#[stands in front of cupboard of wips]

[organised-disaster]

@randosfandos @baxieblur-turnip

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Not a Word 2

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

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

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

Summary: You live a life in hiding, away from your father and the world, until a man decides to drag you into the light. (non-verbal reader)

Characters: Captain Syverson

Note: 😻.

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

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

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You hear your father in the garage. It’s a comfort knowing he isn’t in the house. You’ve learned to navigate so that you rarely run into him. The fact of your existence only ever seems to irk him. 

That day, there’s a low rumble between the clank and clunk of his tools. You’re not sure it’s the engine or something else. The last time you glimpsed inside the garage, the engine wasn’t even in that old Bronco he’s worked on for seven years. 

You rub smooth the lines in your forehead and give a long blink. You’ve been squinting at the diamond art for much too long. You sit up and roll your shoulders. You need a break. 

As you emerge from your room, you feel guilty. A break from what? Doing nothing. That’s what your dad always says. Then he laughs and finds something to throw at you. 

You take his lunch box from the floor by the shoe mat and bring it to the kitchen. You open it up and clean out all the containers. Those things you do, as small as they are, like cleaning and making his meals, aren’t enough. He doesn’t fail to remind you of that. 

You dump the uneaten crust from his ham and cheese sandwich as the door from the garage clatters open and lets in the smell of oil and dirt. You turn your attention to the sink as you put the container with the rest. It’s only as you flip the faucet on that you realise the steps aren’t your dad’s. 

“Scuse me,” Sy says. “Don’t mean to bother, but, uh, had a bit of an accident.” 

You face him as he holds out the front of his tee shirt. You gulp. There’s a smear of shiny oil across it, ready to drip onto the floor. Your eyes round. 

“I can clean it in the bathroom, I see you’re busy.” 

He goes to turn away and you put your hands up. The oil won’t come out if he just wipes it into the shirt. You would know since you deal with your dad’s stained jeans.  

He nears as you sidle down to grab the baking soda from the cupboard. He looms, his shadow moving in your peripheral, and you shift the faucet to off. You grab a paper towel and turn to him. You hesitate to reach for him, that seems too much but before you can make a move, he peels his shirt off. 

You flutter your lashes and point to the counter. He lays the shirt out and you open the box of baking soda. He stands back and watches. Heat trickles down your back as you focus on the task. You sprinkle the powder over his shirt. 

You let it soak up as much as it can then blot daintily. 

“You’re clever,” he muses. “Helpful.” 

You shrug. 

“How lucky’s that daddy of yours, huh? You out here cleaning all his mess. You make his lunch?” He peeks over at the sink and you follow his gaze. You nod. “Hm, think he’d be nicer then, wouldn’t ya? Well, I know him, he ain’t a nice fella.” 

You return your attention to his shirt. If your daddy isn’t so nice, why does he come around? You wouldn’t ask even if you could. You can barely concentrate with him exposed like that. 

Your eyes dart over in a fleeting peek. His chest is hair and his stomach thick, his arms too. You’re always aware of how big he is but at that moment, he seems even larger. You look at his shirt. It’ll need more time to soak and wash. 

“Could wash it with the hose, don’t wanna ruin your machine,” he offers as if reading your mind. 

You frown and shake your head. You hold up your finger and flit away with his shirt. You put stain remover on it and dump it in the machine. You set the cycle then hesitate. What will he wear now? 

Your dad isn’t as big. He’s a pretty small guy. He might have something... 

You hurry into the closet of old things and search around. There’s one of those tees he got from a case of Labatts. They always pack the XLs and nothing else. It has some sports team logo on it. 

You go back to the kitchen and offer it to Sy. He crosses to you and accepts it with a smile, “thanks, sugar. That’s mighty nice.” His fingertips brush yours.  

He unfolds the shirt and shakes it out. He pulls it over his head and your eyes crawl down his torso unintentionally. You back up a step as he tugs down the hem, though it hangs short of his belt. Even that is too small for him. 

“You’re not scared of me, are ya?” He asks as he curls his shoulders as if to make himself smaller. 

You shake your head. Shy is all. You’re not eager to mingle with anyone. Nor they, you. 

“You know, I might have a word with your daddy. He shouldn’t be so nasty to ya. ‘Specially all the work you put in.” 

You shake your head frantically and clasp your hands. You know better than that. Even if he’s trying to be nice, it’s the worst thing he can do. 

“What’s wrong? Huh? Just wanna tell him what a good girl ya are,” he crosses his arms and seems to double in size. 

You pout and press your hands together. You cower and takes another step back. His expression turns dire. 

“Sorry, sugar, hope I didn’t upset ya there. I was only... only bein’ nice, ya know? Seems you’re not used to all that.” He drops his hands to his hips. “Fine then, I’ll just have to save them sweet words for you, huh?” 

You look down and chew your lip. You’re not used to the attention. Your dad’s other friends, if you can call them that, just ignore you or laugh at his jokes about you. You nod and turn, gesturing to the sink. You walk up to it, clinging to the excuse to get away. 

“Yeah, I know, you workin’ hard,” he praises. “I’ll be outta ya way now.” 

You bob your head and turn the tap on again. You work at scrubbing the containers, waiting and listening for him to go. When he does, you can breathe again. You’re not so sure why he’s being nice. Not like you can do much but stare. 

