#wip title ask

[i-need-to-brush-my-teeth]

FASB(TTHNTDWF)

i'm intrigued lol tell me more

Yay! I'm really excited to talk about this one, I'm so glad you picked it. This is a foxiyo fic I've been working on for the past three weeks, and whilst it was originally supposed to be mainly fluff, I decided to add Fives to the mix, and things really tumbled out of control...

Here's a few lines, between Fives and Thorn, as proof:

“Look,” he continued, and Fives was sensing some sort of frustration bubbling to the surface. Good. “We can’t let you go, if you don’t tell us your name. We would have used the chip in your arm to identify you, but it would seem someone decided it was a good idea to cut it out on their own.” Well, that wasn’t good.

Fives may be a bit eccentric but it's for good reason (most of the time).

Anyway, this fic is Fives accidentally stumbling upon foxiyo and deciding to fanboy over them in secret. He gets Echo and Thorn involved and they all become one massive headache for Fox. Riyo thinks it's cute and though Fox would never admit it, he secretly likes the attention. It's all very cute, I promise 💖💖

Hopefully, I'll be able to start posting it soon because I'm honestly getting antsy with the wait 😭

Thank you so much for the ask!

[bbcphile]

WIP Title Meme

Thanks for the tag, @where-the-water-flows and @mimosaeyes!

Rules: Make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! And then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

I'll limit this to MLC, rather than include anything related to my original novel or to fics that are technically WIPs but probably abandoned (Untamed and Horatio Hornblower). I'll also include some meta/reference posts I'm working on, in case anyone is curious.

Meta/reference posts:

Hundred herbs med and tea drinking

DFS and Dissociation

All the Swords

LLH’s plants

Fic:

Long fic (each chapter is its own document, so here are some doc chapters you might find interesting)

DFS loses his shit (argument)

LLH and FDB argument

Xiaobao helps DFS

LLH and DFS alone (make up and make out)

2. Peace treaty 

3. Yingzhu armor (dihua pre-canon last night)

4. Dihua rival pianists

5. Difang bed sharing 5+1

6. Future amnesia fics brain dump

7. Wedding room

Tagging @eirenical @howdaretrashships @evolutionsbedingt @yletylyf @wuxia-vanlifer @nutcasewithaknife @a-memory-a-distant-echo @peridot-tears @thesilversun @la-muerta @cheetahing @xthelastknownsurvivorx (and anyone else who wants to, and also, no pressure to do this if you'd rather not!)

[yeyinde]

WIP WEDNESDAY.

a portrait of madness | oil on canvas (in the clumsy strokes of a child's fingerpainting)

JOHNNY MACTAVISH X READER

18+ | IMPLIED KIDNAPPING. NON-GRAPHIC SMUT. TRAUMA.

He burns incense on Sunday.

Catholic, he says with a slight roll of his shoulder, tone dipped in a thick coat of nonchalance that drips like hot wax over his words. Habit. 

It's piled together with other things, too—his life story eliding into a thickened paste, slurring over the edges until they're blurred and distorted. Nonsensical. Something he seems to realise by the pinch in your brow, and clicks his tongue in irritation, murmuring a jagged apology under his breath that makes you want to weep.

You won't, though. Crying just makes him frantic. Makes him gather you into his arms, holding you tight as he whispers it'll be okay and you fight the urge to tell him it's all your fault. 

Swallowing it down is easier than letting him pretend he's a hero, so you watch him instead. Voyeuristic. Riveted as he brings his hand to the mangled mess of his temple, fingers folding into a fist. Driving, digging, into the scarred tissue that frames his temple. Angry. Muttering under his breath as he grinds his knuckle into bone—

It's episodic. These little spells of torment last several minutes where he digs and you fight both the urge to be sick all over the sheets and to cry, beg him to stop. Don't hurt yourself. 

A farce. 

It shouldn't matter that he's chiselling into tissue, raking claws through grey matter; playing Dies Irae over coiling gyri. Orchestral condemnation that makes you feel like you should be relishing in his torment. Conducting madness with barbed words and caustic accusations. But—

You derive no pleasure from his suffering, and spend the day choking on the heady plume of incense as it fills the small room he keeps you locked inside, begging him to stop.

