#i need these two to interact more therefor i will make them in any fic i write

[mayatuks-catastrophe]

♡ im simply choosing not to continue ♡

[charliemwrites]

Squeeze Me, I Squeak!

While your interactions with Lieutenant Riley started out cold and tense, he's been warming up to your secondary specialty. Apparently, you make for a great stress-toy. (In which Ghost is a brat with authority, but you don't mind. You're a bit of a brat too.)

Original AO3 Link (I posted this a million years ago to AO3 and it was my first ever COD fic, inspired by a Discord chat and Badjhur audios. I figured it's about time I added it to the Tumblr masterlist for ease.)

Content: Dom/Sub Dynamics, Fraternization (therefore power imbalance), Medical Care (non-descriptive), Body Piercings, Safe/Sane/Consensual Intimacy

It starts with one simple catalyst: your cheeks.

You’ve been with the 141 for over half a dozen missions now. Three bullet grazes, two concussions, four sprains, and one nasty cold into your assignment under Captain Price, and quite pleased to be there. He’s a good leader, trustworthy and steadfast, a bastion of experience and skill shielding your unconventional squad from red tape and repercussion.

Time is a little more fluid for you as the combat medic. You’re awake about twice as long as you’re ever asleep. Anxiety tugs you from fitful rest to check on your patients – your boys – if any of them are laid up with more than a dislocation. It makes the days long, nights longer, and you’ve lost track of how many calendar months since you’ve officially been with the task force.

Long enough, though, that you feel like you’ve got a handle on your squad and their personalities.

Captain Price is a grump about medical care. He understands the necessity, but resents the paperwork, time, materials, energy that goes into it. He’s gracious to let you fuss (within reason) and you’re gracious to ignore his old man grumbling. And the cigars.

Gaz is an absolute peach. Sits still, asks for painkillers when he needs them, follows care instructions. The worst he does is whine, but that’s only for the silly little injuries and the occasional flu shot. He’s respectful, sometimes a little bashful, and friendly. He makes you feel welcome, bought you your first drink with the squad after a mission, and generally is a sweetheart.

Soap is fun. A bit rambunctious and fidgety on your table, but he tries, at least. Not as careful as you’d like him to be. He’ll give you a sheepish smile whenever you fuss that he’s pulling his stitches or straining a healing joint. He whines like a banshee over everything except the serious wounds, but paradoxically has to be strong-armed into painkillers for anything. He reminds you a bit of a husky.

His brand of friendliness comes with jokes and teasing, flirtations that he’s careful to never take too far. You’ll indulge him in return sometimes, especially if he’s having a rough go of it, but it’s all in good fun. A lot of your downtime is spent in his and Gaz’s company, chatting about anything and everything, playing video games, or trying (the operative word here) to read. He’s also, unfortunately, the one who came up with your nickname.

Then there’s the lieutenant. You call him “the lieutenant” because you get the impression that he’d toss you out a window if you dared even utter his call sign.

The 141 isn’t your first assignment; you’ve been a combat medic for long enough that you’ve seen the full range of patients in the military. You’re no stranger to the puffed-up hyper-masculine men that practically resent your specialization.

“Like they think I’ll take their Man Card just for getting a plaster,” you’d once commiserated with a fellow medic.

The lieutenant goes a step beyond that. The best you can get out of him on a good day are one-word answers. A good day is if he’s hauling someone else to you. When it’s him that needs the care, well… you two often don’t meet eye to eye. And not just because he’s roughly the size (and build) of a tank.

On your third mission with him, he suffered a knife wound to the hip. You hadn’t been able to judge how deep it was between his gear and his evasiveness and you’d lost your temper.

“Lieutenant Riley, stand fucking still,” you snapped.

“The fuck did you just say to me?” he snarled.

And oh, you regretted every word you’d ever spoken in that moment. Had felt, with some certainty, that enemy combatants were not going to be what did you in. Cursed Price a little too, blaming him for this somehow.

But you were tired and a little pissed and had about a million other things to do that weren’t chase after your lieutenant.

“I said standing fucking still,” you dared repeat, raising your voice.

“I’ll have you booked with insubordination so fast, your fucking head will spin,” he growled.

“Medical treatment outranks everyone, sir,” you snapped back, just as fast. You were already snapping gloves on; he was finally still, after all, even if it was to yell at you. “So if anyone can be written up, it’s you.”

“Lass—” Soap tried, but you were already ducking down, eyes narrowed and gauze in hand.

You were relieved to see that it wasn’t too bad. Slathered it with antibiotic and pinched it closed with butterflies, then straightened. It was done in under a minute and you were even more annoyed than before.

“All that for fucking what,” you grumbled to yourself. Not quietly enough, apparently.

“That’ll do,” the lieutenant barked.

The unholy burning in his eyes informed you that you’d pushed your luck far, far enough.

You shut up and skittered off, had not been written up for insubordination, but received a well-meant ‘cool it’ from Price afterwards.

And Lieutenant Riley was… well, he was himself.

He doesn’t make you bitch at him anymore, though – and you would be lying if you weren’t a bit proud of that. By no means is he jumping to get treated, but he comes to you for the serious injuries and obliges if you manage to catch the non-fatal stuff.

It’s not that you hold it against him. Medics are a sore spot for a lot of people, and Lieutenant Riley is more private than the average soldier. He’s never actively rude, at least, apart from that one spat. Gruff and short maybe, but not mean. And you’re quite happy to have that, at least.

Besides, he watches out for you in the field, where it matters. Has literally hauled you to safety by your straps more than once. Ensures you get into exfil before him. You’ve even caught him giving you a quick, assessing check that all your gear was secure and ready.

You and he bicker at each other still, and you don’t always come out victorious. There have been plenty of instances that he’s just marched away from you, long legs carrying him to some dark corner when he won’t entertain your nagging. Still, there’s growing respect between you two, you sense. He’s a solid CO, if much different from Price, confident and competent without being arrogant. And, well, he can be a bit rude (“abrupt” you demur to Soap, who cackles) but not disrespectful.

On his end, you think things change when he gets injured. Again. You don’t know exactly what’s happened, only that he was a little too close to an explosion. The edges of his balaclava are burnt, one damning edge melted to the skin of his neck. The real issue is the deep laceration that’s sliced through the fabric. From what you can see, it starts behind his ear and slashes around his temple to take a sizable chip from the edge of his hard mask.

His bell has been rung enough that he’s silent when Soap drops him on your cot.

You do a concussion test – thank whatever higher powers there might be that he passes – and reassess the situation. He’s bleeding, he’s burnt, his mask is a hindrance. Most other medics would pry the thing off and treat him regardless of his feelings on the matter.

But you’re not any other medic, you’re the 141’s medic. You have candy for Gaz and fidget toys for Soap and carry nicotine patches or gum for Price. Lieutenant Riley hardly even pulls his mask up to drink in front of you still. He doesn’t trust easily (maybe not at all) but you’ve managed not to fuck up this far and you won’t start now.

“Need to take the skull off,” you inform him, “the balaclava can stay.”

His shoulders drop just the smallest micro-fraction. You’ve made the right choice.

He lets you pull the hard mask away, eyes flickering to yours when you set it within his reach. You blink at him, just once, trying to convey that for all your differences and squabbles before, you’re his squad-mate, his medic, and you’re on his side.

Then you turn to the bleeding.

“Going to cut a bigger hole,” you warn.

You don’t know if he’s listening, if he cares, if he’d prefer you to be quiet. You do this for Gaz and Soap, and you’ll do it for him until he tells you otherwise.

The surgical scissors make a perfect, neat line through the fabric. Blood stains dirty blond hair beneath your gloves, flattening the curls. It’s a nasty wound, deep enough that it’ll need stitches. You tell him as much as you clean it, efficient without being rough. You don’t coddle your boys; they don’t need it. The kindest thing you can do is always to just get it over with.

As you numb his skin and prep the sutures, you begin explaining the care instructions. It’ll cut down the amount of time he’ll have to hang around after you’ve finished treatment.

You fall quiet as you start stitching him up, bottom lip between your teeth to focus on speed and accuracy. On your little rolling stool, you’re trying not to loom over his prone form. Plenty of soldiers have bad reactions to being leaned over like this, and you’d expect it from any of the 141.

Your hand is starting to cramp by the time you get to the sharp cheekbone where the injury ends, but it’s done – possibly in record time. As you sit back to check your work, you catch his eye. His gaze is so heavy that you’re shocked you didn’t feel its weight this whole time. There’s an odd glint to it, the calmest you’ve ever seen from him. Especially on your medical cot.

“All good, sir?” you ask.

“Affirmative.”

“The burn now.”

You don’t touch him, just direct his head at a good angle to treat his neck. You have to numb that too, see more of the tension drain from him when it takes effect. Christ, you hadn’t even noticed. He’s like a statue sometimes, bearing wounds that would have most other people in shambles.

“Burns are the worst,” you agree. “I hate getting them, hate treating them.”

“There anything you like treating?” he grumbles.

You hum. “Common cold. All you big boys get sleepy and nasally and pathetic.”

There’s a little puff of air that you recognize from comm banter with Soap – he’s amused. You’ve managed to get something like a laugh out of him. Buoyed by this, you proceed with the delicate process of treating melted fabric.

“Pathetic, eh? Tell Johnny you said that.”

“I already told him when he got sick,” you gloat. “He pouted. Might have a picture of it somewhere.”

When you chance to look away from your work, you catch his eye again, peering at you from his peripheral. You flash a grin – a little goofy from the high of a positive reaction – and then turn back.

“That legal?” he asks. “Pictures of patients.”

You arch an eyebrow, knowing he’ll see it. “Are you going to lecture me about GDPR, Lieutenant Riley?”

“Not if it doesn’t become my problem.”

You chuckle a little – heartened by your progress and by his unusual talkativeness. “Hasn’t yet,” you point out.

More likely to be Price’s problem, anyway. Probably.

He lets you fall silent again to concentrate. Despite the severity, the affected area is smaller than you initially thought. It’ll be painful and scar like hell, but no skin grafts are necessary. You report this with obvious relief – good news all around as far as you’re concerned.

When you’re finally done, you scoot your chair back and turn to his (heavily redacted) chart, scribbling out the diagnosis and treatment. As you’re signing your initials, he calls for you by last name, tugging your gaze up.

“Was there something else, Lieutenant?” you ask, already scanning him for other injuries.

“Need one more thing from you.”

You hum in question, folding his chart over. His hand comes up, still gloved.

And then he takes your cheek between thumb and forefinger. And pinches.

Your brain spits static, eyes going wide in shock and confusion. It takes you a beat to respond, and then only because his fingers tighten to the point it starts to ache.

“Ow, Lieutenant—” you complain, still too surprised to really snap, one eye closing to express discomfort.

He releases you, staring at the spot he just grabbed. It’s probably already turning red.

“Anyone ever tell you,” he drawls, slow and measuring, “how round your cheeks are?”

Now you’re red for a different reason. You rub at the skin and scrunch your nose, unsuccessfully telling yourself that you’re not pouting like you joked Soap did.

“No,” you huff, “because most people aren’t dumb enough to say that to their medic.”

Your brain still isn’t working right because there’s no way you’d be implying that Lieutenant Riley is dumb if it was. The most personable you two have gotten before now was him buying you a drink after a mission, but he’d been buying everyone else a drink at the time.

“Not afraid of you, Squeaks.”

“I’m aware, Lieutenant.”

You’re hoping he’ll drop it, a little confused but also a little… flattered? It’s difficult to parse what you’re feeling when he’s still staring at you with those dark, glittering eyes. Not that you’re looking. No, definitely not. In fact, you are doing your damnedest not to look at his eyes. Or his face.

Which is why you notice him tugging his glove off. And then reaching for you – for your face – again.

“Hey—” you start, but he’s already squeezing, just before the point you’d fussed last time.

“Want me to stop?” he asks.

… No.

“Want to know what you’re doin’,” you deflect, brows furrowing.

Why are you letting him do this? You shouldn’t let him do this. It’s not that it hurts. It’s just… principle. Military isn’t an especially touchy-feely cuddly career field. Soap and Gaz are fairly tactile, true, but not… like this. But, well, maybe you’ve missed it. This. Touches like this. Haven’t seen friends you’re close to in a long time, don’t have this kind of relationship with your family. Haven’t had a partner in… a depressingly long time, and even then, it always took a while to get to this level of casual intimacy – if you got there at all.

“Thought that was obvious,” the lieutenant replies.

The other hand, still gloved, finds your opposite cheek and pinches that one too. Your eyes are forced narrow as the skin is manipulated, bunched up. You make a noise in the back of your throat, tilting your head to accommodate.

“’S not,” you mumble. “Who are you, my auntie?”

“’M scarier than your auntie.”

You snort, edges of your mouth tugging up despite how he’s pulling your cheeks.

“Never met my auntie, then,” you giggle.

Noticing your grin, he lets one go, only to gently crush both in his ungloved hand. And god, it’s so big that he could span your jaw from middle finger to thumb. Instead, he smooshes your face until your mouth puckers. You must look like a fish – a dumbstruck, awkward fish.

“Sir,” you slur out. He squeezes a little tighter, cutting off your ability to speak. Good thing, probably; you’re not sure what you would have said next.

“Like a little stress ball you are,” he muses, almost to himself.

That does prompt a laugh from you, the absurdity of the entire situation making you a little light- headed. Here is your huge, terrifying lieutenant, practically more legend than man, squishing your cheeks like a particularly long-suffering but beloved pet. You, the team medic, the person who pokes and prods at them more often than not. The one person in the 141 that you always thought he barely tolerated.

“Next time I’m on the edge of tearin’ my hair out, I’ll just come to you for a squeeze.”

He emphasizes this with one last, extra scrunch that makes you humph in mild discomfort. But when he finally lets you go, you grin and shake your head, somehow more amused than annoyed or offended. It seems like you finally might be growing on your lieutenant. That’s nothing to sneeze at.

“Try it and you’ll lose a finger, sir,” you tease.

“Like to see you try it, Squeaks.”

Your mistake was thinking that Simon “Ghost” Riley makes idle threats. (Not that you think that he was threatening you; if he was you know you’d know it.)

He’s been out training recruits by himself – Gaz and Price on a mission, Soap laid up with a twisted knee – a task that already tends to irritate him. Add to that, the weather is fucking miserable. Hot as hell but also a little rainy, meaning that it’s humid as a swamp. Probably has been making his stitches and burn itch beneath the mask.

When he storms into the common room at the end of the day, you and Soap exchange looks. A lot of assassin-soldier to be barreling into a small room – and making a beeline straight for you.

“Uh, sir?” you yelp. Consider a tactical retreat, but even that brief deliberation is too long. He crowds you against the counter you were making tea at and grabs your face.

He still has his gloves on, rough and uncomfortable on your skin. You wrinkle your nose, try to pull back, but his grip is too tight, so you just submit yourself to whatever is happening.

Apparently, “de-stress” is happening.

His smooshes your face just like he had in the infirmary, and some of the tension in his shoulders drops. You blink as his grip relaxes, then tenses. And then again. And again. Again, again, again. It dawns on you that he’s literally treating your cheeks like his own personal stress ball.

You should be insulted. Outraged. You’re not a toy.

“All good, LT?” Soap ventures. Sounds like he’s defusing a bomb.

“Fine, Johnny,” Ghost replies, almost absently. “Long day.”

“Recruits bein’ idjets, then?”

“Fuckin’ muppets,” he agrees, less heated than he’d normally be.

Huh, you think. Is this… actually working?

You make eye contact with Johnny. He looks more blindsided than you, a bit like he’s witnessing your murder instead of being accosted by your strained lieutenant.

“Couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag with a map.”

He squeezes a little tighter as he says it, prompting a noise of protest from you. It doesn’t hurt yet, but your teeth are rubbing against soft tissue. He eases up again and meets your eyes, half-lidded and a touch warmer than you’re used to. The skin around his eyes eases bit by bit, and the line of his jaw beneath the balaclava looks relaxed.

You settle then, resting your weight back against the counter. Nothing untoward is happening, just Ghost being… honestly, a little weird. It’s a nice thought actually, that your big scary LT is a weirdo. The kind of weirdo that would rather squish his medic than a stress ball.

Makes sense in a way, with how he’s always covered up and keeping a safe distance (physically and emotionally) between himself and others. Probably touch starved. Not sure why he’s picked you, but you’re happy that he did.

After a few minutes you pat his wrist, a gentle double tap. Like sparring. He lets you go.

“I’m making tea if you’d like a cup?” you offer.

“Yeah, Sergeant. Earl Grey, left side of the cabinet.”

“Yessir.”

You can feel Soap squinting.

“Since when are you two so chummy, eh?” he asks.

“Since always,” Ghost replies as if Soap is an idiot.

With your back turned, he can’t see the grin that would surely give you away. “Yeah, Soap, where’ve you been?”

“Och, now you’re taking the piss.”

You hand Ghost his tea and sit down to let Soap rant.

It has become a habit. Ghost gets annoyed at recruits, paperwork, bad intel – your cheeks get squished like it’s a family reunion. He starts removing his gloves at least. Warm, calloused hands are much more comfortable than textured gloves. You’re starting to look forward to it, even.

It’s not a long process. He’ll come find you, smoosh up your face until you wrinkle your nose, and then continues with his day, shoulders looser than when he appeared. You usually complain, whine that you’re in the middle of something, that he didn’t even warn you, that his grip is too tight. But you never push him away or pull back. And he always honors your little tap-taps if you need to be freed before he’s ready to let go.

By this point, everyone on the team has seen it. Soap no longer brings it up, but sometimes informs you when Ghost appears with that Look about him. Gaz floundered the first time he saw it, stuttering and stumbling until Ghost told him to spit it out or shut up. Once after that, he asked if he could squeeze you for stress relief. You had to make Ghost let go from how tight his hand went. Gaz didn’t ask again.

Price, shockingly enough, takes in the situation, then settles you with a nonjudgmental look.

“Solid, Sergeant?”

“Yessir,” you manage around your pressed cheeks, adding a thumbs up.

“As you were, then.”

And that was that.

Of course, with jobs like yours, some days are more stressful than others. Some days are hell on Earth. This mission wasn’t quite that, but it did go to shit in a handbasket, and you’re ragged by the end of it. Gaz dislocated a shoulder, Soap is concussed. Price has a nasty road rash across one arm that he was a bit of an ass about tending – not that you’d say as much.

Even you are scuffed up. A hostile split your lip with a nasty jab that caught you off guard. (Ghost, right behind you at the time, stabbed the guy with vicious prejudice. You’re trying not to be flattered and trying not to think about what it means that you’re failing.) Besides that, you’re exhausted, dehydrated, and you’re pretty sure you hurt your back trying to stabilize Soap at some point.

Ghost is the only one that made it out unscathed as far as you can tell. You also know that that’s more likely to put him in a mood than if he’d suffered alongside you all. Cold and detached as he might seem, he doesn’t like seeing anyone in the 141 hurt on his watch.

You’re beside Soap, making sure he doesn’t fall asleep on the transport back to base, but you can feel Ghost’s eyes on you. You make eye contact across the aisle. His shoulders are tight, arms crossed, hands clenching and unclenching. He’s too disciplined to tap his foot or bounce his leg, but you know he would be if he was anyone else.

When you land, you send Soap to the infirmary for observation. Price decides on debrief after breakfast the next morning and slinks off to his office. Gaz follows after Soap to get painkillers and a sling. You shoot Ghost a long, tired look.

