#tentative title

[marcheriest]

fairy and wizard

[facewithoutheart]

Thanks for the tags @noblecorgi, @rimeswithpurple & @monbons ❤️❤️

What’s up kids we’re on day six of this hyperfixation I’ve written 25k things are dire. In the best way.

Okay, but the exciting part of working on a WIP none of y’all are going to read (a very valid choice, no judgement) is that I get to share one of my favorite scenes! Normally I’d keep this close to my chest to save the surprise but there is no surprise look at this I wrote it I LOVE IT what joy:

Eddie cocks an eyebrow. “Don��t start something you can’t—”

Buck bolts down the hallway with a whoop.

“—finish,” Eddie laughs, taking after Buck, skidding in his socks on hardwood floors as he rounds the corner to catch Buck in the kitchen.

Buck’s already got the fridge door open, a can of Ready-Whip in one hand poised to shoot.

“Oh no you don’t,” Eddie warns.

Buck shakes the can and grins.

Eddie snaps into action, tackling Buck by his waist and spinning him, pushing him out of the kitchen; the can of whipped cream falling with an impotent clink on the kitchen tile as Eddie gets Buck across the threshold.

“Eddie!” Buck giggles, joy echoing off the high living room ceilings as Eddie continues to push and push, catching the back of Buck’s knees on the edge of his sofa and pinning Buck to the cushions beneath.

“Gotcha,” Eddie says, grinning down.

Beneath him Buck’s red-faced and panting, something wild in his eyes and that’s when Eddie realizes what he’s done, what this looks like.

Buck’s eyes flick down to Eddie’s mouth.

Shit.

Sexual tension be tensing. This fic now holds the dirtiest smut I’ve ever written and this from the bitch who brought you lightning mccream.

Also, why does this line slap so hard:

“Yo, you got us some Welch’s, bro?”

Hope you all are having a fantastic Wednesday! Tags & hugs to my 911 (the show not the tragedy) hyperfixation subjects (thanks for letting me talk your ears off about this one day I’ll be normal) (lol jk NEVER): @sillyunicorn, @martsonmars, @raenestee, @thewholelemon & @bookish-bogwitch

I am once again not tagging people who don’t go here but you can tag me if you want to share your WIP with me 🥺

[thisliminalspacedaydreams]

“Excuse you? I’m on your fridge.”

Regulus sputters. “That’s not relevant.”

“It is. Fridges are prime real estate for important events and important people. I am on your fridge, thus, I am important.”

[wannab-urs]

I fear I have mislead y'all about this Dave fic.

He's kind of a creep, you are way too young to be in this situation with him, he's kind of a dick, and you do not fall in love.

bc my professor was kind of a creep, I was way too young for him, he was in fact a dick, and I did not fall in love with him

Anyway hope y'all still read it there's lots of smut :)

[2amstarwars]

started writing a post-order 66 foxquin fic where fox kills quin and keeps seeing him in his dreams and it’s soooo depressing haha

[fluff-e-boy]

girls, girls, ghouls

[elitheaceofalltrades]

Zinnia Cottage - Excerpt (323 words)

The gentle sounds of nature filled the air as the sunset on Picari. The birds played their final chords before the cicadas would start their section of Gaia's melody. The wind rustled the leaves and the brook babbled away as their accompaniment.

Rowan leaned against the open doorframe, caught up in the splendour. The view of the blend of oranges, pinks and purples from the hilltop was always astounding. It took your breath away no matter how many times you saw it. A flock of sparrows flew past, probably heading to the trees to rest. They were symbols of perseverance, community, and hard work here and reminded Rowan of the occupants of Zinnia Cottage.

Glancing inside showed Ainsley sprawled on the recliner, book fallen shut in his lap. Adair & Sinclair sat facing each other on the couch, signing away rapidly. They were having another pun competition if the giggling Monroe was anything to go by. Cheyenne was puttering about in the kitchen, a light hum heard under the pots and pans. The overturned board and scattered pieces by the entry were the only signs of Cedar and Cassidy. Rowan decided not to wonder if they were fighting or causing mischief; it was 50/50 either way.

Turning back to outside, Rowan felt a little teary and a bit breathless. This time not because of the view but from fondness and the awe of the domesticity. The eight of them had overcome adversity, loss and betrayal and survived. They'd made a new home, made a new family, chosen each other over and over and over again. If someone said 3 years ago that they'd end up in this town, with these people, none of them would have believed it. Now, with everything that has happened in that time, all Rowan can do is bask in it. The view, the peace and the promise of dinner, laughter and joy to come.

It felt warm.

~Eli

Ace of All Trades, Pro at None😆

Buy me a coffee

[sparrowlucero]

Parzigrand the alien "dragon". She's a politician on a large space station colloquially referred to as "The Can" where her entire species resides. Despite being a 600 pound gator-horse, she's more just a self preserving asshole concerned with her public image than physically dangerous like a proper wyrm that grew up planetside sadly even though she has big seagull wings and hollow bones she can't fly; even a really big space station isn't an environment conducive to practicing and keeping in optimal shape if you have a 40 foot wingspan

[lemmeaskmycat]

House and Wilson's homosexuality is what made me watch HouseMD. Their gayness is what made me continue watching too.