(Please, god, stop—)

He won't, though. Not until he's satiated some indivisible need to hurt himself—righting a phantom wrong with the push of his fingers into torn tissue; trephination costumed as self-flagellation. And it's only when this urge is quelled will he climb into the lumpy mattress with you, eyes glazed over and blood dripping from the scratchmarks on his temple, and gather you into his arms. Shackling you to his heaving, sweat-slicked chest as he mutters insanity into your ear, and runs his sticky, blood-damp hands over your body. 

"Mine," he'll bite out, and it'll be the only thing he says that'll make sense for the rest of the night. Everything else is the scrape of iron over lodestone; grunts and whimpers and ragged breath. 

He'll take you apart with teeth and tongue, nipping at your skin as he laughs into the hollow of your throat, dazed and dizzy with the split of your thighs bracketed around his waist. A perfect feckin' fit, pretty doe. 

In these moments, you'll forget yourself. Clean slate. Blank canvas. You'll pull him closer and whine when he pushes himself inside of you—a perfect fit, just like he said. A missing piece, just like he is. 

You've never realised how empty you felt until he rolls his hips, sinking deep inside of you. Filling the space that aches like a bruise when he pulls out. Yearning. 

And it's such an ugly thing, isn't it? To find that missing part of yourself in the thick split of his cock as he gasps about stolen ribs and figs and how he remembers you from a past life. 

It'll make you sick in the morning when you feel him—sticky and thick between your thighs; cum dribbling out of your bruised, tender cunt (already aching)—but you'll beg for it as he buries his teeth into slope of your breast, grunting into the wound like you've gutted him. 

And maybe you have. In a past life. A different time. Took a blade to his firm, trim belly and sliced through the tangle of thick, black hair until a line of red grinned up at you; a vicious twist of its lips, mocking and cruel. Flensed maw gaping wide enough to swallow you whole—

The worn bible on his desk, kept next to the dogtags and locket they sent him home with, speak of murder as a mortal sin. He laments this in mutable sermons sometimes, spinning reviled lies of death and destruction. Penance in pounds of flesh. 

He talks about that a lot. 

Penance. 

Whispered out between feverish mutterings of nonsensical things too ground up in his thick patois for you to discern. To make sense of. Everything is blurred under heavy brogue, except—

"Are ye finally gonna confess today, doe? 

He asks this with his legs spread wide, knees far apart. Bible resting on the top of his thick, muscular thigh. Rosary clenched tight in his fist. The cross on his chest swings like pendulum when he leads forward, eyes wide. Wild. Peering into the heart of you as he asks the question again. Softer this time. Slower. A caress. Sweet in your ear. 

Enticing. 

You like him better when he's drenching his fingers in grey matter and screaming at the ghosts to stop hiding things inside his closet. 

So, you evade. You look away. Pretend he isn't real. Doesn't exist. That he's a ghost. A phantom. A bad dream—

"look'it me, doe—"

A shadow in a hallway. A noise in the dark. 

"Look'it me—!"

Whispers at midnight. The ocean in a seashell. Creaking floorboards in an empty house. Something in the corner of your eye. 

"don't do this tae me, doe! Ye cannae—"

Immaterial. Something you made up inside your head—

"why'd ye dae this tae me, doe? Why'd ye do this tae us?" 

Not real. Not real. Not real—

Until his hands are around your throat. Teeth bared, lips cocked in a snarl. 

"oh, ahm real, doe. Ahm very real—" madness drips in the back of his eyes like condensation down a glass. He tugs you closer until his blood-stained teeth pinch at the soft skin of your cheek. "An' don't ye forget that, doe. Ahm just as real as ye are. Ahm just as—"

Sometimes you think it's a little strange how you can still breathe even when his hands are tight like a noose around your neck. Even stranger, maybe, that you like it. The way it feels. The sight of him breaking apart, unravelling. Coming undone. Unmoored as you turn your head away from him, drawing those fevered eyes to the slope of your throat—

He bites down until skin breaks, tears. Buries his canines into you first, gasping at the puddle of blood that wells beneath his teeth. Slurping. Sucking. Groaning into your neck as your warm blood soaks his tongue, almost choking himself on the flood of it. His front teeth follow, slicing through tissue. Punishing. 

