#webgott white collar au

[hellofanidea]

First line of a fic!

He wasn't sure what to do about the handcuffs.

'Get out of them' was the prevailing notion, but considering the way they had been looped through the radiator and left his hands at odd angles, Web didn't have too much hope in his usual lockpicking skills.

"Just sit tight," Lieb had said before he left, patting his cheek condescendingly. "I'll come getcha when it's done."

As if Web had ever been any good at just letting him waltz in and out of his life as he pleased, even when he claimed it was for his own good. He eyed the tracker on his ankle, and then the sturdy looking table leg next to it - a pissed off Speirs had to be a better option than waiting around for Joe to get himself killed.

...

Me? Actually working on a WIP? Impossible! Thank you for sending this! Please enjoy five sentences of Webgott White Collar AU.

[himbowelsh]

Webgott AU: Web is 25 and he never drove a car. All his friends are tired of driving his ass around so they buy him course with an instructor. No one wants to teach Web because he has two sets the drunk maniac and scared of everything old lady. His instructor's name is Joe. He's hot and makes David's blood boil moment he starts the car and Joe criticizes David's favourite song playing on the radio. Web is so focused on pointing out why Joe is wrong, he stops over thinking and drives pretty well.

AN: who are webster’s friends?? does anyone really like webster??? webster is the overdramatic bitchy friend, who are his friends, wHO 

“This is an intervention,” announces Hoobler, blocking the doorway to his room.

This is annoying, because David was just pulling on his coat and shoes; and inconvenient, because one of his shoes is out in the hallway that his friend is currently cutting off access to. Standing in the middle of his bedroom, one shoe on, David feels a little ridiculous. If the expression on his friend’s face is anything to go by, he doesn’t look much better.

“Okay,” he begins slowly, taking note of the shadowed figures looking behind Hoobler in the doorway. He hopes no one is touching his shoe. “What are you guys talking about?”

“We’re throwing it in, Web!” declares a voice from the hall, unmistakeably Janovec. “None of us want to drive your ass around any more!”

“You need help,” adds another familiar voice, and Christenson’s head pops up over Hoobler’s shoulder. “It’s honestly pathetic at this point.”

David’s gaze flickers between the three men who’ve ambushed him, and he feels a frown creep across his face. Even Janovec looks serious, which is rare for him, and Hoobler has that “I’m a concerned friend who’s only trying to help” look on his face. David is at once very aware that they’re on the second floor, and the only escape route that isn’t the window is being blocked off by his so-called interventionists.

With all the caution of a gazelle cornered by lions, he takes a step forward. “What are you guys talking about?”

The two men on Hoobler’s left and right move forward as well to flank him. David has just enough time to be hit with a burst of dread before they suddenly rush him.

He’s carried out of the house, kicking and screaming, over the heads of three very determined friends. David Webster doesn’t stand a chance.

The very last place he wants to be is sitting in a car in the middle of the DMV parking lot, waiting for the instructor to arrive. Yet for some reason, this is how David finds himself spending his Saturday afternoon.

He could be anywhere else right now. He could be at the library right now, checking out more books to add to the stack by his bedside that he still needs to read. He could be home, trying to get some writing done in “peace and quiet”. Hell, he’d rather be working as a garbage collector than be here.

He feels like he’s waiting for his own execution. He hates his friends.

(This isn’t true. Often, David counts himself lucky to have friends at all, when they’re not annoying him. Now, however, he’s entertaining the fantasy of sailing them all out to the middle of the ocean and shoving them overboard.)

He’s so caught up in imagining Janovec’s tortured screams that he doesn’t realize the car is being approached until the door opens, and a body slides into the seat next to him. David recoils away from the window with a gasp, hand flying to his chest like a harassed grandmother. The stranger next to him raises an eyebrow.

He’s not much older than David, with dark, intelligent eyes set in a narrow face. His skin is clear, his lips are flushed, and the way his hair hangs in his face ought to be illegal. It’s an effortless sort of style, like the man rolled out of bed, ran a hand through his coif, and decided it was perfect just like that.

