First Time Writing Jake Martin So Forgive Ooc Characterization 😅 I SWEAR This Wasn’t Supposed To

Sometimes I get overwhelmed at the concept of young Scorch. 

Walon calling him a trouble maker and Scorch just being like ‘I’m not making trouble, Sir, I am simply seizing an obvious opportunity that would be a shame to pass up.’ 

Warnings: Kissing, flirting, sexual innuendos, humor, blowjobs, male receiving oral. Smut / fluff / mildly dubious consent but not really? Dry-humping, self-esteem issues, self-degradation, self-doubt, mild feelings of worthlessness and slight depression.

Word count: 4.8k+

Summary: Shriv Suurgav is overworked - he sits alone, or tries to, in his office. You’ve come to bother him, or better yet, help him find a way to relieve his stress. This “Duros under duress” must relax.

Notes: I write Shriv Suurgav entirely different from the way I write Cad Bane, so be prepared for a more “ stream of consciousness” type style. I love getting inside this neurotic Duros’ head. Inspired by me eating a lollipop on the way home from work. “A blowjob a day keeps the melancholy away.” - @amiquinn99​ 

Half a parsec. No. Maybe a whole parsec.

Two parsecs?

Perhaps a parsec was not the right unit of measurement to use in this situation, but Shriv absolutely felt that was how far away he was from finishing this list of menial tasks that was supposed to get done by the end of the day.

It was too much for just one day. Or any day. It was never ending; just a nearly insurmountable heap of red tape and bureaucracy, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Well, almost nothing.

He supposed he could launch himself out of an airlock, but death might be just a little bit worse than having to answer to Lando about this one particular report that was due two standard hours from now.

Who was keeping track of this stuff, anyway? Would they know if he hadn’t submitted it on time? Was Lando really that interested in learning about the finer points of the Pathfinder’s last ground assault? The fact the 61st mobile infantry had lost so many soldiers on Haidoral Prime that they were organizing a recruitment event to try and persuade locals to join their cause?

Not to mention the dangers of Imperial espionage – you never knew who was going to show up to these things. That’s why he stayed away from them. He was too skeptical – they said he would only hinder the process. It was fine by Shriv. He had better things to do.

Let them deal with the repercussions. They couldn’t say he hadn’t warned them.

Of course, the stress of those better things alone was enough to give anyone a stroke; but Shriv did what he did best in these scenarios: he sucked it up. Only today it wasn’t going so well. He had too much on his mind.

When did he not have too much on his mind?

Shriv couldn’t remember the last time his head was absent of thought, negative or otherwise, though negative seemed to be predominant. For a moment, Shriv felt like he had forgotten what it was like to relax, and that made him frown to himself because no one else was around to see it.

He was thankful no one else was around to see it.

For one, they might ask questions, and two, he wasn’t in the mood to explain his… mood.

He tried keeping up appearances with the cadets. They already thought he was a curmudgeon. They called him a killjoy behind his back.

He had heard about it second hand from Luke – he wanted Shriv to be nicer to the new blood, as he called them. He said he came off as “scary” and “mean,” and that he should be trying to instill a sense of camaraderie, giving inspirational speeches, not the opposite.

Shriv wasn’t trying to instill anything. He was just telling it like it is. If they couldn’t handle his authenticity, well …

Sooo sorry I don’t find fighting wars and nearly dying everyday to be the pinnacle of excitement. I apologize for warning them about the risks and dangers involved in going up against an evil, despotic Empire who rather kill them than use them as slave labor just for wearing this damn uniform.

That was what he had wanted to say. Instead, he said: “Yeah, sure, OK.”

Then he had coughed on purpose, followed by a terse: “Commander.”

The terseness had also been on purpose.

Oh, but Shriv wasn’t considered to be his equal even though he was not only a member of the Special Forces, but a Commander in the Alliance Navy, a Marksman, and a damn good pilot.

Far from it.

Luke Skywalker was a Jedi with magical force wieldy powers that could make people smack into walls, or he could slice them in half with his glowy laser sword-thing.

He won medals and made girls smile.

