1. Why did you start writing fanfiction? Was Far Cry 5 the first fandom you wrote for?
My first fanfiction that I actually got into and posted was actually for Naruto haha, and I started that because I really loved the heroine and just wanted to explore her character through writing.
2. Why Far Cry 5? What led you to it?
The game, the universe, some particular character...I loved the game and thought the idea of Far Cry 5's story was really interesting, but it didn't quite get to go as deep as I would've liked to have seen, so I really liked the idea of trying to explore these characters and this world through fanfiction.
3. Of everything you have written so far, which one is your favorite?
Hmm, I think maybe one of my pre-game AUs, like this one where the Deputy first meets John. I think pre-game stuff is just so fun to write because there's so much tension; it can be a perfectly innocent interaction happening, but because the audience knows what's REALLY going on and the Deputy DOESN'T, there's such a tense undertone there that's just really fun to play around with.
4. Any tips for those who are starting - or considering starting - to write fan fiction?
I really recommend reading your writing out loud, not just for finding little mistakes, but because it's really good for helping you figure out whether dialogue sounds organic, and it also just helps you figure out the flow of sentences. Something can be grammatically correct, but still read a little awkwardly, so I've found that reading out loud can really help me pick up on these things.
“Here’s my gift to you Tia! I hope you enjoy it - Rook was a joy to write, and I hope you don’t mind if I write something else for her again someday! Happy holidays! <3”
'Deputy Rook Gordon x John Seed, sharing a bed, fluff, humor, very slight angst, a little hurt/comfort, very very vague description of minor injuries’
Rivulets of icy water drip from the damp ends of her hair and collect in the crease of her neck, soaking the collar of her coat. Rook’s lived in Montana her whole life, knows the cold as well as anyone else that calls Hope County home, but she doesn’t think she’s ever felt it quite like this. Her cheeks are chaffed and numb, she can’t feel the tops of her thighs any longer, and if the tips of her ears aren’t frostbitten, it’ll be a miracle. Cold leeches from her wet clothes into what feels like her bones, and Rook finds herself longing for her tiny apartment above the Spread Eagle and the electric heat that rattles from the radiators.
Still, she thinks, there’s a silver lining to be gleaned from all this — she’s so cold that she can no longer feel just how battered she is from the car accident. Black ice doesn’t care if you’re the leader of the Resistance, she’s learned.
Wind bites at her skin. Rook doesn’t know how long she’s been walking. It feels like hours, but it’s probably only been half of one. When she’d first left the car, her steps were steady and strong, despite the shin-high snow licking at the denim of her jeans. Now, she can barely lift her feet out of the divots they make. Instead, she shuffles forward, leaving behind trenches that lead straight to her.
Over her shoulder, the wreckage of her car looks like a black dot against a white canvas. Ahead of her, she can see the smoky-grey silhouette of what looks like a cabin. She stops in her tracks, snow freezing her feet through her cheap boots, and weighs her options.
Bunker? People in Hope County are paranoid enough that Rook’s been able to find an empty bunker on just about every property she’s stumbled upon. If she’s lucky, there’s one close by, fully stocked with food and blankets. Based on the way the rest of her day’s gone, it’s probably buried under six feet of snow, too.
Cabin? The place looks as empty as anything else in the county these days. The windows are dark and covered in a thin sheen of frost, and snow has started to pile up against the door. Rook hasn’t seen a car for miles; if people live here, they’re doing it off the grid, and they’re doing it very well. She wiggles her frozen fingers and wonders if she has a chance in hell at picking the lock.
Her only other option is trying to find her way back into town before dark. The threat of nightfall has already started to tinge the edges of the sky dark grey, and as much as Rook wishes she could proclaim to know this place like the back of her hand, everything looks the same in the snow. There’s no way she’ll get back to Fall’s End before sunset – especially not on foot.
A shiver forces its way through her body, and Rook clenches her teeth against it, wrapping her arms around herself in search of warmth. It doesn’t come, but it does help her make her decision – if she doesn’t find shelter, if she doesn’t get out of her damp clothes, she’ll freeze to death in the middle of the Montana wilderness.