Feeding. 

Vampiric. You knot your fists into his shorn, messy hair, pulling him closer, nearer to your vein. The ridge of your jugular. Just get on with it. 

End me, you demand. Make it worth it. 

He closes his palm around your fingers when you go to push him away when he refuses your plea, wrenching your hand down to his side, his ribs, and moaning low in his throat—the sound wet, gurgling; sticky—when your nails catch his skin. Tearing. More blood between you than air in your lungs. 

He presses them hard into his muscle until it yields against bone. 

"feel th'?" He slurs, iron drenching his words. Sodden chin jutting into the hollow of your throat as he heaves with an airy, pluming laugh. "S'missin', ain't it, doe?" 

The hand gripping your fingers tightens until they go numb. Your dizzy gasp swallowed up into the ragged spill of his breath as he slides the tips of your fingers down to bottom of his ribcage with a grunt. 

He asks again—feel th', doe?—and you offer a feeble nod in response. 

"what'd ye do wi' it, doe?" 

You don't have an answer. You don't know. 

His growls, this low, dangerous thing, and pushes your knuckles harder into his skin until it sinks against tissue—

"S’not there, is it?" He laughs with his tongue against your neck, lapping at the blood. The scorching puff of humid air against the wounds hurts like a sunburn. You bear your neck a little more. "Where'd ye put it?" 

Your head hurts. Swaying like a loose pendulum on your neck—a teetotum—and you wonder if he bit too deep this time. All the way through until it clings to your body by a thin piece of tissue—

You drop forward, slumping against him. Forehead pressing into his cheekbone, lips dragging against stubble. 

"You're crazy," you slur into skin, and he laughs, a muffled rumble buried in the makeshift cage of your throat. 

"ahm no' crazy," he grunts, pushing you down until your back is flat against the mattress, his body boxing you in. Heavy on yours. Smothering. His head is still buried in your neck. Tongue lapping at the last drops of blood that weep from the wounds you can't feel anymore. 

Not crazy. You think about this room. These four walls. Concrete. Stone slabs. Gothic revival. A bed that smells of sweat, sex, and incense. Old paper. Dusty books. 

Blood.

The hollowness of his ribcage. The missing door—

He mutters things as you lull between lucidity. Talking about a man named John. Someone named Simon. How they warned him this would happen. 

"aye," he concludes as you sink deeper into sleep, clinging by a loose, fraying thread as he buries himself inside of you once again. "Sift me as wheat—"

On the dredges of sleep, he'll murmur, soft and sorrowful: why'd ye dae it, doe? Why'd ye—

You don't know. 

But in the back of your head, a memory dredges up from the bowels of your subconscious, spat up like vomit. Regurgitated madness. It festers, writhing like a parasite. A worm in your brain you can't control. 

Ribs between your fingers. bury the bone in the backyard. But no—

Hung on a spit, blackening in the flames. Charred marrow crushed between your teeth like stale, hard bread. Chew, swallow—

You think you might have killed him. Devoured him whole. 

Metaphorically speaking, that is—

(in dreams. in the empty vacuum of your mind. a different time, a different place;)

—because the thing in your memory isn't you. 

[inkprilled]

Excerpt from wip Dead above

[nekovale]

wip for ada hotel? I'm asolutely head over heels for your work btw!!

Thank you so much! <3 This wip is unfortunately all scribbles, because I just needed to put down the idea before I forgot (it's probably going to be a short comic) Contrary to what the title may suggest, there are no hotels in this

[lotusbxtch]

Kim!!!

Please please tell us about dude ranch dbf Joel!!

And I’m gonna be greedy and ask about stripper whiskey as well because girl whaaaaat i am here for that 😮‍💨

Hi darling! So dude ranch DBF!Joel x f!Reader is something I've had knocking around in my head for a few months now (I even made a Pinterest board for it!) but haven't gotten around to actually writing.

