#i have to have at least ten wips open and be working on them all simultaneously

[howtokillavampire]

My brain is rotating too many fanfic ideas to focus on anything else right now they have consumed my every waking thought

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Follow You Anywhere 4

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, controlling behavoiour, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You’re online existence threatens to leak into your real life.

Characters: Captain Syverson

Note: back again.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting 'part 2?' is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You sit at the dining table with your laptop, hiding behind the screen as you try to figure out what to do. How do you get this man to leave? Better, how do you do that without making him angry?

You stare at the unfinished project in front of you. You're not going to get paid for blurry pixels. Work is the least of your worries.

You peek over the top of the laptop and blanch as the subtle movement catches his eye. He grins and sits up, “need something, sweetie?”

“Uh, nope,” you put your eyes down and the screen goes fuzzy.

“Hm,” he hums into a grunt and heaves himself up, “you haven’t made any videos yet. What about your shopping trip huh? You gonna edit some of that.”

“Erm, maybe later, I have work stuff–”

“You know,” he nears and stands across the round table, looming menacingly with his hands on his hips, “you could probably quit all that if you committed to your streams. Lotsa people wanna watch a sweet girl like you.”

“That’s nice but I don’t even have ten followers,” you chuckle.

“Mm, maybe, but… I could help you,” he offers.

“Really, it’s fine,” your voice trembles, “it’s… it’s just a way to get my thoughts out, that's all.”

He clucks and clears his throat, looking around, “well, I guess I’ll go get my stuff.”

“Um, sure,” you look at him again then peek at the keys hung by the door.

He whistles, “Aika, come, you probably needa go.”

The dog rises from beside the couch and follows him to the door. You get up, heart flipping. You need to just lock the door. As long as he doesn’t–

He grabs the keys and shoves them deep in his pocket. He hooks the leash onto Aika’s collar as she stands obediently before him. He grins over at you, “don’t worry, sweetie, won’t be long at all.”

He turns and unlocks the door, swinging it inward as he lets the German shepherd lead the way. You deflate and fall back onto the chair. Holy shoot! What are you going to do? Nothing you can think of makes sense. He doesn’t make sense. It’s as if he really believes you know each other. That this is his home.

You bend over your lap and hold your head, rocking as you let out a drone. The panic is so bad you can’t hold it in. The noise escaping you is inhuman. You know you’re too weak, too afraid to do anything. So what? You’ll just let him take over your home?

You quiet and stay as you are, hunched over your legs. Are you going to let him do whatever he wants? To you?

Your blood runs cold and you sit up slowly. You’re dizzy as the silence rings in your ears. You stare across the room, only able to see a glimpse of the door frame.

You don’t know what you’re going to do.

You’re paralysed. You hardly believe it yourself, you don’t think anyone else will either. The thought of explaining it is embarrassing on its own.

You’re being stupid. You need to tell someone. Anyone.

You hear him before he enters. He opens the door, pausing as he lets Aika off the leash. She sniffs around as the door shuts heavily.

Sy appears, a large bag of kibble balanced on one shoulder as he carries a military duffle in his other hand. He drops the latter and brings the former into the kitchen. You stand, hollow as you make yourself move. You go to the doorway to the kitchen and watch him search your cupboards.

“Ladybird needs a bowl,” he says, “she’s hungry.”

“Oh,” you utter dumbly and blink. You’re stuck where you are.

His cheek dimples and he returns his attention to his search. He takes out the pink plastic bowl you use for salad and he uses a measuring cup to scoop out the kibble. You just watch as he puts it on the floor for Aika as she sits patiently.

He stands and she does too, eagerly scarfing down the food, flicking slobber all over your salad bowl. Sy faces you and you flinch as he comes near, reaching for you. You back away.

“Sweetie?” He says, “what’re you doing?”

“I… I…” you rub your arm, “how long are you planning on… staying?”

He scoffs, “what? Ah, come on, sweetie, you’re funny. “

“I’m… I’m serious,” you quaver, “I didn’t… we just met.”

His face falls and so does your heart. His expression turns dire and he crosses his arms. Aika seems to notice his shift and quits her loud chomping. She raises her nose, letting out a low growl. You gulp. He has that same glint in his eye as in the truck when he nearly rear-ended that other driver.

“Sweetie, I told you, I've been watching you all this time. You know, I was your first follower,” he takes a step closer and you take one back. “I know you.”

“Right, uh,” you push your hands together and bend your fingers back, “I understand, it’s just…” you can hardly breathe, “I guess I misunderstood. Of course you can stay, but… you know, I only bought enough groceries for me and… and it’s a small place.”

He considers you. He runs his hand over his beard and exhales loudly. He drops his other arm and tilts his head side to side, cracking the bones, “so we can get nice and snuggly, sweetheart.”

He nears you again, quickly, before you can elude him. He catches you around the back of the head and urges you close. He leans in and kisses your hairline. You freeze and let him. He purrs before he draws away.

“Right, I’ll get cleaned up,” he lets you go, “you can finish your work or… get cozy.”

You nod and stare past him. Aika once more chews loudly as your eyes settle on her straight back. You’re trapped. Your home is now a prison.

You stay like that until you hear the pipes whine and the shower buzzes to life. You glance over, the bathroom door slightly ajar. Mortified, you retreat to the table and sit behind the computer. You know the excuse won’t hold up much longer but you can at least pretend to be busy.

Aika’s claws tap on the tile as you hear her lay near the door. You can’t even run. His loyal guard dog isn’t just keeping people out, she’s keeping you in.

You put your hands on the laptop as you hear the faucet crank off. The scented steam seeps out and dampens the air with the scent of your strawberries and cream soap. You shudder and minimize and maximize the window.

You listen to him. He opens and closes the cabinet several times as he lingers in the bathroom. The door opens and your ears tinge as you focus on the laptop. He steps out as you swirl your fingers on the touch pad.

“I feel better,” he sighs, “how about you, sweetie? Maybe you should have a nice long bath?”

“I’m good,” you utter dully.

“Hope you don’t mind, I used your hairbrush,” he crosses the room.

“No, it’s f–” your eyes flick up on instinct. You swallow as your eyes round. He has only a towel around his waist, the rest of him brazenly bare. “Fine.”

You rip your gaze away and accidentally exit out of the editing software. You try to wipe the image of him from your mind. His thick muscles, the dark hair across his chest and stomach, and over his thick thighs. There’s little left to the imagination or doubt. The sight of him confirms his unbeatable strength.

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

“N-nothing,” you insist.

“You’re being all shy. What’s going on, huh?” You shake your head as he comes around the table. He presses the laptop shut until you retract your hands. You sit back and look at your hands. “You’ve been working long enough. Come on, sweetie.”

“I… I have a project to finish–”

“And that’s more important? How long have I waited to be with you? Over there in the sh– in the chaos?” He says, offering his large hand, “I got you something. I wanna show it to you.”

“I…” you rasp and peer up at his face, too afraid to look anywhere else. “Okay.”

You give in. Your surrender. He’s a soldier and he’s won the battle. You take his hand and stand up.

He takes you into the front room and leads you to the couch. He stops you in front of it and gestures you to wait. You do and he disappears around the other side of you.

He returns with his duffle bag and puts it in the chair. He keeps his back to you as he unzips it. You peek up and your eyes cling to the scars along his burly back. Just beneath his shoulder and another along his side. Through the fear, you feel a pang of sympathy for him. He must have been through a lot.

“I bought you something,” he says, “when I was driving up.”

He turns and shows you a dainty piece of fabric hanging from his index fingers. You gape at the pale pink bodysuit; flowers in a darker shade trim the corset and the tops of the cups are subtly scalloped. You love the colours but you would never dare to wear anything like that.

“Uh, wow,” is all you can get out.

“Just you know for a special occasion,” he smiles, “it’ll look real nice on you. It’s your colour.” He steps closer as he holds it out to you, “I showed the lady your picture and she said it would be nice on your skin tone.”

You feel like you’re going to faint. Is he really giving you a piece of lingerie? You take it and examine the thin material.

“Obviously, not tonight since we’re settling in and all that,” he chuckles, “but you know… if you wanted to…”

“I’m… I’m going to put this away,” you croak.

You move past him, slowly as if wading through water. You go to the bedroom and cross to the dresser. You stand before it as you stare at the fabric. Your chest aches as you hold a breath inside.

“Ah, still pretty tidy in here,” Sy comments from behind you.

You pull open the top drawer and hide the bodysuit. A shiver rolls through you as you shut it and turn to the intruder. You watch helplessly as he invades every inch of your life.

“You did such a good job, sweetie,” he praises as he nears the bed and plops his bag on it, “watching you clean… it’s admirable how determined you are.”

He reaches in his bag and takes out a stack of folded clothing. You blink as he strides over to the dresser and pulls open a drawer. You sway as you resist the urge to ask what the heck he’s doing. He makes room beside your clothes and shoves his inside.

As he stands, he adjusts the towel hanging lower on his waist than before. You turn away. As much as you don’t like him touching all your things, his nakedness is even more off putting. Most disturbing is his lack of self-awareness. Frankly, it’s frightening.

He unpacks, bit by bit, and rolls open the closet to put his empty bag inside. He goes back to the dresser to shut the top drawer he left open but his hand curls around the top. He dips inside and lifts out a pair of your panties; the ones speckled with printed on bows.

“I like these,” he says, “they’re cute, like you.”

“Thanks, I…” you murmur. “I…” Your mouth is dry and chalky, “I need some water.”

“Aw, sweetie, you look faint,” he drops the panties and approaches you. “Why don’t you sit down?”

He urges you onto the edge of the bed, his hands on your shoulders. He looks down on you as you tilt your head to peer back at him. He looks so big. He keeps his hands on you, gripping tighter, and for a moment, you’re not sure what he’s going to do and you think he is even less certain.

He pulls his hands away and shakes them out, “I’ll get you some water,” he says, “you had a long day, huh?”

“Mhm,” you hum and lower your chin, your hands shaking in your lap.

You did this. You welcomed this man in. More than letting him drive you home or cross the threshold of your apartment, you put yourself online, exposed yourself to the public. You heard the horror stories before, the true ones, but you just never thought it would happen to you.