“Can’t be a stress ball today,” you tell him, “my mouth hurts.”

“I know.”

But still, he’s standing too close to you at the armory where you’ve returned your weapons. His shoulders are bent slightly towards you, hands twitching at his sides. In all honesty, you wish that you could do your usual destress routine – because as much as he seems to enjoy having something/someone to squeeze, you enjoy having to sit still for a few moments of physical contact just as much.

And after thinking Soap cracked his skull, Gaz lost his arm, your captain got skinned, you need to decompress. And you need to do it with Ghost, who saved each and every one of you today.

“C’mon,” you say and, taking a chance, grab his hand.

He hums in question, but allows you to lead, careful not to grip too tight. The bones there are too delicate, and you need them in working order as their medic. He can’t be so rough with them.

You practically drag him to the common room and put on the kettle. Understanding, Ghost preps the mugs and sachets of preferred tea. When the water is hot enough, you each make your tea, then tug him to the couch. You direct him into the corner – and it’s only then that you hesitate.

Instinct is to climb into his lap. He’s a big man and you want to be cradled, but you also suspect the weight and warmth of another body would be soothing to him too. Instead, you clamber up as close to him as you can get, wedging your shoulder against his rubs and encouraging his arm around you.

It seems like he hesitates for a moment too. This is the most contact you two have ever had, regardless of how close he usually stands when he’s squeezing your face. Right now, you’re pressed together all down one side, your thigh overlapping his a little. After a moment, though, he releases a long breath and curls his arm around you. His hand settles naturally on your hip. 

It’s not long after that that the squeezing starts.

He's still got his gloves on and the skin on your hip is sensitive, usually hidden under layers of clothes, but you’re too snuggled in to disturb the arrangement now. Between the heat he radiates like a furnace, and your steaming tea, you’re quickly cozy and spaced out. The rhythm of his hand kneading plush flesh is soothing, something to drift back to while your mind goes blissfully blank of anything but safe, warm, comfy, quiet.

At some point, your mostly empty cup is plucked from your hand. You mumble a thank you and curl in closer, both legs over his lap now. His other hand rests on your lower thigh, just above your knee, and begins squeezing there too. Almost a massage, if not for the near-rough way he grips you.

“Like a cat,” you mumble, head lolling onto his shoulder.

“Hm?”

“Cat making biscuits.”

There’s a huff of air. You smile faintly and tilt your head away from the suddenly too-bright lights of the common room. Don’t even realize you’ve tucked into his neck until he rubs his jaw over the top of your head.

“’S nice,” you whisper.

He hums. You think it might be agreement. Must be, Ghost wouldn’t be entertaining this if he didn’t. It’s a reassuring thought to drift off with, knowing that no matter what you want, he’ll never do something just to be nice.

You wake the next morning horizontal, something too firm to be a pillow under your head. When you sit up a little, Ghost’s dark eyes are peering at you, heavy as usual, but not as sharp. His chest rumbles beneath your chin in greeting.

“Mine or yours?” you mumble.

“Mine.”

You hum, too sleepy to let the implications of such a big gesture make you anxious right now.

“You’re a bad pillow,” you say instead.

It’s a lie. He’s a wonderful pillow. Jacked as he is, all that muscle is so plush and cushiony when it’s relaxed like this. Helps, also, that he’s still so warm.

“Slept on me just fine,” he grunts. “Drooled a little, too.”

“Did not.”

“Explain the wet spot on my tits then.”

You say the first thing that comes to mind. “Lactating.”

“You’re a freak.”

“Stones in glass houses, sir.”

You close your eyes again for a moment, enjoying the dark room and heat beneath you. The best night of sleep you’ve gotten in a long while, honestly. Especially with so much of the team injured.

There’s a tug at your hair, gentler than you usually get from Ghost.

“Get the fuck up, Squeaks,” he gruffs without any heat. In fact, he sounds like he’d rather you didn’t. “Need to piss and eat.”

“At the same time?” you tease. You’d sound more scandalized if you weren’t still half asleep.

“You’re fucking disgusting.”

 He rolls you onto the mattress and pushes himself up.

“Meet back here in fifteen. Fresh clothes, fresh face.”

“Gonna squish it?” you ask.

“Maybe later, see how the day goes.” He pinches one of your cheeks anyway. Still rougher than most people would be, but for him it’s downright tender. You try not to lean into it, not sure if you succeed. Don’t think either of you cares, really.

You lay there for another moment, listening to him bustle around his quarters, getting new clothes it sounds like.

“How copy, sergeant?”

“Solid, sir.”

“Fifteen.”

“Yessir.”

You haul yourself up and trudge out of his room for a shower. Gonna need all fifteen of those minutes.

Breakfast is a quiet but pleasant affair. Gaz is using his sling and sore as all hell, but in high spirits. Soap is exhausted from two-hour wakeups and the sensitivity the concussion has left him with. The painkillers are helping, and despite all that, he’s in a decent (if slightly subdued) mood.

You snatch up a couple of dry muffins and an orange juice for Price before heading to debrief, plopping it all on his desk when you enter his office. Your efforts are rewarded with a fond smile.

Gaz and Soap take the two single chairs, probably afraid of falling asleep on the couch. That’s where you and Ghost end up, you pressed up against the arm and him… right next to you.

Not that you’re complaining. His thigh pressed against yours is a nice comfort. Reminiscent of how he made you feel the night before. A reminder that he’s here, that he’s solid and safe while you all recount the mission from the day before. If Price is shocked by you two practically nested up together, he doesn’t show it.

Somewhere along the way, your hand reaches for something to fiddle with. You’re not as restless as Soap, but you like something to keep busy while you’re thinking or anxious. Usually you tear up the inside of your mouth biting your lips, but you don’t want to aggravate the healing split. Your fingers land on the pocket of Ghost’s cargos. The material is thick, the stitching an interesting texture, and the pockets have snaps that are quiet enough to play with during debrief.

Ghost lets you fidget in peace, only giving you a slight nod when you glance at him to check. His arm is resting along the couch behind you, and you can feel his fingers twisting into your loose hair. Fair exchange, you figure, and settle in.

There’s a brief call with Laswell to discuss next steps. You listen, but not closely. You’re just a medical sergeant after all. Your opinion is considered when offered, but you’re not much of a strategist or tactician. Mostly, you go where you're directed, do as you're told, and keep everyone in one piece as best you can.

When it’s over, Soap helps haul you off the couch while Ghost stands, clipping his thigh pocket closed again.

“Good to see you two getting along,” Price calls as you’re leaving.

You glance over your shoulder, catch the smirk on his face, and stick out your tongue. And then promptly bolt, lest you be reprimanded for insubordination. It’s a common threat in the 141; you’re not sure if anyone has actually been written up for it outside of a mission. You don’t want to be the one to find out, though.

Soap cackles at you, Gaz calls you chicken shit. Ghost ruffles your hair and steers you towards his office.

“Oi, where are you two off to?” Gaz asks.

“Paperwork,” Ghost replies shortly.

News to you, but sure. Some company would be nice while you fill out forms. That becomes mildly more difficult when he plops you into his lap, but you make do. Ghost keeps his office cold – all those layers, you figure – and the chair across from his desk is purposefully uncomfortable to discourage lingering. His broad thighs make a much better, warmer seat. The fact that he circles an arm around your waist, hugging you like a kid with a teddy bear is just a bonus. For all that, you’d figure out how to do reports on water.

You two should probably talk about this, or something. There are regulations or codes of conduct prohibiting this sort of behavior. Never mind that the interpersonal lines (the ones you actually care about) are starting to blur. But well, you don’t have a problem with all this, and you wouldn’t be breathing if he did. So, well, there’s not much to talk about, is there?

“Hey, LT?”

“Mm.”

You watch him sign the bottom of a report, his signature an efficient and jagged thing, somehow still elegant. Like watching him practice with his knives. He flexes his hand when it’s done. You two have been at it for a while now. He hasn’t said a word, but you know Ghost despises paperwork. You could both use a break.

“You ever seen Halloween?”

“The horror movie?” He pauses, thinks about it. “Yeah.”

“The next one is going to take place in the summer. Guess he’ll be Michael Perspires.”

He goes still behind you. “What.”

“He’s gotten a job as an electrician. Michael Wires.”

You keep your face forward and down, pretending to work, trying to swallow back hysterical giggles.

“Squeaks…”

“He’s into arson now as well. Michael Fires.”

His arm tightens around your waist. You wish you could see his face, but you know you’ll break if you look. “Shut the fuck up.”

“He didn’t tell the truth on his resume. Michael Liars.”

“If you make another shitty Michael Myers pun, I swear to god—”

“You don’t like them?” you ask, grin so wide it hurts. “I’m going to Michael Cry-ers.”

“God fucking dammit, Squeaks.”

You burst into laughter that is quickly cut short by his arm constricting like a snake. Even with your air supply diminished, wheezing a bit, you kick your feet in delight.

“G-Guess… guess you’re…” you struggle to get it out between the lack of oxygen and your giggles. “Guess you’re M-Michael Tires of this joke.”

“I’m going to make you regret breathing at our next sparring session.”

And oh, you believe him. Your LT doesn’t make idle threats. But you’re telling yourself that it’s so worth it this time. Soap is going to give you a fucking medal for this. You know, assuming Ghost doesn’t snipe you when you try to tell the story.

You’re still cackling, but it turns to squeals when you feel sharp pressure on your shoulder.

He’s biting you.

“L-LT!” you gasp, scrabbling to push at his forehead without dislodging his mask. “Fine, fine, I’ll stop!”

He growls, the sound burning through you, straight to the pit of your stomach. You choose to ignore that in exchange for the oddly ticklish sensation of him gnawing through your shirt.

Knowing by now that you won’t be free until he’s ready, you just try to sit still and not spur him on further. After a moment, he unlocks his jaw and speaks in your ear, voice low but unmistakably amused.

“Medic, stress ball, comedian, chew toy – anything you can’t do, Sergeant?” he snarks.

You scrunch your nose at this new designation. “I am not a chew toy.”

“Seem pretty chewy to me,” he muses, sinking his teeth in again. You bark out reactive laughter and squirm, but his hold hasn’t loosened a bit and you’re trapped against him.

“LT,” you complain like usual. “You’re going to leave a mark.”

He doesn’t respond verbally, but you feel his teeth dig in a little harder. Well, that’s new. You still don’t push him away, a not-so-small or secret part of you pleased by the idea of him leaving a bruise. It wouldn’t even be visible. Just something to remind you of the trust your lieutenant has in you, in the bond you two have formed, unorthodox as it is.

You hand him a bottle of water when he finally releases you, to sooth his undoubtedly dry mouth. There’s a wet patch on your shirt (and probably your underwear) but you ignore it to return to your reports. He seems a little less reluctant to join you now, pleasingly.

You’re not so sure about the “chew toy” thing, but you definitely seem to be an effective stress relief.

You’re having a great day. No one is injured, you’re caught up on paperwork. You pinned both Soap and Gaz during sparring earlier, earning a proud nod from Ghost and Price. There were pudding cups at lunch, and you’ve made plans with the rest of the team to watch a movie in the common room tonight. Even your antisocial LT agreed to come.

In fact, he’s the first one there when you arrive in the early evening. You chirp a hello, heading for the pantry for popcorn. Soap and Gaz can’t be trusted to make it without setting off the fire alarms.

Ghost hums in return, but he seems content to scroll on his phone, saving his energy for socializing. You don’t mind his silence, never do. Not like he can chat when he’s biting you like a teething puppy. And he has been. A lot. His new favorite form of stress relief, apparently, apart from squishing your cheeks like usual.

If there’s privacy for it, his teeth have been imprinting your arms, shoulders, even your hands in perfect pinpricked circles. He’s not any gentler about it than he is smooshing up your face, and a couple times now you’ve discovered bruises later on. You suspect that’s his aim, especially when he’s more aggravated than stressed. A way to release aggression without wasting bullets at the range or beating the stuffing out of someone in the ring.

You don’t mind, no matter how you complain aloud. It was a sudden step up in intimacy, but you like the feeling of his teeth on you. A way to get that soothing moment of forced stillness without losing the ability to speak, eat, or look around. And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like the mark either. Feels like a claim, one you’re not sure is actually being made – but you’re allowed to dream.

That said, Ghost is a bastard about it. If you thought he was pushy before, pinching your cheeks at inopportune times, the biting could almost be classified as a nuisance. Several times now, someone has walked into the common room to your forearm between Ghost’s jaws. You’ve lost count of how many conversations with Soap or Gaz have been interrupted by your lieutenant’s canines sinking into your shoulder or the meat of your thumb, tongue swiping excess saliva from bare skin.

You’re ruminating on this as your fellow sergeants filter in, joking and laughing about something stupid the recruits did earlier.

Ghost has hardly looked up from his phone, only jerks his head in acknowledgement when they greet him. His shoulders are loose; he’s relaxed. You know better than to mistake it for being unaware of the environment, but… well, if there were ever a time for payback…

You leave the popcorn to finish in the microwave and stroll over to the couch. To your delight, Ghost shuffles a little to make room for you, an obvious invitation to cuddle up. It’s almost enough to distract you from your mission. Almost.

You perch on the edge of the cushion, hook a thumb under the edge of his shirt. The break in routine draws his attention but doesn’t seem to raise any alarms. He flicks his gaze up from the screen to catch your eyes. You lock gazes, tug the fabric up just the tiniest sliver. Then dart down and blow a deafening raspberry into the toned skin of his stomach.

There’s a moment of dead silence. Then you scramble up and bolt, yelping when you hear the heavy thump of boots behind you.

“Squeaks, you little shit!” he snarls, Manchester accent thicker than usual. And he gives Soap shit.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” you lie, revealed by your breathless giggles.

“I’ll make you sorry!”

You believe him.

You skitter around Price, calling a frantic “hi, sir” as you stumble to keep your footing. Ghost doesn’t even bother with pleasantries, solely focused on getting ahold of you. Your only saving grace is being able to take corners faster than him, but his long legs eat distance like nothing and it’s only two hallways later that you’re snatched right off your feet.

You squeal, not sure if it’s in terror or delight, as he hauls you up and over one broad shoulder.

“Ghost, wait no, I didn’t mean it!”

“Sure fucking seemed to,” he growls, manhandling a better grip on you.

You put up a bit of a struggle, but there's no question who would win even if you really did fight him. Instead, you press against his chest and arms, laughing as his fingertips dig roughly into your hips and thighs and waist.

“Earning your nickname today,” he mocks as he lugs you back to the common room.

When you arrive, Soap groans in dismay at your failure, Gaz taunts you for thinking you could get away with your stunt. Price just shakes his head, playing at exasperated but unable to hide his fondness. Ghost all but tosses you onto the couch and before you can scramble up, flops on top of you. All the breath is forced from your lungs with a little oof, feeling a bit like those animals that can flatten themselves to squeeze into small crevices.

“LT, I can’t breathe,” you whine. “You’re heavy.”

The cushions on the couch aren’t luxurious by any means, but they’re forgiving enough that you can, in fact, breathe. It’s just a little more difficult than usual. Not difficult enough to tap out, though. You like the weight of him on you.

“Should have thought about that before being a little shit.”

You grumble; don’t really have an argument for that but unwilling to cede the point.

“Oi, you two done?” Gaz calls. “I wanna watch the movie.”

Price snorts. Soap, angel that he is, offers you the bowl of popcorn.

“No one told you to wait, sergeant,” Ghost replies, bland.

“Yeah,” you second, muffled and admittedly pathetic sounding. “Takes you five minutes to figure out the sound anyway.”

“We all know you’re going to put the subtitles on, don’t know why the volume matters,” Soap chimes in.

“It’s only for the Captain’s sake,” Gaz defends.

“Now what are you implying, Garrick?” Price asks, silky and dangerous.

You snuggle in happily, enjoying the moment of peace and companionship. No shooting, no bleeding, no nightmares. Just the five of you, alive and healthy, enjoying this little family they’ve built and brought you into.

You don’t even realize you’ve fallen asleep until the pressure is gone, Ghost wedging his arms between your lax body and the couch. It’s cold without him as a personal blanket, and you curl into his arms with a discontent noise.

“Atta girl, Squeaks. I got you,” he rumbles.

You crack an eye open to check on everyone else by instinct. Gaz and Soap are leaning on each other, lightly snoring. It looks like Price is about to rouse them as well, but he shoots you and Ghost an especially soft look.

“Taking this one to bed, sir.”

“Be good to our girl, Lieutenant,” Price nods.

“As good as she is to us,” Ghost agrees.

You’re half-sure that you’re dreaming, but you smile at them both before tucking in and falling asleep again.

The next morning starts in Ghost’s bed, a place you find yourself often enough now that you recognize it as quickly as your own. You’re all tangled up in each other, more than usual. There are fingers in your hair, scraping across your scalp. You could purr it feels so good, pressing your face into Ghost’s chest to let him get a new spot.

“Didn’t even make it halfway through the movie,” he teases.

“Seen it before.”

“Gaz is going to be cross.”

“He’ll understand – getting chased takes a lot of you.”

“Don’t make me chase you down, then.”

You snort. If you have any say in it, you’ll be instigating games like that much more. Something about the big scary Ghost dashing after you over a stupid little prank – and knowing that the worst you’ll get out of it is a forceful cuddle – is not the deterrent it should be.

Still, there’s a pattern to this little game of yours. You can’t admit that you enjoy the play.

“Not my fault you can’t take what you dish,” you reply, twisting to nip his chest through his shirt, as if to prove your point.

It’s sharper than you would be with anyone else. Ghost, though, hums low and rough in his throat.

“I’ve never done that bullshit you pulled last night,” he grumbles.

“Lack of imagination on your part.”

He huffs, pinches your cheek and chuckles when you whine in complaint, muttering that it’s too early for his shit.

“C’mon, Squeaks, up and at ‘em. Before Soap takes all the blueberry.”

“Yessir…” you groan.

Ghost has been away. Price sent him and Gaz off on a stealth assignment, something that Soap is less suited to. Not that he couldn’t do it if needed, but it’s more Gaz’s specialty, so Price sent him. Soap isn’t too bummed about it, though. He’s been wreaking havoc around base with you casually egging him on from the sidelines, feeding into his chaos without being directly involved.

Not that Price would see it that way if he caught wind. But he hasn’t, so you’re not in trouble yet.

You might be after this though.

One drink too many, Soap complaining that you always play it safe. And, to his credit, you do. He and Gaz are the troublemakers, you just like to watch and occasionally add your two cents to the explosive mix. Price has joked before that you’re the best behaved amongst the group, even over Ghost.

Not only are you the least experienced with combat, but you’re also the team medic. It often leaves you feeling like you have to maintain a certain level of decorum and responsibility alongside your officers. It’s no wonder that you try to stay on the straight and narrow – the occasional snippy comment aside.

But this is beyond anything you’ve dared.

Soap has had enough to point out the parlor down the street and dare you. You’ve had enough to be goaded into spitefully proving a point. If Gaz were here, he might be clever enough to dare Soap into something else to get him to back down. If Ghost were here, he’d scruff you both like unruly kittens and haul you back to base. If Price were here, you’d be running laps until you puke.

Instead, it’s just you and Soap. Ghost and Gaz aren’t due back for a week and half, Price is probably buried waist deep in paperwork as usual. And there’s no one to tell you not to.