Shriv only made girls give disgusted faces.

He supposed he should be thankful he was on their side, not annoyed one bit that he had told him how to do his job he had been doing since before Luke had even bothered to show up.

Yeah, OK, so he had blown up a Death Star.

Even Shriv had to admit that was impressive, but he didn’t want to.

Besides, he had help, but everyone seemed to forget that little tidbit of information.

Han Solo didn’t forget that tidbit of information.

In fact, he talked about it daily.

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Freddie Stroma in Peacemaker Season 1 Bloopers

Star Wars OC : Lexi Tamzin, human-zeltron thief and informant, living on Coruscant and temporary cooperate with Jango Fett 😈♀️🌆

Warnings: Kissing, flirting, sexual innuendos, humor, blowjobs, male receiving oral. Smut / fluff / mildly dubious consent but not really? Dry-humping, self-esteem issues, self-degradation, self-doubt, mild feelings of worthlessness and slight depression.

Word count: 4.8k+

Summary: Shriv Suurgav is overworked - he sits alone, or tries to, in his office. You’ve come to bother him, or better yet, help him find a way to relieve his stress. This “Duros under duress” must relax.

Notes: I write Shriv Suurgav entirely different from the way I write Cad Bane, so be prepared for a more “ stream of consciousness” type style. I love getting inside this neurotic Duros’ head. Inspired by me eating a lollipop on the way home from work. “A blowjob a day keeps the melancholy away.” - @amiquinn99​ 

Half a parsec. No. Maybe a whole parsec.

Two parsecs?

Perhaps a parsec was not the right unit of measurement to use in this situation, but Shriv absolutely felt that was how far away he was from finishing this list of menial tasks that was supposed to get done by the end of the day.

It was too much for just one day. Or any day. It was never ending; just a nearly insurmountable heap of red tape and bureaucracy, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Well, almost nothing.

He supposed he could launch himself out of an airlock, but death might be just a little bit worse than having to answer to Lando about this one particular report that was due two standard hours from now.

Who was keeping track of this stuff, anyway? Would they know if he hadn’t submitted it on time? Was Lando really that interested in learning about the finer points of the Pathfinder’s last ground assault? The fact the 61st mobile infantry had lost so many soldiers on Haidoral Prime that they were organizing a recruitment event to try and persuade locals to join their cause?

Not to mention the dangers of Imperial espionage – you never knew who was going to show up to these things. That’s why he stayed away from them. He was too skeptical – they said he would only hinder the process. It was fine by Shriv. He had better things to do.

Let them deal with the repercussions. They couldn’t say he hadn’t warned them.

Of course, the stress of those better things alone was enough to give anyone a stroke; but Shriv did what he did best in these scenarios: he sucked it up. Only today it wasn’t going so well. He had too much on his mind.

When did he not have too much on his mind?

Shriv couldn’t remember the last time his head was absent of thought, negative or otherwise, though negative seemed to be predominant. For a moment, Shriv felt like he had forgotten what it was like to relax, and that made him frown to himself because no one else was around to see it.

He was thankful no one else was around to see it.

For one, they might ask questions, and two, he wasn’t in the mood to explain his… mood.

He tried keeping up appearances with the cadets. They already thought he was a curmudgeon. They called him a killjoy behind his back.

He had heard about it second hand from Luke – he wanted Shriv to be nicer to the new blood, as he called them. He said he came off as “scary” and “mean,” and that he should be trying to instill a sense of camaraderie, giving inspirational speeches, not the opposite.

Shriv wasn’t trying to instill anything. He was just telling it like it is. If they couldn’t handle his authenticity, well …

Sooo sorry I don’t find fighting wars and nearly dying everyday to be the pinnacle of excitement. I apologize for warning them about the risks and dangers involved in going up against an evil, despotic Empire who rather kill them than use them as slave labor just for wearing this damn uniform.

That was what he had wanted to say. Instead, he said: “Yeah, sure, OK.”

Then he had coughed on purpose, followed by a terse: “Commander.”

The terseness had also been on purpose.