[doctors-star]

this isn't a poem, right, it's a question, why do we pick at our scabs? it hurts and it's grim and it doesn't help us heal but we keep at it, keep flicking nails under the edges to look at the shiny pinkness, and google says pain is rewarding and the monkey brain wants to groom itself and yeah, fine, that answers my question but really i just want to find a teacher or a museum curator and hang off their sleeve all day, asking why this why that what's the other thing like a six year old working out how the world works, and this isn't a metaphor or a grown-up question like most people have, i'm not prodding some old trauma, i'm not asking why fools return to their folly, dogs to vomit, because i was playing running around last week tripped skinned my knee, it's a real scab, i am picking at it and i don't know why, and i guess if there's a way to stop being six then i don't think anyone told me how to do it.

[shorthaltsjester]

Imogen Temult, Exaltant Hope of the Red Storm

Heroes and Monsters by Penny & Sparrow // Critical Role Campaign 3

[peachdues]

out here triggering Sanemi’s mommy kink left and right

[bakedbananners]

did I just make up the fact that Murderbot mentions it had clients that treated it like a ComfortUnit because I swear I read that at some point

[wheneverfeasible]

Last Line Tag Game

Rules: post the last line you wrote, then tag as many people as there are words.

Thanks for tags @scoops-aboy86 and @carolperkinsexgirlfriend! These little games always encourage me to write more. I need to find all the other tag games in my notifications I haven’t done yet either too.

I’ve been flitting back and forth on various WIPs so…since I was tagged twice this time, I’ll do as others have done and post two lines that may or may not be from the sequel to Ruin Me I’m working on… 😉

👑🎸👑🎸

Except-except, Eddie wasn’t releasing his side, not until he had maneuvered Steve into the chair he had just vacated, the one facing Mr. Munson who watched all this with that same unreadable expression on his face. The older man just lifted his mug (a normal off-white one with a chipped edge, not any of the ones lining the trailer) and took a slow sip.

👑🎸👑🎸

Yeah no I’m not tagging that many people.

36 >> 3+6 >> 9

29 >> 2+9 >> 11

11+9 >> 20 >> 2+0 >> 2

Welp. Let’s go with @just-my-latest-hyperfixation and @stevieschrodinger since I’ve recently reread some of their omegaverse fics so I know they’re kinky bastards into that shit also fans of the trope.

Bonus tag @katyawriteswhump because I know bae always loves this shit too

[bewitched-bullet]

(John’s pov continued)

*************************************************************************************************

John Watson sat in the comfortable, if slightly worn, armchair in the therapist's office. The room was inviting, with soft colors and the soothing presence of several potted plants on the windowsill. He idly wondered if they would recommend him starting his own collection of various succulents. He stared dutifully out the window, seeing but not really looking and sighed. He knew he needed this, was supposed to want it but...he really cared less. His government-appointed therapist, Dr. Ella Stevens, sat across from him, her warm and understanding gaze making him shift uncomfortably and fidget.

“Have you started writing as I suggested? In a journal?” She asked. He cut his blue eyes over to her and gave a noncommittal hum before returning his thousand yard stare back out the window. Dr. Ella gave it a few moments before she spoke again.

“John, you’re a soldier. It’s going to take quite a while for you to find your balance in civilian life. Writing about everything that happened to you and what you experience in life right now-“ John gave her a look. “- would be of great benefit to your adjustment.” Her brown eyes softened. “ Trust me.”

John’s breath hitched as he visibly stiffened, his knuckles growing white while he gripped the arms of the chair. Dr. Ella waited patiently as John fought to school his features back into a faux calm. She took the moment to scribble something into her notepad. John finally took a deep breath, posture still rigid, his gaze remaining distant but no longer staring out the window, and spoke; his words measured and low. "I had the dream again."

Dr. Stevens leaned forward slightly, her expression empathetic, but she could sense the emotional distance in John's demeanor. "Would you like to discuss it?”

John continued staring at her notepad. Several minutes passed, the analog clock on the wall behind the therapist ticking, growing obnoxiously loud in the stuffy room.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

He sniffed and met his therapist's eyes with cool steel, a ghost of his old pride and stubbornness trying to shine through.

“Yeah, no. Absolutely not.”

The therapeutic session continued for twenty more minutes with a palpable tension in the air, a discomfort underscoring John's reluctance to fully engage with the process. His responses were detached and clipped. He picked absently at the loose threads on the fabric of the chair. He couldn't help but wonder if this government-mandated therapy would ever truly bring him the closure he sought or if he needed to put the ol’ dog down himself.

(To be continued)

@helloliriels let me know if you want me to continue tagging you. And if anyone else wanna be tagged when I post updates, let me know.