The premise is that Joel and Reader's dad were best friends growing up, but went to different high schools and thus took different paths in life. Reader's dad became something white collar and six-figure... an attorney, a marketing executive, etc. Joel stayed blue collar, and so the two of them drifted apart. (So Reader and Joel have never met before.) However, Reader's dad runs into Tommy somewhere and Tommy invites him to come visit the dude ranch that he and Joel run outside of Austin.

Reader's dad is a bit of a prick and only cares about Reader for her braggable qualities ("my daughter went to ____ college," "my daughter works at ______", etc.). He likes to keep up appearances and has run out of friends, so he wants to rekindle his friendship with Joel. He decides that Reader's whole family will be going to the dude ranch for a month-long summer trip.

Joel and Reader both fight their attraction to each other for different reasons, but as the summer goes on, it becomes harder and harder to deny it to themselves and to each other.

Also for anyone that doesn't know what a dude ranch is: what is a dude ranch? (I realize that it may be a very American thing, haha)

Tropes: forbidden romance, age gap romance, dad's best friend, cowboy romance, city girl/country boy. Perhaps others! Let me know if you'd like to be tagged when I write it.

If you want to see more of my WIP titles: click here

Cowboy Joel, anyone? @for-a-longlongtime @mountainsandmayhem @alltheirdamn @joelmillerisapunk @sin-djarin @itwasntimethatdidit40 @guiltyasdave @almostfoxglove @almostempty @chippedowlmug @reggiesfilthylittlesecret @arcanefox207 @legendary-pink-dot @penvisions @luxurychristmaspudding @swankyorange @mermaidgirl30 @perotovar

[campbyler]

idk if this has been answered already but will we ever know more about Will’s ex? like will that come up in acswy

funny you should ask.

[finleycannotdraw]

today on actual titles of my wip documents

[djarins-cyare]

Held Is The Seed for the fic asks game, please! <3

Hi lovely Caroline! ❤️ Thanks for the ask and sorry it’s taken me a while to get to it. I’m offering a snippet further down as compensation 😇

The title Held Is The Seed comes from a quote by John Harrigan: “Happiness held is the seed, happiness shared is the flower”. There’s no specific line in the fic that refers to it (at least, not yet), but it seemed appropriate because Din has always hunted his bounties alone, whereas in this fic, he’s teamed up with someone else. Still, he keeps himself relatively closed off from her, essentially holding the seed of his happiness close to his chest. It’s only when he fully opens up and shares himself with her (in traditional smutty fanfic fashion 😏) that his happiness has a chance to bloom.

It’s basically a four-part smut-fest. The concept is that they’re in a cantina (separately so as not to appear conspicuous or too threatening) to locate a potential source and get some intel. Reader is bored and drinking, and she gets chatted up by a random guy. He notices that she keeps glancing at the Mandalorian in the corner, assumes he’s got competition, and claims Mandos make poor lovers. Reader vaguely thinks Din is attractive but assumes he’s kind of sexless, but she defends his honour nonetheless and invents a few stories about him to shut her would-be suitor up…

“How would you know?” you challenge. “Maybe there are loopholes. Maybe he can take it off in the dark or if his partner wears a blindfold. Maybe he’s the best damn lay in this bar, and women tell stories about his legendary talent with his tongue. Did you consider that?” With your attention now entirely on Zabrak(ish), you can’t see Mando’s reaction to your somewhat lewd suggestions, but you can imagine he’s probably shocked. The two of you banter occasionally, but you know him to be a sweet guy when he hasn’t got his gruff hunter guise on, and you bet this kind of talk makes him blush. The one time you’d mentioned anything carnal in front of him, he had awkwardly slunk off to the cockpit and hidden for a few hours. You, however, are enjoying the expression on Zabrak(ish)’s face. It’s equal parts annoyed that you’re defending his rival and worried that you might be right and he’s lost the game. Hilarious. You need to press more. Swishing the whiskey in your glass, you take a swig and raise an eyebrow. “You wondered why I was looking at him. Maybe I’ve heard rumours. A Mandalorian in silver armour, the best in the parsec at licking and dicking. Fights well, fucks well.” You risk a glance at Mando and see he has his back to you now and is with a shifty-looking guy who is speaking furtively. The informant. You’re glad he’s distracted, to be honest. Maybe it’s better he doesn’t hear what you’re saying about him. It might reveal your desires, and since you work and live with this man, you shouldn’t complicate things. Zabrak(ish) now seems torn between erupting in anger or collapsing in tears. But emboldened by your success so far and the knowledge that Mando can’t hear, you decide to weave another false scenario to illustrate to this guy why he shouldn’t make assumptions about your partner. “And even if the helmet never comes off, maybe he’s got other talents. Knows exactly how and where to use his fingers to make a woman come in seconds. Talks so deliciously dirty through the modulator that he can get her off without even touching her. Has a huge cock and knows how to use it. And by the way, the whole mysterious armoured warrior thing is seriously attractive. So sorry, pal, you’re outmatched on this one.”

