#one year since unfortunate discord experience

[thedeafprophet]

Starter Guide On Where To Find The Calender Council In Game

Alright, so here i've put together a little intro guide on where to find information/interact with The Calender Council in Fallen London proper, since most of their lore and experience is scattered throughout the game

This is not a summary of these characters, rather, where people can go to experience the content and read things for themselves. I'm also not gonna mention every single little mention, this is just a starter guide.

There will be mild spoilers here, by the nature of knowing where these characters are involved

Obliatory reference to [Fate] The Calender Code, this ES has some brief overview to all CC members, and introduces the concept of most CC members being tied to a quirk.

January

January is primarily found in the Railway Questline.

In order to have her on the board and experience her inclusion, you must first recruit September, supported the liberationist tracklayers twice, and have 7 Revolutionary Favours

She can be a City Leader and has extra text in the City in Silver

(I recommend recruiting her as early on as possible to experience full text, especially before the initial Creditor plotline)

She is connected to the Discordance

February

Rival during the Cave of The Nadir Expedition

Cameos briefly in nemesis if you choose to try and reach out to revolutionary connections

[Fate] Scene in the Revolutionary option during Sackmas

[Fate] Appears briefly in Lost In Reflections

[Fate] Involved in the marriage of September text

Now removed from the game, February was involved in Knife and Candle

March

The previous March is no longer active, we have minimal information about the new March

Old march was John Cassell, RPF moment.

April

April is a significant character in the Bag A Legend ambition

BaL players can have her as a laboratory assistant

BaL Players can also recruit April to the Railway Board

(Yea unfortunately she's pretty much entierly restricted to having played Bag A Legend )

May

May is The Manager Of The Royal Bethlehem. This was confirmed out of universe years ago . As such, theres a fair amount connected to him by nature of The Manager being a major npc.

The Manager is a significant character in the Heart's Desire Ambition

The Manager appears in a later part of The Railway, with a significant extra contribution for Heart's Desire players

[Fate] The Bloody Wallpaper is a great ES where he is a focus

Nightmares is increasing...

June

Very little is known about June.

She is referenced briefly in the Red Feathers Pin renown raising, "Bury the Council's Secrets"

Out of universe text confirms her as the archictect of the dawn machine

July

[Fate] July is the featured character in the "Lost In Reflections" ES

[Fate] She can be a companion and a Railway Board member with minimal extra dialogue, purchased from Mr Chime's lost and found

August

August of the Calendar Council is the Jovial Contrarian. He appears substaintially throughout the game.

Can be a railway board member

September

September can be met in Balmoral at the Kirk during the Railway Storyline. He has a storyline there, and can become a railway board member.

[Fate] September can become a companion at the Feast of The Rose, and is a marriage candidate.

There's extra text at the Burrow station but we all know my bone to pick with the Burrow

October

You meet October in the Heart's Desire Ambition

'The Peace of October' is an option for calvary in The Parabolan War

[Fate] The Shallows has a deep insight into October's Actions

[Fate] October briefly cameos in The Bloody Wallpaper

The results of October's actions are seen in Nemesis Ambition, but she is not directly mentioned

November

[Fate] Appears in A Little Pandemonium (I have not played this)

[Fate] A Feast Of The Rose Companion

December

For this one, if you really want information I recommend playing Sunless Skies. There is a lot more information on them there.

Theres a few bits of text here or there, in the GCO, Evolution, and a Jewlled Future Destiny text, but nothing particularly substaintial in Fallen London proper.

[stanley578]

An asshole is an asshole, regardless of gender identity and sexual orientation

In case you're wondering why that's the title of this blog post, two days ago marked one year since that arrogant asshole of a mod who is an artist from the NiGHTS fandom kicked me out of their Discord server.

I sympathized with their situation and expressed how I feel about it but their reaction rubbed me the wrong way.

I did my part by apologizing but the moment they said they don't have patience for people like me was when I had to set my boundaries by blocking them in websites where they have accounts. I didn't sleep well that night as I went through depression. I remember being so worked up about that for the rest of 2022, venting about it on Twitter and Tumblr, to the point that it took a toll on my mental health.

While they have the right to let off some steam about their ableist manager, it wasn't right of them to take out their anger on me.

That unfortunate experience made me realize that no matter how good an artist's work is, it doesn't excuse them to treat others unfairly. Also, having a disability and being part of the LGBTQ+ community isn't an excuse to be a shitty person (Their bio states that they have ADHD and identify as transmasculine).

Though there was a bright side to that experience. A Twitter user saw my tweets and said they were sorry for what I went through. We started talking in the DMs and they told me I wasn't alone as they said the artist has it out for them even though the user didn't say anything to them.

The user gave me words of reassurance which I truly appreciate and I've been committing to memory ever since. We became friends due to sharing similar experiences with the arrogant asshole.

I brought this up as a way of looking back and to see how I feel right now after one year has passed. It's safe to say that I feel better and I'm in a much better place. That asshole is out of my life and being surrounded with better people on different servers and focusing on things that bring me joy has helped me heal and move on.

[lanatusnebula]

I wanna draw backgrounds but I am too lazy and inexperienced and my patience is low.

But there seems to be a lot of trends with the backgrounds I'm looking at in detailed works that appeal to me. I don't think I would able to replicate the things others draw since it seems they're taking shortcuts (compensating for simplicity by compacting details into the pieces, using 3d models, using environment brushes like buildings, etc), ones that would end with my art looking really hilarious.

I know it's too late in my life to start thinking about job opportunities and I need to start acting now. But if i could get an art job, I think I'd feel more fulfilled. At the moment that obviously isn't an option. (15 more days I am losing my mind) I keep wanting to make a professional looking portfolio but my art simply is too much leaning towards hobbyist. :/

This looks very mediocre. I know though I could have added some trees but I still struggle with composition.

There are characters sitting on the "bench" but I didn't use a reference so it looks... hm.

This one was really fun an relaxing to do, but the mediocre aspect of it is present here as well. Obviously some shit doesn't make sense because I removed the character layer (that's why there are random shadows), but there's surely gotta be some sort of way for me to improve.

Compositions like this make me feel at peace, but the forefront character's color clashed terribly with it. I need to not be afraid to adjust things in photoshop I think?

These are the only examples I have on hand, which is also a really huge red flag; if I don't have many examples, that means I'm not practicing enough. I could do warmups to draw backgrounds quickly, but the struggle is more in composition and color theory. I don't know how to do those things, despite the large collection of resources and tutorials. It just doesn't click. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. > <;;

I will inevitably have to figure it out. I heard that drawing other peoples' images that are closer to what I want is the ticket, and if i do it enough times it'll come naturally. The process isn't too difficult to grasp but feels morally wrong to start my day like that. But I'm building up a collection of art I admire for composition (withbackgrounds) as a starting point at least.

None of it will be posted obviously but... I hope to have something to show for in a few months.

Big things comin.

[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.”

[mywitchyblog]

Storytime : My hatred of shiftok

Hey everyone, I wanted to share a personal story that highlights why I’ve grown to strongly dislike Shiftok (the shifting community on TikTok).

