still believes in ghosts, not when they can’t die on their island. 

“He’s totally real!” Gil instsis, still spinning. “He’s the coolest ever except for you and he’s got a red coat and he steals crocodile teeth from his sister Harriet and he’s got real fish in his lunch and– there he is!” 

He points to a teeny, tiny little stick of a kid with the craziest black hair Uma’s ever seen, and yes, okay, a red jacket. 

A kid who’s in the middle of being thrown off the tower. 

Perfect. 

“Okay, blondie,” Uma laughs, over the sound of Harry’s shriek as Gaston Junior pitches him off the tower platform. “We’re mounting a rescue mission.”

[qqueenofhades]

Ask and ye shall receive - how about a prompt around spiced winter drinks? Dealers choice on the fandom, maybe Dreamling or the Ren/Grey/Vargo ot3?

It’s one of the bitterest nights of the dwindling year, the canals glazed with ice and the pale stone warrens of Nadežra filled with eerie curls of mist, and even the altans and altas most dedicated to nocturnal misbehavior are generally inside, bundled up by warm fires or tucked in warm beds, and while Vargo certainly doesn’t have a philosophical objection to either activity (indeed, far from it) it unfortunately happens that he has to fucking work. It seems impossible that the piles of paper on his desk should have sprung to twice their original height in the last three days since he looked at them, but that’s the thing about political independence; it’s decidedly a double-edged sword. On the one hand, you get to arrange your own affairs. On the other, you… have to arrange your own affairs, and since Seterin has sat up and taken sharp notice of all these Vraszenians suddenly running around and exulting in their freedom, it heralds other possible conflicts down the line. That, Vargo supposes, is where sleeping with not just one but two legendary outlaws is likely to come in useful. If nothing else, they do have practice at this sort of thing.

A reluctant smile twitches his lip as he dips his pen and reaches unhappily for the first stack of correspondence. He misses Alsius – well, he always misses Alsius, but more than usual, who would absolutely love the boring nuts and bolts of this stuff, whereas it makes Vargo want to put his own eyes out with a hot stick. He scribbles and mutters and adds up figures, makes note of new requisitions and trade tariffs, ordinances of the freshly expanded Septerat; he doesn’t like it, but of course he didn’t rise to his original position by accident. The candles gutter low into waxy gremlins, and he thinks about drawing a numismata to keep them up, but that would suggest he will in fact be stuck here all night, and that’s a little too depressing to think about. Somebody’s got to do the ordinary grunt work while his dearly beloveds are running around the city in their silly costumes, but by the Lumen, why does it have to be him?

Just then, as he’s massaging the ache in his hand and thinking of some really good curses, Vargo smells a wisp of cinnamon, hears the faint creak of the floor, and turns halfway around, just as Ren leans down and presses a kiss into the side of his head. Voice rich and low with promise, she remarks, “Grey and I both perhaps feel we are being neglected.”

“This is your fault, you know,” Vargo grumbles, without heat. “Making me be the respectable one. And can’t you two entertain each other?”

Ren gives him another slightly wicked smile. “It’s more fun with you.”

Yes, Vargo agrees, it is at that. He vainly attempts to pretend that he will be doing paperwork for a few more moments – then, at Ren’s insistent tug, gets to his feet and lets her lead him down the hall, toward his private quarters at the back of the villa. Halfway there, a terrible thought occurs to him, and he stops short. “Is Arkady here?”

Ren bites a smirk. “She’s asleep. Upstairs. Even formidable knot bosses have to get their beauty sleep.”

“I very much doubt that,” Vargo mutters, since it seems unlikely that the newly-minted Alta Arkady Bones Vargonis has ever thought about beauty sleep in any capacity. But he’s glad to hear that she’s out of the way, after one too many moments when she nearly caught the three of them in flagrante delicto, and if Arkady knows a juicy secret like that, there’s no chance she’ll keep her trap shut instead of gleefully spilling it, if nothing else to see him squirm. It turns out, Vargo reflects sourly, that even without blood relation, his adopted daughter is very much like him in the hellraising department. In fact, far too much so. After all for the Nadežrans, blood is incidental, and secondary to whether an individual is inscribed in the family register. Arkady is, and that makes her as much his own, heir to his means and methods and moods, as if he did sire her in the ordinary fashion. Ažerais help them all.

He feels a sudden warmth on his face as they step into the lowlit sitting room, and gratefully spots the fire – which Grey Serrado is presently stoking, on his knees before the grate like a common scullion, which is possibly one of the less glamorous tasks ever asked of the great Rook. Still, it gives Vargo a certain glow, an inner warmth not just from the fire, and he strides inside. “Well, you two degenerates got my attention. What is it?”

Grey gets to his feet, brushing the soot off, and gives Vargo a ferocious stare that silently remarks he has the hells of a lot of nerve calling anyone else a degenerate. Still, he shrugs, crosses the carpet, and brushes the ghost of a kiss against Vargo’s cheek, while Ren cheerily shoves him onto the settee. Vargo is opening his mouth to ask what exactly they are intending to do to him, now that they’ve lured him here by bribes and trickery, but Grey forces a cup of hot spiced wine into his hand, and Vargo blinks at it. “Ah. What’s this?”

“Drink it,” Grey orders him, with the steely tones of the former Vigil captain, and Vargo fights a traitorous urge to salute. “You’ve been working too hard.”

“I thought you two were going to – ”

“Maybe later.” Ren perches on his other side and gives him another smile – still tinged with dark and wicked promise, the Rose’s thorns, but wistful as well, softer, and just wanting the three of them to have this quiet moment together in the cold winter night. “Drink.”

Far be it from him to refuse an order from Alta Renata and Grey Serrado at once, Vargo thinks, even without their alter egos. And is that not the reason for all the trouble he’s gotten himself into, either in past, present, or future? But there is nothing else he would rather do, and no one else he would rather be with, in all this city of Faces and Masks. He lifts the cup, grins into the brim with a tenderness that seems impossible for his heart to bear, and drinks.

[duckprintspress]

Fandom Lexicon: O

This went up on our webpage on Saturday, but because I was vending at Schenectady Pride and working away-from-computer all day yesterday, I missed my chance to cross-post it until today! But, here it is... lots of abbreviations that start with O!

See the full Fandom Lexicon posted to-date here!

Spot a mistake? Think of something we missed? Let us know!

Lexicon Entries Starting with O: (read more)

O Rly?: Cutesy shortened form of “oh, really?” often used to express incredulity, originally from a meme featuring a surprised-looking owl. The most common responses to this are are “ya rly” or “no wai!” Read more about the “O Rly?” meme.