David gapes. He can’t help it. A gorgeous stranger has just slid into his car, and is staring at him like he’s waiting for something. How is he supposed to react?

“I -- I’m waiting -- for the instructor,” he manages to stutter out, and something inside of him withers and dies at how underwhelming he sounds. He’s a writer.

“Yeah, no kidding.” The guy leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest, and turns his gaze out towards the dashboard. “Waiting long?”

“A bit.”

“The damn DMV, man. Nothing ever happens on time.”

David chuckles in spite of himself. “You’ve got that right.”

It’s only when silence falls between them and the stranger’s gaze turns towards him again that David realizes he has no clue who this man is, or why he just climbed into his car. “Umm,” he says feeling a little scrambled, “sorry, I just don’t know when they’re going to get here --”

“I’m Joe Liebgott,” the man says, holding out a hand, as if he didn’t hear a word David just said.

“Yeah, hi. David. Webster. I’m, uhh, here to drive -- for my licence. I’m here to get my licence, hopefully.”

“Don’t sound too excited.” Liebgott’s lips twitch in a smirk that makes David feel like he’s overheating.

“No, it’s not that. My friends made me come here. I don’t even want my licence.”

Liebgott huffs out a laugh, adjusting something in his lap. David’s eyes flicker down to the clipboard he holds absently, but his mind is too preoccupied to process it until Liebgott says, “So should I just fail you now, then?”

David chokes on his own spit.

Clipboard. Randomly climbing into his car. White-collar shirt and tie. A damn name tag. Liebgott is his instructor.

 At once, he feels very, very stupid. Liebgott’s smirk no longer looks as attractive anymore, as if he’s mocking David for his own stupidity. It makes David’s stomach curdle, anxiety and embarrassment mixing together to form a cocktail of something unbearable. “Right,” he says in a small voice. “You’re the driving instructor.”

“Bingo.”

“O-kay.”

He’s done making an idiot out of himself. Even though he’s internally dying, he turns the keys in the ignition, and the car flares to life. The engine begins to thrum; the radio blasts out a song David recognizes.

“Jesus fuck, I hate this song,” Liebgott mutters, reaching for the radio controls. David doesn’t get the chance to think about it before he blocks the other man’s reach, slamming a hand over the dial. When Liebgott turns to him, he forces himself to return his stare. 

“I like this song,” he enunciates. Maybe he’s already proven himself to be the biggest idiot this side of the equator, but his favorite song is on, and it feels like an omen for this driving test. Maybe it won’t be a disaster after all (though Joe’s presence might crush all hope for that).

They stare each other down for a moment that seems to last an eternity before Liebgott withdraws his hand, holding it up in surrender. “Hey, Web, sure. As long as you can drive. Let’s get started.”

“Let’s,” David uselessly agrees. He places his foot on the gas pedal and begins to drive.

He’s not sure what it is, but something about Liebgott is setting his teeth on edge. Who just climbs into someone’s car without mentioning that they’re their driving instructor? Who insults their favorite song? Who thinks having hair like that is okay?

(In reality, he probably needs an outlet for his nerves -- as well as his attraction to his instructor. Channeling all that into irritation is productive, at least.)

It gets even worse as he drives. Joe lets him do his own thing for the most part, but every so often he’ll say something -- like, “turn up here” or “look out for the curb”. David’s blood pressure only continues to rise with each comment. He’s a twenty-two year old man, not a teenager. He has working eyes. He knows how to drive a damn car.

The worst part is, he can tell Liebgott is just doing it to get underneath his skin. Every time he hears the other man’s little raspy chuckle, or catches sight of that smirk in his rearview mirror, David’s temper flares. He forces himself to focus on the road, because if he’s going to do anything today, it’s prove Liebgott wrong.

He’s amazed. By the time he returns to the parking lot, he’s still in one piece. He hasn’t had a near-panic-attack on the road; he didn’t brake when there was no need to brake; he stuck to the speed limit, and didn’t even freak out when a squirrel ran across the street. He slumps over the wheel, exhausted but more than proud of himself. He did great.

“So,” he huffs, feeling like a great weight has been lifted off his shoulders. “Do I get my licence?”