This isn’t about throwing shade at the concept of shifting itself, because I’ve been part of the practice for years and found immense value in it.

However, my recent experience in an online shifting community vastly composed of younger members made me realize just how toxic and judgmental it can become.

I’m not here to stir up drama, but to share my story so that others who may have gone through similar situations can feel less alone. Sometimes, online communities, especially when comprised of younger members, can be less about support and more about mob mentality behacing like mindless sheep. And unfortunately, I found myself at the center of that.

Here’s what happened:

Around 6 months ago,I joined a Discord server dedicated to shifting (made by a shiftoker), but for the first few days, I didn’t really engage much. I’m the kind of person who likes to observe a bit before jumping in. After a while, I noticed they had a voice chat, so I figured I’d join in, thinking I could find some deep conversations and intelligent debate on shifting. I was wrong. Very wrong.

Their debate originally was about race changing, and since this is an extreamly controversial subejct on which the 3 of us in the groupchat agreed with, i though maybe age changing would be the case.

Very fucking foolish of me.Very.

I’ve been aware of shifting for about years, ever since I was 16. During that time, I wrote numerous scripts where I imagined dating my comfort characters, and though I haven’t successfully shifted yet, I’m still determined to experience that so i never gave up trying to shift there. Recently, I started questioning a particular aspect of shifting and decided to ask the community for guidance.

The dilemma? I wanted to know if it would be wrong to shift into a younger version of myself to experience the teenage romance I never had. Growing up, I missed out on those typical teenage expereinces, and I thought that shifting could allow me to relive that part of my life that was denied from me .

Thats is how i discivered shifting when i think about it . I was extreamly sour and bitter at the time seeing people my age going out, having a group of friends a romantic partner while i was sulking in my room still scarred by the years of bullying .i couldnt fucking stand it.

So is started shouting ,cussing, insulting, screaming at the universe that it owed me a debt for all the shit i put me through; that it owed me a debt that it can never pay back. And that i was here to collect that debt.

Next thing i know ? Shifting videos start appearing in my FYP and the rest i supposed if you discovered shifting in 2020 you know how it goes.

I asked the community: Since I’m now over 18, would it be unethical to age myself down and live through those scripted expereinces and relationships? My intentions were pure. It wasn’t about fetishizing youth —I just wanted to experience something I had missed out on. And also i made those DRs long ago so i do not want to give up after trying for years.

I explained that shifting is about exploring realities that differ from your current one, and to aslo expereince things that are impossible for you to do in your current so why not experience a teenage romance that I didn’t have?

I also emphasized that both me and the characters regardless of if i age myself down or i age them up we will have the same maturity so there is no power imbalances of any kind. I beleived that if I script myself as being 16, I would naturally have the mindset and maturity of a 16-year-old without having to script "i also have the maturity of my physical age".

(wich after further research and having shifted myself confirmed it to be true)

Some people were actually helpful, suggesting that I could just age the characters up to match my current age, that there was nothing wrong since your intention isnt "shifting for minors" but shifting for an experience and I thought that was a reasonable statement. However, as more teenagers (13 to 15-year-olds) started jumping into the chat, the conversation took a turn for the worse. Suddenly, they started accusing me of wanting to date minors, labeling me as a creep and even throwing around terms like "pedophile." They insisted I should go to jail, even though I hadn’t done anything inappropriate—just asked for advice.

Mind you, these were the same people who had desired realities where they were 50 something with kids 15 with a highschool sweetheart in another. It felt incredibly hypocritical that they were comfortable shifting to various ages, but when I wanted to explore an earlier phase of my own life in a healty wholesome manner, I was suddenly a villain.

As the accusations escalated, I even suggested aging the characters up, so they’d match my current age. But no matter what I said, they kept insisting I was still in the wrong. They claimed that because I had once found teenagers attractive when I was a teenager, I was somehow a predator now ("because something must have made you attracted to them when they were minors"). It was like they were twisting everything I said, refusing to understand my intentions.

It was infuriating. They accused me of things I wasn’t even thinking about. These were serious claims, and I couldn’t defend myself because they were so quick to misinterpret my words and take everything out of context. They were acting like I was trying to groom people in my desired reality (DR), even though I was merely exploring hypothetical scenarios.

The same people who preached that you could do anything you wanted in your desired reality, without limits,that you had all the time in the wormd to shift so no pressure were suddenly placing restrictions on me—telling me what was ethical and what wasn’t. They told me I was "grooming" the characters in my DR by aging them up, which is just ridiculous.

When I pointed out the inconsistency, suggesting they might technically be "grooming" people in their own current reality (CR) since they shift into different ages, or that their s/o from one of their adult DR is grooming them because in another reality there are a minor, they became defensive started blabbing "its not the same thing" and had no real arguments to back up their accusations.

At this point, it felt like I was being burned at the stake just for asking a question. I realized I wasn’t going to get a rational conversation out of this group, and the mob mentality was too strong. So, I left the server, and honestly, it was the best decision.

If there’s one piece of advice I can give from this experience, it’s this: if you find yourself in an online shifting community made up mostly of teenagers (13-16 years old), run. They can and WILL be quick to jump to conclusions, misinterpret your words, and label you unfairly.

In the end, I found better communities where the members are mature, thoughtful, and open to real discussions. If you’re facing similar issues, I encourage you to be cautious about the spaces you engage with. Make sure you find a community that values open, respectful conversations—where people don’t leap to judgments or throw around serious accusations without understanding your intentions.

Which is why i started making this page and publising these essays in the first place.Because no one provide a clear fucking answers in this types of question just saying "its bad", "because it is" without providing substantial arguments to back up their claims.

So i was "if no one is gonna do it, i will" and i did and it turns out these people are even more pathetic than i thought. Key exemple of that is instead of countering my arguments the only thing they have is accusing me of using Chat GPT.

So things to take from my story are :

-Leave shiftok for good its is not good for information or shifting knowledge. Shifting script templates and inspo ? yes. Information & knowledge ? RUNNNNNNNNNN.

-The most vehement critics within the community are the biggest hypocrites. They will call you a pedo for aging down but on the same vein will age up only to get fucked by they fav dilfs. Those against race changing will still race change just to diff species and races that are fictonal in this reality .

-Do what makes you feel good and do not lisen to these people, they are sour bitter and pathetic individuals its your journey you desired reality not theirs.

So i hope this story of mine will help people understand that you should feel bad about about wanting to shift to those DRs.That it will bring you wisdom and help to all the teenage shifters that are approching 18 and are scared that they are doing someting bad trust me you are not bad you are doing something pure and wholesome do not let them go to your head it will only slow you down in your journey.

Best of Luck in you shifitng Journey,

Alastor Luno.

[jillvalentine]

re: my relationship with my abuser, currently @/gwendaria (part one?)

My abusive ex has unfortunately been going full-on with the latest DARVO / smear campaign, and this time it seems to have reached a few people. These callouts are made-up, and they've been popping up continuously in different forms since early 2021 in an attempt to silence or smear me, regardless of their inconsistencies. One second I'm an emotionally abusive gaslighter who they've finally been freed from. The next, I'm someone they don't even know about. The next... I'm a renown stalker. The next... I'm a random girl who got romantically obsessed with them and turned into a terf when I got rejected. The neeeext... I'm a terf stalker racist? Okay! I don't even know anymore. There's definitely more.

