#madi writes

i've just come from chapter 10 of light a spark on ao3 (such a good plot, and the characterisations are perfect, and i'm so curious about peter and deaton and vaugn) and i dont want to be rude or pushy but any chance you're still writing 🥹? or has it been abandoned? i just wanted to know if i should keep checking in on it

thanks for the lovely read it was great <3 time to go through all your works now

Hiiii sweet baby anon!!

Short answer? Yes, I am absolutely still thinking about light a spark on the daily and will finish it no matter what, dammit

Long answer? Life is soooooo busy right now. On top of raising a 6yo and a 9month old, my husband and I have also recently started a new business venture that we are pouring all of our time, love, and energy into in order to create something that can sustain us full time. I don’t even have time to sleep more than 4-5 hours a night most of the time and so the energy it takes to sit down and write ANYTHING? Wow my brain is hurting just thinking about it. Im recovering from a recent c-section, quitting marijuana, and managing my Type 1 diabetes which has been allll overrr theee plllaacccee. In other words? My brain is sooo foggy and tired lately. I know that things will slow down and level out eventually (hopefully sooner than later) but I also have to be realistic—I have no idea when I’ll have time to finish this beloved story.

and Eli haaaaaates him.

he hates that not only did he and Stiles go to the same high school, but that their timing there actually overlapped at one point before Stiles graduated, because he’s that close in age to Eli.

he hates that his dad ditches him on one of their weekends together to take Stiles out for his twenty-first birthday (as if the implication of that aren’t bad enough) and yeah sure his dad promises to make up for it but the noises the two make that wake him up when they get home, long past midnight, can never be forgiven.

he hates the long, disgusting kissing and the always touching and the constantly ogling each other and the way people mistake him and Stiles for brothers ‘out with their dad’ when he relents and lets them drag him out on the town.

And he hates. hates. how Stiles is so unapologetically unashamed about it all.

obviously, the two of them do not get along.

not for a lack of trying on Stiles’ part, but they’re just really too close in age for any genuine reconciliation to be possible. (Okay maybe it’s more Eli being the immovable object in the scenario but he is sticking to his principles, dammit.)

Eli tried everything to get Stiles out of their lives.

Telling his dad how he feels (“You just need to get to know him, he can be kind of an acquired taste.”) Laying booby traps to deter Stiles from wanting to stay over (the nair in the shampoo bottle may have been a little far… but that one only came back to bite him in the ass when Stiles had to get a buzzcut after and his dad could not keep his hands off of him.) He even considered asking to stay at his mom’s full time, but their custody agreement doesn’t allow for it.

Eli hates everything.

and it is definitely not a secret how Eli feels, but by now, Stiles has just. stopped trying to tiptoe around Eli. Oh no. Now, it’s like he actively tries to annoy him.

Extra PDA

Extra weekend sleepovers

And the time Stiles comes over wearing this, Eli walked to his moms.

they don’t have a crazy wild height difference but Derek does have a few inches on him, so that Stiles can press his face right up against his warm neck when Derek grips his waist and tugs him forward against his chest, smelling oil and soap and earth, feeling the gentle timbre of his greeting where Stiles has pressed his lips to his neck

he’s so soft-spoken and polite, humble and understated but also dry-witted and wickedly, surprisingly funny. maybe possibly the only person Stiles has met who can meet him tit for tat when it comes to banter, and the juxtaposition of the two contrasting characteristics just makes him all the more alluring to Stiles

drawing him in and driving him crazy

when Derek quietly fixes small things out in public without bringing any attention to himself, a crooked sign or a tipped over flower pot, not doing it for the praise but the simple satisfaction of leaving something better than he found it

when Derek said ‘yes, sir’ to the navy vet who passed on one of their preserve hikes, asking if the two of them were staying out of trouble, then pushed Stiles off the trail and back against a hidden tree once they’d turned the corner so he could suck Stiles off till he shook and slid down to the forest floor, Derek Pleased above him and leaving kisses all over his his neck and lips)