OC: Abbreviation for “original character,” except when it refers to the fandom The O.C. Refers to an individual’s original characters, versus the original characters that appear in published media. As in, a fanfiction that includes OCs will include the characters in the source fandom material AND new characters that the author has invented. Some people do use OC to refer to the characters in their original (as in, non-fan) works. See also: OFC, OMC. Read more about OCs.

OFC: Abbreviation for “original female character.” Refers to an individual’s original female character, versus original female characters that appear in published media. See also: OC.

OFC: Abbreviation for “of (fucking) course.” While this technically stands for “of fucking course,” it is widely used to just mean “of course,” and extra emphasis should not necessarily be interpreted just because of the presence of the “fucking” in the middle.

OG: Abbreviation for “original gangster.” The original, powerful version of a thing that may have inspired less exemplary (but currently better known) copycats. Read more about the term OG.

Okimochi Yakuza: Translates to “feelings yakuza,” a Japanese term for the “purity police” kind of anti. This, and the English translated version, entered Western vernacular after its inclusion in this post by Maromi, originally written in Japanese as a guide to Eastern fans to help them understand pro/anti discourse in Western fandom. See also: anti.

OMC: Abbreviation for “original male character.” Refers to an individual’s original male character, versus original male characters that appear in published media. See also: OC.

Omega: A secondary gender term used in works with alpha/beta/omega dynamics. While the specifics are up to the writer, some common characteristics of omegas include: smaller, effeminate bodies; social submission/oppression; a strong sense of smell; eyes that turn golden when happy or aroused; a strong desire to nest; hormone-driven sexual ‘heats’; butts that serve as their primary sexual and reproductive organ; and the ability to get pregnant regardless of primary gender. See also: alpha/beta/omega dynamics, alpha, beta.

OMG They Were Roommates: A fanworks trope in which two characters are put in a roommate situation and subsequent romantic/sexual hijinks ensue. Often paired with the “idiots to lovers” trope.

OOC: Abbreviation for “out of character.” 1. A term adopted in roleplaying circles to indicate when a comment is from the player’s perspective, not from the perspective of the character they are playing. 2. A subjective assessment of a fanwork, in which someone may feel that a character is being portrayed as behaving out of character as compared to how they behave in canon. Read more about the term OOC.

OP: Abbreviation for “original poster,” except when it refers to the fandom One Piece. Refers to the person who created a post, or to the original post itself. Read more about the term OP.

Orange: See Citrus Scale.

Orphan: A fanwork that the author has not only abandoned, but has cut all identifiable ties with. Orphaning is a feature on AO3 that allows an author to give up all access to a work without requiring that the work be deleted. People orphan their works for many reasons. Read more about orphaning fanworks.

OT3: Abbreviation for “one true 3.” A variation on  the term OTP, this refers to a favorite ship that includes 3 people, and therefore isn’t a “pairing” so can’t fall under OTP. Higher numbers are possible but less commonly used, as in OT4, OT5, etc. Often used when a fan believes a love triangle should resolve by the three people involved agreeing to be in a consensual polyamorous relationship, but there’s no requirement that it involve a love triangle in the source material. See also: BroTP, NoTP, OTP. Read more about OT3s.

Otaku: A Japanese term for a fan, especially an obsessive fan. Read more about otaku.

OTP: Abbreviation for “one true pairing.” An individual’s primary ship, often to the point of obsession. While originally, this term was used to refer solely to the one and only pairing that a person was a fan of, to the exclusion of all other pairings within the same fandom and/or pairings in other fandoms, usage has loosened over the years, and people will often now refer to having an OTP while still multi-shipping the characters and others in the fandom and/or having an OTP for every fandom they are in. Not all fans have an OTP. See also: BroTP, NoTP, OT3. Read more about OTPs.

OTW: Abbreviation for the Organization for Transformational Works. The parent organization that runs AO3, Fanlore, and other fan-run resources. See also: AO3, Fanlore. Visit the OTW website.

[spyridonya]

Panic

Characters: Kadira, Lann, (Daeran, minor)

Pairing: Kadira/Lann (background OT3)

Random: WotR

Verse: Golden Shell

Summary: Most times, there’s no escaping the past. But sometimes - just sometimes-  someone shows you a path instead.

Triggers: Anxiety attack, mentions of past emotional child abuse

Word Count: 1391

Notes: I may put this up on AO3. But for now, it's tumblr only.

There’s small delight in seeing her door partly open with the golden light spilling from the cracks paired with that heart-skip of what she’ll find. Softly the knight commander presses the door open, her hooves soft upon stone, and she peers in.

Kadira is greeted by soft snoring; Daeran in her bed with his back turned to her, the gray surcoat draped over him like a blanket with Tiger curled against the small of the count’s back, and his and Lann’s discarded boots by the besides. The sight of … warm and cozy Daeran looks makes her smile, her head tipping with unspoken affection, though she takes notice that the aasimar is alone on the bed. As she steps fully into her room, she spots Lann by her desk, paging through an open book and once more she’s filled with warmth- until Kadira recognizes the cover. 

Her sketchbook. She left out her sketchbook. 

Suddenly, Kadira wishes that she caught her lovers in the middle of sex instead - she’d rather deal with the awkward jealousy have anyone find her work.

“Lann?” Her voice doesn’t sound right, but there’s not much to be done. He turns to his name, the scaled side closest to her, the flickering corner of his supposedly emotionless mouth is what she learned to read as a scaly smile. 

“Hi. I, uh…” He looks down at the book and gently, almost reverently, sets it down. “I saw it was open. And it was… you drew these on the march?”

Mouth dry, Kadira carefully approaches and nods. There's a panic rat whirling in her brain, chewing and clawing, rising to her throat as her nerves tangle and scream and drawing out all thought, almost all sound. I am in my own room in the citadel I reclaimed. I’m not hiding it from a dretch or an abrikandilu. I’m not hiding it from Mother. Lann found it. Lann likes me. Lann thinks-

“Yes,” She answers, just as a new panic attack forms to join the first, a new foolish thought that shouldn’t matter when the world around her is dying, but it’s there - what if Lann doesn’t like it? Why can’t she breathe normally over that stupid idea? Why can’t she force herself to remember there’s no danger?

“Oh, these are what turned out to be dandelions, right? I mean, they shouldn’t be blooming this part of the year but Wilcer was so-” His smile fades, the line of his mouth still, and he moves from the desk to her,”You’re trembling.”

“I’m not-” She begins, she rasps, but the mongrel cups her face and holds her as if she’s a delicate vase crafted from the finest ceramic. The scale of his thumb against the skin of her cheek is almost comforting and almost too much at the same time. 

“Breathe through your nose,” Lann instructs gently, and she’s surprised how firm he sounds, but that thought is distant. Rather she follows his direction, breathing in slowly like Lann is. She can smell his scent and Daeran’s, the dried flowers and herbs scattered within the room, the smell of paper and ink, “Breathe out like a dragon.” 

