#unspeakable john au

[corrupteddoodles]

I did a thing

UNSPEAKABLE!John Ward by @trashprincedio

this came to me in a dream so I woke up and wrote it

The basic premise is Gary fails to bring more people into the Order. John’s a little angry.

“this is short” yes. i know. is this accurate to UNSPEAKABLE john? i have no idea, but it seemed cool so I made it.

——————

Gary was called into a room, just him, to have a personal discussion with John.

John was sat down on an office chair, his robe hood up obscuring most of his face. His eyes were narrowed, staring Gary down like a hawk watching its prey, waiting for the perfect moment to strike and rip him apart.

Gary had failed to bring more Thralls into the Order, and more and more were realizing something was off, and left one way or another. John wasn’t happy.

“Uhm..”

Gary lowered his hood and adjusted his sunglasses. He gulped, and winced at how dry his throat was. It felt like sandpaper was coating the inside of his throat.

“H…Hello, Jo-���

“Take a seat, Gary.”

John spoke quickly, and quietly. A bad sign. Gary could feel the vessel’s rage radiating off of him in waves. It was suffocating.

Gary, however, followed his order. John spoke first.

“It’s come to my attention you’ve failed to bring more to the Order, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And somehow…” John scowled. “More and more Thralls have left, weakening the cult’s influence more and more by the day.”

“That’s correct, sir, but if you would let me explain-“

John looked up, his eyes narrowing.

“What explanation could you possibly have, Gary? You told me that you would make sure nobody would ever leave. You promised the UNSPEAKABLE. It’s not happy. Neither of us are. The Profane Sabbath is days away, and yet we are barely ready.”

Gary gulped, and sweat poured down his forehead. He rested his hands on his knees.

“I’m angry, Gary. Do you know what happens when I get angry?”

John rose an eyebrow and stood up.

“I’ll tell you. When I get angry…”

His arm lengthened and grew, turning into a fleshy arm with claws, launching it at Gary and pinning him to the wall by the neck.

“People DIE!”

Gary’s sunglasses fell off, and he coughed and gasped for air.

“P-Please, John…I beg of you…”

John leaned down, whispering into Gary’s ear, slowly and firmly.

“If you want to talk so badly, then here’s this. You have exactly 30 seconds to tel me why I shouldn’t tear you apart, limb by limb.”

[egg-on-a-legg]

completely normal postgame john design

as i said, completely normal

[trashprinceward]

x

[sketchygainedyoursoul]

UNSPEAKABLE: *gently waking John* shit man, you live like this?

[swifty-fox]

Would you be happy to share a little bit of John's head space when he was arrested, unable to reach Gale (not even knowing if he was safe) and then when Curt told him he'd got in touch? LOVEEEEEED this part. Prison tropes are yummy #chapel au

(p.s. I hope he was loyal in jail too!)

ask and ye shall receive (sometimes)

Now on Ao3!

The cops chip his tooth clean off throwing him over the corpse of the Corolla. He watches the white bone bounce away as pain blooms vivid and sharp across his face. Cursing before the sensation truly registers, still processing the sharp crack he cusses out the hands roving over his body, dragging his arms roughly behind his back, cold metal clinching tight around his wrists.

“It was a con. It was my fuckin hand in my pocket! There’s no goddamn weapon if you’d listen to me for just a second you stupid fuckin’ pigs.”

There’s a gun pointed at him. He’s not used to the reversal. His side throbs in phantom memory.

Folded into the back of a cruiser like dirty laundry he leans back uncomfortably on his cuffed hands and runs his tongue over the jagged edge of his tooth again and again, shuddering at the pain of it. 

He pictures Gale on a bus to California, staring out the window and playing with his braid until the flyaways outmatched the hair tie. Usually, he was frowning slightly, unless he had a gun in his hand or he was looking at John, and John imagines himself pressing a thumb to the imaginary furrow of Gale’s imaginary brow. 

It’s soothing enough as he breathes and watches the cops rip apart the car, scattering his and Gale’s entire life across the roadside. 

He shouts, knowing they won’t hear him, “There’s no fucking gun!”

-*~*-

They don't quite rough ride him but a few of the red lights have his chest hitting the front seat for how he can’t catch himself with anything but his already sore face. He cusses them out for it every time.

-*~*-

He’s given some fresh from the bar bushy-tailed lawyer who can’t be any older than he is. Veal’s convinced he’s saving his life, arguing for time served on account of his lack of a permanent address and he smiles at him with teeth and tells the judge to go fuck himself. 

It’s stupid. He can hear Gale sighing in his ear. Gale with his serious face and eyes that went electric and feral with a gun on his hand, a mask over his face. Quick clever Gale who had only ever missed a single camera in all their time together. Gale who is in California, waiting for a partner in crime who will never show up now. 

They hit him with the full fifteen months, of course. John sits as the courtroom slowly clears, eyes fixed unseeingly at the desk and thinks he’s made the worst mistake of his life.

-*~*-

Gale, Gale, Gale. 

If he were a less secure man he’d be disgusted with himself how often he spent thinking about his partner in crime. The whip of his braid in the wind and the white slash of his teeth when John got him to truly smile. The taste of his sweat and the way he was slow to wake in the morning. Quiet and unspeaking as John slowly coaxed him from bed with his lips and soft murmurs. Sweet and slightly vacant until they got a cup of coffee in his hands. 

He runs over the last moments of them together, the animal panic in Gale’s face, the soft growl behind his kiss as John drank him down in the shadows. The stiff broad line of his shoulders as he boarded the bus.

Tucking the snowglobe into his bag when he wasn’t looking, John’s fingers shaking. 

He’s used to leaving. He’s left his family and he’s left friends and towns and places all over. He’s left girls in bed and boys in rest-stop bathrooms and he’s left a fair few morals at his father's grave too. 

Leaving Gale, or Gale leaving him, feels like it had been the most enormous thing he’s ever done. He’d waved the bus away and then sat in their car until the sun rose, trying to convince himself to turn the ignition and put the car in a direction that was not after Gale.

It was a good plan. 

It’s not Gale’s fault that John never knew how to keep his mouth shut, never believed this stupid little car that had been his home, and then their home, would ever give out on him.

John wonders how long Gale will bother to wait for him. He wonders if he’ll try to make his way back to their usual haunts, if he’ll cut and run like he’d been ready to do before John had whisked him away. 

He calls Curt every few days, leaning against the phone booth and working his teeth over the inside of his cheek. 

“Ain’t heard anything, Bucky,” Curt says voice as tender as it ever could be. 

“You’ll tell him?” John asks, as stupid as the question was, “If he calls you’ll tell him I didn’t mean to not be there.” 

-*~*-

The worst part, aside from the fact his heart is outside his body and somewhere in California, is that prison is boring. It’s not awful, Nebraska isn’t exactly a hotbed of violent crime, but even so John is sure to carry himself with every inch of his size, turns up the swagger in his step and drapes himself into chairs with a sprawl that shows off how little he cares, how confident he is in his place. He doesn’t start anything, but he doesn’t frame himself as someone easy to push over either. 

A lot of time is wasted away with physical activity. Basketball or wall ball with himself or teaching himself how to do chin-ups until his arms shake. It pays off. He wonders if Gale would like it.

He calls Curt, and Curt tells him he’s heard nothing and John spends his nights fantasizing about breaking out and somehow finding his partner in crime in the vastness of America to deal with it. 

-*~*-

His bunkmate is a rail-thin man named Hamilton. He’s got a gold tooth and a fucked up face and looks like the sort of guy who carries a knife just to show it off but he’s friendly and easygoing as they come and found a way to bring up his wife in every conversation. It’s charming until it gets annoying.

“The hell’d he even do?” He asks another inmate even though it’s considered bad manners. 

Douglass shrugs, carefully sketching his way through a letter, “His sister’s boyfriend put hands on her, so Ham took a hammer to ‘em.”

John taps out a cigarette,and offers one to Douglass because it’s the universal way of making friends, even behind chain-link fences, “Is his wife really in the circus?” 

“Fuck if I know.”

-*~*-

“Anything?”

“John, I promise you’d be the first to know.” 

-*~*-

Sometimes, rarely, and only late at night, John prays. They’d taken his father's crucifix with the rest of his personals and its absence was heavy around his neck. It’s more to his father that he prays anyway, rather than God. Asks him if he’d be proud – doubtful. Or if he’d think there was still time to save John – more likely. 

Remembers his big hand wrapped around John’s small one, tugging his balking form towards the church.

“Why can’t I just confess to you? Why do I have to do it with Pastor Coyne?

“Because as your father I’d be tempted to discipline or lecture you, Bucky. This is for you to be forgiven; for you to forgive yourself.”

He preferred his father’s God. But that God had been lowered into the ground right alongside Pastor Egan’s casket.

Look after him dad, he doesn’t have anyone doing it now. Needs it more than I do that’s for sure. Just make sure he’s among friends.

-*~*-

In the less romantic sense, he thinks about Gale a lot. It’s a gentleman's understanding, taking care of one’s needs; quiet and unobtrusive as possible. He’s heard Ham’s hitched breathing enough times during night or knowingly squeezed a few extra moments in the showers to allow the other man privacy. What a man does under the rough wool blankets they’re given is his own business. 

John thinks about Gale. About the wild pout of his lips that were the first thing John noticed. The hollow of his neck and collarbones, the way both fit perfectly between his fingers. How Gale’s eyes rolled as John squeezed tight, uncompromisingly trusting. The flushed curved of his cock sliding down John’s throat, splitting John open as Gale slipped elegant fingers into his mouth and made him suck the flavor of the leather wheel off them. 

