#i want that one to be finished so bad. oh chair wip you are so important to me <3

[skitskatdacat63]

My Christmas wish is to finish all my pertinent wips 🙏

[aperrywilliams]

That Green Monster (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader)

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Author Masterlist

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader.

Summary: Your relationship with Spencer is fresh new, and some of his insecurities arise when someone new joins the team, making him react in a wrong way to you.

Word Count: 4.8k

Warnings: Fluff and Angst. And then fluff at the end (I don't even understand myself). Spencer lashes out. Spencer is insecure. Reader is mad. Both are so madly in love, though.

A/N: This one has been sitting as a WIP for way too long, so I decided to finish it today!

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A shot in the neck.

That's what it took for you and Spencer to - finally - get together. To confess you loved each other.

Everything happened while working a case in Texas. You had cornered a suspect who was hiding in a restaurant. You wanted to open a communication line with him, but out of nowhere, shots got fired. And one of them ended in your neck.

What happened next was a blur to everyone, especially to Spencer. He barely remembers Morgan pulling him back so that the paramedics could check on you.

The ambulance ride to the hospital and the hours of waiting for news were excruciating.

In Spencer's brain, only the thought that he might lose you forever without coming clean about his feelings for you.

You have been in a similar situation before, but this time, he thought you wouldn't make it.

It would be the loss of a friend and the loss of the love of his life.

If Spencer has to be honest, he realized he loved you after your first month working at the BAU. And with every passing day, the feeling only got stronger. But he was scared of saying anything, afraid of changing - or losing - the strong bond you guys already had.

So, he kept it to himself for years. For six years, to be exact.

But what he didn't know was you had fallen for him, too.

And how could you not? You both went through so many things over the years: Spencer's kidnapping, his Dilaudid problem, your family issues, the injuries, bad cases, unsubs attacks, hospital visits, and so on. With every bump in the way, you both were each other rock. Always together, no matter what.

The team affectionately called you Mulder and Scully, but in reverse roles, of course.

But even if, at some point, both of you realized what you had was much more than a friendship, neither of you did something about it.

Until you got shot in the neck.

In that uncomfortable waiting room chair, Spencer prayed, to whatever or whoever could listen, for a chance to make things right.

So when you woke up in your hospital bed hours later, the first thing you saw was Spencer's face.

He was by your side as always. But this time, he had something to tell you. Spencer didn't have the chance, though, because before he could say anything, three words blurted out from your lips: 'I love you.'

Between happy tears, you both spent hours talking and coming to the conclusion you were both idiots in love.

You didn't say anything to the team, but you all knew they knew, so it became unspoken knowledge after you were released from the hospital.

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With you home due to your neck injury and JJ on maternity leave, Hotch decided that some help would be better than putting more pressure on the remaining team members.

That's why he borrowed an agent from Sex Crimes.

Spencer had already told you that there was a new agent, but he hadn't developed this information in detail.

You knew him on your first day back, a month after you got shot.

Once you exited the elevator on the sixth, you headed through the bullpen glass doors. When you pushed them open, you didn't realize that someone was going in the opposite direction, and you almost hit the guy in the face with one of the doors.

"Oh, my God. I'm sorry!" you exclaimed when you realized what almost happened.

The man shook his head in dismissal. "No, no. Don't be. Nothing happened."

"But I almost hit you with a glass door," you pointed. The guy didn't seem phased by it, though.

"I'm okay, really," he insisted, flashing you a smile. You hadn't picked much of his appearance, to be honest, but the guy was easy on the eyes. Another thing that caught your attention was you had never seen him before.

"Do I know you?" You asked with curiosity.

"I don't think so. I'm Agent Dodds. Jake Dodds," he introduced himself, extending his hand. You've heard that last name before. You told him yours, shaking his hand.

"Really? You are a BAU member, right? I'm the backup agent Hotchner brought to the team," he explained, and then it clicked. He was the new guy.

Jake Dodds was young, fresh and motivated. After his first year in Sex Crimes, he already has a lot of accomplishments to show off. And, of course, he was doing his best to impress Hotch and the team.

Coming to the office bright and early and being the last to leave gave Dodds a chance to engage with the cases and the team members - you included. Due to your neck injury, you were mostly on desk duty, so you had enough time to help Jake with paperwork and all the questions he might have about past cases. And Dodds had many.

In the weeks that followed, he has spent a lot of time by your side, working with you when the team wasn't out of town.

It was part of your nature to be forthcoming and willing to teach others. And having worked at the BAU for almost six years, you felt like you could teach one thing or two.

Spencer loves that from you; it's one of the many things that made him fall in love with you. But for some reason, Jake's closeness to you started to bother him.

Spencer knew it was irrational and without foundation. Still, in the past weeks since Dodds joined, with each laugh from you when Jake cracked a joke, every time you sat together at the office a little too close, or every day you decided to have lunch with Jake rather than him, Spencer's jealousy only got stronger. It didn't help the team's comments about you and Jake.

'Dodds looks hooked by her'; 'The newbie definitely is flirting with her'; 'Really handsome view she has over there.'

Spencer could only bite his tongue. He could easily assume that the team was only messing with the situation, but the green monster growing inside didn't let him think clearly.

Spencer knew you, and you would never do something to hurt him, so why did he feel that uneasiness inside of him?

Maybe the fact you were in the early stages of your relationship made Spencer insecure. It was all new and fresh; he was happy with you, but although you both have known each other for years, he was inexperienced in the love department. Being friends was one thing, but being a couple was different.

So instead of talking to you—which he knew was the right thing to do—Spencer did what he usually does when he feels overwhelmed: he shuts people out.

And you did notice, of course.

Something was troubling him, you knew that, but every time you brought up the topic, he dodged it. You didn't look much into it at first because you knew Spencer would talk to you eventually when he felt ready. Or you assumed he would.

But the days went by, and Spencer still hadn't told you why he had been so distant, so you decided to confront him.

You both were watching a movie at your place, but you noticed Spencer wasn't paying attention to the TV. After an internal debate about whether it was a good idea to bring this up, you tested the waters.

"Spencer, are you okay?" you asked him, genuine concern lacing your voice.

The question hung in the air enough to make you think he might not hear you.

"Spencer?" you tried again, swearing you heard him huff even if he tried to be subtle.

"I'm okay, just tired," he hastened to dismiss, not looking at you.

So he heard you, but you had to call his name again to get an answer. Something is definitely wrong.

Contemplating your options, you chose to end the 'patiently wait until he comes to you' strategy. You were his girlfriend now. Why he couldn't trust you enough to tell you what's going on?

"Okay. This bullshit needs to stop now. You have been weird for too many days to tell me now you are okay and just tired. I know something happened and need you to tell me what it is," you demanded.

Shifting uncomfortably in his spot, Spencer had an inner debate about coming clean to you. He didn't want to admit how much Jake's closeness to you was bothering him. Spencer didn't want you to think about him as the possessive and clingy boyfriend who can't see his girlfriend near other guys.

He wasn't like that, right?

"You are imagining things. I'm perfectly fine," Spencer deadpanned, eyes returning to the TV.

Your mouth went slack. Were you imagining things? Was he thinking you were stupid?

"So I'm imagining things, uh? It's not you being defensive right now, isn't it?"

"No." He gave you a curt answer that meant precisely the opposite of what he was implying.

You wanted to give him a chance to open with you, but Spencer wasn't engaging.

It seemed easier to talk about what was happening to each other when you were only friends. Why is it so hard now you are a couple? You couldn't understand, and your patience was running short.

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" you called him out in frustration. "Who do you think I am? A random person who hasn't known you for fucking six years?"

Spencer internally flinched. He saw the confusion and anger mixed in your eyes, and he felt the urge to hug you tight, telling you he was being an irrational jealous asshole. But Spencer didn't bring himself to do it, and instead, he tried to play cool and detached.

"I already told you. Everything is wonderful, at least for me. Not for you?" Spencer asked casually.

You narrowed your eyes at him. He looked calm and collected, but you could feel he was anything but.

"Okay. I'll bite the bullet. So the distance between us in the past weeks doesn't bother you as it bothers me," you concluded.

Spencer let out a bitter chuckle.

"Funny you're bothered by that. You have seemed very busy in the past weeks," Spencer mumbled.

A slip that didn't go unnoticed by you.

"Very busy?" you echoed his words. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Spencer shrugged, unamused.

"Exactly what it is. You have been very busy at the BAU lately. I only have been giving you space."

You squinted your eyes, raking your brain to understand Spencer's meaning. For your mandatory desk duty, you have spent more time in the office than in the field, but besides that, what has been different?

And then it clicked on you. Jake Dodds.

Sure, you've been very willing to teach him things and help him with his work, but that only explains Spencer's annoyance if there is another reason.

"Is this about Dodds? Are you jealous of Jake?" you questioned in disbelief.

Spencer's face paled. You had caught him.

After your deduction, he should have told the truth, but Spencer is stubborn enough not to give in, especially if that meant recognizing something he felt embarrassed of.

"W- what?! No! Where did you get that? I'm not jealous or remotely close to that," Spencer rebutted defensively.

Oh, he was definitively jealous. At the realization, you let out a giggle, eyes softening at your boyfriend. For you, there is no guy he should be worried about- not for Jake or any other person. Your heart is his, and you know there is nobody in this world you want to be with more than Spencer.

But Spencer's face deflated. You were laughing at him, and he felt even worse.

"Spencer, there is no reason for you to be -"

You couldn't even finish your sentence when Spencer cut you off, standing from the couch.

"I already told you! Am I not speaking English to you?"

His face was red, but not by embarrassment anymore. Now, it was a kind of contained rage.

Stunned by his reaction, it took you a few seconds to say anything.

"I - I'm just trying to understand what's going on. Don't be rude," you chimed.

Spencer let out a humorless chuckle.

"Rude, did you say? Am I rude because I disagree with you? Is that? Or am I rude because this doesn't have to do with you?"

"Excuse me? When did this turn into a problem related to me?"

You stood to mirror his stature so as not to look vulnerable.

"I don't know, you tell me. Are you disappointed because not everything or anyone in this world is revolving around you?"

Spencer's voice was cold and sarcastic, something you had seen in him before but never directed toward you. He was outrightly saying you were self-centered.

"Spencer -" you tried to warn him to back off, but Spencer didn't stop.

"No. I get it. You like the attention. But, I'm sorry, I'm not in the mood to indulge your childish self. Maybe the young and funny Agent Dodds could help you with that. But not me."

A dead silence settled in the room. If a needle had fallen on the floor, it would have made a noticeable noise.

You couldn't believe that man was your boyfriend—the man who was telling you such hurtful words.

Spencer saw how your features morphed from confused to hurt and then to offense, and with a twist in his guts, he knew he had fucked up.

"Are you done?"

Your tone was flat and collected, even if, on the inside, there was a storm of feelings. Spencer was deflated and looking for the right words to apologize.

"Hey, look, I'm -"

"I asked if you were done." You questioned harshly this time, and Spencer only gave you a shy nod.

"Okay, now get out!"

Your command was only followed by your actions as you walked to your entrance to open the door.

With horror, Spencer tried to sputter words to change your mind.

"I'm sorry. I - I didn't - Please, don't do this."

"I said, get out! I don't want you here!"

You emphasized your words, gesturing to the open door.

"Baby, I wasn't - I didn't mean what-" Spencer tried again, but you had made up your mind and didn't want to hear him.

"I don't fucking care! You had your time to explain yourself, and I don't want to hear anything else from you."

Spencer knew that nothing he could say at that moment would help his cause, so like a dog with the tail between his legs, he slowly made the walk of shame towards your door, but not before looking at you and begging for forgiveness with his eyes. It was a useless thing because you didn't even look at him back. Once he was out of your sight, you slammed the door shut, and your facade crumbled.

Tears started to fall freely, in a combination of pain and frustration.

It's needless to say, you couldn't sleep that night.

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Spencer looked distracted and visibly sad.

Morgan knew something had happened to him, even if the man had denied the fact for the past two days. And Morgan was sure it was something related to you. It looked like Spencer would combust from guilt whenever his eyes landed on you. Morgan's suspicion turned to be right the moment you caught Spencer's gaze, and you purposely averted it.

"Okay, pretty boy, what did you do?" Morgan questioned Spencer when he caught him pouring coffee in the kitchenette.

"What? Me? Nothing!" Spencer defended himself, but the crack in his voice did nothing to help his cause.

"So she's not talking to you just because?"

Spencer shrugged, leaving the pot over the counter.

Was he being so obvious? If Spencer wanted to maintain the facade that 'nothing is wrong here,' he was failing miserably.

Morgan scoffed, grabbing a mug to pour some coffee for himself.

"Come on, Reid. There must be something. Since yesterday morning, you look like a kicked puppy, and she seems visibly upset, and you're both always attached to the hip."

Dangerous territory, Spencer thought. But at this point, his regret was more powerful than keeping your relationship private.

"She is mad at me," the man recognized. It was a 'vague' recognition, but it was something.

Morgan seemed not surprised, though.

"No shit, Sherlock. The question is why, pretty boy," Derek prodded.