[alllgator-blood]

I have ten billion WIP sketches I need to finish, but for some reason I stayed up from 9 PM to 4 AM conceptualizing, making patterns, sewing, painting and applying makeup on this stupid fucking felt squid......the detailing needs to be cleaned up cause there's only one coat of paint so far, but he's pretty much done

my neighbors probably think I'm insane because I was running around the yard clenching this toy kallamar in a death grip and flying him around like an airplane/putting him in the barbecue/poking him with a stick. I want to tie him to a string and recreate the opening of napoleon dynamite >:) ALSO I MADE HIM SMOKE OUT OF A STUPID CRYSTAL PIPE BUT PLEASE DON'T ACTUALLY USE THOSE, THEY ARE SUPER TOXIC LMAO MINE IS FOR DECORATION

I don't have any process pics because I had tunnel vision autism style and forgot the rest of the universe existed while I was working on him. BUT if you're curious I'll ramble below the cut

Okay I am not a seamstress by any means. I've sewn my entire life but very, very infrequently. I've done plushies, clothes, cosplays, fursuits, accessories, etc. but I only do one like once a year, so while I planned to make all 5 bishops, I'm not really sure I'll get them all done. The material cost was like 20 bucks tops so I'm not too upset if I don't finish them. I AT LEAST WANT TO GET SHAMURA OR HEKET DONE.

here is the concept sketch ft. heket's toes and shamura's fingers. I decided to do his pre-schism version so I could fit him with jewelry! I did him first because like I said I sew infrequently and don't know wtf I'm doing, everyone else seemed a lot more complicated.

So I basically just traced this drawing on a printer paper-sized canvas in SAI, and guesstimated how everything would look in a 3D space. His head is four pieces, one triangle identical to the one in the picture, two wide triangles that are sewn together in the back, and a circle for his chin. You can't really see it in any of the pics but he's literally like a black cylindrical stick with little tentacles sewn on where his mantle connects to his cloak. The leg tentacles are one piece of felt that look like tassels, where they're connected by a rectangle but branch off into individual pieces. He can't stand up very well, so his cape keeps him up (that's gonna be an issue for every other bishop too except heket cause she's gonna be ROUND). Mostly everything like the crown, cloak, head, etc. are cones so I just had to make a lot of wide triangles.

For the details, I just used acrylic paint that was watered down so he's not especially crunchy, and for the blush tone I used a makeup palette my mom bought me 10 years ago in hopes I'd get in touch with my "feminine side", but I grew up into a nonbinary butch lesbian so OOPS. Kallamar looks better with makeup than me anyway. I'm kinda sad I couldn't get his freckles as lopsided as I draw them but it probably looks better in plush form to have them even anyway....

I could just post the pattern so I don't have to explain this but 1. I am mentally ill about the thought of my kallamar being in someone else's house and 2. the original pattern had to be tweaked while I was working on him so the final pattern straight up doesn't exist, I winged it the whole time

OH and the jewelry is just scrap pieces I had laying around, I might repaint it all to be gold instead of silver + bronze. I used 20g aluminum wire for his armlet thing, jumper rings for his earrings + ring (+ a diamond dot from my mom's kits for the gem) and chain for the bracelet. I made him an amulet as well but it felt like overkill so I took it off. I'm probably gonna make him a plague doctor mask and medicine bag sometime because I think about nurse kallamar more than I probably should :') I've already sewn one as a prop for a toy raven before so it shouldn't be too hard

[withoutyouimsaskia]

Decisions (Sandman One-Shot)

​GIF: Originally posted by @teenwolf-theoriginals​​​​

Pairing: Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x gender neutral reader

Summary: One-shot. Reader self-insert. Established relationship. Newly married. Fluff. You and Morpheus are due to attend an Endless family gathering and you ask Morpheus for points on what to wear.

Warnings: suggestive themes?

Word Count: 1.2k

A/N: Hello there! I'm still riding the high from meeting Tom at Basingstoke Comic-Con on Saturday (drabble post about the experience here) and it has boosted my creativity enough to finish this WIP that has been in my drafts for 2+ months. Thank you, Tom <3

Sandman Masterlist

--------------------------------------------

You huff an emotion laden sigh into the air as you stare at the neatly displayed garments before you. Over thirty minutes have passed since you made the decision to open the wardrobe and try to choose an outfit.

You have run your fingers over each item at least ten times now in the hope that one of the textures would prompt you into committing. It’s been fruitless and now, you are standing in front of the gaping hole formed by the parted doors and feeling as if the clothes are taunting you.

Despite being wholly frustrated, you are reluctant to give up and come back to the task later with a clear head. You are going to be in the same room as all of the Endless siblings for the first time in a matter of hours and an urgency has taken hold of you.

You hear footsteps coming from the hallway and you immediately identify them as Morpheus'. Your unease turns to nausea. Surely it couldn't have been time to go already?

A quick check of your wristwatch allays your fears a little. It was not as late as you had feared. You plop down to sit at the foot of your bed; your frantic search does not need an audience. However, your tension still remains in your frame and you know it will not be long before it is noticed and queried.

As soon as your husband takes one look at you after entering the room, he walks straight over and says, "You appear troubled, my love."

You shake your head, forcing a smile. "Everything's fine," you answer breezily.

Morpheus picks up on your feigned nonchalance, astute gaze then falling to the anxious way you are unknowingly twisting your wedding band around your finger.

He speaks your name and the sound of it is like a whisper of the wind. You chance a peek at his face, his blue eyes overflow with concern.

Your shoulders slump in defeat and you immediately spill the truth of the situation.

"Actually, I'm struggling to decide what to wear for this evening."

"I would recommend something that you feel comfortable in," He replies softly.

You move off the bed, repeating the adjective in your mind as you pick anxiously through the clothes once more.

It's futile.

"I need some kind of brief to work to." You turn to fix him with an imploring look. "Please."

Morpheus begins to sense that your agitation might be masking something deeper. He decides to be open with you about his own feelings in the hope that you may open up in return.

He comes closer and takes both your hands in his.

"My only stipulation for this evening is that you sit between myself and my elder sister."

You protectively edge closer to your partner. His words give rise to a desire to understand if there is subtext accompanying his statement.

"Do you feel nervous?"

He pauses. "Not nervous. Apprehensive is a more apt descriptor."

You nod before admitting quietly, "I think I may be feeling the same as you, Morpheus."

His right hand finds your jawbone. "I'll be right there to support you."

You smile crookedly. "And I you."

He rubs small circles on your cheek with his thumb.

"We can also leave whenever you wish."

"Can we have a cut and run safe word?"

Morpheus is amused by your phrase, and the corners of his mouth pull up ever so slightly.

"I welcome it. What would like to choose?"

You contemplate silently. "How about if I call you Dream?"

You never use the name Dream for your husband, it has always been Morpheus. The name he had offered when you had first met. To use the alternative that his siblings used seemed like a smart choice; it wouldn't draw attention if you had to say it in anything other than a whisper.

"Dream," he confirms.

With some decisions made and comfort provided, you turn back to the wardrobe. You sigh once more as dejection rears its head.

"I shall be wearing this, if it is of any help to you."

You look round to see Morpheus gesturing to the outfit he has just willed into existence. He is sporting a black, flowy sleeved chiffon shirt. The buttons are done up all the way to the top, accentuating his perfect neck. His signature jeans and lace-up boots complete the look.

The change in your demeanour is like a match being lit. Your lips part, a solution forming in your mind.

"So smart casual?"

You are looking at him with such a hopeful expression. Heartfelt reassurance is the key; he can see how much you need it right now.

"Yes," he replies with an encouraging smile.

You now approach the wardrobe with confidence; posture straight, eyes up. Morpheus listens to you talking quietly to yourself as you pick your way across the rack from left to right.

“No, no, no… Ahh, there you are.”

You triumphantly produce a black shirt from a hanger, the sleeves of which are embroidered with delicate constellations and crescent moons, and a pair of black jeans from the adjacent drawers.

Morpheus places himself in a nearby chair and from his newly seated position, he watches you swap the oversized green jumper and blue jeans that you are wearing for the just-selected outfit.

You struggle for a moment in securing the cuffs of the shirt but soon you are standing in front of the mirror and smoothing the front of the garment down.

You turn to the side to inspect your profile. "What do you think?"

Morpheus comes up behind you. You maintain eye contact through the mirror.

"Perfect," he whispers in your ear. "You are perfect."

A heady blush spreads at his words. His arms slip around your waist

“Thank you for helping me.”

“You are most welcome, my love.”

It is impossible to keep your attention off of him. His own shirt is sheer enough for you to see his toned torso beneath.

His image, coupled with the combination of him suddenly kissing your neck has your stomach dropping deliciously. He continues until you are weak and dazed with pleasure.

You breathlessly turn to face him. Lust smoulders in his celestial eyes.

You have left the top two buttons of your shirt undone; Morpheus touches his fingers delicately to the exposed skin.

"I fear I may struggle to get through even the first course with you looking like this, my love," he murmurs.

You rest your palms on his chest.

"The safe word is there for you too, My King. Say the word and I'll go anywhere you want."

A low groan rumbles under your hands as well as in your ears. Morpheus leans in so he is mere millimetres from you.

He smirks flirtatiously. "Very well, my sweet dream.”

He then closes the remaining distance to hungrily press his lips to yours.

[teencopandthesourwolf]

so i'm supposed to be working on my sterek wip—and i am! i wrote about 1k today—but bc of all you lovely mutual's and folk i follow now also into buddie (main culprits being @inell @rosieposiepuddingnpie @sortasirius and @angela-feelstoomuch) and ofc bc of bi!buck confirmed, i've started ploughing through 911 over the last few weeks like a bloodhound chasing a rabbit through the woods and have consequently, inevitably, started a buddie wip. fml. anyways, it's all your lot's fault so here, have just under 1k of my first buck pov buddie quarantine wip and everyone pls forgive my adhd writing brain lol.

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Eddie was so fucking drunk. And it wasn't really either of their faults.

Because daytimes? When they weren't on shift? They were easy.

In the daytime there was just so much stuff to do with Christopher. So many games to play and so many cool things Buck was finding he could teach the little guy. And there were things that Christopher was teaching Buck, too, like, did you know that a crocodile can't stick out its tongue? Because Buck didn't, not until Christopher told him. And how cool is that?

The three of them—Buck, Christopher and Eddie—had started a Strip Jack Naked tournament and they now played it every night that he and Eddie were home, just before bath and bedtime stories. Turns out Christopher loved card games, and loved the rude name given to Buck and Maddie's childhood favourite even more, because what ten year old wouldn't? There was obviously zero stripping involved; Buck didn't even know why it was called what it was called, only that it was super fun, and just about easy enough for Christopher to learn but not so easy he'd get bored too fast, y’know? And what was funny was that the little dude hadn't even won a single round yet, and that somehow hadn't seemed to deter the slugger in his efforts one bit. Quite the opposite, actually. He'd warned, “Just you two wait,” and had this look on his face that said he was determined to become a grandmaster and beat Buck at his own game—or, even better, beat his Dad and win the prize of Eddie having to tidy Christopher's room for a week (a suggestion of Buck's that Eddie had not been overjoyed about).

In turn, Buck and Eddie had now lost countless games of Mario Kart to the kid; been repeatedly humiliated at Pictionary (the kiddie version); and each had the least amount of kudos points for Misfits, a game that Eddie apparently used to play with his sisters. It was another drawing-type one, where each player took a body section on their turn—head, torso and arms, or legs and feet—and then folded the paper over to hide the result until everyone was done and Christopher would unfold the paper and they'd all cry with laughter at the results. Misfits didn't even technically have any winners or losers, but hey, try telling Christopher that.

