#i just wanna finish the draft so i can ediiiiiiiiiiiit

[mego42]

Can I ask what brio fic you’re working on (if any)? I love everything you write!

anon!!!!!!!! thank you!!!!!!!!! you are v sweet and i am v blushing!!!!!!!!

i am currently still focused on that pilot-era strangers pwp i snippeted the other week (huzzah! the squirrels in my brain are cooperating again!) and i am v pleased to say i am soooooooo close to having the first draft done (it uh, got longer than i meant it too, everyone is shocked, i know).

i've also got a 416 missing scene(s) fic swimming around in my head i found myself mentally writing dialogue for while i cooked dinner last night (crispy gnocchi with burst tomatoes and mozzarella, 1000000/10, highkey recommend) so that's probs gonna happen sooner rather than later and i've been feeling the pacific rim au a lot recently but i've been saying that for a year plus, so. grain of salt.

ANYWAY, please enjoy this snippet (including a bit from a wip word game my b for the duplication) from the stangers pwp!

“Elizabeth,” she says. Her, but not her.

“Elizabeth.”

He repeats her name slowly like he’s wrapping his lips around each syllable, running his tongue over them and tasting them. Beth sticks out her hand, trying to cover up the shiver she can’t quite suppress.

“And you are?”

He takes it—his palm is warm, his fingers lightly calloused and rough against her own—and looks her up and down again, slower this time.

Beth’s mouth goes dry, that heavy caressing feeling morphing into pins and needles dancing along her limbs, leaving sparks and goosebumps in their wake. He’s looking at her like he sees her and a part of her feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for an answer to a question she didn’t mean to ask.

“Christopher,” he says, shaking her hand then releasing it, his fingers trailing over her knuckles as he lets go.

“And what do you do, Christopher?” Beth asks, washing down his name with another swallow of bourbon, the burn of it mingling with the vowels and consonants and pooling deep in her belly.

He smiles, his teeth white, his eyes twinkling. “Single dad.”

Beth’s eyes narrow, and she searches his face, trying to determine if he’s making fun of her. “Stay at home?”

His smile goes lopsided, the slightly off-kilter quirk of it the only thing keeping it from turning into a full smirk. “Somethin’ like that.”

She wonders how much of it is a lie, if he’s mirroring her and making up a fantasy version of himself or if part of it’s true—him, but not him.

“Not a lot of parents in the pick-up line with neck tattoos,” she says, huffing a little at the thought of the chaos someone like him would wreak on the mom chains.

There’s that flash of teeth again. “Not a lot of parents like me in the pick-up line.”

It’s too much, the arrogant satisfaction he says it with, and Beth snorts, rolling her eyes before she can stop herself. She winces, bracing herself for the bright, interested spark to fade, for his jaw to tighten as irritation takes its place.

But instead, if anything, that spark flares, his smile widening into more of a grin that crinkles the skin around his eyes before it fades into something more considering. He cocks his head, his eyes sweeping over her again, but slower this time.

Beth’s pulse thumps, and she can feel the beat of it reverberating through her whole body, all the way down to the tips of her toes curling in her shoes. Blinking, she takes another sip of her drink, startling a little when she realizes she’s reached the end of her glass.

“So, a thief, huh?” The guy catches the bartender’s eye, circling a long, elegant finger, signaling for another round.

“Oh, I—” Beth starts to fumble for her purse, but he waves her off.

“How’d you do it?” he asks, pivoting in his full body in his seat, so he’s facing her. “Rob your grocery store?”

They’re close enough that his denim-covered knee brushes up against her thigh right where the hem of her dress gives way to bare skin. This time Beth can’t stop her shiver, and she knows he catches it from the way his smile sharpens, and she thinks...she thinks—

Well, she doesn’t think. Instead, she turns on her stool, letting her leg press more fully against his as she props her elbow on the bar, rests her cheek in her hand, and tells him.