Spencer sighed deeply. How could he express what really happened without telling the whole truth?

Morgan saw the struggle in Spencer's eyes.

"I know you are both hurting by whatever happened. Maybe talking would help you clear your head and think about how to fix it."

Spencer took in Morgan's words. Some advice could help, he decided.

"We fought. I mean, we argued two nights ago, and she kicked me out. And now she is not talking to me, and I don't- I want to apologize, but I don't know how."

Spencer winced, just remembering your fight.

Derek looked at him incredulously.

"She kicked you out? What in the world did you do so she reacted like that?"

The actual question was 'what he said' because, strictly speaking, he didn't do anything besides let his mouth run on its own accord.

He regretted every word he said to you the second they left his mouth, but the damage was done, and you were fed up enough to listen to his apologies, so you yelled at him to let you alone. He didn't blame you. But he was feeling miserable, and it showed.

Spencer told Morgan exactly what happened—word by word.

"Jesus, Reid. I didn't peg you like the jealous type," Morgan acknowledged. Spencer shook his head.

"It's not like that. I mean, I know she loves me..."

"But?"

Spencer sighed. "What if - what if she realizes there are better men than me? That I am not enough for a romantic relationship?"

Morgan's eyebrows knit together. Spencer's face was pure panic, only thinking about the possibility.

"And Dodds would be better than you? You know he's like a kid, right?" Morgan pointed.

"Yeah. A young man with a lot of confidence that makes her smile and has her undivided attention. He's smart and qualified for this job like any of us. I'm not better than him. And I can perfectly be disposable in comparison."

That was the thing. Spencer felt insecure about you finding someone better than him.

Morgan looked at him empathetically.

"Man, I think you are looking too much into it. I don't think you should feel threatened in your relationship with her. And I guess she thinks the same and feels hurt for you thinking that."

Spencer nodded. "That's why I know I fucked up. I hurt her for my insecurities. It's all my fault," he lamented.

"You need to talk to her," Morgan advised, and Spencer whined.

"How? She hasn't spared me a glance in two days!"

"You're a genius, Spencer. And above all, how long have you known her? Five years? Think of something."

"Five years, eleven months, three weeks, and four days," Spencer corrected without hesitation.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about. You'll figure it out."

Spencer sighed deeply as Morgan patted his shoulder before leaving the kitchenette. Derek was right; they should talk. Spencer just had to figure out how to make that happen.

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That night you were sulking at your apartment, laying on the couch and watching some crap on the TV, when three knocks alerted you.

You weren't expecting anyone, and you didn't think Spencer could be outside your door. You were clear in telling him you didn't want to talk to him when he cornered you in the breaking room this afternoon.

But if you knew something about Spencer Reid, it was that he could be stubborn as fuck. So when you looked by the peephole and saw him standing there, you only closed your eyes and sighed.

Spencer knocked again. "I know you are there. And I know you don't want to talk to me. But please, let me do the talk. Please, at least listen to the things I need to say."

"You already said enough," you spat from your spot on the other side of the door. Spencer gulped hard. He said enough hurtful things to you to kick his ass, but he was determined to gain your forgiveness somehow.

"I can't stress enough how sorry I am for that. But I need you to know that I didn't mean any of it." Spencer paused, and when he didn't hear you say anything, he continued. "I'm an asshole, and I would understand if you want to break up and never see me again. I mean, well - it - it would be kind of difficult not to see each other because we work together, but you know what I mean. Or maybe not, I don't know. Jesus, what the fuck am I saying?" Spencer chastised himself, trying to control his nerves.

You could hear him struggling, so you decided to spare him a panic attack in the middle of the hallway. You opened your door and saw him still trying to sputter what he wanted to say.

"If this is your way to apologize, you are doing a terrible job." Your voice was not angry but tired. Because if he had had two tortuous days of you not talking to him, you haven't done it any better, overthinking about your fight over and over again.

Spencer's glassy, pleading eyes found yours.

"I know. It seems it's another thing I suck at," he admitted fidgeting with his hands. "Would you, uh. Would you let me try again? Apologize. That is."

It's true you were still mad with him, but you really wanted to understand why he reacted the way he did that night and said all the things he said. You know him too well to ignore that something else beyond mere jealousy clearly triggered his outburst.

Without saying a word, you gestured for him to get into the apartment. Spencer was quick to comply before you changed your mind.

You both took seats on opposite sides of the couch, eyes overly interested in your living room rug. After some minutes of silence and knowing he needed to say something, Spencer cleared his throat.

"I guess I'm going to start with the beginning," he prefaced, keeping his hands in his lap as you turned to contemplate him in silence. "Uh - you know it took me time to come clean with my feelings for you. A lot of time, almost six years," he chuckled nervously. You nodded, not wanting to interrupt him, fearing to get him more anxious.

"The thing is- I have been in love with you for so long and creating scenarios of us in my mind that - that now I know it is real, I don't - It's still difficult to grasp the idea we are together, you know?"

As Spencer raked his hair, collecting his thoughts, you couldn't help but remember all the things you both went through until you decided to tell the truth to each other. Six years is a long time. But you wanted to believe it has been worth it.

"I'm not used to a life where I get to be happy; when I think I am, things crush down, and I lose everything. It's a rule: good things don't last in my life."

You know how difficult it has been for Spencer to accept that he is not cursed or anything like that—a very difficult task, knowing the things he has been through.

"So my mind began to be haunted by the idea that it was a matter of time before you realized you could do better than me, and I'm only worth it as a friend."

His words made you recall the times you both discussed your love life in the past and all the doubts weighing on Spencer's shoulders. After those conversations, you always swore to make him feel loved and appreciated.

"And then you came back to work, and Dodds was there. I created this whole scenario, telling myself that you would be better with someone like him."

Spencer paused to gauge your reaction. You were openly listening to him, taking in every word.

"I know it's unfair to you. I - I betrayed your trust by mulling those ideas and saying all those hurtful things I truly don't believe. I'm so sorry; I don't have a defense other than my incompetence in dealing with my insecurities," Spencer concluded, letting a deep sigh escape from his lips and averting your gaze. He looked embarrassed and vulnerable, and it hurts you to acknowledge how small he feels about himself. You reached your hand tentatively, touching his forearm, and Spencer's eyes drifted back to you.

"Spencer, you have to know there is no one in this world who I love so deeply as I love you. No man could compare to you. No matter how young or confident or whatever difference you can name. You are the most thorough, caring, and selfless person I know, and I love you so fucking much it hurts," you gave his arm a gentle squeeze to emphasize your point. Spencer's cheeks flushed a bit. He still needs to get used to your compliments.

"What I still don't get is why you didn't tell me. Don't you trust me enough to talk to me about how you feel?"

Spencer hastened to reply, taking your hand in his. "No! It's not that! I do trust you with my life!"

"Then why didn't you tell me the truth at the beginning?"

"I - I don't know. I thought you would see me as the shitty boyfriend who can't see his partner near another man. It's as if I wanted to control you. And that's far from what I want," Spencer explained, scooting by your side as his grip on your hand tightened. "It was my problem, not yours. You did nothing to make this happen. I'm the one who must have to fix it." You shook your head.

"Baby, no. If it is something that upsets you, it is my problem, too. Spencer, we need to talk about those things and resolve them together."

Spencer's head hung low, taking in your words.

"But why? I am the insecure one, and you have done nothing more than show me how unfounded my fear is."

"Well, because you're still my best friend, and I care about you." Spencer's gaze met yours again. "It's the thing I first loved about us, you know? I love feeling safe with you and having the trust to talk about what is happening to us." With loving eyes, you brought his hand to your lips to kiss it.

"I want you to keep being my best friend, too," Spencer said with a hopeful smile. It was all you needed to hear.

"Then please don't forget that. You can always talk to me, and I promise to do the same, okay?" Spencer nodded at your words, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Okay. I promise," Spencer replied before wrapping you in a tight embrace. You melted in his arms, feeling his warmth and inhaling his scent, something you have been missing in the past two days.

"I love you," you mumbled into his chest. "So so much."

"I love you too. And I'm so sorry for my behavior two days ago," Spencer muttered in your hair.

You chuckled, slightly parting to look at him.

"Yeah, we have to work on taming that green monster, doctor. Otherwise, Hotch won't be able to bring anyone new to the team," you pointed, leaning to kiss his lips. Spencer smiled into the kiss.

"That means you forgive me?" he asked hopefully. You narrowed your eyes.

"Yes. But you still have to make it up to me," you teased, faking seriousness.

Spencer nodded eagerly nonetheless. "Whatever it takes."

"You could start making something to eat. I'm starving here after two days with a hole in my stomach," you rubbed your belly for emphasis.

"Yes, ma'am," Spencer smiled, standing and strolling quickly to the kitchen. He felt so relieved after coming clean with you that he swore not to make the same mistake again. That green monster fed by his insecurities dissipating as he thought how lucky he was to love and have you in his life.

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Spencer Reid's Taglist: @dreatine @nomajdetective @jayyeahthatsme @rosalinasam2 @averyhotchner @lovelyxtom @princessmiaelicia @pastelbabygirl19 @reidsbookclub @alexxavicry @gspenc @spencerreidisbae123 @calmspencer @pauline5525mgg @anamiad00msday @milivanili99 @laylasbunbunny @leahblackk @miaxx03 @missabsey @taintedstranger @khxna @hiireadstuff @pleasantwitchgarden @dysphoricsanity @levi-of-starz @themoonchildwhofell @silver138 @lovelybaka @shinytinywhispers

[so-long-soldier-writes]

drabble #9 - hope

kai parker x reader

summary: kai notices your scars

tags: implied / referenced s3lf h4rm, coffee, crushes

word count: 943

a/n: remembered this has been in my wip folder, but when i wrote it, i had already posted a sh related one that week 💀 but the last two days at work have been ROUGH and i dug it back out.

It’s just for a second that you need to pop into the Salvatore boarding house. Just for a coffee before you head over to the Grill to study. You could just get one there, but you’re a firm believer in having one to-go, to sip on as you make your way to the other place. Besides, taking a detour to the house means chit-chatting with whomever is inside at the moment, and curiosity is killing you to know. 

“Hello!” You announce your presence as you walk through the hallway.

“Y/N!” Damon exclaims, “what on earth brings you here today?” 

The two of you are probably best described as frenemies. Sometimes you hate him, sometimes you love him; whichever one depends on his attitude. 

“Oh nothing much, being nosy, stealing coffee. Who else is here?”

“Elena, who’s off classes for the day. Caroline, who dropped out of school entirely. And Kai, who has nowhere to be, except apparently in my business.”

“Awh, he can’t be that bad.”

“He is, Y/N. Soooo talkative! And since he’s here, Bonnie’s not!”

“But the merge helped, right? He kinda mellowed out, even though you thought the opposite would happen.”

“Doesn’t mean I enjoy his company.”

“I’m right here,” Kai says suddenly. 

You turn to the sound of his voice and smile, “hi!”

“Hi,” the boy can’t help but smile back. 

Turning back around, you start to make a coffee. You don’t know it, but Kai’s eyes are still on you, watching your every move. He’s curious about you, though knows he can’t admit it. But every small interaction the two of you have, you’re so bubbly and sweet. He can’t help the desire to ingrain you in his brain - the one person who’s ever shown him kindness. 

As Kai watches you, though, his eyes linger on your arms. Something catches his eye, just a glance, but it’s long enough to make his stomach drop. 

“And so I was running through the trees when I tripped, but then when I turned to see what I had tripped over, I- Kai, stop watching her, that’s creepy!” Elena interrupts the story of her dream to bark at the boy. 

Kai snaps out of his trance and mutters an apology. 

“It’s okay,” you shrug. “He’s not bothering me.”

“Well he’s bothering me.” Elena then continues after rolling her eyes. 

Some time after hearing her story and finishing your first coffee, you excuse yourself to go study. After all, exams are coming up quickly, and there’s no chance you’ll get any work done in the Salvatore house. So, with simple goodbyes to everyone, you go and start to make your way down the gravel driveway. 

The moment you leave, Kai shoots up from his chair. “I need to talk to her.”

“Hold up,” Damon stops him quickly, “no, no, no. She was just here. You don’t need to see her alone.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Kai-”

“I just need to ask her something!”

“Damon, just let him. Y/N can handle her own,” Stefan says, obviously tired.

“Fine. If I hear a scream, I’ll be there faster than you know it.”

Kai rolls his eyes, but then practically runs out the door to reach you. 

You haven’t gotten far before he catches up to you.

“Y/N, hey!”

Turning, you smile at him. “What’s up?”

“I just…” he’s slightly out of breath, and takes a moment to gain it back. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your,” he gestures to your wrist, “arm. I just… noticed it, like a little glimpse, and want to check that you’re okay. I didn’t want to say anything in front of everyone else, but, uh, yeah.”

“Oh!” Your eyes widen as he references your scars. Three days ago, you broke your sober streak once again. Today, they’re faint, but still visible enough to be seen if anyone were looking. Apparently, Kai was. 