Evenings, though? The few hours left between Christopher's bedtime and Eddie and Buck turning in for the night? They were tougher.

Tough on Buck, at least.

See, he'd had this dream, a few weeks back. A dream about—well.

About Eddie.

In the dream, Buck had been washing the dishes in Eddie and Chris's apartment after Eddie had made another attempt at cooking his abuela's delicious Barbacoa recipe (Buck had tasted the real deal once when Isabel had come to stay and Eddie had invited Buck over to dinner), and Eddie had suddenly crowded into him from behind, crushing the length of his body up against Buck's back and reaching around to circle soft but firm hands around Buck's wet wrists. Startled and confused, Buck had open opened his mouth to say something when Eddie had placed his hot mouth onto the sensitive spot on Buck's neck, just below his right ear and—

Buck had woken abruptly, writhing and twitching and groaning, jizz spilling all over his freshly changed bed sheets.

After that, evenings were a challenge.

They were now made up of all the usual fun and dumb stuff that Buck and Eddie got up to, plus the occasionally deeper topics in their lives that they both seemed to struggle with but tried their best to share with each other, but there was also Don't look too long at Eddie's hands, and Don't look at Eddie's mouth while he speaks, and Don't check out Eddie's ass in those jeans I'd told him he should definitely buy when the shops were still open and the world hadn't yet gone to shit and I wasn't losing my damn mind.

Buck had moved into Eddie and Chris's place when Quarantine hit because it had just made sense, and over the course of the last six months he had somehow managed to fall in lust with his best friend.

So, times when they both had tomorrow off work, and when the confinement got to be a little too much, they would drink. Sometimes a little too much. One of them always stayed relatively sober though, just in case Chris needed something in the night, and tonight, Buck had been allowing Eddie to enjoy himself because the guy hardly ever really let his hair down, and he deserved to.

Eddie got giggly when he drank Tequila, Buck noticed.

They'd already sunk a few beers prior to cracking open the bottle of Cazadores Reposado, and after Buck had stopped at two shots but Eddie had continued, Eddie had become progressively loose and was now starting to giggle like a frickin schoolgirl. Which, embarrassingly, seemed to be doing things to Buck—not that Buck had a thing for school girls, jesus no, it was just that Eddie sounding so soft and vulnerable and happy was something that apparently really did it for Buck.

Fuck his life.

The guy also got very touchy-feely on tequila, too.

They'd migrated from the kitchen table to sitting so close to each other on the sofa that they were permanently touching, as well as all the times Eddie kept nudging his shoulder further into Buck's and squeezing his hand on Buck's knee. Then his thigh.

Seriously, fuck Buck's life.

The way Eddie had gotten so comfortable with touching Buck was becoming a majorly uncomfortable situation for Buck to have to deal with. Not because Buck didn't want the attention, but because he really fucking did.

And that was a problem, for a few reasons.

Reason one was that Buck wasn't gay, and didn't really understand these feelings he was having.

Reason two was, as far as Buck knew, Eddie wasn't gay either.

Reason three (and Buck's biggest fear) was Buck being terrified of losing what he had with Eddie. He loved Eddie, and Christopher, and he was pretty sure they loved him back—and he certainly wasn't about to let his rabid and confusing libido ruin any of that.

Drunk Eddie, though? It seemed Drunk Eddie really had it in for Buck tonight.

.

fingers crossed i can finish it before buck goes insane! xp

[jerzwriter]

WIP Wednesday

Thanks for the tag @lilyoffandoms. It's been forever since I've done one of these, but why not! :)

The next part of With Warning | Open Heart | Tobias & Casey

Sienna turned away from the door, her cautious optimism morphing into absolute glee. Grabbing Tobias's arm, she pushed him toward Casey's room so they could have some privacy. Initially, Sienna had just as many doubts about the man as the others, maybe even more, but as the bearer of all things bright, she chose to take a positive approach to the dismay of many. Now that she believed she was being proven right, she couldn't be more delighted, for more reasons than one.

"You did it!" She beamed the second the door closed behind her. "You did it! We've been trying for days... it might even be a week... but in less than an hour... you did it! I am amazed, Dr. Carrick. I am amazed."

"Thank you, I guess, but I didn't do anything spectacular, I just..."

The man was brought to silence by a defiant wave of the tiny but mighty woman's hand. "I know you're not the humble type. So do me a favor and spare me the platitudes. She's only going to be in there ten minutes tops, and I need your help in here."

"In her bedroom?"

"Yes."

Scenes from an upcoming unnamed Tobias/Casey Poly AU and the final part of A Moment in Time (Trystan/Carolina, CoP, AU) can be found below the break.

Tobias/Casey Poly AU Series - Coming soon!

Biting her lips to stifle a giggle, Casey shifted in Tobias’s arms to face him, garnering curious stares from co-workers and patients alike. She didn’t know he managed to do it; the man could sneak up behind her, push her hair away from her neck, and kiss her so seamlessly that no one so much as noticed. But she’d just turn around to face him, and a dozen spectators were waiting to feed the gossip pipeline. Though it was already too late to deter that, she took a cautious step to the side.

“You need to stop doing that,” she blushed. “I thought you wanted to keep things under wraps at work.”

Tobias shrugged with a tantalizing smirk on his lips. “I don’t recall saying any such thing. So, ready for our big night? I’ll pick you up at six?”

The afternoon sun caught his aqua eyes, and though she never thought it possible, they were now even more enticing. Forgetting about anyone and anything other than him, she grinned. “Six it is.”

He closed the distance between them, the ever-present swagger in his gait. Casey felt her skin turn to gooseflesh as his hand brushed against hers so quickly no one could see but one look at her face, and he knew his goal had been attained.

“I’m counting the minutes,” he muttered. Pointedly meeting the eyes of each gawker as he marched away.

Casey thought she was in the clear now that he was gone, but she could feel the weight of Jackie’s stare.

“Yes,” she said, eyes fixed on her work to avoid her friend’s judgemental gaze.

“What’s going on with you two.”

“What? What do you mean?”

A Moment In Time | Crimes of Passion | Trystan x Carolina - Final Chapter

Carolina's face turned to stone; an anger usually reserved for criminals she was slapping handcuffs on set in her eyes.

"I can't believe you're defending this!" She spat, quickly walking away, but Ruby was fast at her heels.

"I'm not defending it, Carolina. I'm just saying you're being incredibly unreasonable. You owe him at least..."

"Owe him?" she laughed, though she found nothing amusing at all. I don't owe anyone anything. Especially Trystan. This isn't how it works, Ruby. This isn't how it works at all!"

"Then how exactly should it work? Because from where I stand, he's doing all that he can. Right now, the onus is on you...and I'm not afraid to tell you so."

Carolina had been walking frantically, rushing toward the park's gate as if the crowd on the bustling city street would swallow her whole and provide her with the escape hatch she was desperately seeking. But her friend's words... her brutally honest words... stopped her in her tracks.

"Jesus, Ruby," she whispered, pounding a fist against her thigh. "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus! I hate it when you're right!"

A delightful glint came to Ruby's eyes, but for her friend's sake, she held back her smile. "Then you must be disappointed quite often."

Now I am copying Lily and using this as an excuse to see other WIPs! Do you have anything, @dutifullynuttywitch @thosehallowedhalls @inlocusmads @stars-are-within-me @tveitertotwrites @cariantha @liaromancewriter @genevievemd @storyofmychoices @noesapphic @aallotarenunelma @lorirwritesfanfic @aces-and-angels @aria-ashryver @moominofthevalley @angelasscribbles @mydemonsdrivealimo @trappedinfanfiction @peonierose @potionsprefect @coffeeheartaddict2 @secretaryunpaid @cadybear420 @choices-ceri

[rainbow-nerdss]

WIP Wednesday!

Tagged by the lovely @daffi-990 and @thewolvesof1998 💙💙💙

Once more from the Hallmark Boyfriends fic! ❄⛄

"Pepa’s got him. When Ana stopped replying to my messages, I got worried. She said I should be a romantic for once in my life and go after her.” “That worked out well.” This time, Eddie didn't hesitate before breaking into laughter. “Sure did. At least now I won’t have to do that again?” “What? You aren’t a romantic?”  Eddie snorted. “Not even close. With Chris’s mom—” He snapped his mouth shut. “Sorry. That’s not usually something I talk about with total strangers. Not sure why I brought it up, honestly.” Buck sat back, spreading his legs in front of him, trying not to let his curiosity spill too much. “Yeah, I get that a lot, actually. Apparently I have a face that’s easy to open up to—you should hear some of the things people tell me on calls.” “You win them all over, huh?” “Usually just the old ladies,” Buck admitted. Eddie laughed. “Oh, I bet they just love you!” Buck opened his mouth to retort, when an announcement echoed around the lounge, declaring their flight ready to board. They walked together to the gate, and Buck wound up a few rows behind Eddie. They exchanged a look as Eddie sat down and Buck continued on to his seat.  He’d just gotten settled in, after standing twice to allow people into the center and window seats next to him, when he felt someone tap his shoulder.  “Pardon me!” Buck looked up to see an older woman by his seat. “Are you alright?” he asked.  “I noticed you talking to the gentleman in 10A, are you traveling together?” Buck frowned, looked over at row ten, and sure enough, there was Eddie in the middle seat.  “Not exactly, no. We just happened to bump into each other.” Not the whole truth, but he really didn’t want to spill his guts to this lady before the flight even took off. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

No pressure tagging: @911-on-abc @loserdiaz @wildlife4life @disasterbuckdiaz @jeeyuns @theotherbuckley @callmenewbie @exhuastedpigeon @jamespearce9-1-1

[captainjunglegym]

WIP Wednesday 28/02/2024

Tagged by @nocoastposts <3

I just posted Drinking light chardonnays and eating tiny finger foods yesterday, so you can read that if ya like (check tags first). And as always my current WIP (almost finished now) is No.1 (Royal Red and Blue) Oil on Canvas.

My special interest is planes so sorry I cannot help but write a fic based on the tv show air crash investigation with rival agencies and an enemies to lovers thing going on.

Another new untitled WIP (that may or may not take off (that's an aeroplane joke!)):

A passenger jet crashes outside of Bristol airport killing all 202 people on board. It's AAIB* officer Henry Fox and his team's job to figure out why it happened and how they can stop it from happening again. Unfortunately, their US counterpart agency, the NTSB, has sent their new superstar investigator along to help with the investigation. He's annoying. And cocky. And gorgeous.