I’m sure you can see where this is going!

Din has, in fact, overheard, and he later offers to prove Reader’s speculations correct one by one. First with just his voice (dirty talk ahoy!), next with his fingers, then with his tongue, and lastly with his dick.

There’s a tiny snippet here from an old WIP challenge post taken from a paragraph near the end of the dirty talk scene. Depending on whether this gets much interest (which I doubt because I’m not tagging anyone), I may post something a little spicier later, but let’s just say Din finds an innovative use for that ridge along his shoulder pauldron… 😳

[littedidyouknow]

*ahem* I just watched 'The idea of you' because I was bored. I didn't really plan to like it but I think I did? (and perhaps cried but shush). I also couldn’t stop picturing Rhys and Feyre.

Like. Couldn’t stop.

39/40yo single mom gallery owner/artist Feyre meets 24/25yo soon-to-be college graduate Rhys. And he’s so smug. He falls for her (of course he does). She falls for him too obviously. Like they should.

But, you know. She's divorced (maybe from a not-so-bad Tamlin who's also newly engaged to Lucien. Huh.). She's a mom to a 10/13yo. She's too old for him. He hasn't graduated yet. It's all so messy.

[navybrat817]

Hello sweet Navy ❤️

I hope you’re doing well ❤️

I was wondering if you would share something about Perfectly Misaligned or Monster In Your Head from your WIP list? 😌

Hey, lovely! It's the weekend, so YAY! I hope you're doing well. ❤️ I briefly discussed Monster in Your Head here.

Perfectly Misaligned

Loosely based off this old ask.

Bucky is no longer brainwashed, but he also isn't the man he was before. When you have an accident near his new home, he brings you back to his place to nurse you back to health. He's drawn to you like a moth to a flame. You make him feel, and you want to speak again. You're his. He knows it.

And he won't let Steve or anyone else take you away from him.

I realize that sounds dark. 😂

Love and thanks! ❤️

WIP Title Ask Game

[maesterchill]

Tell us more about the Sweary Dad Harry fic :)

Hi anon! Thanks for the ask! This is one of the fics that I was writing together with a friend, it was supposed to be a gift fic for a friend's birthday, but life got in the way and we never finished it. We did have a whole lot of fun with it though, and wrote over 6k, but I fear it may never be completed 😭.

The premise is that Harry swears a lot (hence the title of the doc). He and Draco recently moved in together with their respective children, so its a blended family. He uses muffling charms when he rants but they don't always work the best (and the kids are sneaky listeners). The main thrust of the story centres around the children trying to come up with a spell or charm to clean up Harry's language in time for an important family event, and they manage to do that... with quite interesting results. It's mostly from teenager James Potter's POV so it's a bit of a kid!fic, but a few sections are in Harry or Draco POV. Here's a snippet from Draco POV: (C.R.A.P. stands for Crime Reporting and Procedures) ~

Draco placed a hand on Harry’s hot cheek and thumbed across his cheekbone. “What was it about this time?”