I mostly want to focus on the facts. The facts are that I've shared about my experiences enough that I shouldn't have to entertain stupid shit anymore. There will always be the next narrative, more scandalous than the last. Going forward, I just want to make the evidence more accessible so that anyone can find it.

I still have all of our texts, discord logs, whatsapp logs, voicemails, facebook messages, hundreds of screenshots from me and from others (onlookers & other people who have been harmed), and I've become friends with people who have also been friends with or intimate with this person and came out from the other side (some are public and others aren't, because, hey! Look what happened to me after I came out. I have been stalked almost on the hourly for about 4 years now, and I know it won't stop, because I know exactly who my abuser is.)

About 3 years have passed now, so a lot of the 'big' conversations or screenshots I shared earlier on when I spoke out about what had happened to me have been buried in time. (but they are, still there.)

Screenshots where they ragged on and on about my friends, about me being naïve and that I'd know better when I was "a real adult" like them, telling me to drop dead, telling me about slitting their wrists, telling me that someone was messaging them about 'cumming on my face' after I posted (1) selfie. Blocking me everywhere for a bit over that selfie. Unblocking me. Yelling at me. Blocking and unblocking me again because I said something about how they were being awful to me. Rinse and repeat with the next insane shit.

This was during covid lockdown, and it was 24/7. I couldn't fucking breathe. I got questioned about going to the supermarket with my mom. I got mindfucked for not explicitly saying I was back home when I said I was getting the mail, under the guise of caring so much about me, of course.

One time, I sent a snap of these leggings I liked online. Because the photo sent as a file instead of a normal-full-screen-just-taken snap, it became a whole argument of "Did you share this with anyone else?" and I would be like... what would be wrong if I did? Why is it wrong for me to send a photo of some leggings I think look good to a friend to get her opinion? A lot of conflict happened this way. They were incredibly controlling and suffocating, all under the claims of past trauma, undiagnosed mental illness, and most of all - flowery apologies or proclamations.

I used to think I was able to push through anything that happened because they would apologize to me, and it made it okay again. I genuinely thought they just needed someone to give them a chance to heal and get better, or get back to how they used to be early on in the relationship. I wanted to be that someone, I wanted to be strong enough to take all of it and be okay at the end. It gradually got worse, and I found myself trapped in the relationship. Anytime I was close to getting away, I would get drawn back with push-and-pull manipulation tactics. If I had pulled away to recover from their mistreatment, I was then the one apologizing for having had to pull away, and how bad that pulling away had affected them. How awful I was and how much I regretted being affected by anything. I would blame anything else (it wasn't you, it was my own anxiety) to make things calm down.

I didn't see any of this coming from the start. It was a gradual process. Near the end, I was googling things about how to fix toxic relationships (it didn't work because the relationship wasn't a two-way street, it was abusive), trying to think for 5 different people to avoid outbursts, trying to explain away how someone might gaslight and manipulate others without it being fully conscious and intended. I found out it was 100% intentional when I got out. They were telling others that I was doing to them what they were doing to me, along with a bunch of other bullshit to pre-emptively plant seeds.

Gwen frequently tries to use the worst buzz words to create stories and alienate people from one another. She doesn't care about any social issues. What she likes or dislikes is entirely based on what she needs to get out of a situation. If someone she's fixating on positively likes xyz thing, she likes it too. If someone she's fixating on negatively likes or dislikes something, she'll do the opposite. She constantly invented stories and tried to frame people I'd known for years, or anyone who dared to interact with my posts anywhere. She literally impersonated people and had accounts hacked. All she does is obsess over people. She constantly monitored me and created conflict over anything, real or made up. She especially liked to create conflict when it was late, or when I was otherwise not-fully-there, like when I was drugged following a surgery. I was so out-of-it that at that point I didn't want to fight for myself or others anymore.

Near the end of the relationship, I had a private account that I would hide on because social media, and really anything social, had become a minefield. Multiple people had witnessed the change from before the relationship, the start of it, up to the end. I deactivated my main twitter for a period of time (although I was careful enough to reactivate it once every 30 days so it wouldn't be permanently lost) and had to ignore people, stop myself from posting or liking things, and plead with people not to mention anything about me because I would have to answer for it. Multiple people remember me asking them to delete certain posts, or just be careful not to give out that I was doing anything with them. I was abnormal and an immature adult for wanting to spend a bit of time with or buy a gift for my friend on their birthday. We had an age gap, and at first, it was all "you're probably more mature than me :)" - until it turned to Real Adults Don't Spend Time With Friends, lol. Real adults are 100% focused on their partner. Real adults aren't on social media, and other thinly-veiled degradation + mindfuckery. Funny how my age became a bad thing, but they were the experienced 29-year-old who knowingly pursued the inexperienced 23-year-old.

Near the end of the relationship, I was starting to hide away to spend more time with people who treated me well, and it helped me get out. I saw that the way I felt every day wasn't normal. It reminded me of what good relationships are like and what they feel like. My friends tried their best to be supportive, but it was very difficult because my partner was trying very hard to isolate me from them through threats, aggression and manipulation. I'm incredibly lucky that they stayed by my side and told me that what was happening wasn't normal.

Getting out was hard. Staying out was hard. Even after everything that happened, following the split, I told my friends I didn't know what I would do if they tried to get me back again. SO fucking glad that's over.

[gordonradiotv]

A (Long Overdue) Celebration

Ah, hello, Readers!

It's Jox again! Some of you probably knew me as "Toony" back in the day, but it's been a looong while since I used that name. And it's been a long while since this blog ended!

On May 23rd, 2020 I started this little ask blog not expecting it to become much. But because of all of you, it blew up into something absolutely incredible! I wish I had the words to describe how this blog changed my life. I met my fiance because of this blog. I met lifelong friends. I gained the confidence to pursue independent passion projects like my webcomic Tip The Ferrymen and others. It's kinda insane to think a tumblr ask blog based on the haha funny HL youtube series would've had such an impact on my life.

So, I wanted to do something to celebrate the blogs 4 anniversary! Unfortunately we are a bit late to the mark due to some wild stuff that happened earlier this year, but better late than never! But finally it is done and finally Tumblr let me actually upload these lmfao. Without further ado, I want to announce:

GordonRadioTV's Soundtrack has been FULLY remastered!

With help from my lovely creative partner and fiance @stygiuscantus , the soundtrack for this blog has been fully remastered! Now, you can experience the whole story again with a fresh coat of paint. The tracks are also available on Selene's bandcamp, they're "pay what you want" as well! If you want to support Selene's work, here's a good place to do it!

I am also aware that some of you may be disappointed that the old tracks are gone, but for extremely private reasons that I will not be disclosing I no longer feel comfortable having those tracks up on this blog. To me, this is a fresh start to a project I hold dear to my heart and allows me to experience it all over again. I have loved every moment of working with Selene and she has put so much heart and effort into this, so cheers to new beginnings!