Oh, but Shriv wasn’t considered to be his equal even though he was not only a member of the Special Forces, but a Commander in the Alliance Navy, a Marksman, and a damn good pilot.

Far from it.

Luke Skywalker was a Jedi with magical force wieldy powers that could make people smack into walls, or he could slice them in half with his glowy laser sword-thing.

He won medals and made girls smile.

Shriv only made girls give disgusted faces.

He supposed he should be thankful he was on their side, not annoyed one bit that he had told him how to do his job he had been doing since before Luke had even bothered to show up.

Yeah, OK, so he had blown up a Death Star.

Even Shriv had to admit that was impressive, but he didn’t want to.

Besides, he had help, but everyone seemed to forget that little tidbit of information.

Han Solo didn’t forget that tidbit of information.

In fact, he talked about it daily.

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fingers and toes crossed this hasnt been done before

[please reblog if you like it]

[buy me a coffee!]

when you become untouchable {Vigilante | Adrian Chase} // one.

one. i come loaded with the safety switched off

Summary: After earning yourself several life sentences and a one-way ticket to Belle Reve in your early 20s, you've spent the decade and a bit since then establishing yourself as a loyal and effective tool for Waller and her team. As a meta-human who is able to completely know and understand the history of anything you touch, as well as master how to use it, and know exactly where the owner of the object is, but all only while touching the object, it's safe to say that you've developed a reputation as an unmatched hunter, though you've always felt hunter was too ominous a word for you and your upbeat nature.

So now you, Waller's pet supervillain known as The Chaser, find yourself as part of Project Butterfly, in the middle of suburban Washington. The only downside you can see is that everyone on the team is so serious; as the saying goes, if you enjoy what you do, you'll never work a day in your life! So fuck it, who are they to say you can't enjoy what you do, especially if you know you're good at it!? Unfortunately for everyone else, what you do is usually crime... and sometimes murder.

Need to Know: She/Her pronouns. villain!meta-human!reader. self depricating reader. chaos. implied dehumanisation. canon typical violence. possible smut in later chapter i haven't decided. slowish burn

A/N: 2652 words. ive caved and im writing a villain!reader/vigilante series. this is different to the other oc/vigilante things ive been posting except that this is now the fic where The Chaser is a thing. im excited to write this, it's a lot of fun so far xx i would like feedback please!!!

Taglist: OPEN -- message or comment if you'd like to be added xx

If anyone were to ask your opinion on the team you were with, not that anyone ever did, you'd never hesitate to mention that you wished they'd lighten up.

"Careful, Kujo, your sociopathy is showing," Harcourt's voice was dry over dinner at Fennel Fields, though her lips were quirked with the slightest amusement.

"You know my confidence isn't an attack on you," you told her with blunt sincerity, brandishing a mozzarella stick like you're trying to emphasise a point - the grease that clings, the oil that burns, they're made in-house, the exact way to make them, bulk ordered bread crumbs, the machines that processed them, the crumbling, dough forming, wheat into machines, the wheat cut down in the fields, the breeze - "I'm good at my job, that's not bragging that's just a fact."

"Yes, but you're good at everything," Harcourt leans her elbows on the table, chin resting delicately on her knuckles, "isn't that the point of you? Wouldn't being insufferable about it get boring eventually?" She's wearing that thin, mean smile that's unfortunately flattering on her, and you sigh, as if terribly put upon, leaning against the half-wall divider your booth sat against.

"You'd think so," you sigh dramatically, "but considering I'm an idiot eighty percent of the time, I have to get my kicks in how I can," and you angle your head to show her your sharp, smug smile, and she rolls her eyes, sitting back in her seat. You take another bite of the mozzarella stick with a shit-eating grin.

"And they call you The Chaser?" Adebayo asks with faint scepticism as she processes the interaction she's just witnessed.

"Depends on who you ask," you responded lazily, finishing off the mozzarella stick in your hand, and immediately forgetting everything your brain had absorbed, had known while you'd been holding the breadcrumb covered cheese.

"I know who you are, I'm just confused as to why," she huffs a half laugh.

