#i’m insane for thinking of this when i have more wips than i have brain cells

[pedrito-friskito]

the insane urge to write an ocean’s eleven au with either

or

(no tom sorry not sorry)

OR BOTH?!

[yabagofmilfs]

I mean. Sex freak bf. Obviously has me hooked 👀👂

🫡🫡🫡

okay one thing you need know about me is orgasm delay/denial is one of my favorite tropes, so don’t be surprised if there’s at least one more along these lines in that wip list.

basically sid is insane, and only lets himself come if they win. and if they lose particularly badly, he gets geno to edge him until he’s crying about it and then he still doesn’t get to come.

a little snip:

Atonement is the word that comes to mind, but it’s too close to punishment to say out loud. He’d started it in Juniors, when it’d almost been a game to him–first one to score gets to score. Except he’d been in competition with his own dick, and the only way either of them was going to score was if he scored a goal. After he got the C, it became something else. Something that required active participation–an act of will rather than passive denial.

He doesn’t know why it helps, only that it does. Only that in times like now, when he feels exhausted and desperate, it makes his brain go quiet and still.

Geno heaves a deep sigh. “Sex freak boyfriend.” Sid laughs and feels the relief trickle through him; he doesn’t have the energy to fight with Geno tonight. “No one know Sidney Crosby so kinky.”

“It’s not a kink!” Geno raises a skeptical eyebrow. “It’s not–it’s not like I’m doing this just because I want to. It’s for hockey.” Mostly.

“Sid, everything in your life for hockey. Doesn’t mean this not a kink.”

“Not everything,” Sid says, just to be contrary.

“Name one thing not for hockey.”

“You,” he says without thinking about it, and regrets it immediately.

Geno grins. “I’m most hockey thing. You only like me because my hockey best.”

“Also your dick,” Sid points out. “Which doesn’t have anything to do with hockey.”

“Maybe use my dick for hockey tonight,” Geno says, rolling on top of Sid and grinding down a little. “Maybe I fuck you, we break streak.”

“You can fuck me,” he says, a little out of breath, arching into the roll of Geno’s hips. “We can do that.” The thought of it has his belly going tight and hot. The rush of arousal makes his balls feel sore and heavy, a reminder of the last ten days of denial.

“Yeah?” Geno says, and the hopefulness in it tips Sid off.

“I mean, I’m not going to come, but you could still do it.”

[klaasje]

❄️🌈?

❄️Share a snippet from a WIP of your choosing & 🌈 Share something soft/fluffy from your WIP

“Shut up,” the stranger orders. “Where’s your handler?”

Don’t give him the upper hand! Tell him that’s classified.

“Nobody handles me,” Harry says. He feels oddly nettled by this. “Kim’s my friend. I don’t need to be handled.”

The stranger scoffs, saying nothing. Above their heads, streetlamps flicker to life with a weary buzz. Yellow light falls on the bookshop’s display shelves.

Snow has encrusted the top layer of paperbacks. This has happened before, and will happen again before the thaw is done. The oldest books have accepted it and bloomed like little accordions. Their covers are brittle to the touch, but if you peeled them open, carefully, you’d find the book’s inner heart—a hidden nest of congealed pages, the bud of some strange flower. Water makes paper very soft, and makes strange things happen to it. Nothing emerges from water unchanged.

“I’ll walk you back to the Whirling, if you want,” Harry offers.

The stranger barks out a laugh.

“Excuse me?”

“Come back to the Whirling with me.” Feeling bold, Harry steps forward. The stranger stumbles back. “You know, the hostel? It’s not so bad. They have food, hot drinks, karaoke—”

“I’m not going anywhere with you!”

“Why not?”

“You’re insane,” the strange man mutters, digging a pack of cigarettes out his pocket. “You are a drunk bum whose brain has leaked out his ears. Leave me alone.”

He looks down when Harry tries to meet his eyes, bowing his head over his lighter and cupping the flame in both hands. The end of his cigarette flares to life. Harry watches, spellbound.

Three initials are carved into the side of that lighter: JHV. His own, perhaps, or those of the person who gave it to him. Either way, it’s a lot nicer than yours. Girlfriend, maybe?

Harry squints at the smoker, cocking his head.

Boyfriend, maybe?

This setup… it reminds you of something. You in the centre of the road, him over there by the seawall, orbiting you. It makes you think of—

—The Dual Commissars of Revolution! Also known as *Les Amoureux Révolutionnaires*. Julia Dobreva was a brilliant, charismatic, revolutionary comet; Jean Abadanaiz was her partner and stabiliser, the planet who kept her in orbit. They were joint leaders of the Insulinde’s Communist movement and established the organisational system of decomptage within Revachol’s Communist party, a practice which persists in the RCM to this day. This is definitely what you were thinking about, and it’s definitely the answer you’re looking for. Don’t sweat it.

Harry frowns.

“Would you consider yourself more of a planet or a comet?”

“Great question,” the smoker says mildly, ashing his cigarette. “Very normal of you.”

Didn’t like the question, doesn’t think you’re normal.

Harry watches the strange man smoke some more, muttering under his breath. Something sparks in the murky depths of his hindbrain, burning like a signal flare at sea.

Tipping your head back as he walks behind your chair—a lanky shadow in sweats and a baggy black gym shirt, once stiff, worn soft, with ‘H.D.B’ printed on the breast pocket in obnoxious block capitals. Pour over coffee and menthol smoke, a talk show on the radio, and you: tipping your head back to grin at the man in your kitchen with your throat bared, secure in the knowledge that he would take a bullet for you; knowing exactly how he’d roll his eyes, long-suffering, before ruffling your hair…

Harry blinks. The vision fades to nothingness, all except for one part, who flicks his cigarette over the seawall and picks a scab on his chin.

“Jean,” Harry murmurs. It feels good in his mouth. Satisfying, somehow, like scratching an itch. Almost perfect, but not quite…

“Jean-Heron,” he corrects himself, and the hunch pays off: Jean’s breath clicks in his throat as he tips his head back, eyes squeezed shut. “Jean, listen…”

“No,” Jean says thickly, backing away, "no, I'm done humouring you—”

“I just want to talk some more,” Harry insists, darting closer. “Just for a little bit. Please?”

“You don’t even know who I am!”

“I do,” Harry says stubbornly. “I do know you. I just needed more time to look at you, that’s all.”

“Time to look at me,” Jean repeats, slow with disbelief.

“I couldn’t see your eyes,” Harry explains. “Behind the sunglasses, I mean.”

A series of expressions slide across Jean’s face in rapid succession: incredulity, fury, then weariness, one after the other, like a zoetrope. He presses the heel of his hand to his forehead, eyes squeezed shut, and starts to laugh, then cough. It’s a hoarse, hacky smoker’s cough.

Don’t make any promises. Don’t try to make amends. Just say his name again, Harry, the way you used to. That’s all he really wants.

“Jean,” Harry murmurs. Instinct takes control of his body, turning his voice soft and low. He steps closer and reaches out, putting his hand on Jean’s forearm. “Listen, I’m just trying to make things okay again… can we talk somewhere else?”

Jean tips his head back down. His lashes gleam wetly, catching the light. His mouth has thinned to a hard line.

This is not the first time he’s heard those words from you.

[writerscafehub]

𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐀: 𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐞

@fluffyprettykitty

From one to five stars, how would you rate your writing? (No downplaying yourself!)

I would give it a solid three, I think I write simplistic and descriptive enough to give a good story out there. 

What do you think makes your writing stand out from other works?

I think the length? I have lots of people compliment me on my ability to write a conclusive drabble and short shorties and poems have always been my favorite to read.

Are there any writers that inspire you?

On Tumblr, I have been inspired by the first people who introduced me to fandom and taught me how to use my writing abilities. Some have deactivated by now but my most prominent writing inspiration is @outerspacious. 

What’s the fic you’re most proud of?

Oh, it has to be my Layla story. Together. In a way, the story describes everything I have ever hoped for regarding a f/f relationship, like the dream of living with your loved one somewhere where you can only acknowledge your love in specific places.

Which character(s) do you find easiest to write and which do you find most difficult to write?

Oh, it’s so easy for me to write for Sam Wilson of course, and Frank Castle, Matt Murdock, Selina Kyle, and Brunnhilde. The most difficult is Gamora unfortunately, I would love to write more about her but I feel like I don’t have enough material to grasp on.

Who or what do you find yourself writing about most?

Love of course, first loves, falling in love, falling out of love, & a healthy dose of some toxic relationships.

Tell us about a WIP you’re excited about!

Very Excited about this toxic love kind of story I’ve been brewing in my head for a while now. Something about equally drawing energy over each other without ever acknowledging they are the one you need/want more.

First fandom you ever wrote for?

Beyblade! A thousand years ago when I was a teen <3

Any guilty pleasure trope(s)?

Once again I love writing about toxic relationships using people and completely draining someone out of their emotions. Maybe to get over past experiences cause it’s fun to explore “forbidden” feelings but it’s a fun process to write from that perspective. 

A trope you’ll never, ever write for.

Hmmm, I never liked the soulmate trope I guess. 

What is the wildest fic you’ve ever written?

Okay not here, but back in the Beyblade fandom I sued to write/keep the diary of one of the players and it was full of wild shenanigans and insane things that happened to him every day and it was just completely unhinged. 