Snippet and tags under the cut:

“Yes well you know what that means.” Shaan is writing something on the clipboard, squinting at Henry’s sloppy notes. “They’ll be here in ten minutes.” Henry lets out the longest sigh ever recorded. “Not the Americans.” “The Americans, unfortunately.” He gestures at the blueprint of the Boeing on the desk, “one of their planes, one of their problems.” The NTSB or National Transportation Safety Board was the American independent governmental agency that investigated plane crashes, and the sister agency to the AAIB. Henry thought they did good work, and he had a high level of professional respect for them. It’s just. They’re always around. Everything is their jurisdiction. Always a Boeing (and isn’t that the fucking truth). Always at least one US citizen. Always an airframe made in the US. Always a US airline. “Alex Claremont-Diaz is their new superstar. Proper cowboy type. He’s even from Texas.” Shaan is attempting to look like he’s not gossiping by trying to look as bored as humanly possible. “As long as they’re not here protecting Boeing’s interests. Or the FAA.” Henry points an angry finger at Shaan who sighs heavily and puts the clipboard down on the table. He rests a hand on Henry’s shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze. “Henry. Two-hundred-and-two people died in that downed aircraft this morning, one-hundred-and-ninety-seven of them were passengers. Thirty-six were children. Our job is to find out why this happened and how we can stop it from happening again. We are not interested in interagency dick measuring competitions. We are interested in having help from a world-renowned agency so we can close this case, recommend policy, and maybe bring some level of peace to the families of the bereaved. And you’d do well to remember that.” Sufficiently scolded, Henry nods and looks at his feet, face flushing. “Sorry, Shaan. You’re absolutely right.” The door opened then, and the Americans breezed in as if on cue. All in their dumb windbreakers like they’re on CSI. And, oh shit. Alex Claremont-Diaz, NTSB superstar, is the most gorgeous man Henry has ever seen in his life.

*Air Accidents Investigation Branch (UK Gov)

no pressure tags: @bigassbowlingballhead @sunnysideprince @eusuntgratie @getmehighonmagic @magicandarchery @lfg1986-2 @firenati0n @violetbaudelaire-quagmire @anincompletelist and anyone else!!

[averseunhinged]

it's wip wednesday! hooray. my actual ongoing wip are all kind of at a point of almost doneness where i should stop sharing snippets from them, so here is a thing from the archives. no idea when i might finish this, because of all the other things.

technically, it's a soulmates au, but doesn't really get into all that until like ten pages later.

The young woman who opened the door was none of the three he expected.

"Hi," she said hesitantly, elongating the word. "Can I help you?"

"The answer to your question is entirely dependent on whether you're planning on using that," Elijah pointedly looked down at the crossbow held nonchalantly in her hand.

"Oh!" she yelped and easily swung the heavy weapon up behind her back. "That's nothing. It's...a prop! Made of Styrofoam. My friend's a drama major. No big deal."

He heard a sigh from further inside the room and the approach of bare feet in sandals. A slim, pale hand appeared from behind the door and opened it wider.

"Well, you tried," Caroline Forbes said with an exhausted tilt to her inflection. "Points for thinking fast and coming up with a solid, truth-based lie. Would've been better to avoid flashing medieval weaponry around in the hallway in the first place, but you did stick the landing." She focused her attention back on him. "I thought that sounded like a Mikaelson. Hello, Elijah."

"Miss Forbes."

"Well, at least you know each other. I'm Ivy," the other girl cheerfully introduced herself and held out her hand for him to shake.

"Did you not learn your lesson the last time?" Caroline pushed Ivy's hand down and scooted the other girl back into the room. "Don't try to make friends with supposed friends of friends who turn up out of nowhere!"

"I'm already dead, what else could happen?"

"You could always be more dead, or about a trillion other awful things. Do you want to get shot in the head? I've been shot in the head. It sucks. There. The benefit of my experience. No need to do your own research."

"I give you my word no harm will come to your," Elijah paused and then questioned, "sireling?"

"Adopted. Her sire's an idiot, but he's an idiot I inherited, and unfortunately, I'm attached to him now." She sighed and looked over her shoulder. At what, he wasn't sure. "Okay, I'm kind of on a time crunch, so you should come in. No," she commanded, pointing one stern finger at him, "shenanigans. I will be super upset if you do any heart-ripping."

Elijah solemnly traced an X on his chest and said, with gravity, "Cross my heart and hope to die."

"Oh great. More hilarious jokes." Caroline stepped back and waved him in. "You all have the worst sense of humor. Like it's seriously terrible."

Whitmore was one of the oldest universities in the American South, and a wealthy one at that. Judging by its size and appointments, Caroline's dormitory room looked as though it had originally been a common room. There was typical evidence of young women--cosmetics and jewelry, warring perfumes, several brassieres hanging over the back of a chair--but there were also stacks of old, rough-bound books and an open train case smelling strongly of a witch's tools of the trade. Spread across one of the single beds and the surrounding floor area was an incongruous array of weapons.

The other girl, Ivy, was on the floor, peering at a rectangular, carved box. "Stilettos of Suffering?" she read from the small, engraved plate on it, confused.

"Not shoes, obviously, and not cute. They're like icepick knives with a curse attached, so don't open it. Witches," Caroline shook her head and sketched out an exasperated gesture. "They say we're nasty pieces of work, but I've never wanted to liquify someone's internal organs with a single poke."

With all his family had gone through over the past year, Elijah had to agree. "Vampires do tend to be a bit more direct."

"So," Caroline said cheerfully, taking the stilettos away from Ivy and placing them back in an old footlocker with respectful precision, "I don't know what you need, but Elena had a psychotic break on witch LSD and made the incredibly constructive decision to have her memory erased and Bonnie's dead. Sort of. Maybe." She toed off her sandals next to one of the clear beds and shook a pair of black trousers out of their precise, folded square. "It's complicated. Damon's unavailable, plus he sucks, and Stefan just won the award for biggest jerk ever, and he didn’t even have his humanity off this time. Oh, and there's this stupid Traveler barrier around Mystic Falls. You stop being a vampire and then die the way you died if you cross it. So, probably don't do that. Or do, if you want to. I don't know what's in your life right now. That's between you and Jesus." She squinted at him and tilted her head. "Or maybe Thor, I guess? Because Vikings."

Elijah hummed. "I'm not in correspondence with either one, and my to do list has far too many items left undone, at present, for a suicide attempt."

"You and me both, buddy."

"And as fascinatingly convoluted as that sounds," he began, placidly watching as she tugged on snug jeans under her pretty, pink sundress, bouncing a little bit from their tight fit, "I've already located my quarry."

She froze at his congenial tone, slowly removing her hands from underneath her dress, where she had finished fastening her jeans, and looked at him in quick-dawning denial.

"Oh no," Caroline insisted, shaking her head, her thick ponytail and the late summer humidity ringlets framing her face bouncing from the force of it. "No, no, no. I have my own idiot to rescue from his poor decision-making skills. I don't have time to get sucked back into your idiot's bad choices."

"From what I understand, Miss Forbes, my idiot just so happens to be your idiot as well, and perhaps even more in need of rescue."

[hermannsthumb]

omg could we see #62 from the winter prompts list?

62. you’re my college roommate’s sibling/best friend and you’ve come to visit for a week since you’re done school but unlike some people, I have three more finals to study for so kindly fuck off

from winter writing prompts here

stuck on some of my other wips so i'm digging back through my old unfilled winter prompts!! from. well. 2018. can you believe i've been writing fic this long. insane.

enjoy some dumb (sort of?) college boys newmann! I decided to cheat with the prompt a little (a lot) so I could work it to be conceivably not an AU but instead set pre-canon, though I realize it techhhhnically screws around with the newt/herm penpal backstory just a tiny little bit....

------------------------------------

To be honest Newt’s probably paying more for year-round university housing then he would be in rent at an actual apartment at this point, but details like that get a little screwy when you start college significantly before your eighteenth birthday and grow up on campus. His dorm holds more sentimental value than his childhood home at this point. I mean, it technically is his childhood home. Newt did try the spring of his twenty-first birthday to finally move out, but he spent exactly two minutes poking through a Cambridge housing group on Facebook before it made him want to die and he gave up. At least this way he doesn't have to buy new furniture.

He has enough good will left with administration despite all the shit he's pulled to leverage certain things like that in his favor, and he struck a deal to keep his dorm in exchange for letting campus housing utilize it as an actual dorm from time to time. (Which is to say, Newt is kind of broke and needs to save money from his stipend every now and then for, you know, groceries, so he can grit his teeth and deal with a roommate when the time comes.)

His roommate at the moment is a German exchange student (maybe one or two years younger than Newt) who’s currently enrolled in a year-long study abroad program to mess around with electrical engineering—interesting enough guy with just enough neuroses and weird family issues to make Newt feel like the most well-adjusted twentysomething in the world. It's a great ego boost.

Anyway, it’s convenient. There are like three Dunks of varying quality to choose from at any given moment, and Newt only has to walk ten minutes max to any lecture hall to give class. This is especially nice on stupidly cold and snowy days like today where even a ten minute walk feels like too much.

The door to Newt’s dorm is slightly ajar when he finally gets home. In normal circumstances this would make Newt pause and think for a few seconds before stomping inside—rules of horror movies or whatever—because if his roommate is anything, it’s particular with things like that. Shoes off at the door, dishes left in the sink on a firm one-day-max limit, doors very much locked when they leave to protect all their super important possessions from being stolen, like the refurbished Playstation 2 Newt got off eBay or the Brita filter Newt also got off eBay. Very luxurious stuff.

But Newt’s cold and hungry, so he stomps inside anyway. He does kick his boots off, though—just because some people decided to stop following the dorm rules doesn’t mean Newt will—and makes sure to click the door shut behind him carefully. “Hey, dude, you home?” he calls down the hallway. Nothing. His roommate, Bastien, is usually in class at this time of the day, but finals have turned their schedules upside down, so who knows. He wiggles out of his winter coat and hangs it next to an unfamiliar green parka on the wall hooks (maybe Bastien went on a shopping spree?) and tries a second time. “Uh, you know you left the door open?”

Newt's glasses are splattered with melted snow, and he dries them on the hem of his sweater as he fumbles with the door to their room—and is more than a little surprised when he sees the blurry shape of Bastien sitting primly on the edge of his bed, smoothing out his clothing like he’s just woken up from a nap. His bed as in Newt’s bed. Newt startles backwards. “Oh,” he says. “Um. Hey?” Has he fucked up? Are they having a roommate talk about something? …Preceded by Bastien inexplicably taking a nap in his bed?

He pushes his glasses back on. The dark-haired blur on his bed comes into focus, and though the sharp angles, bad haircut, and vaguely sickly pale flush are reminiscent of Newt’s roommate, everything else about him is different, from the brown eyes to the wide frown. It’s a Gottlieb, no question, but which one Newt’s not sure. He knows there are at least three more of them, a concept which has always struck fear into Newt’s heart each time Bastien alludes to having siblings. “Hello,” the guy on Newt’s bed says. He nods. Very proper. “You’re Newton.”