Too many people are counting on her for her to give up that easily. Too many lives depend on her.
Rook trudges forward, slow but steady. One step becomes another, one foot after the other after the other. Snow tumbles down the crevice between her boot and her foot, soaking through her sock as she walks. It’s another stab of cold to her already frozen body, but it spurs her on. Somehow, she finds herself at the front of the cabin, the door less than a foot away from her. Salvation in the form of pressure-treated wood.
She wiggles her fingers again, trying to get the feeling back, readying herself for a fight with the lock, when instinct tells her to try the knob. It’s unlikely, improbable, a last ditch effort.
It works.
Rook turns the knob and finds no resistance. The hinges creak when she pushes the door open, but it still swings inward, offering her a way into the inviting shelter of the cabin.
She steps inside, feet slippery wet against the wooden floor, and shuts the door against the winter nightmare behind her. Immediately, she feels warmer. A figment of her imagination, maybe, but with the wind off her cheeks and the snow out of her shoes, Rook finds she doesn’t particularly care.
“Looking a little worse for wear, aren’t we, Deputy?”
Fear jolts her into action. Instinctively, she spins in the direction of the voice, dragging her gun from the holster on her hip. The grip feels like ice between her palms as she aims toward her attacker’s head.
“Oh, fuck.”
John Seed stands in the middle of what looks like the living room, his back to a fireplace that roars with a heat she can feel, even from six feet away. It’s newly lit, the logs dry and hardly singed, and the only conclusion Rook can come to is that John’s only just made it here himself.
“Language,” he chastises, watching her weapon sway in his direction.
“Get your hands up,” she demands, hoping her voice sounds steadier than it feels coming out of her mouth. “Up. Get them up.”
To her surprise, he does as she asks. John lifts his arms, palms facing outward and elbows bent. Rook follows the lines of his body. There are clean, dry clothes here, she learns, because John isn’t swathed in his usual getup.
He doesn’t fill the borrowed shirt and sweatpants the way she imagines his eldest brother might - he’s too slender, not as defined, and the baggy clothes make him look more like a confused frat boy than an accomplished lawyer, businessman, and cult leader.
“Now, now, Deputy,” John drawls, a self-satisfied smile plastered across a face that’s paler than Rook remembers. “There’s no need for violence.”
Against her better judgement, Rook snorts.
“That’s rich, coming from you,” she spits out, trying desperately to keep from shivering. Her damp clothes stick to her skin uncomfortably as she adjusts her stance. “Little Johnny have a change of heart? Or is your torture room not doing it for you anymore?”
“Wrath,” he sings quietly, seemingly unfazed. He points a single finger in her direction, the smile still settled in place. “Come now, darling. Surely we can resolve this peacefully. What can I do to make things copacetic between you and I?”
End this fucking holy war, she thinks. Leave Hope County and go back to whatever pit you came from.
Give me back my friends.
“You know, John,” Rook says, filtering the words out through teeth that scream for her to let them chatter, “I could just shoot you. End this now.”
“Oh, you could,” John agrees, his hands steady next to his head. “But I think I have something you want.”
Ice floods her already frozen chest. She has a hazy idea of what he means.
“Joey Hudson,” he drawls, before she can ask him what he’s talking about. He must catch the flash of desperation that crosses her face, because he nods just once, just like he’s coaxing a frightened animal out of its hiding place. “Hm? An impromptu truce, just for the night, and I’ll let you have your little friend.”
Admitting it to him would be unwise, but she knows she won’t kill John, even if he weren’t agreeing to give up his bargaining chip. There’s blood on her hands, no matter how hard she’s tried to avoid it, and Rook would give her right arm if it meant an end to all the savagery committed across the county - her own acts included. No, she won’t put an end to John Seed in this tiny, barely habitable cabin, but he doesn’t need to know that.
She doesn’t want to die alone in the cold, either. If that means cozying up with the enemy in picturesque Bumfuck Nowhere until her clothes dry and the sun comes out, well - Rook thinks she’d be willing to have a slumber party with just about anyone at this point, just to get a reprieve from the cold.
It’s apparent that she’s been waiting too long to answer. John is watching her with sharp eyes, the gaze of a man who knows what he wants and knows how he’ll get it.