Pulls himself off to the image of Gale’s broad tanned shoulders, speckled with water and braid tucked teasingly to one side. He’s smiling at John, glancing over his shoulder with the sun turning his lashes wispy and clear.

-*~*-

He gets prison ink, bored and reckless and maybe a little angry. Thick black stars on the front of his hips, and the constellation of the moles on Gale’s face on the inner corner of his elbow. Nonsense dots to anyone else but he knows they’re accurate down to the millimeter. 

It should be. He’s had three years to memorize them.

-*~*-

“John.” Curt says, voice short and shocked and clipped. He’s breathless, a little giddy in the pitch of his voice and John’s stomach drops right down through the concrete floor. 

“Is he okay?” are the first words out of his mouth.

-*~*-

Five minutes he speaks to Curt, five minutes before he hands up and dials the number he’d said aloud until he had it memorized without risk of failure. His hands don’t shake, but his heart feels like it’s about to give out and he’s worrying the inside of his cheek like a dog with a bone, the flaws gone raw and bloody. 

Gale Gale Gale.

It’s a mantra in his mind, a hail-fucking-mary and for once he barrels right past the memory of his father and thanks the big man directly. Because Gale is alive and Gale is whole and Gale has fucking found him. His fingers slip on the numbers, the phones connecting before it barely has the chance to ring and then John’s suddenly unable to breath as he hears a quiet exhale that’s as familiar as his own face in the mirror.

“Gale?”

A quiet sound of confirmation, thick with breathless emotion. The creak of plastic as the phone is gripped too tight. John presses his forehead against the top of the booth as if he might escape through the line itself and be back at his partners side.

“Hi doll,” He croaks, unable to keep the first smile in four months off his face, “Hi sweetheart.”

[justcommander]

And since those were mostly serious facts about Father and Children AU,

Imma leave one last little one plus silly picture because I understand the seriousness of keeping two possessed/ex possessed very sick teenagers in your house while a whole cult wants to tear you apart, eviscerate you and make you become a portal to hell but.

A bit of calmness too is needed.

So basically.

John doesn't always have time to cook, he remembers and does it now only because Michael needs it. So sometimes when there really is no time to cook and they're all too tired, he gets him pizza. The weird thing is that Amy always insists she want one slice. And she truly insists quite a lot!

Now unless she wants the UNSPEAKABLE to have it, only to mock him, she can't really put it through her face. They both know she can't eat it. And yet the slice always disappears without leaving a trace.

Both Michael and John are VERY confused about how this works and what she actually does with it.

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Five Fics Friday: August 30/24

Happy Friday everyone!! Check out what I've got for you today to get you through Labour Day Weekend! Enjoy!

RECENT MFLs

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[crepesuzette2023]

Hello! I loved your Brian lives fic. Do you have any other recs of fics featuring Brian?

Thank you for reading my story, I'm glad you enjoyed it.

And thank you for your questions, which sent me back to re-read some Brian-centered favorites, and also helped me find some new ones.

[as I'm doing unspeakable things to my fingernails awaiting @scurator's Brian/Paul/John story...]

Here are fics featuring Brian (preferably front and center, or looming large in absence) that I enjoyed a lot: Brian and the Boys:

We Happy Few (Selena). One of my favorite stories. Brian’s love for each of the Beatles. • a bottle of milk and some tranqulizers (Naraht). What if Brian were a character in AHDN? Short, with a very nice ending.

Brian and John:

Irrevocable Condition (@dailyhowl). John and Brian are together, free bohemians rising to the top • Crawling to the Car (@dailyhowl). Fantastic fractured impressionistic story set during the 1966 Paris trip with Brian, John, Paul, and Maggie McGivern. It’s about the snapshots in Paul’s camera, John’s loneliness, John and Brian’s almost love that is love, and the tether between John and Paul. • Formby Sands (Naraht). 1962. Brian dives into the cold waves. John watches and warms him up. Mismatching love, blue lips, and shivers.

Barcelona:

The Birds in the Sky Would be Sad and Lonely (@dailyhowl). The trip from John’s anxious, angry, messy point of view. I like that John wants Brian; dares to go further with him that with Stu or Paul. • From Barcelona to Santa Cruz (thinkpink20). John and Paul talk after Barcelona. Let the misunderstandings begin. • Barcelona (Selena). Paul and Astrid talk in Tenerife, or try to. Paul refuses to admit what’s bothering him. Very interesting perspectives.

Brian and John/Paul:

Nothing Mr. Epstein Can Do (@dailyhowl). Musings about John and Paul. ‘Brian wonders if he could consider himself the love child of their psyches.’  • Blue Christmas (@theoldmixer). My ‘Brian lives AU’ 2023 Secret Santa prompt twin! In this version, Brian acts as J/P matchmaker during the 1968 Christmas Party. He is handling things like a true professional.

Brian and Paul:

Managing Expectations (@pauls1967moustache). Paul is unsettled because he can’t tell where he begins and John ends. Brian is the obvious person to help. A psychosexual collision (and, as always with moeexyz, an A++ character study).

Brian and George:

Evasion (quietprofanity). The story is really about all of the Beatles, with Brian at the center and a very unhealthy John [who redeems himself] and some interesting Paul/George, but the most interesting throughline, to me, was George and Brian: from the moment Clive Epstein mistakes George for one of Brian’s flings to their beautiful night together. • The Rent Boy Misunderstanding (@ilovedig). George and Brian in the car, after Clive jumped to the wrong conclusions.

Brian and Andrew Loog Oldham: A guy who really knows his way around (Naraht). Brian meets a very young Andrew, and is suitably amused and intrigued. I loved Brian’s smooth POV.

Brian and Alistair Taylor: Another Kind of Love (Naraht). For once, “I loved him, but not like that” feels believable. Worth it for the growling Alistair vs. Peter Brown raising of the hackles alone.

[priestly-prince]

"As above... So below..."

More Unspeakable!John. I love this AU I need more.

[cinewhore]

Til Death Do Us Part (2) - the newlyweds

Pairing: Dave York x fem!reader (Mr & Mrs Smith AU) Rating: General Warnings: fighting, blood, explosions. regular spy shit. Word Count: 2.5k A/N: inspired by the amazon mr. and mrs. smith series! no beta. Enjoy! Credits to the gif makers.

You really should stop wearing thongs on missions. It’s not enough that you were getting your ass kicked, you could barely concentrate with the material all bunched in your nether regions. 

All you wanted was a quiet night in, curled tight in bed with an assortment of trashy snacks and even trashier reality tv but duty calls. When the company says jump, you don’t say how high. You take the plunge and await instructions on your way down. So far they kept you from splattering all over the pavement but you caught a few branches to the face from time to time. 

You dodge a punch from a goon, your targeted guy making a run for it through the kitchens. Grabbing a spare ladle, you whip it across the face of said goon and continue your pursuit of the stout looking man, throwing any and everything he could behind him to deter you. 

You dodge just about everything except a fucking saucepan, which collides with your left knee and sends you bending over in a tiny fit of pain. This was very telling of how the rest of the mission was going to go. 

Meanwhile, back in the great ballroom of the Cécile Opera house, John carefully observes the crowd from the outskirts. His instincts went into effect as soon as his feet touched french soil, guard held higher than the Eiffel tower. He stood out to some, a handsome man dressed impeccably without a woman on his arm. Pity. A few women have tried to approach, boldly at first but with calculated risk once they spot the gleaming ring on his finger. 

Each and every one of them looked alike, same air of arrogance he was used to from the many government wives he has come in contact with. That’s half the reason he married Carol. She was unspeakable plain and average, just what he wanted. 

In other matters, none of these women were you. If he had to guess, shady business was being conducted elsewhere and wherever that was, you were sure to be. Slipping from the throng of martinis and tuxedos, John follows security into a secluded area, maintaining his stealth as he moves calmly and quietly through the many halls of the security chambers until he winds up in a room with a wall of monitors, cameras pointing in all different angles and rooms. 

That’s when he catches a glimpse of you, lunging at a man with a butter knife. He turns to head for the kitchen before he can watch you slit the man's throat. 

You managed to get the little fucker after all but not without a heft fist fight. Wasting no time, you dig through the pockets of your victim, laughing maniacally as you pull out a set of keys. You hear the brief clacking of dress shows on the tiled floor and you maneuver yourself into a crouch stance, knife pointed outwards. 

The man doesn’t flinch as you snarl at him and finally, you lower your weapon. 

“John?” 

He frowns for a split second before nodding once. “Jane.” 

The kitchen doors burst open, numerous beefy guards filing in, all screaming something incomprehensible but nonetheless not good. 

“Think that’s our cue,” you mutter as you take off towards the back doors, praying to any god that you were running in the right direction. “You know how to drive?”

The path to the parking garage was a ravenous one, a trail of bodies left in your wake. You press the key clicker numerous times until a lime green lamborghini roars to life. You pop open the trunk, sighing a breath of relief as you come face to face with a small trunk. Nothing looked amiss and that was going to have to do at this point. You’d deal with your fuck ups later. 

You toss the keys to your new husband and you both hop in quickly. John isn’t caring as he presses his foot on the gas, backing up the car into a group of guards like a life sized game of bowling. The car screeches out of the garage and down the winding driveway, bullets ricocheting off the concrete. 

As you emerge from the garage and into the flow of Paris traffic, you collide with a few pedestrian cars. 