when he’s studying across from Stiles in his living room, his bowed head making the tendon in his neck a distracting curve from his jaw down into his shirt, his dad in the next room cooking dinner and Stiles wishing he wasn’t so that he could sink in between Derek’s knees on the floor and replace the calculus textbook in his lap with Stiles’ mouth

when Derek automatically kneels when his baby cousins or siblings come toddling up to him at his house, big fat tears in their eyes or scrapes on their knees or captured toads to show off or a story to tell, and Derek takes them soo seriously every time. patient and focused on whatever they need from him

((the way his biceps flex and stay flexed when he picks them up and carries them in his arms. when he does this in a black crew neck—))

his eyes when Stiles rides him in his bedroom with the curtains open on a full moon, iris’ full pupil as he stares up at him, hair wild, jaw slack, glasses riding down his nose and the moonlight twined around them making Stiles’ stupid teenage brain think whatever this is between them must be a little bit magic

So yeah, imagine COD AC shenanigans where you're the human, and 141 are your island inhabitants who never ask to leave the island.

the art in question

"Moved my bloody house again," mutters Ghost one afternoon, sulking on a beach chair beside Price as they (ostensibly) fish.

"Mm," hums the lion. "Mine last week. Better get used to it."

"Was by the river," the bear continues to lament. "Could hear the water while I was sleepin.'"

Gaz trundles up to join them, setting his box of fishing tackle down. "Sorry mate. Just saw this morning. River's filled in where you were."

Ghost sighs, very long and very loud, and slumps back in his chair. He longs for a beer, but Price had insisted on no alcohol on the island. It made humans screwy and weird, and increased their mortality ratings exponentially.

"I'm sure it ain't for no reason," Price murmurs. The line twitches, but nothing actually bites.

"Last I saw the human was burying a bag of money," says Gaz, extending his own fishing pole. "Not sure there's much of a reason for anything they do."

A low whir, gradually increasing in volume, interrupts the quiet of the day; the sea plane lands by the pier, and Wilbur hops out, followed by an extremely familiar horse.

"No," Ghost moans, "not that bloody numpty, please."

Soap catches sight of the group, brays excitedly, and runs down the beach.

"Fancy seein' you lads here!" he exclaims gleefully. "Heard there's room for me here from your human!" Gaz, the only one really excited to see him, throws him a high five.

"I want to leave," mourns Ghost.

Price snorts. "Good luck with that."

This is an original work I wrote back in 2022 before I got into Call of Duty. Birdie is a former corporate software developer now living in a megabuilding inspired by the ones we see in the video game Cyberpunk 2077. This world is in transition, not quite post-corporate but on its way there. This is a story about Birdie falling into bed with the couple who moves in next door, and learning to trust other people again after enduring enormous personal betrayal. - cw: implications of stalking.

Birdie woke late in the morning to sunlight peeking through the cracks of her blinds and the smell of coffee gently percolating over in the kitchenette. It was a cool morning, silvery, the kind one wanted to luxuriate in and pretend noon would never come. Except—

Ping…ping…ping…

The soft chiming of her front door’s proximity alert was out of place.

She blinked groggily, swimming her legs through the tangle of blanket and sheets that she’d made a nest of in the night, and inchwormed her way to the edge of the mattress. 

Half the pile slithered off the bed to puddle on the floor as her feet met the cool tile, which was spotless thanks to the vacuum-bot that had done its work during the night. She took a thin, reclaimed-fiber robe off its hook on the thin sliver of wall between the window and bed, and wrapped it around herself as she plodded, still half-asleep, in the direction of the chime. 

Ping…ping…ping…

Birdie usually didn’t bring up her internal heads-up display until after her coffee, but the chime couldn’t be turned off without it. Safer that way—no one could tamper with it if they were of a mind to without hardwiring directly into her neural software. She flicked her index fingers upward in synchrony, and the translucent home screen slid in across her vision.