You move your hand behind your back quickly. “I’m okay, I just-”

“You don’t have to be ashamed of them, Y/N.” He swallows hard. “I have them, too.” He moves his leather bracelet to reveal a scarring wound, fresher and deeper than yours. It hurts your heart to see. 

“Oh, baby!” You exclaim, grabbing his hand without thinking twice. Kai watches in confusion as you kiss his palm, but then step back just as fast as when you grabbed him. “I’m sorry! I totally forgot my boundaries. I, are you okay? Those are deep.”

“I’m fine, it doesn’t bother me.”

“I shouldn’t have touched you. I’m sorry for that, too.”

“It’s okay. It felt… nice,” he admits quietly. 

You nod. “Hey, um, do you want to come with me? I’m headed towards the Grill to study, but if you’re up for it, I’d rather be there with you.”

“Yes,” he replies immediately. Then he looks towards the house, “but-”

“Don’t worry about Damon. I’ll shoot him a text that you’re with me, and he’s smart enough to not piss me off. Mmkay?”

“Okay. But if you don’t mind me asking, are you sure you’re okay in, uh, that respect?”

You sigh, “not really. But I will be someday. You?”

“I’m not really okay, either. But uh, this is my first time feeling like I might have hope. Helps to know someone who understands.”

Smiling, you gesture in a question if you can take his hand again, which he allows by extending it out to you. You clasp your fingers together, kiss his knuckles, and then reply, “I do understand you. And if that gives you hope to get better, I will gladly be that person for you.”

[bitbybitwrites]

OK . . am a day late . . . but not much has been done around here, bc I was struggling to finish the latest chapter of Puppy Love. (my RWRB WIP).

But here's what I got for you - snippets from a couple of ficlet fridays I'm working on (one RWRB, one Klaine) that are going to really be a wee bit longer than what I share here and a snippet of the next chapter of my Klaine WIP - If I Can Make Your Heart My Home . . all under the cut.

Also, by the way, many thanks to the following folks who tagged me for this and six/several/seven sentence sunday these past few weeks - you are all awesome!:

@alasse9 @daisyishedwig @onthewaytosomewhere, @thesleepyskipper @forabeatofadrum

@sophie1973 @wordsofhoneydew @porcelainmortal @taste-thewaste @blueeyedgrlwrites

@annepi-blog @duchessdepolignaca03 @softboynick @thinkof-england

And if I forgot anyone I'm sorry!

1.) From If I Can Make Your Heart My Home (Klaine fic)

“Yes, Bradford. I’m curious as well.   What are you doing here?” Four heads whipped around quickly to focus on Lillian, her face inscrutable, watching them all from a few feet away. Bradford Anderson stepped through the doorway, forcing Cooper to back away reluctantly and frowning as he did so.  Cooper sidled closer to Blaine who had a similar expression on his face. Bradford leaned down to kiss Lillian on the cheek.  “Aren’t I allowed to come see my own mother - or even my sons?” Lillian’s mouth pursed as she debated her reply.  “I did think you and Pamela were spending the holiday season in south of France this year. You can’t blame me for being surprised at this impromptu visit.” Bradford shrugged as he removed his wool overcoat and held it out wordlessly towards his sons.  Blaine tentatively took it from his father.  Cooper quickly tore it from Blaine’s hands and tossed it unceremoniously into a nearby chair. “Yes, well, what a lovely day for a family reunion,” Cooper said tightly.  “But we were just sitting down with Nan for dinner . . ." “Wonderful,” Bradford said, cutting Cooper off from the rest of his thought.  “I think I’ll join you.”   And in a display of sheer self-centered obliviousness, Bradford Anderson waltzed out of the foyer and into the direction of the dining room, ignoring the rest of the party gaping at him as he walked by. For a few moments the four remaining in the hallways just stood in silence, unsure exactly what had happened before them. Kurt knew this was bad.  Very, very bad. He knew the last person on earth Blaine would have wanted to see right now, besides maybe Kurt, was his father. ‘Perhaps . . .I should go?”  Kurt suggested meekly. “I don’t want to interfere with any. . . um, family affairs . . .” he whispered.  Lilian sighed deeply as she closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose in an apparent sign of frustration with her own flesh and blood. “No, Kurt, please stay." she said. "You’ve been kind enough to cook for us and before our surprise guest made his appearance, I was going to ask you to join us.  I had just wanted to check with Blaine first. Blaine, sweetheart, what do you want us to do?” Lilian quietly asked. The question however, fell on deaf ears.  Blaine was all too focused on staring towards the direction his father disappeared to than listening to his grandmother. Kurt could practically feel the tension radiating off of him. “Squirt?” Cooper gently touched his brother’s arm. “Are you alright?” “Oh yeah, just perfect, “ Blaine muttered bitterly. “Blaine?” Blaine’s head quickly tuned to Kurt, who was nervously  was twisting the hem of his apron in his fingers.  “I can go, Blaine.  I don’t want to make things any more difficult for you than it already is.” “Stay. . .go.  It doesn’t matter to me,” Blaine said flatly.   “Blaine, I can tell your father to leave," Lillian said softly.  “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” Blaine’s mouth set into a grim line as he squared his shoulders and started walking in the direction of where his father had left.  “Let’s just . . .get this over with,” he mumbled loud enough for the rest of them to hear.

*****

2.) Color Me Surprised (RWRB Ficlet Friday)

*I had a fic idea that I had stalled a bit on until I got this Fictlet Friday prompt - so I've decided to combine the two:

“No.” “Yes.” “No, Pez.  I think I’d rather eat glass.” Percy cocked a well-groomed eyebrow and regarded his best friend skeptically.  “I’m confused.  I’d thought you’d be at least a bit interested.   It is a rite of passage, especially in this area, no?” Henry sighed as he tipped his head back.  “Perhaps, but one I’m not sure I want to partake in.” “Hazza,” Pez chided his childhood friend.  “You are young, single and incredibly hot.  Why are you not taking advantage on all of this?” He shook his head in confusion.  “Stop acting like you're being tarred and feathered.  It’s just an extended weekend.  You have been cooped up in this office beating yourself up over the writers block you’ve been suffering from.  I am giving you a change of scenery, that’s all.” “And I suppose you propose I find my inspiration there?" “We're going to Fire Island. It's like gay Disney World.”  Pez elaborated.  “I propose there will be many a tight-bodied, ravishing specimen of inspiration to blow not only your writers block out of the water but hopefully your back as well as . ." Pez coughed and tossed in a very pointed look. ". . . well, one could hope. . . other neglected things.”  Pez' s rather pointed look was all too familiar to Henry. Henry groaned as he leaned his elbows onto his desk and dropped his head in his hands.  Pez smirked.  He knew he had won. “There will be vodka involved, won’t there?” Henry said as he mumbled through his fingers. “Of course, my darling.  Is there any doubt?”

3.) fire island follies (Klaine Ficlet Friday)

“I don’t know if this is a good idea, San.” Santana looked over at her friend and smirked.  “Lookin’ a little green about the gills, Hobbit.  You ok?” Blaine took a deep breath and closed his eyes as he clutched his duffle bag close to his chest.  The ferry was going through choppy water, and his stomach wasn't faring well at all.  No one could blame him; Blaine was from central Ohio and hadn't had much experience being on the open ocean. He opened his mouth to respond, but the moment the boat hit a particularly large wave.   The sea vessel bounced so much that Blaine snapped his mouth shut quickly, clapping one hand over it.  Santana swore he looked even more pale than he had a minute ago. “Don’t you dare hurl on me, Anderson.  I will kill you if you ruin these shoes.” A young couple and their kid moved away from where Blaine and Santana were sitting, looking at the young man warily.  Blaine gave them a weak smile and wave before he peered down at Santana's open-toe espadrilles. “Fancy footwear for the beach, don’t you think?” Santana snorted as she wiggled her Burberry-clad foot at Blaine.  "I gots to look good for my sweetie.” She leaned over and poked him in the side.  He squawked and batted her hand away.  “Can you just give me a smile for once and not look like I’m dragging you to your death.” The boat hit another wave and bounced again.  “I feel like death,” Blaine said through gritted teeth as his stomach did another somersault. "Just kill me now." “Oh, perk up, sunshine.  We're going to Fire Island.  It's like gay Disney World."

****

Well there ya go . . am also tagging ( if you are interested in sharing whatever you are working on - writing or otherwise): @spaceorphan18 @datshitrandom @justgleekout @myheartalivewrites @14carrotghoul

@little-escapist @cha-melodius @kirakiwiwrites @caramelcoffeeaddict @almightaylor

@1908jmd @tinyarmedtrex @theprinceandagcd @iboatedhere

@gleefuldarrencrissfan @gleefulpoppet @itsmaybitheway @kurtsascot @mynonah

@esilher @cryscendo @porcelainandthehobbit @hkvoyage @madas-ahatters-world

@sarkyblueeyes

And open tag of course for any one else!

[gioiaalbanoart]

Writing interview tag!

Triple tag, so...I'm going to do this 😁

Thank you @moltenwrites 💗 @aintgonnatakethis 💗 and @the-letterbox-archives 💗

A couple of things : I'm an artist too so I might end up doing some parallels between painting and writing. Also....I usually talk A LOT 😁 but tend do be pretty dry in writing, so I might cut it short on certain answers

About me

When did you start writing?

Since I was in elementary school and I learned letters, probably. I used to draw/fake-writing "comics" even before.

Are there different genres or themes you enjoy reading other than the ones you write?

I don't have genres neither in reading or writing. Maybe themes ? Existential, spirituality, some kind of magic, investigation, love?

In fact what suits me the best is the follow : if I love the characters I go everywhere.

Is there an author you want to emulate, or are compared to often?

Compared? (laughs) No way! Salinger was probably a God. I still like Isabel Allende and there are for sure many others that right now I don't remember (also italian and french authors since I speak those languages , for instance Camilleri and Japrisot ). The list would be veeeeeery long.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

A table. A need a table, and a chair or something I can sit on. And even so I tend to take weird postures.

What’s your most effective way to muster up a muse?

I don't think I have a specific way. Sometimes just the Goddesses know where the muse is!

BUT I'm stubborner so I sit at my computer anyway or I wander around faking tiding the studio (if I'm gonna do art) and at some point she usually shows up.

Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and/or places you write about?

Probably somehow they're there. More at an emotional level I would say. Like I might write something completely unrelated (which is what I do) but I can connect the dots in terms of perceptions, sensations, emotions.

Are there any reoccurring themes in your writing? If so, do they surprise you?

Surprise? No. It's pretty much the same old same old for me 😂 both in writing and painting : healing, recovery,evolution,some kind of spirituality and soul magic.

Characters:

would you please tell me about your current favorite character?

It's easy 😂 I mainly have ONE and she's pestering me about focusing on her story. Ashley Knox from my wip The scarred angel.

The title was suppose to be temporary but I got used to it and I'm lazy to find something else 😎. Oh and I'm generally BAD at titles, I have the same problem for my paintings.

Ashley is a stunning beautiful girl with scars all over her face since she was sixteen and a bit of a temper.

She has to investigate about something happening mainly along the mexican border which means dealing with a pretty violent world, drug cartels and so on.

Amy Salinas, journalist with PTSD, will stuck with her, becoming first a friend than a significant other....at some point.

Ashley has also intention to take her revenge against who scarred her.

Which of your characters would you be friends with in real life?

I would definitely be friend with Ashley! Just I'll make her come here….it's a bit safer than where she lives.

which characters would you dislike the most of you met them?

Well, the one who scarred Ashley probably. He will be the worst in my wip....even if, by the time I'll be finished, I'm afraid there will be a few.

Tell me about the process of coming up with your characters?

LOL. There is no process.... They come in my brain and decide to stay there until I consider writing their story. Ones are more stubborn than others and those generally win.

Also they usually come (Ashley did) quite "completed", it's their story that I have to develop and then they grow and become wider and deepest characters. Like : when they arrive and squat my brain they don't say it all right away, I have to find out by myself.

Do you notice any reoccurring themes/traits in your characters?

I would say polarities and some kind of spirituality and personal moral code. then they heal, or grow or both.

How do you picture your characters? 🤔 I listen when they talk….then I try to figure how bloody hell I'm going to show their actions to the world 😁

My writing:

what’s your reason for writing?

I use to say that painting for me is like walking, I don't think about it, it comes naturally, it's just there. It was there even during the fifteen years I didn't paint at all. Writing on the opposite is much more complex for me, I struggle more and is more related to a personal healing process. The more I dig in a story, whatever the story is, the more I actually connect my own dots, I see a path and then go further, it's like evolving in the process for many different reasons but with the explaining part, since I use words. And it never goes straight from point A to point B, damn it!

Is there any specific comment or type of comment from readers that you find particularly motivating?

All of them, really. I get all emotional 😅 My problem is I have to make a REAL EFFORT to let the comment sink in....I'm still pretty hard to myself when it comes to writing and I don't believe fully the good comments. I'm trying to get better 😁

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

Jeez, I don't know. A badass ? 😂 If I surprise them in a good way it's all good.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

Maybe dialogues. I enjoy my characters talking .