“Watch it!” you yell, feeling around the backseat for a gun. You knew the Napoleon looking piece of shit was packing and he didn’t disappoint as your fingers came across the cool feeling of an assault rifle. You quickly check the safety and lean out the window, letting it rip. So much for being careful.

“Mind telling me where we’re going?!” John yells back, erratically swerving to avoid the oncoming traffic. 

As if the car could read his mind, the GPS pings and pulls up a set of directions for a set of coordinates. 

“Just drive, I’ll shoot.” you huff, aiming for the tires of the four black sedans that pursue you. 

After nearly 15 minutes of rapid gunfire, you succeed in shaking off your aggressors, leaving the hustle and bustle of the busy streets for more quiet backroads. You settle into your seat, trying to catch your breath. It had been awhile since you handled a gun and you made sure to keep your trembling hands away from where John could see. 

The route takes you to a small house tucked away in the French suburbs, smoke filtering out of the chimney. A light lets you know that someone was home and you weren’t sure if this was a friend or for, so you tell John to park the car a little ways back. 

Upon hearing the vehicle, a young woman and man come rushing out, nearly tripping over each other. 

John opens the trunk for you and you’re careful as you hand over the trunk to the frazzled couple, Stepping back as the woman nearly rips off her fingernails clawing at the locks. 

John braces himself as the trunk is flung open, widening his legs in a ready stance. You catch a glimpse of his arm moving in your direction, ready to throw himself in front of you at a moment's notice. 

“Oh, thank goodness!” The young woman looks up to the both of you with tears in her eyes, a tightly wrapped infant peering out from the blankets. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Her husband wraps himself around them both and you give him a nod, nudging John in the shoulder. “Come on, we’re done here.” 

You’re both quiet as you enter the half totaled car, the passenger mirror hanging on by a literal wire. You’re attempting to push the press to start button, admittedly struggling but John just sits there, eyes not leaving the young couple as he watches them wander back into their house, baby held closely in their embrace. 

He thinks of his girls, how much he missed them. Missed Carol. 

John doesn’t have long to ponder on his past life as the house emits a tiny explosion. It was big enough to rattle the car and get it started. You waste no time shifting the gears into reverse, expertly whipping the vehicle around before throwing the shift into drive. You exhale slowly as pieces of the house collide with the car, both hands gripping the steering, knuckles straining. 

A noise penetrates the silence and John feels around his suit pockets, face frowning as he pulls out a small flip phone. How did that get there? The screen alerts him to one new message. 

Congratulations, John. Welcome to the agency. 

John expects you to ask what it says but you barely spare him a glance, pulling the car into a shady gas station. A group of teen boys loiter outside, smacking each other up while passing around a poorly concealed bottle of liquor around in a paper bag. 

They grow quiet as you park the tattered lamborghini at the pump adjacent to theirs. John watches as you get out of the car with grace, hands slowly going for the gun near his waist. 

Jiggling the keys in your palm, you hold your hand out further. “Wanna trade?” 

The boys all glare at each other. 

The rank minivan trudges to a stop in the dimly lit parking lot, radio halting as you cut the engine. 

John is apprehensive as the both of you walk to the entrance and you say nothing as he holds the door open for you. “Mama’s Table” was a quaint cuban restaurant, furniture and general set up appearing as if someone plucked the decor straight from a flea market. 

You saunter up to the counter to order, an older woman plopped in a chair behind it. Her wide glasses tilt towards the bottom of her nose as she takes in your appearance. You can’t even begin to imagine how you look: ripped dress, broken heels, bloodied and battered flesh. John fared better, at least his suit was somewhat intact. 

“Uh, bonjour. Can I get two orders of empanadas, some chicharrones de cerdo and I’ll top it off with some flan.” You nudge John with your elbow. “What do you want?” 

John raises an eyebrow. “All of that is for you?” 

You shrug. John places a small order of tamales and takes a seat. You pay the ogling lady, waiting for your change. The woman tries hard not to stare at your injuries but fails miserably. She shoots John a side-eye, hands hovering over her phone. 

“Is everything ok, miss?” 

You nod sheepishly. “It’s Mrs. We’re newlyweds.” you flash your new ring and lower your voice. “He can’t keep his hands off me.” 

Shooting her a quick wink, you grab the tray of food and leave the poor woman too stunned to speak. 

Moaning audibly as the food is served, you pay no mind to the heaps of steam as you dig in, uncaring how unladylike you appear. John tries to eat his fair share of food but finds that he can barely stomach anything after the events of tonight. 

“You’re just not going to talk about it?” 

Slowing down on your chewing, you meet John’s vexing stare. “Talk about what?” 

“Anything.” 

You swallow what’s left in your mouth, dabbing a napkin across your lips. “Didn’t realize we needed to talk. You found me, we completed our mission, case closed.” 

He raises his eyebrows in disbelief, leaning back in his chair like a petulant child. You try to take pity on him. I mean, from an outsider's perspective, he’s had a pretty shitty 24 hours. There wasn’t any hand holding within your line of work, it was either get it right the first time or die trying but you figure there was no harm in throwing him a bone. 

“Ok, fine. I’ll answer your questions as long as you stop sulking. It’s making me look bad to Beatrice.” You throw your head back a little, the noisy woman blatantly staring at you both. 

John nods. “The couple?” 

You shrug. “Don’t know ‘em. That’s not our job, understanding the nitty gritty details. You do as you're told and all is well.” 

“The phone?” 

You dig around your purse until you find your own device. “It’s how The Wiz keeps in contact with us. I mean, outside of that, it’s just a phone. My number is already saved in it.” 

For the first time in a long time, John chuckles. “The Wiz?” 

You laugh a little as well. “Yeah, that’s what I call him. Or her. You never meet the person behind the curtain. It makes things more fun, I suppose. Keeps me on my toes. Just remember, big brother is always watching. Anything else?” 

John contemplates for a second before shaking his head. “Guess I’ll learn as we go.” 

Without thinking, you reach your hand across the table and place it on top of his. Squeezing it mildly, you offer a smile. “It’s scary at first but that’s why every John gets a Jane.” 

John lets you go back to eating, admiring your face. Even with the smeared makeup and caked up blood decorating nearly every surface, he found you pretty. Beautiful, even. 

Beatrice looks on from the window as you two take off in the van, leaving a smoky cloud behind you. She makes her way over to the table, thankful that at least you had manners and were neat about your trash. It wasn’t until she was dumping your food trays that she noticed it, crumbled up in a few napkins. 

A red thong.  

The flight back to New York proves to be uneventful. Most of it was spent with you writing up a mission report, John wavering in and out of sleep. Your Range Rover was still parked where you left it, an accompanying one next to it. 

“Matching cars. What’s next, tattoos?” you jest. 

John follows you to a beautiful suburban neighborhood, complete with luscious landscapes and elegant homes. His sightseeing tour was cut short as you pulled into your own driveway. Built with wheat colored bricks, adorned with cypress wooden accents, the house possessed spanish architectural influence with a modern flair. It wasn’t something he’d typically go for but it wasn’t hard on the eyes. Easy to miss which was a plus. 

You walk in first, inhaling the freshness of it all while John trails behind you. As you wander deeper into the house and into the bedrooms, you notice that your previous wardrobe had been replaced. All the new garments were neatly pressed and symmetrically folded. The bathroom was stocked with enough beauty products to fill a small drugstore. 

John knocks politely on the door. “Where’s your first aid kit? I want to patch up that little shiner on your knee, don’t like the look of it” 

You shrug. “Not sure, there’s usually a panic room with medical supplies in it.” 

John cocks his head. “You don’t know where your own panic room is?”

“New husband, new house.” 

John shifts his weight, sensing the elephant in the room he didn’t feel like acknowledging. “Gotcha.” 

“Don’t worry, I can patch myself up. You should get some shut eye, we’ve got an early start.” 

“Goodnight, Jane.” 

“Goodnight, John.” 

You shut the door to your bedroom, attempting to be quiet as you slowly turn the lock. It was silly, really. There was no reason to fear John and locking the door just seemed out right stupid given that anything could happen at any time. Whoever this man is, was, warranted some getting used to. You had been trusting before with one of your previous husbands, who suffered a mental break and nearly suffocated you in your sleep. 

John wasn’t as secretive about his own room, closing his door loudly and fumbling with the lock before securing it. 

Making himself knowledgeable about every inch of the room, a wave of chills get sent down his spine as he comes across a picture placed polishedly on the nightstand. It was of the both of you on what appears to be a wedding day. His likeness was uncanny and he swallowed down a gurgle of food threatening to crawl up his throat. Your eyes bore into his soul lovingly, body absorbed by a rather puffy wedding gown, left hand resting on his chest. 

Mr. and Mrs. Smith - Always & Forever.

[grizzersmamma]

Bloody Paws and Broken Strings | Simon “Ghost” Riley x John “Soap” MacTavish | Daemon AU

Summary: Simon and his daemon Elanor have more than a little trauma from his time with Roba. Call of Duty daemon AU.

Notes: This took a lot longer than I thought and was much longer than I intended, but I hope y'all enjoy!

Pairing:  Simon “Ghost” Riley x John “Soap” MacTavish.

Warnings: Past Childhood Trauma, Torture, Amputation, Daemon Torture, Forced Separation, Being Buried Alive, Permanent Injuries, Fluff.

Series Masterlist: Here

CoD Masterlist: Here

Prev | Next

When Simon thought of torture, he thought he had everything figured out. As a SAS member, he’d been through all the training to resist pain and had sat through lengthy explanations of anything and everything the enemy might be willing to throw at him. It would all be unpleasant, sure, but he was confident that both he and Elanor could handle anything that came their way.  