Lann’s mouth can’t do the shape of the ‘oh’, though Kadira understands what he’s trying to demonstrate. She follows the motion, blowing out the air slowly and surely, the sensation cool on her lips. 

“Again,” He repeats softly, leading her in the motions. A sweet breath in, a hot breath out. Once, twice, ten times, and Kadira loses count as she feels the knots that formed in her nerves to slowly ease loose. Not exactly coming undone, but enough to think clearly. “Good.” Lann presses a kiss to her forehead, “Good girl.”

Then comes a tense pause, where Lann wants to reach out, wants to do good for her, but there’s a faint moment of fumbling and uncertainty. He wants to ask what just happened? What would be the normal response, though? Kadee wonders. Would he understand not explaining at all? 

But that’s not fair, so she takes another dragon’s breath before looking up to him, his hands still holding her face as if she’s precious. “D-do you know what sin that creates an abrikandilu?” 

“Hunchbacked rat demons, yeah? Especially grotesque and likes to break everything, including my face?” He releases her hands before he pulls out the desk chair to settle down in. Once he’s comfortable he takes both her hands gently and begins to pull her closer,  “C’mon, I’m a rotten window, but make for an excellent chair.”

The tiefling only hesitates a moment before she sits on the mongrel’s lap, his arm about her waist tightly, her legs strapped over one of his thighs. His legs are strong and lap firm, and it’s surprisingly cozy. Kadira flicks her gaze up to his mismatched ones, “Is this… I’m not too heavy?”

“Not at all,” He assures her, “So, hunchback demons? What did they do when they were mortal?”

She leans against his form, his form warm and strong, and she nods as she continues, “… Envy, they would destroy art or writing out of envy and they continue to do so as a demon.”

“Areelu had them in the dungeon?” He asks, his hand getting lost in her dark hair. “Sounds like a bit of a risk - I mean the place was abandoned but for a little while, wasn’t everything she worked on was there?” And he pauses. When he speaks again, there’s realization in his voice, “Including you.”

“Yes.” 

Lann’s hand strokes her curls and she buries her face against his human skin, his scent comforting. “Including you.” He husks quietly, and the arm around her tightens, “Did you draw then?”

“I… I wasn’t supposed to. The paper was to practice writing and -- my handwriting was awful. And she didn’t like it - she disapproved of such poor handwriting since I didn’t have an innate talent.” 

“You had a big, beautiful brain instead.” Lann murmurs, and he slowly rocks his body with her in his lap. It causes her to curl into him tighter as he continues, “And you hid your drawings?”

“Yes.”

“And I found them.”

“But I left them out!” Kadira’s panic edged in her voice, but Lann’s arm held strong, and she said, “I’m sorry, that was loud, but it was my fault, it was-”

“Your room, your things,” He concludes, “I should have asked but I got excited when I saw those drawings, I was so impressed how good you were and just… went and did something stupid. I don’t… I don’t get material things most of the time, save tools of survival. Things get rot so easily underground due to the damp… so sentimental value is weird for me. Mom’s arrows aside, that is.” He took a deep breath, “I should have asked. I will, in the future… but. I would like to see more of your art.” 

“I’m… not good. Not like Sosiel.” She murmurs, her face still presses to his neck. “You’re not stupid, Lann.”

“I’ll be the judge of that… and that..” He chuckled, “C’mon. Get into something warm and we’ll tuck Daeran and ourselves in, okay? You in the middle?”

Kadira nods and finally looks up, “You won’t tell him, will you?”

 “Nah, that’s your job for a later day, right?” 

“Yes,” She agrees, wanting to ask more, but she knew her guess about Daeran at times could be as wild as anything Lann could think of. And her brain… was exhausted, broken.

Lann helps her undress, and while he undresses Daeran, she puts on a warm nightgown made of soft cloth. She hears soft murmuring as she slides the fabric on, and turns to see that Tiger hopped off the bed and slipped out of the room as the sleepy aasimar was being undressed.

Kadira climbs into bed from the opposite side, shifting and scooting into the center of the large bed and she turns to watch Lann settle onto his slide of the bed. To her mild surprise, she feels Daeran scoot closer to her, his face buried in her hair, and an arm around her waist, not quite sleep heavy. Lann settles in soon after, and settles on his back to slide his arm under her head and Daeran’s.

Kadira didn’t think sleep would come easily that night. 

But it does. 

[theladyragnell]

Oh for the prompts!!!!! If you feel like it! Leverage OT3 with Parker and Eliot welcoming Hardison back from some time away?

(A quiet established relationship moment.)

Hardison always comes home the long way.

Eliot never had to teach him that, whatever he thinks of the ways Hardison does and doesn’t keep himself safe. Hardison skips from airport to airport for days at a time, sometimes, never less than three hops even if it could be a quick domestic flight. And when he’s coming home to them, wherever home is, he takes it even more seriously, so he always comes to them tired, jet-lagged, smelling like canned air and hopped up on whatever food he thinks to buy on his endless flights.

Tonight, Eliot picks him up at the New Orleans airport at two in the morning and doesn’t bitch about it. Hardison left Armenia two days ago, and Eliot doesn’t know how many flights he’s been on since then, though he’s pretty sure from one of the tags on Hardison’s suitcase that he broke up his flight path with a train trip somewhere in Europe.

“I think if I uploaded my brain to the cloud,” Hardison says as they pull away, slurring his words a little with exhaustion, “I would probably go evil, but in the time before I did, I could exist in all time zones at once and never have to deal with this again.”

“I don’t want to have to fight the evil robot version of you, man. There’s tea in the cupholder. Drink it.”

“I’m not taking your devil drinks.”

“Just drink it, Hardison.”

Hardison snorts, but he drinks, and even takes a second sip after making sure Eliot sees the elaborate series of disgusted faces that he makes over the nicest small-company chamomile tea he could find in the city. Even Sophie likes it, and she thinks herbal tea is heresy against the Queen or whatever. “Everything fine?” he asks as Eliot gets into another lane.

“Harry and Breanna are playing some nerd game together. Sophie’s out of town. Parker’s fine, waiting for you at home.”

Hardison lets out a long breath. “Good to know. Anything going on with you?”

“Tried a new gumbo place the other day. It’s pretty good, but not as good as the place we tried last time you were around.”

“Tell me all about it,” says Hardison, and Eliot does, in between navigating the city traffic that persists even at night, especially around the airport. It took them a long time to get to this point, where they can talk on their way home from the airport without a job on their minds and not needle each other. Eliot likes the peace, much as he hates to admit it.