“…Yeah?” Newt says.

The mysterious Gottlieb is kind of hot, which is the worst part. The whole stern professor look he’s rocking—big glasses, knit sweatervest, slightly too-big loafers—is doing him plenty of favors. Normal circumstances, Newt thinks again, coming home to a hot nerd lounging in your bed? It might almost make him believe in a higher power. It’s taking a significant amount of effort to not start flirting. Then again, he is in Newt's bed, and has been clearly been sleeping in Newt's bed, which feels like a flirtation in and of itself.

“Hermann Gottlieb,” the professor-dude says. He gets to his feet with the aid of a cane, which he’d hooked on one of Newt’s bedposts and offers a hand out to Newt like they’re both eighty years old. Mildly bewildered, Newt takes it. He's treated to a firm handshake. “I assume my brother told you to expect me? I let myself in. I hope that’s not too rude of me, but it was rather cold out.”

“Uh,” Newt says again. He’s a lot more…British than Newt expected. Very posh BBC-miniseries about posh English people with large country estates. Especially compared to Bastien, whose first language is clearly German and is very much not British—it’s just not exactly what Newt was expecting. “I mean—he didn’t totally tell me you were coming. Or, at all.” Hermann drops his hand. “I guess he could’ve mentioned it and I just forgot.” This is probably what happened. Newt’s been a little busy lately.

He decides to address the elephant in the room next, the bed thing, and determine if it was a deliberate choice or not. Maybe Bastien has made Newt out to be so irresistible in whatever he’s reported back to the Gottlieb family that Hermann decided to try his luck. This is definitely not the case, but Newt can pretend. “You’re on my bed,” he continues, and points across the room. “Bastien’s is that one.”

“Oh,” Hermann says. He looks mortified in a properly stiff-lipped way and almost trips over himself to cross the tiny dorm room, and for a split second Newt sees a different Hermann behind the dress shoes and exaggerated formalities: an awkward twentysomething probably barely older than Newt playing dress-up to be taken seriously. The belt he’s cinched to the last notch around the oversized waist of his tweed pants is stiff and cracked in places. Bastien mentioned once that one of his brothers is a math whiz who’s followed an accelerated academic path not entirely unlike Newt’s, and Newt suddenly has a strong hunch he’s looking right at him. “I’m—I’m very sorry. I didn’t realize. My flight only just got in, and the time zones—I was a bit tired.”

“No worries, man,” Newt says. He tosses his tote bag onto the Hermann-sized indentation in his bedspread and kicks his docs off one at a time, while across the room Hermann twists the handle of his cane between his hands. “You want some coffee or something? Bastien is usually out until late on Thursdays, so it might just be us for a while, sorry.” He pulls the sweatshirt he’d slung on his desk chair that morning down over his head and straightens out his glasses.

The offer for coffee is a somewhat-pitying lifeline Newt is decent enough to throw out, which he has a feeling both of them understand. Hermann seizes it desperately. “Coffee would be nice,” he says.

He trails after Newt into the kitchen. Apartment-style or not, it’s still a campus dorm, and the kitchen space is cozy at best and cramped at worst. Hermann plasters himself against a row of cabinets in a heroic effort to stay out of Newt’s way as Newt dumps some coffee grounds and water into his cheap pot and digs two mugs out of the cupboard. They avoid making eye contact at all costs while it percolates. “We have, like,” Newt gestures vaguely at the doorway, “a couch? If you wanted to sit? And not stand here?”

“I don’t mind,” Hermann says.

Newt kind of minds, but whatever, he can deal. He pours soy milk into one mug in preparation and offers some to Hermann, who shakes his head. The coffee drips slowly into the pot. Newt thinks about the stack of ungraded finals tucked into a binder in his tote bag, the other stack waiting on his desk, and the final final he still has to proofread and send off to Copytech for, like, seventy copies by tomorrow. “So, Hermann,” Newt says, and tries to think of a polite way to ask why exactly are you in my apartment during finals week? Does the guy not also have finals in England or wherever? “Are you just visiting your bro for fun, or…?”

Hermann’s face twists with a sour expression. “For a week,” he says. “Not all that willingly. I’m in town for a conference and I won’t have my hotel room until tomorrow morning. Bastien offered to let me use his couch for the night.” He adds hesitantly, “I’m due to give a presentation on Tuesday.”

A lecture: almost definitely the math whiz, then, unless overachieving is a family trait. Newt will circle back to that later. He’s not exactly a math expert, but you kinda can’t really pick up that many STEM doctorates without having at least a basic (or, you know, decently advanced) understanding of, uh, everything about math, and he’s keen to hear what Hermann plans to lecture on. “I’ll try to stay out of your hair,” Hermann adds quickly. “I know you’re busy with final exams and whatnot.”

“Ugh, no kidding,” Newt says. The coffee finally finishes with a few rattling huffs, and Newt carefully pours it into their mugs and shoves the less-chipped one over to Hermann. “I still have another left to go,” he continues. “I got stuck with three whole sections this semester, it sucks. I think they just wanted to get back at me for—well, um, I caused a minor fire in the lab last year and they had to evacuate a few buildings, and I put it out right away because I'm the king of lab safety, but whatever, everyone lost their shit anyway. It’s going to take me forever to grade everything.”

Hermann frowns at him, and Newt wonders exactly how much Bastien has shared about his American roommate—or in this case how little. “Not a student,” he explains. “Dr. Geiszler, technically, but do not call me that. I managed to convince the biology department head to convince student life to let me keep living on campus after I—well, I guess I technically graduated undergrad a while ago. After I wrapped up my first PhD?”

“Ah,” Hermann says, and the edges of his sharp cheekbones going the faintest shade of pink. “I’d assumed—Bastien didn’t mention that, is all.” His eyes flick over Newt twice, scrutinizing him and lingering on his oversized hoodie, a DIY screen-print job bearing the latest logo for Newt’s band that he tried valiantly to sell at their last show. “First PhD? Exactly how old are you?”

“Twenty-two,” Newt says. “I skipped a grade. Or ten. Would not recommend it. Anyway, Hermann, you’re some sort of super-genius, right? You were doing calculus in your crib or something?”

If Newt’s right about which brother Hermann is, that means—compared to the rest of his family—Bastien has alluded to Hermann’s existence in all but name three whole times. By familial standards Newt can only assume that means they’re practically BFFs and probably send each other birthday cards every year. If possible Hermann might be even more reserved than Bastien, though, and it’s making Newt want very badly to prod him a little more just to see what happens. Get him to poke his head out of his shell or something. “That’s pretty impressive, you know,” he adds.

Hermann flushes pink for real this time, obviously pleased with the compliment, and Newt’s equally pleased to see him hold his head a little higher. They’re getting somewhere. “It’s not precisely that dramatic,” Hermann says. “But, yes, er—I started university at a rather young age. Comparatively. Before that, my father sent me abroad when I was eight for my schooling. I’d shown a knack, I suppose, for mathematics, and…”

Abroad—Newt guesses that explains the different accent. Not unlike Newt himself. He wonders if Hermann’s family ribs him for the lapses in his German the way Newt’s family does (America is rotting your brain, Newt!), though maybe somewhat less gently. “And?”

“I’ll finish my doctorate in the spring,” Hermann finishes, with a small smile.

“Dr. Gottlieb,” Newt says. “Nice. I like the sound of that.”

Hermann suddenly spills a large amount of coffee down the front of his sweater. He doesn’t seem to notice, though his ears (which stick out just a little) do go red, so Newt doesn’t say anything.

It’s unfortunate how cute Hermann is. Newt briefly debates the ethics of hitting on your roommate’s hot British brother and whether or not it breaches some sort of sacred roommate code. On the one hand, Hermann is only here for a week, so it’s not like they can get up to too much, and Bastien himself will be packing everything back up for Germany in like, six months tops when his study abroad program ends in the spring anyway. And besides, it’s not like Newt and Bastien are tight or anything like that. On the other hand—I mean, that would be weird, right? You can’t just hit on your roommate’s hot British brother, especially not when he's sleeping on your couch for the night.

Newt has over a hundred final exams to grade, and a suitcase to pack for his own trip (albeit one that’s a maybe-thirty minute ride on the commuter rail) out to his dad’s for the break. He kinda wants to hit on Hermann.

He’s going to hit on Hermann.

“Sooooo,” he begins, “you got any plans, or—?”

And it’s then that Hermann’s cell phone begins to buzz in his pocket. “Ah,” Hermann says. “One moment—apologies.” He pulls out a battered flip phone that looks like it’s been passed down from at least two other people and squints at the screen. “My brother,” he explains, “at last. He’s finishing up at the library and wants to meet for dinner.”

“Oh, right,” Newt says. “Of course. Duh.”

Hermann closes his phone slowly and hazards a small, but considering, glance at Newt, and Newt has a fleeting suspicion he’s not the only one weighing the pros and cons of risky flirting. He might just be flattering himself, though. “…Would you like to join us?” Hermann says. “I’m sure Bastien wouldn’t mind. It might be…” He works his jaw a few times. It’s incredibly cute. He’s clean-shaven in a way Newt hasn’t managed to be since he turned seventeen (the Geiszlerian curse of thick facial hair whether you want it or not), and it makes him look even more like a weird kid trying very hard to be an adult. “Fun.”

It's a bad idea. Hermann’s only here for a week, and he’ll clearly be busy with his conference and his big talk and all that, and then they’ll be back on opposite sides of the Atlantic probably forever—Newt would just be setting himself up for heartbreak. And six months of awkwardly dodging his roommate, which is possibly worse. Ugh. Being responsible sucks. “I shouldn’t,” he finally sighs. “I have to finish—”

“—your finals. Of course,” Hermann says. “Yes, of course, I’m sorry. I forgot. I’ll let you be.” He sets his mug on the counter by the sink. “Thank you for the coffee.”

“Sure, dude,” Newt says.

Hermann works his jaw again, chewing at his lower lip, and then says so quickly Newt almost misses it “If you’re around next Tuesday, perhaps you would like to see my talk?”

Newt tries very hard to be chill. “Yeah, totally,” he says. “That would be awesome. I think I can make it.”

Hermann nods solemnly. “Excellent. I’ll ask Bastien to give you the details later.”

He finally begins to dot at the coffee stain on his sweater with a handkerchief he pulls from a different pocket, and Newt squeezes past him to rinse their mugs out. (No dishes in the sink overnight.) His elbow brushes against Hermann’s as he dries them with a dishtowel. Hermann makes no effort to move away from him, and this close he smells like stale cigarette smoke. Newt can imagine him standing out in the rain in a dreary English landscape somewhere, maybe in the oversized coat he saw hanging by the door, scowling and crushing cigarette filters beneath his cane.

There’s something strangely magnetic about Hermann.