Selene herself also wanted to say a few words, which are included here:

"Four years ago, a friend of mine linked a little blog called GordonRadioTV in one of our Discord servers. Being fixated on HLVRAI at the time, I quickly checked it out, only for it to genuinely, actually make me laugh. I think I read all of the chapters up to that point (up to 3, I think?) in one go, because it was such a novel storytelling medium to me, and I was immediately enraptured. Little did I know that this little funny Half-Life blog would quite literally change my life, introducing me to new friends, inspiring me to experiment with my own art forms, and helped me find the love of my life, to whom I now life with together and am engaged to. Whenever Jox needed a new composer, I jumped in to help on short-notice, giving myself a brief crash-course on music theory to do so. I started this project months ago in the hopes that I would get it done in time for the anniversary, but, well, making 20 tracks takes a long time. I tried to put a lot of thought and love into each track, with each character having their own instrumental motif, and even some melodic motifs (namely for Gordon and Benrey). I truly hope that all of you like it; I am honored to be a part of the legacy of something that's so important to me."

-Selene Highchurch

Thank you all for everything. I have said it a million times, and I wish I had a new way to phrase it, but this blog means so much to me. This project means so much. Your support means so much to me. These stories are mine as much as they are yours, so much of this story wouldn't have existed without your participation. Thank you for being here. Thank you for playing.

And to alter the words of a certain scientist...

You've changed my life, everyone. I'd like to think it was for the better.

I don't know whats going to happen to us once this blog is done for good, but I know I'll never forget you. I hope you won't forget me.

Well...This is where I get off.

Goodbye, Readers!

[dysfunctional-doodle]

YPI PROJECT BEAT MY ASS AND I’M SUPER TIRED BUT THE TOO MANY TURTLES COMMENTARY GRIND NEVER STOPS ‼️‼️💯💯💯

betrayal…. (playing uno is 100% more worth your time than patrol, can confirm, best game ever, played a game with 20 people in a german exchange (but it was kinda quick since we only had one pack of cards and. well. 20 people))

HELL YEAH, WE’RE MAKING PROGRESS!!!!! (i have a feeling this might get a bit angsty…)

😭😭😭😭 (speech to text is really annoying i get the struggle)

y’know, of all the turtles to slander clothes, i didn’t think it’d be him

god noooo the feels 😭😭 (i never quite experienced the bad-teacher side of the neurodivergent experience (my physics teacher was crazy supportive despite the fact i never scored higher than a 40% in his class) but i would get a loooottttt of shit from classmates,,,,,,, sucks ass i feel for mm mikey)

gotta keep expanding your horizons!

ok but. of all the turtles………

love it when this happens

taking action! (also hold on 2012 mikey is an adult in his timeline???)

sighhhh i hope tech stays with the mikeys forever because their dynamiccccc 😭😭😭

not sure if i’m ready for the angst that is most likely coming our way. BUT i’m excited for it

Happy you liked my insane rambles again!

Referring to what you said about teachers, I have personally had some struggle throughout school with the way they teach things which I kind of use to write the issue mm mikey is having, very loosely. Though I don’t have a neurodivergency diagnosed (though a lot of people have kind of told me that I most definitely probably have big ADD or something similar rattling in the old noggin so idk) I learn much differently to what schools want. I am a very hands on learner, and really struggle with visual/auditory classes. It’s like being told how to write a good story but not actually doing it - I just tune out, or it is difficult to get it to “click” unless I explain it to myself in a weird way that actually makes much more sense to me. Once this “click” happens it’s great, I have no issues, but I have a lot of questions and thoughts that others don’t get prior to this point that I’ve unfortunately been disregarded for, as my teacher just didn’t want to explain and deemed me as stupid and needing extra classes because I didn’t learn in the same way. Not to brag but I’m pretty intelligent without even studying so this was a slap in the face for me.

So yeah, I kinda based at least some elements on this experience, though obviously a lot is also made up/fictionalised.

Wow that was a ramble

Anyway, you also mentioned Mikey’s age? I don’t think I’ve ever properly written down the ages outside of a discord I am in that talks about this fic, oops. In short, the timelines are not linear, but rather dotted around the place. A breakdown:

1987 are the ones where I’m not 100% sure on what to age them as, but I imagine around 17 - 19, all the same age

Rise boys are about 6 months - a year after the events of the movie

2012 are about 20 - 22, a few years after their final series (with Mikey being an extra 2 years ahead due to Dimension X)

2007 are what I believe are their cannon ages at 21? Takes place a few months after their 2007 movie (I also consider the 90s movies to be from the same universe due to the details present in 2007)

2003 are a few years after the crossover movie, making them the oldest at around 25 (Mikey being 24 due to him being a few months or so younger when they were sold)

Mutant mayhem boys are literally a couple of weeks after their movie

Bayverse boys are a year after their second movie

Hopefully that clears things up a little :)

[thefrogdalorian]

Hello! 

You may (or may not... I don't like to presume) have noticed my little break from posting. I just wanted to share something in case anyone was worried about me and assure you there is no need to be :) 

There isn't really one reason for why I've been on hiatus, but I guess a collection of things. 

I was really poorly with covid but thankfully I'm feeling a lot better now! But being so sick and stuck in I guess made me reevaluate certain things. 

Since recovering I got to see a lot of people I really adore with my whole heart, as well as being lucky enough to experience so many things I love with them.

And it made me realise what truly makes me happy in life. I suppose it really put things into perspective for me. I'm thinking more and more that tumblr (and being online generally) is something which unfortunately does not spark joy any longer. 

To be honest, (as I'm sure many people who were given far too much unsupervised access to the internet at a young age also do), I have a complicated relationship with social media. It doesn't make me feel good most of the time. I don't know how to handle some of the things I read and some of the things people have said to me. And just like I do irl, if the vibes feel off, I usually retreat into my shell to regroup. 

While I have made so many friends over the years of being chronically online and spoken to plenty of great people, I can feel myself getting drained again. And I really haven't missed it during the time I've been away.

I've filled my time with a lot of reading (I read Pride and Prejudice THREE times... doing amazingly), some writing and lots of long walks in nature. It's been really good for me!

As a result, right now, I just don't feel like continuing to post on this blog.

This decision wasn't caused by anyone or anything in particular. But when I've made my mind up about something, it's pretty impossible to change it. I've been mulling it over for a few days and my heart is telling me to go.

Anyway, I'm going to continue working on my WIPs and most likely continue posting them to AO3. It's by far the least social media-ish platform out there, and I really like posting on it. 

I need to take a step back to remember why I started writing, which was really as a way to get emotions out and to scream into the void a little. I don't enjoy sharing my work on tumblr, I kind of felt like I had to rather than genuinely wanting to. 

Truthfully, I just want to create and consume others' work in peace. I don't want to feel like I need to market my writing or whatever or compare myself to others. As much as I try not to, I think it's only human nature. 

So, I guess I'm really making this post to say I'll be going on a hiatus from tumblr. But I don't intend to stop writing or posting to AO3 and I hope to see you over there! 