Home this time is a place Hardison hasn’t been yet. They all switch apartments often, and this one has Parker’s alias on the lease, but Eliot stays at it most often, because it’s upstairs from a place that does good chili and has some actual cupboard space. He and Parker have been staying there together since Hardison took off on his flight home and as they park and Eliot takes Hardison’s bag for the last few steps as he stumbles his way around, Eliot can see the light on upstairs that says she’s there, or maybe on the roof watching them come, though Eliot doesn’t see the flash of movement that would give that away.

The second they’re upstairs, the apartment door opens and Parker flings her arms around Hardison’s neck, and Eliot moves on past them to put the bag down and give them a minute of privacy. The food he left is still keeping warm in the oven, and Parker must have gone out at some point, because there’s a six-pack of orange soda on the counter. Hopefully Hardison doesn’t see that before he sleeps.

The two of them come in together, Parker draped over Hardison’s shoulder. She beckons Eliot in, and he rolls his eyes but he goes, lets her give him a quick kiss and loop them into their hug, where Hardison leans in far enough to rest their foreheads together, weird as the angle has to be. They’ve figured out ways to fit three bodies together, over the years, but they’re all too tired to care about that right now.

“You should get some sleep,” says Eliot, because it’s true. “Need to eat first?”

“You should eat and then sleep,” says Parker. “Otherwise you’ll be cranky when you wake up.”

Hardison groans, but he doesn’t argue. Eliot breaks away from the hug to put things together, shoving the soda into an inhospitable corner of the counter while he goes and taking Hardison’s food out to plate and shove at him. This late, he’ll just eat standing over the kitchen island, and normally Eliot would complain that his food isn’t being appreciated, but Hardison could use a break. Tomorrow is soon enough to demand appreciation for being the only one of them who knows how to make a balanced meal.

“You’ll tell us all about how the job went tomorrow, right?” says Parker when he puts his fork down, a sign for Eliot to get back in action and put whatever is left away for them to eat the next day. “It sounded like you were having fun.”

“Only you could call sneaking through government buildings hiding from security fun,” says Hardison, but he’s smiling, so probably the calls weren’t too close. Eliot will make sure they talk about security evasion before he leaves again, that’s all. “But fun or not, it’s good to be back.”

“Welcome home,” says Eliot, and when Hardison gives him a dangerously misty smile, he rolls his eyes. “Now get to bed before you fall down, you know you’re going to wake up a million times tonight so you may as well get started.”

“Yeah, yeah, Eliot, love you too,” says Hardison, always so much easier with those words than Parker or Eliot ever can be, but he lets the two of them push him into the bedroom and into some sweatpants before climbing in beside him, taking the time together while they have it.

[whispermask]

gasoline in your heart ch.7/10 | ghost/soap/könig

read on ao3 | first ~ next | ch wc: 4.1k, total: 34k | completed

tags: smut, eventual ot3, fwbs to lovers, porn with feelings, jealous!ghost

dead dove time: this fic as a whole features a brief mention of a past suicide attempt, briefly graphic past child abuse (not CSA), past abuse of alcohol and present alcohol use, and at times dubious consent (consuming alcohol and engaging in sexual activities; dubcon voyeurism; dubcon sexting)

summary: soap and ghost start hooking up; soap and könig have apparently been hooking up; ghost doesn't know how to deal with it (eventual polycule)

preview: A memory comes to him, almost comical in its timing, of texting König on Soap’s phone the previous night. Just as he’s turning to look at Soap, Soap’s eyes are snapping up to find Simon’s. They speak at the same time. 

“What did you do?”

“I can explain.”

* this chapter features a depiction of a traumatic childhood flashback of a verbally abusive parent in addition to a non-graphic car accident, proceed with care

-

Simon dreams. 

Unlike before, he recognizes his surroundings. Christmas 1989, he’s nine years old, soon to be ten in one week, on New Year’s Day, his birthday. 

He’s at his mum’s flat with his brother Tommy in Manchester. His mum had gone on holiday to Mallorca with Albert, the fifty-something man she had met at the restaurant where she was a server. That was three weeks ago. 

Since they’ve left, it’s been him and Tommy alone in the flat. They’re watching telly as the sun dips below the horizon and the shadows grow longer. The dingy apartment smells of mildew and rot. Simon can’t remember the last time he’s worn clean clothes. 

Tommy, who’s twelve, is nearly asleep on the cushion beside him, head falling forward on his chest. Simon considers kicking him awake. He’s hungry, they haven’t eaten a real meal in at least a week, and even then it was someone else’s half-eaten Maccy’s that Tommy had found in the rubbish bin. But a sleeping Tommy is a Tommy who’s not finding new ways to torture Simon. His latest shtick: a skull mask, the vacant eyes following Simon into his nightmares.  

Outside, it starts to rain. 

Simon hears heavy boots in the hall, hopes for a moment it’s his mum and Albert. The door knob rattles, jarring Tommy awake.

“Boys!” Their father’s call comes through the door “Open the door! Tommy! Open the fucking door right now!” 

Tommy rises, always obedient. He hates their father too, but hates Albert even more. At least their dad’s a real man, Tommy had reasoned, unlike Albert who collects porcelain cat figurines and thinks the military is a waste of taxpayer’s pounds. 

With the door unlocked, their father shoves his way in, knocking Tommy against the wall as he enters. 

“Gather your shite, we’re leaving,” father says. He’s pissed, words slurred and movements lacking coordination. Tommy moves towards their room, Simon not far behind. 

Tommy catches his eye while they’re in the bedroom shoving clothes into threadbare backpacks. Simon shrugs, knows their dad wouldn’t take no for an answer either way. Better to follow along and hope that’s enough to please him. 

“That’s good, let’s go,” father says, bursting into the bedroom. 

“But dad, my–” Tommy starts. 

“Forget it, I’ll buy you another one.” Their father stalks out. Tommy and Simon shoulder their bags and follow him, eyes to the ground. 

In the car, their Father drives steadily, betraying nothing. A professional drunk, he once labeled himself. You’d never know if he was inebriated unless he wanted you to. Simon begs to differ. 

“Where are we going?” Simon asks, voice barely above a whisper in the quiet cabin. 

“Whereve the fuck I like,” their father snaps. 

“Can we get something to eat?” Tommy asks. “I’m starving.”

“Don’t say that! Don’t fucking say that!” A hair trigger every time. “You don’t know what starving is, boys. You’ve never wanted for anything in your lives. I won’t hear it.”

“Sorry,” Tommy says. 

“It’s a lie, is what it is, Tommy. And you know how I feel about liars.”

“I said I’m sorry!”

“Lie to me again and I’ll give you something to be sorry for.”

They drive in silence for another mile. Simon looks out the window, imagines he’s with his mum in Mallorca eating oysters and drinking Martinelli’s. 

