thoughts on wash's fighting style and his position in pfl because I can (utc because it's really long lol):
wash is very unique among the freelancers for a variety of reasons, one is that he doesn't specialize in one specific area of anything, he's a jack of all trades who is able to fill in for other freelancers if necessary. for example in s9 when york was supposed to be unavailable for lock picking/infiltration duty, carolina immediately went to wash (and we are ignoring that york is not shown to be good at lock picking!) if she trusted wash to fill in for their specialist in one area, I feel it's not a stretch to imagine that he can do so in other areas as well.
need a snipper but north and wyoming aren't available? wash can cover. need someone to get into the enemies' computer systems in place of ct, south, or york? wash can cover. need someone for stealth or reconnaissance in place of florida? wash can cover. etc etc.
wash's combat style reflects that jack of all trades, master of none thing very well too, as the way that he fights is very grounded and pragmatic when compared to the rest of the freelancers. a lot of people like to portray wash as less skilled than the other freelancers, but in truth I believe that wash being able to keep up and compete with the other freelancers despite his lack of dramatic flare is a show of just how competent and skilled of a soldier he is. wash is so good at doing what he does that he doesn't need all that extra bullshit to get the job done. sure, he might not look as Cool and SexyTM as the others while doing it, but completing the mission and surviving to live another day takes precedence over all else.
another way of looking at it is that wash fights in the same way that the odst's do, that is to say that he fights like a human who cannot plow his way through the battlefield in the same way the spartans can. wash's style of fighting is one that employs careful planning and targeted hit and run tactics—this is most obvious in recovery one and s6 whenever he's fighting against the meta.
I also feel it's important to note that wash is not a cqc fighter, he can handle himself if he gets into a cqc situations but his primary weapon is the battle rifle—which is a mid/long range weapon. if I'm being honest wash's way of fighting makes waaaaaaaaay more sense if you look at him not as someone who is trained to primarily fight against other humans, but as someone who is trained to fight against 8ft 2 ton aliens with plasma weapons that can slice through the hulls of UNSC battle cruisers (ships designed to travel through space!!!) like a hot knife cuts through butter and have the technology to raze entire planets to the ground in a matter of minutes.
I also personally believe that wash has the most military experience out of all the freelancers right behind florida, wyoming, and maine (who I hc as a spartan iii). we know that wash did his basic training in the leonis minoris system (a canonical halo system) and that system had two of the three planets glassed by the covenant in 2537, and wash directly references these events in the washed hands interview in the fan guide and the way he says it implies that he likely completed his basic training that same year. now I have some grievances with the timeline given in the book when it comes to the events depicted in the freelancer saga because it's just kinda weird, but everything prior to that bit is actually fine (though I hate the way that they decide to number the timeline lmao).
now in halo canon the human/covenant war ended in 2552, and according to the timeline in the rvb fan guide that was 1 year after alpha was sent to blood gulch. project freelancer is first cleared for funding 7 years BBG (before blood gulch), and recruits the 50 freelancers 5 years BBG. doing some math we can determine that pfl was cleared for funding in the year 2544, and the freelancers are recruited for pfl in 2546. so assuming wash finished his basic training in 2537 that would mean that he was in the military for 9 years before he joined pfl, and while wash is addressed as a corporal (e-4) in the washed hands interview he was most likely demoted to that after he was court martialed, and he was possibly going to be dishonorably discharged from the military because of his disorderly conduct.
using the current standards used by the us marine corps when it comes to rank progression, wash was most likely a sergeant (e-5) who was very close to being promoted to a staff sergeant (e-6). wash as a sergeant would've essentially been the assistant manager/co-leader of the platoon he was in while his staff sergeant was the manager/leader, and that would explain why he was able to even get into an argument with his CO in the first place. I believe wash held a similar position in pfl, as it's kind of implied that he did some management stuff in pfl (talking with internals/upper brass, him feeling comfortable with openly questioning carolina about whether york should be allowed on the sarcophagus heist, and of course he shows the ability to direct and somewhat lead south in recovery one, and him leading church, caboose, and the reds in s6, and him taking charge of the meta in s8).
even if wash wasn't a sergeant as a corporal he would've been in a position to be the leader of a fire team, so basically wash isn't some rookie who had no clue wtf he was doing as many in the fandom like to characterize him; he is an experienced and battle hardened soldier by the time he joins pfl no matter how you look at it.
to put all of that into context, carolina is born 29 years BBG, which would be 2522. so during pfl she's in the 24-28 range and she wouldn't have joined the military until 2540. I actually personally head canon that wash is the same age as carolina, but that he illegally enlisted at 15 because of a crappy home life, but ignoring my head canon and assuming that he joined the military at 18 instead, he would've been born in 2519.
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dorito. dorito.
BLEASE
ask and ye shall receive <3
contains: sub mountain, dom dew, spanking, pet play, implied temperature play
words: 1,152
He'd lost track of where he ends and where Dew begins a long time ago. He's been in this room for years. His knees are sore. His ass stings. He's bent over a dresser, struggling to keep his eyes focused on his reflection because Dew told him to. He can't quite manage to lift his eyes to his own face, instead staring at the blurred dark streak of the collar around his throat, the bruises and bite marks framing it, trailing down his chest, across his shoulders. His brows draw together as his eyes track over the marks, fighting to remember what he'd done to earn them.