What have you been told is your greatest strength as a writer is by others?

Oh dear,I don't have the answer. I recently wrote something pretty hard topic and apparently all the emotions I wanted put in went through ....so I'll take that.

How do you feel about your own writing?

I'm happy, it will get better, I want to have fun with it.

If you were the last person on earth, would you still write?

Oh yeah, and painting too. You never know....

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, do you write purely for yourself, or is it a mix of both?

This is a good one! I would be lying if I say that sometimes other possible opinions (it's always all in our head!) never cross my minds trying to influence me.

But I'm also happy to say that I discharge the idea off quite easily now and just go on my way. Otherwise I would certainly ending to block myself completely. I know, I did it already.

I feel the unbalance in my body and soul and it doesn't click so it usually "dissolve" pretty quick.

Fluffy NP tag (and sorry if I double tag !! ) because I'm really curious and I don't think I already read them for this particular game : @alinacapellabooks @fortunatetragedy @lavender-gloom @lychhiker-writes @saturnine-saturneight @words-after-midnight @noxxytocin + OPEN TAG FOR ALL and a drink too 🍻 🍻🍻

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

The Unwanted Visitor, PT 3

Part 1's here, Part 2 here, enjoy! (I swear I'll finish apns soon, but I just got a bad case of new-wip-itis)

The sun was shining, the wind was pleasantly cooling, and it was a wonderful day. At least, it would have been if I hadn't been cycling for my life. My feet pumped like hell was on my heels, and my thighs ached from the exertion.

As I passed through the gates, I could hear the bell chiming, a warning to students that the doors would be locked soon.

"Wait!" I screeched, pulling on the brakes as the gates swung shut.

The guard, Mr Gerry, was standing there with his arms crossed. "Cutting it a bit close, aren't we?" he teased.

"Yes, sorry," I panted, leaning on the bike for support. "You know, I wouldn't be this late if school started at a sane time, right? Who the hell gets up and ready at 10?"

Mr Gerry laughed. "I don't know. You might wanna start waking up earlier, though. If you're late one more time, the school'll give you detention."

"I know, I know," I grumbled. It was all Visitor's fault. He had turned off my alarm, wrecked the wheels on my bike, held me up with his pranks and so much more, and it was taking a toll on my attendance.

"Anyway, I've got to go. You should hurry too, Aida." Mr Gerry waved me through the gates, and I dumped my bike to the side.

Joining the tail end of the flood of students entering the halls, I flipped up the hood of my jacket. Being the weird kid who lived at the edge of town was social suicide, and not being allowed to invite anyone over made matters worse. I was stuck being the butt of all the jokes, and I couldn't even beat them up, because I would get suspended. (Don't get me started on what happened when I poured bleach all over their lockers and ruined their stuff.)

"Oh, look, it's AIDS on legs," someone hissed as I walked by, and I artfully ignored the muffled laughter that followed me. I hated my name, or at least the first part of it. It was ripe for the mocking. I mean, what the hell kind of archaic name was 'Aida', anyways?

Unfortunately, there wasn't much I could do. I was still a kid, after all, albeit not for long. Soon, though. Soon I would be free of these idiots and I would move out into the great world. I comforted myself with that thought as I stepped through the door, prepared for the next session of the shitshow that was my school.

"Good morning, Miss O'Dell. I trust you have a good reason for being late?" My homeroom teacher, Miss Kearney, glared at me from her seat.

I sighed. "No, Miss." I doubted that 'my spirit held me up by causing trouble' was a valid excuse.

"I'll let you off this time, but do it again and you're in deep trouble, Aida," Miss Kearney snapped. She wasn't usually so snappish, but she'd had a bad day, apparently. All the better for me, I thought bitterly.

"Yes, Miss." I slid into my chair in the back row, the most unobtrusive spot in the room.

"Okay, now that everyone's here, we can finally introduce a special guest. She's an exorcist consultant for the police; Please welcome Mrs Bell, everyone," Miss Kearney said.

"Hello," a woman with brown hair stepped into the classroom. Her suit was impeccably crisp and her smile was perfectly polite. I instantly disliked her.

"Mrs Bell has kindly agreed to teach us a bit about the paranormal. You'll have plenty of time to ask questions, but for now, listen up," Miss Kearney said sternly.

The class sat up straighter, looking interested. The paranormal was a big interest amongst the students. Magic was rare in Palioden, and exorcists were both respected and beloved by the people. I wanted to be a mage, when I grew up. (Everyone did, but I was one of the few who had an affinity for it.)

Miss Bell stood to the fore of the whiteboard, brandishing her pointer like a wand. “Children, what do you know of spirits? Not the cute sort you see on television, that is. The real kind.”

A smattering of hands shot up. The nice thing about my class was that most of us were teacher's pets, and that allowed me to slip right past their notice. 

“Spirits are the most powerful sort of twice-dead. They're found in the Celitane Forests, the Syvniko Mountain Range and west Palioden,” Lucia piped up. Lucia was exactly the sort of person I hated, popular and people-pleasing. The feeling was mutual, and she was one of the main proponents of the Anti-Aida-Army (or AAA as I liked to call them).

“Correct!” Miss Bell clapped for her, and I rolled my eyes in disgust. “What an excellent foundation of knowledge you children have! I see my job is already half done,” she added with a wink, and I finally understood why Visitor was scared of exorcists. If they were all so sickly sweet, they could probably melt his eyes out with their friendliness. 

“Now, we've received reports of a spirit haunting this area, so my team sent me to help you all understand spirits and how to deal with them!” That made me sit up a little. Had my parents finally grown a pair and reported Visitor? “Firstly, spirits differ from humans in three major ways; They're translucent to the human eye, they have unusual eye colours and they have sharp teeth. So if you spot someone who covers most of their face and body, and never reveals their teeth, you may have met a spirit. And if that's the case, you need to report it to the police!”

I was incredibly tempted to point out that a great deal of those who covered their entire body were simply doing it in the name of their religion, but the need to not get noticed outweighed my wish to stir up trouble. “Why do we have to tell the police? Are they dangerous?” It was Jack, member of the AAA and possessor of approximately 2 brain cells. 

“Yes, they're very dangerous,” Miss Bell said, her sugary expression hardening. “That's why I'm here, because this isn't a playing matter. Spirits kill people for fun, for their own pleasure, for no reason at all. While one is free, we cannot rest.” I thought that was rather dramatic; Visitor had never harmed a hair on my head, for all his threats. 

“I'm going to ask you an important question now. Which of you has been harbouring a spirit?” Miss Bell smacked the pointer against the teacher's table, and I flinched. “I know one of you did it, and I know which of you did it. Now, own up.”

Taglist here:

@coffeeangelinabox, @dorky-pals, @calliecwrites, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @shukei-jiwa

@thewingedbaron, @pluppsauthor, @cowboybrunch, @wylloblr, @possiblyeldritch @ramwritblr, @urnumber1star, @fortunatetragedy, @bigwipscholar, @ratedn

@vampirelover890, @possiblylisle, @illarian-rambling, @the-ellia-west

@finicky-felix, @evilgabe29, @glitched-dawn, @rivenantiqnerd, @dragonhoardesfandoms

@drchenquill, @everythingismadeofchaos, @owldwagitoutofyou (Anyone else who wants to get added can tell me in the comments, pm me, or send me an ask about it!)

[zeldaelmo]

for the WIP tag game, tell us about your newest story "inspiration, illusions and other inconveniences". it already seems very self-aware, considering most people reading are likely to be writers or artists or at least frequent the same spheres, so it will be interesting to see how many references and how relatable you can make it :,D

Haha, that's exactly what I thought when you sent the comment the other day. As you know, I'm not an artist, just a writer, so we'll see how much I get wrong on Link's side of things. He'll be the only pov character, too (somehow I'm only writing his pov lately?), but we'll still see quite some writing typical shenanigans.

Here's a snippet from the next chapter, 'Bad ideas':

T had answered a few comments already but hadn't given away much. It was fun to read others' opinions anyway; some posted theories nearly as long as the chapter had been.

One comment, however, piqued his interest:

"Wow, this is so incredibly good! Bless you, for this gift, T! I wish someone would make art for this story! It would be so cool to see this scene, but I can't draw to save my life."

Link inhaled through his nose and leaned back on his chair. Oh, no. This was a bad idea. He…he…well. He could draw, couldn’t he?

He closed the laptop and blinked. That was not how he had planned his evening. He wanted to finish his landscape study. And not drawing smooching namesakes. Shaking his head to get rid of the stupid ideas, he stood up, walked a circle, and set up his drawing tablet. He opened the laptop again and navigated to the file of his study.

Yesterday, he hadn’t been happy with the lighting situation, maybe he could solve the problem after a day’s break. He settled down, tried this and that, added a few strokes here and there. Yet, the only lighting he thought of was how the sun filtered into the grotto and illuminated the Zelda of the story. He took a few more attempts, but it was useless. His heart wasn’t into it. Gloomily, he stared at the painting he had sworn to finish today, but his mind arranged a piece of art of two blonde Hylians kissing without asking him for permission.

Fine.

I commissioned @illcamp for the art Link paints in this chapter and the sketch she showed me looked already wonderful! So excited to share it with you all eventually. 😊

Thank you for the ask!

[sentientcave]

IT'S WIP WEDNESDAY BAYBEE - Have some Sparrow! I've been working on this one since December and I'm finally dipping into the last stretch of it. Been working on other things lately but still hoping to get this one finished before summer hits proper. I don't think I've shared much of this one anywhere yet.

Bob and his wife, Wendy, had pulled up chairs so they could sit and talk to the four soldiers. Or three, rather. Ghost had moved one table over to eat, his mask pulled up above his mouth so he could shovel food into his mouth, hunched over his plate like he was afraid someone was going to try and take it. He glanced up at Morgan as she walked in, scraped the final bite of food off his plate, and washed it down with the last of his tea before pulling the mask back down. It was almost fascinating to watch his throat work to swallow before disappearing behind the knit material.

“You fellas all set?” Morgan asked, bumping her hip up against the side of the booth next to Price. “I’d like to get home before this storm gets worse. Laika doesn’t like thunder, the big baby.”

"Just about, I'd say," Price said, tilting his head back to look at her. "We just had the pleasure of hearing all sorts of wild tales about you. How many of them are true?"

"None, like as not. I'm as well-behaved as they come, and it's always been that way."

Wendy stifled a laugh behind her hand. "Of course, Morgan."

Bob covered a cough with his arm that sounded suspiciously like bullshit.

Wendy had been a teacher at Morgan's high school. As far as she knew Morgan had been skipping classes to get up to trouble, but it had usually just been work. Pick ups and drop offs— rarely the same kind of dangerous situations that had caught her mother flat footed out on the tundra, but there had been a handful of fire fights here and there, and many more desperate struggles with fists or a knife. She had probably seemed like a lot of trouble from Wendy's perspective, since she'd come to school in rough shape many times, her excuses ranging from fist fights to tree climbing incidents to sports injuries. It was a surprise that she had gotten away with it without someone getting worried, but she'd always had a talent for lying her ass off.

"Alright, maybe I was a bit of a wild card when I was young. But I grew up. It all feels pretty silly looking back now." She shrugged lightly, flashing a sheepish smile at the soldiers, like she was embarrassed by her seemingly rowdy past. “I was an army brat without a whole lot of supervision. I’m just impressed I managed to graduate.”

"Too bad." Ghost muttered behind her. "You were just startin’ to sound fun."

There wasn’t much point in dignifying that with a response. Ghost seemed keen on getting under her skin, just to see what would happen. She wasn’t about to let him get a rise out of her. And if he wanted to play games, he was about to find himself outmatched.

She took her jacket off while she waited for the others to finish eating and knelt on the bench that Ghost was sitting on, bracing her arms on the back of the booth. He shifted beside her, putting his back against the window and bringing his knee up onto the seat so that his leg pressed against hers. He tapped the top of his boot against the bottom of her sensible white running shoes. She ignored him. “So, what really brings you boys to town?” she asked, even though they would have to lie, if not in front of her, certainly in front of Bob and Wendy. “Fishing trip?”

“Oh aye,” Soap said, grinning. "We love fishin'."

Gaz smirked, glancing up at her. “We’re after a big catch.”

Danny wouldn’t be a big catch. Likely it was one of his nasty friends, as Nikolai had put it, that the SAS agents were after. No one that Danny had known when he and Morgan were married. It had mostly been gangs looking for guns back then, or the occasional mob contact looking to pick up something heavier for a specific job. SAS was special forces and counter terrorism, which meant that Danny had gotten himself involved in something particularly out of his depth.

[skitskatdacat63]

I randomly looked thru all my random sketches/unfinished wip files and I'm just mentally shaking past Catie like "WHY DIDNT YOU FINISH THESE!?"

[daimyosprincess]

WIP Wednesday Thursday

Thank you @thefact0rygirl @littlemissmanga @sleepingsun501 @rexxdjarin for the tags!

I thought we'd take this opportunity to revisit Beskar Hearts (Boba Fett x Din Djarin x F!Reader) because what's better than one beskar boyfriend? TWO!!