“Bastard called me in to give me feedback on an arsing report that he asked me to write—at the last fucking minute, by the way—as a favour for that knobhead McMillan who’s off work with the shits supposedly. Why he can’t just take an Agrimony potion like the rest of us is beyond me, but what the fuck would I know, and anyway the less said about him the better. And then Robards had the bloody nerve to say I’d bollocksed it up, that I’d included too much irrelevant information,” and here Harry did air quotes and pulled a sarky face, “and didn't include enough detail about the actual case.” Air quotes again. “He took great fucking pleasure, the bastard, in telling me that the C.R.A.P. guidelines do not include any requirements for a description of the victim’s dog or what type of biscuits they served me."

Mercifully, Harry took a breath. "‘Well, I’m so fucking sorry’ I said, ‘if my attempts to foster some sort of rapport with the elderly before I pump them for fucking information regarding a terrifying and traumatic event are not noteworthy, but it’s my useless prick of a partner who usually writes this stuff up, while I do all the actual buggering work!”—Harry threw his hands up in obvious exasperation—“And yeah anyway, it was at that point he told me I'd be getting a written warning, the absolute cock, and that I was off the New Forest coven case. Giving it to Snodbury and Patil. Can you believe that wanker?”

“Oh, Harry,” Draco soothed, reeling at the Bombarda of information he’d just been hit with, not to mention the sheer amount of swear words Harry was capable of cramming into a single sentence. “And you were so close to solving that case. Weren’t you supposed to be travelling up there tomorrow?”

“Yeah, supposed to be. Fuck’s sake. And screw him to hell and back if he thinks I’m going into the office tomorrow to do shitty admin. I’ll be taking a duvet day, and he can f—”

“I can’t understand why you don’t quit, Harry. You’re so miserable in that department. Honestly, we don’t need the money. And I keep telling you, you could do anything you wanted to, anything at all. You’re Harry Potter, for Merlin’s sake, you’d—”

“Of fuck off with the Harry Potter Chosen One bollocks. I like helping people, serving the community.” He crossed his arms, scowling, but Draco could tell he was simmering down. “I just don’t like the bureaucracy and pettiness.”

“Alright, I understand that. I really do. But you don’t need to swear at me too. And much as I hate to harp on at you about your strong language, I’m starting to get quite a bit concerned about Sunday when you’ll need to impress your godson’s girlfriend and her parents. Molly had a word with me too, and—”

“What?” Harry said, pushing off from the kitchen counter, “You’ve been speaking to Molly about me?”

“She was just worried. We all need to be on our best behaviour, Teddy is so anxious for this to go well. You know he’s working up to asking her to move in with him, and her parents won’t allow it if they don’t approve of him and the way he’s been brought up.”

Harry scowled. “What’s wrong with the way he’s been brought up?”

“Nothing, Harry, you know I don’t mean it like that. You’ve done an amazing job, and Teddy is a fantastic person. It’s just the optics of it, how it will reflect on Teddy. Teddy explained it all to us—how prudish and prim they are.”

“I did my best for him. Merlin, I was barely even an adult myself when Andromeda fell ill.”

“I know that. We all know that. And I know too that you don’t mean to be coarse, but you get so passionate about things. I love you for it, love how deeply you feel emotions, but I don’t think Mr and Mrs Cockington-Titsmarsh will feel the same way. Merlin, when you say 'fuck' every third word, even I struggle to make out what you’re trying to tell me, so think how they’ll fare.”

“I’ve tried, Draco, damn it. I really have. I just can’t think of better ways to phrase things when I’m riled up. And it feels good to let it out with some bad words. Really good. It helps... I think.”

“I know. And you’re absolutely right, it’s a proven stress-release, at least according to The Quibbler. It can be good for you, in fact. It’s just… well, you know as well as I do it’s been spilling over at inappropriate times, and being mopped up by innocent ears.”

“You don’t need to remind me,” Harry grumbled, face flushing.

“And I’ve told you I can help come up with some cutting put-downs and insults that are squeaky clean in polite company. It’s my job to wrangle words and make them suitable for little ears.”

“Yeah I know.” Harry looked sheepish. “By the way, I used that one you told me the other day in the canteen at lunch: ‘Robards has the personality of Voldemort but without any of the charm’. It made Susan giggle for a good minute.”