"Waller threw Savant to the wolves, you could have his name," Economos pointed out to you instead of answering Adebayo, though as he flicked a napkin at your face, it hit you in the forehead, "would be more fitting," he adds lamely, like after seeing you fail to catch the napkin, his heart's not in the change of names. The napkin flutters into your lap and you give him an unamused look.

After a beat, however, Murn is the one who answers Adebayo's initial question.

"Everything Y/N touches, she masters, and understands its entire history," he explains, while you leaned around him to shoot Adebayo a bright smile, "including whoever is the current owner of the object and where exactly they are and what state they are in, but only while she's touching it."

"Hence, Savant," Economos said, gesturing to you with a weak wave.

"Idiot Savant," you clarified with a good-natured eye roll, "if I don't make a very serious effort to remember something about the thing I'm touching, it'll-" you make an uncomfortably wet noise as you mime the information sliding out of your head through your ear. After a moment, you pick up your glass and take a sip of water - the restaurant owner's wife technically owns the cups, and you see the employee who filled it, every time its been washed by a busboy, every customer who's ever drunk from it, the cardboard box it had been bought in opened by the restaurateur's wife, the pallets of identical glasses being transported to the store it was bought from, the factory worker boxing it up, the mass production of the glasses, the heat to melt it into shape -

"Everything you touch?" Adebayo asks, incredulously, and then looks to the glass.

"This cup technically belongs to the wife of the restaurant owner; she's sitting on their sofa three blocks away with a Labrador puppy in her lap. She bought the glasses on sale; one was chipped in the set of four so they were eighty percent off," you said without a moment of hesitation, and then took another sip of water for effect, "they use a cheap brand of detergent here."

"I... don't know enough about this restaurant to verify that but it sounds impressive," Adebayo muses, a sentiment you could see honestly reflected in her eyes.

"Show off," Harcourt smirks, something a little proud in her expression that she's ducked to hide. After a beat, however, Harcourt surfaces; "she chose to call herself The Chaser because she's a bitch."

"There's literally no meaner way you could have phrased that!" Your expression lights up surprised outrage, but it's clear you didn't take it to heart, turning, "for the first few weeks -"

"Of your career as a murderer," Harcourt undercuts your moment, but you chose to ignore her.

"As a freelancer," you emphasised, before hesitating and conceding, "who yeah, was hired to kill people when word got around I was good at it," you rolled your eyes, waving your hand by your temple as if dismissing the thought, "anyways people started calling me The Hunter, and when I think of the name The Hunter, I think of like, Robin Hood, a green aesthetic and men in tights, which really just made me think of Green Arrow, and that guy? You wanna talk about unbearable, that's your man," you hoped your expression conveyed the earnestness of your hatred for him, before snorting dismissively, "and anyways, Hunter is such a heavy word for what I do; it implies I always kill them, which I don't."

After a beat to let your words sink in, Harcourt actually grins.

"And because she's-"

"Stop telling people I'm a furry!" You practically shouted over Harcourt with well worn exasperation, though her grin only got wider.

"Calm down, Kujo," her response comes with a fond kind of amusement the others had rarely seen.

"I called myself The Chaser because I thought it was light and befitting of the main reason I used to be hired," you said, voice lowering as the moment passes easily, "and now," you flourish your hands, before resting your elbow on the table and your chin in your hand, "I'm doing my dream job."

"Being part of a secret government task force?" Adebayo says incredulously, to which you shrugged easily.

"As long as I get to use my powers and travel, I'm happy; what are they gonna do? Arrest me again for following their orders? No," you snorted. Thankfully the moment I'd immediately derailed when Harcourt spots Peacemaker pulling up in his fully costume, a bald eagle in his back seat. The good mood that only you seemed to be able to elicit from her had disappeared, as did everyone else's.

When Peacemaker finally recognises you, his expression lights up with a strange kind of realisation and a 'oh yeah, everyone in Belle Reve knows Kujo', and you have to grit your teeth at that.