I have no idea how long I'll be away for. Who knows... when winter comes around and my seasonal depression returns, or perhaps there is a major Mando update, maybe I'll return! 

For now, all there's left to say is how much of a pleasure it was posting about Mando and talking with you lot all these months. 

If anyone (mutual or otherwise) would like to keep in touch, feel free to message me for my discord! I'd be happy to continue chatting to you on there.

For me, in the headspace I'm currently in, one on one conversation is far less intimidating than being perceived by lots of people lol. 

I'll likely drop in at some point soon-ish and check for any of those messages, but until then, it's not a goodbye, but a see you later! 

Please care of yourselves and be kind to others :) 

Love,

Spud 🐸🩷

[omens-for-ophelia]

I love your art! Would love to know about your process if that’s something you’re interested in talking about!

hello! i am so sorry it took so long to respond to this 🩷

(...i suppose this means the first step in my art process is to faff about and procrastinate and dither for ages 🤭 oops)

i am so flattered that you are interested! 🥺🩷

i wish i had a truly substantial answer for you - unfortunately i don't know if i would consider myself as having a standard "process", per se. i tend to play around with something new each time, as i am still very much getting back into my art and still learning.

i will put my current "process" under the cut for those who may be curious? 🩷

so i guess my first step is to gather inspiration & references! i have a bunch of boards on pinterest for poses clothing inspo, things that are just 'vibes'... there are a few life drawing sites i like, as well as (of course) the Good Omens Reference Library discord, which is a genuinely brilliant community-built resource (praise be to @orayart & @patibuart 🩷) once i have my references and a few ideas of how i want to work them together, i start with the sketch - i usually work on a square canvas in procreate with a neutral toned bg (white hurts my eyyyyes) and normally i'll throw a paper texture over it (there are a lot of great resources like that on gumroad to download both for free and in paid packs)

i am clearly attached to sketching aziraphale in blue and crowley in red to begin with hehe (background is usually in green), using the procreate HB pencil or the cube brush, as it lets me visually see which lines are which - my sketching is very very messy in the early stages! and i don't usually like to do proper linework - instead i just duplicate the layer, lowering the opacity on one and then refine the sketch down in stages... then colouring the sketch to a more neutral dark grey or brown

i am aware this isn't necessarily good practice, since it can make some of my work seem stiff and flat - but even when i try and leave the lines messy i just can't seem to leave well enough alone

at this point, the 'process' really just becomes a game of 'what am i in the mood to do, what suits the piece, am i painting this or am i done, etc'

for the most part, i will use a solid cube brush to lay down the flat colours, then use ink wash brushes, spatter brushes or watercolour brushes to add texture and shading or colour - experimenting along the way for the most part! then some different layer modes to play with lighting etc if needed!

i have NO idea if any of this is interesting... i am hardly an artist with a refined style or process as of yet, but i am getting there. i've been making art since i was small, but before GO i hadn't drawn seriously for years and years beyond doing D&D character art for me and my friends!

anyway! thank you for getting this far if you managed it! so grateful for you all 🩷

[butcherlarry]

Kent farm and country Clark Headcanons

Some headcanons about the Kent family farm that @januariat requested I post about :) 

I grew up on a farm and at our peak we had a couple hundred head of beef cattle (we’ve had registered angus cattle for about 100 years, and have been farming since the family settled in that area in the mid 1800s I think?  We’re no longer at that farm, the parents moved themselves and the cattle to another one in the state, so they’re still farming).  We also did a lot of crop farming, mostly corn, wheat, and soybeans.  Dad had some hay fields that he would mow and bale multiple times throughout throughout the summer/fall to make bales as some of the food to feed our cattle throughout the year.  My siblings and I were involved in 4H/FFA growing up (my sister and I were in 4H, my brother did 4H and then FFA when he got to high school).  We always raised two steers to take to our county fair as projects (and maybe some breeding and open class projects on the side), and my brother did shop/metal working projects as well.  Needless to say, I have a lot of THOUGHTS and FEELINGS about Clark growing up on a farm in a small rural community.

I don’t read the comics (except WFA), and most of my interaction with the Superman/Clark Kent fandom has been through watching the newer movies, being in fandom discords, reading Tumblr posts, and fanfic that I’ve read.  This was just something fun for me to ponder about based on my life experiences (I also work in the ag industry, specifically the meats industry if you couldn’t tell from my username, lol)

For the type of farm, I think the Kents would have a lot of acreage do crop farming. I'm not as familiar with any specialty crops grown in Kansas, but as I stated before, the big three that were grown on my farm growing up were corn, wheat, and soybeans.  Those are pretty popular crops to grow in the midwest, so I could see the Kents growing those too. Not sure how viable it would be, but sunflowers can also grown as a crop.  I like the thought of the Kents maybe growing that because, you know, Kansas. 

If they had any livestock, it would be a small amount.  I’m not 100% sure on Clark’s current age in the comics, but if he was around before the 1980s, he might remember his parents raising some cattle or hogs as an extra way to get cash.  Unfortunately, there was a farm crisis that hit the Midwest in the 80s, and it hurt a lot of small farms.  Now a days, you have to to be raising a lot of one animal to make any kind of profit (if any).  If you’re raising hogs, you need a barn that holds 2000+ head finishing hogs to make money (I worked in one of these barns and a hog nursey that held 5000+ during covid when I got laid off from my job.  It SUCKS.  I developed a new fear in life of being eaten alive by 300+ lb pigs, but that’s a story for another day).  It’s the same with chicken and turkey as well, but I’m not as sure on the barn size.  If the Kents do have any livestock, it would be animals that would be used to supplement their diet, like a small flock of chickens for eggs, and a dairy animal (goat or cow?  Maybe goat since they’re smaller and don’t take up as much space as a cow.  Might also be easier to handle for the Kent parents as they get older, but I’ve never owned a goat before, so don’t quote me on that.  Goats are smart and are pretty good at getting in trouble, lol).  

If the Kents have any large meat livestock, like cattle, it would only be one or two, which leads me to my next headcanon, that Clark was in 4H/FFA growing up!  I love, love, LOVE the idea of Clark being in 4H or FFA while in school at Smallville, and having a beef or dairy beef steer(s) as a livestock project.  Also, Clark would show his project animals at his county fair!  I don't think he would win or do well in the main classes.  From my experience, usually it's families that are big into showing cattle, and you need a lot of money for that for all the equipment and supplies that goes with it. They also tend to travel a lot with those animals, and show them in other contests as well (maybe state fair.  If you want to hear a rant about how much I don’t like show cattle and the show cattle industry, hmu). If anything, Clark would probably do well in the showmanship shows. That's more dependent on the trust between you and your animal, and how much you've worked with them.  I can definitely see Clark working with his animals everyday, cleaning, feeding, and leading them.  You know someone has really worked with there animal if they can lead and stop them so the animal’s feet are positioned correctly without having to use a show stick to move the feet (yes, there is a correct way cattle need to stand when showing.  A lot of terminology describing the feet positions too.  Again, if you want more details, hmu).