And so Soap gets his nipples pierced and you get your tongue re-pierced, and you both wake up the next day a little hungover and a lot sore.

You consider taking it out but… well.

You kinda missed having it.

And you want to see how long it’ll take Ghost to notice if you use your discreet jewelry.

You give Soap painkillers for his nipples and promise to hook him up with a good jewelry store recommendation. Then you spend the rest of the day trying not to talk. The rest of the week, really. If anyone notices, they don’t mention it. Soap is always happy to talk for the both of you.

By the time Gaz and Ghost return, it hardly hurts anymore. Still healing, yes, but it only aches in the mornings now. You fit the flat-topped, clear ring into the piercing and go to meet the boys on the tarmac.

They exit the aircraft together, Gaz chatting about something and Ghost humoring him in characteristic silence. When the latter sees you, though, he makes a beeline. You let out a surprised but pleased noise as you’re scooped up, mask wedging into the space beneath your jaw to press against your neck.

“Welcome back, sir,” you manage, squeezing his shoulders.

He grunts in reply. You shoot Gaz a questioning look.

“It was slow going,” he explains, “And the guys on the transport back were, uh, chatty.”

Ah. Set on your feet again, his gloved hands rise to squish your face like usual.

“Do the thing,” he gruffs.

You wrinkle your nose. Partially out of embarrassment, and partially because he’ll see the piercing if you’re not careful.

“That captain is—”

“That’s an order, sergeant.”

You sigh. Then poke your tongue out as he smooshes your face further. He exhales like the first hit of nicotine for the day. You keep the jewelry hidden behind your teeth and are released a few seconds later.

“That’s the stuff,” he says.

“Christ, LT, don’t say it like that,” you complain.

Unsurprisingly, he ignores you, turning to Price.

“Debrief now?”

“If you and Gaz don’t need medical.”

They both shake their heads, and you make no secret that you’re pleased by this news.

As you head into the building, you find Ghost’s finger hooked into your belt loop, tugging you along to Price’s office. You don’t mention it, only arch an eyebrow when you catch his eye.

At the door, Price pauses, giving Ghost a long, exasperated look.

“You know she’s not actually a service animal, son?”

“The intel isn’t confidential.”

Price sighs, drags a hand down his face. “Suppose not. Get the fuck in, then, Squeaks.”

You get the fuck in.

As usual, Ghost stands, and you’re obliged to stand with him. In front of him, actually, his chin settling on top of your head while his hands settle on your shoulders, squeezing and kneading at the muscle. You tune out most of the conversation, only here for Ghost’s sake, apparently.

Not that you mind. There’s a large, loud part of you that is glowing with the knowledge that he missed you so much.

When it’s over, he doesn’t even bother to stop at the mess hall. He picks you straight up and strides off to his quarters. You complain that he needs to eat, or at least drink water, but he doesn’t even deign your fussing with a response.

He closes and locks the door when you’re both inside, then tosses you on the bed. It smells overwhelmingly of him: metal, gunpowder, standard issue detergent, and something spicy. It’s a scent you’ve become intimately familiar with – could get addicted to, if you let yourself.

You settle in amongst the crisp sheets and thin pillows, Ghost sheds his tac gear like a second skin. When he’s down to his undershirt and boxers, barefoot on the cold ground, you open your arms.

He climbs over you as you giggle, then unapologetically drops all his weight. You make your usual little oof sound, suspecting that he likes it, and tilt your head so he can press his face (without the skull mask) into your shoulder.

“So how was it actually?” you ask.

“Gaz was antsy the whole time. Said he sensed you and Soap up to something without him.”

You snort, relieved that he can’t see the damning expression on your face right now.

 “There isn’t anything to get up to when he’s not here causing it,” you lie.

“Don’t put anything past Soap, the crafty cunt.”

You grin, patting your hands lightly over his shoulder blades. “Nice alliteration.”

He hums, slowly going boneless beneath your rhythmless tapping.

“Mask,” he mutters.

It takes you a second to realize what he wants.

“You’re asking me to pull it up so you can bite me?” you scoff.

“Telling, not asking,” he grumbles.

“Oh for the love of…”

You do it anyway. It’s not long before you feel his teeth, always sharper than you expect, latch onto the base of your neck. You tilt your chin back to give him comfortable access, staring up at the ceiling. How often does he sit here after nightmares, staring at it? Does he do it even when you sleepover, clinging onto him like a koala?

You lay like that for a while, fingers finding the fine blond hair peeking out from his rolled balaclava and scritching. One of his hands wedges beneath himself to find your hip, squeezing you tight enough that his nails scrape across your pants.

“So what did you two get up to?” he asks, detaching eventually.

Your neck is aching pleasantly, mind drifting in peace, and you don’t realize what he’s asking at first.

“What?” you ask.

You try to suppress a shiver as his tongue drags over the saliva he left on your neck. This is a normal part of the process, but that doesn’t mean you’re immune to the pleasure it sends down your spine.

“You and Soap,” he clarifies. “What did you do?”

“It was mostly Soap,” you deflect, forgoing any attempt at innocence.

He snorts. “My problem?”

You consider, humming. “Probably not.”

“Probably?”

You shrug. “Don’t leave me unattended if you don’t want paperwork.”

He nips sharply at the hinge of your jaw. “Didn’t want to. Price said you don’t have enough experience if things went to shit.”

You don’t know how to feel that Ghost would have preferred you on a mission with him. Even over Soap? You know he’s fond of you, but you didn’t realize it was enough to have you partnered with him on missions. It makes your chest warm and fluttery. The bastard.

“He’s right,” you say instead of something unforgivably sentimental.

“Imagine he’ll overlook that when he finds out about your body candy.”

You squeak, eyes closing in regret. Well, it was a nice life while it lasted.

“That fast?” you ask.

“Saw it as soon as you opened that pretty mouth,” he answers.

“It’s clear!”

“Thought I wouldn’t see a piece of plastic in your mouth, sergeant?”

You sigh, barely even noticing the bite he leaves on your collarbone. When he pushes his chest up to look at you, he’s half-lidded, almost lazy looking. But the corner of his mouth quirks up, just that slightest bit you’ve become hypervigilant of. Your hands slide from his shoulders and curl into the front of his shirt.

“How much trouble am I in?” you venture.

“A world of it,” he replies, voice pitching low and rough in a way that’s just not fair.

“Soap did worse,” you complain, not above throwing him under the bus. This is his fault anyway.

“Don’t care what Soap did. Care that you tried to hide it from me.”

He catches your chin between thumb and forefinger, gives it a little shake like a reprimand.

“Wasn’t hiding it,” you argue. “At least not from you. Would have told you by the end of the week if you hadn’t noticed.”

And you really would have. If Price hadn’t been present on the tarmac, you had half a mind to show it off immediately, excited to be breaking the rules.

Ghost hums, eyes roving your face – apparently to determine the truth of your confession.

“Doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,” he warns.

But you know that tone of voice by now. You’re not off the hook yet.

“…Want me to take it out?” you try.

His eyes go from dark to pitch black. “No.”

Oh?

Oh.

“Want… to see it?”

He hums. Not quite confirmation, but close enough. You don’t even think before dropping your jaw, tongue rolling out over your bottom lip. He let out a short, hard breath. You see his jaw twitch.

Then he shifts.

His thumb lands on your tongue, much farther back than you expect but you don’t flinch. He draws a line down the center to the flat top of your piercing and then presses down. You make a protesting noise, a warning because it’s still new and still sore. He doesn’t let up but doesn’t push any harder.

“Squeaks.”

You flutter your eyes open (when did they close?) and meet his eyes. They nearly absorb all the light in the room, twin blackholes drawing you in, inescapable and immutable. There’s a hunger lurking within, one you realize with a jolt you’ve been seeing for a long time now.

Whatever he sees on your face, it makes him run his tongue along his own teeth – pearly white and perfectly straight. Then he ducks down and licks over your piercing, first in neat sweeps, and then in tight little circles around its circumference.

Trapped beneath him and mouth open, you can’t swallow back the whine that peels from your throat. You’d be embarrassed about it; except the noise you make when he stops is so much worse.

“Taste good,” he rumbles.

“This another stress thing?” you ask, dizzy and flushed.

He smirks, chuckles deep in his chest. “If it is, will you let me do it whenever I want?”

You nod, thoughts blurring at the edges. His smirk widens, but he obliges when you tug at his shirt, wanting him close, wanting him to do it again.

It takes a long time for it to evolve into an actual kiss. He spends what feels like a small eternity flicking his tongue over your piercing, around it. It’s an unusual sensation, not quite ticklish, but decadent and erotic. At some point, quiet little noises start spilling from your throat and don’t stop. He doesn’t seem to mind, pressing down when the pitch goes higher – or maybe you pitch higher because he’s closer?

Eventually your jaw tires from hanging open, tongue aching at the stretch. You retract back into your own mouth, but Ghost chases after. It’s like he forgot about actual kissing until that moment. And then he has something new to amuse himself with. His tongue explores your lips, the roof of your mouth, the back of your throat. He drags his sharp teeth over your bottom lip, growls when you return the favor in retaliation for the sting.

“That’s my girl,” he rasps, “my medic.”

You hum, reciprocate the thorough exploration he just gave you. He tastes a little metallic, but mostly he tastes like Ghost, like Simon, and it’s addicting.

“Think it’s a stress thing for me too,” you murmur when you pull away for air.

“Yeah?” He trails his mouth down your jaw, teeth scraping. “Anxious while I was gone?”

You nod. You always worry about the boys when they’re away, when you’re not there for a worst-case scenario. But you thought about your lieutenant especially, wondering at his mood, at his feelings, without your usual daily interactions. His absence left you feeling twitchy, a little unmoored. You wonder – hope – if he felt the same.

“Take what you need, then,” he whispers. “Don’t mind returning the favor.”

You sink your nails into his shoulders, rake them down his back and sides, treating him like a scratching post. He shivers, puffs out a hot breath by your ear. Your mouth finds that strong, sharp jaw and latches on, sucking and biting, worrying the skin until you pull away to a dark bruise.

“Go on,” he urges.

You do, making a trail down his neck, then across. Tug at his shirt when it gets in the way. He leans back to pull it over his head. You nearly tackle him, mapping out the swell of hard muscles, licking over the angry lines you clawed into him.

“Easy now, precious,” he purrs. “No rush.”

You make a disagreeing noise, lips never leaving his skin. One hand tangles in your hair, petting and holding, not guiding. His other drifts down to your ass and grips like a vice. It hurts a little; it feels so fucking good. There will be bruises for days.

When your nails scratch across his hip, he bucks, fingers spasming against your scalp.

“Careful,” he growls. “Asking for something you might not be ready for.”

You hum. “Maybe,” you agree honestly. “I’ve never…”

He goes rigid. Worried, you glance up. His bare chest (marked up by your hands and mouth) is heaving. His jaw is slack, lips wet. You can’t distinguish between pupil and iris anymore.

“You swear?” he asks, rough. “You’ve never fucked anyone before?”

“No,” you say, not embarrassed, not with him. “Got close, but never managed it. Things always got in the way. Used to be a joke with my friends, that I was cursed.”

A fire alarm, an oblivious roommate, police knocking on the door, the roof falling in, once.

“You have experience,” he asserts.

“Definitely.” You quirk a wicked smile his way. “Plenty of practice with my mouth…”

He shudders, tilting your head to a vulnerable angle, neck exposed.

“And my hands,” you add, gasping.

“You keep pushing, pet…” he rumbles.

You whine. “Want to, with you. Want it to be you, Simon.”

His lips crash into yours, messy and filthy, licking all the needy sounds from your mouth.

“Strip, sergeant. Now.”

You scramble to obey, wiggling out of your clothes as quickly as you can while still half under him.

“Always so good for me,” he hums. “Always follow my orders, my good little sergeant.”

“Yours,” you breathe against his mouth.

The last scrap of clothing is barely off when he pounces, hand flattening on your stomach and pressing you down into the mattress. It nearly knocks the wind out of you, the force of it, pinning you. His eyes hungrily lock on your chest, on the smooth and unmarked skin of your breasts.

If you wanted to protest, you don’t get the chance to. He descends on you like a starving man, all teeth and tongue, practically mauling you. You squirm, not sure where you want to go, just that it’s a lot of sensation all at once. He captures a perked nipple between his lips and sucks until you keen, knee bumping his flank like you want to kick him off.

He slots his hips between yours, presses up tight to trap you further. His free hand grasps at your other breast. Kneading roughly, then twisting and plucking at the rosy nipple until you’re crying out, nearly thrashing. When he’s satisfied, he switches his hand and mouth, spinning you up and up until your breasts are aching and the best kind of sore. He finally pulls off with a lewd pop, mouth slick, rosettes left all over you in his wake.

“Trying to kill me,” you pant.

He smirks, drops one last soothing kiss on your sternum. Then extricates himself to remove the last of his own clothing. His dick springs free from his waistband, slapping obscenely against his stomach. You freeze when the dim light glints off bits of metal.

“Is that…?”

“Come find out.”

You scoot to the edge of the bed and brush your fingertips over the hypnotizing ladder of studs along the shaft. Which, now that you’re closer and your hand is there for scale, is huge. Like, almost pornographic. You didn’t know that existed outside of raunchy media. That’s been under you, snuggled up to you, beneath your ass – for months now.

“Oh my god, Simon,” you gulp. “Is that going to…?”

“It will if you can be patient for me.”

“Okay,” you say, eyes never leaving the glittering silver row. You trust him. As rough as he can be, he’s never hurt you. Not in any way you didn’t crave.

His hand catches your chin again, tips your gaze back to his. “Another time, lovely. Give your tongue a break.”

You whine but sit back on your haunches, hands planted between your knees. “Then hurry up.”

His thumb caresses your jaw, presses in warning. “Patient, I said.”

“I’ve been patient,” you argue. “Gimme.”

That coaxes a chuckle out of him. He plants a hand on your shoulder and shoves. You land on your back again, stretch your legs to hang over the side of the bed. He lowers to his knees between them, thick thighs flexing. His hands slide under your hips and drag until your thighs are over his shoulders.

“Fuck,” you breathe, “Simon.”

“That’s it, lovely,” he coos, teeth grazing your hip. “Just lay there saying my name. Let me play with my toy.”

You’re so wet that you can feel it all over your inner thighs, would be embarrassed if not for the absolutely feral noise he makes at the sight.

“Made a mess.” He draws his tongue up your thigh, sucks at the junction where it meets your hip, loud in the quiet room. “You always like this for me?”

“Mhmm,” you whimper out, squeezing your eyes shut. It’s true. You can’t count the number of times you’ve gone back to your room just to change panties.

“That’s my girl.”

He spends an agonizing amount of time licking, biting, and sucking your thighs. Your pleading and whining is met with indifference or absent chuckles. The need has long since tipped over into desperation, muscles twitching with little sparks of pleasure at every graze of teeth and sharp suck.

You’re already both understimulated and overstimulated when he clamps down especially hard, think he’s broken skin for a moment. Frustrated tears have been dancing at the edges of your vision for a while now and they spill over at the blissful burn that shoots through your leg.

“Simon, Simon, please,” you sob, “please, want it. Please, just—”

He shushes you, soothing the hurt with his tongue until your babbling trails off into little sniffles.

“How copy?” he hushes.

“S-Solid,” you answer. “Just a lot.”

“Tactical retreat?”

“No.” You take a shuddering breath. “No, please. Want to keep going, sir.”

His breath is also unsteady as it brushes over your sensitive skin. “Alright, precious. Tap out if you need.”

You snake a hand down the bed and find his wrist, digging your nails in as you squeeze. A promise to honor his command.

He groans low in his throat, eyes smoldering as he looks up your heaving body.

“Pretty when you cry,” he rasps. “Will you do it more if I play with your needy clit?”

“N-no,” you lie.

He calls your bluff, pressing his mouth to your pussy and making a long, slow pass up your slit. You shake and whimper high-pitched, almost hurt sounding. He swirls the tip over your throbbing clit, sucks gently every few passes. You press your eyes shut, too gone to try to stop the reactionary tears any other way.

It’s a quirk of sex you’ve always had. Not prone to crying emotionally or from pain, but when the arousal or pleasure gets too intense, your eyes water like rivers. Some partners have found it off-putting, but the louder you wail and hiccup and cry, the more eager Simon gets. Like he’s got a direct line to heaven’s choir with his tongue.

You’re gripping his wrist so tight that you must be close to drawing blood, but he doesn’t do more than flex his fingers on your ass. Keeps you right there against his mouth, so that all you can do is take exactly what he gives you.

He seals his lips over your clit again, rubbing his tongue against the swollen bundle of nerves as he sucks. It gets you to the edge so fast that you’re seeing stars, nearly kicking him.

“Close,” you pant.

He eases up just that little bit to keep you from tipping into orgasm. You’re devastated. Afresh wave of tears drip down your temples to the sound of pathetic, helpless moans. Blessedly, he doesn’t stop. Just keeps you right there as he slides a hand from your ass to your cunt.

Just one of his fingers is thicker than any of yours; sliding two into your dripping hole almost hurdles you into ecstasy. He pulls his mouth away as you clench around them, trickling down his wrist.

“So tight. Didn’t you ever get off to the thought of me?”

“All the f-fucking time,” you admit.

“Yeah?”

You nod, tongue laving over your bottom lip. “My hands just… yours are bigger.”

He chuckles. “No cute little toys to help you out?”

“Like to imagine it’s you,” you ramble, shame long gone. “Easier without a vibe.”

“Fuck.”

He dives down to your clit again, tongue almost cruel as it tortures you with quick, rough strokes. You might scream; you don’t care if you do. His fingers curl to pet your walls, find that spot as if he had his sniper scope on it. You thrash as he strokes you, steady and unrelenting. He sucks one last time and you’re gone, coming so hard that your fingertips go numb.

You’re definitely screaming now; his name, specifically. He growls against your pussy, the vibration only prolonging that pleasure, writhing on his hand. You swallow air like you’re suffocating, Simon filling every part of you, drenching your senses. He’s all you know right now, your heart beating to his name.

And he doesn’t stop.

“S-Simon, what are – t-too much. It’s too much, it’s too—” His pins your hips down as he fits a third finger inside you, finger-fucking you so hard that the slick sounds almost drown out your sobs. You’re overstimulated, riding the edge of pain in your pleasure, lower back tight and hot.

But you don’t tap out, just fist the sheets hard enough to pop the seams.

Simon is single-minded, insistent, demanding. It’s a quality you’ve always admired in the field, and right now it’s pulling you apart piece by shivering piece.

“Simon, I-I’m gonna – I can’t…” You shake your head, crying freely and loudly, whimpering as much as you’re moaning.

He presses one of your thighs towards your chest, fingertips digging harsh into muscle. The shift gives him better access to that thrumming knot of nerves inside you. He presses against it hard and incessant as his tongue flicks repeatedly over your abused clit. Your second orgasm drowns you in waves, hips rolling, not sure if you want to get away or get more.

Simon strokes you through it until you subside into pathetic, shuddering noises, pushing weakly at him, pleading for mercy. When he pulls away, slick is dripping down his chin to his neck. The bottom edge of his balaclava is dark where it’s bunched over his nose. He surges up to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You stay that way for a while, letting him coax your breathing into something like normal again. A task made more difficult whenever his fingers tease your tender nipples, preoccupied with how your lungs hitch and your body jolts.