When you weren't working solo missions for Waller or the government, your powers were being used by your fellow inmates to find snitches trying to hide, settle disputes of ownership, or find out which guards were distributing contraband. Even in a power dampener collar, you had the faintest meta-human abilities, and it was more than a lot of folks you were locked up beside. Despite operating at your bare minimum while inside Belle Reve, a lot of people found you incredibly useful. It's a situation you preferred to forget; between being seen as a tool rather than a person, the unfulfilling requests everyone had, and how it felt like you were always scraping the bottom of the barrel to use even a fraction of your power, there was no time in your life you hated more.

After Peacemaker's comment, you find yourself quiet for the rest of dinner, far quieter than you had been before. Thankfully Peacemaker himself is loud enough for both of you, and no-one asks you any questions.

The dinner comes to a close, and you’ve still got half your plate unfinished in front of you. Everyone’s set to head home, or at the very least, head out for the night, but you’re still stuck in your head, memories growing teeth as you think back on Belle Reve and how powerless you had felt inside its walls.

“I’m going to grab a drink before turning in,” Harcourt’s voice brings you out of your thoughts, and you surface to see she’s the only one still in the restaurant, standing at the end of the table, watching you. She doesn’t ask if you’re okay, she doesn’t even ask if you want to join her, at least not out loud; she pulls a zip-tie out of her back pocket and offers it to you, wordlessly. The familiar routine brings a smile to your face, and you take it – you can see her, sense her there even with your eyes closed; it was her zip-tie to begin with, pulled from the pack this morning, and a week spent in a hardware store, shipped to the store with pallets all containing packets identical, packaged by meticulous machines, produced by the billions, fragile plastic warped from far bigger sheets -. With that, she gives a solid nod and heads to the door, following after the others. You loop the zip-tie around one wrist and only tighten it enough so it won’t fall off. Then, with a renewed spirit, you dig in to your meal, finishing it off.

It's as you’re finishing the last of your meal that you find yourself thinking about your own freedom for the night. You’d earned yourself several life sentences in the few years that you’d ‘freelanced’, enough time on your sentence that a lifetime of work with Taskforce X probably wouldn’t help you, but you were being unfortunately genuine when you’d called this your dream job. With a stipend from the government, getting to travel, getting to use your powers and often commit crimes, of which murder was not uncommon, it really was the ideal situation for you; people ask about your prospects outside of prison, but none of them seem to realise that you’d be doing this whether or not you were in prison, but now you can’t even get arrested for it. Call it Stockholm Syndrome, or even call it sad, you found it to be neither; you’re thrilled someone finally recognised you for what you’re truly capable of, and after almost a decade playing this part, you’ve been granted some trust, some wiggle room, some freedom in a sense.

So maybe you’ll join Harcourt at the bar, or find somewhere open late in town, or you could lay face down in the parking lot for an hour if the mood struck you; the world may not be your oyster, but this questionable town in Washington certainly was.

It’s only when you’ve finally decided to head to the bar and grab a drink with Harcourt that you finally notice the busboy who’s been hovering by the end of the counter, throwing glances at you ever few minutes, yet still trying to act covert. Wait… looking around, you see the restaurant is almost empty now, and sure it hadn’t been full to begin with, but it couldn’t be that – they’re closing in ten minutes. How long had you been stuck in your own head?

Immediately you’re calling out apologies; they probably could have left early if it wasn’t for you, but the minute you make eye contact with the guy in the red uniform who’s waiting, he’s brushing them off. As you’re attempting to pile all of the table’s dishes to make it easier to clean up, he comes over and tries to tell you that it’s no trouble. Still, you pile all the dishes and try and collect up all the cutlery to hand to him, trying to supress the nausea that always came whenever you were touching a lot of objects in rapid succession, the immediate flood of knowledge followed in mere moments by forgetting it all. Usually your gloves kept all of that at bay, but you’d had them off to eat and now –

You go to pass the guy your knife, handle first and unused, and in the half second in which you are treated to an encyclopaedic knowledge of this steak knife, amongst all other moments of this knife’s existence, is –