Liebgott only has to consider it for a few seconds before he replies, “Nope.”

David’s teeth click shut in astonishment. As he stares at Joe, Joe’s face, Joe’s stupid smirk, his eyes grow wider. He can feel his blood boiling. “What.”

“Well, I could give it to you --”

“Why wouldn’t you, I did perfectly --”

“But do you really want to give your friends the satisfaction?”

David shuts up. Liebgott is still smirking back at him, like some evil genius, and he feels like he’s just been electrified. He can decide if he hates the man in front of him or is a little bit in love with him, and he’s not sure if he wants to figure it out.

Liebgott shrugs, casually rolling his shoulders and tearing a corner of paper from his clipboard before he clicks the passenger’s door open. “Guess you’re gonna have to come back another day,” he tells David. Then he has the audacity to wink at him. “Call me, we can work something out.”

“I don’t have your --” David manages before the door slams shut. He gapes at the seat Liebgott just vacated, spotting the little slip of paper left behind. A phone number is scribbled on it. Of course.

He’s going to have to march back in there and tell Hoobler, Christenson, and Janovec that he didn’t get his licence. Those guys are the ones who’ll have to drive him home, and they’ll deserve it. Hoobler might cry.

Before he does that, however, David picks up the slip of paper and enters the number into his phone. He’s not even sure why, but he knows he’s going to wind up calling Joe again.

He’s going to have to get his license eventually, after all.

[hellofanidea]

Webgott White Collar AU, i gotta know for the ask game!

Exactly what it says on the tin, pretty much! I've already said a lil bit about this one (afraid I can't link the posts right now, but they should be in the tag), but it's art thief and conman Web being recruited to work alongside Speirs as a consultant. Lieb is his ex-lover/rival/Something who resurfaces to cause trouble. There's also some background domestic Speirton.

[hellofanidea]

Last Line(s) Tag

I was tagged by @almost-a-class-act and so feel compelled to deliver. Most of what I write is OC stuff HOWEVER I have been recently kicking around the White Collar Webgott AU that myself and @lewis-winters have chatted about. Extensively. Here's the latest:

"Figured you'd be doing okay," shrugged Liebgott, expression twisted into something more sour than his earlier smugness at holding Web over his tether's edge. "And hey, you got out all by yourself."

Suddenly, Web wished his anklet would give him just another two hundred yards, just enough to launch himself across that invisible divide and wring Liebgott's skinny little neck. Getting himself out had never been the plan, and Liebgott knew that.

I'm going to tag @lewis-winters and @bitch-butter (sorry if you've already done it and I missed it), but honestly I'll pass it on to anybody who wants to share

[hellofanidea]

Writing poll tag game

Thank you @georgieluz for tagging me! I don't really post too much writing on here, and when I do it's mostly OC stuff, but I do love to write anyway and would very much appreciate the interaction from anyone who votes as motivation. As I filled this out I also realised how much of my stuff is AUs lmao.

Rules: make a 24-hour poll with the names of your wips, let it run, then write one sentence for every vote the winner got

Tagging @bitch-butter @lewis-winters @ep6bastogne and anybody else who wants to join in

[hellofanidea]

thank you for the tag @lewis-winters!

WIP Ask Game

Rules:

Post up to five (5) filenames of your WIPs; not titles, file names.

Post a snippet from one/all of them. Snippet must be words you wrote in the last 7 days. We’re posting progress here. If you haven’t made any, go make some and come back to post.

After you’ve posted, people can send you an ask with one of your file names. You must then write 3 sentences in that file.

That’s it! You can invite others to join in or just post.

WIPs under the cut because some got a little long. Surprise surprise its mostly OC stuff:

Webgott White Collar AU - Featuring Web as a criminal consultant, Speirs as his handler, and Lieb as his very complicated ex/nemesis. Background Speirton.

He was out of plays. Short of slipping his cuffs and probably getting shot in the back as he ran, there was nothing more he could do. What window of time he had, he had wasted on this.

"Got the place surrounded?" He asked instead. 

He sounded flat, even to his own ear. Scuffed patent leather creaked as Special Agent Speirs crouched beside him.