Eventually, your mouth strays to clean him up, licking yourself from his jaw and chin, messy but earnest. He captures your mouth again when you’re done, sucking your tongue like he wants to get every last drop. You shake at the thought, almost horrified to realize you’re still ridiculously horny.

He must see something in your face because he smirks a little. “Playtime’s not over, don’t worry.”

His fingertips trace over your pussy, not dipping in far, but the threat of it triggers a new batch of whimpers and tears. He cocks his head at the sight, almost curious, then leans down and follows their paths with his tongue.

A hum, low and pleased, thunders in the heady sliver of air between you. Against your hip, you feel his cock twitch, hot enough to brand.

“Taste good everywhere,” he muses, tongue still lapping at your tears.

“God, Simon,” you keen, squeezing your glassy eyes shut.

“Want you to do it again,” he murmurs. “Cry for me so I can taste how good I make you feel.”

You moan, pussy clenching, feeling horribly empty. The teeth in your neck are an almost welcome reprieve from the overwhelming pleasure, grounding as they bruise delicate skin.

“Want to see you crying on my cock, lovely. Will you do that for me?”

You nod, reaching for him. Curl your arms around his shoulders, wrap your legs around his waist. He shushes you again, cooing when you hide your wet face against his neck. He supports your unsteady body with unfaltering strength; lets you cling as he rearranges you in his lap.

You can feel his cock beneath you, rock hard, the Jacob’s ladder teasing against your pussy. It distracts you a bit, foggy mind obsessing over how it’ll feel inside you, especially now that you’ve come twice.

His hand pats your ass. “Eyes up, doll.”

You emerge from your hiding spot only to stare, wide-eyed and awed, at his bare face. There are scars everywhere, just like the rest of his body, of varying color and size and healing histories. One on his temple, just clipping his cheek, catches your attention. It’s one of the better-healed scars.

You press a gentle kiss, flick your tongue along it. His hands spasm on your hips, but don’t tug you away.

“Handsome,” you sigh, then nip the same spot you just kissed.

You can feel his smile, a small but precious thing, against your cheek. “Can’t even fucking see straight right now.”

“Not that far gone,” you scoff, scritching your nails along his stubbled jaw. You could purr at the way he leans into it.

“Have to fix that, then.”

You prop yourself up with your other hand on his chest. His heart is beating beneath your palm, a little fast, but steady and strong. You adore it instantly.

You make eye contact, the hand on his face drifting to his cheek. Then you stretch to get the other… and squish. Just like he’s done to you countless times.

“Yes,” you agree.

That finally coaxes a proper chuckle out of him, bass deep and a little rough with disuse, but music to your ears. You let his cheeks go, nipping the little red marks your grip leaves behind.

“C’mon, Si,” you whisper. “Want your dick in me.”

And finally, it seems he’s run out of interest in teasing.

You lean your shoulders against him, letting him take most of your weight between his chest and the arm angling your hips. His other hand steadies his cock, drags the flushed, leaking head against your sopping entrance.

He lowers you slowly, encouraging you to dig your nails into his shoulders, draw them down his arms. Even stretched and two orgasms in, he’s big. It’s testing your limits, not quite pain, stinging in a way that makes your mouth water.

And your eyes.

The tears are back and streaming down your hot cheeks. When Simon notices, you feel his cock throb. You choke on a noise, mouth falling slack as he licks at them like a thirsting man in the desert.

“Didn’t take long,” he teases, a little mean. You love it.

“S-sensitive,” you whine, pressing your forehead to his.

“I know, pet,” he croons. “The head’s almost in.”

Just the head. Christ.

The pleasure keeps racking you and so do quiet little cries, your walls clutching every raw centimeter of his cock like he was built just for you. (Or the other way around, a depraved part of you whispers.)

He’s steady and patient as he fills you, keeping your mouth busy with claiming kisses when he’s not drinking up your tears. At the first rung of the Jacob’s ladder, you squeak and have to be held down, gone on how it stretches your poor entrance and grinds against your abused walls.

Each one after that garners a similar reaction, driving you insane as they press against you.

“Can feel your fucking heartbeat,” he groans at one point.

You moan, raking your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. The blond strands are dark and messy, getting messier as you play with them. He grunts and his eyelids flutter every time you tug.

By the time he’s fully inside you, your ass resting on his tense thighs, you’re panting and trembling. He sweeps a hand up your arched spine and curls his fingers around the back of your neck. You lean into his hold, go lax as he guides you through a decadent, devouring kiss.

“There we are, lovely,” he soothes while you whimper. “Hurt?”

“A little…” you gasp, clenching helplessly around the base of him.

“Good,” he growls, teeth on your shoulder.

You moan, falling limp in his arms. He rumbles a pleased hum, squeezing at your hips and ass and thighs in that way you recognize.

“Stressed?” you ask, confused.

He snorts. “I don’t need a reason to play with what’s mine.”

You suck in a breath, the casual (and true) claim making your head spin.

“Relax, pet,” he murmurs. “Just get used to me inside you.”

You mewl, high and soft in your throat. He tilts his head to speak in your ear.

“Your pussy is going to remember the shape of me by the end of this.”

And your lieutenant doesn’t make idle threats.

He guides your head down to his shoulder, his other arm wrapping around your waist. The lewdest hug you’ve ever received. If not for the fat cock stretching you, it would be calming.

“Good girl, that’s it,” he hums, drawing idle patterns along your spine. “Just drift. It’ll be a bit before you can handle a proper fucking.”

He’s so deep and big inside you that you believe it, but a nagging part reminds you of the uneven score.

“What about you?”

He presses an unusually gentle kiss to your temple, though it’s balanced by the tight squeeze to the back of your neck.

“Don’t you worry about me, precious,” he chuckles. “You’ll keep me nice and warm until you’re ready.”

You swallow thickly, can’t help how you flutter around him. It’s a delicious thought, just sitting here with him filling you up for an indefinite period of time, until he decides you can handle how he’s going to fuck you.

“Like that do you?” he muses, too dark to be truly amused. “Like being my personal cocksleeve?”

“’M not,” you mumble, feeling a new sting of tears.

He tuts. “You’re my toy every other way. No point pretending now.”

You whimper into his neck, bite in retaliation but don’t deny it. Well past the point of anything like plausible deniability.

“No more fussing, pet. Be good for me now.”

And you are, settling in with your mouth brushing absent kisses to his marked collarbones. His hands never stop stroking your skin, lulling you into empty-headed bliss. The full feeling of his cock never dissipates, but you become less aware of it, internal muscles accommodating the stretch. You don’t even realize you’ve slipped into a doze, breaths going deep and even, safely cradled in your lieutenant’s arms.

When you wake, watery early-morning light is leaking past the blackout curtains. One of your hips is stiff from sleeping bunched up, but that’s not what calls your immediate attention. No, it’s the absolute puddle that Simon is coaxing from your stuffed hole with his thumb on your clit. He’s hard inside of you again – or maybe he never got soft in the first place.

“Mornin’,” he rasps when he sees you peeking your head up. Calm as you please. Like his cockhead isn’t kissing your cervix right now.

“You bastard,” you wheeze, sinking a mean bite into his shoulder.

“Grumpy thing,” he teases. “Forgot how sulky you are before coffee.”

You grumble incomprehensibly for a moment. Can’t believe he put you to sleep on his cock. More than a little miffed that you didn’t receive the proper fucking you earned yesterday. That you’ve woken up raring to go already, want his cum in your stomach more than breakfast.

“You actually plan on doing anything?” you demand. “Or we going to the mess like this? Risky to have hot tea that close to your balls.”

His laugh is like honey, rich and syrupy. Liquid sunshine when you kiss it from his mouth.

“Remember who’s in charge here, pet,” he warns.

You tilt your head in question, arching an eyebrow.

“You,” he continues, surprising you. Then he keeps talking. “So if you keep acting like a brat, I’ll have to treat you like one.”

You shiver. It should be illegal to be so salacious this early in the morning. To your delight, he allows you to wiggle a little, testing the feeling of his cock inside you. It’s absolutely divine.

“Or, counterpoint,” you say, daring to be cheeky when he’s looking at you like that. Like he’d burn the world just to keep you warm for a night. “I was very good yesterday and deserve a reward.”

“That so, sergeant?” he asks.

“Mhmm,” you chirp. Duck down to bribe him with kisses and nips along his jaw and neck, stubble prickling your bruised tongue. “I’ll even ask nicely.”

He groans, low and rough in his chest. “Yeah?”

You yelp as he tangles his fingers in the hair at the base of your neck, dragging your head back. His teeth scrape over the stuttering pulse in your throat, where there’s a sensitive spot that makes you squirm. His other hand sneaks to your breasts, tweaking a nipple still sore from his treatment the night before.

“Show me how nice you can ask then.”

And, well, not backing down from a challenge is what got you here in the first place.

You straighten up as best you can – have to take a moment when his cock grinds just right inside you – and arch your back. Your nails score lines down his chest, just this side of rough, knowing it’ll work better than any soft petting. Paired with nibbling kisses to the spot beneath his ear, you can already feel the rumble building in his chest.

“Simon, please,” you breathe, “I need you. Need it to be you.”

“Need what, lovely?” he husks.

“Need it to be you that fucks me.” You dare to rock your hips, pleased and distracted that he lets you. His fingers spread your ass wider over his lap. “Need you to break me in. Please?”

Sniper he may be, but his patience must already be gossamer thin from holding back last night and crammed inside your pussy until morning. He snaps at your crooning pleas, rolling you onto your back and grinding into you as deep as he can get.

There have been times in the field that you’ve stared as Simon operates his rifle. It’s his piece, modified and maintained in pristine condition. You’ve watched his clever fingers put it together, dismantle it, clean it, handle it with a deadly competence and precision that you envied. Not him, but the rifle. Probably something wrong with you, that you want to be an instrument, a tool, in your lieutenant’s capable hands, built up and broken apart at his whim.

Now, though… now you know. You’ve got confirmation that it’s everything you imagined and better, his scarred hands on you like he owns you, like you’re his to figure out. You want to be, you are, and you babble as much when he draws his hips back and snaps them forward.

There’s nothing testing or careful about it. Simon knows you’re not fragile, spent all night making sure you could take him exactly the way he wants you. You’ve never wanted him to hold back, don’t want him to now. Crave the way his control seems to slip when it’s you, your body, your voice egging him on.

He rolls his hips every time he bottoms out; his piercings grind deliciously against your twitching entrance with every thrust. You bury your fingers in his hair, tug when he pulls out as if he’s going to leave you empty and wanting. He grunts against your neck, teeth ravenous over skin that already bears their imprint.

It feels like freefall with no parachute, like getting caught in a perfect white-hot explosion. The force of him makes the bed creak, would shove you up the mattress if not for the tight grip on your thighs. His arm loops under the small of your back and angles your hips up.

“Mine,” he growls into your shoulder. “All fucking mine. My sergeant. My medic. My pretty toy.”

You can’t string together more than broken syllables, little noises forced out every time he drives home. He’s not looking for a verbal response though; your body is already singing its agreement, clamping down on his cock like you can’t stand any millimeter not inside you. You’re rocking with him as best you can, knee hitched up by his ribs, pulling him closer, closer, closer.

“I’m right here, doll. Not going anywhere,” he murmurs. Then, almost to himself. “No, not letting you out of my sight ever fucking again. Going to keep you right by my side, within reach.”

You cry out, ridiculously turned on by promises he can’t possibly keep. It’s not the nature of the job, but the fact that that’s what he wants…

“Go fucking crazy when I can’t see you,” he pants, “touch you. Was goin’ fuckin’ batshit all week. Gaz wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Just wanted to get my hands on you. My teeth in you.”

There’s an earnest, desperate edge to his words. Sounds like a sinner praying for salvation, like he’s begging some cruel god for relief. Or, more likely for your lieutenant, threatening to take that god’s place.

You’d worship Simon if he did. Practically do already. Would spread yourself out on his altar and let him devour you mind, body, and soul just to appease his appetite.

“Simon, please,” you cry, head tilting back, bearing your throat. “I’m yours. Your medic, your sergeant, your toy.”

“Fuck,” he hisses. “That’s right, love. All mine.”

He pushes himself up, pressing his hand to the wall over your head. It’s gorgeous, the play of muscle and sinew in his arm. A fucking masterpiece of a man, beautiful and dangerous and right now, all fucking yours too.

The new leverage lets him slam into you faster and harder, frantic now. You have to brace your arms above your head to keep from knocking into the wall, pushing back to meet him thrust for brutal thrust. Could swear you feel him in your guts.

“C’mon, love, let me see those pretty tears.”

His hand slides over your thigh to your clit, thumb rubbing vicious little circles over the nerves. It gives him what he wants instantly, you’re near screaming as you cry. It’s rough and ruthless and has you so close to the edge that you’re almost jolting away.

“Lemme cum,” you beg, “Please, please, Simon, want to cum on your cock. So close…”

His grin is more just a bearing of teeth, eyes glittering in the shadows above you. “Cum for me, precious.”

It doesn’t take much more than that, always eager to please your lieutenant. His hips and finger sync up at just the right moment, just the right way, and you’re gushing over his cock, voice breaking. Your nails scrape the wall as you curl our hands into fists, bucking as he fucks you through it.

You’re not surprised when he doesn’t even slow down, though you reach to push his hand off your screaming clit. His hand darts from the wall to capture your wrists, pinning them over your head. The punishing rhythm of his hips doesn’t even falter, bullying that spot inside you relentlessly.

“I didn’t say you could fucking stop,” he snarls.

You whine and struggle, but that just makes you tighter, makes him rougher, makes it better. You’re not even sure if the cresting sensation is pleasure anymore, if it’s another orgasm or your body reaching max capacity. It’s just whiteout intense and you can do nothing but lay there writhing.

“Gonna cum in you,” he moans, head dropping. “Gonna leave my mark inside you too.”

You contract around him helplessly, his thrusts getting messier, plunging into you at a dizzying speed. Not even sure if you’re making noise anymore, or just sucking in air when you can get it. His fingers flex around your wrists, tight and unforgiving.

And then there's a burst of heat as he moans, sounding gutting. He fucks you through his own orgasm before finally slowing, and then stopping buried deep inside you. His thumb eases off your abused clit, hand landing on the bed beside your hip. Your leg flops down to the mattress, stretched out and still twitchy.

“How copy, sergeant?” he rasps.

“Solid, LT,” you wheeze. “You?”

“Fucking fantastic.”

That startles a little giggle out of you, grinning up at him fucked-out and high on afterglow. His returning smile, small and disused as it is, is better than all the orgasms you’ve had in the last twelve hours.

“Gonna pull out now,” he warns. “Brace.”

Even prepared, you still yelp, beyond sensitive and cored without him inside you. The feeling is only exacerbated by the warm cum you can feel dripping down your ass from your used hole.

“Look at that…” he drawls appreciatively, tilting his head for a good look. “There any part of you that ain’t pretty?”

You groan and cover your overheated face, knock your shin into his hip. But you leave your legs open.

“Shut up, Simon.”

“Insubordinate.”

“Fraternizer.”

“Mm. Gonna report me to Price?”

“Only if you report me.”

“Mutually assured destruction then.”

Your mouth is still hidden under your hands, but you know he can see your body shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Or you could help me clean up, take a nap, and we’ll negotiate terms for a ceasefire.”

He chuckles. “Should have you on a diplomatic envoy, Squeaks. Have the rest of us out of a job. No wars, no soldiers.”

You shake your head, dropping your arms to card through his hair. He lowers himself onto you – not his usual full-force flop, but still by no means delicate about it. You like the weight of him on your tingling body. Feels like he’s keeping you from floating away.

“Only way they’re getting me on protection detail for politicians is if you’re there with me.”

He grimaces. It’s stupidly charming how it makes a scar on his nose scrunch up. “The point is to stop incidents, not start them.”

“Shame, then,” you hum. “Guess we’re stuck here then.”

“Guess so.”

He pats your thigh, then pushes himself up. You protest immediately, but he shushes you with a wry smirk.

“Part of the terms, wasn’t it? To clean you up?”

You grumble but subside, thankful that officer quarters come with an ensuite. It doesn’t take him long to return with a damp cloth and a cup of water. He sets the latter on the side table and kneels between your thighs, wiping you down as gently as he’s ever been.

When he’s done, you make grabby hands until he scoffs and climbs in with you again.

“Nap?” you ask hopefully.

“Yeah. Got you up early. Still an hour ‘til breakfast.”

Not for the first (or likely last) time, you are grateful for Simon’s brilliant tactics.

“You’re my hero.”

He snorts, but when you peek up at him, there’s a fetching pink tint to his cheeks. “Go the fuck to sleep, Squeaks.”

“Yessir.”

[sjmvillainweek]

SJM Villain Week Rules/FAQ

Welcome to SJM Villain Week taking place on the 1st - 7th of October to kick off the scariest month of the year.

In order to inspire creativity within the fandom, we are running a prompt submission form to collect your ideas for what the prompts should be for the event! Each day will have two prompts, as well as a free day on the seventh.

The prompts list is now up! Here is the link to the list

Click the read more to see the rules and FAQ for this event week!

To help this event run smoothly, here are the rules to follow

This event is about the big bad guys of the SJM universe, but that does not mean that hate will be accepted. Remember to be kind and respectful to everyone joining in on this event. Any kind of hate mail sent will be deleted and the user will be blocked, no questions asked.

Projection of harmful stereotypes will not be allowed. Any kind of portrayal of the villains is welcome, as long as everything is kept respectful, and it is clear that certain kinds of behavior are not justified.

All relationships and interpretations of sexualities are welcome! So long as your villain of choice is at the forefront of your content. Shipbashing is not permitted. You are also of course welcome to create general and non-ship content.

No A.I content is permitted and therefore will not be reblogged.

NSFW and mature content is allowed, so long as everything is appropriately tagged. That means on Tumblr, their guidelines for NSFW images are followed, and on AO3, or other posting platforms, the work is sufficiently tagged and rated according to that sites rules.

As we are dealing with the villains of the story, it needs to be clear, graphic depictions of Rape/Non-Con will not be reblogged.

Whilst we all have different headcanons, and interpretations of characters, these are some characters that are not villains, and content centering around them will not be reblogged or otherwise featured during this event-

Tamlin

Eris Vanserra

Rhysand

The Inner Circle

Bone Carver, Weaver, Bryaxis

Cormac

FAQ

How do I participate in this event?

Any kinds of participation are welcome! Whether that be headcanons, fanart, fanfiction, moodboards, playlists, edits, or anything else you come up with! Remember, any A.I content will not be reblogged.

Is there an AO3 collection?

There is a collection on AO3 for the works posted, (here is the link) There are three ways you can add your works to the collection.

If you go to the collections page you can press "Post to Collection" and post your fic as normal.

When posting your fic, scroll to the option "Post to Collections/Challenges" you can manually type in the name of our collection (SJM Villain Week 2024) and add it.

If you fic is already posted, click edit and scroll to the option "Post to Collections/Challenges, and add it to our event as you would when posting.

Who is running this event?

This week-long event is being hosted by @hieragalbatorixdottir, @achaotichuman and @readychilledwine

What if I have a question about the event?

If you have any questions, please feel free to send an ask to the event account! We would love to hear all of your questions, headcanons, or any content you wish to share with us! If you want your ask to be answered privately please state that in the ask, otherwise all asks sent in will be published.