How wrong he was.  

It was after only a week of captivity among Roba’s men that the unspeakable happened.  

The concrete floor was uncomfortable, but it was far better than the steel table they had strapped him to. The leather bindings were far too tough for him to break through without a blade, and there were enough of them holding him down that he couldn’t so much as twitch without the material digging into his limbs and bare throat.  

Elanor was on a table to his side, and she had been much more difficult to deal with. While she was already muzzled from their capture, her legs had been left loose enough that with one swipe of her paw she drew three deep gashes into the face of the nearest man. It was bad to antagonise the enemy, Simon knew, but he couldn’t help the way his lips twitched upward slightly. After a week of torture, it was rather cathartic to see one of his abusers yelling and cursing while another attempted to stop the blood spurting from his colleague's face. 

Unfortunately, one of the other men in the room must have noticed his minor amusement, for he reached forward, digging his filthy fingers into Elanor’s scruff with a bruising grip. “Think that’s funny, English?” the man hisses, giving the daemon in his hold a firm shake.  

Simon is smart enough to remain silent, schooling his features into neutrality. He can feel the pressure of the other man’s nails digging into Elanor’s skin but refuses to give them the satisfaction of knowing how it affects him.  

The man continues, “I suppose we’ll have to ensure that can’t happen again, hm?” His hold on the panther vanishes as he moves around the table, pulling the bindings on the daemon’s legs tighter. A sinking feeling begins to grow in Simon’s stomach, but he pushes it down, settling for simply watching the man with narrowed eyes.  

“Don’t worry, I hear this is a standard procedure for cats that don’t know how to keep their claws to themselves,” there’s a glint of silver as the man selects a pair of bone shears, testing them out briefly before he turns back to Simon. “Of course, normally the patient is unconscious, but I’m sure you can handle it, right?”  

In response, Simon simply grits his teeth and focuses on his breathing, staring hard at the crumbling ceiling above. The man moves to stand in front of Elanor’s front paws, grabbing one of them and squeezing the top and bottom of the feline’s paw to force the claw to slide into view. He can’t see what the man does next, but he certainly feels it.  

Pain explodes throughout his body, completely blinding him as his vision is washed in white. He presses his head back into the table, choking back any pained noises that threaten to escape him, even as he listens to his daemon’s agonised yowls and thrashes. He can feel tears creeping into his waterline, but before he can even try to fight them back, there is another sickening crunch, and the pain intensifies once more.  

By the time they reach the fourth claw, Simon is panting, sweat beading his forehead. It’s difficult to focus on anything happening with his eyes blurred by tears and his whole body shivering from the pain his already weakened body is struggling to handle. He can vaguely see Elanor weakly struggling out of the corner of his eye, feeling her pain and terror flooding his body.  

No matter how he pulls against the bindings he can’t free himself, the lack of food and dehydration leaving his body feeling heavy and sluggish.  

Simon had been foolish when he thought that he knew how much it hurt to have his daemon harmed. He thought pain was when his father struck Elanor, or his despicable serpent counterpart would sink her fangs into them. But that was nothing compared to the feeling of his daemon having parts of herself cut away in uneven, bloody chunks.  

Elanor had taken such a large, dangerous form to keep her boy safe from the horrors of the world, but here these people were, muzzling her and snapping off her claws. She was reduced to the same defenceless little daemon she had been before settling, cowering in fear and pain and unable to save her person from being terrorised.  

He wanted to comfort her, to tell her that everything would be okay and they would make it out the other side. He tries to push those emotions to the forefront of his mind, desperately clinging to their bond in the hopes of ignoring the pain.  

Unfortunately, the moment he thinks he might just be able to get through the agony of his daemon’s mutilation, Roba’s dog moves on to the next finger. The pain is increased with each claw removed, and it quickly gets to the point that Simon almost wishes he could just pass out rather than soldiering through it. But his brain keeps him wide awake, registering each and every sensation that shoots down his nervous system.  

By the time it’s all over, Simon’s entire body is in so much pain that he hardly notices when they loosen the straps around his arms and legs. The skin where the bonds were has been rubbed raw, leaving behind thin trickles of blood that has soaked into the leather. The room stinks of something metallic, but it’s difficult to tell with the way bile burns his nostrils.  

Hands grip his arms and drag him off of the table, dropping him down onto the cold, hard ground with little care for the pained sound he makes when his body collapses into a heap. He grinds his teeth when he feels someone grab Elanor’s body but is far too weak to do anything about it, watching as she’s carried away.  

It feels like hours pass before they return for him, grabbing him from under the arms and dragging him across the floor and down the hallway back towards the detainment area. They throw him onto the ground again when they reach the room he’s been kept in for a week now, leaving him in the centre of the damp cell alone.  

Simon eventually musters the strength to roll over onto his back, searching the room for Elanor, only to find himself alone. He can feel darkness beginning to creep in around the edges of his vision, consciousness growing harder and harder to hold onto by the second. It isn’t surprising when he finally gives in and lets the abyss claim him, escaping from the waking world and the pain that comes with it.  

He isn’t sure how long it took for him to wake again, struggling to blink his heavy eyelids open with the way they’ve crusted over during his sleep. Elanor is still nowhere in sight, but other than the throbbing pain from the previous torture, she seems to feel alright. She must be nearby if he isn’t feeling the uncomfortable strain on their bond.  

“Ellie?” He grunts out softly, hoping to not draw the attention of any nearby guards. “Elanor?” He tries again when he doesn’t get a response, moving to push his back off the ground. It’s uncomfortable with the black and blue bruises that coat his chest and back, straining at his already swollen muscles, but he manages to slump into an upright position.  

He listens intently for several long moments while heaving air into his lungs, exhausted by the simple exertion of changing positions, until he hears a muffled growl from nearby.  

Struggling against his own body’s deteriorating state, Simon hauls himself across the floor and as close to the front of his cell as he dares. Leaning his head against the cool bars for a moment, he swallows down the foul burn of bile lapping at his throat, choking out a whisper-soft “Ellie?”  

In return he hears a quiet growl, accompanied by the sound of chains shifting across the ground with faint clinking. He can’t see her, but he feels the way their bond lights up with feelings of relief, Elanor seemingly just as happy to hear from her boy as he is her.  

Simon moves to press himself into the corner of the cell, as close as humanly possible to where his daemon is being kept. His head rests back against the wall separating them and he fights back the panic threatening to overtake logical thought at the inability to see, to feel, his daemon. His fingers twitch with the need to run through her silky fur and feel her warmth pressed up against his body.  

It’s unnatural for a person to be without their counterpart for any period of time, let alone somewhere so dangerous. They can’t protect one another while they’re apart like this, can’t comfort one another and lend each other their strength.  

Elanor had always preferred smaller forms while they were children. A tiny squirrel or fluffy rabbit was perfect for her Simon to scoop up and carry around safely in his arms. He had always been so picky about which textures felt good or bad, but Elanor's fur never felt strange or weird, unlike some materials he would touch. He could bury his face into her soft fluff and revel in the way it pleasantly tickled his rosy cheeks.  

But then Simon’s father grew more aggressive toward them. He would corner Elanor and grab at her tiny body, cackling when she squealed in pain. Begging for him to release her only resulted in Simon being berated further for showing such weakness, the cruel man’s bony fingers digging deeper into her tender flesh.  

Small forms, while good for evading capture from the drunk bastard, did little to hinder the man’s slimy python daemon.  

Karoline was a sadistic creature, loving nothing more than to grab the young boy’s daemon and crush her with her muscular torso while Simon wailed for her to stop. More than once she had used her needle-like teeth on the other daemon to hold her in place so she couldn’t escape to somewhere Simon’s father couldn’t reach her.  

The worst was when the man insisted Simon kiss the serpent, “don’t be a coward Simon! Show some respect for your old man’s daemon,” he would growl, only to burst out laughing when the young boy earned himself a bite to the face.  

Being small and meek and avoiding confrontation hadn’t worked, so one day, refusing to allow her boy to be used as a punching bag anymore, Elanor had shifted into a panther. She slashed at Karoline with her new claws and a snarl on her face, badly wounding both snake and man in her attack.  

Neither Simon’s father nor his daemon raised a hand to Simon after that, and Elanor would never be able to shift again.  

For her to lose her claws is more than just painful, her entire purpose for choosing such a form was to be dangerous in defence of her human, and now they’re both just as vulnerable as they were as children. Simon isn’t sure how they will be able to adapt if Elanor is crippled for life – the procedure wasn’t exactly precise – and such an injury could very easily have them removed from service.  

If they get out of this situation alive, that is.  

Dwelling on the future, however, is cut short when Simon catches sight of several guards heading in their direction. There aren’t any other prisoners down this hall, so there’s only one place they could be heading. 

Time for the next round to begin.  

“You know, I have a contact in Mexico who specialises in daemon removal surgeries,” one of the guards says conversationally to the man beside him, but given he is speaking in English rather than Spanish gives away the fact they’re hoping Simon will hear. “Won’t even cause the daemon to dust,” he continues, “I hear the market for daemons that don’t have human counterparts is pretty lucrative these days.” 

The other man scoffs, “the boss wants English broken, not braindead. Haven’t you seen the state that surgery leaves people in?”  

The first man shakes his head “no”.  

“They are...” the man pauses for a moment to consider, “sin alma, they have no soul, empty.” 