Enjoy below besties 💖

18+ only — MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

T&W: poly relationship, stern Boba 🤤, bratty reader hehe

Boba and Din have been elbows deep in the guts of the Firespray for hours past when they said they’d be done when you finally stomp aboard to find your Mandalorians in the late evening. It had been a long day in a long week in which you’d barely seen either of them outside the quick kisses in the morning and before they both went soundly to sleep, leaving you aching for their touch and attention. And by the Maker you are going to get what you want one way or another—you’re not Boba Fett’s princess and spoiled by the Mand’alor for nothing. 

That was your thinking when you put on a scandalous little two piece lingerie set underneath a robe and march onto Boba’s ship with nary a single good intention. “You two almost done? You said you’d be finished hours ago,” you call out as you board, your voice pitched in a whine.

“That was before we knew we would have to rewire the entire power system for this section, mesh’la. We’re almost done,” Din answers patiently when you find them crouched around an access panel. “You know this is important to Boba.”

“Pfft I thought I was important to Boba,” you grumble under your breath as you plop down in the pilot’s chair with a huff and crossing your arms. 

“What was that?” the daimyo snaps, pausing his soldering to glare at you. He’s got grease smeared across his sweaty brow and the look of a man who had very little patience left. 

Lucky me, this’ll be easy then. “Someone’s in a bad mood,” you smirk, leaning forward so the front of your robe falls open to reveal a look at your chest. “Why don’t you forget about all those stupid wires and let me cheer you up.”

“Watch it, princess. You heard Din, we’ll be done soon.”

“What if I don’t want to wait for ‘soon’? What if I want you done now?”

Boba’s eyes flash with danger and thrill shoots through you. “Then I’d remind you that good, patient girls get rewarded, while insolent brats get punished.”

You stick out your bottom lip. “But I want you nowww, sir,” you pout, standing from the seat. In a smooth, swift movement you release the robe’s ties and shrug it to the floor, leaving you in your barely-there undergarments. “My little pussy needs you.”

Din gasps and Boba’s eyes widen a fraction as he beholds the sight of you, but his expression remains firm nonetheless. Swallowing, he glares up at your standing form. “Sit down and be quiet so we can finish. Then I’ll take care of that pussy and that attitude upstairs.”

“Mmm but now would be so much better, don’t you think? Din?” you flick your eyes over to the younger man for a second before refocusing on Boba.

“You really want to do this, little girl? Or are you going to follow the rules and do as you’re told?” the daimyo answers, the unspoken threat thick in his voice.

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” you retort and Boba raises his brows with a look of final warning. “Rules are meant to be broken, old man.”

Everyone freezes and you swear the air is sucked out of the room. After three rapid beats of your heart, Boba sets his tools aside slowly and stands, wiping his hands on a spare rag. In a cacophony of silence, he takes the couple of steps between you and stops a breath away from your scantily-clad body. He stares at you for a moment, his eyes hard and dangerous, and you can practically feel your underwear soaking all the way through—you’re fucked and you know it.

“I want you to remember that you chose this,” he starts slowly, bending down to retrieve your discarded robe and sliding your arms through the sleeves firmly, “you chose to run that smart mouth instead of listening… remember that when you’re begging for mercy and crying to come.” He synches the belt around your waist tightly. “Now get your brat ass upstairs before I get any truly creative ideas for your punishment.”

No pressure tags :) @agirlnamejacq @writingwintermoon @thirsty-boba-fett-posts @acatalystrising @saradika @marierg @maybege

Taglist 💖

@agirlnamejacq @burningfieldof-clover @marierg @dukeoftheblackstar @imarvelatthestars @saradika @baufraus @historianwithaheart @andrakass2 @samspenandsword @liadamerondjarin @sleepingsun501 @sgt-morgan @rescuethewretched @rexxdjarin @ladytano420 @writingwintermoon @pheo-nixpas-calian @acatalystrising @erinthevampire @xxladysquishyxx @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @kimiheartblade @shinyshayminflower @wings-and-beskar @aethersecho @thirsty-boba-fett-posts

[Divider by @saradika]

[superfluouskeys]

wip whenever ♥

thank you so much @thevikingwoman for the tag!!

i've been pretty busy/just barely not burned out so I haven't been able to write anything new recently BUT this is a perfect excuse to share more of original thing! this is a reasonable organizational system right

part 1 || part 2

sorryyyyy i am once again doing a cop out and saying anyone who wants to pls share your wips and tag me!

==

Although she knows it’s for nothing, Tamsin still tries her best to sneak back into the house with care.  She imagines, perhaps fancifully, that Mrs. Burkow will take more kindly to the situation if she is awoken gently than if she starts out already angry with Tamsin.

Terror grips her heart afresh, however, when she sees a light coming from the sitting room, and knows full well that she did not leave it burning.

Tamsin leads the way around the corner to where the wall sconce burns a deceptive invitation.  Mrs. Burkow is sitting in her usual chair with her knitting in her lap.  The soft click-click-click of the needles might as well be the only sound in the world.

“All finished with your business?” she asks coldly.

“Mother—“ Tamsin tries.

“You did a fine job of it, too,” Mrs Burkow ignores her.  “Must have taken you a long while to clean the kitchen up all nice so I’d wake up and think, ‘oh, what a good and grateful daughter I have.’  I do hope it didn’t interfere in your plans.”

For the second time in one night, Tamsin’s limbs begin to go numb with fear.  “I didn’t mean…”

“Did you catch a glimpse of your precious witch, Tamsin?” Mrs. Burkow sneers.  “Was it worth the trouble?”

“Shall I assume you are referring to me?” Althea speaks up.

Tamsin startles.  The click-click-click of Mrs. Burkow’s needles comes to an abrupt halt.

Althea pulls back the hood of her heavy cloak.  Even in the warm light from the sconce, she looks deathly pale, and this is only accentuated by the striking darkness of her hair.  Her hair is so dark it is almost black, but the sconce’s light reveals its subtle highlights.  She wears it in an old-fashioned style, a long, heavy plait that spills over her shoulder without the aid of the cloak’s hood.  Her eyes are more blue than grey in this light, and her lips are drawn into a thin smile.

For the first time, Tamsin can fully appreciate the sharpness of Althea’s features, the cut of her jaw, the high cheekbones, the slightly hooked angle of her nose.  Tamsin considers that Althea really does look like a witch, if one were to attempt to approximate such a fantasy.  At the moment, Tamsin can’t decide whether this is a good thing or a bad thing—namely, whether Althea’s looks alone will inspire fear or fury in Mrs. Burkow.

“And who might you be?” Mrs. Burkow asks.  Her tone is somewhere between the false sweetness she affects with strangers and the barely-restrained hostility Tamsin knows best.

Althea affords her the same regal greeting she gave Tamsin.  She brings a hand to her heart and curtseys low.  “Keeper Althea Blackthorne, at your service.”

Mrs. Burkow stands slowly, as though entirely against her will.  “Gods preserve us,” she murmurs.  Her gaze flickers to Tamsin, cold accusation in her eyes.  “What have you done, you stupid girl?”

Tamsin cowers on instinct.  Althea doesn’t miss a beat, but she steps forward slightly, as though placing herself between Tamsin and Mrs. Burkow.

“I pray you’ll forgive the intrusion,” says Althea, as though the atmosphere were perfectly friendly, “particularly at this late hour, but I’m afraid the matter I have to discuss with you cannot wait even until morning.”

Mrs. Burkow laughs breathlessly.  “And what matter could that possibly be?”

Althea inclines her head subtly, a lightning-fast and near-imperceptible observation.  “Perhaps you’d like to sit down?” she suggests kindly.  “This may come as quite a shock.”

But apparently Althea’s status as a witch prevails over Mrs. Burkow’s usual need to play at social nicety.  “I’ll stay standing, and so will you, thank you very much,” she points an accusing finger.  It is strange to notice that her hand is trembling.  “Say what you have to say, if it’s so urgent.”

“Very well,” says Althea, unfazed.  “Your Tamsin is possessed of the Gift.  At least, that is the parlance I would use.  Here in your Gods place, I expect you might call her a witch.”

Mrs. Burkow throws down her knitting.  “You dare come into my house and speak such nonsense?” she blusters.  “What proof do you have?  What nerve!”

Althea holds out her hands, still unbothered by Mrs. Burkow’s display.  “I mean no offense,” she says.  “I only wish to demonstrate the urgency of this matter.  Tamsin cannot stay here.  I have seen with my own eyes what will become of her.”

“Horrid old bat!” Mrs. Burkow shrieks.  She is trembling all over now.  “You won’t do this to me!  She has a future!”  She jabs her finger in Tamsin’s direction.  “She’ll be married to a nobleman on the weekend!  You can’t do this to me!”

This, of all things, seems to surprise Althea.  She turns to look at Tamsin.  “Married?” she wonders.  “Forgive me, but aren’t you a bit young?”

Again Tamsin gets the feeling she had when Althea first appeared before her in Teddy’s barn.  Althea must be an angel, sent by the gods to save her from her miserable fate.  If Tamsin is not dreaming, then this is the only other explanation.

Mrs. Burkow scoffs.  “And how would you know?  You come in here with your crooked ideas meaning to tear this town apart, and you want to claim you know best about everything?  A fine trick.  Seeking out a girl stupid enough to believe a word you say.”

Althea returns her attention to Mrs. Burkow.  Her serene exterior remains undisrupted, but her words are carefully chosen.  “I think I’ll have to insist that you not cast aspersions upon the intelligence of my student,” she says.  “You’ll understand that such things can be most detrimental to the learning process, and there is so very much to learn, you see.”

Mrs Burkow laughs coldly.  “Oh, I might’ve known.  Sure, play the kindly savior if you must.  But just you remember—“ and this she directs to Tamsin.  “Remember who took you in off the streets.  Remember who put a roof over your head, who fed and clothed and washed you.  Remember who has always protected you from harm, always!”

Mrs. Burkow is angry, but there is a note of sorrow in her voice, too, and her eyes are shining with unshed tears.  “You may not like it, Tamsin, but I am looking out for you.  What do you know about this woman?  Are you really going to throw your life away like this?”

Tamsin averts her gaze, so deeply ashamed that she thinks she might weep.

“Please, there’s no need for dramatics,” says Althea.  “And frankly, there’s not much of a choice.  The Gift will not be denied, not for long.  If you are truly looking out for your daughter, you will see reason.  Do you want to see her put to the flame?”

“Oh, you wretched thing!” Mrs. Burkow cries.  “Who’s to say you’re even telling the truth at all?  How can Tamsin be magical?  She’s nothing!  A nameless orphan left to die on a church doorstep.  It’s cruel, filling her head with false ideas like this.  The sooner she accepts who she is, the sooner she’ll see how good she has it.”

Tamsin can feel Althea’s eyes on her, and her shame only grows.  She feels hot tears upon her cheeks and ducks her head low in a vain attempt to hide them.  If this is a dream, she hopes she can finally wake up now.  Of course she isn’t special.  Of course she doesn’t have any kind of Gift.  She knew this from the beginning.  What could Althea possibly have to gain by humiliating her like this?

“Please,” Tamsin murmurs.  “Please just go.  Whatever you saw in me, it must have been a mistake.  I don’t want to waste your time.”

“You heard the girl,” Mrs. Burkow crows.

Althea looks from Tamsin to Mrs. Burkow and back, quiet and contemplative.

“I assure you,” says Althea carefully, “my eyes do not deceive me.  Tamsin has the Gift, make no mistake, and so my directive is clear.  I cannot allow her to remain here.”

Tamsin looks up, stunned.  Mrs. Burkow, too, is cowed into silence.

“She will come with me willingly, or she will come with me by force,” says Althea.  “Obviously I would prefer the former.”

Mrs. Burkow lunges.  Tamsin screams.  But the confrontation is over before it begins.  Althea curls her fingers, and Mrs. Burkow is suspended in just the same way as Teddy Page, as though held up by invisible ropes emanating from Althea’s hands.

“Likewise,” Althea continues, as though nothing at all had happened since last she spoke, “you may cooperate, or remain incapacitated until Tamsin is gone.  I expect you would prefer the chance to say goodbye to your ward?”

Mrs. Burkow watches her with wide, furious eyes.  But eventually, near-imperceptibly, she nods.  Althea lets her go, and she crumbles to the floor.

“I’m so glad that’s settled,” says Althea lightly.  She turns her attention to Tamsin.  “Now, there isn’t much time for goodbyes, so I suggest you choose wisely.  You won’t need much for the trip, and nearly everything will be provided for you once we reach the Academy.  Pack as you please, but I beg your consideration.  I’m afraid you’ll have to share my horse until we reach the next town.”

Tamsin glances uncertainly between Althea and Mrs. Burkow, who is still recovering on the floor.  Everything is happening so fast, and she herself still hasn’t fully accepted the truth of Althea’s words.

“It really is true, then?” Tamsin asks her.

Mrs. Burkow speaks, her voice low and cruel.  “Sell you into slavery, like as not, you stupid child.”