Favorite pairing to write for? (platonic or romantic!)

Any character I fancy x me is and will always be my favorite pairing cause I write for me <3

Do you listen to anything while you write?

I try to! I got some specific playlists for some characters such as Bruce Tony or Matt and then I got others I searched for based on vibes for the story I wanted.

One-shots or multi-chaptered works?

One shot. 

Have you ever daydreamed about side adventures/spin-offs from your fic? Tell us about them!

I have! I had this whole thing in my head when I wrote ‘Party Tricks’ to sort of have the reader experience each one of the Avengers I guess in different situations and a couple of other ideas that have been lost in the void that is my brain.

15. Is there anything you’ve wanted to write, but you’ve been too scared to try?

Ugh so many. I have some stories I have experienced that I want to turn into fics but I’m too shy to do it, unfortunately.

17. What’s the nicest comment you’ve ever received?

Whenever I write about Bruce Banner I get the best compliments from some lovely people who you know just get *it* get the obsession. 

Have you ever gone outside of your comfort zone for a fic? How did it turn out?

I always try to push my comfort zone a little, the things I enjoy are limited so I always try to think in a way of the audience, of the other side, just look at anything a little more round rather than straightforward. It’s something I’d encourage anyone to do sincerely.

Tooth-rotting fluff or merciless angst?

Oh, fluff for sure. For me, angst is only for that one day a month when you need to feel everything, fluff is my daily dose of happiness.

Do you have any OCs? Tell us about them!

I don’t have OCs but I would love to venture into that at some point in my life.

If you could enter the universe of any one of your fics, which would it be and why?

Honestly, any fic, all are unique in a way and I just wanna get an in you know. But mostly I’d love to enter any kind of vamp au I’ve made, I feel like I’d get to know such a new and interesting kind of life.

Is there anything you wish your audience knew about your writing or writing process?

I need to write the main thing in under one hour typing fast, no distractions, just pure focus. I guess learning what someone’s writing style is like teaches you a lot about that person and the sort of the fic they choose to write. But mostly I need to have the idea so vividly inside my head before I even attempt to write it, I can’t write a sentence per day, it needs to be at least 600 words.

Copy and paste an excerpt you’re particularly fond of.

From Human Connection

He was yours yet not at all at the same time.

Until one dark rainy night, he held your throat within the palm of his hand staring down at you asking you what you wanted from him. 

And you didn’t reply. And your heartbeat rose and rose. 

But he knew what to do to make you talk. 

And when he crushed his body against yours, you knew. 

You knew how people connected. 

And within the time you’d explain to him who you were and what happened to you and he would swear on his life that no harm would ever be done to you again. 

And then you became one of these people you used to so closely inspect. 

Then you became his.’

Ramble about any fic-related thing you want!

You need to try to write about everything you dream of, no matter whether you’re going publish it or not or show it to a friend, I think many people can write and just are afraid to do so. Fandom and Tumblr give you such an opportunity to explore yourself and your talents through something so simple as dreaming about a character and writing about any situation. I wish more people weren’t afraid although the lack of acknowledgment from the audience is draining, finding friends and good people in fandom is a possibility, and joining incredibly well-mannered servers helps you even more! 

[stabbyfoxandrew]

omg i forgot it was wednesday!! requesting mafia restaurant this time!! hope you’re doing well aerie

WIP Wednesday (4/3) | Mafia Front Restaurant AU (Part 127)

After fifteen minutes of people watching and reading Tweets over Kevin’s shoulder, Neil’s about to go insane. His restlessness is something he’s never grown out of and he’s starting to feel cooped up. Like a dog tied to a tree. Or left in a car... 

“What’s the matter?” ask Kevin from the front.

Neil looks up at him. “Huh?”

“You keep sighing.” Kevin says. 

“I do not,” Neil argues. Then he looks towards the door to the shop and lets out a breath.

“You just did it again.” Kevin says, turning in his seat. He starts to laugh quietly. “You sound like an old dog.”

“Shut up.” Neil pouts, remembering Jean’s joke about him being a pet. “What is taking him so long?”

“It’s not been that long.” Kevin says, looking back down at his phone. “You’re just antsy all the time.”

Well, he’s got a point. Neil glances out the window to see Jean exiting the shop with quite a few bags in his trolley. Oh, thank God. He’s finally done. When he gets to the car, Jean loads most of the groceries into the trunk. Except for one bag that he brings with him into the front seat.

“Took you long enough. I thought we were going to have to send out a search party.” Neil snides as soon as Jean climbs in. Jean gives him a look in the rearview.

“This is the thanks I get for searching for this for ten minutes?” Jean asks, slipping a magazine out of the bag. Neil’s mouth falls open.

“You do care.” He says with a smile, reaching for the magazine.

“Of course I do, you imbecile.” Jean folds the magazine and slaps Neil in the side of the head with it before dropping it in his lap. The smack rattles Neil’s brain a bit and Kevin snorts. Jean clears his throat. “For your information, they moved the magazine stand to the other side, nearer the bakery section.”

“Thanks,” Neil says, hand coming to his head. “Can we go now?”

“God, you’re never happy. Are you?” Jean asks, starting the car.

“I’m not sure. Thanks for the concussion.” Neil says, then he waves the magazine. “And this, I guess.”

Kevin snorts. “All three of us have had concussions. I think it takes a little more than that.”

Jean and Neil share a look in the rearview mirror again. The two of them know exactly what it takes to get a concussion, courtesy of Riko Moriyama, but they silently agree not to bring it up. Because, while it’s sort of cathartic for the two of them to bitch about Riko, it only serves to make Kevin feel like shit.

[ohbo-ohno]

Obessed with the idea where you’re just really damn fast in the ghoap serial killer AU.

So Simon and Johnny let you go thinking it’d be a fun little game for them, except— much to their shock— you make them work for it. (Maybe you’re muzzled during this so that you don’t try to scream and attract attention from anyone nearby?)

Just imagining Johnny being giddy with excitement and Simon cocking his head ever so slightly as they watch you disappear into the forest. They’d take off after you, feet thundering against the ground and echoing throughout the forest— and somehow, you seem to speed up even more.

Feel like you would have the advantage of being lighter than Simon and Johnny, letting you gain more momentum, enough to prevent them from capturing momentarily; but I also feel like they’d have shitloads of stamina and their military training to boot.

So maybe in the beginning they take it easy, perhaps underestimating you— something they make sure to not do next time— and just yelling out to you in the forest. Johnny would taunt you with a big shit-eating grin on his face and Simon would say the most ominous shit that would internally freak you the fuck out.

The start to get worried when they notice some smoke and realise some campers or something are nearby.

You notice the same time they do and you take off with them hot on your heels. (Knowing that Death in the form of two men are following close behind you, that these people will likely die because of your choice— knowing and choosing to anyway, praying that they’ll be enough to distract Simon and Johnny long enough so that you can escape.)

Your start to hear sounds, and something stirs in you; but before you can make it another step you’re slammed into the ground and the air is forced out of you. Maybe you’re dazed and can’t focus on anything but breathing at the moment- you don’t even notice when you’re picked up or being moved, can only scream in frustration later when Simon and Johnny have chained you up as punishment.

(Simon ends up putting a leather shock collar on you next time they play so that you don’t get to far— unbeknownst to you of course. You just think that they’re fucking insane and logically, in your brain, said territory just comes with weird kinks on top of that.)

🍋 Anon

Lemon you’re my soulmate

I’m always so torn on how much of a Character to make a reader insert, because I don’t want to actually make an OC. I never describe readers in my WIPS either (so anyone can read them - please let me know if I ever use descriptive words and I’ll cut them out) past having them be AFAB and fem presenting, but the temptation to give them a decently unique background is sooo strong.

I love love love the idea of the Serial Killer AU!Reader being from like, rural southern America (like me lol) and having grown up chasing friends through the forest, so this whole “playing tag with a serial killer” thing ends up being just That taken to its most extreme version. She’s a little bit feral, she’s run barefoot through the woods before, she can do this

The scenario you wrote with the campers has my heart pounding. I could see that going one of two ways

(a) You make it to the campsite. As soon as you spot the smoke you’re off like a shot, and because you’re closer to the campers than Ghost and Soap, you get there first. The poor campers are having a lovely night toasting marshmallows and bam - a naked, muzzled, and filthy woman bursts into the clearing like her ass is on fire.

You try to rush them out - don’t worry about the muzzle you have to fucking go they’re literally right behind you - but they’re not listening, crowding around you instead and prying at the muzzle, at your sluggishly bleeding cuts (from the bushes you’d skimmed). They’re weirdly touchy, and you end up desperately shoving their hands away and near screaming through the muzzle to be heard.

The first one is shot through the head. One second he’s panicking and telling his friends to get away from you, the next his head is just gone - just an explosion of red and brains from a shotgun blast. That gets the others screaming, gets them dashing away from you. But you know it’s too late, can only fall to your knees and squeeze your eyes shut in hopes that it’s over soon.