On top of showing cattle, I also love the thought of Clark taking a shop project through FFA/4H, especially if it's welding. He could use it as a way to practice with his laser vision!  You can definitely tell a good weld from a bad weld, and I can see Clark working on his laser vision skills to improve.  My brother and Dad would work on, fix and build equipment and fences with welding, so I can also see Clark learning how to do that to help out on the farm!  And I'm sure Jonathan Kent would appreciate it since he wouldn't have to spend as much money on the welding and torch gasses and the equipment that goes with it.

Welp, those are my headcanons for Clark, the Kents, and farming.  I’m sure if you poke me, I could go into more detail on somethings, or think of more headcanons about those topics.  Most of my ag experience has been in raising beef cattle, so that shaped most of these headcanons that I have.   If you or someone else in the Superman fandom have a farming background, please tell me what your headcanons are!!  I would love to hear them!  Growing up on a farm was a big part of Clark’s life, so we need more country Clark stories!

[chrisgraves09]

Hey, have another one of my ramble posts cause I just wanna get this off my chest.

When I first got into FNaF when the fourth game released, I was growing interested into the community and what it was like. That’s when I started lurking both Tumblr & Reddit in late 2016 during Christmas time. That’s when I getting into drawing. By then in early to mid 2017, I began joining the Five Nights at Freddy’s subreddit and Discord server and just… wow, seeing an entire community full of great people showing their support and love to this franchise is just incredible.

I began getting involved with showing off my drawing and art of the FNaF characters and lemme tell you, it was really nice. So nice that it was when I began my Freddit Users Drawing series where I would draw almost every single member in the Five Nights at Freddy’s subreddit. I didn’t even wanted attention for that alone. I was just showing my appreciation and my thanks for being a part of the Five Nights at Freddy’s community. From 2017-early 2020 I’ll say were my best years of being in the FNaF community. Being able to be excited for new game entries, books, merchandise with the community was so good that I wish I could experience that phase once again.

But then in mid 2020, I started getting inactive on Reddit and only focusing on Discord. This ain’t a problem in of itself mostly because I was focusing on the FNaF fangames that were released like Five Nights at Sonic’s, Project Readjusted (😵‍💫), and many others. Not to mention my high school graduation happening. By then, Twitter took over and I have only lurked there until many years later.

2021 came in and the first FNaF related controversy started and it struck a blow in my head. People started fighting, distancing themselves from the franchise, and I’m just sitting there if it’ll affect me in someway. Thankfully (for the moment) it didn’t and I continue making FNaF art like usual. Then 2022 came up with the Pear tree, striking another blow to my heart. And THEN 2023 came up with there being several people being not so good people and the whole FNaF + situation, making me question more and more if this’ll become an ongoing issue. And what do you know it? This year has the goddamn Talbert Files thing happening and probably more coming. And this is supposed to be FNaF’s 10 year anniversary. Everyone is becoming increasingly pissed, fighting with one another, and even leaving the franchise as a whole.

I said it before on Twitter and I’ll say it here: This community has devolved into just bitching around for the sake of bitching around and both Twitter and Reddit are especially the case. FNaFTwitter is by far the most miserable side of the community and I mean it. The Freddit community has become so toxic that I’m becoming so ashamed to be apart of it now. It’s not the same Freddit I used to know. I was originally gonna do a third Freddit Users Drawing series last year to remind me of the good old days. But it seems like that ain’t happening anymore. This is just depressing to look at…

All of this controversy, drama, and turmoil this fanbase endured ever since 2021 has unfortunately changed my perspective, mood, and feelings toward any FNaF “fan” that chooses to be an asshole. It’s gotten to the point where I wanna dissociate myself from the community. Specifically FNaFTwitter, Freddit, and even several Discord servers. I’ve became conflicted day by day and week by week and if I really want to stay in this dumpster fire of a community and deal with this bullshit mess or maybe leave everything behind and go on my own terms. I really don’t know what to do. Maybe time will tell in the future, who knows?

Ok, I’m done rambling for now.

[ireallylovepupplies101stuff]

Spiderdemon AU 1

First of all, I'd like to thank my friend @midnightfire830 and the people in the discord Inky Mystery for helping me come up with some fun ideas and bits for this AU. It's because of your enjoyment and encouragement that this AU is now on tumblr. So thank you guys, very much. :)

Now, for those of you on tumblr, I'd like to share this AU. It was inspired by the spiderverse movie and seeing all the different versions of spiderpeople. So I hope all of you enjoy what you're about to read!

In this AU, all the Inky Mystery characters are human, it takes place during a modern time period, and Bendy’s spiderman. Or, Spider DEMON.

When Bendy’s in his pre-teens, he and Boris are taken in by Felix who originally fostered them, and then adopted them.

Things are okay for the first couple of years. Bendy starts getting used to being a regular kid and having fun instead of worrying about taking care of himself and Boris. Even Felix's mentor Wilson is a nice grandfather figure to him and Boris.

But then when he's 15, he gets sick. Badly sick.

Doctors say chances aren't good. Felix is clearly trying his hardest to stay strong for Bendy and Boris, but Bendy can tell it's getting hard on him, not to mention how Boris is too scared to leave his side when Bendy’s forced to stay at the hospital when he gets worse. 

When his health takes a turn for the very worst, late one night at the hospital, Bendy wakes up, and sees Wilson standing by his bedside, holding his hand, and smiling gently saying everything is going to be okay.

Too tired, Bendy goes back to sleep as Wilson pulls a jar out of his pocket.

Next morning, for the first time in a while, he feels okay enough to eat breakfast, sit up, and play card/board games with Boris. The Doctors are stunned by how his health practically improved overnight.

They're so shocked they don't pay much attention to the spider bite on his hand.

With all the good that happened though, there is a downside. 

Wilson goes missing after Bendy’s health improves.

Because Wilson’s why Bendy got better. 

He was working with people who were doing experiments on spiders that could benefit the human race, buuuuut he also heard rumors about it being to make humans into deadly super soldiers or something. 

Either way, with Bendy on his deathbed, Wilson took a gamble, stole a spider, and used it to save his life.

Unfortunately, he had to go on the run after that, because he stole from VERY dangerous people.

It was to keep everyone he cares for safe though.

After Wilson’s gone, Bendy and Boris are home alone as Felix is out. Bendy is probably still on bedrest since he recently got out of the hospital. 

Boris is off doing his own thing in his room, when he hears Bendy yelling and things breaking. 

He runs to make sure he's okay, and freezes at the doorway when he finds Bendy standing on the ceiling. 

Boris: .... How are you doing that???

Bendy: I don't know!! Help me down before Felix gets home!!

He gets down, and they clean everything before Felix gets home.

Safe to say they're both freaked out and plan to test out what else Bendy can do once they get the chance.

So the two brothers slip out of their house and find an old empty building to conduct their experiments. Boris taking notes as Bendy does his thing. (Sorta like that scene in SHAZAM)

-They learned that Bendy can walk on walls.

-Can sense danger.

-Has super strength.

-Can move way faster.

You know, the basics for any spiderman. But what's unique for Bendy.

-He can see in the dark.

-He, at first, has limited shapeshifting abilities.

-And his abilities get stronger when he gets angrier.