The collar tightens around his throat without warning, pressure against the front as Dew pulls hard. His face appears floating over his shoulder, and in the space of the seconds it takes him to drag his gaze up to look at the razor-sharp grin splitting his face, Dew's palm cracks across his ass, makes him jump and groan. The sound is disconnected, far away, but he knows he's the one who made it because it reverberates in his chest.
"Mountain," Dew growls, his voice rough and low right in his ear. "I asked you a question."
Did he? He's struggling to parse meaning from words. The name Mountain feels so distant. It does on the best of days, but especially now, when he doesn't feel even remotely tethered to reality. Only the pressure on his throat and the insistent burning sting of his skin feels real.
I– he starts, pressing the word into Dew's head. He's interrupted by a sharp strike across the back of his thighs, a yank on his collar.
"Out loud. Words, Mountain." Dew's tone is sharp, and all he can do for a moment is groan unintelligently. He works his heavy tongue in his mouth, trying to remember how to form voluntary sounds. He's drooling. He manages a slurred, barely coherent version of the heavy growls and clicks of ghoulish.
"I don't–"
Again, Dew yanks and strikes. Simultaneously this time, making his body jolt and slump forward with a soft groan. It only puts more weight on the collar; Dew offers no give, no mercy.
"English. You remember English, right?" He sees the sneer on Dew's face out of the corner of his eye and just groans again, something deep in the pit of his belly tightening. "It's a simple fucking question."
He's not sure if Dew means his thinly veiled insult, or the question he doesn't remember being asked. He drags his eyes up in the mirror to meet the reflection of Dew's gaze, watches his lip curl in distaste.
"You don't even know your own name right now, do you," Dew mutters, wrapping the leash around his hand, once, twice, a slow and deliberate movement. He’s mesmerized by the movement, and it’s the only warning he gets before Dew yanks hard, down and back, makes his back arch and his head drop back, a wrecked sound punching out of him. He can't breathe like this, the ceiling swimming above him. Dew's upside-down face fills his vision, rolling his eyes at him as he pulls him back even more, forcing him off the dresser until he's standing unsteady on his own two feet.
His vision starts to go dark and distantly, he hears Dew huff a split second before he releases the pressure on the leash. Not all the way, of course not, but enough. He sucks in a lungful of air, eyes wide and wild, hands reaching in front of him to brace against the dresser. He catches sight of his own cock in the mirror, hanging hard and heavy between his legs, watches it twitch as Dew's hand splays against the front of his throat. His palm is hot on his skin. His cock kicks again, drooling, and all he can do is moan, a wanton sound high in his throat.
"Dumb slut," Dew murmurs, his tone neutral, almost sweet. Like how poisonous plants paint themselves bright, enticing colors. He licks a long, hot stripe up the side of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine, settling as heat coiled at the base of it. "Come here."
Dew doesn't give him time to comply on his own, or try to figure out where 'here' is supposed to be, simply tugging on the collar, jerking him to his feet again. His hand stays at his throat as he pulls him across the room, stops him just in front of the bed. There's a metalic snick from behind his skull, and the pressure is gone. Dew appears in front of him, his expression focused as he clips the leash onto the ring at the front of the collar. It morphs into a dangerous smile as he looks up, gaze boring directly into his soul as he slowly lowers himself to sit on the edge of the bed.
His thoughts are thick syrup, unable to predict where this is going as he watches Dew lay back, spreading his legs, tail relaxed and flicking lazily between them. "Well? You gonna just stand there, or are you going to do the one thing you're good at?"
It's a lot of words. They sink in slowly, a little jumbled, and he's struggling to untangle the meaning. Dew props himself on his elbows and wraps the leash one more time around his hand, pulling it taut and forcing him a shaky step forward.
"Mount me. Like a fucking dog," Dew says, the last word punctuated by a lash of his tail, the spaded tip whipping up to snap against the underside of his balls. He bites back a moan, knees threatening to buckle. He understands these words, his body moving without him telling it to, nearly falling forward onto the bed. He kneels over Dew, feeling taller than he should. Instinct takes over and he's watching his hands reach down and grip his waist and a thigh, neatly rolling him over. He takes a handful of Dew's tail, right at the base, dragging his hips up. He's jerked down by the neck, that leash still in Dew's hand, still controlling him, but he pays it no mind.
He's focused, hands on Dew's ass, spreading him open and sinking into wet heat, listening to Dew's harsh exhale as he buries himself balls deep. His own voice startles him, a low, gutteral growl as his claws sink into Dew's hips. He plants his knees wide, bracketing Dew's legs between them and braces against the pressure of the leash, leaning into the weight at the back of his neck, even as Dew pulls harder and harder. He has orders, and he's going to follow them.
His hips snap forward. Dew yanks on the leash. He buckles forward, has to shift his hands to Dew's back before he faceplants. Just in time to hear Dew hiss out, "Brat."
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