You only stay like that for a moment, their screams already fading a little with your disassociation, when a rough hand grabs a chunk of your hair and yanks back. Your eyes fly open, and Simon rumbles in your ear, “No, look. Look at what he’s doing to them. Look at what you’ve done to them.” You thrash a little, throwing yourself this way and that to try and get away but Simon’s grip doesn’t loosen at all, and you don’t want him to tear chunks of your hair out. You squeeze your eyes shut to block out the axe Johnny raises high above his head and the screaming girl beneath him, only to feel a heavy smack against your cheek. Simon snarls, his anger radiating through every word. “No. You fucking look. This is your fault, these people wouldn’t have died if you hadn’t fucked everything up. You’re going to watch them suffer, and then you’re going to dig their graves.”

And you do. You watch Johnny decapitate the girl, watch him guy another person and force their head down to see it, watch him strangle a third, bash a fourths head in with a rock. The dirt is more red than brown by the time he’s done, and you can’t hold back the sobs and pained moans, loud enough to be heard even through the muzzle. Johnny sits with you and the corpses while Simon grabs a shovel, reiterates again and again that these people died because you were a fucking idiot, and the three of you are out until sunrise while you dig a grave for them.

Later, Simon bandages your wrecked hands and Johnny coos over you, kisses your palms and apologizes when you whine at the sting. Simon gives you painkillers, and neither of them make you lift a finger until you’re all healed up

(b) You don’t make it to the campsite. Johnny and Ghost have already got you in their sights, and the half second you pause in surprise before taking off to your gives them enough time to catch up. You run with everything you’re worth, sprinting faster than you ever have before to get there before them and pray to God someone has a gun.

You’re almost there, you could nearly throw out a hand and be seen in the clearing, when you’re tackled to the earth. You go rolling, breath knocked out of you and your back erupting in pain as you’re viciously held to the ground. There’s a hand locked around your throat, and body straddling you, and it takes a minute for you to be able to blink past the pain and see that it’s Johnny.

“What were you gonna do, huh? Gonna go running off and beg for help? No one can fucking help you out here, bonnie. We’d slaughter them - might just do it anyway. That what you want? Huh?”

His teeth are bared, sweat dripping from his face to yours and eyes alight in a sort of primal rage. He flips you onto your stomach, fucks you deep into the dirt right there as you stare at your would-be saviors. You scream, cry, beg, and more, but the muzzle muffles you so you’re not even sure if Johnny can hear you. Your orgasm comes just as the first person’s head is blown to smithereens

Love the inclusion of the shock collar again. I feel like it fits more in this AU than the other one tbh

[phading]

Hi, it's me!

Okay, so there’s probably a lot you don’t know about me. So just in case you’re in the least bit interested:

I try very, very hard never to read incomplete fics. Purely selfish, and the result of reading far too many heart-grabbing stories that never got finished. If you need kudos or encouragement or anything else to continue, I’m here and over the moon excited to read anything you’d like to throw at me. Just let me know what you want in return - comments, critique, suggestions, hugs, encouragement, emojis, whatever ...

I posted one fic a chapter at a time, and I doubt I’ll ever do it again.

Characterization is everything.

If you’ve noticed an absence of Brains, Grandma, Lady P, Havoc, etc… in my fics it’s because I don’t give a twit. Perhaps one day I will evolve beyond this simplistic state.

I suck at prompts, challenges and deadlines. My muse is never in the right headspace at the right time.

I have a ridiculous need to keep it believable when really, the stuff that goes on in the show – no matter how much I adore it – is often somewhat miraculous.

It’s the future, people, I’m allowed to invent things.

In real life, I write kids’ books.

To the best of my knowledge, I’m the oldest member of the Thunderfam. Challenge me if you think you can claim the title.

The first thing of importance I ever wrote was a full length Star Trek Next Gen novel which I submitted to a few select New York publishers (oh, the innocence of youth) . Surprise, surprise, many of them actually read it and sent back comments written on famous restaurant napkins.

So, in light of all of the above, I’m once again doing my own thing. Inspired by the recent “10 opening lines from 10 recent fics” post I’m changing it up to “10 opening lines from 10 WIPs”.  I mean, seriously, I’m a newbie here and have far more WIPs than I do finished fics. So here’s what’s – pray to the anti-depression, anti-chronic pain gods  – coming up …

A WHOLE LOT OF SUPERFICIAL The uniform discarded in a heap on the floor outside the showers was expected – the purple neoprene wasn’t. (Virgil, Scott, shaping up to be humour)

THE LAST ZOO ON EARTH “Say again, John. I thought you said we have a situation at a zoo.” (All brothers, major rescue, major whump, pissed off Gordon)

THERE ARE NO CANNIBALS ANYMORE “Sir! I need you to calm down!” (Hurt Virgil, this one could go graphic in a hurry)

IT DOESN’T HURT Virgil glanced up from the piano keys, searching for inspiration but instead witnessing his fish brother's spectacular dive off the board – a dive that would leave his re-built back in shambles. (Fishtank, chronic pain)

TIGHT ROPE “I’m sorry, John, but if she’s dumb enough to try and pull off this ridiculous stunt, I see no reason why we should save her from her own stupidity.” (rescue gone sideways)

STARSTUCK Alan Tracy had been looking forward to this moment for a very long time. (Hurt Virgil, guilty Alan, Thunderbird 3 whump)

STELLAR “Hey, John, what’s this?” “It’s personal, that’s what it is!” (Guilty John, comatose Gordon, poetry, John has a secret)

CASPIAN John Tracy blinked open his eyes, breath catching when he discovered the most beautiful thing in his universe mere centimetres from his face. (John, OC-John’s lover, angst, Marks and Wings, John is not only a telepathic Ave but he’s bi!)

PSYCHOTIC MEDIUMS The probe entered Earth’s solar system broadcasting a symphony of alien sound that instantaneously drove the half-a-million or so humans who were listening insane. (Virgil centric, angst, sci-fi)

THE JOHN-CODE “Hey, Eos, you wanna help me test this new game?” (Alan, John, Eos, virtual games gone wrong.)

[avacoleman]

Going a different route this week with different WIP. This time, a rivals to lovers actors/co-stars AU! Here's a scene with Alex and Nora 😌

“He’s not even—“

“I swear to God, if you fix your mouth to say that man isn’t hot, I’m going to kick you in the shin,” Nora cuts in.

Alex can’t be entirely sure that it isn't just an idle threat. He sighs and rolls his eyes.

“Whatever. He’s conventionally good looking, but that’s just what fools everyone.”

“Right. Can’t also be the philanthropy and actual investments he puts in personally— and not just for photo ops. The guy is practically a saint.”

“Hardly. No one is that perfect. There has to be something going on with him.”

Nora snorts.

“Can we just, like, fast forward to the part where you realize why you actually have it out for Henry? Honestly, it would save me so much time.”

Alex sets his phone down on his lap and looks at her.

“What are you even talking about?” 

Nora arches a brow and scoffs.

“Oh, come on. This is so textbook it’s cliché. If you guys were kids, you’d totally be pushing him on the playground and teasing him.”

Alex’s brows furrow deeper in confusion and Nora groans, leaning in closer to him.

“Alright, cool. Guess I have to spell it out for you then. Ahem. You want to f-u-c-k him reeeeally badly, Alex,” she drawls. “So badly in fact, it’s making you certifiably insane and downright miserable. All that alleged hatred you have for him? Yeah, no. Built up sexual tension. I promise you, one night between the sheets with him would set you right. Guaranteed.”

She sits back and resumes flipping through her magazine as if she hasn’t just uttered the most ridiculous series of words Alex has ever heard in his life.

“You’re joking, right?” he says after a moment when his brain finally comes online again.

Nora doesn’t look up from the magazine at all; she makes a show of flipping the page.

“Nope,” she responds, the p making a loud popping sound.

Alex takes the magazine from her and sets it down on the coffee table. She crosses her arms and looks at him. 

“I was just about to start reading Henry’s interview. He’s the cover boy this month, you know.”

He glares at her.

“I think this conversation is more important than whatever he has to say in there. I don’t know what you think you’re seeing here, but I do not like him.”

Nora smirks slowly.

“Oh, honey, no. You misunderstand. Look, I’m not saying you like him either,” she says, putting a hand over her heart, voice the sound of innocence though her face is anything but. “I’m just saying you want to get him into bed. The depth of that is neither here nor there. Point is, you want to bang him and honestly, that’d probably be for the best. You need to get it out of your system. It’d do you both a world of good.”

She checks the time on her watch and gets up. 

“Shoot, I gotta go. But here,” she says, tossing the magazine to him. Alex instinctively grabs it.

“Page 26. He’s looking very good in his spread. Take your time. Feel inspired. Come to your damn senses. Then you can thank me later. Ciao, Alejandro!”

With a wiggle of her fingers, she turns and heads out of his trailer, leaving Alex to stare after her.

It’s quite possible she’s lost her mind.

tagging my beloved @sunshinestrand

[wildflowerteas]

🦴🌿 📚 :)

🦴⊹ ࣪ ˖ "is there a piece of media that inspires your writing?"

i think it goes without saying, but BSD. the aesthetics, the characters, the meta-aspects . . . all of it. It’s a wildly complicated and at-times-absurd story that makes me feel comfortable in my own conflicts with my humanity, kind of childish idealization of the world and my subsequent dissatisfaction with it. It is a story that respects its characters SO much ( side eyeing you, Gege ) and not just in a development/character-arch sense. Harukawa and Asagiri put an insane amount of care into this universe down to the tiniest design details. it’s incredible, and there’s a reason why i’ve kept up with it for almost 12 years. I’ve also been heavily influenced by J.R.R. Tolkien and have dipped my toes into original works and creating languages for my personal projects which are more fantastical than gritty or emotional like my fics. I’m also an avid consumer of movies, web novels, and manga in general, which all give me the creator-envy and inspiration i need to make something of my own.