It was a simple interface—UI elements in soft white with simple drop shadows to contrast them against the real world they overlaid. Birdie could access the intranet, check her mail, keep track of her finances, and monitor her daily task lists as work orders came in; things people used to do on tablets or laptops, before integrated hard- and software became standard in the corporate era.

Ping…ping…ping…

No one was at the door—Birdie had set separate chimes for packages versus people. So she angled the bell camera downwards, seeking the parcel she expected to see—and scowled the moment she saw what it was. 

Ping…ping…ping…

With an angry gesture she shut off the alert, with another opened the door, but no gesture in her software was going to make the big, sparkling crystal vase, stuffed to the gills with bright red roses, suddenly grow legs and run away.

A pink envelope was filed between two of the fattest blooms. Birdie bent at the waist, indignation traveling down her brain stem and hijacking her nerve endings, and plucked it from the bouquet. With one fingernail she broke the seal—real paper! Dyed paper! The audacity!—and as if disarming a bomb, she removed the folded stationery from within. 

The ivory white, virgin sheet had obviously been recently manufactured, not pressed and cut from reclaimed pulp like any reasonable person would use these days. And, to add insult to injury, there was only one—one!—line of handwriting in the very middle. 

I’m sorry, Margie. I still love you.

At some point in the evening—for you, anyway, since when you answer the call it’s clearly midday for him—John finds the time during his latest deployment for a video chat.

He looks a little haggard when the call connects, face reddened across his nose and cheekbones and dark circles under his eyes. He brightens when he sees you, though, crows feet deepening.

“There’s my dove,” he says fondly, the rasp of his voice low and soft. His beard is growing out, curly and dark in the artifacting of the camera.

“There’s my captain,” you return, smiling.

“What day is it for you, there?” he asks, sitting back, getting comfortable.

“Saturday,” you answer.

“Mmm,” he hums, as if it’s the nicest thing he’s heard all day. Probably is, really. “Tell me about it.”

You do; John always likes to hear about your days, when he’s far away. The tiny adventures, the workplace dramas, the little pleasures and minor catastrophes of normal civilian life. Keeps him balanced, he tells you; reminds him there are other parts of his life aside from the job, and the work.

You show him the embroidery project you’re close to finishing, the little window hinges you bought at the craft store for the miniature apartment you’ve been building from a kit. It’s the same one that he always half-complains about being spread over the kitchen island when he’s home, and you always remind him that he doesn’t have much room to complain; he bought you the kit on a whim, after all, without your even asking.

At one point the door starts opening behind him—he’s posted up in a large tent, empty bunks behind him—and he quickly covers the camera with his hand. He mutes you for a moment, then comes back.

“Only got a few more minutes, sorry,” he says, refocusing on you. “And—y’didn’t mention that other project, I noticed.”

You suck your lips between your teeth, effecting ignorance. “Hm?”

“The writing one.”

As always, nothing escapes him.

“So here’s the thing,” you say, strangling the fingers of one hand with the fingers of the other, “the bathroom is so clean now, John.”

“Dove.”

“And I finally ordered my new glasses, you know, like I’ve been meaning to for months, and you keep reminding me about.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose between two broad fingers, eyes sliding shut like you’ve just told him that some important intel has gone bad. “How long have you been working on this.”

“I don’t think that’s important,” you squeak.

One blue eye opens, piercing you. Humor sparks in its depths, though when he speaks, his voice is gruff, every bit as commanding as when he gives orders to his men. “I need to go,” he says, “so here’s the deal I’m gonna offer you. If that draft isn’t done by the next time I speak to you, then when I get home I’ll put you over my knee and tan your arse until you’re crying. Understood?”

Your voice has retreated somewhere down your throat, hiding very far beyond your trembling vocal cords. “Yes sir, understood,” you manage to peep.