“Well, Deputy?” John taunts, wiggling his fingers. “Do we have a ceasefire? Benevolence in exchange for your precious Joey Hudson?”
She won’t kill him, but god, she wants to hit him.
There’s a telltale twitch to her hands that says that if she weren’t gripping her gun, they’d be shaking. John picks up on it almost immediately, his eyes flashing, and before he can get a word in edgewise Rook cuts him off.
“Fine,” she agrees, lowering her weapon. “Fine. A ceasefire.”
It’s not a perfect deal, but it’s something. Satisfied, she sets her gun down on the kitchen counter and looks around the cabin. She can feel John’s gaze on her, and out of the corner of her eye, Rook sees that he hasn’t yet moved from his spot by the fireplace.
“There’s no power,” he supplies helpfully, even as she flicks the light switch next to the kitchen doorway up and down. “No water, either, though the former occupants were kind enough to keep some bottled water in the fridge.”
As thirsty and as famished as she is, the only thing she can think about is getting warm. Her clothes are sticking to her skin, chaffing in places she didn’t think could chafe. Rook turns to John, her damp curls stuck to her neck, and gestures at him with her chin.
“The dry clothes. Were there more?”
John nods, eyeing her sodden jacket.
“In the back bedroom,” he says. “There are a few drawers. You may find something that fits.”
She’s halfway to the bedroom before he even finishes his sentence, shedding her layers as she goes - her coat first, which she splays across the floor in front of the fire, then her shoes. When she hears him snicker, Rook looks up.
“What?”
“Nice socks.”
She’d forgotten about those. Her favorite pair, shin height with cat ears and a little nose. The surefire way to brighten a bleary, grey day - that had been her thought process as she’d tugged them on that morning, smiling at the printed whiskers.
Now they’re soaked, probably ruined, and the center of her enemy’s amusement.
Rook balls one up and chucks it at his head.
—
There’s only one bed.
It’s the first thing she notices as she steps into the bedroom at the back of the cabin,
She doesn’t find any pants, but she does find a shirt she could fit inside of three times over. It’s grey and ratty, with the words ‘Testicle Festival’ plastered on the front in faded writing. Beggars can’t be choosers; Rook shrugs it over her head and curls into it. The hem sits just past her knees - her very own oversized nightie - and despite the lack of power or electric heat in the cabin, it makes her feel warm.
There’s a fur throw tossed over a rocking chair in the corner of the room, and Rook snatches it up before she leaves the room.
“That bed?” she calls, wandering out into the living area to find John seated on the rickety old couch, “It’s mine. Part of the ceasefire terms.”
The look he fixes her with is toxic, and it makes her unreasonably pleased with herself.
Rook can feel his eyes on her as she crouches in front of the fire, holding out her hands to leech the heat from the flames. It’s positively heavenly; this cabin may not have running water or functioning electricity, but the warmth of the raging fire mixed with the blessedly dry clothing makes her feel like she could take on the world.
“You’re bleeding.”
“Hm?”
The warmth is so inviting that she barely hears him as he points out the splotch of blood on her shoulder. Rook twists, body aching, and peers at the bloodstain, tugging at the shirt to get a better look. She’s bleeding, alright, and she’s suddenly more aware of her injuries than she ever was as she trudged through the snow.
“Shit,” she mutters. So I am. “Is there a first aid kit around here?”
Springs creak as John shifts himself off the couch, his feet gentle against the floor as he pads down the hallway towards what Rook assumes is the bathroom. While she waits, she presses a finger against the spot of blood. It’s wet, fresh, and the pain that follows her own touch makes the corners of her eyes burn with unshed tears.
A hand on her shoulder brings her back to herself, and she ducks away from the touch. John stands over her, a medkit in one hand and the other clutching the empty spot where she once sat, looking at her curiously.
“What the hell?” Rook frowns, staring at the offending hand like he might just use it to strangle her. When he reaches out for her again, she smacks him away, a noise of discontent tumbling from between her lips. “Quit it!”
“Stay put.”
“What, and let you carve me up like a piece of meat? I’ll pass.”