“Hey, here’s an idea.” Their father’s voice is soft now, cajoling. Maybe it was guilt once, but Simon knows better. “What if we went out for a nice family supper, huh? We’ll pick your mum up from work and go to–”

“Mum’s in Mallorca,” Simon interrupts. He has no patience for this game. 

“What?”

“Yeah, she’s been in Mallorca for ages, her and Albert–” Tommy says.

“Albert?”

“Mum’s erm… mum’s friend, right Simon?”

“If by ‘friend’ you mean ‘boyfriend,’ then yeah. She’s with a friend in Mallorca.”

“What the fuck did you say, Si?” 

“I said, Albert’s mum’s boyfriend. They’ve been going together for a few months, or summat.”

“That fucking cunt,” his father says, anger rising behind his dark eyes. Simon watches them flit from side to side in the rearview mirror.  He’s driving faster now, taking tight turns that cause the brothers to fall into each other in the backseat. Simon can feel the wheels slip-sliding on the road, the rain relentless on the windshield. “Where does that bitch get off? Here I am, taking her sons out to dinner on Christmas while she’s in fucking Menorca–”

“Mallorca,” Simon says. 

“The fuck did you just say? Don’t correct me.” Their father nearly hits a group of pedestrians on the street, Simon hears one of them shout ‘Oi!’ as they speed by. 

“No, Menorca’s a place, but they’re in Mallorca. She’s divorcing you either way so why do you care?”

“Simon, hasn’t anyone taught you how to know when to shut your mouth?” He’s really gaining speed now, easily fifteen kilomoeters faster than he should be going. 

“Not really, no,” Simon snaps. Realizes his mistake immediately.

“Dad slow down!” Tommy says as they run through an intersection without stopping, the screech of tires and blare of horns loud in Simon’s ears as they fly past. 

“Don’t you dare tell me what to do, Tommy. Don’t you even dare to try it. I will cut you down so fast–”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees approaching headlights, far too close to the car than they should be. Tommy screams. 

Simon jerks awake, breath ragged in his throat and loud in the silence. He sits up and throws his legs over the edge of the bed, puts his head between his knees. He feels the car accident in his body, somatic memories that hold the shock and agony at how suddenly it had happened, how quickly it was over. He’d regained consciousness to detritus scattered across the pavement, their car lying on its side with it’s hazards flashing, the smell of petrol on the wet road. What upsets him the most is that it wasn’t even the worst thing his dad has done, doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface. And yet, terror sinks its ugly claws into his heart and squeezes. Doesn’t relent. 

He can’t fucking breathe. 

He feels big, gentle hands on his back. Simon flinches, knocking the hands away. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, it’s me,” Soap whispers. “Can I touch you?” Simon jerks his head, once. Soap tries again, one palm against his shoulder and the other rubbing big, slow circles on his back. Simon doesn’t shake him off this time. Concentrates on the feeling of Soap’s warm palms, chases the circle as his breathing evens out and the room goes quiet again. 

Soap pulls on his arm. Simon can hear the question on the tip of his tongue. He keeps his head lowered as Soap lays him down, head cradled on Soap’s chest. Soap runs sweet fingers through his hair, doesn’t ask any questions. 

“Sometimes,” Simon starts, loud in the silence. Then, softer, “Sometimes I have nightmares. But it wasn’t a nightmare. It was a flashback.” 

“Something that happened on a mission?”

“No, never. Bothers me actually. I’ve killed men with my bare hands, and it’s not them I see when I close my eyes.”

“Somethihng that happened when you were a lad, then?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate. Instead, he drifts somewhere with no name, a place half-alive, dark and cold. Silent. The terror abates as he listens to Soap’s even breathing, the brag of his heart beneath his ear. He thinks maybe Soap falls asleep again. 

The sun rises through the windows behind the bed frame, casting the room in a soft, powder blue light. The day taking its first breath in.  

Soap stirs beneath him and Simon comes back to himself. He runs fingers through the short, dark hairs in the middle of Soap’s chest, petting. Soap opens his eyes, smiles down at Simon. 

“Hi,” Soap says, sweet as anything. 

Simon’s response is to lean up on his arm and kiss Soap, a little bit awed. 

The kiss stays slow and tender, with Simon settled half-leaning over Soap, his hand on the pillow next to Soap’s head. The night before replays in his mind: feeling each other up in the kitchen, their frenzied fucking in the shower. He wonders what it’ll be like now that they have all this time to theirselves, wants the opportunity to explore Soap’s body, what he does and doesn’t like, what makes him go fucking crazy. Soap’s lost the soiled shirt in the night, now lies completely naked in the bed. Simon runs a hand from Soap’s jaw down to his pec, cups it and feels the cold metal of the piercing  as he moves to cover Soap with his body completely, shoving a corded thigh between Soap’s. 

A phone buzzes on the nightstand. They ignore it, until it buzzes again. And again. Soap sighs as he breaks the kiss to roll over and fumble for his phone. It could be Laswell or Price, possibly Shephard, the bastard. 

Simon’s looking for his phone, doesn’t remember bringing it upstairs with them. Actually, he doesn’t think he’s seen it since they left the airport, when he had texted Soap that his plane had touched down. 

A memory comes to him, almost comical in its timing, of texting König on Soap’s phone. Just as he’s turning to look at Soap, Soap’s eyes are snapping up to find Simon’s.

“What did you do?”

“I can explain,” Simon says.

-

Simon nurses a cup of  black coffee. He’s sitting on a barstool at the kitchen island and watching Soap who’s busy making them breakfast, angrily whipping eggs before pouring them into a heated skillet with a sizzle. He’s got bread in the toaster, bacon cooking in the oven. The studio smells like lazy mornings. 

Coffee’s not his preference, but Soap hadn’t even offered tea. Made it abundantly clear that Simon would get what he gets, and to shut the hell up about the rest. 

“Tell me again,” Soap said. “Maybe I’ll be less angry, now that I’ve had coffee.”

“I texted König,” Simon says. 

“Uh-huh.”

“Last night. After you fell asleep. On your phone.”

“Yep.”

“And told him to come to Edinburgh.”

Soap considers. “Nope. Still angry.”

“You should really have a passcode.”

“Ye're aff yer heid,” Soap says, turning around to face him. “It goes without saying that you shouldn’t open someone’s else’s phone without their permission.”

“Right.” Simon sips his coffee.

“This isn’t something you get to decide for yourself.” He waves the eggy spatula in Simon’s face as he lectures. “You cannae just invite my—“ 

“What? Your boyfriend?” Simon asks, words barbed without his permission. 

“And there it is! I thought it bothered you that he and I… mess around.”

“But it’s more than that, innit? Don’t deny it, you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I know that. You don’t think I know that?” Soap puts his hands on his hips. The picture of righteousness. 