This, of all things, elicits a crack in Althea’s composure.  She raises her eyebrows subtly, somewhat taken aback by Mrs. Burkow’s accusation.  “I confess,” she says, “I hope you’ll be so kind as to regale me with the kinds of stories your people tell about the Memory-keepers.”

It feels like a joke.  On any other day, perhaps Tamsin could have found it in her heart to laugh.

“Is there anyone you’ll want to say goodbye to before we set off?” Althea prompts her kindly.  “The hour is late, but you’ll be gone a long time, and so I’m certain your friends will understand.”

Tamsin picks at her skirt self-consciously.  Part of her wants to say no, that nobody will even miss her, that even Mrs. Burkow is only sour about losing her scullery maid.  But if this really is happening, if she really is leaving, then there is one person she ought to talk to first.

“Well,” says Tamsin, “I suppose I’ll have to break off my engagement.”

Mrs. Burkow lets out a wail of genuine sorrow.  “Oh, you wretched girl!  You wretched, horrible thing!  You’re happy to do it, aren’t you?  You’re happy to do this to me!”

Althea glances in Mrs. Burkow’s direction.  “Shall I give you two a moment alone?”

“No,” Tamsin replies quickly.  Then, quietly, “Please don’t.”

She doesn’t know what will happen if Althea leaves.  She cannot imagine what Mrs. Burkow will say.  But more importantly, she fears that the second Althea slips from her sight, she will disappear forever, and Tamsin will be left here in her miserable reality, with nothing but a foolish dream for company.

Althea nods her understanding, and she keeps watch over Mrs. Burkow while Tamsin packs.  Tamsin can hear Althea trying to comfort Mrs. Burkow, but of course everything she says only makes it worse.  At one point, Mrs. Burkow starts complaining that Tamsin is stealing from her, to which Althea implores that she be reasonable, that surely a loving mother wouldn’t send her daughter out into the cold night air without so much as a jacket.

A part of Tamsin still twists uncomfortably each time Althea speaks.  The idea that she is leaving this place, that it no longer matters how upset Mrs. Burkow might be, still seems unfathomable to Tamsin.

Still, there isn’t much for Tamsin to pack.  There isn’t much she wants to take.  She brushes out her hair and ties it back again, more to calm herself than anything.  She puts on a pair of trousers under her skirt, remembering Althea mentioned a horse, and packs a change of clothes into her bag, along with a few things from the kitchen that will keep for a few days.  She’s never been out of Godsplace, and has no idea how far the next town is, or what traveling actually entails.

“All set?” says Althea.

Mrs. Burkow has not worked her way up off the floor.  Tamsin approaches, meaning to help her up.

“Don’t touch me, you wretched thing,” Mrs. Burkow spits.

Tamsin picks at the strap of her bag.  She feels a little sorry for Mrs. Burkow, in spite of everything.  “Aren’t you going to say goodbye?” she asks quietly.

“Good riddance,” says Mrs. Burkow.  “You’ll be lucky if you survive the night.”

Tamsin backs away, strangely hurt, even though it’s hardly the cruelest thing Mrs. Burkow has said this evening alone.  “I suppose I’m all set, then,” she says, in the general direction of the floor.

Althea pats her shoulder gently, surprising Tamsin into looking up.  But Althea is only urging her forward, and Tamsin is only too eager to take her leave of this place.

It’s gotten colder since they arrived, but Tamsin sucks in a deep breath, relishing the burn in her lungs.

“So,” says Althea, tucking her heavy braid back beneath the hood of her cloak, “where is this, ah…fiancé of yours?”

Tamsin remembers with sudden fondness what Althea had said earlier, and her spirits lift considerably.  “It’s a bit of a walk, I’m afraid,” she says.  “It’s not about the marriage, though, if that’s what you’re thinking.  It’s just that we’re friends.  I think he might be the only person who’ll even notice I’m gone.”

“It’s no matter either way,” says Althea.  “If you lived somewhere a bit less…archaic, I could afford you more time.  But I doubt your would-be assailant will keep his peace.  If you’re accused of witchcraft, things could…escalate, shall we say.”

“You think I’d be put to the flame that quickly?” Tamsin asks, gripping the strap of her bag tightly.

“Oh, goodness, no!” says Althea.  “I’d never allow it.  But it would be best to avoid antagonizing the whole town all at once, don’t you think?”

Not for the first time this evening, Tamsin is stricken by a profound feeling of security.  She knows she has no reason to trust Althea, and yet in the brief course of their acquaintance, Althea has done nothing but save her, over and over and over again.

“I owe you my thanks,” says Tamsin.  “In fact, I think it’s a debt I can never really repay.  I can’t help but feel you’ve saved me a hundred times over, just in this one night.”

Althea affords her a flash of that soft, subtle smile, but she seems otherwise largely unaffected by Tamsin’s outpouring of emotion.  “Rest assured, you owe me no debt,” she says pleasantly.  “It is nothing short of my sworn duty to seek out and aid young ladies possessed of the Gift on their journey to the Academy.  If anything, I failed the young lady in your Town Square earlier today, and I am the one who owes a debt.”

Tamsin shivers involuntarily at the memory. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a young girl is still screaming.  “I don’t think you should hold yourself responsible for that,” she says.  “You’d go mad with grief if you tried.”

“I saw you in the Square,” says Althea.  “The young man you were walking with, is that the one we’re visiting?”

“Mhm,” says Tamsin.  “He’s from a noble family.  That’s why Mrs. Burkow—I mean, my mother, was so upset, I think.”

“Forgive me if I belabor the issue, but are you not a bit young to be married off?” Althea wonders.

Tamsin almost laughs.  “I’m grateful you said so, because it’s what I thought, too.  It’s common for girls of noble birth to have their marriages arranged early, and then the wedding doesn’t happen until they’re sixteen or seventeen, but I’m a nobody.  I never thought I’d have to worry about that.”

“So you’ve said,” says Althea thoughtfully.  “You don’t know when you were born, then?”

Tamsin shrugs.  “Sometime in the summer.  That’s when the Burkows found me.”

“I see,” says Althea.  “So, sixteen, then?  Since the wedding was to be this weekend.”

“Oh.  Yes, sixteen,” says Tamsin, embarrassed that she hadn’t understood Althea’s question more quickly.  “Will I be…I mean, when do people usually…?”

“Usually sometime in the teen years, fifteen to sixteen being the most common,” says Althea.

“There’ll be others just starting, then?” Tamsin wonders hopefully.

Althea hesitates.  “Yours is a…small class,” she says carefully.

“Oh,” Tamsin’s hopes deflate.  “Is that…unusual?”

Another long pause.  “Somewhat unusual, yes.”

When Althea does not elaborate, Tamsin decides to drop the issue for the moment.  She can’t imagine why the number of girls starting at the Academy would be a sensitive subject, but then again, she knows next to nothing about Althea’s world.  Perhaps there are any number of sensitive subjects she’ll have to learn to watch out for.

[dianneking]

20 Author Questions

Tagged by the lovely @weemssapphic - thank you so very much for that!

1. How many works do you have on AO3? - 37

2. What's your total AO3 word count? - 175,030

3. What fandoms do you write for? - Gwendoline Christie, some other characters in the Wednesday fandom too.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos? - Surprising Like Good Coffee on a Bad Day, Shapes of Love, First Evening Back, Intoxicated, Entwined Destinies.

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? - Yes. I try my best to get to every comment because I love love love the community that builds around shared interests. Also, time is such a rare commodity these days that if you take the time to let me know what you thought of my writings...we're already pals.

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? - Oh, that's easy, Loving You for sure. The whole premise is hurt no comfort so yeah. Read this at your own risk.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? - Hmmmm I feel the one I went in most detail about the happy ending was Surprising Like Good Coffee on a Bad Day, it was extra fluffy and funny and I find myself smiling just thinking about it.

8. Do you get hate on fics? - As of now, not yet. Hopefully it'll stay that way.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? - Yep, at times. As for what kind, depends on the story, but mostly at least somewhat kinky.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written? - I love a well executed crossover soooo much. For now, I've only written New Teacher In Town, a Larissa Weems x Melissa Schemmenti (Abbott's Elementary) oneshot, but I do have others I'd like to try my hand at.

11. Have you ever had a fiction stolen? - Not that I've noticed. I only write on AO3 and Tumblr, so if you see my fics somewhere else, please tell me - it's probably stolen.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? - Not yet!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? - Not yet published, but I might have something in the works... isn't that right @scream-queenlover?

14. What's your all-time favorite ship? - Errrrr difficult to say tbh. I like to change and to make different ships work. I like Gwen's characters paired with almost anyone ever. I like the challenge of making it work and surprising readers with them.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? - I don't ever let go of WIPs. They are just biding their time. I have some requests in my inbox from January (if it's yours, I'm so very sorry) but also, the feeling of writing the right fic when you want to write it is something that is so good I just don't want to do an uninspired shoddy work of them. Their time to shine will come.

16. What are your writing strengths? - I am a very logical person, so I like to build my characters so that they make sense, so that their actions and reactions have some meaning and some depth. Also. I loooove to write gut-wrenching angst and I feel like it shows.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? - They change with time and with the fic in question. Right now, to sit my ass down on a chair and write is my greatest challenge. Also, I feel like most of my oneshots are a lot of the same, and that kinda bothers me.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic? - All for it if I can find a native speaker that betas me on that.

19. First fandom you wrote for? - Well, I wrote an angsty fanfiction of an Ideal Husband before knowing what fanfiction was, so I guess that was my first fandom.

20. Favorite fic you've ever written? - Hmmm. Surprising Like Good Coffee on a Bad Day has a special place in my heart because it was my first one, but also I feel so proud of Unrelenting Love (Madeleine) not even quite sure why but I really love the way it came out.

If you see this and you are an author, that's it! You're automatically tagged! And please, do tag me in your post because I am so very curious!

[the-wip-project]

The WIP project - Rachael's 7 points

Hello writerly friends!

So I started a new story. I know, I know, I haven't even finished the other one. But I had so many ideas and they just had to go somewhere, so they might as well go into a draft called Fantasy2. Yes, I'm great at naming drafts, why do you ask?

Today I come to you with advice from Rachael Herron's newsletter. It was just what I needed to hear and I want you to hear it too. I asked for her permission to quote it here and she allowed it, so here it is, from Rachael Herron herself:

[E]very time I start a new book, I feel like I have NO clue what I’m doing.

I’m about to start writing a new book, so I’m dusting off some of my favorite tips, because I’ll need them very soon.

1. Feelings don’t matter.

The beginning and the end usually feel glorious and terrifying to write. The middle 97% will alternate between feeling like falling out of a hot-air balloon basket and sitting in the middle seat of a thirty-seven-hour flight between twin toddlers. Doesn't matter. Only this does:

2. You just need words.

Bored of the work? Write. Love the work? Write a bit more. Want to punch every word in the beezer? Write a few lines before you call it a day.

3. Plot matters way less than you think it does.

Great plots can be added in revision (I'm serious), just like better, stronger characters can be. But you can’t do anything without a crappy first draft.

4. Revision solves everything.

Always.

5. Make a goal.

Make any goal, whether it’s how many new words you want to write this week, or how much time you want to spend in the chair, actually writing.

Then, at the end of the week, rejigger that goal, bringing it closer to what’s real. (Fantasy Rachael can always write WAY more than Real Life Rachael. Damn it.)

6. Remember that goals are meant to be moved. Not to be hit.

Who cares if we ever hit our goals, honestly? By the time we get to where we really long to be, our endpoints may not resemble our original goals in any way. Better to make room for the better thing. Move the goal and start again, weekly, if not daily.

7. Comfort is overrated.

Writing isn’t comfortable. There, I said it. And it doesn’t matter, because oh, boy, does it feel good to have it done for the day. Not perfectly done, never that. But you did your work, and that means you can now do whatever the hell you want because you followed your dream today, the way you’re meant to.

I love this advice. Rachael is so awesome. If you also want her encouragement and advice in your inbox, sign up for her newsletter here: https://rachaelherron.com/therightbook.  

So how is it going for you? Rejiggered your goal? Started something new? Got something awesome done? Took another turn in the draft? Tell us!

--

@quilleth, @theoriginalladya, @kmlaney, @coffeewritesfiction, @mareebrittenford, @lilliebellfanfics, @keyboardandquill, @fontainebleau22, @kinetic-elaboration, @wildswrites, @rhikasa, @inkvulture, @heroofshield, @bad-at-names-and-faces, @sabels-small-sphere, @annaofthenorthernlights, @sarahawke

[caffiene-fueled-fuckery]

🤩a WIP snippet about or with dialogue from Radar and 😔

Thanks so much for the ask!! Sorry that it took me a few days to get to, I was away for the weekend and have been busy with uni.

🤩

Snippet from a Whumptober piece I haven't finished (we're going to ignore the fact that I barely finished any of the prompts in October itself bc I was so swamped with school, I'm still going to post them all). The piece is yet to be titled, but the prompt was: debris, pinned down, and "it's broken." I love Radar so much and even though he isn't the focal point of this piece, I still enjoy having him in it!! For context, Della is one of my OCs.