“You see. You can do it. And yes, just like Voldemort was, Robards is one of those people whose personality would be enormously improved by death.”

Harry gasped in feigned shock. “Stealing that one, too.”

~

[disappearinginq]

Important state of the WIPs questions!

What is the premise of each of the six unnamed Slow Horses fics?

How many Tracker fics are there? General plots?

How about Deception? Just Consequences and Mirrorverse? Or a few more?

Is there any news on the Rue front?

I have miscounted on the unnamed Slow Horses fics, so...buckle up:

Louisa is awoken in the middle of the night by Catherine. River, who's been missing for an indeterminate amount of time, has shown up at her flat, looking pretty okay if not just tired and exhausted, but he either can't talk, or won't, and it's them trying to piece together what happened. (they don't, and all I have figured out is that River CAN talk, he just doesn't because of whatever happened to him)

In which I channel my inner Stephen King and make a play on Misery by having River get held hostage by an older woman who has decided that he gets himself into too much trouble (after seeing him after incidents like the season 3 finale, season 4 finale, etc) and decides that she needs to keep him safe from himself.

My excuse to have River and Catherine bond even more. There's a lot of back and forth miscommunication between the two of them. River has learned through bitter experience that parental love/affection is something to be afraid of, and after the events of season 4 he's sort of unraveling and Catherine is trying not to overstep Coworker Level of Care but really trying to take care of him at the same time, and River is freaking out because he thinks he's overstepping, and angst ensues.

This one is like a Conspiracy Theory knockoff, except I think I'm changing up the timeline. It was going to be bad guys of non specific origin that had kidnapped River, but I think now maybe it's MI5 itself who're interrogating River about his "involvement" with Frank's machinations post season 4 finale. Whelan is a Bad Guy in this.

A conversation in between season 2 and season 3 when the agents find out that Spider didn't choose not to go to Slough House, Lamb wouldn't take him, so his only option was to quit and go private sector. This leads to fun speculation between Catherine and the gang because Catherine knows damn well why Lamb told Spider to get fucked and the Horses realize there actually are standards for Slough House.

River has to deal with chronic pain after season 3, but he just decides to muscle through it because he doesn't have any better way of dealing with/addressing it. Shirley recommends massage therapy after watching him hobble about/wincing at certain movements but River is Not a Fan of being touched, especially by strangers, so Shirley offers to do it for him. Basically an excuse for me to incorporate real life experiences into fic

Shirley decides to take a more proactive interest in her co-workers lives after Marcus dies, and it becomes a tradition for her to walk the last one out of the office to their car/mode of transport, and it becomes a highlight of the day for the others because Shirley picks the most unhinged conversation topics like "if you HAD to fight a bear, which one would you choose if you thought you had a chance of winning?" One night, when walking River out to the car, they linger longer than usual because River, despite being awkward as fuck, is probably the most emotionally intuitive of the group, and she feels like she can actually talk to him about Marcus and missing him, but - in true Slow Horses Luck fashion - they get mugged, and they go after River thinking he's the threat when we all know Shirley is the one who's killed the most people canonically (AND SHE'LL DO IT AGAIN).

Slow Horses, except set in WWII. They’re not relegated to admin work, but instead are shoved into the field and take missions that will likely result in death as they’re considered expendable. More like X-Company meets The Dirty Dozen

From the Bad Things Happen Bingo Card "Ear Injury". River’s hearing doesn’t recover as well as he would like from the archives, and he, naturally, hides how bad it gets because he thinks it’s just taking its sweet time recovering and doesn’t want to get fired for being mostly deaf. Turns out, no, River, it’s not just tinnitus. That’s just a symptom.

the Horses get stuck on a road trip/ in the field overnight, stuck in a town where there's nothing except a small inn with a whopping total of two rooms. Instead of an argument about who is going to be sleeping on the floor, it is an argument who gets to share the beds because nobody wants to share with Lamb. River is too tired to care and just passes out on one of the beds and wakes up at the bottom of a dog pile and other than a crick in his neck 0 complaints