“I didn’t say that, I was just—“ Simon backpedals. 

“No! We’re talking about this now. I didnae make you talk yesterday, but I’m asking now, and I don’t want to be defensive. I just want to understand why?” 

“Because,” Simon starts. Stops. 

“Because…?”

“Because I— care for you. I like being with you.” He feels his face grow hot at the admission.

“You like being with me?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Soap turns to the stove, fluffs the eggs. Simon can see the back of his neck and his ears grow red from where he’s seated. 

“And I didn’t—don’t think I should let someone else stand in the way of that. Don’t think I can.”

“Simon, I don’t expect you to be okay with this. Not everyone is built for… that.”

A pause. Then, Simon says, “When���s he get here?”

“Tomorrow, bright and early. I’ll have to check the itinerary, but I think his flight gets in at oh eight hundred.” Soap spoons the finished eggs onto a shallow dish. The toaster dings, the oven timer trills. Simon rises to grab the tray of bacon while Soap butters their toast.  

“Before I sent that picture, was the plan to have him here for New Year’s?”

“Yeah,” Soap says. “But–”

“Then he should get to be here, still, it’s not right that I should take his place.” Simon’s movements become short and quick as he uses tongs to move the bacon from the tray to a plate, feeling frustration rising in him. If Soap had asked, Simon would’ve told him not to renege on his New Year’s Eve plans with König to pander to Simon’s hurt feelings. 

“It was his choice,” Soap says.

Simon pauses, stares at Soap, face blank. A strip of bacon falls from the tongs to the floor. 

“Shite,” Simon whispers. Bends to pick it up, inspects it. Eats the whole strip in one bite. Soap has the decency to look affronted.   

“You don’t believe me?” Soap asks, incredulous. “I wouldn’t have ever told him not to come, but he insisted, saying I needed this. You did too.”

They gather the food and bring everything to the island, where plates and utensils are already set out. Simon sits close to Soap, so that their hips are just barely touching. He wonders if Soap is bothered by the lack of elbow room, but then Soap hooks his ankle around Simon’s under the counter, holding him in place as if he sensed he was about to move away. 

They eat in comfortable silence, a temporary truce. Soap reaches over him to steal some of his still-steaming coffe, having finished his own. Simon places a hand on his knee when he leans out of Soap’s way to accommodate his reach. He doesn’t move it when Soap’s done. 

“How did you two meet?” Simon asks. 

Soap regards him out of the corner of his eye, and decides he sees earnestness and not accusation on Simon’s face. 

“A decade ago, we were in the same field hospital. Stationed in Sierra Leone,” Soap says around a mouthful of toast and eggs.  

“What’re the odds of that,” Simon says. 

“Nonexistent, to be totally fucking honest. This was before SAS, I was still Lance Corporal MacTavish. We were there helping local authorities with Colombian drug cartels. I took a nasty hit from a sniper, two centimeters from my femoral artery. He’d shattered the bones in his foot, something about dropping a crate of warheads.”

Simon snorts, is about to make a derisive comment, but Soap’s eyes look fond as he speaks so he instead asks, “What else?” 

“He was so… himself. Charming, vibrant. Not always, not around everyone. We spent a lot of time together that summer, did PT together.”

“Would’ve liked to see that. Can’t imagine you being a very good patient in PT.”

“You’d be right,” Soap laughs. “Believe it or not, I’ve mellowed over the last ten years.”

“That has yet to be seen,” Simon replies. Soap nudges Simon’s shoulder with his own in mock offense. Simon squeezes his knee, encouraging. 

“I wasn’t doing well when I met him. Like, mentally,” Soap continues. “My Dad had just passed, I was deployed when it happened, delayed going home when he was sick. I didnae know how to deal with it, or where to find that strength.” 

Soap’s eyes go unfocused, staring at something only he can see. Simon moves the hand on Soap’s knee up to his shoulder, and then around to pull him even closer, so Simon can hold him through the hard part. 

“And I wasn’t out yet,” Soap says. “Not to my family. Dad had found me with a boy from school when I was fourteen. Told me not to tell anyone, especially my Ma. At least until after he died because he couldn’t bear to live with a gay son. Then he did die and I felt nothing, no sadness. No joy. Not even relief. Nothing.” 

Simon can relate, remembering the day he got the call that his Father had finally shuffled off this mortal coil, not with a bang but with a liver long since failed. It had been a surreal experience, had rocked him to his core if he’s being totally honest with himself. 

“So I was reckless. I put myself in harm's way when I shouldn’t have. Learned a lot of hard lessons too late. Klaus… pulled me out of that, showed me patience and kindness at a time when I was full of piss and vinegar. Angry. At everyone, at myself most of all. My world was in black and white, and then I met him and I was seeing in color again. It was… heady.” 

Soap pauses, looks at Simon, waiting for him to ask. 

“How did you…?” Simon ventures. 

“Start fucking?”

“To put it crassly, yeah.”

“It wasn’t until a few years later that we… got together. We stayed in touch after Sierra Leone. Texted sometimes, called each other on our respective birthdays, went out to dinner once when we were both in London.” 

Simon’s finished eating, starts picking at Soap’s plate, who lets him. “It’s not very often SAS crosses paths with KSK,” he comments, hoping to encourage Soap to keep sharing. 

“We were put on assignment together in Serbia, twenty-fifteen. A two-man job. I was entry-SAS by that point. It was a clean up job, stealth op turned covert battering ram mission after the captain of the originally assigned task force betrayed his unit and shot them all dead, then tried to sell intel to the opposition. We were on the road together for three days straight, couldn’t fly to the drop without drawing attention.

“And then, we succeeded in apprehending the rogue captain, recovered the intel before it fell into the wrong hands, dispatched the intended target while we were at it too. König saved my life, I saved his, the whole shebang. You know how it is after missions, especially when they go off without a hitch. It’s—“

“Intense.”

“Yeah. We fucked like rabbits on the drive back to the airfield. Took us four days instead of three.”

“But it wasn’t just sex,” Simon says, asserting what he already knows to be true. 

“It wasn’t just sex. It kept happening, we got thrown together on a handful of missions over the course of the next two years. We still texted, calls became more frequent and more… single-minded. We met up if our leaves overlapped and we were geographically convenient. He knows that I…”

“Sleep around?”

“It’s more than that now, though. Would you say I’m just ‘sleeping around’ with you?”

Simon snaps his mouth shut, response dying on his tongue. No, he wouldn’t.

“It’s never been on the table, exclusivity. Not on his side either, though he claims it’s been many years since he’s even desired someone else. In all truth, it’s just not realistic–”

“–for men like us, right,” Simon finishes, echoing what König had said to him in St. James’s on Christmas Eve. 