“Hey, listen,” Newt says. He dries his hands off on his pants. Hermann looks at him, abandoning his efforts to clean himself up. “You wanna swap emails or anything…? Maybe we could talk. Collaborate on, uh, something.” He has absolutely zero idea of Hermann’s subfield so he doesn’t know exactly what they’ll collaborate on just yet, but he’ll think of something. Make some notes during the Tuesday lecture. Newt has three PhDs and counting, he can come up with an excuse to talk to a cute boy, okay, he’s not twelve. He’d ask for Hermann’s number like a normal human being if he could dream of affording the international texting rate.

Hermann gives him another stiff nod and the shadow of a smile, which Newt hopes means an enthusiastic yes, Newt, I’d love to be your penpal!, so Newt fishes a pad of paper and a pencil out from the kitchen junk drawer and they take turns printing their emails out as neatly as possible. Hermann folds the slip of paper with Newt’s in half and slips it into his top pocket. “It was very good to meet you, Dr. Geiszler,” Hermann says, and he offers Newt a parting handshake.

What the hell, Newt thinks, and takes it.

It takes ten months and a split in reality at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean for Hermann to get around to emailing Newt. Newt expects they’ll have a lot to collaborate on in the near future.

[unholybinchicken]

(technically Thursday because of the time zone)

I did this a few weeks ago but haven't really done it lately so thought I'd do it today. I've got so many WIPs tbh so it's hard to pick just one (also I made a nice little cover art thingy for it on canva so gonna do this more regularly)

Tagging: @unholy-fabray, @yeasymuffin, @dedenneblogs, @lansangprincess, @blossoms-and-possums and anyone else who wants to share their WIPs.

General premise: this is a snippet from the Harper McLean character study I'm working on (Harmerie endgame of course). It was a hard choice between that, more of chapter 3 of i'm open to falling from grace and chapter 6 of stranded on the line where i lost you. This is a (mostly) canon-compliant fic and the part I've written so far contains references to ice addiction, alcohol and intravenous drug use.

Sneak preview under the cut

21st November, 2007

Harper McLean is born at 10:30pm in the back of her mum’s older sister Michelle’s old Holden Commodore, in the waning hours of a neighbourhood get-together.  There’s still a dent on the car from New Years 2000, when her dad ‘borrowed’ it and accidentally hit a tree.  It’s unregistered, unroadworthy, the paint is peeling in places, and someone put a Kevin-07 sticker on it a few weeks ago without asking, but Justin McLean and Nicole Webster didn’t really plan to have the baby today of all days.  

Michelle and Nicole are the only sober people at this party, and Michelle’s the only one with a car, albeit one that shouldn’t touch a road, ever.  

None of them realised that there was going to be a baby to plan for at all until a couple months ago.  

Had they known, Nicole would have probably tried to give up partying, booze and smoking much, much earlier.  Her first thought as she’s going into labour in the back of Michelle’s car is how much she really, really wants a fucking cigarette right now.  

Or something stronger.

After all, if Justin can be high out of his mind for the birth of his first child, why can’t Nicole?

Against her own wishes, she resists temptation and stays sober.  Someone has to.  Michelle puts on the radio as the baby girl makes her grand entrance.  The speakers are muffled, and the signal is fuzzy, but she can faintly make out ‘Rehab’ by Amy Winehouse.  

Michelle, seeing how exhausted her sister is, asks Justin to cut the cord before they go to the hospital together.  Justin is ranting about ghosts and home invaders and John Howard and God knows what else.  His voice grows louder and louder and more and more agitated.  As her eyes meet the familiar scar on Justin’s arm, his favourite injection site, Michelle wonders if he even realises he has a child now.  

She cuts the cord with a set of nail clippers from her handbag and briefly considers letting Justin hold the baby, his daughter, but he can barely stand, and his words come out slurred and disconnected.  

Truthfully, she’s not sure if she should let this man within ten metres of her newborn niece.  She’s not sure what possessed her sister to sleep with him in the first place.

Probably the same thing that’s coursing through his veins right now, she thinks. 

Nicole was always an avid reader, at least before she hit puberty and she started hanging out with the local dropkicks and doing drugs, all while things turned to shit at home.  Mum died, then Dad succumbed to his own substance abuse problems and went to jail, and so Michelle and Nicole were passed around from relative to relative until they settled with Nanna Louise.  It was the closest thing either of them had to a stable home, but they soon learned that nothing lasts forever.  Nanna Louise died, and things went from bad to worse.  Knowing that going to school wouldn’t pay the bills, Michelle dropped out to become a florist.  Nicole was different; there was a time when she wanted to go to uni and become a teacher.  She wanted to travel the world and marry a handsome man, have a nice house, two kids, a dog and a white picket fence.  But that was then, and this is now.

She, like her sister, dropped out of school in year ten.  She’s unemployed.  There’s no dog, no white picket fence.  The only income she has comes from Centrelink, and, more often than not, it’s used to fund Justin’s drug habit.  Her life didn’t exactly turn out like she pictured it.

Well, almost.  She has her daughter, who’s tiny, but who has her mother’s eyes and nose.  They get to the hospital, and as the nurses clean the new baby up and keep an eye on the new mother, Michelle goes outside to smoke a cigarette.

When Nicole eventually comes to, Michelle asks, “What are you going to call her?”

“I was going to name her after Nanna Louise,” Nicole says, frowning.  “She doesn’t really look like a Louise, though.”

Michelle contemplates asking if Justin has any ideas, but she knows he’s not sober enough to contribute anything productive to the conversation.  “No, she doesn’t,” she agrees.  “She looks like you.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah.  She’s got your nose,” Michelle says.  “And your eyes, I think.”

Nicole smiles.  She looks at her sleeping infant and says, “Harper.  Harper Louise McLean.”

[neonbrutalism]

RIP Dead Guy (working title)

Unfinished WIP time.... there's a lot more to this but too many scene gaps to post officially, so here's the first bit for the Tumblrerers.

(Speculative Post-BTSV in which Miguel O'Hara of Earth 928B dies saving the multiverse and defeating the Spot. The Society is in mourning and the Spider-Gang is forced to reckon with their feelings. Complicating matters is that Peter's brought back another Miguel from the multiverse who is obviously not comfortable with how they're projecting all this on to him.)

Why hadn’t Miguel put a chair at his work station? 

Peter cracked his back and peered again at the the symbols on the glowing, orange screens, trying to make sense of whatever organizational system Miguel was using. 

Had used.

Dammit.

He didn’t want to bother LYLA anymore with this. She’d been subdued for weeks – well, almost everyone had been – and Peter wasn’t sure how long AI took to mourn. She did her scans and ran numbers, sure, but it was all without any … snap. 

Peter didnt think she was, well, aware enough to grieve… but he also didn’t think Miguel would put her mourning his death in to her programming. Hell, Peter was pretty sure Miguel wouldn’t have wanted anyone to mourn him at all, the stupid, stubborn, broken bastard. If only Peter had moved faster, had recognized what was about to happen…

But maybe it wouldn’t have changed anything. He saw Miguel’s face at that last moment, before…

There was nothing else for it.

“Hey, LYLA?” 

“Yes, Peter?” LYLA appeared next to him, expression unnaturally blank. 

“Sorry to … bother you? I’m just trying to, uh—“ Peter gestured at the orange screens, “I can’t make webs or tails of this.”

He paused, waiting for a reaction. None came. Miguel wouldn’t have reacted either.

“Anyway, uh, I keep seeing this symbol on certain earths? Looks like a… U?”

“A closed eye,” said LYLA, “After the incident, Miguel cut off any viewing access to mapped earths with… other versions of himself.”

“… Oh,” said Peter, slowly,”I guess he, what, didn’t want the temptation?”

LYLA’s eyes narrowed at Peter, “If you think it would have been tempting for him after what hapoened, you didn’t know him as well as you think you did.”

“Uh. Sorry?”

“Is that all, Peter?”

“Yeah, uh. I guess so. Th—“

LYLA vanished before he could finish thanking her.

Peter shook the interaction off and returned to the screen. He touched the closed-eye symbol. The system pop-up counted 793 locked earths. More than Peter was expecting – but maybe that wasn’t a crazy number, since there seemed to be tens or even hundreds of thousands of Peter Parkers. Had Miguel locked them all manually, or had LYLA done it automatically as their map of the multiverse expanded? 

In the corner of the pop up, there was an Unlock All button. 

He shouldn’t. 

Miguel had once told him, when he asked about seeing versions of Aunt May or Harry, that the only thing that spending time watching the dead live without you in another world was good for was torturing yourself.

Ha. Maybe if Peter had remembered to point out the irony if him saying that, Miguel wouldn’t have…

Fuck it. Whatever. Miguel wasn’t here to tell Peter not to. Miguel was just a miserable, guilt-ridden, self-loathing, dead hypocrite and… and Peter wanted to see his friend again.

He pressed the lock. There was a buzz of haptic feedback and all at once, the eye icons blinked open and Peter found himself looking at dozens of versions of a dead man’s face. 

Plenty of them were scowling, wiping blood off their faces after pulling their masks off or boredly picking at paperwork in an office or laboratory. Mostly they were just familiar in a way that felt like a punch in the gut. Stretched all the way out, slouching in a chair looking crabby or curled in with their hands hooked around the back of their necks, poorly dealing with some emotion or stress or another. Some of them, though, looked … happy. Or, at least they looked happier than Peter had ever seen Miguel, outside of those few weeks he’d spent with Gabriella. He didn’t see any versions of her, though. But still, at least there were some versions that weren’t alone.

One Miguel was standing looking out of a large broken window, expression dark and triumphant while a pretty, asian woman in a lab coat and inexplicably a pair of high top sneakers from 1993 curled her arm around his waist and smiled. Peter decided he didn’t want to know what they looked so happy about. 

A teenaged version of Miguel and a girl – maybe a younger version of that woman in the lab coat – with her hair in purple pom-poms, sat in a bedroom. The girl pulled out a box from under her bed, revealing what looked to be a lot of ancient Star Trek merchandise, smiling like she was a little embarrassed. Peter pushed that node aside too, he didn’t want to intrude on that.

A pink haired woman covered in chitin and with a thousand needle teeth hovered in the air on vibrating wasp wings and chatted happily while Miguel in his spider-suit listened, sitting on the edge of a tall building. Behind them, the sky was dark and filled with pistons and girders – Downtown Nueva York.

And speaking of Downtown Nueva York – an explosion caught Peter’s eye. He pulled the node forward – Miguel, in a different mask but it could hardly be anyone else, was fighting, his suit torn and bloody, not flickering with broken light like the suit Peter knew. Someone else – some kind of cyborg or robot, slammed a whirling metal thresher down on the spot Miguel had been lying less than a second earlier. He was losing the fight. 

Okay, calm down, Peter. Miguel was tough and could take a lot of hits  – he just needed a chance to recover. Miguel, no matter the dimension, was perfectly capable of surviving – until he wasn’t. 