While Simon has never had the displeasure of encountering a daemonless person, he has heard the horror stories just like any other soldier and has been told by other men who have seen it firsthand just how terrifying it is to witness. Men, women, children, all with their daemons cut away from them and sold as slaves on the black market.  

Their eyes are dull and their bodies shaky, always searching and reaching for their other half, continuing to live even after suffering a fate that should have killed them. No man should be without their daemon, no matter their crimes. It wasn’t just unethical; it was unholy to tamper with the connection between a person and their soul.  

But if Roba won’t allow these men to remove his daemon, even if it would ensure his subservience, then there isn’t much more they could do to him that he doesn’t already know they can endure. They can survive the torture; they just need to figure out a means of escape. Nothing could hurt the way having someone tearing off chunks of his other half could.  

Only Simon was very, very wrong when he had thought that physically hurting Elanor was the worst these monsters could come up with.  

An hour later and he can only press himself against the bars of his cell with a hoarse scream as he feels his connection to Elanor burn with strain. She’s been put in a small crate and slowly, agonisingly slowly, they’re pushing it further and further away from Simon. At first it was only a little uncomfortable, then painful, but now? He can hardly see straight.  

He knows he’s screaming and thrashing, throwing himself against the steel bars with a wild kind of abandon only brought about by the desperation to survive above all else. The tethers that bind the man and daemon together have been stretched beyond anything Simon has ever experienced, and he can feel some of the bonds shuddering, dangerously close to snapping altogether.  

With shaking knees, Simon falls to the ground, clutching at his chest in a desperate attempt to choke down some oxygen. He can’t even scream anymore with the lack of air in his lungs. It’s hardly a surprise when his body finally gives out, watching the ground rush towards him before everything fades to black. 

This method or torture isn’t used only once, but again and again and again. Every day they stretch their connection further, as if it’s some kind of game for them, to see how much they can tear them apart before risking death. More than once, Simon had hoped that Elanor would dust and they’d finally be at peace.  

“You should thank us, English,” one of them grins, watching the way Simon whimpers, his body shaking uncontrollably, “it is rare for someone to be able to separate from their daemon, you’re already able to be further from that cat then when we first tried this.”  

Simon doesn’t bother replying to him, closing his eyes and silently praying that the man and his coyote daemon will simply leave him to suffer in peace. They’re thankfully finished with the torture for the day, shoving the crate containing Elanor back into her respective cell.  

It has been several months since Simon last saw his counterpart, even longer since he heard her voice thanks to the muzzle she has been forced to keep strapped tightly to her face. She’s still in pain constantly, and he can feel his mind slowly falling to pieces at the loneliness. He still tries to talk to her, even if she can only offer a tiny chirp or purr in return.  

He sometimes catches stray thoughts sent his way, but most of them are of how they both ache and yearn to be able to touch one another again.  

It continues for another month, until Simon can hardly feel his bond between them being yanked at. The pain has dulled down to an old ache that he’s learned to ignore over time, his spirit beginning to wane as the days pass by. The thought of escape has started to drift away, replaced only with thoughts of trying to get through the current day.  

He really shouldn’t have been surprised when Roba finally loses his patience.  

Resilience is a vital trait for anyone serving in the Special Air Service – they are routinely pushed to the brink of human endurance to ensure they can handle taking on the most difficult of assignments without breaking under the pressure – and Simon is no different. His homelife fostered a certain tenacity in him from a young age and, coupled with his time in the service, an unbreakable will had been born.  

Roba had admitted that his mettle was impressive, but it was costing the man time, money and resources, and as of yet had failed to yield any worthwhile results.  

The smell of being trapped beside a rotting corpse in a wooden box is something that will never leave him. It was a battle to keep down the tiny amount of water left in his system from the intensity of the odour, but the smell was nothing compared to the sensation of maggots wriggling around beneath him, crawling over his body after bursting from his old major’s deteriorated remains.  

Tearing the jawbone from the dead man’s face is difficult, even with the tendons holding it in place having largely withered away. The foul sludge that had once been the man’s blood makes the bone slippery and difficult to keep a hold of, but he’s able to grip it long enough to crack through the top of the casket he’d been buried within, tearing the wood apart with his bare hands.  

He’s amazed that he has any energy left at all when he crawls out of the sandy ground, dragging his body a few feet away from the hole, before rolling over onto his back. His wounded ribs burn as he pants heavily, the dry, hot air a blessing compared to the quickly depleting supply he’d been surviving on for several hours now.  

The gentle tugging at his bond draws his attention toward the wooden crate abandoned nearby. Despite his weary bones, he pulls himself closer, still brandishing his bony weapon.  

His fingers are coated in a thick combination of muck from Vernon’s corpse and his own fresh blood that makes it even harder to pry apart the box’s hinges, but with the last of his strength he’s able to pull the front of the crate open.  

He drops back down onto the sand, tossing away the bone with an exhausted huff. Reaching inside the box, he grabs Elanor’s front legs, pulling her toward him as gently as possible. He can’t speak, too focused on swallowing down fresh air as he unstraps the leather muzzle from her face and unravels the rope tethering her paws together.  

The moment she’s free, Elanore is pressing her face against her boy with a deep, pleased growl. She doesn’t mention the damp spots on her fur from where Simon presses his face into her, his body wracked with sobs and half-mumbled apologies. His grip is on just the wrong side of too firm, but neither of them care, not when they haven’t been able to feel one another this close in God knows how long. It’s pure bliss, even if their bond still pangs and spasms every now and then.  

They need to move quickly, lest the cartel return to confirm their prisoner’s demise. And so, ignoring the throbbing of every inch of his body, Simon hauls himself to his feet. He wobbles at first, but Elanor is there to support him, gently leaning her weight against his body to keep him standing straight.  

As they walk, Simon’s fingers are buried in his daemon’s pelt, unable to physically release her. Her every step is agonising, the tiny particles of sand digging into the poorly healed wounds from the exposed nerves and bone of her toes. It feels to them both as though glass is tearing at her paws and, eventually, Simon is forced to try and carry the massive feline to try and ease her suffering.  

He can’t let anything else happen to her. He won’t let anything else happen to her. He wouldn’t let anyone touch Elanor again, ever.  

Of course, all those years ago, he hadn’t factored in the existence of one John ‘Soap’ MacTavish. 

Johnny seemed to have been born an expert when it came to worming his way past Ghost’s many, many layers and directly into his very core where the remnants of Simon reside. No one had believed he could do it, including Ghost himself. Yet somehow, there the man was, lounging on his bunk as though he belonged there, Elanore laying peacefully on the Scot’s chest.  

Gwen, the honey badger, has her face nosed up against Elanor’s side, grooming the feline with her rather rough tongue. She’s purring loudly, very pleased that Elanor has simply decided to concede defeat and allow the smaller daemon’s doting behaviour.  

While Johnny lays on the bed, his hands ever so gently glide over Elanor’s muscular front legs, exploring the panther’s stunning body with a touch so soft that Ghost barely notices it. The sensation he does feel is unusually pleasant, almost as if he can feel the affection radiating off of the sergeant through his bond with Elanor.  

Anyone who treats his daemon with such tender care, as though she might shatter at even the slightest mistake, is a rarity and something Ghost isn’t entirely sure he deserves. He doesn’t know how he got so lucky as to have Johnny in his life, but he’s determined to do everything in his power to be as worthy of such devotion as humanly possible.  

He’s drifting off again, mind pleasantly hazy as he relaxes back into the chair under him. Both he and Elanor are so distracted by the delightful sensation of another person’s touch that they don’t notice when the man’s hands draw closer to the feline’s paws.  

Johnny gently slides his fingers down one of Elanor’s pads, going to massage the big cat’s paws with his thumb and-  

Elanor snarls, shooting to her feet and near enough throwing herself away from Johnny, Ghost just as startled by the way pain suddenly shoots through him. The panther’s lips pull back in a panicked hiss, her fur standing on end.  

“Ellie?” Johnny sounds horrified, sliding down from the bed and onto the floor where he kneels down, “are ye alright, bonnie?” If anyone else had tried to call Elanor by “Ellie” they would have had their face bitten, it’s reserved for Ghost only, but the name sounds so right coming from Johnny’s lips that neither of them have said a word about it.  

Ghost shivers slightly, but quickly pulls himself together, placing a hand on Elanor’s spine to pacify the frightened cat. Johnny is looking between Ghost his daemon frantically, trying to piece together what caused the feline to react so aggressively, and Ghost can’t help feeling bad for not warning the other man in advance.  

“’s alright, Johnny,” Ghost promises, feeling his heartrate slowly lowering back down again, “old girl’s paws are sensitive.” 

Now much calmer, Elanor creeps a few steps closer to Johnny again, offering a headbutt to the hand the sergeant offers her. An apology for responding so hostilely toward a loved one. She very quickly has Gwen rubbing up against her side with little chirps, clearly concerned.  

“Did she get hurt somehow during the last mission?” Johnny asks, laying his hands in his lap rather than trying to touch Ghost’s daemon again, providing her some much-needed space.  

Ghost gently wraps one of his fingers around Elanor’s tail, watching as the daemon’s limb curls around his arm in response. “It’s because of her claws, they cause her pain,” he explains, “it wasn’t your fault, Johnny, we didn’t think to tell you.”  

“What happened to her claws? Never seen the lass use ‘em, are they really that sore?” Johnny looks so upset by it, brow wrinkled as he frowns in worry.  

“She doesn’t have claws anymore, they got removed.”  