And please remember to not send any asks regarding the event account to our moderators. Please send them through the ask box of this account.

Do I have to stick to the prompts?

The prompts are there to help inspire creativity, that being said you do not have to stick to them. There will be two prompts for each day, you can use both, just one, or none at all! Whatever inspires you to create work! There will also be a free day where you can go utterly nuts and write whatever you want featuring our villains!

What can I do for SJM Villain Week if I am not a creator?

Any kind of interaction with the creators' making content is the best way to support them and encourage them leading up and during the event week! Consider liking, commenting and reblogging the content you see. This is the best way to let the creators know their content is appreciated.

Up to and during the event, we will be reblogging and sharing content made for our villains. If you have seen or have created works for our villains don't hesitate to share with us so we can reblog it!

Without further ado, welcome to SJM Villain Week, where lies, secrets and evil abounds. We’ll see you in October.

[starlight-archer]

Since AO3 is down, here's my stevetember fic!! (will be up on AO3 too as soon as possible)

The Case of The Not-So-Evil Seagull: Part 1

This was not the first report of 'evil seagulls' in Port Townsend. However, it was the first report of such obvious severity.

It started out simply enough, with a letter from Tragic Mick, who had contacted the Dead Boy Detective Agency in London, via the Ghost Post about the theft of a specific magical item from his shop. An item that could cause quite the calamity in the wrong hands.

“Are we sure we want to go back there after what happened?” Charles asked, full of well-meaning concern.

“It's Mick! We have to go!” Niko protested. “I wouldn't have been able to come back to you guys without the bear totem he gave me.”

“I do believe that Niko is correct in this matter. Mick has asked for our assistance and I think that it is fair to say that we owe him.” Edwin reasoned. “Besides, Esther is gone and therefore cannot hurt any of us anymore.”

“Esther's not who I'm worried about, mate.” Charles pursed his lips in irritation as he remembered that infuriating feline menace. “It's that bloody Cat King.”

“But he helped me and Crystal!” Niko jumped to the cat's defence.

“That's true. He did give us some pretty vital info that helped us figure out how to take Esther down.” Crystal added. “But we don't have to interact with him, especially if he might make you uncomfortable, Edwin.”

“I appreciate that, Crystal, but I assure you there is no need to worry. I parted from the Cat King on good terms. By the end, I believe that we came to understand each other. Besides, I have no reason to think that he would do anything to purposefully hinder us, given that none of us have slighted him as of recent.” Edwin replied, and, as he recalled the way he had kissed the Cat King's cheek, he felt relieved that ghosts lacked in the ability to blush.

“Alright, if you're sure,” Charles reluctantly agreed. “but if he tries any funny business, I won't hesitate to knock his block off.”

“I cannot say I approve of such measures, but I do appreciate the sentiment.” Edwin smiled fondly before turning to Crystal and Niko. “Given our previously successful experimentation with the backpack, I believe it would be more efficient for the two of you to use it so that you might come with Charles and I, via the mirrors.”

Edwin circled the desk and stood, ready, by the mirror.

“Okay, okay, sure, that's great and all, but Niko and I are gonna need to get at least a backpack of clothes together before we go all the way there.” Crystal gestured between the two of them while Niko nodded enthusiastically.

“Fine… just don't take too long.” Edwin sighed.

Having to accommodate the living was still something to get used to after thirty-odd years of just doing everything on a whim. He was getting there. That didn't mean that he wasn't going to complain about it, though.

-----

When they got to Port Townsend, it was sunny and bright, still in the morning hours of the day. It was one of the more convenient things about the eight-hour time difference; it meant that they had the whole day ahead of them to work this case.

As soon as Crystal and Niko had managed to clamber back out of the backpack, they headed over to Mick's.

When they arrived, the shop was strangely quiet. Cautiously, they shared a look between themselves and stepped inside.

Mick was not in his usual seat behind the counter, so they ventured a little further until a loud crash sounded out from around the corner.

Simultaneously, they hurried to the source of the noise, only to find Mick swinging a broom at a frantically flapping seagull. The bird flapped its wings and tried to land, the space between shelves being too small for it to comfortably fly.

The four of them watched on in mild horror as the bird nipped at Mick's trouser leg, only to get whacked in the side with the broom and sent careening towards them with an indignant squawk.

They stepped back, giving the bird and the frustrated ex-walrus as wide of a berth as they could in the confined space between aisles.

“Get it! Get that evil seagull!” Mick turned about and followed through the gap in the shelves.

The seagull cried out and hobbled towards them, one of its wings visibly injured. It jumped twice and scrambled as it was knocked in the tail feathers again with the broom, and tried to hide behind Edwin and Charles' legs.

“What in the blazes is going on here exactly?” Edwin asked, confused and startled.

“That there is one of those evil seagulls that's been terrorising my shop.” Mick pointed at it in accusation with the broom. “Coming in, flapping around, knocking things over. And, trying to eat my lunch.”

They stared for a moment and the seagull let out a rather pathetic squeaking noise.

“While that is certainly very irritating, what is it about this exactly that warrants our intervention, specifically?” Edwin questioned, slowly, still taking in the situation.

“I already told you. It's an evil seagull.” Mick reiterated.

“Right. Well, I'll just take this little guy outside then.” Charles said, turning to try and scoop the bird up into his arms.

The bird screeched out in pain as pressure was put on its injured wing and it snapped, biting at Charles' fingers with its sharp, yellow beak.

“Oi!” he protested. “I'm just trying to help, mate!”

“I think its wing might be broken.” Niko stepped closer, looking sympathetically at the bird.

“Shit, that looks bad.” Crystal agreed, wincing.

“Hang on a tick.” Charles finally managed to scoop up the seagull and noticed something. “This guy's got pink legs. That's a Herring Gull, right, Edwin? Aren't they usually only in the UK?”

The seagull squawked in what sounded like agreement.

“That's right, Charles. They're endangered, actually, if I am recalling correctly.” Edwin turned to examine the gull himself. “What are you doing so far from home?”

The gull tilted its head, curiously.

“What exactly was the magical item that was stolen from you, Mick?” he turned back to their friend.

“The sheet music that summons evil seagulls.”

“Hang on. Is that the same sheet music that we almost tried to use to make that giant fish go back to sleep?” Crystal wondered, aloud.

“A'yup.” Mick confirmed with a solemn nod. “Good job you didn't, too, or this would have been an even bigger problem.”

“I wonder who would want to summon evil seagulls...” Niko reached out to gently touch the seagull's head. It nipped at her fingers, but with no real intent to cause hurt. “This one seems too nice to be evil.”

“Now don't let it fool you. That thing has been coming in and wrecking my shop daily. For a week.” Mick complained, though he did set his broom aside and take up his usual seat at the till.

“Do you have any idea who might want to do this?”Crystal asked, though she was pretty sure that there was no real point in asking it.

“Not a clue. That's why I called on you. You helped out all those ghosts while you were here and you dealt with those other evil seagulls for one of 'em. Surely this is within your area of business.” Mick looked between them expectantly.

“Of course! We can start right away! Right, guys?” Niko agreed, excitedly.

“Thank you! Thank you all. You can choose an item from my shop as payment, just get rid of those seagulls!” Mick seemed to be caught between relief and concern as he leaned back in his chair.

It had looked for a moment, as though Edwin had been about to object to Niko's eager agreement for the lack of negotiation over a method of payment, but he quickly accepted it at the prospect of being able to pick something out from the vast assortment of magical and enchanted items inside the shop.

“Right. Well. Let us get to work, then.”he said, cornering a glance down at the herring gull- which was looking awfully sorry for itself in Charles' arms – before turning briskly towards the exit.

“Right, we'll get this sorted for you, Mick, don't you worry.” Charles smiled cheerily as he pet the seagull's head with his index finger. “This little guy doesn't seem all that dangerous.”

“Just be careful.” Mick cautioned them, and after all the times he had helped them, they were inclined to listen.

“Sure.” Crystal offered a one-shoulder shrug.

“Don't worry, Mick. We'll be careful!” Niko assured before she hurried after Edwin, shortly followed by Crystal, and Charles (who was still focused on petting the gull and looked as though he may be about to start cooing at it).

Once they were all outside, it occurred to them that they didn't really know what to do with an injured bird.

They could not simply take it to a vet, considering that it was allegedly evil and most likely a magical creature of some sort. Being any kind of magical or supernatural tended to mean that normal doctors and vets, and the like were out of the question.

They also, however, could not spend the entire investigation carrying it around like some sort of handbag. Attempting to place it into the backpack could also result in some undesirable issues, not limited to the action potentially exacerbating the bird's injuries.

“So what do we do with it?” Crystal voiced their collective thoughts.

“We have to help it.” Niko said, sympathetically.

“But how? We don't exactly have access to any supernatural veterinarians, do we?” Crystal snarked, without any real bite.

“Well, as much as I'd love to, I can't really keep carrying him around with me, can I?” Charles agreed, though he looked reluctant to part with the seagull.

“Unfortunately not.” Edwin agreed. “Though I am rather uncertain of what alternatives we have at our disposal.”

Niko gasped. “What about the Cat King?”

“What do you mean?” Crystal immediately questioned.

“He's a magical animal too, right? Maybe he can help!” Niko explained her idea, happily.

Charles visibly recoiled at the plan, he felt a bit bad about his obvious distaste, but said distaste was overruling it.

“Oh, do stop pouting, Charles. Niko is right. He may just be the only one capable of helping us with this specific issue.” Edwin chastised.

He worried for a brief moment over the prospect of seeing the Cat King again, after their parting in the alleyway. He fought a blush at the memory of his bold actions, and at the knowledge that he still possessed the white lily that he had been so thoughtfully gifted. He had pressed and dried the flower in order to preserve it, and it was – at that very moment – sitting in a small frame, atop his desk.

The only person that he had confided in about the flower's origin was Niko, and he had a sneaking suspicion that although her intentions were good, she had another distinct purpose for suggesting that they seek the Cat King's assistance.

Nevertheless, he truly was their best option.

-----

The welcome that awaited them at the entrance to the Imperial Pacific Cannery, was… not in the least bit warm.

A clowder of hissing cats eyed the seagull with varying levels of seething, loathing, and hunger. They could not seem to decide on whether they thought of it as a threat or a snack.

“What the fuck are you doing back here again?” it was the same cat that Edwin had leashed on their first visit. He couldn't say that he blamed it for its disdain.

“We are here to seek an audience with the Cat King. Kindly move aside.” Edwin answered coolly.

“Fuck you!” it sneered. “I've got no idea why the Cat King even likes you.” it complained, but moved aside anyway.

“Thank you.”

Edwin walked past and the others trailed in behind him as he stepped inside the cannery.

As he approached the dais where the Cat King sat in his throne, in his cat form, Edwin could practically sense Charles' want to grab his cricket bat for protection. Such measures would be unnecessary, but he could certainly understand why his inability to access it would cause unrest. It was almost like a comfort item; it made him feel safer.

In a flash, the Cat King vanished, and reappeared in his human form in front of Edwin, running a hand over the lapel of his coat, adjusting it, though he was otherwise keeping a bit more of a respectful distance than he usually maintained.

“Edwin~” he purred. “What a pleasure it is to see you again~”

Edwin straightened up and cleared his throat. “Likewise.”

“Likewise?” Charles' spluttered next to him.

Edwin chose to ignore this.

“So, what brings you to my kingdom? Did you miss me?” the Cat King inquired, stepping a little further into Edwin's space at the positive reception.

“We require your assistance with an evil seagull situation, actually.” Edwin said, gesturing to the bird. “Though, that is not to say that I didn't miss you.” he hastened to add, upon noticing the Cat King's falling expression (which quickly brightened again).

“Oh. Well, since you came all the way here, I suppose I can do a favour for my favourite ghost.” the Cat King smiled and eyed Edwin flirtatiously as he spoke.

“So, if you're done with the foreplay, can you just tell us if this is actually an evil seagull?” Crystal reiterated, growing irritated at the time that they were taking.

“Ugh, you're so impatient.” the Cat King backed up, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “Do you want my help or not?”

“Sorry your highness. Please help us out.” Niko apologised on Crystal's behalf.

The Cat King lost a bit of his bluster at that. He had a soft spot for Niko, seeing as she was one of the only members of their little Scooby Gang that actually showed his position any respect.

“Fine, fine.” he pretended to be put out by it as he turned flippantly to the bird. “It's not an evil seagull, at least not by supernatural standards. It is a supernatural seagull though.”

“It's supernatural?” Charles repeated in question.

“I just said that, didn't I? Keep up.” the Cat King responded sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “Why don't you transform yourself, huh? You think they'll be nicer to you if you keep playing up the whole poor defenceless birdie shtick?” he leaned over so that he was eye-level with the seagull.

The gull wailed loudly in protest.

The Cat King hissed in irritation as his cats scattered and puffed up on high alert. “Shut the fuck up, will you? No one cares! Hurry up and transform already.”

All of a sudden, the bird disappeared inside a thick grey swirl of fog and before any of them could fully comprehend what was happening, it had reappeared in Charles' arms. As a young man.

Charles' immediate response is to push him away and scramble backwards away from him. “What the hell?”

“Don't be like that! I thought we were becoming friends!” the seagull- man- thing whined in what was surprisingly, a British accent.

He was tall (maybe a couple of inches taller than Edwin and Charles) and toned with soft features that were undercut by a sharp jawline. His hair was a riot of grey, wavy curls. His skin was smooth and dark, and his eyes were a piercing yellow, giving away his true nature.

“You did just transform while still being held.” Crystal pointed out.

“My arm is broken.” the Seagull protested. “I could hardly fly down with a broken bloody wing, could I?”

“Oh my god there's two of them.” the Cat King looked exasperatedly between the Seagull and Charles.

“Oi, sod off! No there isn't!” Charles snapped back.

“Why are you so offended? I'm perfectly nice, I'll have you know.” the Seagull pouted.

“Why are you British?” Niko broke the tension with her confusion.

Crystal's eyes widened. “Oh my gosh, Niko, you can't just ask people why they're British.”

“Your friend… Charles… guessed right earlier. I'm a Herring Gull.” he replied with a shrug, carefully guessing Charles' name and hoping he was right. “We're native to the UK and Ireland.”

“What on earth are you doing in Port Townsend, Washington?” Edwin inquired. “A little bit out of your usual migration is it not?” It was easier to ask these questions now that the gull had taken on a human form.

“Is that where I am? Thanks for telling me! You're the first one to bother to tell me anything. I did wonder why everyone here sounded like the TV people.” the seagull smiled widely at Edwin (oh good grief he had dimples). “Last thing I remember, I was flying over Hastings beach looking for anyone eating chips out in the open and the next, I was flying straight into a tree in the middle of an unfamiliar place. My nose still kind of hurts.” He moved his good arm animatedly as he explained it and even made a little 'exploding' motion for flying into the tree.

“I have… so many questions...” Crystal shook her head as she stared, mystified.

“That sounds like it hurt!” Niko sympathised.

“It did!” the seagull agreed. “And now I have a bruised nose and a useless broken arm!” he gestured to the offending limb. “That mean walrus man kept chasing me with his broom. I only went in because I could smell battered cod.”

“Of course you did.” the Cat King looked as though he was finding all of this hysterical. “This is too good.”

“Can you not use your magic to heal your arm?” Edwin asked. He had pulled out his notebook and pen from his breast pocket and was poised at the ready to start documenting any and all information that he could gather.

“Well, I think I can only transform. The only other thing I can do for sure is see ultraviolet light, innit? But all herring gulls can do that, so it's not really special.” the gull answered.

“You think? Can you at least tell us what sort of magical being you are if you are not an evil seagull?” Edwin continued, raising a brow at the gull's uncertainty over his own capabilities.

“Not a clue, mate. Definitely not evil though.” he sniffed. “Any of you got any food? I'm a bit peckish.”

“No...” Crystal replied.

The seagull looked a tad downtrodden at that, the most upset he had been thus far, even when he had been talking about his broken arm, which was still hanging limply by his side.

“Hang on a tick. Rewind a bit. You don't know what you are?” Charles was utterly baffled by the prospect.

“I guess I just never really thought about it.” the gull shrugged again.

Everyone in the room just stared at him for a moment, blinking. Every time he spoke he said something that managed to completely threw them for a loop.

“That's sad.” Niko broke the silence.

“I mean, I don't think so. I don't really think I need to know, you know? I don't know why I exist or what I'm supposed to be, but here I am! I actually think it's pretty cool! I get to be whatever I want.” the seagull grinned again. It was almost rudely charismatic.

Niko smiled happily in response, relieved that being in the dark about his own origins wasn't something that made him feel down.

“Jeez. I can't fucking take this anymore.” the Cat King gestured and in a puff of purple flame, the seagull's arm was secured in a cast and sling.

“Holy crap! Thank you!” the seagull cheered and abruptly drew the Cat King into a crushing hug. “My arm is all fixed! You're the best!”

When he let go, the Cat King stood stock still with a startled expression. He was only snapped out of his stupor by Charles and Crystal's snickering at his expense.

“It is absolutely not fixed. It is still very much broken. It is simply in a cast. Please do refrain from excessive movement if you want it to heal correctly.” Edwin chastised.

“Awww, thanks. You really care a lot don't you? You're so nice! Looking out for me an' all.” the seagull was almost painfully sincere.

They might not have known what the true nature of this seagull-man-thing was, but one thing was for certain.

This was definitely not an evil seagull.

[roopnavarro]

Octoboss-related ask: I know this is a big hypothetical but there is this story on Ao3 called 'Guardian of Gastown' which involves Octoboss becoming the ruler of Gastown after the negotiations go haywire and Dementus and his crew get captured.

In your mind, what kind of ruler would Octoboss be?

Hey there! Excellent question! Thank you so much for the ask! I’m going to check out the fic later, thanks for the rec! But I’m going to answer this question before I indulge in reading it, because I want to go in blind, and I don’t want to seem like I’m rebutting or trying to invalidate another author’s work. Whenever I give my takes, that’s never the case. I think it’s wonderful that we have this wellspring of creativity and a myriad of interpretations around this character who has like, five lines and two minutes of screentime! I’m also going to give you a primer on how I portray Octoboss and his decision-making process. Disclaimer time! Everything henceforth is PURELY my speculation on what makes this imaginary horned biker tick. So even if it sounds like I’m making a definitive statement on how he “should” think or behave, I’m not. I just want to put this disclaimer out front so I don’t have to constantly couch my language in terms like “I speculate…” and “I think that…” I’m only discussing my view on the character and how I choose to portray him in RP and fanfic. With that in mind, let’s dive in!

As mentioned prior, I portray the character in roleplay. Since roleplay is like a mix between improv acting and writing, I needed to come up with a way for him to make decisions that are reasonably consistent with what we see in canon AND reasonably easy to replicate consistently in on-the-fly storytelling AND fun to interact with for collaborative storytelling. Rambling time, but I PROMISE this is necessary groundwork to cook up the answer. So how do we delve into the mind of a guy that tortured a woman and then gets pissy when his subordinates are shot by an ally? My first belief is that Octoboss doesn’t use a moral code. There’s no list of rules he follows; instead, he looks at each situation, in its context, and does his best to make decisions that uphold/advance a guiding principle. So let’s figure out his guiding principle. — I think that principle is “Maximize good for the Mortiflyers.” “Maximize good” can mean “help them avoid harm/distress,” “provide more/better resources for them,” and anything else that could be argued to improve quality of life or reduce unhappiness. 