Also debating if he should have some kind of power where he can blend into the dark/shadows or something. Still working on that.

Bendy and Boris debate on what to do with all of this going on with Bendy. It was probably Boris' idea for him to become a superhero, and Bendy most likely said NO at first. 

He JUST got out of the hospital. He's not doing something crazy like saving the day when he has to study for a test for school. 

But you know, the universe has other ideas.

Sure enough, when he's out on a cold weather day, his face covered to keep it safe from the icy wind, he stops inside a small store to get a snack.

Only for the store to be in the middle of being robbed. Bendy sees kids in the store hiding in the corner, trembling and scared.

So, he gets the scum's attention, uses his phone to take a picture of the robber, and cussing RUNS when the guy gives chase.

When Bendy gets cornered in an alley, he tries warning the robber to back the cuss off. All that achieved was Bendy getting picked up off his feet with a knife pointed at his throat.

Bendy’s eyes then turn red, a tail appears behind him, his gloves rip as his nails turn into claws, his teeth become fangs, and his jacket hoodie rips as horns come out.

The robber SCREAMS.

Police later find the robber, tied up with some old rope or cords or whatever Bendy found in the alley, and Bendy long gone.

Bendy later pulls Boris aside, and tells him that if they're going to do this vigilante thing, he's going to need something to wear.

Boris: ... You want to wear a super suit?

Bendy: *shows him the holes in his hood and gloves* I'm up for hearing your ideas if you have something better in mind.

Boris: Super suit it is!

His spiderman super suit, as a nod to the fic and the game, Bendy's suit would be a faded paper yellow color, looking like black ink was spilled over him, along with the classic spiderweb pattern of course.

He'd also wear goggles, wanting to protect his eyes and keep his night vision from bothering him when he's somewhere bright during battles.

His shape-shifted tail and horns would also be visible, and he and Boris design webs for Bendy to swing on that are black in color.

the media eventually dubbing Bendy, the Spiderdemon.

Now Bendy at first usually sticks with small stuff. stopping robbers, saving people in accidents, basically helping those in need. He doesn't want to do anything crazy considering he's in HIGHSCHOOL.

Boris also becomes his "guy in a chair", since this takes place in a modern time period. Bendy refuses to let him come with when he does dangerous stuff, so Boris builds things that can help Bendy, and uses his crazy impressive computer skills to hack security cameras and stuff to watch Bendy's back and keep him updated through a built-in communication device in Bendy's suit.

He dubs himself "Cyber-Wolf" and uses a cartoony wolf icon to cover his identity when hacking things.

When Bendy graduates highschool and is about to start college though, when out in town, he finds someone he didn't expect to see.

Wilson, looking rough, and exhausted.

The two of them hug, Bendy asking him where the CUSS he's been all these years, and Wilson promising to explain over a meal.

They stop at a diner, and Wilson explains that he had to leave to keep him, Felix, and Boris safe because of a choice he made. How he stole a spider experiment to save Bendy's life, and now the people he stole from are after him because they know he stole it but don't know WHY.

He came back, because he wanted to warn Bendy. the people he took the spider from have been watching Spiderdemon, and they WANT him. What Bendy's doing is noble, but at the same time he's at an incredible risk.

With great power comes great responsibility after all.

Shocked that Wilson is why he has his powers and he knows he's spiderdemon, Bendy would try insisting he'll be fine, that he can protect himself, and protect Wilson if he comes home.

Wilson would be hesitant, but before he can answer Bendy's phone rings. Seeing that Felix is calling him, Bendy promises he'll be right back and tells Wilson not to move because the diner has crappy cell service. Bendy moves to where he can still see Wilson, as he tries telling Felix he found him and where they are, but the MINUTE Bendy looks away then back at the table they were at, Wilson's gone. Only a note is left with "I'm sorry" on it.

Bendy quickly pays for the food, and goes looking for Wilson, hoping he didn't get far.

But then he hears car tires screeching, and then people screaming, someone yelling to call 9-1-1.

Heart dropping, Bendy rushes to the scene. horrified when he sees that Wilson ran into traffic, and got hit.

Wilson's death leaves an impact on Bendy. How someone who cared so much about him gave up everything to save his life, lost his own in the end.

The "great power comes great responsibility" sticks with him and he takes it to heart. After Wilson's funeral, Bendy tells Boris he needs to use the powers he got for bigger things than just stopping petty crooks. Wilson ran from dangerous powerful people, and he couldn't protect him.

He won't allow that to happen again to an innocent person if he can prevent it.

[viewsbourg]

Breaking the silence ( Shinybeyzer / Mc )

⚠disclaimer⚠

Do not witch hunt or harass shinybeyzer / shinymc / any other aliases they go under . Many things I will claim later on in the post can only be alleged as a lot of evidence has been lost from the deletion of my old discord account ( 0rbrot#5083 ) , their deletion of their old blog ( Shinymc ) , and their deletion of the current blog ( Shinybeyzer ) . this post will contain passages about manipulation , emotional abuse , and mentions of suicide and self harm . Everything detailed below is my own experience and it may vary between people

TLDR at the bottom

this will be the last time I talk about this unless this somehow manages to outrage me more . but I feel like this whole ' goodbye letter ' is just the pure embodiment of manipulation .

Here is their final letter to me .

it starts off by guilt tripping me , ' you can block me ' as well as the later part where ONCE AGAIN they assume that I hate them , or that I'll forget about them .

guess what ? I'm never forgetting you . I would never forget someone who manipulated me for 4 years and drove me near insanity just from the sheer amount of times I needed to repeat that fact . Then gauging the fact that I " sent her away " as if I hadn't warned them hundreds of times that I would cut them off if they kept going .

Then they pull the sympathy card . " I won't hate you " . No shit , you're right , you have no reason to , I'm not the one who made your life the way it is , I'm not the one who enabled it either . The reason the truth hurt so much is because you're living in god damn denial . the truth hurts , yes , but if you never face it , you'll only keep digging your grave .

once again , assuming I'll be outraged . that I'll ask them to never talk to me again . Basically just saying this to ask me to prove them wrong , but you know what ? you're right this time . Never talk to me ever again .

and finally , they definitely weren't the bad person in this situation , see ! they're wishing me happy pride month ! ! how sweeeeeeeet ! ! ! /s .

Sorry , the first part was rather emotional . But I've got a lot of things I want to provide now that this person has left tumblr , again .

it's rather hard to provide withstanding evidence for emotional manipulation , as it is a gradual thing and difficult to prove with as few screenshots , but I'll still try my best .

I've been friends with Shiny since late 2019 ( 4 years ) , we met through the AF / PR community ( now Stars Align ) On discord , most messages still being there , mostly being a relatively positive friend ship until 2021 ( below ) where they were chased out of the community for being hyper - sensitive to jokes and criticism and not being willing to listen to others ( will bring up later ) .

before long , I was greeted with a long message detailing about how I was their only friend left , and how much they loved me and needed me in those trying times . Unfortunately I have no evidence to provide so feel free to not believe me on this one .

Our relationship turned sour quick as we'd argue regularly . I set my boundaries straight and refused to blindly accept them without criticizing them for their actions at the time . this continued on relatively often but I never paid mind to it . but it only got significantly worst .