🌿⋆.˚ "give some advice on writer's block and low creativity"

dreaded writer’s block. i don’t know if this is how it is for everyone, but i usually find myself stuck or unable to write when im staring at the blank first page of a chapter ( and once i get the ball rolling its almost impossible to get me to stop ), rather than halfway through a fic or wip, and at a loss for where to go next. When that happens, i take a walk! i make myself tea and call a friend ( they’re super sick of me)! or i’ll close my laptop, socials, turn off my music and distance myself from my writing for a while.

“low creativity” as a phrase kind of dooms us to feel like we’re failing when we sit down to write and can’t immediately churn out something new. we’re not machines. making stuff. and making stuff that matters, is HARD. And IMO, creativity isn’t something you can squeeze out of your brain like juice from a lemon. you need to nurture it, feed your brain with inspiration and fuel ( make sure to eat while writing ), and give yourself the same care you’d want devoted to your work in order for it to grow. surrounding yourself with the creativity of others ( talking to friends, scrolling through pinterest, watching movies, reading books ( or other fic! ) ), is also key.

📚.𖥔 ݁ ˖ "what's the last thing you wrote in your notes app"

oh NO. i don’t want to lie and post a screenshot of the second to last thing i wrote in my notes app, but for the sake of spoilers im going to have to censor this

[landwriter]

Oh my god your writing has me in a choke hold!!! I’m curious about Hands and/or Shut Up, please! Your brain is amazing and lovely and I’m very excited to hear anything you have to share about your WIPs💚

Thank you so much! I've got a couple Hands asks marinating and nothing to offer for them yet, so Shut Up is the Twitter Beef AU (another excerpt here) where Hob is a comparative lit professor and Dream is an underground electronic artist, and Hob comes for him on Twitter. Death meddles and drops a diss track. Hob finds out at his last lecture before hols and plays it for his course in a fit of pique, and...ends up having the best two hours of his teaching career?

He slides into Dream's DMs for the first time under the cut:

He catches sight of the time and is surprised to see it’s five minutes past the hour. Normally, his cue is when a handful of students start pointedly packing their things in the last few minutes of the lecture. “Okay, we’ve gone on too long, because you’re all still here, letting me, but I do need to get to office hours, so let me conclude with the argument that this is why textual analysis is so important, right? The author chooses their words to say more than one thing, and, as we learned, having additional knowledge of where they’re coming from - historically, socially, culturally - is the real Rosetta stone for understanding their message. I encourage you to think about that while you choose your final paper topics over break. A final reminder that your draft thesis is due on our first week back, and yes, I will be able to tell if you came up with it that morning, so please, please, give it some thought. If anyone feels keen and wants to talk about their ideas now, you know where to find me. Office hours go until 6. Alright, go, be free. My apologies to anyone who was excited for Marlowe - we’ll cover him when we come back instead! Have an amazing break, folks.”

Students are coming over already and he holds up a quelling hand. “Office hours, guys. I have other classes! I’ll see you there.”

It’s true, of course, but also he wants just a quick moment to himself to do something. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he pulls out his phone and ignores all his notifications to send a DM to Morpheus before he can think too hard on what he’s doing.

didn't know you needed to be protected by your big sis, next time i'll go easier on you x

He hesitates, deletes the x, and sends it, and jams his phone back into his pocket. After his office hours - exhaustingly well-attended - he finally has a chance to check his phone again. He's not used to actually having three hours worth of students to talk to.

There's three messages from Morpheus.

she insisted also i wrote most of it for the record

He raises his eyebrows. The messages are from nearly two hours ago, which he hopes means it's not uncool and weird if he replies right now.

it was you? it's incredible writing

Then, feeling suddenly far too earnest, he quickly adds:

almost like you went to school for being something other than a pretentious goth cunt

His reply is marked read immediately and he nearly chokes on his tea. He desperately wishes he could delete the last message now. Too much, he thinks. Always too much, Hobsie. Morpheus is typing.

don't need to go to school for that x and thanks

He puts down his phone violently and stands up, breathes out. He feels like a teenager with a crush. His phone buzzes again and he snatches it back.

meanwhile i bet u have student loans still prof

Hob laughs.

only a little. some of us had to learn how to be pretentious actually x

He thinks for a moment, then adds, wincing a little at the size of the text block:

thanks btw. aside from threats from ur insane fans I also had the best lecture attendance in ages and my office hours were 'sold out' lol. if all I had to do for better student engagement was get in an internet feud with a random musician I'd have done it years earlier.

so u concede i'm a musician :)

you still have terrible taste in shoes hey i see you typing if you say anything about my sweatervest i'm blocking you!!

then have a good night, professor gadling

you too

Then he waits a little too long, maybe, before adding:

morpheus

[mutantninjamidlifecrisis]

Your 23!!!!!???? I’m also 23??!!!!!

Dude; how the hell did you get so good at writing/pos/affectionate

What are your secrets and tips??

Oh wow this got longer than I thought it would be but anyway lets kick this off by saying age is no number! Don’t ever feel like you’re too young/old to start/improve. Also take any advice I give here with a grain of salt! I’m a stem major, I specialise in Zoology, not English. I’ve never taken a writing class, this is just what I've found works from my own experience and also from talking with other people that write fics.

I think first up, have a concept that you deeply, deeply love - an idea that you want to see so bad you’re willing to remove it from your brain and write it down onto a page. This is harder than it sounds.

There are two types of writers, I think. Type One – the people that want everything structured and figured out before they begin, and then there’s Type Two - the others that go: Fuck it, we ball, and type out the story without a plan and let it fly by the seat of their pants. Both styles have their pros and cons. Sometimes when your story is too structured and you’re trying to drive through plot points the story can feel very stiff and rail-roady, like you’re trying to play out certain beats rather than letting the narrative go where it would naturally flow. But sometimes letting the story flow without a plan for long enough means you get lost in it, and it never actually come to an overarching message or end point (i.e., it can get very wish-washy, and parts you want to really hit are less likely to because you haven’t had a pre-established plan leading up to it). You’ll probably naturally lean one way or the other, but I think both these styles can and should be interchangeable when you’re in the process of writing a story. I think having a good structure is particularly important the longer your fic is. The way I usually do things is to have a loose structure set out (typing out dotpoints of what I want to achieve from a chapter and the sequence of events that will play out, and keeping this as a reference during the writing process), and then let myself go wild with everything else in between (probably how I end up with 10k+ chapters. Which. Is not advisable, I think 2-7k is a much more reasonable number).

You might also want to have in mind how long your story is going to be and how much time you’re willing to put into writing it before you start <- (CJ has many sadly abandoned wips because they lost sight of where the story was going and didn’t plan out their time schedule appropriately) I try to plan ahead and have some vague idea of where I want the story to end. This helps a lot with motivation when writing.

If you’re able to write out a one-shot, I would highly recommend it. I tend to really like writing multi-chapter fics because the brainrot gets to me and I have no impulse control.

Once you have your concept and your loose structure (start, middle, climax, end), you’re going to want to expand on things. i.e. what are you trying to say with your story. What are the themes that really hit for you. What scenes are going to make you go absolutely feral (you can write these first, if you want). I’ve got a scene a chapter or two ahead that I already have in mind that’s going to make me go insane, and that’s the carrot at the end of the stick that’s pulling me through areas that I don’t want to write so much.

I also have like, sheets for each character with a list of dotpoints relating to their background, motivations, feelings towards other characters and how these dynamics may evolve over time etc. This is a really useful resource to flip back to when I’m writing.

Research, research, research. Google, read, watch videos. Expand on the stuff that you do not know, or stuff that you do know and want to expand upon (for example, I have had a panic attack before. I can write from experience of what that is like, however I do not know what it’s like from other’s perspectives, and they may have completely different symptoms to my own). The more information you’re able to gather, the more believable and interesting the story is going to be to the reader.

Do Not. I repeat. Do NOT write that you are a new writer/sorry im bad at summaries <- that kind of stuff in your fic description if you’re going post to ao3. I know it is tempting. I have imposter syndrome and the urge to lower people’s expectations before they jump in is very strong, but you gotta at least pretend to be confident. The summary is for marketing yourself and convincing people to give you a chance. You can add that stuff to the author’s notes if you’d really like. People will usually be willing to give you a shot even if you think you’re summary is bad. And often your writing is a lot better than you think it is (after having stared at it for hours). Also, the more you write and post, the better you will get.

I guess the only other advice is uh… Read! Read a lot. I don’t read nearly as much non-fanfiction as I should, but I am constantly reading, and I do believe that there's some non-published stuff out there that's a lot better than "official" books or whatever. There’s so many amazing authors out there – fic writers or no, and there's always going to be someone (probably a lot of someones) better than you. Don't be discouraged by that! Keep in mind the kind of stuff that really affects you, and how the writer got you to that point.

I’m sure I’ve forgotten/left stuff out here so if you ever have more questions feel free to ask. Also google is your friend! There’s so many incredible resources out there that can teach you how to write/structure/improve your story.