“I think you’ve done a decent job of that on your own, my dear,” John says. Through the haze of pain, Rook is surprised to find that he sounds genuinely concerned. “Let me help you.”
It’s not a tough call to make - she can’t reach the wound on her back, and she’s pretty sure John isn’t going to make an example of her here. With nobody to show his handiwork to but her, Rook can’t imagine he’s interested in carving her sins into her skin.
Hesitantly, Rook lets him tug the shirt up over her head. His fingers nudge the still-wet band of her bra down a little, giving him better access to whatever cuts and scrapes litter her back.
“It’s a wonder you’re not dead, yet,” John mutters. “How did you manage this?”
The first brush of an alcohol swab along an open wound rips a hiss from her lungs. Rook jerks from John’s grasp and whines at the pain.
“Car accident,” she bites out, trying not to twist as he holds her in place. The warmth of his skin against her battered back is an odd mix of pleasant and disquieting. “Ruined my favorite one, too.”
“Better than ruining you,” John muses, though he seems more focused on dressing her wounds than the words that leave his mouth.
The comment makes her cheeks flame. Rook thinks she’ll have to catalogue that particular response for later, so she can work on never reacting quite that strongly again.
It’s quiet as John works, but Rook’s thoughts swirl around in her head like a storm. Her parents, thousands of miles away and across an ocean - do they think of her as often as she thinks of them? She misses them ferociously, wishes she were there with them now in her homeland instead of sprawled in front of a fire with a man she’s considered a monster playing surgeon on her open wounds.
That’s another thought that nags at the edges of her consciousness. Why is he helping her?
“Why are you doing this?”
For a while, he doesn’t speak. His hands are unexpectedly gentle as they work along her midsection, washing away spots of blood and tracing over battered skin. The image is oddly dissonant coming from him; Rook remembers being duct-taped to a swivel chair in a room that was tangy with the smell of blood. She remembers the eerie red lighting, the terror in Joey’s eyes as John had entered the room, the manic expression he’d held as he leaned over her with a tattoo gun clasped tightly between his fingers.
She didn’t think those same hands could be capable of kindness.
“You’re hurt,” he says eventually, eyes drifting to her face. He’s just finished taping a thin piece of gauze to the wound in her side, stark white against the bruising just starting to settle in beyond it. “Hardly fair to kick the enemy when she’s down, hm?”
“Fair?” Rook forces herself not to jerk away as John wipes at the gash in her shoulder with the damp cloth. “When have you ever been interested in being fair?”
For what feels like a lifetime, John is quiet. She feels him work at her wounds, hears the sounds of bandages crinkling as he unwraps them and his murmured apologies when she hisses as he presses them to her broken skin.
“Your definition of ‘fair’ is different than the Project’s.”
Understatement of the year, Rook thinks. John keeps speaking.
“You deserve to be saved,” he says softly. Fingers brush against her jaw and tilt it up, until John has her chin clasped between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re strong, smart, capable - everything we’ll need when the Collapse comes. I’m trying to save you, Deputy. I can’t very well do that with you frozen in a ditch somewhere.”
Rook jolts as his fingers skitter over what must be a cut on her forehead. It stings, but it’s still more tolerable than being the recipient of the intensity of John’s stare. A feeling she can’t quite place starts in her chest, fluttering along to the beat of her heart and spreading out toward her fingertips.
His sentiment is skewed, Rook knows, but a far-off part of her thinks that as wrong as it is, it’s also kind of sweet.
Without thinking about it, she reaches forward to grab John’s wrist. He’s been in the cabin longer than she has, moving around and getting his blood flowing, and his skin is warm where her fingers graze it.
“Thank you,” Rook murmurs, voice low and earnest. “I—thank you.”
John stares at her a moment. His gaze wanders from her eyes to where her fingers curl around his wrist and back again.
“Careful, Deputy,” he says eventually, twisting in her grip just enough so he can grab her hand. “If I didn’t know any better, I might think you’ve grown fond of me.”
The heat fades from her hand as John lets her go, turning toward the living room.