BTHB "This is for your own good". Not sure the circumstances but River has been having horrific insomnia for weeks, but he refuses to do anything about it because River has 0 self care habits, but he has in fact been prescribed sleep medication and just won't take it. One of the Horses takes matters into their own hands and slip it into his tea or something equally benign, except after it starts taking effect, something happens to make them half to go on the run/hide, and they're struggling with a barely conscious River in addition to Bad Guys. Details TBD

Frank, River, and Lamb are in a standoff (details unknown): Lamb: you've only got one bullet left, and it'll take more than that to stop me Frank: best put it where it'll do the most damage then, hmm? And shoots River

Tracker: Alas, only one, which was started before anybody met Russell on the show. Colter goes missing, and Reenie calls his brother to help find him. Turns out, Colter got a little too close to something Big and Bad and was kidnapped by Big Pharma doc who has been experimenting on patients that family members have committed under false pretenses to assume control over their property/money/affairs

Deception is in fact just Mirrors and Consequences because I refuse to start anymore until these two are done.

As far as Rue - I've established she makes her money in the foodie smuggling business because different planets have different spices and like vanilla and saffron are worth more than their weight in money, and she uses this to supplement her piracy tendencies.

[setmeatopthepyre]

ooh, for the wip titles game - 15? i love mess yelling

hurray for mess! this is another one that's just copied straight from my notes app and is mostly no-context dialogue. the 'universe' bit is in reference to what he says here

15. antarctfic buck yelling

He's yelling now. "I traveled to the end of the fucking earth for you! And I know you didn't ask me to, and even if we both left here months from now without having said a single word to each other, I'd still do it all over again, because that would mean I'd still be close, just in case. I'd still get to see you, Tommy, even if it's just in the galley." His voice cracks, but he powers through. "Because I'm in love with you." His chest is heaving like he just ran a marathon. "And I don't know why you've decided to suddenly believe that you can see the future in your-- in your-- your crystal ball, or whatever, when you don't even believe in curses, or, or, the universe, but sure! Believe you know exactly what's gonna happen!"

-

[wip titles game]

[bakuhatsufallinlove]

WIP FOLDERS GAME

Rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your wip folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Tag as many people as you have wips. People send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, then post a little snippet or tell them something about it!

You have cursed me to air my dirty laundry in public, @siflshonen, but I love you all the same.

WIPs:

bkdk spies [this is a huge project that has a billion WIPs associated with it, but I will be counting it as a single WIP for my own sanity]

soulbonded sex dream

smooch

bkdk drinking party

bkdk sex fantasies

bkdk sex pollen

crying sobbing getting together (and its dialogue WIP file: cryfest)

I'm in charge and I say art WIPs and notes about comic projects count for this game, so I'm gonna include artists in my tags: @herbarimoon, @alena-draws, @toughbunnyforever, @dekusheroacademia, @pikahlua (double-tagging you to participate in peer pressure), and anyone else who wants to join!

[lotusbxtch]

Stripper whiskey!

Hi babe! @baronessvonglitter also asked this one, so I'm tagging her as well.

Stripper!Whiskey is going to be a one-shot. Reader is in Vegas for her best friend's bachelorette party - albeit begrudgingly, it's not really Reader's scene. Especially not the male strip shows, but it was on the bride's list of non-negotiables. Reader tags along to the cowboy-themed revue, settling in for a night of cheesy, corny, oiled men gyrating... when onto the stage pops Whiskey, the show's star performer as of late - and it's only then that Reader realizes that it's her childhood crush, "the one that got away", Jack, up there with assless chaps. And Jack hasn't forgotten Reader either.

Thanks to @mountainsandmayhem @for-a-longlongtime and @alltheirdamn for helping me to flesh out what direction I want to go with this fic! Leave me a comment if you want to be added to the tag list when I write this (who knows when that will be though lol).

If you want to see more of my WIP titles: click here

In case you are interested: @mermaidgirl30 @joelmillerisapunk @almostfoxglove @sin-djarin @itwasntimethatdidit40 @reggiesfilthylittlesecret @strang3lov3 @luxurychristmaspudding @arcanefox207 @legendary-pink-dot @guiltyasdave @pedropeach @perotovar