Most importantly, have fun with it. You’re not getting paid; you don’t owe anyone anything. If you’re not enjoying yourself, what’s the point?

[mommalosthermind]

Am I poking through wips to remind myself I am not, actually, shit at words? Yes. Did I make the mistake of flipping through an extremely long sterek WIP I abandoned (redacted) years gone due to “this is at least two books, fuck my life, how do I untangle this to make it coherently two books instead of cramming it all together” insanity only to realize I still love this idea so much I wanna bite things? Also yes.

Am I sharing a chunk that doesn’t even have stiles or Derek in it? Yes again.

Anyway. Here’s uhhh a little over 2k presented with no context other than my brain is itching:

Sheriff’s name is John- Hints of prior John/Chris. Absolutely unbeta’d and unedited because if I start that I’m gonna end up chin deep in the wrong wip again and I! Am! Resisting!

John settled a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Alright, kid,” he said on an exhale, rubbing at his chin hard enough to stretch his mouth. “One more time, okay?”

The kid nodded at his own feet, fingers twisted in the dirty, torn hem of his shirt, but didn’t turn to the map until John took a half step to the side.

Crossing his arm would only intimidate the kid further. Leaning against the desk, projecting as much calm as he could, might’ve been one of the most difficult things he’d ever done.

His hands ended up in his pockets as Scott studied the map spread out on the desk for the umpteenth time.

It’d been bad enough when Alice and Jorge came in to declare Erica missing. Knowing that somewhere out in the Preserve, his idiotic, impulsive, big-hearted son—his fingers curled into fists inside his pockets to keep them in place.

Not that shaking him would really give any answers. Scott, for all he might as well be John’s second kid, wasn’t Stiles. He couldn't explain anymore than John himself.

And truthfully? John should have known Stiles would hare off after her the second he found out. Self loathing felt an awful lot like heartburn.

One light brown finger tapped a black line, drawing him out of his useless head. “We went this way,” Scott spoke hesitantly, glancing up at John as his finger followed an old access road. “And parked around here.”

“Looks about right,” John agreed, laying his own finger on a secondary gray line, perpendicular to Scott’s. “We found you over here, ‘bout half a mile away from the Jeep.”

Scott nodded, standing taller with John’s confirmation, face crinkled in concentration. Good. A confidence boost would mean a clearer head.

The boy walked John through their path through the woods, pointing out the general location of all the places they’d looked for her. He indicated the rough areas where they’d found her jacket, her bag, the shelter. But no matter how John phrased his questions, Scott couldn’t come up with any other places Stiles might take her.

“No other forts?” John asked again, already knowing the answer. “Fire pits or whatever that you think you’ll get in trouble for?”

“No, sir,” Scott repeated, firm as his gaze tracked over the map and its maze of pins. “But Stiles knows the trails better than me.”

That stalled him. “Really?” Stiles had all but lived in those woods as a kid, always wandering off with Claudia or Erica. Why wouldn’t he share that with Scott, too? “You boys don’t hang out in the woods?”

Scott shook his head, fluffy hair flying. “I’ve only ever been to the swimming hole behind the Lacrosse field, really. But Stiles was pretty confident out there, so maybe he knows a place that I don’t.”

A quick rat-a-tat-tat on the door jam accompanied a deputy lurching into the room. “We got a ping!” Diana announced, waving a paper in the air.

Throwing a hand up to quiet her, John turned to Scott. “Thanks, son.” He managed to scrounge up a smile that sat wrong on his face, but Scott didn’t seem to notice. “You did good, I’m proud of you. Why don’t you head on home, I’m sure Mel’s half out of her mind by now.”

Scott winced and stepped away, before pausing.

“We’ll find them, Scott. Do me a favor, and stay out of the woods. I don’t need to go looking for more teens, please.”

With a nod and a wave, Scott was gone, and John turned to snatch the paper from Diana’s hand. “Get Summers to give the kid a ride to make sure he actually goes home this time,” he ordered, waving her out of the office. It took a few minutes to track down the right coordinates on the map, but once he’d stuck a bright red pin into the spot, he sagged into his chair.

Knuckles rapped on wood in a familiar pattern- two fast, tiny pause, one.

Everything in him froze. Cursing himself for the tightness of his shoulders and cursing Diana’s inability to shut the damn door, he raised his head. No matter how blank he fought to keep his face, the wry twist at the edge of Chris’ mouth marked it a wasted effort.

He let his own mouth curve, more grimace than smile as he sat up and pushed away the strangeness seeing Chris always brought up. He was a father first, everything else came never.

Across from him, Chris settled into the visitor’s chair, a clunky wooden thing picked for its uncomfortableness, and dropped a white takeout box to the side of the map.

“Uh?” It smelled good, and John’s stomach gurgled.

Chris didn’t bother hiding his grin. “Knew you hadn’t eaten. Figured I might as well get something on my way.” He nodded toward the container. “Bacon burger, no tomato, extra fries.”

Just like that, the tension lingering in his shoulders dissipated. It’d always been hard to stay at odds with him. Well. Until it wasn’t hard at all.

“Don’t think I can eat,” John confessed, even as he pulled the box closer.

“You need to,” Chris said mildly, only a hint of steel in his voice. Two cups appeared on the desk next, one beside Chris, and the other prodded closer to John with one long finger. “Coffee. From the little bakery on Oak.”

When was the last time someone had taken care of John? Not Stiles, not the kid who should’ve been worrying about pimples and grades instead of John’s alcohol intake, but an adult. An equal.

John pulled the coffee to himself, feeling as though it was something larger than a cup of caffeine.

“Walk me through this,” Chris said, getting up to push the food closer to John as he leaned a hip on the edge of the desk, his eyes roving over the map.

Before he quite knew what he was doing, he’d downed the entire cup and stuffed half the burger down his gullet, between catching Chris up to speed. He tapped the red pin, shoving the remaining food away with his other hand. “This is the last time his phone managed to make contact with a tower. But it doesn’t make any sense. This is miles away from where Scott left them.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Chris murmured, shifting to get a better look at the map. It brought him another inch closer to John.

For his part, John snorted, and couldn’t decide if he wanted to throw Chris out of his office just for daring to exist, or bury his head in the man’s lap and scream.

“There used to be a homeless camp here,” Chris added after a moment, brushing at a point not too far from where they found the Jeep. “And a huge tree house thing…” He trailed off, eyebrows pulling together as he thought. “Over here. And the dogs brought me to this junction,” Chris tapped at an unmarked part of the map, not too far from the bridge the boys had crossed. “Plus, the river loops in that area. They might’ve gone there, for water.”

Wordlessly, John added a few green pins, before letting one hand drop to the desk. The other rubbed at his temple. The Preserve was enormous. They could be anywhere.

“Hey.” Fingers ghosted along his arm, pressing close only to pull away and leave John feeling more alone than before. “Look at me.”

Bright, clear blue eyes pierced straight into his core when he mustered the strength to obey.

“We’ll find them,” quiet but fierce, Chris’ promise wound into his soul. “I’m not giving up. Ever. We’re going to bring them both home, John. I’ll find your boy.”

Snared in the endless sky of Chris’ gaze, John’s resolve crumbled. “It’s my fault,” he managed to force out, his fingers digging into the desk. “I should’ve known he’d go after her—”

“Stop,” Chris turned to John, his coffee settled down out of the way. Callused fingers, so different from the ones John used to know, slid over his wrist. The cautious pressure of Chris’ thumbs along his skin proved as grounding as ever, and he couldn’t help his shudder, or the way his eyes slid shut.

When he managed to open them, Chris’ face blurred at the edges. He blinked until Chris came into focus, distracting himself for a moment by comparing this new face, with its creases and graying hair, to the one he’d had engraved on the inside of his eyelids since he was fifteen years old. It wasn’t fair that Chris remained as regal and beautiful as ever, the only one of the two of them able to compare to Claudia.

All of the worries and strain in John’s life turned him into a bloodhound, tired and full of jowl.

“That’s my baby, out there,” he found himself saying. He hadn’t meant to, but once he started he couldn’t seem to stop, too caught up in the crystalline understanding, the ghost of something he’d once taken for granted, in Chris’ somber eyes. “That’s my—he’s all I’ve got left, I can’t—I can’t lose him—”

A shadow crossed Chris’ face, breaking the spell. John turned away, his eyes on his desk as he struggled to regain his composure. That wasn’t Chris’ role in his life, hadn’t been for longer than he’d been a father. He couldn’t afford to make that mistake again.

When the rough hands on his wrists fell away, John closed his eyes and breathed through the ache. Stiles needed him. Stiles came first, always. He wouldn’t let this man shatter him a second time.

But then one hand slid into his hair, smoothed the strands back as it made its way down to curl around the nape of John’s neck. Heat along John’s side meant Chris had slid closer, his fingers pressing on the knobs of John’s spine.

Against his will, he gave a splintered noise, somewhere between a whimper and a sob. Another press of Chris’ fingers, and he shattered, curling until his forehead rested on Chris’ thigh.

“You’re not alone,” Chris murmured, holding tight to his nape, as his other hand scraped soothingly over his scalp. “Not anymore. I’m not going anywhere.” Chris gave an uneven inhale. “Not again.”