Eden’s Gate is manipulative, wrong, dangerous. John, his brothers and his sister, their followers - at best, they’re disillusioned believers feeding on the tragedy they hear and see in the world. At worst, they know exactly what it is they’re doing. At worst, they’re hiding their horrors under the guise of a religion that claims to save.
Eventually, she relents.
“We can share the bed,” Rook says tentatively. John looks up at her curiously, one of the fur throws still clutched in his hands as he stands next to the sofa. “It’s probably better that way.”
The grin he gives her is uncannily sharp. It’s predatory; all teeth and curled lips, compensation for his brief moment of vulnerability, and it makes her wonder if she’s just made a terrible misstep. He looks thrilled, like he’s never been offered a more lucrative deal in his life. Slowly, that awful, smug smile crawls back into place.
“Change of heart, darling?”
“Shut up,” she scowls, regretting every nice thing she’s ever said to him. “We can both use the body heat, that’s all.”
He follows her down the hall, past their still-burning fire and into the bedroom.
“This,” Rook says sternly, patting out a thin strip of space in the middle of the bed, “is the demilitarized zone. Stay out. Don’t get any ideas.”
When she looks up, John is standing at the edge of the bed, eyes dancing with what looks like amusement. A fluttering starts low in her stomach, and Rook has to swallow the feeling down. She tenses her shoulders and focuses on the stab of pain that radiates from her wound – a distraction from the nervous energy she feels as John stares at her.
“You have my word,” he agrees, placing his hand over his heart. “Scout’s honor.”
Rook can’t help the way her eyes roll back into her head. She tugs the blankets down and slips into the bed, curling on her side. The covers offer a warmth she’s been missing since the minute she stepped out of her ruined car, and as she pulls them up to her ears, she feels safer than she has in hours.
Next to her, the bed sinks as John slides in next to her.
It’s a dark night. Rook has her back to the window, but she can tell the moon is only a sliver in the sky based on the depth of the shadows in the bedroom. Nights like this, she wishes she could be outside, staring up at the inky black sky and the stars that lie across it.
Their skin doesn’t touch, not with Rook’s mandated safe-space between them, but she can still feel the heat that John’s body generates as he lies next to her. Something about it is comforting - she doesn’t remember the last time she was this close to somebody.
The bed shakes as John jostles around next to her. A curious part of Rook wonders if he’s always like this – always moving, always trying to settle himself, always looking for comfort.
“Tell me something, Deputy.”
John’s voice startles her. She rolls over to find him on his back, gazing up at the wooden boards that make up the ceiling. Talking to him as she lays next to him in bed seems too intimate, too close; it’s not something she’d planned to spend her evening doing.
“It’s late. We should sleep.”
A weak effort to shut him down, Rook learns. A smile quirks his face, and he huffs out a sound that might be a laugh.
“Humour me,” he murmurs. “How did you end up in Montana?”
Rook settles on her back next to him, perplexed by the question. Is this a new game he’s playing? Is this another tactic to play with her emotions? She tugs the blankets higher, curling them just under her chin. The thought of looking John in the eyes has her skin itching, so she keeps her gaze firmly on the ceiling.
“My parents are from Fyvie, Scotland,” she says. Her voice is quiet, but it sounds loud and echoey as it travels through the room. “My mother got a job teaching, so she and my father moved here before I was born. I grew up in Helena.”
Silence settles over the room. Rook finds it deafening, almost unbearable, and the nervous energy settling in her chest implores her to speak to fill the void.
“What about you?”
The words come so suddenly, so unbidden, that Rook almost doesn’t realize she’s said them until John turns his head towards her.
“I—” John starts, then cuts himself off suddenly. A few quiet seconds pass before he speaks again. “I followed Joseph.”
“I read his book.”
She knows her voice is tentative. She’s read the Book of Joseph – know thy enemy, and all that – and the stories of John’s childhood had all but gutted her. If it’s all true, then it explains a lot. If it’s a carefully crafted lie, well – the Seeds were never very trustworthy to begin with.
“Then you know most of the story already,” John says easily, as if it isn’t a story filled with horrors. “Joseph found me in Atlanta, a shell of the boy he once knew, and rescued me. The life I was living before he found me…it was shameful. I was shameful. But Joseph, he looked past it. He saved me.”