Behind the cyborg … A Green Goblin rose up on his glider, bombs in hand. Miguel looked up at the Goblin and Peter was through the portal to Earth 416647 before he could stop himself.

(UNFINISHED FIGHT SCEEEENE!)

Peter stared.

This Miguel looked a little younger — or maybe just got more sleep. He was less gaunt, less haunted. Less like he hadn’t eaten or drank in weeks. His hair was little reidder, messy from his mask, curls hanging over his forehead. He had a small scar across his upper lip that the original Miguel hadn’t had either.

Peter realized he’d been staring too long only when Miguel took an awkward step back from him and exchanged a quick, nervous look with the now unmasked Green Goblin. He looked a lot like Miguel too.

Oh… this was Gabriel — his brother. Miguel had mentioned him once or twice. Peter was pretty sure the Original Miguel’s brother was dead — but then again, he’d never really asked.

“Uh — sorry, I’m. Spider-Man.”

“We know,” said Miguel.

“You said that already,” said Goblin.

Peter was struck with a terrible idea. One of his worst. But … the society hadn’t been the same in the past few weeks. A dark cloud had come over it and Peter wasn’t sure how to get it to pass. The fact was, nervous breakdown in the last couple of days notwithstanding, just about everyone had liked Miguel. He’d been their leader, he’d taken care of them and listened and tried to help them. They’d all loved him … 

Not that Miguel would have ever believed that in a hundred years.

But without Miguel, things were kind of falling apart. Not literally, LYLA ran the place like clockwork, but emotionally. Miguel could de-escalate petty arguments and fights that broke out better than any Peter Parker could (because most of the arguments involved at least one other Peter Parker). But now, arguments festered, problems went unresolved and still, every time that Peter went to the cafeteria, he almost picked up some empanadas before he remembered himself.

Maybe … a familiar face would help everyone move on? Or at least return a sense of normalcy until people got used to the idea that Miguel, their Miguel, was gone.

“Right! Right – um,” shit, how had Miguel done this ‘I’m from another dimension’ shpiel? “I’m from another dimension! I’m part of a – uh, strike team? Thing? It’s a few hundred other Spider-People and we travel around the multiverse to help people! And stop anomalies — wait, no, we don’t do that anymore. So just the helping people. That’s why I came to help you fight — well I guess you didn’t need help, you two weren’t fighting – but it’s cool! We have a headquarters! And a cafeteria and a gym. Just … amenities. You should come check it out. Miguel should – uh. No offense, Mr. Goblin, but a Spider-Society is kind of. Spider-centric.”

“Wow,” said Gabriel in a familiar flat tone, “I’m devastated but I think I’ll survive.” 

“Pass,” said Miguel. He turned to leave. 

“Wait!” said Peter, “I’m underselling it. I promise, it’s … really cool. Super elite.”

Miguel raised a skepical eyebrow, “Super elite with ‘a couple hundred’ people?”

“There’s a bazillion different universe, so I mean, it’s all relative.”

Miguel pulled his mask back down over his face, “Yeah, still pass.”

Miguel fwizzed a strand of web (pale, organic, not like the glowing orange Peter was familiar with) to the upper corner of the building and the Goblin kicked his glider’s power on. 

“Wait! Please!” said Peter, his voice breaking a little, “just – just come see it? And then you can come right back! Please?”

The lenses on Miguel’s mask squinted at Peter and then he sighed, “Fine. Okay – Gabri, will you tell Xina I’m …” 

“Being kidnapped by a time traveller?” 

“Dimensional traveller.”

“Whatever,” said Miguel, waving his brother off, “I’ll be home later.”

Gabriel gave a lazy salute and sped off on his glider.

Peter opened the portal to 928.

Miguel — this new, other Miguel — eyed it suspiciously, then stepped through.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A Guiding Hand 3

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, parental neglect, depression, inference of self harm, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your online academics are affected by your personal struggles but your professor won’t let you give up so easy.

Characters: Raymond Smith, Lee Bodecker in the background

Note: happy sunday.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You stop in the openness of the library. Just ahead is the long counter that arcs in front of the windows that look into an office space lined with desks. There are monitors facing away from you, those meant for the librarians and their assistants, and along the far edge, a sign denotes the stations meant for self-checkout.  

You always thought of coming down but never found the energy. Besides, you wouldn’t want to borrow books that could be ruined at home. Beyond that, venturing into public has never been a simple task for you. You go for biweekly trips to spend the food credits on groceries and that’s about it. 

Your eyes skitter around frantically. You hear the babble of children in the kids’ section with its bright colourful chairs and couches and a table of toys for the tots. You quickly surpass it and wander into the stretch of tables and chairs by the reference section. You put your bag down on a chair and sit next to it, folding your hands on the table then pulling them back into your lap. 

You look over at the wall of tall windows that look out into a narrow strip of foliage. The brick walls are covered in thickly woven vines and birds flit in and out of the leaves. It’s pretty. You feel entirely out of place here. 

You check the time on your digital watch. Almost ten. You can at least tick the early box, even though you might fall short of everything else.  

You twiddle your fingers and keep your head down. Your toes tap in your sneakers and you fidget as the time ticks on. What if he doesn’t come? What if you’re not worth it? Should you check your email? 

As you reach your bag, a figure approaches the table from the other side. You retract your arm and peer up at the man as he sets a leather briefcase on the wooden surface. Professor Smith nods at you and greets you by name. You feel like you should stand to greet him. 

He offers his hand as you struggle to get to your feet. You tremble as you hesitantly accept the gesture. You don’t touch people and they certainly don’t touch you. It’s only a handshake. His grasp is firm and his skin slightly rough. Your hand feels weak and tiny in his confident grip. 

He let you go as your fingers tingle, “good morning.” 

“Morning, Professor, er, sir,” you stutter dumbly. 

“Please,” he pulls out the chair on his side and you lower yourself back to the seat. “How are you today?” 

“Mm, okay...” you swallow dryly, “er... you?” 

You almost cringe. It must be rude to forget that. You’re not so use to interaction and you’re certain it shows. 

You cross your arms over the table as his cheeks twitch and he smooths back his blond hair, “good, good,” he answers in his edged accent, “lovely sunshine today.” 

“Erm, yeah, uh...” you don’t know what to say or do. 

You close your eyes and reproach yourself. You must look totally lost. You drag your bag into your lap and unzip it. You take out your notebook and fish around for the chewed bic pen. You flip back the cover and flutter the pages, looking for a blank one. Your conscious of every single move you make as you feel his gaze on you. 

“Right, so, I suppose you’re eager to be done with it,” he begins, “was their particular activities you found challenging? Maybe a formula in particular--” 

“No, I... I think I got it but...” you twirl the pen and try to look at him. You get as far as the knot of his tie, the rest of it tucked beneath a sweater that seems rather much given the weather. “I just... fell behind. I’m s-sorry.” 

“Well, that’s fine. It happens. So, if you can do the work, I can wait on it,” he assures you. “I’m not here to reprimands, that hardly fruitful for either of us. I want us to come to an accord. Let agree on a course of action.” 

“Oh, alright,” you answer stuntedly, “well, I guess if I start Coursebook Four tonight I could have it done by—by Monday?” 

“That’s a good first step,” he encourages as he pushes his glasses up his nose, drawing your eyes up to his. They are icy blue but not cold. “I like it. Setting your own goals. I find for some, it’s more effective than tossing a bunch of dates at them.” 

“Thanks, professor, I... I really appreciate you... doing this,” you can’t help the shame that seeps into your voice. He pities you, you know it. You can see it in his face so you put your focus back to the table. 

“Mm, given your...situation I think it’s understandable,” he says, “not easy to work in a racket.” 

“Professor,” you put your hand to your forehead, dipping your head to hide behind it. 

“Very concerning to hear,” he says, “and to think of a young woman in that environment.” 

“Just my mom and her boyfriend. They don’t bother me.” 

“Seems they do with all that yelling.” 

“I-- I guess but—I—I need to use the bathroom,” you stand up and sway, “sorry.” 

"As you will," he allows lightly, "I'll be here." 

He sits back and checks his watch. It's much nicer than your plastic casio. You nod and sidle out from between the chair and the table. You shuffle away, only looking for a sign as you come out next to the front counter. You have to turn back to get to the bathrooms, your clueless meandering adding to the heat in your cheeks. 

You lock yourself in a stall and try to muster the strength to come back out. Why did you come here? You feel so much worse sitting across from that man. Look at him. How could he not judge you?  

You take and breath and try to shake away the anxiety. Someone else comes in and you make yourself leave. You wash your hands and steel yourself for another delve into the general public. You emerge and stop before the room of tables. 

Professor Smith sits patiently across from your things. You round the table and close your notebook, sliding the pen back in the spiral. You chew your lip and slide it into your bag. 

“I will have Assignment Four done like I said,” you speak barely above a whisper. 

“Sounds great,” he stands as well, “I must thank you for going to the trouble of meeting me here today. I do find virtual appointments hardly have the same... effect. Might I buy you a coffee for the inconvenience?” 

“A coffee? I... no, that’s--” 

“Or a tea?” He suggests. 

“Professor, um, no, that’s okay.” 

“I insist,” he says, “I saw a cafe on my way in. Just on the corner.” 

“I didn’t... bring my wallet.” 

“As I said, my treat,” he intones, “don’t worry, we won’t be talking business.” 

“Erm,” you sniff and slant your mouth one way then the other, “well, I...” you hate to keep saying no, it’s starting to feel rude. “Sure, er, okay, thanks.” 

“My pleasure,” he gestures you ahead of him, “ladies first.” 

You sling your bag on your shoulder and step past the table. You cross the library floor and tread by the curved counter. As you come to the doors, he quickly gets ahead of you and pushes the door open, holding it for you. He’s polite, almost to a stifling degree. 

The sunshine you casts a yellow haze, warming the dark fabric of your hoodie. You descend the steps and he catches up to you, keeping pace as he stays at your side. He points you to the left, “this way.” 

You obey and feel the brush of his sleeve against yours. Pedestrians across the street seem to stare at you. No doubt they can see how you don’t belong with that man. Him in his prim outfit; his sweater pulled over a tidy collared-shirt and tie, and his glasses denoting and air of professionality. But you, in your wrinkled hoodie and jeans, must make a paltry contrast to the man. 

“Right ahead,” he nudges the back of your arm gently before you can veer in the wrong direction, “would you like to sit outside? It’s beautiful out and I see a free table.” 

“Er, if you like,” you shrug and cross your arms, “you really don’t have to...” 

“I want to,” he assures as you come up to the patio area before the corner cafe, “please, you find a table and I’ll go inside. What would you like?” 

You stop just beside the short wooden fencing that block off the seating area. Tea is usually cheaper. You’d rather not stretch his pity past a few dollars. 

“Black tea.” 

“Milk?” He asks. 