It was a promise he couldn’t trust, but one he hadn’t known he craved until he realized the wetness under his face came from his own tears, soaking into Chris’ jeans.

Neither of them mentioned John’s breakdown, or Chris’ careful, vehement declaration. They sat, pressed together, Chris’ hands steady over John’s skull and spine, until his breathing evened out and the need to scream, to break things, to rage until the world resumed its order, passed.

He pulled away first, scrubbing at his face and clearing his throat. Wordlessly, Chris slid off the desk, and settled back into his own chair. He’d always been uncannily good at that, reading what John needed. Sometimes before he’d had time to figure it out himself.

“That’s my boy,” John repeated, exhausted. “God, Claudia would—” He closed his mouth on the rest of his sentence with a click of his teeth.

Chris’ next breath was shaky, and his voice wasn’t quite right when he spoke, but the intensity, the sheer scope of Chris’ ability to invest himself was clear. “She’d be proud. Of both of you.”

When John chanced looking, Chris’ eyes were far away and sad. “Your son went out and found the Reyes girl, and it sounds like he was doing his damndest to take care of her. Kid sounds just like his old man. Claudia—” It was Chris’ turn to clear his throat. “—Claudia would’ve been a damned peacock. Once she was done murdering you both, anyway.”

Those sharp, too knowing eyes lanced straight into John, pinning him into place with a wealth of things John couldn’t parse. “Between Stiles, the BHPD, you, and me? We’ll bring him home, John. Trust me.”

“Always have,” John murmured, rubbing at his temples to relieve the ache in his eyes. “Even when I shouldn’t.”

There was a beat of silence, and then a cool voice he’d hoped to never hear again. “Good to know, Johnnyboy, since us Argents know that land better than the trees themselves. We’ll find those kids, one way or another.”

John sat up in time to catch Chris’ eyes rolling. “Not helpful, Dad.”

Gerard ignored them both, stepping into the office uninvited to peer at the map. One gnarled finger touched the red pin. “Near the old Hale property, isn’t it?”

John grunted his agreement. “Close enough. City tore it down after the fire, though. Nothing there now.”

Gerard hummed. “Well, guess we’ll see in the morning. If that boy has half the sense you two think he does, he’s hunkered down for the night. We’ll head out with daybreak. Let’s go, Christopher.” The old man turned to go, pausing on the threshold to eye his son, both eyebrows raised.

Staring Gerard down, Chris rose, before turning his back on his father to lean over and run careful fingers through John’s hair, smoothing it back out. “We’ll find them,” he repeated, low, blue eyes nearly black as his hand cupped John’s neck.

When he left, John put his own hand over the spot that still bore Chris’ fingerprints. They’d find his kids. There wasn’t any other acceptable outcome.

[sharkneto]

5 Rob 1234... These exist?!? How MUCH do they exist??? What are the odds that we will eventually see them someday?

(for WIP ask game)

I've shared a few snips of them before (found HERE), and god... hopefully? I've got so many goddamn WIPs and so much less time to write than I used to during covid times, I can't promise anything and especially can't promise anything being soon.

It's a concept I love a lot - I love Five and Rob's relationship, I love Rob constantly tricking Five into cooperating with therapy until he starts doing it willingly on his own. I like the idea of Five trying to keep everything tight to his chest and aggressively keeping it there until Rob can get him to understand that he doesn't have to do that, that he doesn't have to live like that.

But it's a rarely worked on WIP (partly hence why there's multiple files of different Rob and Five conversations rather than One Set WIP), around JT and the apocalypse fic and Number vs Apocalypse Week fic and random odds and ends I play around with.

So, would I like to share it? Absolutely. Will it be any time soon? Absolutely not.

Long snip for your time, though. This is 5 Rob 3

(cw: some discussion of the implications of Five's physical vs actual age in terms of his brain and cognition, mostly from the angle of Rob being excited about brains and Five unimpressed by it)

“What are you thinking about?” Five asks after Rob doesn’t start off their session in the first minute of their meeting starting.

Rob keeps considering Five through the screen. “Your brain.”

Five blinks. “You do that to everyone?”

“More or less. When they’re my patients, definitely. And if there might be something interesting going on. Yours definitely has a lot going on.”

“Thank you?”

“You’re welcome.”

The sit and stare at each other through the screen some more. Five leans back in his seat, eyes narrowed slightly. “If I ask for specifics for what you’re thinking about in regards to my brain, will it be a long winded way of talking about something I don’t want to talk about or is this genuinely a tangent about my brain?”

Rob hums. “If I’m clever enough maybe I can loop it back to your problems but currently I’m just thinking about your brain.”

“This a hobby of yours?”

“A little bit, I guess,” he says with a laugh. “Also my job, but it is why I went psychiatrist route instead of psychologist route. If you go to medical school they let you look at more brain scans.”

“I’m sure that’s super normal,” Five deadpans.

“How would you know, with your fifty-eight-year-old consciousness in a thirteen-year-old brain?”

Five crosses his arms. “It’s almost fourteen,” he defends.

Rob thinks about that for a second. They’ve sort of talked around this before, and maybe with the birthdate coming up they should talk about it some more. He’ll poke. “Aren’t we technically still six months or so away from your physical birthday?”

That gets an exasperated huff from Five. “October 1, 1989 is my actual birthdate and I’m keeping that, it’s a constant that’s never going to change short of me fucking up so badly I’m not born, in which case I’ve got bigger problems – although not ones I’ll care about because I won’t exist.” Rob keeps a straight face. He actually loves it when Five gets on these little time-travel-insane-consequence rambles. Feels like a sci-fi movie and Sarah can’t poke holes in it like she does when they watch time-travel movies. Five also really likes to get on these tangents, so they’re really good for getting him talking on days he doesn’t want to talk – not that seems to be a problem today.

Five pauses but Rob waits. He’s not done. The pause stretches for a couple seconds before Five huffs again. “I’m not moving my birthday because I arbitrarily and accidentally changed my linear position in time. October first isn’t my actual birthday anymore, either, but the amount of effort to figure out the new date is completely not worth the effort. I could do the much easier-to-calculate physical birthday in February—” he cuts himself off with a suddenly blank expression.

Rob frowns. “Five?”

“The day’s not February tenth anymore,” he says, brow lightly furrowed.

“Why not?”

He blinks again, obviously doing math. Rob doesn’t know what it is about Five’s expression that tells him that he’s doing math, but there’s a specific sort of blankness he gets when he’s running numbers. “February tenth was my physical birthday in the apocalypse,” Five says slowly, still a bit distant. Rob subtly slides his notebook over and grabs a pen, even though Five can’t see it with how Rob has his camera angled. “It was February tenth. Now, though, assuming this body is the body I originally jumped from 2002 in…. oh, it’s still just February second. That was dumb.”

“Did you want it to be more different?”

Five shakes his head, a small frown on his lips. “No. I don’t know why I thought that was going to be a significantly different date. April 2, 2019 versus March 24, 2019 are only a week apart. I could have done that math much smarter. Christ, I’m getting stupid in my old age.”

Rob smiles. They’ve looped back to what he’d originally been thinking about. “Or your brain is thirteen. And a half,” he adds when Five gives him a flat look.

“What does my brain’s age have to do with anything?”

“A lot, actually. Maybe. What do you know about brain development?”

Five stares at him for a long moment. “Nothing.”

“Ah, lucky for us I know a lot about it. The cliff notes version of it is that there are set developmental phases for brains from ages zero to around twenty-five. Twenty-five is when science and medicine generally agree that everything is up and functioning, it hangs out there for a few years before it starts going in the other direction. Before that point, it’s building up pieces and pruning connections that allow for better logic and more complex thinking.”

“You’re saying I’m half developed. And you’re declining,” Five says dryly.

Rob shakes his head, ignoring the easy insult. “No. Maybe. See, you’re a really interesting case of the physical versus consciousness. A really fascinating case study that could be a missing key in understanding where what makes us us sits. You, yourself, are fifty-eight, assuming you haven’t been messing with me and your whole family this entire time—”

“What would the point be of doing that?”

“—which I don’t think you are, which is why I accepted you as a patient. I don’t know how you’d even go about trying to parse it out, because it’s such a messy knot. It’s why we’ve been wondering about consciousness and the self for centuries, millennia. But you have such an extreme difference between the two that we might just be able to get a hint.”

It’s quiet as Rob finishes. Five sits considering that, expression slightly pinched. Rob waits.

As Five continues to not say anything, Rob’s gut sinks a little. Maybe he got a little too excited about this, misjudged how interested Five would be about it. He did just pretty blatantly say that this man, who is already stuck looking like a thirteen-year-old, might actually be stuck in a much more real way as a thirteen-year-old.

“Five—”

“You know,” Five interrupts, “you and Sarah make a bit more sense now.”

It isn’t clear if that’s supposed to be a compliment or an insult. Maybe it’s neither. Five usually likes to rub in insults. “How do you mean?”

 “You both like puzzles. You just hide your intensity better than she does.”

Rob might have gotten a little too enthusiastic about how interesting a case Five is. “I’m sorry, Five, I—”

Five waves a hand, tone still low. “Don’t apologize. You know I appreciate candor. Was this the point?”

They haven’t been here in a little bit – Five directing with questions. Rob did miscalculate this. He can let Five keep the control. “Was what my point?”