"You know it," he told Web. "If I ask before the cavalry comes, will you give me an honest answer?"

Web finally lifted his head, hoping whatever redness remained in his eyes could be explained away as sleeplessness. He raised his eyebrows at Speirs to continue.

"They're going to give you four more years for this. If they're lenient. Halfway through your sentence, a possible parole hearing coming up… what the hell was all of this in aid of?"

Hands tightening around the neck of the bottle, Web shook his head. His knuckles went white around the dark glass and he sniffed, putting it down on the floor and rolling it away with a hard push. It made it all the way to the other side of the room, where it collided with the wall with a crack of glass. The sound seemed to bury itself deep in Web's brain, like something there had been broken too.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

Pacrim au - Pacific Rim AU, OC-Centric, multiple background pairings and ensemble cast.

“They’re closing the training school.”

Natalie didn’t react, and waited for him to continue. He wasn’t like Nix, who had a way of luring you into whatever he was trying to tell you. Winters was direct, concise. Everything he said, he chose for a purpose.

“We had our last batch of replacements last spring. Most of them ended up working around the Pacific breach.”

How many of them are even left? Natalie wanted to ask.

“So now we’re doing what we can. Calling in old favors. Bringing back old pilots. Anyone who still wants to help.”

Slowly, Natalie looked up.

“The hell kind of help do you think I’d be?” She asked bitterly.

Winters’ expression never flickered. There was little wonder how he’d become the poster-boy for the American Jaeger program, aside from his combat experience and level-headed leadership. He looked like every propaganda poster Natalie had ever seen, all stoic dignity and quiet, patriotic, confidence. Once, she had clung to it. Now it tasted like blood and seawater.

“I think I have Jaegers with no pilots, and pilots wasting themselves by carrying around guilt for things out of their control.” That unshakeable mask softened. “I think I have what’s left of White Horse taking up a bay in my Shatterdome until her surviving pilot tells me what to do with her.”

It hurt to hear its name said out loud again, after so long. Something sharp and hot pricked at the back of Natalie’s eyes.

“I can’t Drift,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I can’t do it, Dick, I can’t let nobody in there again. I can’t risk it.”

The Boxer (T/S) - OC-Centric, pre-canon slice of life

“The children are asleep. They all crawled into our bed, though, so I think we will have to sleep in theirs,” Sylvie laughed softly.

“I can sleep in my chair,” Thomas offered.

Her smile slipped, and Thomas felt the misstep, even though he didn’t understand it.

“Are you hurt?” Sylvie asked.

“No. Not badly, anyhow. Just some bruises.”

She made an unhappy clicking noise with her tongue and moved forward to help him out of his coat. He did his best not to wince as he raised his arms and shrugged the heavy, woolen, overcoat into her hands. As she hung it up, she dipped into the pocket he always kept the winnings in and drew them out. It wasn’t much, but it was more than they would have without it, and Thomas let himself feel some small measure of pride as it was deposited into the empty coffee can they kept their savings in.

It would feed his children, keep a roof over their heads, put shoes on their feet and send them to school. That was worth a few bruises.

---

Tagging @almost-a-class-act @bitch-butter @georgieluz @ep6bastogne @latibvles and inviting anybody else who wants to join in

[hellofanidea]

Thank you for the tag @lewis-winters !

WIP Ask Game

RULES: post the names of all of the files in your WIP folder regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it.

- Here Was A Man Mourning Tomorrow

- hello naughty children it's robot time

- Gotta Live Between The Pitfalls

- OCtober 2022

- The Boxer (T/S)

- Inception AU

- Webgott White Collar AU

- NILS Drafts

- Teddy and Leyendecker

- W/h/c

- Dancing as a metaphor for sex

Most of these are, as you could guess, OC fics, but there are a few here without and a few that focus mostly on canon with OCs as background/supporting. (This isn't my whole WIP folder, I'll admit. There isn't a post long enough to contain all of that.)

Tagging @almost-a-class-act @georgieluz @cody-helix02 @ep6bastogne @malarkgirlypop @latibvles anybody else who wants to join in