“No, thanks.” 

“Sugar?” He arches a brow. 

“Just tea.” 

“Ah, got it,” he dips his chin, “I will return. Please, have a seat.” 

He turns on his heel and as he struts up to the front door, you search the patio. You find a table for two near the wall. You won’t be centre stage there. You put your bag under the chair and sit with your back to the street. 

What are you doing? You could leave now. You could just go home. You came to talk about your schoolwork. So why are you here getting tea with this man? You need to go home and get started on it. You hang your head and lean back in the chair, arms folded as you gnaw your chapped lip. 

The voices of the patrons around you buzz in the air. You catch snippets of conversations; excitement over a date they just had, or complaints about their work life, and even the low murmurs of intimate partners cooing at each other. Life is all around you, happening to other people but you remain in your corner. 

You wince as Professor Smith returns. He places a porcelain cup before you. One you can’t just run off with. He sits across from you as you look up. 

“Thank you, sir,” you utter as you sit up. 

“Not at all,” he blows over his mug, a dark coffee with a thin layer of foam around the sides. You can smell it. “I do get curious,” he sets the steaming cup own, “about my students. Teaching from a screen can be rather disconnecting. I meet all sorts in my work but you... I didn’t see your name in the introductory forum.” 

You look evasively at the brick wall. You untangle your arms and pinch the tag of the tea bag dangling over the brim. You shrug. 

“I must’ve forgot to post.” 

“Ah, never to worry, I won’t dock marks for it,” he kids, “so, you live with your mother.” 

You nod and your eyes drop to the table. 

“She must be proud.” 

You tear the tag from the string and it recoils and falls into the tea. 

“Proud?” 

“Yes, well, you’re going to school. It’s not nothing.” 

“Yeah, but...” it goes without saying; you’re not doing very well. 

“Like I said, you’ve shown you can do the work, so do it,” he intones. 

“I know.” 

“What made you choose this program?” 

“I don’t... know.” 

“Well, you seem to have a natural affinity for numbers. Did anyone ever mention it?” 

“I guess,” you lift the cup by the handle and blow over the top. You cautiously taste it and burn yourself nonetheless. You put it back down and cover your singed lip, the tip of your tongue pulsing. 

“You alright?” He asks. 

You nod furiously. 

“Mm, well, I must admit, I am rather bad at subterfuge. This is a bad ploy,” he sits back, one hand on the table as he taps his index against his thumb, “I’d rather you take your time with the tea and not only for the sake of your tongue. I... hoped to keep you busy so that you needn’t return home so quickly. To that.” 

“That?” 

“What I overheard,” he says. 

“Oh, I told you--” 

“It may be usual for you but it doesn’t make it any safer,” he interjects. “I don’t know if you saw the email but I sent some resource you might look into. Grants. Some for housing. You could extricate yourself. You should.” 

You’re breathless. It’s humiliating. How pathetic you must be in his eyes. 

“I didn’t come to embarrass you,” he leans forward and slides his hand across the table. 

You turn your head and gulp, the lump in your throat suffocating. Your nose tingles as your face scalds. You shudder and push your shoulders up. 

“You’re a bright young woman, I only thought I might...” he struggles to find words, “well, I did not begin as a professor. I did not even start as some high and above pupil. No, I was a miserable lad. Barely made it through my first year but... all I’m saying is I might not have been where you are, but I get it.” 

Your lashes flutter as you fight back tears. You’re so tired of crying. You’re exhausted of feeling this way. No matter what you do or where you are, you just feel like you don’t belong. 

You look at your watch, “I’ll have to go soon.” You won’t even come up with a lie. You need to go before you break down completely. 

He sighs, “right.” 

[fayes-fics]

Kinktober: 100 Word Challenge

So, after saying I wouldn’t be doing Kinktober this year, my brain has decided it disagrees… but I can only commit to something small. I have WIPs, but I’m hoping these will get my writing brain humming.

I was planning to reserve a different version of a 100-word challenge for my next follower milestone celebration, but ah well 🤷‍♀️

How it works

I will write up to 10 very short c. 100-word drabbles!

With a character (Anthony or Benedict Bridgerton) + time period + kink.

For example: Anthony + Regency + gags

I will then write the first thing that comes to mind. Each will be up to or around 100 words!

How to take part

Send an ask, can be Anon, following the format above. That’s it!!

Depending on how many I get, I may not be able to write them all. But I can commit to doing up to ten.

I will keep open to submissions until at least Sunday night (Oct 1st, 11:59pm ET)

Also, please do check your request falls within my usual guidelines in terms of what I will/won’t write.

I won’t be using my taglist when I post these drabbles. Doesn’t seem fair to ping people to read less than 200 words 😂😁🧡

Gif credit: @eleanor-bradstreet [x].

Dividers credit: @firefly-graphics [x]

[incorrectcoldflashblog]

Answer the Questions and Tag 5 Fanfic Authors

Thank you so much to @kitkatt0430 for tagging me <3

1. How did you get into writing fanfiction?

Well, I got back into Coldflash in a big way a couple years ago, and kind of got frustrated not really seeing anything new in the tag, lol. Desperation is usually my biggest motivator to do anything. If I had unlimited new Coldflash fics coming out, I probably would never have written my own tbh.

2. How many fandoms have you written in?

Just the one. I used to do translations for a different fandom, though, so maybe two depending on if translating counts.

3. How many years have you been writing fanfiction?

My own? Only a year and a half. Translating, maybe roughly ten years.

4. Do you read or write more fanfiction?

I probably write more now, but you wouldn’t know it because I’m such a slow writer!

5. What is one way you’ve improved as a writer?

Oh, I feel like my English has definitely gotten better since I started writing regularly. I always felt obligated to put a little disclaimer at the bottom, like please be nice to me, this isn’t my first language, lol. I feel a little bit more confident about it now (although I still obsessively google every sentence and word).

6. What’s the weirdest topic you researched for a writing project?

I mean, thanks to Chapter 4 of What Happens in Vegas I know now way more than I ever needed to know about tornado sirens, considering we don’t have them in my country, lol. I also ended up doing extensive (and totally pointless) research about the ancient Sumerian city-state of Ur (located in the South of what is now modern-day Iraq), which is where Len/Cold was supposed to be from in my AU where he was a genie. For those who are unaware, Ur fell in about 2000 BC and had a very famous poem written about it. Here is the cheery opening of 11 stanzas of misery:

For the gods have abandoned us

like migrating birds they have gone

Ur is destroyed, bitter is its lament

The country's blood now fills its holes like hot bronze in a mould

Bodies dissolve like fat in the sun. Our temple is destroyed

Smoke lies on our city like a shroud.

blood flows as the river does

the lamenting of men and women

sadness abounds

Ur is no more

7. What’s your favorite type of comment to receive on your work?

I always appreciate when people point out the parts they liked. But honestly I’m happy for people to comment at all, especially on older fics :)

8. What’s the most fringe trope/topic you write about?

I don’t know that anything I’ve written can be considered fringe, lol. I do have a Lisa/Iris WIP, which I assume would be more of a rarepair, but I only have one scene written for it so who knows if I’ll ever finish it. I guess the Genie AU was kind of strange.

9. What is the hardest type of story for you to write?

Longfics ;-; God, I’ve gained so much respect for people who can do that consistently for 60+ chapters, or over multiple fics in a series. My longfic isn’t even that long, comparatively, and I still feel like I will never get it done.

10. What is the easiest type?

One-shots, my beloved.

11. Where do you do your writing? What platform? When?

On my laptop. I just use Word and I prefer to write in the morning, which isn’t super ideal because it only leaves me the weekend to really get into it.

12. What is something you’ve been too nervous/intimidated to write, but would love to write one day?

I’m too nervous to start more longfics at the moment because I feel like two is my absolute limit but I’d love to be able to write both the TATBILB-inspired fic I had in mind and the Future Fic that I sometimes play around with. I’d have to finish at least one of my longer projects first, or maybe try to get the whole thing written before posting it but I’m usually too impatient to do that!

13. What made you choose your username?

My username is captainicecube and I picked it because it’s roughly how Captain Cold was translated in the French dub. They translated it as Captain Glaçons (Captain Icecubes), which always makes me laugh whenever I think about it because it’s so stupid XD

Tagging @crestfallercanyon @joanthangroff @tiger-in-the-flightdeck @softboydepot and @moriavis

[reyesstrand]

wip wednesday

thank you for tagging me @carlos-in-glasses @alrightbuckaroo @strandnreyes <33333

She teaches him her secrets. She’ll pull a large cut of beef wrapped in parchment from the fridge and call for him—Carlitos!—in her lilting, warm voice. She’ll tell him how her mother before her taught her this recipe, who was taught by her mother before her, and she’ll teach him how to season not by measurements but by his instincts, and by the end of the summer he’ll have learned nine or ten recipes he can replicate without her help, though he always asks for it because it feels special to be by her side.

He thinks about his time with her often. He thinks about her in the sunlight dappling through tree branches and herbs lining windowsills and white prairie lilies that spring up everywhere after heavy rain.

He’s thinking about her when he finishes at the farmer’s market, getting ahead of himself by buying enough ingredients to make a meal big enough for two before he knows he has someone to cook for. He fishes his phone from his pocket and shoots TK a text: are you busy today?

Deep down, Carlos can guess the answer. TK’s been cooped up at his place for the past five days, recovering from both his gunshot wound and the strain on his body from ripping open his stitches, and he’s looking at another two weeks of medical leave from work at least. TK texts him often and complains, but Carlos likes hearing it—he likes being the one TK can talk to; he likes knowing he’s not still hurting enough to be consumed by it. He’s proven right when his phone buzzes as he grabs the canvas bags from the backseat, and he reads TK’s response: i’ve never been so bored in my life, if you’re offering to rescue me, please do.

Carlos smiles, and texts, come over? i want to cook for you.

This…thing between them has him feeling warm all over, all the time. But this is new: the fluttering of his stomach, the nerves over the mere thought of sharing his family recipes with a man who’s just accepted Carlos wants to love him. He furrows his brows when his phone starts ringing as he drops everything onto his kitchen island, though the prospect of hearing TK’s voice settles the self-doubt pooling in his chest.

“You want to cook for me?” TK asks, something unsure colouring his words.

“I do. I hate thinking of you all alone over there,” Carlos says, tracing his blunt fingernail over his list, following the rough line he’d scratched through each ingredient as he added them to his bag. “Besides, it’s my abuela’s recipe, and she always told me your cooking taste better when you share it with someone.”

He doesn’t say someone you love, because TK is a bit like a fire, and he’s as captivated by his ferocity and his warmth as much as he’s wary of being burned; of adding fuel to a flame by doing too much, too soon.

no pressure tagging @lovesgalores @tailoredshirt @paperstorm @maxbegone @sunshinestrand @marjansmarwani @rmd-writes (sorry if you’ve already been tagged!)