 “He also said he loves me, talking mince about moving in together.” 

“And you don’t?”

“It’s not really about that, love or being loved. Of course I love him. I’ve always loved easy, Mum liked to say. I just… I’ve struggled to stay put, tame my wild heart and all that rot. Maybe you’ve noticed.”

“Or something,” Simon quips.

“I’ve shamed myself for years, most of my life if I’m honest. How could I be so selfish? I’ve been with partners who didnae tolerate it, and I respected that, but it always ended on a sour note when I grew restless and felt too smothered. I always knew in my heart of hearts that it’s not about ‘either or,’ but ‘this and’,” Soap finishes, gaze thoughtful as he offers Simon a chance to say his piece. 

Simon inhales through his nose and decides to be brave. 

“It’s not something I can really grasp, how you could… be with more than one person like that,“ Simon says. “For me, it’s always felt like ‘either or.’ And I’ve been with people who betrayed my trust. ‘Ell, my father cheated on my mum more times than I can count. It’s not just about the cheating, the sex itself, it’s how someone can look you in the eye and lie to your face, sometimes for ages before you find out. It’s a reminder of all the ways in which you could never know someone completely. If they’re capable of something like that.”

Soap hums, and takes Simon’s hand in his. Let’s Simon meet his eyes when he’s ready. Holds him through the hard part. 

“I’ve always struggled with feeling like I shouldn’t be too suspicious, too possessive. Too much like my father. And I let myself be hurt, because it’s what I thought I deserved.”

“It’s not–” 

“Johnny, I know that. My solution for decades was just to deprive myself of anything remotely resembling a relationship, ‘sides the occasional hook up with a stranger I’d never see again.”

“But that’s not what you want anymore?” Soap asks, eyes downcast and shy. 

“I can’t promise that we’ll all be together. Not like that, but I can… play nice. Rather, he cares about you and I respect that. And I care about you too and if he can respect that, then it’s worth the sacrifice.” 

“I hate that you feel like you’re sacrificing something for me. You shouldn’t have to.”

“Perhaps sacrifice is the wrong word. Make an exception to the rule, maybe. I’m starting to understand you, myself, maybe even that Austrian bastard. Talking helps.”

“I’m asking for a lot, I know,” Soap says, with a minute shake of his head, clearly at odds with himself.

“No, you’re asking me to trust you. To do more than just say it. You’ve shown me time and again how you trust me, with your life, with your heart even. And I’ve never given you the chance, not really. You’ve always taken care of me. Let me take care of you, for as long as you want. König can stay too. We’ll take care of you together.”

“I’m not asking you to fall in love with him, or even be with him, like, physically.”

“I know,” Simon says. 

“It would be so hot, don’t get me wrong. Always been a fantasy of mine, two guys. I thought for sure by the time I was thirty I’d’ve done it already. But it’s not essential and I don’t think it’s fair to expect you to agree to something before you fully understand what you need, or even if you can stand to spend more than five minutes with Klaus off the field.”

Simon considers Soap’s words, turns them over in his head. 

“What if I… watched you two together. Again, but not like last time,” he says finally. 

“Aye,” Soap says, chuckling. “Not like last time at all.”

Simon reaches a hand up to cup Soap’s jaw. He swipes his thumb over Soap’s cheekbone, the delicate skin under his eye. 

“I want this,” Soap says, watching his face. He reaches a hand up, lays it over Simon’s. “I want to be with you, for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Oh I’ll have you alright.” 

“Ye dobber.” Soap leans into his space, kisses him with greasy lips. 

Simon grabs the back of his head, turns to face him so he can kiss him fully. Soap pulls away, slides from the barstool, and takes Simon’s hand in his, threading their fingers together and bringing Simon’s knuckles to his lips. 

“As much as I love the beard, you should really let me shave it,” Soap says. “I don’t think my thighs will ever recover.” Simon has to grip the counter with his free hand at the memory of his face between Soap’s legs, imagining the skin red hot to the touch because of the pleasure he wrought until Soap was boneless and sated, blissed out. 

“If I must, if only to get my mouth on you again,” Simon concedes. 

Soap leads him to the bathroom, the site of the previous night’s escapade, and sits him on the toilet. He peppers kisses on Simon’s forehead, his brows, down the bridge of his nose, his cheeks and chin. 

“What’re you doing?” Simon asks.

“Saying goodbye,” Soap replies, a dreamy sigh. 

“To the beard?”

“Aye,” he says, and reaches for the shaving kit in the drawer. 

Soap lathers his jaw with shaving cream, tips his head back and drags the razor from his neck to his cheek. He’s careful not to slice, made all the more difficult by Simon’s scarred and dimpled skin. He moves Simon’s chin when he needs better acces, stops to kiss his nose a few times. Simon watches his face without speaking, the tenderness of this act not lost on him. It’s the most intimate thing he’s ever done with another person. 

If Soap sees his eyes begin to moisten, he doesn’t comment on it.

When Soap finishes, he washes the remaining shaving cream away with a warm washrag. Simon closes his eyes when he dabs on aftershave, opens them again when Soap plops down in his lap. 

“Hey,” Soap says, a brilliant smile lighting up his face. “Tell me a joke.”

[thetarttfuldickhead]

A Jamie-centric pre-OT3 Christmas story told in 25 short chapters.

Masterpost / AO3

5.

Everything was not all right. Bleary-eyed and with the beginnings of a headache brewing, Jamie slumped down on the bench by his cubby, ignoring the excited chatter of the dressing room and politely (he hoped) brushing off Dani’s attempt at getting his in-depth opinions on Dani’s new socks. (They were decent. Little bland, but the colours went nicely with Dani’s skin tone.)

Evidently, making nice with Coach Nate had not been enough to appease the universe, because Jamie had spent the better part of last night staring at his phone, trying to work up the courage to call his mum without any success, and now he’d spent the better part of training trying to figure out what the matter was, also without any success.

It was fucking weird. It shouldn’t have been hard, calling her. It wasn’t like they never talked or anything, he’d spoken to her just last month. But it was different now, somehow, when he knew he wouldn’t just be talking to her, but actually talking to her.

Fuck. He’d been so sure that saying sorry to Nate would do the trick.

More out of desperation than anything else, Jamie stuck his head into the head coaches’ office. Ted wasn’t around, but Coach Beard was sat by his desk, feet up on it and with a book in his hands.  

”Do I need to apologise to you?” Jamie asked without preamble.

Beard looked up from his book, fixing Jamie with that unnerving stare of his. “What for?”

“I dunno.” He couldn’t actually remember ever speaking much to the man before, but maybe he’d managed to somehow wrong him anyway.

“Then I guess not.” Sounding supremely unimpressed, Beard returned to his book.

Well. Jamie made a face. It had been a long shot anyway.