Therefore, his decision-making process most closely mirrors a wacky Wasteland version of Act Utilitarianism. To oversimplify this, Act Utilitarianism weighs the morality of an action based on the outcomes for the “greater good.” For Octoboss, the Mortiflyers (and the Horde, pre-rift) are the “greater good.” As he saw it, Mary Jabassa held the keys to the Green Place, and it was morally IMPERATIVE that he take them from her, in order to make a better future for the Horde, by any means necessary. Now, sure, we could get into the weeds and say the Green Place isn’t big enough to sustain them, but Octo doesn’t know that. This use of torture is actually a prime example of a common criticism of Act Utilitarianism — it justifies some VERY bad behavior if the potential outcome is good enough!

(Hilariously, Dementus also seemed to be using an Act Utilitarianism framework when deciding to sacrifice the Mortiflyers in the Trojan Horse ploy — their deaths produced a benefit for the Horde and the rest of the Mortiflyers. Octoboss realizes this, but the pain of betrayal and loss are mingling with his understanding of Dementus’ moral justification for the killings. This makes Octo fume like mad. Got bit in the ass by his own philosophy…) However, Octo’s moral framework doesn’t exist to justify cruelty. It also undergirds the gentleness and approachability that defines my portrayal of the character. It’s better for the greater good of the Mortiflyers for them all to cooperate and communicate openly. Their whole gimmick — two-person motorcycle-launched paragliders, two-person motorcycle crews, and two-person flyer/driver combos — involves cooperation and communication. Their actions seem very practiced and well rehearsed, and in order to achieve that, they need to be quite open regarding what works, what doesn’t, and what could be improved. They need to be able to say to each other “I need more speed to launch,” or “I need you to get me closer to the target,” or “When you took that sharp turn and I was up in the air, that hurt my shoulder, and now I can’t throw thundersticks right.” The Octoboss does all he can to facilitate this by leading through example. 

In terms of emotions, information, and guidance, he is very open with the Mortiflyers. He believes knowledge is meant to be shared.  He also doesn't shy away from critique if he notices a member of the gang doing something that would endanger another. And he's not the type to simply tear someone down. He'd work with the gang member to fix the bad habit or remedy the issue that's causing them to behave erratically. Similarly, he’s open to critique from his men, especially if they can explain how his actions are negatively impacting them. All of these positive traits are built upon a foundation of “gotta do what’s right for their greater good.” 

So now that we’ve got a glimpse into his decision-making process, let’s move on to discussing his approach to power. From what we see in canon, it doesn’t seem like Octoboss is ruling by force/coercion, or with an iron fist. A random Mortiflyer is brave enough to look DEMENTUS in the eyes, after getting a direct order, and say “I take orders from the Octoboss!” There’s so much conviction in his voice. It’s loyalty to Octoboss, not fear of him. There are SO many ways this scene could’ve gone. Imagine if the Mortiflyer said “N-n-no! The Octoboss will have my head if I disobey him!” But no. That’s not how it went. Instead, the Mortiflyer almost sounds like a kid saying to his stepdad, “You’re not my REAL father,” which indicates preference, affection, and loyalty to the OG dad. You don’t get that kind of loyalty by being a dick to your people. I don’t think he’s hoarding resources from them, keeping them in the dark about plans, and generally just being an authoritarian prick. He cares about them deeply, and they return his sentiment. Within the greater dynamics of the Horde, I think the Mortiflyers have a decent amount of soft power. They’ve practically got a uniform, they’re loyal, and they don’t even seem to have a numerical advantage over the rest of the squad. This brings us to a discussion of hard power vs. soft power. Hard power is rule through force and coercion — locking people up, killing people, taking stuff away from them. Soft power is the ability to influence rather than coerce/force. The Mortiflyers seem like they’d be among the elite troops of the Horde, and I wouldn’t be shocked if other horde members aspired to join them, or at least be in their good graces. This “soft power” approach will have to get a bit harder if tasked with ruling over the entire Horde AND Gastown. With these factors in mind, let’s run down some steps I think he’d take if he were left in charge of Gastown.

Distance himself from the actions of Dementus when dealing with Immortan Joe and the other members of Gastown’s high command. Submit to Joe’s rule, since that’s the route that’s least likely to result in casualties on his side. Make it known that he and his men WILL work within the system and improve operations at Gastown. Do his best to IMMEDIATELY ingratiate himself to Joe by discontinuing most non-essential generator usage and adding that gas to the trade deal, in exchange for more food and water. Promise to boost fuel production by fixing issues in the production chain. 

Once again, motivated by the best interest of the Mortiflyers, he crunches some numbers. According to Lachy Hulme’s interview with Empire, there are about 4,000 bikes in the Horde. We can safely say every bike has a rider, but some bikes have more than one rider (people riding backpack, Organic Mechanic with History Man on the back of his trike, and so forth).The Horde also suffered some losses during the confrontation with Scrotus and Rictus at the first Citadel meeting, but the majority of the Horde was out of Thunderstick throwing range. I don’t think their losses were in the 100s. So for quick and dirty math, let’s just say there are 4,000 people in the Horde. Now let’s look at Gastown’s population. Australia’s largest oil refinery employed about 1,100 workers. Gastown also drills oil, and I haven’t been able to find much solid data on how many people you need for the extraction portion. The closest ballpark number I’ve been able to get is 100-200, but *shrugs* that may be off. So let’s add on various others in Gastown (Sanitation workers, kitchen staff, medical staff, mechanics, War Boys/Polecats/Flamers, Imperators, resource managers, guards, repair workers,  Gastown nobility, misc staff, children of anyone listed here). I think it’s reasonable to estimate 2,000-ish people, in total, in Gastown. In light of this information, Octoboss would immediately realize that Gastown has a carrying capacity problem due to the influx of new residents and its limited amount of food, water, and space. He knows they trade guzzolene for food and water, but they won’t be able to up guzz production enough to pay for the food and water needed to support all the new residents, especially since the population has skyrocketed immediately. And would the Citadel even need that much fuel at once? Probably not, fuel has an expiration date and can’t be stored indefinitely. People WILL riot and starve unless the population is curbed quickly. So that brings us to the question — how would Octoboss reduce the population? Well, he understands that the Horde is full of hard-working and resourceful people with valuable skills. He’d want to brief them on the idea of being traded to another settlement, and take a tally of who can do what jobs. Who would be open to working in the Citadel gardens? How about the sick bay? Can you weld? Would you be up to cast bullets or reload rounds? How about swinging a pickaxe or working in a kitchen? Who wants to be a War Boy BUT FOR REAL THIS TIME? Naturally, some people would be resistant to this idea. He’d give them the option to return to nomadic life, but he’d give them a fair warning that anyone raiding the empire’s shipments WILL be met with lethal force. And of course, some people wouldn’t want to work with the leaders that killed Dementus and friends. If that erupted into a civil war, it would curb the population, albeit in a less-than-ideal way.

Familiarize himself with the operation. His ass does NAWT know anything about running a refinery or drilling operation! And he knows this! To better understand his duties, he’d need a tour through the facilities. He understands guzzolene production isn’t just wizardry, it takes skilled workers, and he’d defer to them when they explain the limitations of Gastown’s production capabilities.

Identify quality of life improvements needed to boost guz production. Go from being the Octoboss to the OSHAboss! Despite what some people will tell you, a safe (or at least safer) work environment is more productive. IRL, oil refineries work 24/7, 365 days per year. Accidents are common, and also slow down production (a machine isn’t gonna run right with some dude’s arm stuck in it!). Due to the constant flow of work, it’s likely that some health and safety aspects of Gastown’s oil refinery have fallen into disrepair, and could use outside help. A high turnover rate due to death/injury is a problem, because training new employees takes time and distracts from the guzzolene production process.  Glancing at some cursory work injury data, it looks like entrapment, getting hit by equipment, and falls from high places are the most common injury causes. Ventilation issues are also common, and can lead to workers getting sick and reducing productivity. Some of these issues can be remedied pretty quickly — the Mortiflyers have lots of experience working at heights, and would probably be able to rig up a pretty simple (but useful) clip and harness system for workers in fall-prone areas. Identify spots that need guardrails and other safety barriers. Employ some Horde members to go scavenge some materials to build the stuff, and get the Horde to work on these improvement projects. Poorly ventilated areas (likely understood as “places that’ll make you feel yucky if you hang out there too long”) would be baffling to Octo, but I feel like he could consult with someone to figure that out. And when it comes to providing ventilation, well… Which faction has access to large fans? And probably understands how to build and repair them? …That’s right! In other words — use the Horde to improve Gastown, because this helps the Horde integrate better. It proves the Horde’s worth.

Identify the criticisms of the old Guardian of Gastown. The former Guardian of Gastown seems like a bit of an ivory tower kinda guy. He’s clearly put a lot of time and effort into his hobbies and beautifying his personal surroundings. His clothes are clean and neat, which is an “accomplishment” considering he lives in a friggin oil refinery. Wait, did I say “accomplishment?” Nah. I mean “this man has never done a day of manual labor in his life.” There HAVE to be people that have beef with the guy, particularly the workers. Listen to the workers. Win over the workers, because unlike the nobility, they’re the actual backbone of the operation. The workers of Gastown become a part of Octo’s priorities, since their work and productivity is essential for keeping the Mortiflyers safe, fed, and housed. 

Woooowhee! Nearly 2,500 words in this response! No such thing as “Shut the Fuck Up Friday” for RoopNavarro. Writing about this makes me want to play it out in an RP or write a fic to really delve into these thoughts (although I might skip that, given that it’s likely redundant with the fic that already exists, and I never want to step on another author’s toes).

Regardless, I am ALWAYS open to answer any Octoboss questions you may have! Thanks again for dropping by and wanting my take!

[howlsofbloodhounds]

I had a few thoughts on one topic.

Looking at who the Epic Sanses are, these three, one might say, have triumphed over death, one way or another. I may be wrong, but judging by observations, I have identified the following:

Delta almost died, but due to the fact that Asgore from his Universe threw him the Bravery soul and after absorbing it, he became alive again, although not without consequences. But even in his new form, he cannot die, because Bravery will not allow him to do so. Considering that the human souls, when merging with the soul of a monster, even one human soul, make monster godlike, or equal to a god. this looks like a semblance of immortality.

Color, being, one might say, in an already destroyed state, was saved by the souls of people, at the last moment, and they support his existence, despite the fact that his body could not withstand it, perhaps he will not die.

Epic can't die because of his eye, which is why he can come back in an instant. (sorry, I don't know much about this universe, but I know this for sure)

Maybe these three are too COOL to die so easily. Or Reaper Sans might be interested in them, since they fell out of the cycle of life and death.

Any thoughts on this?

I think it’s an interesting idea, especially since two out of three of them (epic & color) even have some ties with nightmare through cross & killer.

Which also adds some potential ideas if you headcanon nightmare to be afraid of death, and therefore reaper, and how that may effect interactions between folk like nightmare and color if color has somehow, someway drawn reapers attention in.

Which gets even more interesting with killer himself having potential ties to both reaper and the anomaly, aka reapertale chara. the anomaly has shown an interest in other anomalies like themself, such as core frisk, and would shown an interest in yet another of the multiverse’s biggest anomalies; k1ll_sans.

(especially since a chara is a reason that killer is killer and a sans is the reason that the Anaomly is the anomaly. what if reaper doesnt need reapertale flowey to lead him to chara if killer can show him the way, knowingly, willingly, or not.)

and anomilies have even bigger ties with error!sans.

interesting how all these characters and stories and aus can potentially be tied together, especially if the answer is that the epic Sanses are simply just too cool for death to contain. I feel like a potential plot for a fic is cooking but gods know I cant tell whats in the kitchen.

[cryscendo]

au+trope+prompt game, Klaine:

babysitter!au

exes

“you have the emotional capacity of a brick.”

I'm so sorry about the last one, but I'm curious to see how you fix it :)

thank you so much for the ask! unfortunately, i lost the original prompt a bit in writing this. I wanted to leave the dynamic pretty open-ended so sorry if it’s a little off. hope you enjoy regardless!!