- suds from cheap detergent and a sink of water that should probably be drained, the scourer scraping off food remnants that cling, but then several minutes spent using the knife as a weapon; the movements being practiced are particular and harsh, movements sharp and deliberate. You know because the moment your fingertips had even brushed the knife you knew how to bed cut a steak as well as how to best cut a man, but this moment amongst the suds and grime is both practiced and in practice. There’s more times than you can count where you understand that someone was trying to practice flipping the knife, the night air cold, swearing each time it’s dropped or it cuts the user by accident; he’s used this knife enough that you understand how long it took him to actually get good at the knife tricks -

And the hands picking up the remaining cutlery are the same hands that taught themselves to flip this knife, to practice violence among soap suds. Maybe you’re jumping to conclusions, maybe it’s simply how he passes the time, trying to make himself cooler, or to defend himself. Gripping the knife a little tighter, you wince as you realise the serrated edge is pressing into the heel of your palm, not enough to bleed, but enough to steal your focus.

“Thanks,” the busboy says a little awkwardly once the table’s clear. You’re still standing next to the booth with the knife, “I can take that for you,” he offers. He’s disarmingly cheerful, though perhaps it’s only disarming considering the moments you keep replaying over and over in your head.

“Sure,” you murmur absentmindedly, and flip the knife in the exact way you’d watched him try to master for months in your mind; the way you master anything you can touch has always been an interesting gift, as if your body borrows the muscle memory of everyone who’s ever used it without you even having to think about it. The busboy blinks several times at the movement, at you now holding out the knife to him. Then, his gaze meets yours; in your mind, you see him stab at the side of the metal sink that he snaps the very tip of the knife off, only by a millimetre or two, but there’s the faintest dent in the sink that no-one else has noticed. It’s been months.

He takes the knife, and you find yourself blinking quickly as everything about this one damn steak knife immediately dissipates from your head.

“How’d you do that?” He asks, looking at the knife, “I’ve been trying to get it for ages but…” he trails off, and you look at the piece of cutlery in his hand.

“Man, I wish I knew,” you laughed, rocking back on your heels. You know now that he’s probably far more dangerous and capable than he looks, but you hadn’t bothered to memorise the moments. Something about a sink? He was asking about a knife flip; you knew you did it, you’d just never be able to really explain how.

“Sorry, I know that that’s kind of a dick answer,” you gave a weak chuckle, “I wish I could help you, but I’ve already definitely overstayed my welcome,” you hoisted your bag up your shoulder, “sorry about that,” you cast your gaze around the empty restaurant, to host by the till giving you a tired look, “again.”

And as you scurry out of the building, you call a final thanks to the kitchen, and decide you need a damn drink.

Next Time, Try Knocking

Cad Bane x Jedi!OFC

(moodboard by lifelikefae)

NSFW - 18+ ONLY

CHAPTERS

In which Cad Bane makes a new accquaintance who is not what she seems.

Bane breaks and enters. Senna makes another bad life decision.

Bane updates Senna on his mental health.

Bane starts catching feels and finds the whole thing highly #cringe. Senna forgets to close her blinds.

Bane and Senna run into each other at a party.

Senna finally realizes the extent to which she fucked up…

Bane gets a glimpse of the Sentinel’s Dark Side…

Senna tells Bane. Bane takes it about as well as you’d expect.

Bane gets sloppy. Senna gets a tip.

They’ve got to stop meeting like this…

Consequences? For MY me? It’s more likely than you think…

In which Senna is on probation and Banes gets… a phone call?!

Bane asks Senna to hold onto something…

please don’t tell my mother about this chapter

ET goes full narco-terrorist. Senna has a bad trip.

Bad feelings are had by all.

Bane to the rescue…

EXTRA

Bane’s Story (Ch. 3.5)

Phlox’s Story (Ch. 5.5)

Bounty Hunter AU

Kom’rk AU

OC moodboard

The tag

Here’s a lighthearted one-shot featuring my OC Estelle Carter with Harley Quinn and Adrian Chase. The main pairing is Harley/Estelle but with a dash of suggestion that eventually they’ll be a Harley/Estelle/Adrian pairing.