“To talk about how shit it is to be a fully grown man who looks like a child?”

“No. It’s just something I’ve been thinking about and thought you might find it interesting, too. I had planned on today being a bit lighter on Big Things after last week.”

Five nods slowly. He’s not looking at Rob. “Wow,” he says after another moment. “Bad job of doing that.”

“I’m seeing that now, yeah.”

Five forces them to sit in that. Rob glances at the clock. He has forty minutes to salvage unless Five ends the session early.

“I get the appeal,” Five says after another long minute. “I’m an enigma on a lot of levels. Most of my life doesn’t exist anymore and what it was is so statistically improbable it should be impossible and unbelievable. This isn’t what all this has been about, right?”

He slips that question in as if it’s just an unimportant end to his statement. That’s how Rob knows it’s important. Five likes to bluster, likes to misdirect to avoid feelings and hard topics. The exception is when he needs real, important information. He’s not good at direct lies and it’s obvious the tactic he figured out for learning information he needed while trying to stay under the radar is to be as casual and nonplussed as possible. If Five doesn’t seem to care about the answer, maybe the person giving it won’t care about giving it either.

“No, Five,” Rob says without hesitation. Waiting until Five looks back up at the screen, he continues, “I agreed to be your psychiatrist because I think you need the help to sort through the everything of your life and also think I’m a good fit for helping you do that. You seem to agree, since we’ve been doing this for three months now. My own, side interest of what might be going on in your head isn’t a part of it, outside of my thoughts on non-psychotherapy approaches that might help you should you ever decide you want to try some drugs or physical treatments. Today’s tangent is just that, a tangent that I think is interesting but is non-defining of you or the work we do here.”

Five nods at that with a small frown. “To help you along on that tangent, then, so we don’t have to do it again – it’s wrong.”

“Okay?”

“Your little theory has me half-developed and stupid, of which I am neither.” He waves off Rob as he opens his mouth to apologize and explain. “It’s fine, as you just explained to me your brain function is also declining due to your advancing age. It is interesting, though, that your go-to direction for me doing a simple math calculation in an indirect way was to blame it on a possibly under-developed brain rather than the fact that I’m thirteen years older than you are and am farther along on my brain slipping into mush.”

Rob swallows and waits.

“But how I know you’re wrong about my brain is because, while I don’t remember much from being thirteen, I do remember some decisions I made when I was that age. One very big, very dumb decision. With absolutely no concern for the consequences and no back-up plan. That’s the sort of thinking thirteen-year-old brains do. It was a childish and very poorly calculated mistake. And I’m not that stupid now.”

“Understood,” Rob says. That sits between them, a bit heavy which was not Rob’s goal for the day so he adds, “You’re dumb because you’re old, not because you’re young.”

A smile ghosts at the edge of Five’s mouth. “Exactly.”

“Glad we cleared this up. I’m sorry I pushed us here, I misjudged. We’re good?”

Five nods. “We’re good.”

[nelkenbabe]

Wayhaven WIP: A Game For Two

a slightly alternative version to when Nate steps in to “help” with the detective’s combat training. otherwise known as “i’ve had this series for a week and a half and am lost in the sauce. send help”

With each new time that Nate comes at me, my eyes begin to be able to identify the slight blur in the atmosphere that announces his grip across my chest. Unfortunately, the effort of tracking the movement over and over again from different directions is dizzying. Motion sickness rises as my brain struggles to process what my eyes are trying to see. 

Eventually, at a particularly large blur of Nate circling me, I lose my footing and stumble back. Before I know it, his chest is solid at my back to prevent my fall, and purely on instinct I reach up behind me to steady myself. My hand finds his nape, soft hair tangling between my fingers, and I can feel a stifled breath behind me as he freezes. For just a moment Nate stands rigid. Then, with a plush breath out, he melts into me, hooking his arm across my chest as he had done before. Except this time he doesn’t step back again.

A fierce pulse sits at the bottom of my throat, making it hard to swallow. To feel so… vividly the way he reacts to me. I feel more alert than I have the entire training session, but at the same time…

“This was a mistake,” I murmur. 

“How so?”

Traces of several emotions flit through his breathless voice. Warmth and amusement, the way I know it, but also a whisper of caution.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to pretend that I’m about to defend myself in a dangerous situation when having you around relaxes me immediately.”

The softest, cutest little laugh of relief sounds right by my ear, and I can’t help the smile that spreads on my face. I let myself now fully lean against Nate, scraping the fingertips of my right hand against his nape, and raising my left to his wrist by my shoulder. Insane, the way his body moves towards my touch, anticipating it. A sudden greed sparks in me, to hold my hand over his flesh and watch him meet me in response. An electric thrill shudders through my chest when I picture bare skin, fingers pressed into thighs.

“I’m glad you can feel comfortable around me,” he says, voice heady and kind. “Though I don’t know where that leaves us with your training.”

“Mmh. Very tempted to say fuck the training right now, but I don’t think Morgan and Adam would ever forgive me.”

Nate chuckles, leaning down to press his stubbled cheek against mine. My eyelids flutter shut at the brand-new, yet familiar intimacy.

“Morgan might understand.”

“Mh. Then what do you suggest?”

A brief hum, then lips tracing the line of my jaw. 

I’m short-circuiting, I just know it. And I know he knows by another chuckle, clueing me into the very obvious fact that he is just as aware of my physical reactions to him as I am of his. More so.

A game for two.

[vacantgodling]

I have a burning question for you. One we all need answers to (only if you want to feel free to let this ask rot in your askbox for eternity you have my permission.)

is donut wip alive

KAT!!! i’m happy to see ya :’)

technically speaking donut wip & the entirety of the liminal space series as a whole are still alive! (i’m not a huge fan of killing off my wips i usually just shelve them indefinitely until i circle back to the idea) — couple of reasons it’s shelved rn tho

1. paramour brainrot >>>>>>>> like seriously this wip has made me insane idk what magical combination of tropes and ideas i managed to spark like 2 years ago but i have never been this abnormal about a wip ever i think lol. so a lot of my wips have been sidelined in favor of my Child.

2. i got Super Stuck. not just regular stuck where you get writers block for a bit then move on no, i mean Super Stuck as in i was stuck on donut wip chapter 15 i think for like a year and a half before i finally said “i cannot force myself to write more in this draft i have to take a break” so i stepped back from it and the series in general to figure out what was going on with me and my brain. and i think really what it came down to is at that time it wasn’t fun for me to write? it felt very much like a chore—despite all of its horror it seemed “safer” to write. it was the thing people were expecting out of me and i felt like i was writing more to fulfill expectations than to actually write this story because i enjoy it. AND I DO ENJOY IT!! that’s the crazy thing. i really like this story and the nuance i allowed to grow into it when it literally started as me being “fuck it write a horror novel just to finish something and don’t care about the characters” but i care about them so much now etc etc.

but because i don’t do well when i feel forced it just sucked the joy out of it for me. paramour in comparison, has never felt forced. it’s always exciting and stimulating to my brain because it is a wip that is so very Me all over it. and i wanted donut wip to have that same feel but i gotta give it more time. maybe i’ll try doing the outline to writing method that i’ve been doing and working for paramour so i can avoid getting stuck again.

however, i did actually rewrite donut wip’s chapter 1 proper back in may of this year—i wanted to see if i could come back to it and make myself write it Forreal and i could! i did! and i’m really happy with it! which is exciting! and as a treat you (and anyone else who reads this full nonsense ramble or remembers donut wip from eons ago) can read that revamped first chapter—first official piece of donut wip writing i’ve ever really posted. just cuz like tbh it means a lot to me that you care about that story weh ;3; and remember—

so without any more waffling: here is chapter one, uncensored from spoilers so u get drawn into the mystery 👀

Chapter One

I groaned when my guitar string snapped again for the third time today, the discordant twang echoing in my large dorm, up to the rafters. I heard Andres laugh from Tiffany’s bed.

“Oh yeah, making faces at it will help.”

“Fuck off.” I stuck my tongue out at him. “Toss me…” I waggled my pointer finger towards a stack of boxes between Tiffany’s bed and my desk. Opened and dangerously leaning was a box of replacement guitar strings, near empty and I’d only bought them a few months ago. “… Those.” Andres didn’t move though. I groaned again.

“Andre!” I snapped my finger and my voice at him. “Strings!”

“I’m not a dog. Besides, you’ve been at this for three hours. When are you finally gonna give up for the day and spend some time with your bestie?” He put emphasis on the word, but the trill of his voice was playful. “Hmm. I have been buggin‘ on this part a bit.” I pretended to think, tapping my thumb against my cheek. He seemed hopeful. I caved and laughed aloud. “Later!” I giggled at his groan. “I wanna make sure this melody’s flowin’ right before I break. Then we can play Spyro or whatever else ya wanna do.” Seeing as he couldn’t be bothered to give me my strings, I got up myself and toed my way through the mess that was steadily building up on the floor between the beds. I snatched up the box before Andres could knock it over with his outstretched foot.

“Oh, you watch it mister.”