“Why would-” Johnny cuts himself off, thinks for a moment, before immediately puffing up indignantly. Ghost has to fight down the urge to mention just how adorable it is when the sergeant and his daemon visibly fluff up like disgruntled birds whenever they’ve decided that something has personally insulted them. “Who th’ hell removed ‘em?!”  

Ghost isn’t entirely sure how to de-escalate the situation, but settles for simply telling his partner the truth, “Ellie had the tips of her fingers removed while we were captured a long time ago, scratched the wrong person,” he chuckles, refusing to show just how ill the memories make him feel, “she just never healed right because of the shoddy job the bastards did, cut through the bone wrong and fucked up the nerves in her feet.”  

To say Johnny was mad would have been an understatement, he immediately jumps to his feet, shouting curses and rambling angrily in what might have been a weird mixture of English and Scottish. It’s difficult to tell with how rapidly the man is grumbling to himself, hands flailing in his obvious distress.  

Abruptly, Johnny turns to Ghost again, face red and his hair a mess after running his hand through it too many times, “yer both in pain? All the time?” He sounds so heartbroken at the very thought.  

Ghost isn’t sure what to say to that, offering a slight shrug, “normally. Doesn’t cause much trouble for us unless we’re going through rough terrain.” When that doesn’t seem to satisfy Johnny he adds, “we’re used to it, you don’t need to worry yourself about it.”  

He can see that his partner still looks as though he’s going to argue, so Ghost decides to cut him off before he can, rising from his chair and walking over to the man. “Really Johnny, Ellie and I are fine,” he breathes, gently taking the sergeant’s hands into his own and rubbing circles into the back of them. He never been great with intimacy, nor with helping to calm others, but with luck his genuine tone will do the trick.  

It takes a few moments, but Johnny eventually breathes out a heavy sigh, his shoulders drooping. “Sorry, ah shouldn’y have lost me heid,” he admits, scratching at the back of his neck, “am sorry fer makin’ you tell me all tha’, and fer hurting Ellie.”  

In response, Elanor leans over to butt her head against Johnny’s thigh again, “we’re okay, Johnny,” she purrs, licking at the top of Gwen’s head. The badger’s fur sticks up like a carbon copy of her counterpart’s Mohawk, much to the panther’s amusement.  

They’re able to gently steer Johnny and Gwen away from the conversation, but Ghost can tell that the other man isn’t quite ready to drop the subject entirely.  

It isn’t for another few days that it’s brought up again.  

Ghost is preparing to ship out for their next assignment in a few hours and he’s taking a moment to do a final check of his travel pack. There’s a knock on his door and, upon opening it, he’s met with a rather nervous Soap, holding some fabric in his hands. Before he can ask what’s going on, Johnny shoves the bundle into his chest.  

“I, uh, got ye somethin’,” he says quickly, tanned face quickly turning a bright shade of red, “ah thought ye might appreciate it, y’know, considering we’re shipping out in a few.”  

Ghost glances down at the fabric and then back up at Johnny again. He carefully removes one of the items from the collection, flipping it over in his hold as he inspects it, “the hell did you get these?” At first, he had thought it was a couple pairs of gloves, but they’re the wrong shape and have some tread built into the bottom.  

“Got ‘em from a local handcrafts store,” Soap grins sheepishly, “they’re supposed to be shoes fer cat daemons, ta keep their feet warm ‘n comfy durin’ winter. Ah thought they could be useful fer when we’re out in the field and there’s rough ground.” His face is bright red by this point and he’s looking in every other direction than at Ghost.  

The lieutenant can’t help swallowing thickly, a warm feeling filling his chest. This is, perhaps, the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given to him and it’s making him feel a strange fluttering in his stomach.  

Pulling open the velcro holding the glove together, he bends down and gently takes one of Elanor’s paws, wrapping it around the end of her limb and securing it in place. He moves through the rest of Elanor’s feet until her feet are completely covered.  

Elanor wiggles her paws within the confines of the new gloves, testing them out by stepping from foot to foot. The inside of the little boots are covered in soft wool and the bottom are supported by a soft sole. The tread on the bottom of the shoes keep her from slipping and, while they’re likely not intended for intense use, they’re certainly a lot more comfortable than walking barefoot.  

“They’re perfect, Johnny,” Ghost offers his partner a rare, genuine smile from behind his mask, “thank you.”  

Johnny’s whole face lights up in that adorably excitable way of his, Gwen wriggling about equally as eagerly at his feet, “ah, it’s nothin’,” he waves away Ghost’s thanks, smiling brightly, “am just glad ye both like it.”  

Ghost wishes he could take the time to well and truly thank his sergeant, but the clock is ticking and they both need to get a move on. “I’ll see you on the tarmac before take-off, sergeant,” he says, noticing the increase in activity outside his room and deciding to take a slightly more professional approach, just in case anyone should be watching.  

Johnny simply offers him a nod and a half smile, “sure thing, L.T, catch ye soon.”  

He watches as the Scott makes his way down the hall with Gwen hot on his heels, waiting until he is out of view before pulling his door closed again. He still has that gooey, mushy feeling inside and, judging from the way Elanor is grinning at him, she feels it too.  

This must be how it feels to be loved.  

[meetinginsamarra]

My Fave Sherlock BBC tropes - Casefics

Around mid-month I’ll do a fic rec list with my fave AU genres or tropes. Summaries are taken from OP on AO3.

Okay, so there are obviously a lot of Sherlock fics where a case gets solved. Here, I only include the especially plotty ones.

*********************************

“The Case of the Green Gown” by splix

https://archiveofourown.org/works/2659472

...Watson had at that time deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I can recall in our association. I was alone.  -Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier

(Please ignore this useless summary! This is hands down the most complex but still completely logical casefic I’ve ever read. Layers upon layers of stunning reveals, intriguing case and beautiful characterization of our beloved. Awesome!)

“Ten Days” (part 1 of “The Fallen” series) by Engazed @engazed​

https://archiveofourown.org/works/456761

Sherlock Holmes has been dead for forty months, and John is at last beginning to live his life again. But just when he believes he might be happy, his world crashes back down around him.

John is named a missing person. Someone is pointing DI Lestrade in the wrong direction. And as the days pass, his situation only grows more dire. It seems like the disappearance of his best friend is the only thing that can bring Sherlock Holmes back from the dead.

“The Slash Man” (part 2 of “The Fallen” series) by Engazed @engazed

https://archiveofourown.org/works/949101

After ten days of unspeakable torture at the hands of Sherlock's worst enemies, John Watson has returned to Baker Street to live with a man whose death, no matter how fake, still haunts him. But his recovery is not easy, his friendship with Sherlock is strained, and a dangerous but hidden menace continues to threaten them both.

(”Blackbird, Fly” is part 3 and currently a WIP)

“The Green Blade” by verityburns @verity-burns​

https://archiveofourown.org/works/320879

As a serial killer hits the headlines, the police are out of their depth and the next victim is out of time. With faith in Sherlock Holmes at an all time low, this is a case which will push loyalties to the limit...

“A Goose Quill Dipped in Venom” by Polyphony

https://archiveofourown.org/works/344050

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, is called in to a very ordinary although brutal murder. Something is badly out of tune with the whole scenario and Sherlock finds himself becoming more and more obsessed with the crime - and also with the victim.

“The Iceman cometh” by Polyphony

https://archiveofourown.org/works/539555

Title from the Eugene O'Neill play of the same name. An intriguing puzzle tempts Sherlock to accept Victor Trevor's invitation to the French Riviera, but all is not what it seems. Frustrated by the case and increasingly concerned about an absent John, Sherlock uncovers far more than he was meant to and is forced to become a fugitive, pursued by those on both sides of the law, as he fights for his freedom and the lives of all those around him.

“The Edinburgh Problem” (part 1 of “Scotland series”) by snorklepie @snorklepie

https://archiveofourown.org/works/2392997

“A nice holiday, just a bit more...murdery.” John said drily. “Yes! The best kind of holiday!” Sherlock beamed. “So we won’t get bored!”

After he separates from Mary, John returns to Baker Street. Following a request for help from Sherlock's cousin Violet, the detective and his blogger take a trip to Edinburgh. John discovers more about the Holmes family and Sherlock than he bargained for, but tries not to run screaming.

“October to Hogmanay” (part 2 of “Scotland series”) by snorklepie @snorklepie

https://archiveofourown.org/works/3606486

“What are we, now?” John mused aloud, once they were in a cab heading back to Baker street. It was a cool, damp afternoon and Sherlock was studying the passers-by with detached interest. He glanced over at John with a raised eyebrow, his fingers idly worrying at one of the buttons on his coat.

“Nothing seems quite right. What would you call me, if somebody asked?” John waved a hand vaguely at the space between them. “What do we call… this?”

(”Savage Music, Sombre Light” is part 3 and currently a WIP)

“Periodic Tales -series” (18 fics) by 7PercentSolution @7-percent​

https://archiveofourown.org/series/504749

Lots of science, lots of case fic! This is Sherlock as chemist, using the periodic table of elements for many different reasons. Each story is centred around one particular element, in two parts. One focuses on aspects of Sherlock's childhood and events in his life; the other part shows how that has influenced his abilities as the world's only consulting detective, demonstrated through a case fic that shows off his deducing skills.