“Make it stop!” Radar wailed, though she couldn’t tell if he was asking her or some higher power. The quake had to have been going for at least five minutes… it would end any time now, right? Right? Another sheet of metal from the ceiling smashed to the floor, causing them both to scream. Della bit her lip, wanting to beg as Radar had for it to stop, but if she couldn’t comfort, she had to at least get her head back on her shoulders. 

Slowly, the shaking began to recede. Della held onto Radar, feeling the boy trembling in her grasp even once the ground had settled. In the hustle and bustle of camp, everyone seemed to forget how young Radar really was. He ran the place so efficiently and, being in a war zone, it’s hard to remember that some of these soldiers are fresh out of school. Radar was only a kid. 

Della leaned her head against his when he whimpered her name. “I’m right here. Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Okay, good. Good.” She removed one arm from around his head to rub his back. “You’re okay, kiddo. You’re alright.”

She didn’t move until he did. After a few moments of stillness, Radar stirred and pulled away, satisfied that the quake was over, at least for the time being. He pulled back and looked at Della, his face blotchy and tear-streaked. She reached out and wiped a stray tear with her thumb. “You’re okay, hun.”

Briefly, Radar closed his eyes, humming as he nodded. When he opened them again, his gaze was immediately drawn to the shard of glass in her arm. “Della, you’re hurt!”

“Oh, it’s not that bad. I just didn’t want to take it out while everything was still shaking and risk getting dirt in it.”

Radar nodded. “Okay.”

“C’mon, let’s go check on the others. Was anyone in the OR?”

He took the hand she held out to him, careful not to touch any of the broken glass or metal. “Not that I know of. You don’t think someone got hit with a stray scalpel, do you?”

“No, no, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, eh?”

“Right…”

“Let’s check post-op first then.”

Radar followed at her heels, nearly walking into her when she froze in the doorway and gasped. “What? What is it—”

Della spun around and put her hands on his shoulders, backing out of the room. “Don’t look.”

“Huh? What is it? What happened?”

“Radar, no. Please. Don’t fight me on this just…” She gulped. “Just don’t.”

The boy’s voice trembled when he spoke. “Who was it?”

Della shook her head, covering her mouth with one hand. 

“Please, Dell. Who died? I—”

And for the other one...

😔

This one was a bit harder... Most of the angst I've written that I found hard was for the BSD fandom because I love to put poor Kenji in a blender... But this was also difficult to write. It also comes from a fic that has miss Della in it. Here is a section from my fic, "God, Keep My Head Above Water," which starts during GFA.

Father Mulcahy sat at his desk with his back to the door, his head down. It was likely, she realized, that he was writing a sermon or something similar and was so deep in thought that he hadn’t heard her. She slipped inside and dusted herself off before walking over to him and laying a hand on his shoulder. “John?”

Father Mulcahy made a noise somewhere between a yelp and a cry, trying to turn so quickly that he fell off his chair and crashed to the floor. Della drew her hand to her chest, brows raised and eyes wide as she stared down at her friend, sprawled on the ground at her feet.  She blinked a few times as he stared up at her, his face morphing from panic to recognition to dread, and then finally to plain startled. His voice wavered as he spoke to her, forcing a smile onto his face. “Della. It’s good to see you.”

Della surveyed his face as she crouched in front of him. “Are you alright? I didn’t mean to startle you.”

For a moment he just stared at her before giving her a jerky nod. 

“You must’ve been deep in thought,” she continued, having turned to right the chair. “You’ve never been jumpy.” Della turned back to him and her eyes were immediately drawn to the wound on the side of his head. She leaned forward, her hand hovering beside the shrapnel scars, brows raised and parted lips downturned. “You are hurt…” She took his face in her hands, then tilted his head to get a better look. “John… what were you thinking?”

She let go of him and sat back on her heels, brows raised. His eyes widened, realizing she’d been speaking to him and was expecting a response. He mirrored her expression. 

Della furrowed her brows. “What were you thinking?”

He shrugged. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Della leant forward and rested the back of her hand on his forehead. “You’re not acting like yourself.” No fever, so it probably wasn’t that his wound was infected… “Is it your head?” She checked both of his eyes for uneven pupils, and the icy blue glistened with unshed tears. “Are you in pain?” Della pulled back and held him at an arm’s length, once again waiting for an answer. 

Mulcahy could only blink at her, brows cinched in fear. 

“John? What is it? What’s the matter?” She studied his face as she spoke, finally noticing that he wasn’t looking her in the eyes but was instead staring at her lips. On top of that, when he didn’t answer her, she hadn’t spoken to him with her face in full view. She sat back again and stared at him for a moment, jaw slack. “You can’t hear me… Can you…?”

The tears clinging to Mulcahy’s lashes spilled over and fell down his cheeks. He shook his head and looked down, head hanging as his shoulders started jumping. Della’s chest tightened as if someone had knocked the wind out of her at the sight of his tears, and her heartbeat, which had been in her ears only a moment ago, seemed to have slowed nearly to a stop. In any other situation, she’d know exactly what to do–they had been through a lot together over the course of the war. A hug and soothing words were usually enough to console him in a typical instance, but how was she supposed to proceed with something like this? When it was fear, and pain, and his usual feelings of uselessness likely magnified tenfold… What was she supposed to do with something that could change the entire course of his life so drastically? How could she even attempt to console him when she couldn’t use her words…

When a particularly rough sob tore from Mulcahy’s throat, she snapped out of her thoughts. He clutched his elbows, posture crumpled in on himself, still sitting on the floor. Whatever she’d been wondering before didn’t matter–she’d do whatever she had to, even if she couldn’t use her words. By instinct, she settled on her knees and wrapped her arms around Mulcahy. 

“I’m–sorry–”

Thank you so much again for the ask! If you don't know much about my OC Della, long story short is she's Father Mulcahy's best friend and also kind of an older sibling to Radar. I have plenty of MASH OCs but Della was my first and is my favourite by far. Anyway, yeah, those are the two fics I wanted to share from. I'm hoping to finish the first one soon as well as update the second one on AO3 soon as well.

Anyone else, please feel free to send an ask to my inbox! I'll pin the post it's from on my profile :)

[dandyfelines]

Donro University AU (wip)

A late submission for Day 6: AU of @donro-week

It's only half-finished and not beta-read but, well, it's a University AU with a little bit of a spin on Donald and Gyro's personalities.

Gyro Gearloose prided himself on his ability to solve nearly any problem. He was the self-proclaimed inventor of almost anything. Throughout school, he made little gadgets for his classmates; some of his favourites were a device that perfectly steadied a compass, a machine that restored soggy lunchbox food to a fresh state, and a hyper-accurate paper ball flinger to get back at an irritating bully. In academia, he excelled, and people came to him for help working out a puzzling formula. 

In his pursuit of heightening the limits of his inventions, he found an enriching opportunity in engineering research at Duckburg University. Prominent minds such as Professor Ludwig von Drake would be amongst his co-workers if he researched there, so in a short matter of time he created a research proposal that they couldn't refuse.

Under one condition. He had to teach a class.

He had never taught before, but he was good at helping people. Surely, teaching was simply an extended version of that. He would craft the parts and tinker with the variables necessary to create a functional, informative curriculum.

He covered every detail the textbook required of him, and more. He stayed up watching the lectures of Professor Ludwig von Drake and took notes on how to improve upon his lessons.

Yet, in spite of overwhelming evidence, a good scientist knew to qualify his statements carefully: Gyro Gearloose, the inventor of almost anything. 

He read the emails from his students and, he wouldn’t admit it, a review on an anonymous professor rating website. They could be summarised into two types of feedback:

“Lectures confusing” “Professor Gearloose is a brilliant inventor, but cannot teach to save his life.”

Gyro Gearloose’s tall, lanky figure slunk into his chair. His body sagged down like a sack of potatoes.  

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

"... So if you just report the results of your test in this format,  you can use the data to formulate your own hypothesis."

The young moorhen sitting across from him stroked her red beak. "Oh, I see now. I guess I misunderstood the instructions. But… how do I know which theories to apply?"

"You have to think about it on your own! If you run the tests again, it will make sense."

"Hm, alright. I have to go, Professor. Thanks for your time."

"Of course, if you need help again, just use my office hours." Gyro sighed. Milly was a hard-worker who did well in most courses, but she was the worst performing student in his class. Her understanding of math wasn't bad, so Gyro did not know how to help her. All of his students had potential to be clever thinkers, but they were befuddled in his classroom.

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

Gyro’s mind worked at high speed. They possessed his hands. Out tumbled the numbers and theorems through furious scratching of chalk. The board was all his to fill. 

Knock-knock. 

The chalk came to a halt. A synapse was snapped. Gyro bemoaned the lost train of thought, but he hollered, “Come in!”

“Sorry, is now a good time?” That voice belonged to the receptionist of student services.

“What do you need?” Gyro set down the chalk.

A familiar duck’s face peered through the crack of the door. He had white fluffy feathers, and stray ones curled on his forehead and tail. He wore his usual outfit, a sweater vest and a puffy red bowtie. Donald stepped into his room, slow and deliberate. 

"Well, I have another request from one of your students. They said this new lecture covered content not in the textbook, so they want you to share some additional reading on that topic."

"Yeah, I received about twenty emails this morning telling me the same." Gyro sighed. 

"Right. And I wanted to ask for your permission to form an official study support session for your class. If that's ok, I'll go ahead and organise it."

Gyro clutched onto the edge of the desk and frowned. Then, he took a deep breath. "No. That's not quite what I had in mind. No, I ought to be in charge of this problem." He tapped a finger on his chin. "I know they find it confusing, but it's my job as their professor to guide them. Maybe I just need to invent a device that simplifies my speech, or I could make a script generator that factors in what students need in a lesson… "

Donald stepped backwards. He took out a notebook from his pocket and flipped through a few pages. "Well… if you're sure you can help them before midterm, I suppose..."

Gyro nodded. "I'm sure I can solve this. You'll see."

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

Two weeks later, time allocated to his office hours dwarfed his research progress. A barrage of emails from confused students flooded his inbox. The negative reviews on that website only increased. 

"I just don't understand. I tried to use a script with simplified language instead of improvising on the spot, but they are still confused." Gyro bit into his sandwich.

Sitting across from him, Ludwig von Drake scratched his head. "Hm, sounds like a tricky class. Have you tried to give quizzes? See what they do and don't know."

"Of course I have, and I reviewed the problem areas they had trouble with. But then when it comes to new content, the problem arises again! I just can't figure out what is causing it. It takes too much time away from my research to create a new review session every week."

"Well, perhaps you could get some advice from my nephew. You know, he could probably find you since good resources."

Gyro blinked. "Nephew? How can he help?"

"Why, he's a whiz at finding information on just about any topic. You've seen it for yourself, surely."

"Just to be clear, your nephew is–"

“Oh, hiya Gyro! And Uncle Ludwig!” Donald pranced over to their table, using a single hand to carry a tray above his head.

Gyro grimaced as some soup splashed on his wrist when Donald slammed the tray down.

"Ah, there he is!" Ludwig beamed at Donald, who was now scraping a nearby chair across the floor to make a table for three.

"Hope it's fine if I join you!" Donald picked up a spoon.

"You've already made yourself welcome," Gyro commented.

Ludwig turned to his nephew and directed his attention to Gyro with a flat palm. "Say, Donald. Gyro here has a problem with making clear lectures. Do you know of anything he can use to improve?"

He tapped his beak with the spoon. "Well, there's a website I like to refer to for teaching methods. And I must have an old textbook in my office on basic pedagogy." Donald looked at Gyro. "What are you teaching right now?"

“Newtonian mechanics!” Gyro grumbled. “The textbook teaches it even though it is an outdated system!”

Donald hummed. “Well… most subjects are like that. The introductory level is simplified for a reason, you know.”

Gyro shook his head. “But I’m sure these students will be able to learn much better if they start with the concepts that account for our modern understanding the best.”

“Surely that's not how you started learning engineering?”

"I didn't need the school system to teach me that."

"I see… well, in any case I can find a resource to help you teach. If you apply these concepts to your class, I'm sure their testing scores will improve."

"Oh, that's not necessary."

Donald held up a hand to silence him. "I insist! My main work is student support, but I've been known to help staff too."

Gyro tapped his fingers against the table. "You don't understand. I'm trying to set these students up to have an investigative approach to inventing. Build important research skills, figure out how systems interact through observation. I don't need help teaching the material or upping test scores. It's about getting them to think more critically."

Donald shrunk into the seat. "I can still send you some resources."

Ludwig looked between the two of them. "Goodness, I’ll leave you two to sort this out.”

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

Gyro looked at the results of the tests. They were lower than he expected, and the most commonly missed questions were from material he had covered in his lectures twice. Then he came across Milly’s test. Apprehensively, he graded it, checking through the questions. There was a marked increase in depth and comprehension to her short form responses. She had compared the similarities and overlap between two different principles and speculated on the potential ways these could be applied in practice. Pleased, Gyro wrote her grade down. It still wasn't at the level he'd expect, but for this student, it was a great improvement. 