“Sooooory.” He dragged out, but his grin told me he wasn’t sorry. I flipped him off, then flopped back down on my bed, quickly setting to work on restringing. More of them had begun snapping lately as I composed, but I chalked it up to stress. Finals wore me down this semester, more than they had in our first year, but it was bittersweet that they were over now. This year went by so fast, it’s like I blinked and it was December again. Beside me on the bed my bright yellow phone buzzed.

“Who’s that?” Andres asked. I flipped it open to look at the message.

from: vivi

Are you sure you want to stay for winter break?

from: vivi

Dad wanted me to ask again.

I tossed my phone back on the bed.

“Just my sister!” I said cheerfully. “Doing dad’s errands again. I told him I didn’t want to deal with him and Miss Borsche.” I wrinkled my nose. “He’s been buggin’ her to get me to come with them since I told him no.”

“Come with them… where?”

“Oh usually dad goes on some sorta cruise or vacation for the holidays. But, he never invites Vi. So I never go.”

“Why doesn’t he invite her?” The question was posed nonchalantly, and I looked over at Andres, who was looking down at his smartphone.

I’d venture to say that we’d become near best friends now after the past year and a half of knowing each other, yet there was still a lot we didn’t know about each other. I knew he had siblings, but not their names, and he knew about Juvia, but not anything more than that. I knew his family wasn’t rich but they worked extra to push him through school. He knew that mine was, but I had loans out the ass. We played guessing games every now and again—to get to know each other. But whenever there was some real-life line we went to cross in our blossoming friendship, he was always open and I always hesitated. It’s just how it were.

“She…” I tilted my head back and forth a bit. “It’s a bit complicated, I reckon.”

“Then take your time telling me. I’m not rushing you.” Our eyes caught, and he gave me a tiny smile that I couldn’t not return back. But things fell quiet after that, and I turned back to my strings.

Winter break was here, and the freedom that came with it curled around our slowly emptying building like the fresh blanket of snow that dusted our sleepy little college town. On the telly earlier, there were talks about a blizzard rolling in sometime between today and tomorrow. The snow for now was peaceful, and inviting. It crowned even my windowsill when I woke up this morning, and even if I wasn’t with Juvia in person, the holiday buzz still felt strong in the air.

A rap on the door drew me out of my thoughts.

”It’s open!” I called. The handle clicked then pushed open a crack, just enough for someone to poke their head in.

“Kelley.” Andres acknowledged the second I breathed out “Joaquin!” Our R.A regarded us with a lazy smile, and my eyes traced the curve of his handsome mouth. A flush of heat shivered through my body, and I darted my eyes away when they met mine.

“How are you two holding up here? Your folks coming soon?”

“Negativo.” Andres leaned back on Tiffany’s pillow, stretching one leg out into the air. I heard something pop and I made a face. “They’re back home and I don’t have enough money for a plane ticket there. So I’m staying.” Joaquin nodded easily, then he turned to me again. “Julissa?”

“Just Juls is okay!” I said quickly. I coughed. “Um, no, I’m also staying. If that’s alright?”

“No rules against it.” Joaquin flashed me a smile. “I was checking to see who’s still going to be here so I can send a final count to the director.”

“Is it just gonna be us?” Andres asked.

“No, there’s,” Joaquin paused to pop open the door a little further, and leaned against the wall. He counted on his fingers. “The three of us. Then, Daisy Kennedy, on the third floor. René Edwards, down the hall and….” He looked up at the ceiling, trying to remember. “Ah, Saul…Carson, I believe. Top floor.”

“Didn’t know you had someone named Saul on your floor.” I said, looking over to Andres. He snorted. “Me either. Aside from my roommates, I only really talk to you Juls.”

“You’re such a loner.” I teased, as though I was any better. Andres chucked Tiffany’s pillow at me.

“Hey!”

“Actually Kelley?” Andres started. I threw the pillow back and nailed him in the torso, making him choke on his next words. Joaquin’s quiet huff of a laugh distracted me for two seconds—enough for me to let my guard down. Andres jumped from Tiffany’s bed to mine and grabbed me in a headlock.

“Andre!” I shrieked, but he was merciless. His freehand dug into my side and began to tickle at my sides. It wasn’t long before I was howling with laughter, trying to desperately shove him off me. Amused, Joaquin waited patiently with his arms folded loosely over his chest.

Andres finally relented and let me go and I kicked his shin for good measure. “God, I can’t breathe.” I wheezed. Andres laughed jovially, then turned back to Joaquin. “I was going to ask if we had to stay in our dorms while we were here?”

“Well,” He looked between Andres and I, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t think you need my permission, you’re both adults.” I felt heat swarm my dark cheeks and next to me Andres sputtered. “It’s nothing like that!” He snapped. “I just mean, I got a leak in my room and Juls offered to let me crash here. I just don’t know if the break protocol is different than during the school year.”

“A leak?” Joaquin frowned, reaching for his phone. It was similar to Andres’s, clear and sleek. He tapped a few buttons. “From the roof?”

“Yeah. I woke up this morning to snow dripping down my face.” Andres shrugged. “I don’t know how long the leak has been there, it’s been pretty dry this year. But I don’t want to deal with it, it’s literally right above my bed.”

“Like I said, you don’t really need my permission to stay wherever you’d like. But thanks for telling me, I just scheduled a maintenance request.” Joaquin tucked his phone back into his tight jeans. “Should be a few days but it should be fixed.”

“If it wasn’t snowing, I’d get up there and do it myself.” I hit Andres with my hand lightly. “That’s dangerous.”

“Wouldn’t want you falling off.” Joaquin hummed. “Now that I would be held responsible for.”

“Are you staying too, Joaquin?” I asked. Andres elbowed me. “He just said that. Earth to Juls, get your mind out of the gutter.”

“It wasn’t there in the— Oh, I hate you!” Andres and I began squabbling again and from the door Joaquin laughed. “I’ll leave you all to it!”

“Thanks for coming by!” I called after him as he moved from the doorway. Before I turned fully back to Andres, from the corner of my eye, I saw… something follow after Joaquin. I couldn’t get a good enough look at it, but what I did see looked like a cream colored tail.

[player1064]

June 2004

WIP asks but it's just the various sections of my happy (???) beville (/angsty carraville) WIP

ngl this section might not make it into the final cut not bc I don't like it but bc now that I've done a couple of becks pov sections I feel like this one might work better with becks' pov than with gary's.... but we shall see

---

June, 2004.

David’s entire career has been built around set pieces, around people saying that there’s no-one they’d rather have on a dead ball than him. Always the one to step up for corners, always the first name on the list of penalty-takers.

So he struggles, when a game ends like this.

“It’s not your fault,” Gary tells him, over and over again. Even though they both know that it is. “It’s England, innit? Penalty curse an’ all that.”

David doesn’t seem to hear him, or maybe he’s ignoring Gary’s obvious bullshitting. He just sits on the bed, curled in on himself and staring at his hands as he methodically cracks each knuckle.

He’s not crying. Gary almost wishes he would, thinks it might be easier to offer comfort to his partner when he’s not so trapped inside his own head, spinning round and round until it makes him sick. If they were in England they’d be at the training grounds right now, stood on the pitch in the middle of the night with David saying just one more kick, Gaz, I have to get it through this hoop. And again – can’t do it just once, might be a fluke. One. Two. Three. Perfect. And again. I need to do the run-up from a different angle, at a different pace. Again. Again.

Gary wonders if anyone in Madrid would’ve done that for him, stood out there freezing in the dark for hours at a time, just watching, waiting. Let him tire himself out, then take him home and put him to bed and tell him it’s not his fault, it’s not his fault, it’s not his fault.

No training pitches here, though, and no chance of sneaking out when the city’s still up celebrating Portugal’s win.

He sits himself behind David, pulls him back to rest against his chest. David still doesn’t say anything, but after a moment he feels some of the tension start to leave his body.

“Becks,” he says quietly, “you’ve played much worse games than this. Let’s blame Ronaldo, eh? The Portuguese one, I mean. Obviously. The Brazilian one wouldn’t be playin’ in the Euros, would ‘e? Fuck me, that’s gonna get confusing.” He’s aware that he’s starting to ramble, but his brain is itching to fill the silence so there’s not much he can do to stop it. “Let’s call ‘im Cristiano, that’s easier. He’s insane, Becks, honestly. I’ve never seen someone play like that me whole life, it’s – there’s no winning, against him. So let’s blame him, and then when we go on pre-season tour and you meet him proper you can speak to ‘im with all that Spanish you’ve been learnin’.”

“They don’t speak Spanish in Portugal,” Becks says hoarsely, like it’s an effort just to get the words out.

“Do they not?” This would explain why Gary’s not had much luck with the Spanish to English dictionary he’s been keeping in his locker. “Tha’s weird.”

The corner of David’s mouth ticks up a fraction. “You’re pretty,” he murmurs, stealing the line Gary normally reserves for when David’s not understanding whatever he’s explaining (ranting about) to him.

Gary sighs. “Home tomorrow,” he says, reaching for one of David’s hands to give it a squeeze. “Mum and Trace said your stuff’s got back alright, so at least we won’t have to deal with all that unpacking nonsense when we get in.”

“Home.” David smiles properly this time, tilts his head back to look up at Gary. “I’m comin’ home.”

“That you are. You spoken to the Boss at all?”

“A bit. Think we’re gonna be alright. Can’t believe fuckin’ Carlos is coming back too, can I not ever get a break from him?”