(most of Seven’s fics could be put onto this list btw, but I’ll add only one more)

“Devonshire Squires” (part 8 of “Fallen Angel” - series) by 7PercentSolution @7-percent

https://archiveofourown.org/works/11830755

Post THE/Pre So3, John and Sherlock try to rebuild bridges, but a demanding case challenges both of their assumptions about what happened to the other one during the hiatus. Lestrade tries to play peacemaker, but Mycroft's meddling is counter-productive. Case fic, sickfic and angst all rolled into one misery-laden ball of reading pleasure

“Midnight Blue Serenity” by BeautifulFiction @the-pen-pot​

https://archiveofourown.org/works/635897

“This was like nothing John had ever thought to associate with Sherlock: stubble, skin-tight jeans and three small silver rings gleaming at the crest of one ear. It was unbelievable, like stepping into an alternative universe, and John couldn't stop staring.”

When Sherlock infiltrates a club in order to track down a serial killer, his altered appearance is enough to make John question his assumption that Sherlock is beyond his reach. However, is he the only one who appreciates his flatmate's charms, or is Sherlock at risk of becoming the next victim?

“The Adventure of the Body Snatchers” by dioscureantwins

https://archiveofourown.org/works/5574523

“Body snatchers,” whispered a girl. “Oh, Mr Holmes. Oh, Davey…” Her eyes watered and with heaving shoulders she buried her face into her neighbour’s overcoat.

Sherlock looked perplexed. “Is this one of those pop culture things?” he asked the room at large.

John nodded and drank the last of his tea while his flatmate rolled his eyes before leaping to his feet.

“Right. I can’t think with so much stupidity in the room.” He began making shooing motions at the distraught girl and the boy who sat comforting her as well as the others. “Everybody out. John and I don’t have time for this nonsense. Out, out, all of you.”

“The Moonlight and the Frost” by CaitlinFairchild

https://archiveofourown.org/works/1998777

“And once again, you think you know what’s best for me.”

John rises from the chair, the anger and frustration and hurt overwhelming him, bursting out of every pore, and he doesn’t even know for sure that it’s Sherlock he’s angry at, really, but the only reason he tied himself to Mary in the first place is because the person he really loved left him behind, and the woman he married once sat in the shadows above a darkened swimming pool and aimed a sniper rifle at his heart and later shot his best friend in cold blood and cuckolded him and just gave birth to a child that wasn’t his and right now he just can’t do this, he just fucking can’t do this anymore.

John has to somehow rebuild his life in the wake of Mary's betrayal and Sherlock's deceptions.

“Sketchy” by serpentynka

https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090850

What (and who) will be left when nobody cares about your Work? A slow-burn fic with cases, places, mistaken identities, unfair choices, essential changes, violent feels, blatant lies, fearless portraiture, family secrets, high-risk bespoke gifts, durable friendships, bedtime stories, foreign travel and tongues, sickness (and health), and the significance of things which are slow to unfurl -- but cannot be ignored. Oh, and...porn.

“All the best and brightest creatures” by wordstrings

https://archiveofourown.org/works/582059

Sherlock sent Jim Moriarty to prison for killing Carl Powers at age ten. This is the story of the consequences.

“The adventure of the silver scars” by tangledblue

https://archiveofourown.org/works/5131763

“All this does not mean that I’m not still basically pissed off with you. I’m very pissed off, and it will come out now and then.” –His Last Vow   It’s been thirteen months since Mary shot Sherlock and John finds he’s still pissed off about it. Sherlock had thought everything was settled: John and Mary, domestic bliss. But when John turns up at Baker Street with suitcases, the world’s only consulting detective might not be prepared for the consequences. A new case. Some old scores to settle. Certain danger. Concertos, waltzes, and whisky.

“Major Pieces” by Lindentreeisle (Captainblue)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/162152

Sherlock knew that he could thoroughly rely upon John Watson's moral sense. And that's why he knew that Lestrade was wrong, wrong, wrong.

[rosemaryblossoms]

Tiffany loves you Au

I was inspired to make this au by seeing the John loves you au by @zzoupz and @salmonandsoup

Drawings of character’s appearance will come soon, also Tiffany is in her early thirties in this au and Amy is 27 years old in this Au. The Martin twins are alive.

John ward: he takes the place of Amy, instead of working as a priest he works at the clinic like Amy did, he wears a Turtleneck Sweater with angel sleeves and black bell bottoms with boots. His face is gone due to the ritual. He is Tiffany’s favorite.

Father Garcia: takes the place of Father Allred, he wears a blue stole with a purple cross on each side of it at the bottom over his priest uniform, he aids Amy in John’s Exorcism, still smokes cigars, poor Father Garcia fly high 😔🕊️

Amy Martin: Is a nun who helps with John’s exorcism, she is trying to save her siblings from being sacrificed by Tiffany, is friends with Michael, poor baby needs therapy. Like she needs a hug really bad, give her one. She gets a fuck you from Tiffany. She also wears gold cross earrings to match her crucifix. Her finger nails are painted black but in a certain light it looks blue.

Father Allred: takes the place of Father Garcia, smokes tobacco pipes, he helps Amy the rest of the way and aids her from the wrath of Tiffany, He tries to exorcise Lisa and John’s brother (you’ll learn more when you scroll to his description) but fails. he wears a purple crucifix necklace, he also has a stubble. Haha rifle go pew pew.

Michael Davies: he doesn’t swap roles with anybody. Instead of being a demon he’s an angel, he is friends with Amy and follows her to aid her at every beck and call when she needs his help, he also gives her courage and positive affirmations. basically a more friendlier version of the mirror demon. Though the mirror demon still lurks around but Michael basically says fuck you to him and shoos him off.

Lisa Pearson: is one of the characters that takes the role of Michael (haha two crack headed goblin demons 😂, Michael is honestly one of my favorite characters in Faith) basically the same demon as Michael but yellow and has hair, she also has antlers. she wears her hair up in a ponytail which has a few twigs and leaves in it, She skedaddles around with John’s brother Gabriel around the area, fly high Lisa 😔🕊️( a gun with one bullet and truck-kun). Crazy fun fact her, Gabriel, and Gary are basically nude due to their demon transformations.

Gabriel Ward: is my oc I put in to go with the story line. He is the other character to take the role of Michael. The same demon as Michael but indigo and has short fluffy hair. He’s the one who jumps Amy in the garage before she scares him of with a crucifix. He was the twin brother of John Ward, their parents are divorced and his father took him while their mother takes John, he is angry at his father for taking away his brother because his brother was his best friend but misses his dad still because he was taken by Father Alfred to do a exorcism on him.

Miriam Bell: she takes the place of Lisa, she’s a retired nun who loves to bake cookies, wears a black turtleneck sweater and a long red skirt with a gold cross necklace. She used to have a close bond with her son but that changed when he grew up and met Tiffany, she misses the sweet guy her son used to be.

Gary Miller: Takes the place of Tiffany, he loves her and he is envious of John, like he hates him. Calls John a manwhore often, he willingly did the ritual and became THE SON OF THE UNSPEAKABLE.

The twins: basically the same but I gave them a different appearance, Nate has short hair while Jason’s hair is a bit longer

Cop: basically the same

Alejandro Kruger: my oc I used for the story line. is the ex husband of Amy, basically taking the role of Molly. He is still her friend but lives far away. He has cancer. He still loves her and would try their relationship again.

Tiffany Robinson: cult leader, basically takes the role of Gary. Has a stitched up scars, one each side of her mouth and a scar on her neck, Had an upside down cross carved on her head as well as small scars on her left eye (her left not yours), SWARM OF SCORPIONS. She doesn’t love Amy. Wears thick high heel boots underneath her cloak. Always carries her ritual knife besides her trident and whip of spikes. In her final form her face splits like the demigorgon from stranger things and grows to 7’0 ft tall.

[trashprinceward]

Cultist!John

An AU based on the Chapter 2 initiation ending. John willingly gives himself over to the cult and becomes the living host of The Unspeakable. Gary remains as the figurehead of the cult, but John becomes its leader, and figure of worship.

Everyone else's roles are still the same. It's not a role swap AU, per se, it's just that things have changed around John because of his new role.

This John in particular is from the chapter 2 Initiation ending. After giving himself over to the cult, he was expecting maybe some kind of ritual, or cruelty, but they were surprisingly welcoming to him. They cleaned him up, tended to his wounds, comforted his doubts and just made him feel at ease.

He was then offered up to The Unspeakable, and became its vessel. It works out differently to possession, in which a demon kind of overrides their host. Instead, they become a fusion in which both of their minds become one. This is why John mostly remains himself and stays in control, and also why it's near impossible to cast him out, because they are now essentially the same being.

For the most part John is still himself, or at least, it seems so on the surface. He generally has the same demeanour, behaviour, thoughts, memories and the core personality that brings. But, being vessel to The Unspeakable, it twists him, and enhances his more negative traits. His inhibitions are lowered, he's more likely to act selfishly to fulfil his own desires, will use more extreme methods to get what he wants, things like that.

He still acts kindly and sweet towards others, though often with more manipulative intentions, even towards those he's fond of. In the end, The Unspeakable's goal is simply to corrupt others, and if anything it sees John's friendships and kindness simply as a means to gain an advantage.

As for his role in the cult, John becomes the physical vessel of The Unspeakable, which is more of a seamless merging of their minds rather than a possession, which is why its all but impossible to simply cast the demon out. So essentially John sorta becomes the cult's figure of worship. His overall goal is sort of an Armageddon type deal, but as a slow corruption type thing, rather than outright destruction.