Their manipulation tactics :

they will claim that they have suicidal thoughts and need your help

they will claim nobody else accepts them , they will bash themselves for their looks and / or state of being ( unemployed , living with parents )

they will claim that they have no other friends despite being them having many readily available to use as a speaking vessel whenever you intend to block them

A lot of evidence for the claims above have been unfortunately lost from our earlier conversations and may not be evident at first , once again , i apologize for being unable to provide full proof for all of my claims .

All these actions are used to gauge your sympathy , or to pity you into caring . If you do not reciprocate , they will :

They will exaggerate your words . ( ex : We should stop being friends ➞ You hate me and want me to die )

They will assume that you dislike them because of X reason ( their words : being ugly , having no friends , etc .)

Double down and claim to go cry , self harm or kill themselves .

They will ignore your points in favor of the above .

their selfishness : Shiny is an incredibly selfish person , even if you are there in their time of needs , they won't treat you better than a stranger . Despite the superficial amount of support they give you , they don't want to treat you like a person with their own thoughts , or even care about what others need / want .

[ These conversations happened while I delayed a roleplay mission from a discord server I and friends created to roleplay fighting missions . They god mad that I wasn't willing to upload the mission until the members of the group got a hang of the concept of role playing , as some were new to it ]

[ Below : this is just childish ]

3 . they will never change .

They might tell you that they're in a horrible position , and that they're way of living everyday on their phone is bad , but don't let that fool you , they don't want to change .

Despite telling you they're changing or that they've changed , their behavior has remained the same for the 4 years I knew them . You might say " ooh well , changing these fundamental and integral parts about oneself is quite difficult and requires a lot of willpower " . That's true ! That is difficult . But you know what's not ? Working 20h a week

Despite this , you might tell yourself that you can still help them . Put their life back together , fix them , even . But I'm sorry . I have not observed any change in their behavior except for short moments where they act nicer while still making excuses to avoid changing .

Miscellaneous :

Things that belong a bit everywhere .

[ Below : refusal to change ]

[ Below : " Evil Self " ]

[ Below : Sheer breakdown and respectful response . ]

[ Below : " They go easy on me , but you don't " , referring to how I told them to get help . ]

TLDR : Shiny is a selfish , manipulative , abusive , controlling , lazy and childish 23 year old . And from my experience , they only need friends to justify themselves and validate their actions blindly . They do not desire to change despite constantly insulting themselves for the way they are . And finally , they manipulate and emotionally abuse their friends for the benefits without reciprocating the feelings in any meaningful way beyond telling you so .

But actions speak louder than words . And so far , I've only heard silence .

hello ! this is possibly the only edit i will make in regards to this situation , since theyve returned and my post has gotten a lot more attention . i posted this edit in reposts but i'd also like to add it here for simplicity's sake

the edit :

I honestly believe the original post is outdated , and written in a time where i was incredibly upset and hadn't yet had time to process any of it .

Though most of it still stands true , I want to stress that this was my personal perspective of my situation at the time . I never got to detail a lot of other things since at the time I just cobbled whatever I could to try to Express my frustration .

If you can , please find other sources as well to form a more conclusive opinion of the matter .

As well , my post / this thread will only ever detail what's happened between me and her during the years 2019 - 2023 . I do not wish to interact with them further . I also will not be updating it since it's no use digging something from the grave , if they say theyve changed , use your personal judgement for that , not information I have to provide that dates months if not years old .

As well as well , do not harass anyone who associates with shiny either . People are entitled to their own decision so being friendly with shiny is absolutely none of your business .

( added from original ) I'd also like to express that you should be allowed to want to be friends with shiny , but please be mindful of the way they interact with you , do not feel obligated to stay their friend just because of XYZ . A friendship should be mutual , one where both benefit , you should feel equally valued as how much you value shiny . if you feel like you are only getting frustrated , or feel unable to help them no matter what you do , its okay to tell them when you want to end it on the spot .

Thank you !

[the-bar-sinister]

Hihi!! I heard ur a soulbonder too? May I ask, what's your experience like? I'm a very newly realized soulbonder and ficionkin and its kinda hard finding anyone besides one other person to talk to about it ,,

Hey friend. Sorry this took me so long to get to. We've been pretty low on energy for the last week or so.

We haven't called what we experience soulbonding for a while now, because our perception of our experience of it got a lot more complicated over the years XD

As for what it's like-- that's such a complicated question. I could probably talk about different aspects of it for hours.

I do have a discord server that's geared toward spiritual fictionkin, as well as soulbonding and spiritual views of plurality if you're interested in joining. Its been pretty quiet for a while unfortunately..

It seems like its hard to find a lot of fictionkin and soulbonders to talk to every since the idea got popularized, turned into a fad, and then died. 🤷

We're also happy to talk if you want to chat via DMs, or just send more asks ^^

[presidentbungus]

option 1: post-canon, spy visits a team reunion in boston over smissmas, reconnects with scout, maybe ends up forced to confront the feelings he's had for engineer since they parted ways. continu-sequel to more than you probably think which i wrote like a year and a half ago (holy shit)

option 2: halloween, demo gets his body stolen by merasmus for nefarious purposes (and his soul promptly shoved into the persian persuader, which fake demo vanishes with); scout and eyelander team up and move with the rest of the team to save him and go on a big fun halloween adventure or something cool and fun like that

option 3: sniper hates engineer for being so weird and passive-aggressive and hard to read, engineer hates sniper because sniper hates him, and then look at that there's some rich prick in a microcamera-studded minisentry-packed forest somewhere whos head needs a-shootin' and specifically the only two people who can get the job done are the 2 guys who hate each other. im sure your lifetime of fanfiction experience is informing you as to where this is going to go. funtime road trip, theres only one bed in the camper, putting pressure on bleeding wounds (sexily), all sorts of fun things like that

also BIG two, like long long, will probably try to finish other ones first so my ao3 page doesnt remain inactive for a full 2 years but including these for posterity:

option 4: space AU, sort of demo focused, sort of not. main 9 are having great, vaguely interconnected times doing crimes in various corners of the universe, oh no gray mann's giant wild west space casino has all the space australium in the big space vault, so what is there to do except a giant wild west space heist. yes, demoengieheavy (also potentially medic as a secret fourth thing) because i said so, and they hate each other and it's really dramatic i promise. demo is an octopus-man, engie is a wild west robot-man, sniper is a mermaid-man, you know the drill and the drill is awesome

option 5: the one where engie is a clone of radigan. it is extremely elaborate and i am just going to trust youve seen my posts on this one (or my deeply deranged ramblings about it on one of several discord servers (including my own which is pretty cool i am just saying)). complexes galore, demo/engie is there and it is VERY complicated, split between very unfortunate stories from engie's childhood, and a present-day plot following engie through his time in the gravel wars, where he slowly works through all the damage and maybe gets involved in some mann co patented Dark, Torrid Secrets© on his way. normal girlboss things

bonus points if you ask me questions or something about any of these i'll give you an itty bitty little bitty kiss on the forehead