He undressed; he showered; he changed. He agreed to a beer with Jeff and Arlo later that night. He wasn’t really in the mood, but he figured he still wasn’t in a position to turn down invitations. Wanted to show willing and all that. Besides, Jeff had always been easy company. Only one of the team that hadn’t thrown a fit about him coming back.

As he made his way to out of the building he passed by Keeley’s office, and paused. Keeley was by far the smartest person he knew, and dead good to talk to. She’d probably have some ideas about what he should do next.

Though the last time he’d gone to her for advice, she’d sent him off to Dr. Sharon and Dr. Sharon was home with the flu so that was no good.

He went into Keeley’s office anyway. She wasn’t there, but the room smelled like her, sweet and floral, and the familiar fragrance was both soothing and a little painful for the pang of longing it brought. He fucking missed her, in a way he hadn’t expected to when she dumped him. Back then he’d mostly been disappointed about not having the Keeley Jones for a girlfriend anymore and missing out on more of the frankly mindblowing sex, but the more time passed, the more he started to miss other things. How clever she was. Funny. Kind.

It was good, though, the way they could still be friends. He was pretty sure Keeley wasn’t the one he was needed to make things up to; he knew she wasn’t upset with him anymore, in spite of him not treating her as good as she had deserved. He hadn’t ever meant to hurt her, he just hadn’t thought.

In a fit of inspiration, he dug out his phone and after several seconds of careful consideration  put together a quick text to Amy.

Sorry I was a prick on the show. Didn’t mean to hurt you. Hope you’re all right

Then, lest she get the wrong idea, he quickly added:

Not trying to get back together or anything.

Somewhat to his surprise, he received an answer in less than a minute:

i wouldn’t get back with you if you begged me to

i’m engaged to david now

you’re a poophead but i’m paying for the wedding with the money i made selling my story to the papers so we’re square

Jamie’s gut twisted at that. As much as he loved attention and as much as he hadn’t any qualms about getting naked and fucking around on the show, the idea of Amy crying about how he’d cheated on her and dishing out all the sorted details that hadn’t made it into the final cut made him queasy. At least it meant they were cool, though, so he sent a thumbs up and tried to put it out of his mind.

He didn’t put the phone away. He scrolled through his contacts until he landed on “Mummy”. Let his finger hover over it for a long time, but it was no good. Apparently texting Amy hadn’t helped either.

Fuck, he wished Keeley was here. Even if she couldn’t or wouldn’t help him with his problem just talking to her would have made him feel better. Always did.

His eyes fell on the a life-size cutout of Roy Keeley, in spite of her otherwise impeccable taste, kept by the wall, and his lips curled into a sneer. Odds were Keeley was over talking to him right now, maybe even curling up next to him and petting his hair, though what she saw in that decrepit wanker was a fucking mystery. Sure, Roy was fit, but anyone who’d spent more than two minutes in a room with the man knew he was a miserable old twat, and if there was one person Jamie wasn’t sorry about being a prick to it was—

Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Hang on. Wait a minute.

Oh. Fuck.

[hurricane-heatt]

FIRSTLY i do not know how i hadn't seen your ao3 before now and i'm losing my MIND i'm about to read it all bc i just read casualty of you and now i'm SCREECHING secondly... the fic writer questions: 11, 4, 30, 49! x

FIRSTLY AWAHHHH THABK YOU SO SO MUCH!!!! i hope u enjoy <3333

secondly gonna stick these answers below the cut!!! just because i started rambling ehe

11- Are you partial to a certain character/pairing or are you more equal-opportunity? If you are partial to any character/pairing, why do you think that is?

oh absolutely pairing-wise it will always be sebmark for me… i think i am just entirely struck by the different phases of their relationship? 2009 is an entirely different vibe to 2013 who is an entirely different vibe to 2017 and that makes fic writing them sooo fun for me its never a chore to write sebmark. beyond this teammate rivalries are just absolutely compelling to me i think the dynamics and intricacies are so so interesting, especially gaining more insight on that from marks book was just eeeee i loved it (fuck u helmut marko for everything you ever do). personality wise too they both suit each other well in terms of rpf and they dynamics that i’ve always written and like writing.

character wise i love writing seb. i rlly hope i do him justice because i just love his voice and his humour and his mannerisms. he’s my love ever and i love him so any pairings with him in i am always heart eyes over.

4 - What detail in [insert fic] are you really proud of?

i’m gonna take this as any fic i’ve written so! i think anything in good men die too verse i am hugely proud of. i did a bit of research for crush about street racing (a lack of in thoroughfare which i often get annoyed about but oh well) and so i think i got the car types right. either way it sounds professional so shrug!

an unreleased fic i have a bit of detail on is my siren!seb fic, its entirely unfinished but i did some research about mythology surrounding mermaids and sirens and think it’s pretty good in that!!!

30 - Have you ever written something that was out of your comfort zone? If so, what was it, and how did it affect your approach to writing fic thereafter?

oh boy most of my ot3 fest fics (i have three fulfilled hopefully! haha 3) were quite a new experience. i won’t spoil a ton but writing threesomes is hard man. lots of limbs

49 - What are you currently working on? Share a few lines if you’re up for it!

ehehehe. its a another fucking sebmark au! heir to father’s business seb nearly gets assassinated and his driver mark (annoying, gets in the way, keeps making fun of him) saves his life and thus is made his bodyguard in order to protect him. he hates mark already but this really pisses seb off, a constant shadow. also it’s called bad for business yes like the sabrina carpenter song

it’s going to be my first multi chapter and i’m anxious as balls about it and i really kind of hate the tone at the minute so it needs reworking. first chap is basically done but want three written before i post anything just for my own sanity. but here’s a little snippet of them winding each other up

+

Why has Britta put the medicine on the top shelf, for fuck’s sake, she knows he’s not that tall. He gets on his tiptoes, but the box is pushed further back by the tips of his fingers, rather than grabbing it.

“Let me, Mr Vettel.”

And then, the lean body of Sebastian’s driver against the back of him, reaching up to the shelf with zero effort. His fingers dash against Sebastian’s, and it’s a much more successful retrieval, bringing down the box of pills to his height.

Sebastian turns, putting his back to the countertop, the bare skin under his hoodie just brushing the cool marble. He’s close enough that he can smell Webber’s cologne - sharp. Masculine. Like the rest of him, ever predictable.

Webber takes a short step back, probably assessing how abnormally close they were. He puts the box into Sebastian’s open palm. The pills shake inside upon impact. He’s pleased, but through gritted teeth, like a dog finally being allowed a treat.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

+

so yeah!!!! i rlly hope i do finish it and get it out because the idea has been brewing for months.

thank u so much for all the questions and ofc the love for casualty of you <33