Word Count: 777

fic can be read under the cut!

~~~

Kurt has decided that he is going to kill Rachel Berry.

He’s never been one to consider murder as an option before, but it does feel appropriate that Rachel should be his first.

“Are you serious, Rachel?” Kurt asks in exasperation. He had agreed to babysit his nephews so that his step-brother and his wife could go on a date night. However, he should have figured that Rachel always had ulterior motives.

“It’ll be fine, Kurt! Your nephew really wanted to spend time with his Uncle Kurt and Uncle Blaine. Just this once, I promise!” Uncle Blaine? Since when did Blaine get upgraded to uncle? Before Kurt had a chance to argue, Rachel prattled on. “Make sure Chester gets his bath and is in bed by 8:30. Thanks, babe, you’re the best!” She kissed Kurt on the cheek before quickly heading towards the door. “C’mon, Finn!”

Finn followed behind Rachel silently, but not without directing an apologetic look towards Kurt. God, Finn, you pushover.

Once the couple was out the door, Kurt stared at the door, hoping to burn a hole in the wood through sheer agitation alone.

“So, are you just gonna stand there and look pissy or are you gonna help me babysit?”

And there was Blaine. He was sitting on the couch through the entirety of Kurt’s interaction with Rachel, but Kurt had been resolutely not looking at him.

“This is a bad idea.”

“Sure is,” Blaine agreed, and even that irritated Kurt. Finally looking over towards Blaine, Kurt saw his ex-boyfriend holding his nephew in his arms. Kurt heaved a sigh and eventually sat down next to Blaine on the couch, careful to leave an acceptable amount of distance between the two of them.

“Two people aren’t needed to watch one kid.”

“Then leave,” Blaine stated evenly. This took Kurt by surprise by how easily Blaine said that to him. “You can either do that or get over yourself for one night.”

Though Kurt appeared he wanted to argue, he simply shook his head dismissively. He didn’t want to deal with this, but at the very least, he could tell that Blaine didn’t want to either. But it was just one night. He could do this. Sure, he and Blaine aren’t on the best of terms, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t handle one night with him. Even if the only reason they’re spending any amount of time together is because of Rachel and her incessant scheming.

The evening went on about as Kurt anticipated that it may: casual bickering between the two paired with taking care of his nephew. Bathtime was relatively painless, aside from the fact that Blaine was insistent on playing in the water with Chester, therefore getting water everywhere that Kurt had no doubt he would have to be the one to clean up.

Eventually, once Chester was put down for bed, Kurt and Blaine sat down in the silent living room, on opposite ends of the couch once more. Despite his nephew being an incredibly well-behaved kid, Kurt cannot imagine taking care of a child every single day. He’s honestly amazed that Finn and Rachel can do it. He sighed, only this time not from frustration, but from exhaustion.

“Wasn’t so bad, now was it?” Blaine finally spoke up, his voice carrying none of the bite from earlier in the evening. He must’ve been just as tired as Kurt was.

“Could’ve been worse, I guess.”

Blaine huffed a laugh that was without humor. “Sometimes, Kurt, you have the emotional capacity of a brick.”

At this, Kurt felt a bit indignant. “That’s hilarious coming from you.” Truly, as if Blaine has any right to be casting stones in the emotional availability department.

“I’m serious. You have so much you wanna say, I can tell. Just say it.” Blaine caught Kurt’s attention with that statement. “Look, I know that we didn’t break up on the best of terms, but come on. We’ve got to communicate better than this. Much as you may hate it, our lives are still going to be interconnected. No amount of arguing is going to change that.”

“Are you saying that you don’t hate it?”

“Seeing you from time to time? I can certainly think of worse things.” 

Before Kurt could respond, Chester started to cry in the other room. “I got him,” Kurt said as he stood, ready to be away from this conversation. Blaine didn’t try to stop him, so Kurt left him to check on his nephew. Though not without thinking about what Blaine was implying. Does Blaine want to still spend time with Kurt?

It was all too much, too soon.

[glorified-red]

Things only get added into the room if the character interacts with it. If the character doesnt, then you're just telling the reader what to imagine.

can you go a little more in depth with this?

I'd love to! This is a really good question, too.

So most writers I work with are visual learners and need some kind of visual to understand an abstract concept, and with writing, there's many.

So sure I could say "Show. Don't tell."

But what does that look like?

So I say your story starts with an empty room. It's a little 4 x 4 room, no windows, no doors, nothing on the walls, no furniture, just absolutely nothing. When you start writing, your character gets plopped into that room.

The room is the setting of your story, but if you haven't specified a setting yet, the room is empty. Sure you can tell the readers that the room is supposed to be a forest, a classroom, or a mall.

But, you haven't detailed the room yet, it's still empty, it just has a little sign in the middle of the room that says "forest". But forests all look different, so that tells me absolutely nothing.

Plus, that's telling, and we don't want that.

So with my writers, I make them write me a scene with only one rule (fun little writing exercise for those who wanna try):

Nothing gets added into the room unless your character physically, mentally, or emotionally interacts with it. If your character doesn't? It doesn't exist.

You wanna specify that there's a desk in the corner of the room adjacent to the bed? You can't tell the audience, you have to find a way for your character to interact with it and show them that it exists.

This also applies to pre-existing scenes. If you read a scene and your character only interacts with the bed, yet you spent two paragraphs describing the furniture layout of the room?

I make them delete it.

They can then see visually that now there's only a bed in that once empty room. Plus, if your character only interacts with the bed and nothing else in that scene?

Then what's the point of describing the desk.

At that point you're just controlling your readers imagination because you can. You're taking away the readers freedom to imagine any room they want to, a room that they find familiar, find intriguing, or just think would look cool for the story.

Micromanaging the visuals of a story is fine if it's pertinent to the plot or you have a specific vibe (then you use tone, connotation, etc. Instead of focusing on specifics of where shit is, specify what it looks like because if you want a vibe, that's important to character portrayals which is therefore important to plot), or your character interacts with it in a specific way.

Otherwise? Does it matter?

Especially when talking about fanfiction. The entire point of reader-insert writing is for anyone to picture themselves and their situation into the fic and micromanaging what they can and cannot imagine limits that projection.

That's why all my fics are as vague as shit. So you guys can picture your bedroom or your kitchen, because me saying the countertops are marbled doesn't affect anything but your ability to effectively immerse yourself into the story.

Now if I were to have a flashback or reference that you and your comfort character spent a week remodeling the countertops and you can trace the spot where you tried writing your signatures in the marble---that affects the plot, that would be a fun tidbit.

So when it comes to setting and scenary, there's a fine line between creating enough things in the room to make a cohesive story, accidentally creating nothing at all, and creating too much.

And it all boils down to your audience, what your writing, why you're writing it, and your platform of writing.

Specifically in fanfiction, listing off scenery is fine to create the mood, but it gets boring when done in excess. I like for my writers to get out of the habit of relying on telling the audience what to imagine for the sake of "just 'cause" because that's the quickest way to tread the path towards excess.

"The desk was pushed against the furthest wall, the window next to it shining light against the array of notebooks and broken crayons. The bed was in disarray. Pillows made their way to the foot of the bed and the blankets were crumpled and half falling onto the carpet below."

Like yea, you could absolutely do that. It paints the scene well even though you're just telling the audience what to imagine.

But the key in that paragraph is that all the things I mentioned in the room had a purpose. I'm not just saying there's a desk in the room because I'm picturing a desk so therefore you have to picture the same desk (aka micromanaging imagination)

No, I'm showing that the room is chaos which could then bridge into a story about why. Maybe the character is going through Shit™ or that's a character trait. It's still showing the audience something in the subtext even though it's telling the setting.

(This would be an example of room vibes which helps with character portrayals like I mentioned earlier. Notice how I didn't specify where the desk or bed was In relation to each other, instead I focused on details of said things to get the message of chaos across [crayons, blankets, notebooks, etc]. I also implied that a character interacted with the room because how else would crayons break? How else would blankets fall to the floor? This is what I mean when I say a character can interact with the space without it being inherently physical [can be emotional or mental], it can also be implied. That implication counts towards creating stuff in the room because technically, your character interacted with it. So yes, I told you what's in the room. But I also had the character interact with it in the past. Fun little loophole to my rule.)

You can have both at once.

Sure I'm basically listing off bullet points of what the room looks like. But there's reason behind it. Because if a character walks into the chaotic room, it's showing the audience that hey, there's a reason why the room is chaotic, stay tuned to find out. Even though I never actually specified that there's a reason in the first place.

So you kinda gotta ask yourself where you want to show and where you want to tell, cuz showing all the time gets too poetic and hurts brains unless you want to be an asshole and write poetry.

But just telling makes for a shitty story.

So you gotta find a balance. And the exercise above with the empty room is for you to practice showing setting instead of telling it because it's an easy habit to fall into. Some people don't need the practice but by god do most.

You don't have to use the empty room analogy all the time, but if you find yourself spending 2-5+ paragraphs telling the audience what to imagine, it might be a good exercise to try out to see what matters to plot, what your characters are interacting with, and what your habits are.

I usually write out what the room looks like in detail and then begin the scene. After I finish, I delete all the paragraphs of me describing the room to see what the characters actually needed to make the scene run.

Then If I need to, and only if I need to, I'll re-describe the room with only those things in mind. And most times? I don't need to anyway.

Honestly that's why most of my fics jump into things immediately or start with dialogue because I don't need to describe that shower caddy hanging from the side of the standing shower, I don't even need to specify it's a standing shower and not a tub shower, I just have to say it's a shower.

Especially in fanfictions where the setting has already been created visually (aka the manor, the batcave, bedrooms, etc). Most often, your readers already have a visual of those things based on the canon content they consume.

Describing your version of the batcave is just, again, micromanaging their imagination. But yes, absolutely go into detail about how there's coffee mugs scattered beside the batcomputer and theyre all different shapes, sizes, colors, and filled with different liquids.

Because that implies the Batfamily is up together and each have mugs and it's cute and could affect the plot. (This is also implying character interaction in the past!!! This then allows the batcomputer to materialize into the empty room because the characters have interacted with it. Yes it was in the past, but they still did!)

But please, don't spend so much energy telling me the medbay is next door to the safe room. Cuz in my brain, it's not, and I'm just gonna ignore you.

[silverloreley]

Part 2 of the outline of my LBFAD x TTEOTM crossover idea (which I need now more than ever given how the series ended).

Part 1 here. We were left at the Nehter River. Now, I think the reason the disaster demonic duo couldn’t find the Devil Fetus for 500 years is because TTJ was in the river while the Evil Bone was with Susu, who timeskipped to her own time so, in those 500 years, there were no Evil Bone nor Devil Fetus to find.

[Which means that having TTJ dive in the Nether River was actually a good idea to prevent/delay the end of the world, or at least to spare him five centuries of tortures from the demons who’d try to awaken their master (not that he didn’t suffer plenty in the Nether River, but that was his choice, you see)]

That said, the 500 years disappeareance could happen, in this fic, also if the very worried immortal family decides to take a risk and bring TTJ with them in the immortal realm, preferably Xishan or Cangyanhai. In fact, in Xishan he could recover from the wound of the Nails in his heart and cultivate better his new immortal soul. They’d also explain him the nature of Susu’s sacrifice, once given the chance, and XLH would beg him to be patient and wait for LSS to be back in a new life, like she waited for DFQC.

But we know TTJ is a stubborn freak (who we love) and I think more likely he dived in the Nether River anyway, “bye family, come pick me up in 500 years” sort of.

This got even longer than the other part.

Shangque basically adopts Nian Baiyu. Aka: Nian Baiyu doesn’t fall prey of the demons and gains immortality thanks to his new dad shifu. They were close before too, since Shangque saw the poor lieutenant interact with TTJ and had flashbacks of himself with DFQC. Jieli insists on taking in Nian Baiyu’s sister too when their mother dies in the demon attack (this isn’t plot-relevant, I just liked this idea). The Yiyue tribe passes under Shangque’s protection and of the Moon Tribe by proxy, therefore no one is taken hostage or stuff.

Qingyu and Pian Ran get married and rule the empire together, although they make to history as they created a new tradition about the emperor wearing the mask and the empress must never be seen, the latter only to let Pian Ran be free to do whatever she pleases. After 300 years or so, they plan to find a good-hearted, strong, righteous and smart kid to adopt as their heir for when they plan to retire and travel around the world.

That said!

When the Nether River spits out TTJ, he does end up near the immortal sect, while his family was waiting for him near the Yiyue tribe’s settlement. It causes a bit of a delay in them meeting again.

No one remembers he had been a disciple over 500 years before just like no one remembered Xiao Lin, which is curious but true because most people forgot, have died, or just are too young to have met him in those 3 years so long before.

Master Zhaoyou still puts TTJ to test because “a disciple who had not cultivated any art in five centuries is as good as a newbie” or something (he dissipated most his cultivation in the Nether River so Zhaoyou is pretty much right). That’s when Zhaoyou finds out a few things that he keeps for himself about TTJ, including the fact he’s the Devil Fetus but without the Evil Bone, that he was raised by actual immortals, and there’s something else he can’t quite figure out and breaks his head over.

The first thing XLH does upon finding TTJ again is slap his arm and chastize him for making her worry for other 500 years, as if she had not suffered enough being parted for so long from someone she loved before. He apologizes and she cries and obvsy forgives him. DFQC gives him the cold shoulder for the grand total of a day, then he caves in too. Changheng and Shangque can’t even do that and hug him right away. Once they arrive, Danyin and Jieli are much worse, they go on a tag-team two-hours long tirade while Xunfeng is just, like, there watching and gloating with this judgmental face that ends up being worse than everything else put together.

Nian Baiyu and Changheng offer to stay in the sect with him if what he wants is to stay, everyone else will come back from time to time, like they used to do in his childhood.

None of them had the chance to meet Susu yet or even hear of her name, at least until the competition comes and, whoops, there she is! The Lady of Spirituality, who would have guessed? And she saved TTJ again, just in case someone had doubts it was her.

Before that, though, the immortal fam offer their help containing the demons during the competition, since that’s not an interference with mortal fates. It changes everything and nothing: they manage to trap the two big demons for a while, but those two are very strong and manage to escape.

XLH is very happy to meet Susu again, although Susu tries to pretend she doesn’t know any of them, XLH laughs and tells her she tried the trick too and it never works in the long run.

(TTJ knew that part of the story and he pulls a DFQC and kisses Susu instead of only tricking her into revealing herself. Yes, that’s a scene I loved in LBFAD and I expected one like that in TTEOTM, damn it!)

He still ends up following her to Jing and being baited by Si Ying and Jing Mie, use the Crossbow, find out Susu has the Evil Bone and so forth because that bit was solid.

Since TTJ told his parent(s) a through recollection of Bo’re life (save for some, ehm, more private bits), they all know that Di Mian is a lying liar who lies, who did not kill the (D)evil God - the previous Goddess of Xishan did - and that he was the real cause of his beloved wife’s death. It discredits him a lot, especially during the trial (Changheng basically moved in the Xiaoyao sect at this point and was already there to help, DFQC and XLH arrive later for reasons).

Although, it’s undeniable that TTJ is the Devil Fetus and used to have the Evil Bone and still has the Crossbow so it only helps so much.

DFQC crushes the Pillar to interrupt the punishment (and gets real scary) while XLH starts to chastize the sects for being unable to see past their prejudice. Susu adds to it with her retelling (and the lie about the Evil Bone being gone) just like in canon because that scene is epic and almost made me cry so it must stay as it is.

Incidentally, the trial is also when TTJ finds out his family adopted him to prevent the end of the world, which is pretty devastating interms of trust, but the love they have for him is genuine and so is his for them, so everything is later resolved with a shoutfest and lots of tears.

Zhaoyou is unofficially dragged in the loop of the immortal family after that. He admits he had perceived/noted the Devil Fetus’ nature from the start but wanted to give his student a chance. They’re all very touched by that, and grateful (and Changheng developed a bit of a crush on him, no I accept no criticism here).

They end up sharing all they know: in the 500 years, they made researches on the Devil Fetus and how to separate its destiny from that of Tai Sui, but aside from removing the Evil Bone and keeping the artifacts far from each other since none can be destroyed, it seems like there’s nothing more to do, not without killing TTJ and make him regenerate in Xishan’s soil. The only problem is that without a soul vessel (like XLH’s seed or the moon bone orchid) the new life would be completely new, so not TTJ, and that’s not a viable solution, so TTJ needs to cultivate enough to create a soul vessel for his primordial spirit to be preserved if he wants to get rid of Tai Sui’s influence for good. It’s a lenghty procedure and the demons, along with Tai Sui, give them no time for this to happen.

There is, nevertheless, a moment of respite, while they start to plan the wedding. The immortal family almost goes overboard with the engagement gifts.

TTJ asks LSS’s fathers to let some of the immortal family assist in the removal of the Evil Bone (he doesn’t trust Di Mian. in. the. slightest). Di Mian wouldn’t want to, but has to cave in to avoid suspicions.

During the procedure, Di Mian manages to near-fatally wound Qu Xuanzi and DFQC with the Sky-Slashing Sword to the point of rendering them comatose and manages to put the blame on TTJ, he also plans to completely kill them but he’s stopped by LSS figuring out what happened. Qu Xuanzi very nearly dies (maybe he doesn’t. I just decided this can be an everybody lives au, all things considered, with XLH being there it can be).

Di Mian still flees with the Evil Bone, followed by Zhaoyou and Changheng.

TTJ is lured out by Si Ying and Jing Mie who kidnapped Susu thinking she still has the Evil Bone or at least can bait TTJ. She manages to escape mostly on her own because she’s more badass than the show allowed her to be.

Danyin and Xunfeng fight against Si Ying and Jing Mie because I say so to cover Susu’s escape and her start looking for the entrance of the Devil Palace.

(Eh, that means the Spider Demon won’t appear here, nor there will be her fight with Nian Baiyu. Whoops)

After the fight with Di Mian, Zhaoyou is about to devilize but Changheng uses half his immortal soul and near so of his cultivation to stop the process and save him. Unfortunately, this also means they’re both out of commission and seem to be dead on the outside eye.

The All-in-Distress-Way is opened, cue the sect people being stupid (the red master whatshisname tries to use the Crossbow which backfires and kills him LOL), Susu facing her shit dad once more, and so forth.

TTJ saves Susu from Di Mian, but he’s forced to devilize. Of course, he surrendered only on surface, because he 100% intends to weaponize the chance he’s given to destroy Tai Sui from the inside, a true suicide mission (it’s nice that I started to write this outline days before I saw the final 5 eps and I still got it right, that part of the plot makes perfect sense, if you ask me).

This starts an internal power struggle between TTJ and TS to control the body, the whole speech about all things sad and evil feeding the Devil God and all that drill.

After GYJW calls back all the sect people, including LSS, he finds out Zhaoyou isn’t dead and Changheng tries to make him see reason. Idk where this may lead until this dialogue is written though, but I feel this must happen because GYJW is a bad cheap copy of Changheng (and XL wasn’t that bad) he could have been a much better character, so perhaps he’s salvageable here.

The sects still have to intervene to stop the All-in-Distress Way because stopping the end of the world is the right thing to do.

Susu will have none of it, of course, and goes to speak with her (almost) husband, consequences be damned. So do XLH and DFQC, although he’s still wounded by the Sky-Slashing Sword.

Changheng stays behind in the sect to help the planning, Danyin and Xunfeng decide to return to the Immortal realms to mobilize Shuiyuntian and Changyanhai to try block the All-in-Distress Way from above.

TTJ ends up having to fool not only LSS but also XLH and DFQC, and actually manages to get the upper hand on all three because Tai Sui started to gloat about how he tricked the Goddess of Xishan and the great Yuezun by taking the primordial spirit of their future child and turning him into his vessel. Basically, in the river of reincarnation, he swiped their future child’s soul and forced the Evil Bone onto him, and then made sure he’d be born in a mortal’s life of suffering to break him down to his will for good. He planned to reveal it near the end of the world to make DFQC and, most importantly, Xi Yun unable to kill him (whether this is the truth or not, it’s debatable, it all depends on the message we want to pass thorugh with this rewriting).

Unfortunately, it works, and TTJ is left to apply his initial plan of having himself killed by Susu after the Celestial Punishment Array will hit.

During the Bo’re life, though, Susu sees through his lies, three lifetimes gave her a good enough grasp of his tellings. The fact she figured out most the plan does little to stop it, at first, since both play their parts till the end.

XLH is conflicted for a while, but eventually agrees to the plan, although for her it’s another heartbreak and repeating history. She says this much to TTJ who falters for a moment, revealing his true feelings but he has to push trough.

The Celestial Punishment Array is made by the sects and supported by Shuiyuntian and Cangyanhai, which once again joined forces to defeat Tai Sui. It’s a pretty big thing because it’s the first time in 30000 years the Immortals descend among mortals to help them (and will mark a new alliance for the future).

LSS ascends because that’s what she has to do and, in the “godly council” there’s also Xi Yun, who promises to be by her side. Chu Huang thanks her.

Tai Sui is ultimately erased for good by the combined efforts of TTJ, ascended!Susu and Xi Yun, but this effort claims TTJ’s life, as he expected, and Susu’s, who sacrificed her godhood to turn the Scale into a soul vessel for him to come back when she realized he intended to die for good.

XLH is left to pick up the pieces: given her phoenix nature, LSS is back as an egg, which her adoptive father (if he survived, otherwise Ye Qingyu and Pian Ran) will take care of until she’s back. As for TTJ, the Scale-turned soul vessel will allow, with time, to fix and restore in full his primordial spirit, so XLH and DFQC take it to Xishan and wait.

Qingyu and Pian Ran had been using their combined energies to protect the kingdom, but since they had each only half her original demonic energy/life, they end up consuming most of it, at which point they agree they had had enough of being rulers, and retire to the countryside.

Time skip to a few centuries later, when the taizi dianxia (crown prince) of Cangyanhai meets the Lady of Spirituality of the immortal sect. Neither remembers each other, again, until they touch by accident while bickering and then it all comes back to them.

And, for fuck’s sake, this time they get married decently and are happy with their daughter and extended family and all is well.

THE END and holy shit, if the outline is that long, this could become a monster fic.

[bleachbleachbleach]

6/4-6/11/2023

I spent most of this week feeling very stupid. I am probably still stupid, but the last two days have resulted in a fair number of words (by my standards) that I think sound pretty good (also by my standards). I have been, as usual, bouncing across All the Chapters, but I decided I want to finish Kensei’s chapter, because I started it years ago and it just needs. To be done. As of this morning, there’s three more scenes left, which I hope means 2-3 more days.

When I first started working on this chapter, I was very proud of myself for figuring out a characterization for Kensei--and then this week I decided I’d lied to myself and that wasn’t true. He felt unidimensional and not true enough to his canon character.

Then I was like, oh, good grief. Kensei has like 30 lines in canon. He has more than 30 lines in this fic. Therefore:

But I don’t think that’s really true either. XD Canon Kensei is an iceberg, not a blank slate. I think there are a lot of equally true ways to fill out the part of his iceberg that’s under the surface, but it has to feel like the same chunk of ice. And that chunk of ice has to feel whole.

Kensei’s still angry. Yeah, they came back. Yeah, TYBW. Yeah, they’re giving this a shot, but he got burned bad by Soul Society and “bygones will be bygones” is not how this works. He doesn’t know or trust any of the people on this mission (except Rose. Hisagi, he keeps encountering in ways that affirm for him that he not know or understand this man). Not because he suspects them of treachery, but there’s a big gap between not suspecting someone of treachery and feeling like a bonded unit.