In regards to his relationship with Gary, they're fairly amicable for the most part, though there are a few times where John has to flex his authority a little. Gary's always been 'himself', so he has a clear idea of his goals and how to do things. John, however, is dealing with his new switch in identity, so the melding of The Unspeakable's goals and John's methods can sometimes be different to how Gary usually does things. For the most part, John is content to let Gary manage the more secretive, less-public aspects of the cult's doings, but if he feels that he's starting to overstep his bounds a little, John will take a moment to remind him who he is, and who's in charge now.

They have their differences where they don't see eye to eye, but they mostly get along pretty well. They enjoy long conversations about theology, philosophy and psychology. Gary will provide John with knowledge that he'd never hear from the church, and John gives him a more human perspective on issues that others likely wouldn't divulge to Gary.

They both have a unique viewpoint on things that comes from being somewhere between human and demon, and providing they both remain civil, enjoy each other's company.

Gary, however, does remain wary of John, trying to remain on his good side. The man is now, after all, host to his boss (and the biggest boss of all, it seems) so he is actually pretty afraid of him, and does his best to remain tactful around him on matters they might disagree on.

[hypernova-blitz-arts]

Okay so i have an idea- TMC but with a storyline based off of FAITH. basically a crossover. ik it's been done before but i'd like to present my own take on it. Long ass character info list under the cut

Btw if you wanna rb this, please do! It let's me know people are interested

To start, I think the AU would/should be called When Faith Prevails.

The cult still exists, Preacher is the leader of the lower ranking members. The cat is the cult mascot because yes. I'll elaborate later.

All of the humans are traumatized!! Yaaaaay!!!

Mark (Father Heathcliff)

- 36

- absolute wet cat of a man

- takes on a role similar to John

- decided he wanted to be a priest so he could help people. Only wanted to become a priest after an incident in his childhood in which he attempted to finish an exorcism. One which the priest that had been called to the scene died during.

- Continuing the above, the faithful boy did what he could, as he was instructed to by O'Brien. He wasn't fast enough.

- Insomnia, night terrors, PTSD, anxiety, depression

Dave (Father Lee)

- late 50's

- Takes on a role similar to Father Garcia because it's fucking hilarious to me to imagine Dave blasting a demon with a shotgun

- he's too cool that's why he dies later

- cares for Mark a lot, considers him family

- became a priest due to his Visions (TM) as a child. He's been revered as a holy prophet since.

- somehow the most stable guy in this entire AU, had a good family life, decent childhood, stayed out of trouble, a very good child. He's mostly chillin, save for the fact that he Witnesses The Horrors every night in his sleep.

Father O'Brien

- died during an exorcism.

- he done goofed.

Cesar Torres

- Died at 16, somehow aged as a ghost? maybe because he's still attached to his body.

- a spirit bound to what's left of his mortal form. Cannot be at peace until his body is killed.

- an alt possessed him and took his body during a botched attempt to exorcise it out of his house. Turns out there was more than one.

- "talks" to Mark sometimes (leaves things out that mean different things, writes notes)

- "bleeding" constantly

- hates seeing Mark spiral like this

"Cesar Torres"/Alt Cesar

- Killed Cesar and took over his body.

- watch it gain humanity later (i'm sorry but giving Alts humanity and then making them spiral is my favorite thing to do. It's so much fun to watch an unfeeling entity, one made to kill, drive itself insane over being a failure)

- they/it at first, he/it later on.

Sarah Heathcliff

- before i go on, this is only an AU loosely based on FAITH. That being said, Lisa (or any replacement thereof) x John (or any replacement thereof) does not exist.

- 32

- Mark's distant sister, lives in the Cult's apartment building.

- stays away from religion because of her childhood

- some flavor of emotional management issues, that's what makes her so easy for an Alternate to manipulate/begin to possess.

Thatcher Davis

- look, i refuse to make him as young as he is canonically. not as old as Dave, but close. bro is at least in his 40's here. maybe very early 40's but 40s nonetheless.

- cop that hangs around the church for security.

- hangs out with Dave, calls him old man a lot

- trauma. so much trauma.

- Dave taught him how to exorcise an alt out of a given place, but Thatcher has something stronger (a gun)

- "I'm a brave boy" *Sees an alt* "NOT A BRAVE ENOUGH BOY FOR THIS"

Ruth Weaver

- used to live in the cult apartment building.

- She was sacrificed.

- Thatcher is still looking for her.

- He won't like what he finds.

Adam Murray

- He's just Michael Davies here what else can i say

-17

- humanity? gone. none left.

- he's in so much pain all the fucking time help him

Jonah Marshall

- Adam's best friend

-18

- alive. for now.

- anxiety, so much anxiety, hallucinates a lot.

- he knows how to use a GUN in this one folks

Lucifer/The Morningstar/ UNSPEAKABLE

- you see how he looks in canon? make it worse. make it a million times more uncomfortable to look at.

- eyes. All of the eyes. So many eyes.

- limbs? Many. Wings? Yeah, he has those too. They're leathery and bat-like with a layer of blackened feathers along the top.

- merciless

- created the alternates to twist the world to his design.

- likes to watch humans go mental, it's so funny to him <3

Important side characters (mostly Alts)

Six/The Anglerfish

- lures children in to either make them join the cult or sacrifice them, often replaces them with an alt to "spread the vision of it's creator"

- Warned Mark of what was to happen, was there to observe Mark failing his best friend

- bastard. Kill him. Right now.

- him and stanley are one in the same. Six is the anglerfish hiding in the darkness behind its lure. A monster behind a friendly face.

Preacher

- Kind of equivalent to Malphas but usually takes a form like that of Miriam's

- right hand to the UNSPEAKABLE

- bastard boy bastard boy bastard boy

- manipulative little prick

The Sacrifices

- various sacrificed animals possessed by lower ranking alts

Goat

- THE fucked up sacrifice

- little fucking bitchass daddy's boy. Asskisser of the antichrist. Desperate for the UNSPEAKABLE'S attention

- Alu's replacement

[justcommander]

Well, I did get asked to write a little more about my little Father and Children AU.

Some little facts about this unusual trio? Of course, under the cut!

This is long. I'm gonna warn you, this is a whole lot of rambling.

This trio won't stay a trio for long, once Lisa and Father Garcia will reach John. Michael won't be happy to see one of the two. But will eventually accept his presence.

So, we started with Michael, a little more about him. The boy is not doing too well, but is also getting better now under John's care. His hair started to grow back but won't ever be as fluffy and soft as they were before: now they're coarse and grey. If they get grabbed and pulled, they fall right off in thick tufts. His nose is completely gone and he his right leg is permanently wounded, making John's knee look perfect in comparison. So he walks with the help of a crutch. He already got cataract, because of the infection in his eyes. Those sunglasses are a gift from the priest and he refuses to take them off even for sleeping.

Why wasn't he brought to a hospital? Well, John is terrified by those places and can't be the one to bring him there, risking to have police taking him back in for being a suspect for kidnapping and harming a kid that they've been looking for.

But why won't he go back to his parents exactly? They should be still alive. And they are. However, there is a number of motives why he won't do it. He's afraid to return to them now he loos like this, they've never been very caring towards him, and yet he also doesn't want to put them in danger now he got involved in something so much bigger than him. He thinks John is truly the only one who can fight demons and he loves him a lot. To him he's more of a father, than a Father.

How did he convince John that he does not have parents to return to? Easy: He lied about his name. He claimed to be called Michael Garcia. Unfortunately for him Father Garcia manages to contact John and this leads to a lot of misunderstandings. And confusion.

He speaks Spanish, yes. Though uses mostly English because John doesn't understand it. Only when he gets agitated or feels strong emotions of any kind, he slips. Or when Amy starts speaking Latin, he begins to speak Spanish to her. And John loses his mind when they do that.

-

Amy now!

Amy was saved by John just a little too late, but not that late. When he found her, her face had already been carved out but no offering was made. John made good use of that "one bullet" by shooting at Gary, and stopping him before he could continue with the ritual. Yes he shot Gary. Without knowing what he had just done. He took Amy away from him and wrapped up her face in bandages. He narrowly got away with his life and Amy safe in his arms.

What does this mean for her? It means she cannot be exorcised fully, even if he tries, because her body is dead. There is a portal to hell in her face, but without the sacrifice it required, nothing can truly come out. What kept Amy alive was the awareness of having John there for her, caring so much. The Second Death had never happened. The death of the soul was prevented because she never stopped fighting, when he arrived. Despite the pain and everything she lost. He was still there. The UNSPEAKABLE is inside her, but his control is weak. So weak, that she takes over without him even realizing, when he thinks to be the one in control in certain situations.

This means she can use those supernatural powers, stealing them from him. But the longer she does it, the more she risks to lose herself. Every night, she is afraid he could take over while she's asleep too , that's why she does not want to take off that straightjacket and specifically asks to be restrained. John can't bring himself to do it, he's afraid of that thing. So Michael does this instead.

-

Basically they both Love John so much. He gave them a reason to live, he put his life in danger to save them so they will fight for him even if they're frightened by the cultists and by Gary. They're just kids after all. But their Father also became their father, for both of them. They might be scared, but they won't let anyone take him away. In those moments when John's life really is at risk, that's when neither of them would hesitate and jump at those cultists's throats.

Anyway, they are very hard to handle, and they know it. When john faints on the chair after three sleepless nights, they try to put him on the couch and cover him with a blanket. They try to cook, they try to tidy the place. A little apology, for realizing they've exhausted him to this point.

And I wrote way too much. I warned you. This was a ramble. Ops? Maybe I'll write more in the future, when I'll learn to write more by writing less. Gosh, I talk too much.