The room is silent, save for the gentle noise of their mingled breathing. Outside, the wind has died down. The cabin no longer creaks under the pressure of snow squalls and ice pellets, doesn’t ache quite as much with the vestiges of the cold outdoors. Next to John, Rook is warm and comfortable despite the cuts and the bruises.
“When my brothers and I found each other again, it was like all the broken pieces had finally settled into place. My sins, my addictions - they were my weaknesses, but they served a purpose. They helped put my family back together. After twenty years apart, we were suddenly back together, eating the wrong kind of soup in the dining room of my apartment, reminiscing about the night our biological father was arrested. All of those things brought me here.”
It’s not a story Rook expected. It makes the empath in her ache, makes her want to soothe this man who’s done nothing but torture her and her friends. It makes him a human, flesh and blood, for the very first time.
“You know, Deputy,” John muses, “I think you might be the first person I’ve ever told that story to.”
Rook’s heart stutters uneasily in her chest, an unexpected reaction to the vulnerability in his words, and she rolls her head to the side. John’s jaw is tight and tense, and she can almost feel the uncertainty that seems to roll off him.
Tentatively, she slides her arm toward him under the covers, past the safety net of space, and takes his hand. John freezes, like her touch borders on painful, then relaxes into her hold, squeezing her hand tightly. His skin is warm and soft where their fingers lace together.
Time seems to pass slowly the longer they lay there together. Dim light, just the light of those handfuls of stars, filters through the window. In the corner of her eye, Rook can map the profile of John’s face.
“You’re full of surprises, Baptist,” Rook murmurs sleepily. “Didn’t think you knew how to be kind.”
It’s so quiet that she thinks John may not have heard her, that he may have finally, mercifully fallen asleep. Waves of exhaustion lap at the edges of her consciousness, begging her to give in and rest.
If he has anything else to say, Rook doesn’t hear it. Their hands still linked together, she lets herself drift away.
—
Rook wakes, eyes heavy with the last dregs of sleep, and very nearly forgets where she is.
It takes longer than she’d like to realize that she’s not in her homey apartment above the Spread Eagle. There are no colourful pillows in this bed, no throw tossed over the back of the chair in the corner. The shadows don’t fall across the hardwood floor in quite the same way.
She’s warm in a way she didn’t think possible. It melts into her clothes from the body pressed against her, seeps into her bones at all the junctures where they touch, comforts in a way that’s unfamiliar but not at all wrong.
Jagged lines of scarred lettering greet her as she blinks the sleep from her eyes. Sloth, it reads, a sin carved into flesh in a desperate attempt at absolution. The realization that this is John Seed she’s curled against, that he has his arms draped over her and her head tucked beneath his chin, doesn’t terrify her the way she thinks it should.
He looks content. That’s the only word she can use to describe him as she follows the lines and scars of his body, the inky black marks of his tattoos that tell more of a story than any book ever could. John’s face is slack, relaxed, and for a moment Rook thinks she looks more like the boy she read about in the Book of Joseph than she ever thought possible. He’s soft, gentle; he’s not the monster the Valley has made him out to be. Not in this moment.
Rook reaches out to drag the tip of a finger across each letter. She curls the pad of it around the ‘s’, scrapes the edge of her nail down the ‘l’, feels the bumpy surface of the ‘o’, the ‘t’, the ‘h’.
Her mind is hazy, but she knows she has to get up. People will be looking for her, and if they find her wrecked car, the Resistance will send out the cavalry. This isn’t the place she wants to be when Sharky shows up wielding a flamethrower.
Tentatively, hesitantly, she slides out from John’s embrace. His arm is loose around her, slack with sleep, and she knows he won’t wake as she slips out of bed and stands next to him. Rook can see into the hallway, sees her clothing spread out in front of the dying embers of the fire. With any luck, it’ll be more or less dry when she wanders out. With any luck, her socks won’t be destroyed.
Sunlight filters in through the one window in the room. The warmth of John’s body is fading from her skin, but she thinks the worst of the cold is behind her.