He’s angry, and bossy, and territorial of this mission because he’s the leader of Team Muguruma--but he’s also a little less than self-assured, because he actually hasn’t done this in a while and a lot has changed and these guys aren’t His Guys. His impulse to make a team that works and keep morale up and do all the things that need doing in that regard is in conflict with his hesitation to put that kind of relational effort into a bunch of strangers, some of whom his anger has already decided he hates. And there are things he just hasn’t gotten over yet, even though in his mind oh my god it’s been 100 years, who am I, a gothic poet?

He’s also really wrong about a lot of things--some factual and some interpretive--and he keeps having moments where some new piece of information or some new interaction will come up that requires him to revise things he’s already decided. Which is the professional thing to do, but he doesn’t want to be the one who has to keep revising, accepting, etc. He wants to see some of that from other people (and/or Societies).

A lot of this is the Trauma talking for Kensei. But I want this to come across without Kensei seeming too wet blanket about it, but also without this chapter being 8000 words of Kensei being gratingly antagonistic for seemingly no reason. Look, the man has been to too many Captain’s Meetings and has had it up to HERE with Hitsugaya and Byakuya (which Rukia takes it upon herself to take personally. For the sake of Kuchiki Pride). 

I think I’ll need to keep finessing this chapter for clarity, but since there’s a Renji chapter before this one and Hinamori’s chapter is after, I hope no one will read it and think “my god this writer really hates Rukia and Hitsugaya. Goddamn!!”

[vazaha-tya]

in ex nihilo, lily potter was a loner in gryffindor for most of her hogwarts years. (this backstory is specific to my fic but some of it is genuine headcanons i have about lily.)

this is mostly in response to the lack of characterisation we have for canon!lily. we don't know who her friends are (though fanon generally names marlene, dorcas and mary, that's never confirmed), if she had any ambitions or what her favourite animal/colours/etc were. everything we are told about her is in relation to the men in her life. that's not enough for me.

when i first thought about it, i imagined her as what hermione would have been like if she'd never befriended harry and ron. a smart know-it-all disliked for "thinking herself better than others" but then i started seeing her more like canon neville. someone who's quiet, passionate and whom people generally misunderstand. then i saw her as more than that.

she was friendly but had difficulty relating to her peers. smart and good at memorisation but focused on the subjects she enjoyed most, like charms and potions. she was self-conscious about her wealth and her status as muggle-born but had a strong sense of justice and was unafraid to defend herself and others.

until fifth year, she had only two friends: severus, who wasn't in the same house as her and could rarely see her since hanging out with a muggleborn would put a target on his back, and alice who was a prefect much older and therefore more of a sister than a friend.

my version of lily evans in this fic was a bit too blunt and clumsy with her words, not wealthy enough to buy make-up and games and other trinkets, and not interested in quidditch enough to get along with her dormmates. she was friendly with them but ultimately, like canon neville, she was mostly left to her own devices.

so she focused on her studies. she learnt everything there was to know about magic, devoured as much she could of the hogwarts library and sometimes spent time with either alice or severus. she wasn't an immensely popular girl, though she was pretty and nice enough.

because she was so asocial, she thought james was mocking her when he gently teased her because she'd never dealt with that before. and as she had a low opinion of him because of his enmity with severus, it took a long time for her to see he was serious about her.

it's during fifth year when she became a prefect that she started integrating more with her housemates, mostly because her duties needed her to be more present in the gyffindor common room. and it's at the same time that severus started pulling away from her (he was dealing with the transition between corban yaxley and regulus' argentum rule and tensions were high in slytherin, but that's another story). he got involved more heavily with purists and because lily was suddenly interacting more with her classmates, she got a lot more firthand accounts of what severus got up to (i.e, the canon attack of mary mcdonald by his friends). it became more difficult to excuse his actions.

then he turned on her and called her a slur. what happens after that is both close to canon and somewhat different (the divergence is linked to the reason why voldemort went after neville instead of harry so i won't say more, i don't want to spoil it) but i think you're familiar with the gist of it. they drift apart, james and lily get closer and the war robs them of a future.

lily evans was severus' friend and james' wife and harry's mother. but she was also a young woman with a personality, aspirations, likes and dislikes.

ex nihilo! lily had a slightly crooked jaw, round cheeks and freckles all over her face.

she didn't like wearing bracelets because they moved too much when she wrote. she bought plain iron necklaces at the flea market and enchanted them to make them prettier.

she liked learning flower symbolism but disliked herbology.

her mother taught her to sew but she had no patience for it so she taught herself household charms to mend her clothes. she was really good at maths and had really nice handwriting.

she hated public speaking.

she didn't like toffee but loved dark chocolate.

she was scared of peeves.

she wanted to do a mastery in charms.

her favourite colour was sunshine yellow.

she brewed pain relieving potions to send to her dad when his joints ached in the winter.

she wished alice was her sister instead of petunia but never said it to her sister's face despite all the vitriol she got from her.

she had plans to get severus out of his house if his mother died but never got to implement them because they were estranged when it happened.

she liked braiding flowers into james' hair.

she read magical theory books aloud to harry to soothe him to sleep.

i love lily evans.

[qqueenofhades]

Sorry if this is a bit of an overly specific question, but I was reading your latest Sandman fics and got a bit inspired- what advice would you give for writing a story with both a nonlinear timeline and a highly unreliable narrator, each kinda caused by the other. Like, how would you write it in a way that works with a character who does not know what the fuck is going on with anything because he's a master at lying to himself, and have a timeline that jumps around, but still easy to follow and that makes sense? I hope this isn't an overly confusing way of wording the question, I can clarify if you need. Thanks!!

Nonlinear Narrative and Unreliable Narrator, my beloved(s). My first and overall piece of advice would be to remember that it still has to be a coherent story that the reader can follow, even if you later plan to pull the rug out from them in regard to whatever is really going on. It depends on how many time jumps you have, if you start at a climax and then flash back to various other times (think the "this is me, you're probably wondering how I got myself into this situation" opening, where you open in the middle of the conflict and then rewind to before it happened, and then jump back and forth between the flashbacks and the present), and whether this is also split between multiple POVs. You don't have to signpost everything, but you should give your reader some clue to figure out which timeline each chapter and/or section is taking place in. For example, maybe you could write the flashbacks in past tense and the present-time narrative in present tense, or otherwise play around with style.

You should also think about why you want the story to be nonlinear, and how you're going to use it to build suspense. I.e. right now I'm reading The Terror by Dan Simmons, which effectively switches between timelines (past/present) and characters in order to build tension and suspense about what's going to happen, even though it's based on a true story and we know overall how it ends up. If, as you note, the unreliable narrator is causing the nonlinear narrative and vice versa, why is that? Christopher Nolan's films usually play with this conceit to some degree, such as Memento, where the protagonist has short-term memory loss and has to reconstruct what happened via solving clues left by his past self, or Tenet, where the film is literally going backward and forward in two timelines at once.

Of course, you don't need to get this complicated, but it does help to think about how you're going to structure the story and what is happening in each timeline. For example in OMM, Dream's captivity by Burgess is the present-time narrative, while we simultaneously flash back to how he and Hob first got together and then how things went wrong. Therefore, even in a "Hob rescues Dream" fic where you know essentially what's going to happen, that allows me to build suspense and create more points of canon divergence. It's also a good way to build your reader up to a cliffhanger in one timeline and then cut back to the other one, especially if you're leaving clues in each narrative that will help solve the overall progression of the story and/or any plot hooks or mysteries you're setting up.

As for unreliable narrator: first, you need to decide HOW they are unreliable. Are they telling things to the best of their ability, but there's some reason that even they don't consciously know about as to why that's not the truth, or are they intentionally (or even maliciously) deceiving the reader? In your case, i.e. with a narrator who is constantly lying to himself, what is he lying about and how does that manifest in the story? Is he narrating basic empirical events correctly but lying about plot points, emotional beats, interactions with other characters, etc? It's especially sneaky if your narrator is telling the truth about some things but not about others, as that will keep your audience guessing. As noted, you need to establish (to yourself, and then slowly reveal it to the reader) why the narrator isn't a good judge of whatever is really going on, and if that's because they genuinely don't know any better (why?) or because they're being a dick.

On that note: you have to give your reader the ability to slowly become aware of the narrator's unreliability, and to leave other clues in the story pointing at what's really going on. I don't want to spoil/point out exactly what's going on in TUSS, but people have already picked up some of the clues pointing at the fact that what Hob thinks to be the case is not necessarily what has happened (or is happening right now). You can't write an entire book/fic of one thing happening, and then in the last few lines be like PSYCH it was totally this other thing that was never hinted at or foreshadowed at all. (Think the Game of Thrones Bad Ending strategy, where they're so focused on outwitting the audience that they basically just make up shit that had nothing to do with the entire story they were telling beforehand, and/or suddenly dropped major plot points or did a hatchet job on them.) Even if your reader is mystified on the first go-round and doesn't totally get it until the Big Reveal where everything clicks into place, they have to be able to re-read it with the ending in mind and go "ohhh, I see that now, I see what's coming, I SEE YOU, TINY CLUE."

Basically: the story has to be coherent even if it's playing with/subverting the traditional narrative structure, it has to have separate timelines that tie into/reference each other and effectively build suspense, it has to have a narrator who's unreliable but an author (you) who knows what's going on and how to reveal that to your reader in stages, and it has to have an overall way to do/synthesize that without either excessively signposting or being too vague and confusing. Ahem. Hopefully that is helpful?

[angelinthefire]

I actually have a basic philosophical aversion to any discourse around whether character A just sees character B as "useful", and have for a long time. (I'm speaking vaguely because this could apply to Cas, or Jack, and also Kevin, and probably some other characters who aren't explicitly enemies too).

Because

Back around s5/6 (back when different sides of Fandom would interact more) Cas haters would come up arguing that Dean doesn’t even like Cas, that he sees him as another monster, etc. And when casgirls would come back with examples of Dean obviously being friendly, their response would be "he's just doing that because Cas is useful." This would happen repeatedly. Like if you weren’t around at the time, you need to understand that casgirls were constantly on the defensive. And how frustrating it was to be called "delusional" as a matter of course. When the Cas haters couldn't even recognize the most surface-level read of a scene, that Dean is being friendly towards Cas because he feels friendly towards him. And that they had constructed this - frankly, insane - narrative where the main character manipulates a major recurring character into thinking they’re friends because he had useful powers. Like, who would want to write a show like that? Who would want to watch it?

So that's my baseline that I come to this issue with. And the thing that I carry with me in all my interpretations is that the main characters care about each other on at least some basic level. Because otherwise, what is the point? Literally what is the point of these relationships, why would we care about them, why are there stakes in the characters fighting and making up again, why are we supposed to enjoy watching it?

And I'm not down with how I've seen it presented in fics and in posts that either A cares about B as a person, or A wants B to be useful in a fight and these are two mutually exclusive things. This is a show about killing monsters and saving the world. The main thing that characters do together, the way they build and show camaraderie, the way they self-actualize even, is by killing monsters and saving the world. It is therefore inherently a good thing when characters can participate in that, and an obstacle to the plot when they cannot. I think that's just something you've got to take for granted when approaching the show. Furthermore, being "useful" is not just for the sake of the character asking for help, it's also for the sake of the character doing the helping - they're contributing to saving the world, they're being heroic, it's generally framed as a positive step in their character development, etc. Like I don't understand it being framed as a one-sided exchange.

It's also important that this is a show that's obsessed with its own masculinity. Even if it developed a small amount in later years, that kind of masculinity where using an umbrella is seen as too gay, that's what the show is fundamentally rooted in. So it's to be expected that characters don't show affection in a normal way, that they can only do so when the world is ending, or they're dying, or they're breaking down, etc. That it happens in these big emotional bursts -- that also happen to coincide with peaks in the plot, when it's necessary for characters to band together and fight.

There's a sidebar about the loss of angel powers. It's been over a year since I've actually watched the show, so I'm not sure if the show itself contributes to this. And I'm pretty sure that Misha has made emo comments about Cas feeling useless without his powers. But I absolutely hate the "Oh no poor Cas (or Jack) feels so useless without their powers they have such low self esteem" thing. (Like Cas does have self worth issues but that's another point). Angels losing their powers is akin to a person suddenly losing their arms and their sight. It's entirely normal to feel shitty about that, and yeah, to probably deal with feelings of uselessness.

It being a normal response also means it's not the fault of the Winchesters or whoever else that whatever angel character feels useless. This is something that I see in fic way too often. Like Cas thinks he’s so useless and such a burden that it's not even clear that he knows Dean likes him, and it's all Dean's fault that he feels that way. Which, at bottom, does not make sense. Like, these characters need to realize that they're all friends, otherwise, on a very basic level, none of this works. Again, there’s nothing to be invested in, nothing to care about. (And obviously depression does things to your brain, makes you feel like a burden, makes you worry that no one actually likes you. But that's not how the fics I'm complaining about are written).

Aside from the fact that there are actual examples of the characters helping/caring/confiding/spending time with each other, and acting like they know they're friends. Despite the masculinity diseases.

If there is a problem of a character not feeling useful I tend to take it as a problem of the show elevating the position of hunter above all else rather than as an absence of basic friendship.

The one exception that I'm willing to grant, where feelings of uselessness come from a broken relationship, is Dean and Jack at the end of s15. Specifically. That's it.

But yeah, I generally cannot stand "usefulness" discourse.

[xenoblademisadventures]

I'm bored I'm ranking the Alvis Ships.

F Tier

Alvis/Zanza

I haven't seen this ship in years and honestly thank fuck. Like, every time I've seen it show up it always ends in r*pe. Like. Bruh.

D Tier

Alvis/Rex

He doesn't need to fuck more Aegises. Please.

Alvis/Egil

It's a few ppl's things in AUs, so can't be too pissy about it. But I don't see it.

Alvis/Fiora

I'm pretty sure this ship only exists to enable FR Shalvis. I think there's some potentially interesting stuff that could be formed by having them interact. I just think implementing romance between the two is a bit forced.

C

Alvis/Kallian

I mean, they lived in the same place together. This ship actually used to be more popular than Shalvis. I think that changed around the time of Xenoblade 2's release. I think the most interesting Kallvis stuff is in any form of Kallian lives AU (or even just post-canon stuff) since it has to face Alvis's role in the Fate of the High Entia head on. Which is something that I think Shalvis tends to quietly ignore. I don't really care for the ship, but the primary conflict that the ship is often involved with can be really interesting.

Alvis/Reyn

It would be very funny. I think they would start a house fire together.

Alvis/Matthew

They are very funny together. Their dynamic reminds me a lot of the one I had with a friend when I was in Highschool. The ship only suffers from the minor problem that Mio's Family tree is an actual war crime featuring several known war criminals. But also, like, this would be like if you married someone on the other side of the world and then learned well after the fact that they're you're, like, quintuple cousin X removed. Which would be big sad. Funny. But also, like, Big Sad.

B Tier

Alvis/Dunban

Alvis interacting with Dunban is underexplored in fanfics. I'd love to see more of them just, talking or something. You've got interesting character dynamics with them. Dunban's someone who's world-weary and developed his wisdom through experience on the battle, while Alvis's wisdom is built-in to a degree. Dunban is someone harboring a great will while Alvis is pulled towards that. Alvis is very spacey but still rather straight-forward when they're not being a cryptic bastard and Dunban is rather down to earth but still flowery and poetic when he wants to be. Like, you've got these two types of understanding in how the world operates. One being a very literal and detailed understanding while the other is more metaphoric and such. There's just a lot of untapped potential here.

A Tier

Alvis/Shulk

Funny thing, I initially got into the ship as a joke. Because I thought "making the protagonist fall in love with the magic fate sword would be really cursed therefore funny." And then Xenoblade 2 happened. But yeah, this has been the most common Alvis ship for a while now and it's a good one. You got engineer x sexy robot. You got guy who wants to learn everything x the universe. You've got a billion scifi tropes to turn into romance. The only time I've actually written for the ship I opted to interpret it parentally instead of romantically and I think there's a lot of potential with that route too. There's also just been a lot of good Shalvis fics.

[brakingpoint]

tell us about Ellie!! she's your OC, right? (I know nothing about Braking Point sorry!!!) so tell us about her story, the way you wanted to develop her, how much you hated making her the catalyst for the compulsory third act conflict...

ELLIE.... she IS my OC and she's also my best girl in the world. i have never been attached to an oc the way i am to ellie. i'm putting this under a cut because it's going to be a ginormous rant

ellie was one of the first parts of this fic that really came to life for me - i knew as soon as i came up with the premise of "devon says something homophobic and has to fake date aiden about it" that we were going to have to involve his press person. i was initially very much inspired by some of charlotte sefton's interactions with lando during her stint at mclaren but like, turned up to 11 because devon is... a bit of a nightmare. i immediately had this image of ellie as someone very very direct & no nonsense as a stark contrast to devon's penchant for theatrics and never quite saying what he actually means. i knew that ellie has been working with devon since he started in f1 so she knows him (though, of course, he still finds ways to surprise her) and she's probably only a couple of years older than him, sort of existing as an exasperated big sister figure. working with devon was probably one of her first jobs out of uni, which is definitely a baptism of fire for your PR career.

(a really silly side note is that i used to live near elephant & castle, and therefore the london college of communication, last year, and i just immediately decided that was where ellie went to uni. her surname then came from me thinking about her on the bus while going through e&c and passing two estate agents - chase evans and gordon & co. in my head she's always been ellie gordon-evans because it scans really nicely when you say it out loud but turns out it looks a bit clumsy in print. hence why in the fic she's just ellie gordon.)

as for developing ellie, i also knew immediately that i wanted her and devon to become friends. i think ellie is quite a lonely person. she's a workaholic (she genuinely adores her job even though her client is a walking migraine), she can be abrasive and demanding in how she talks to people, and i sort of struggled from the outset to imagine her having any real friends, in or out of the paddock. i didn't set out to write her as autistic but i had my personal autistic realisation midway through the writing process and around the time i was writing chapter 13, when she comes to see devon after the breakup, i thought ah wait. person who is in control and socially competent professionally but struggles to make and maintain friendships irl and brings people gifts and does things for them because she doesn't know how else to show affection? the call is coming from inside the house. i also think this is where her interest in PR started - having spent her whole life masking she has this carefully honed awareness of saying the right things to the right people (in a professional context, anyway) so as a career path it feels like a natural extension of her own life. i don't think ellie is diagnosed, and she probably won't ever get diagnosed or even feel the need to explore that aspect of herself, but once i realised i'd written an autistic character she made a lot more sense to me.

as for making her the catalyst for the third act conflict... honestly i loved it. firstly i very much wanted to avoid falling too hard into the classic misguided attempt at feminism that often occurs in fanfiction when a competent snarky girlboss exists solely to get the two guys together. that's sort of difficult to avoid in this fic with ellie's professional role so i thought you know what, i want her to mess this up, and i want her to mess it up badly, and then i want to put the ball in devon's court to fix it.

as for how she was going to fuck up, my entire inspiration was alana beck in dear evan hansen. much like ellie, alana is a very accomplished but extraordinarily lonely person who compensates through achievement and making herself useful. when she sees an opportunity to get involved in something and be helpful she leaps in full force even though she can be... a bit much to handle as a personality. and then her desperation to contribute curdles into a full blown obsession with the cause, she does something that takes it way too far in a last gasp rescue effort, and it all blows up in everybody's face. i felt like if ellie was going to mess up there was going to be that same guiding mechanism behind it. so yeah - no regrets about her being the one to accidentally mess things up, if anything i hope it made her more human.

also as a final note. idk exactly how or when it happened but my faceclaim for ellie is maya hawke. so now you know

[sage-nebula]

✨💌🤲 (i can only remember 3 emojis at a time sorry for splitting the asks)

No worries!

✨What's a fic you've posted you wish you could breathe life into again and have people talking about it? (or simply a fic you wish got more credit)

A Candle in the Dark is still my magnum opus, and wanting a way to preserve it all as one story instead of in separate chunks on tumblr is the entire reason why I made my AO3 account, and it got . . . considerably less attention than I feel it deserves, lol. I mean, I do understand it; Hirutani is a very small character in the manga, and because of how the anime disrespected him (and the anime being the way most people are familiar with YuGiOh's story), most people in the fandom don't give a shit about Jounouchi as a character, instead only caring about him as a boyfriend for their favorite character. And since this fic is about him, as a person, and the struggles that he goes through . . . yeah, I understand why it didn't get a lot of attention. Still, it does suck because it's the only novel-length story I have ever finished and I feel that it stands as one of the best things I have ever written. I'm so proud of it and I love it so much. You don't even need a lot of knowledge about YuGiOh to understand it because it diverges from chapter eleven of the manga. So I wish more people appreciated it, but . . . it is what it is. I love it, at least. And that's what matters most.

💌share something with us about an up-and-coming work (WIP) that has you excited!

Ohh, the thing that has me most excited in Beyond Oblivion is something I can't talk about since it's a major spoiler. But hmm, something small . . . oh, Sonic will be able to have a brief chat with his Tails in an upcoming chapter! Very brief, but that's very likely to happen.

Oh, and in part two of A.I. Means Love, there will likely be a brief moment of Sonic teasing Tails about his voice cracking, since Tails is twelve in part two and his voice is therefore in the awkward transition stage. Don't worry though, Tails can tease Sonic right back since he also went through an awkward voice cracking stage, no matter how much he tries to deny it. (The only one who can truly claim to have transitioned smoothly to a deeper voice is Knuckles, and that's only because if his voice did crack at any point, no one but the chao were around to hear it.)

🤲what do YOU get out of writing?

Hmm, it really depends on the fic. There are some fics (particularly ones dealing with abuse and the C-PTSD that comes with it) that serve as a catharsis, a way for me to interact with my own past abuse and trauma in a way that doesn't trigger me the way having to think about and talk through it often does. But on a broad, over-arcing scale . . . I started writing because I realized that I love telling stories. I love creating characters and thinking up scenarios and putting the characters through those scenarios. It's fun for me. In the past handful of years it is true that writing has been a source of The Agonies for me because my job makes me tired all the time, and being tired makes it hard to write, because writing does require energy and effort; but it's also true that telling stories is just a source of fun and enjoyment, especially when I can go back later and re-read the stories I wrote, because I wrote them about characters and themes that interest me. Maybe no one else likes them, but I like them, and sometimes that's enough.

Thanks for asking!