Though, as one who made a living of research and experiments, a question tugged at his curiosity. Why did she perform well on this test? He hadn’t changed anything in his teaching for the previous lectures. The test itself was formatted and questions selected exactly as the mock exam was, so it couldn't be that, either. 

Gyro decided to ask her. He could use that knowledge to help the other students succeed.

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

 “Professor, thanks again for explaining this to me.” Milly slid the textbook in her backpack.

“Of course. Seems like you’re getting a better grasp of things!”

“I figured out a study method that works for me,” she said.

This was what he wanted to know. “Could you tell me what you changed in your studying approach?”

Milly zipped her bag as she spoke, “It wasn’t really me, but I went to the student support services and they showed me different studying tips and methods.”

That had his attention. “...I see. Well, it seems to be working for you, so you’re on the right path. I’ll see you next week.” 

“See you, Professor.” She exited his office.

Gyro turned around to his computer and stared at the emails from Donald he had left unopened.

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

What was Donald doing right that he couldn’t grasp? The thought drove him mad. It also drove him to be sitting as an observer for “Research Literacy,” watching Donald Duck give a presentation.

“Good afternoon! Now, raise your hand if you’ve written an essay with sources mostly taken from Wikipedia’s citations…”

The workshop had him floored. He was drawn in by Donald’s simple, yet engaging language. Gyro knew how to research, he had made a living of it, after all, but Donald managed to keep his interest throughout the entire workshop with a unique analogy or a silly joke.

Plus, it was just as interactive as he’d like to make his classes. Donald had asked the students to form groups and put the concepts to practice by giving them a random topic that they had to find five sources for. They were presented hypothetical, believable problems of when the literature for a topic was lacking or when a potential source was inaccessible, and he had guided the students to their own original solutions. Gyro was merely an observer, but he wished he could have partaken in the class activities and discussions. He was confined to the back, but he imagined the responses he would give in the group discussions, and the personal experiences he could share.

What wealth of knowledge did that duck have? He knew now that this was an opportunity he had once made the mistake of rejecting. When the students chattering faded dispersed from the class and joined the hallway, he made his move. Donald was still unplugging his laptop from the socket.

Gyro bolted towards Donald with a wild urgency. “You!"

"Me!" Donald exclaimed, pointing at himself.

 Why didn’t you tell me before?!” he gasped between pants.

Donald tilted his head ever so slightly. “Tell you what?”

Gyro frowned. Did he have to spell it out to him? “You are good at teaching! Tell me your ways!”

At that, Donald’s bubbly demeanor dropped into something more serious. “Look, Gyro… I’m not a teacher. And the kind of content you teach in your lectures is leagues beyond what I can help you with.”

“B-but– I..”

With a guarded attitude, Donald picked up his planner and leafed through a few pages. “I’m sure there’s a workshop I can find for you to help you with your problem,” he spoke with an unusual air of distant professionalism.

"No, can't you see? It has to be you," Gyro said desperately. “I… am sorry for ignoring your advice earlier.”

Donald was moved by that. "You're sure you want me?"

Gyro nodded fiercely.

"Well, okay. Fine. Let's meet during lunch?"

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

Amidst the cafeteria’s droning conversations composed of students and staff alike, Gyro and his coach sat in a high-seated table for two by the windows across the salad bar. 

Donald was reading his lecture notes in silence. With nothing else to do, Gyro noticed how the dust particles floating in the air took up the appearance of sparkles in the sunlight. They drifted around Donald, whose feathers shone a golden trim around his silhouette. It was because of the waterproof oil, he knew, but the sight was serene.

Then, their gazes connected. Gyro inhaled sharply, and he thought he saw Donald’s eyes widen. In a blink, the lecture papers were returned to his possession. 

“The first thing that stood out to me is the timing of these activities. I’m not sure they will be finished as quickly as you think.”

“But I need them. If I lengthened one, there wouldn’t be enough time for the others,” Gyro argued.

Donald crossed his arms. “Right, ok. Do you need to cover all this material?”

“Of course I do. I am not cutting anything out.”

He sighed. “Then, we still need to make modifications. Let’s go back to the basics. What do you want your students to accomplish by the end of the lecture? It’s really important to set a learning objective.”

“On that thought, I should have the students write down these learning objectives at the end of my presentation.” Gyro noted his idea down, then he addressed him. “I see your point. Instead of disparate activities on each individual concept, perhaps I can have them analyse an experiment through guided discussions. This allows them to see it in application and discover them independently.”

“It’s not a bad idea, actually. That’s an inductive learning approach.” Donald looked him up and down. “Now that I think about it, it really suits your style.”

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

The second time they met, they shared lunch in Gyro's office.

Gyro paced back and forth, hand on his forehead. “I've tried everything I thought of! Prepared notes, giving examples, slowing my pace… but they still think my lectures are confusing.”

Donald, who had been eating and watching him pace, set down his sandwich. “I watched your lecture recordings last night. Here's what I think. First, you are trying to define an inertial frame using concepts they don’t understand yet. They don’t need to know about how it relates to absolute space-time and the Theory of Relativity at this stage. This is an introductory level class.”

“Right… so you're saying I should simplify even more. But how?” He pulled out the chair and sat down.

“Let me try. This is on Newtonian mechanics?” Donald cleared his throat. “Newtonian mechanics applies Newton’s Laws of Motion to a system of objects. Raise your hand if you know of Newton’s Laws of Motion.” 

Gyro reluctantly raised his hand after a long stare from Donald.

“Good! Now, does anybody remember the three laws?” He paused, then spoke in a more casual voice, “Then you go through them, one by one. Including the formulae.” 

He mimed a screen projector by outlining a rectangle in the air and pointed at imaginary examples within it. Continuing the demonstration, his voice picked up in volume and authority once again. “Let’s look at the formulae. As long as no force is acting on it, what do you notice about the velocity?”

“And here, you use the formulae to show that velocity is absolute, just as the law of inertia states. The students should be able to work it out themselves without you telling them directly. Then, ta-da! This is called an inertial frame of reference.”

“After that, you define ‘frame of reference,’” Donald spoke in his normal voice. “You can use an example, such as… if you’re standing on a high-speed train, then from your frame of reference, you aren’t moving. But to someone on the ground, you are moving quite fast,” he said. “Something like that. My high school physics knowledge is failing me right now.”

Gyro stared at him in awe. “That was… simple. It's exactly what I need.”

Donald combed a hand through his head feathers, tickled pink by the praise. "It's about accommodating for your audience," he said, "Not everyone thinks the same way. Some people have a harder time understanding complex, abstract concepts, so they need a more concrete base to work from."

Gyro nodded, and scribbled his words into a notepad.

Donald pointed a finger at him. "You are the expert. It's your job to know how to simplify it for these beginners."

"I thought I was simplifying. But I never thought to do it this way." He looked at Donald. “I never had an interest in teaching, I suppose. Did you take it as a degree?”

"Well, I've never completed university myself."

That grabbed Gyro's attention. "You didn't? Then how do you know about teaching?"

Donald shifted in his seat. "Ah, well. It was one of the many odd jobs I took back then. Tutor, substitute teacher, that thing." 

"And you just picked all of this up from experience?"

Donald shrugged. "Mostly. I studied a little bit, but that kind of stuff is not my strong suit."

Gyro looked at him with surprise. "Then, perhaps, we have more in common than I thought."

[thought-42]

WIP amnesty is a thing right?

Good morning tumblr would you like to see an excerpt from a modern au that I’m never going to finish so that I can officially remove it from my WIP list?

Of course you would.

Do not let the bit above the cut fool you, this is primarily Caleb having a very bad dissociative time

"Woah, woah, what the fuck are you doing," Beau says. Essek's eyebrow arches.

"Poisoning your drink so I can live one day in peace," he says, mildly.

"The fuck you are," Beau says. "Why the fuck are you putting cinnamon in your perfectly good wine?"

"Firstly, don't lie to yourself, we haven't seen perfectly good wine in literal years. Secondly, it was Jester's idea."

"Why are you taking Jester's drink suggestions, she's not even old enough to drink."

Jester frowns over at Beau. "I could drink if I wanted to, I just like my dignity intact."

Fjord chokes on his hot chocolate.

Essek snaps the lid on the cinnamon shut. "To be fair, you really couldn't. You are an actual infant." He says it with affection, but Jester still looks annoyed.

"Don't listen to him," she tells Caleb, squeezing his forearm with both hands. "He's just defensive because I showed him the meaning of friendship and also the meaning of being blatantly manipulated by older men from a foreign government when you're a teenager."

"You were so nice when I met you," Fjord says sadly.

"I'm 117," Essek says primly.

"And you look great for your age, buddy," Beau says, and Bren yanks his arm away from Jester because he really should have predicted that the casual banter was going to go this direction, he really should have been preparing the defective mess of misfiring neurons and screaming in his skull to cancel the lurch of jarring dissociative horror that is a hilariously disproportionate reaction to an entirely unremarkable comment.

He watches a stranger's reflection in the window.

Essek says, "Time is one of my specialties."

Frumpkin rests heavy on his shoulders.

The reflection in the glass fades.

Bren stretches out his hands and-- oh, that is the floor. The chair disappeared from his immediate vicinity, and object permanence is shaky at best.

A cork pops, somewhere behind him, and he only lights a tiny flame. Bren had always said healing potions tasted better than wine. Astrid said his tastes hadn't matured yet.

"Caleb," says Essek, and means the stranger in the window.

Bren had tried to grow a beard one winter until Wulf had pinned him down while Astrid shaved it off of him, all of them laughing because to be held down for a blade had many different connotations in those years. All of them good. He has not looked at his arms yet. He presses and presses on the skin but he does not bleed. He pushes and pushes but the magic comes sirup slow and lethargic.

Scar tissue can take up to a year to form fully, according to the glossy smooth tablet at the public library. A year isn't that long but his arms don't hurt. He rubs a hand across his a forearm but he doesn't feel anything. Caleb's forearm, Bren's hand.

He has not looked at his arms yet.

"Caleb," someone else says, and means 'eleven years'.

"Time is one of my specialties."

He presses his hands against the floor and breathes in, holds it, breathes out, because Caleb is someone who has memorized a list of grounding techniques for moments of dissociation or anxiety. In for four, hold for seven, out for three. The pattern is helpful.

Bren watches Caleb in the window until he can feel the swirls in the linoleum under his fingers and he can track the conversations happening around him through logical progressions for more than ten seconds. He has lost time. An hour and seventeen minutes, which is a fucking spike in the graph that he does not want to think too closely about. An hour and seventeen minutes can get you killed. An hour and seventeen minutes is long enough that at least one person of the additional four in this fucking flat must have tried to engage with him, and no one is shaking him or calling an ambulance and yelling in his face, so his autopilot must be getting better.

That's helpful.

Bren wants to tear his brain out through his eyeballs.

Essek sits down on the floor beside him. Sits down is a generous descriptor-- It's more of a controlled fall, sudden and graceless and lacking the fluidity of drunkenness. Given Caleb just stared at the wall for an hour and seventeen minutes, he supposes he is in no place to judge others' blatant weaknesses.

"Do you want to learn a spell?" Essek says.

"Always," says Caleb, and then "You mentioned Chronogy," which is approximately seven thousand percent more transparent than he ever wants to be in his entire life.

Essek laughs brightly. "Perhaps something a little simpler for your first, hmm?"

Bren wants to shove him down and hurt him or kiss him until he stops laughing. Bren has never had to struggle to learn anything and a Crik traitor is not going to be the first to challenge that. Caleb chuckles, self-effacing, and says "I am maybe a little over-eager, I admit, but it is not often I get the chance to learn from someone as skilled as yourself."

"I suspect you have your own skills," says Essek. "You cast like you've had formal instruction and you look for exits in a room the way my brother does after a bad campaign."

"Please stop," says Caleb, because he does not want to know that Essek has a brother who is important enough to him for his emotional wellbeing to be of note. More immediately, he does not want to know what he's unwittingly given away to Essek.

"My apologies," says Essek. "I will not pry. But please know that I have seen shame in those who choose to remove themselves from a battlefield by any means necessary. Warfare is a barbaric practice, mostly unsuited to mages of skill such as ourselves."

Bren bows his head and glances up at Essek through his eyelashes before looking away. Let him think Caleb a deserter warmage. Let him think Caleb a beggar, a veteran drowning his traumas in alcohol. Let him think Caleb anything but what he really is, which is a disappointment, a murderer, a proven flight risk, a naive child not nearly as smart as he thought he was. Sometimes he thinks about how he would kill Trent if he gets the chance, but it's never satisfying. Trent knows Bren can kill. He'd probably be fucking proud, just for that last archetypal mindfuck. Bren does not need to prove he can kill Trent-- Bren needs to prove he is smarter than Trent. He's either going to do that by publicly exposing his widely varied and horrific crimes to the entire world, along with the rotting apple that is the Cerberus Assembly, or he's going to invent time travel. Both would, obviously, be the ideal outcome, but Bren knows how to be realistic (see: pragmatism, newly developed skillset).