There’s a blue, fur throw crumpled into a ball on the floor next to the bed. Rook picks it up and shakes it out, then leans forward to drape it across John’s sleeping form. She gets close enough to brush her lips against his forehead.
Happy birthday to our sweet goat baby @seedsplease! I hope this day would be sunny and amazing for you honey, that you’ll surround yourself with people who love you and take care of you and make you feel great! 💖💖 Have fun babey Tia!
We made this piece together with @naromoreau! Your Rook deserves some good smooches under YES sign 😊😉
I'd like to give some love to @seedsplease - she's incredible and kind and one of the first people in the fandom to welcome me. Plus, her writing is stunning!
I KNOW I'VE ALREADY SAID IT BUT AHHHH HAPPY BIRTHDAY LAD, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR BEING SUCH AN AMAZING FRIEND AND AHH I'M SO GLAD I GOT TO KNOW YOU ♥ ♥ ♥ - tia
THANK YOU TIA!! for being the best person ive met in this fandom and making everything more enjoyable😭❤️❤️❤️❤️ idk if id still be here if we hadn’t started chatting every day and playing co op and sharing an entire braincell
tumblr crushes challenge: where you post your own favorite blogs to spread positivity and get your amazing blogger-friends some more followers!
I was mentioned in a tag by @ton-of-bryks...
...which was surprising, b/c I know I'd liked your posts more than once, but I didn't know I'd caught your eye! Thank you - it definitely gave me a little lift! :-D <3
There's MANY blogs I follow, and many I enjoy... so if I don't mention you, please don't be offended and/or think you weren't good enough for a mention! I've been very busy this weekend and want to get some writing & FC5 gameplay in tonight (and I'm already very tired), so I'm gonna make this as quick as I can.
- @scorpio-skies = I would be very remiss to not mention you - not ONLY b/c you've been beyond amazing beta-ing my FO4 fanfic (and I would've been so lost w/o you thus far), but also b/c I always really enjoy the things you post! ❤
- @seedsplease = Started following you more recently, but I looooove reading the different FC5 stuff you post! The fics/ficlets are always awesome and I always really enjoy them!
- @teamhawkeye = No surprise here I'm sure, but your writing is some of my absolute FAVORITE to read, but I also love your drawings and your gameplay clips! Seriously - if you're into Far Cry 5, do NOT miss this blog!!!
- @the-dubstep-strawberry = Your FO4 fic is seriously so amazing, and I love talking with you! I always greatly enjoy our chats and you're such a sweetie! So glad you're my Tumblr buddy!
There are seriously many more people worth mentioning, but I'd be here all night! Just know that if I follow you or like your posts then I think you're awesome - and even if I don't, hit me up and I'd love to make more online buddies! And if any of you are ever on XBox Live & want to chat or anything: Katies XBoxName (...seriously, that's what it is, LOL). Feel free to say hi! :)
just take it slow by outranks (female deputy/john seed, soulmate fic)
late valentine gift fic for @seedsplease ❤️❤️ I was originally writing you something else, but it got long and I realised I’d never finish it in time, so I wrote this so that I’d have one thing finished 😭 ahhh I hope you like it ❤️ ❤️ ❤️
Tia!! Clearly I think you’re the best in spite of your anime crimes and the shadow of your weebery that hovers over us constantly 😔 playing fc5 co op is so much fun, especially now that we have the Seeds to bring with us (even if they can’t get through doors 😔 one day they’ll learn......one day.....) and our meta discussions always bring new insights into the characters in ways I hadn’t really considered before, so I always appreciate those chats ❤️
I love your writing the most and you always write John perfectly, to the point where the rabid knife gremlin feels like a real person. also we have very similar tastes in fic so... 👀👀 there’s always a chance that the thing you’re writing is going to be exactly what I want to read. plus all of your ideas are amazing and I love hearing about all of the ideas you have planned (especially when it’s something for me 😌)
and!!! if that weren’t enough, you have these wonderful OCs who I love SO MUCH (all of them. every. single. one. 🧹✨) and Rook Gordon + her relationship with John is kind of my favorite thing to talk about tbh. but I also love Calpurnia, Eleanor, and Alainn too ❤️❤️