Here you go @helloliriels ! This is only the part I finished tweaking

Actually, I always regret everything I do but I do it anyway 😅

Chapter 1

The labyrinthine streets of London were currently being slowly devoured by tendrils of thickened mist, offering an ethereal backdrop to the slow moving traffic and passive pedestrians. The eerie false twilight, gave a distinct pull -longing- for a fit of exploring.

‘Wanderlust’ He mused absently, letting the curtain fall back over the window.

Within a comfortably cluttered apartment of haphazard style and sense, a tall and lean figure moved across the room with unnatural grace, grabbed a grubby poker, and jabbed at the inoffensive logs in the fireplace. Small sparks from the fire spat out into the living room in protest. He carelessly flung the metal poker to the side with a clang and spun back around. His sharp, piercing gaze darted across the intricacies of case files spread like cryptic mosaics on his desk. Loose leaflets and some torn pages were taped, pinned, and a couple times -nailed- to the closest wall. Not his fault he ran out of tape. The air around him seemed to vibrate with intensity as he paced in front of his handiwork. A faint smile played unbidden upon his lips as he visually scoured the data.

The fire in the fireplace popped and snapped as it’s fuel shifted casting wild shadows across the room. He remained unmoved and suddenly stilled, narrowing his ice-blue eyes. Quick as snake, he snatched a paper off the wall and with a final unimpressed once over, tossed it into the flames.

“Aaaargh, I need more information!”

He whipped out his phone from his back pocket, thumbs flying over the digital keyboard.

<< Get me more. SH

His foot tapped as he stared at the screen, waiting. Two minutes later, a ding.

>> Get stuffed.

‘Ugh!’

Annoying, but not unexpected. He tossed his phone to a chair, steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. Can’t go to the crime scenes without being invited (ridiculous), not allowed to step into the station without a case (see point 1) or near dead (unlikely, though appreciated), and not allowed to directly call unless near dead. He snatched the remote from the mantle and switched the small telly on.

The lastest press release of the murders suicides was being hosted by his associate, the lead inspector, Greg. Sherlock’s mouth twitched upwards as he watched. He may not be allowed to call but nobody couldn't tell him he can’t text whoever he wanted. He quickly retrieved his mobile, tapped a couple times on the glass screen, and confirmed ‘send all’ in a group message. Wouldn’t be able to trace it back to him anyway.

A soft knock at the door disrupted the room's stillness, the arrival of a visitor momentarily drawing his focus. He swiftly crossed the room and opened the door. His landlady, had brought the mail. He greeted her with raised eyebrows.

"Good evening, dear. It's quite chilly out there," she remarked, handing over the letters with a pat on his arm. "Do make sure you get yourself a nice cuppa; it’s going to be cold tonight."

Sherlock’s demeanor softened, and he offered a quick peck on top of her curls. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he replied as he took the mail, his expression a mix of appreciation and distant contemplation. “Perhaps, you should make sure I do.”

Mrs. Hudson chuckled warmly. "Oh, Sherlock, you need to take care of yourself,” she said in mock astonishment. “I’m not your housekeeper, you know.”

Sherlock rapidly sorted through the envelopes, tossing them carelessly to the floor. His flurry of movement was soon stilled. He tilted his head, catching something unusual in the pile in his hands. One letter stood out from the rest, its appearance distinct with swirling black ink, sealed with wax, and marked with a unique emblem. He dropped the rest to the floor as he weighed it in his palm, eyes narrowed.

Mrs. Hudson looked at Sherlock with mild worry. “Ah, perhaps I’ll check on you later anyway. I’ll bring a good meat pie.”

“Mmm…yes, very good,” Sherlock murmured as he turned away from her, sliding his thumb carefully under the seal. He barely registered Mrs. Hudson carefully closing the door behind her as he analyzed the stationary. He gingerly removed the creamy, heavy-weighted paper from the satin-like envelope and unfolded it, scanning it quickly. His frown deepened, and frustration simmered beneath his calm exterior as he re-read the message.

Tiptoeing the lines for the past two years to remain a free agent had been a delicate and frustrating balance. Most of the time, he could believe in the illusion it provided. However, every now and then, reminders of how fragile that "freedom" was came knocking. With a low snarl, he snapped his wrist, and the fancy stationery spun into the fireplace It quickly caught aflame green tinted tongues lapping at it greedily, curling the darkened edges. He remained like stone till every bit of it disintegrated into ash and embers.

……………………………………………………………………………………..

(Next will be John’s part)

I really hope you like this tidbit!

[navybrat817]

For the imaginary fic game:

Bucky Barnes + tentative.

Ahh! I hope you like this, Stella!

Your lips against Bucky’s was featherlight and tentative, almost as if you were expecting him to pull away. He wasn’t worthy of your kisses, but he selfishly deepened it as his eyes slipped shut. His heartbeat quickened and his whole body was filled with excitement. If you never kissed him again, he wanted to savor the moment. Most of all, he wanted to savor that you took a chance on someone like him.

Love and thanks! ❤️

Send me a character/pairing and a title to get five lines of an imaginary fic.