💘

When your dad’s at work, you’re as close to peace as you’ve ever been. There’s still that constant restlessness that follows you. The gnawing reality that time is passing you by. That you have no purpose. No direction. 

You envy others. That they have a reason. That they have everything you don’t. They have other people, ones that care, not those burdened with them; they have important work to do; they have fun things to celebrate; graduations, new jobs, marriages. They have voices and you remain unheard. 

You busy yourself with the tidying when he isn’t there. If you try to clean with him around, he only antagonizes you. There’s a roast out for dinner. It will last a few days. Most times, you lose your appetite. You spend all day craving and making the food then lose all desire the moment it’s before you. 

The small pleasures you once treasured fade with each day that starts and ends the same. You can’t feel too bad for yourself. Your dad doesn’t have to keep you. You’re an adult now. Maybe he’ll never say so, or even show it, but he must care, right? 

You finish mopping and start on chopping up the potatoes. You arrange them in the roasting pan around the slab of beef. Then carrots and celery. You save the onions for last because they make you cry. You’re saved from tears by the rumble of thunder on the horizon. 

Curiously, you set the knife down and go to the window. Would your dad be home early? Some days, they shut down the shop when business is slow. 

It’s not him but you recognise the grating on the truck’s nose. The large truck sends up dirt and gravel as it cuts across the worn roadway. Your confusion floods to panic and you rush out the front door.

Is your father hurt? Why else would Sy be here? 

You hover on the top step as he grinds to a stop and shuts the behemoth truck off. The driver’s door creaks as it opens and Sy jumps down. Instead of his usual camo cargo shorts and sweat-dampened tee, he wears a button-up with short sleeves and a pair of brown slacks. It even looks like he combed his beard. 

Your face twists in a grimace. What’s going on? Why is he here? 

He reaches back into the truck and brings out something behind his back. You can’t see it as he keeps his arm bent behind him and shuts the door. He grins and walks up to the house as you watch. 

“How’s it goin’?” He asks brightly. 

You blink. You look at his collar, the top button straining against his thick neck. You lower your gaze to your loose blue tee and barrel jeans. You’re dressed like a laundry line. Your clothes offer no shape, nothing. They just do the job. 

“I, uh, I wanted to surprise ya, and uh, I was thinkin’ ya know, this place deserves a bit of colour,” he chuckles then clears his throat, “and you deserve good things, so, uh, here.” 

He reveals the flowers from behind his back and you blanch. You stare at the dainty petals, white with violet edges. They are pretty. Too pretty for this place or for you. Besides, why would he do that? 

“You don’t like em? Should I have got roses?” He asks. 

You flinch. You don’t want to hurt his feelings. You come down the steps and cautiously reach for the paper cone. He hands it over and you stare at him. Then you smell them. You think that’s what you’re supposed to do. 

“Smell good?” He asks. 

You peer over the petals at him and nod. You’re not sure how to react. What do you do now? You can’t just leave him out in the yard. You raise your thumb and point it over your shoulder and tilt your head. 

“Sure, I’ll come in,” he accepts. 

He steps forward, a bit too close, and you hop backward up the step. You barely keep from tripping. You get onto the porch and spin around, scurrying to the door. You open the door and step to the side to hold it for him. 

He laughs again, “now, I’m a gentleman, sugar.” 

He grabs the door and gestures you through. You take his directive without pause. You hurry inside and he follows. As he stops to take off his shoes, you continue on into the kitchen. 

You search for an adequate holder for the flowers. You find an old canister and set them in it with some water. His presence lurks behind you. You put the bouquet on the table as he looks around. 

“You cookin’ a fine dinner, huh?” He says. “Like I tell your daddy, he’s a lucky man. Any man’d be lucky to have that waitin’.” 

You shrug. He shifts. 

���I don’t mean to take advantage of your kindness but I was gonna ask ya a favour.” 

You look at him blankly. He reaches in his pocket. He pulls a length of silk. A tie. 

“Couldn’t figure this out,” he explains. “Thought maybe you might...” 

You stare at the tie. You remember tying your daddy’s for your grandma’s funeral. That was a long time ago but you think you could remember. 

You swallow down your nerves and approach him. You take the tie and he glances around. He pushes a chair out and sits. He leans his head back. 

“Just wanna make sure I look good for ya,” he says. 

You flip up his collar and bring the silk around his neck. As you do, your thumb brushes his coarse beard. He hums. 

“Don’t worry bout pullin’ my hair,” he scoffs. “Won’t bother me none.” 

You line up his tie, knuckles brushing his shirt as you go through the steps in your hand. You pull the tie snug and fix hit collar. You step back and he sets his head straight. You hug yourself and give him a questioning look. 

“Ya like your surprise?” He asks. 

You look at the flower then nod. 

“And what about the other?” 

You face him again and your brows draw together. 

“Me,” he snorts. 

You purse your lips and shrug. What does he mean? 

“We’ll wait for your daddy, huh? Then I’ll ask his blessing.” He rests his elbow on the table, “and you’ll have dinner all ready, won’t ya?” 

[borathae]

Proud of You

"Jungkook thinks that whatever mistake he makes defines his entire character and makes him unlovable. Yoongi shows him that mistakes don't mean the end of the world and that they most definitely don't define his worth."

Pairing: Vampire!Yoongi x Vampire!Jungkook

Genre: Slice of Life, Fluff, Comfort

Warnings: Jungkook accidentally breaks something and is sad about it, Yoongi shows him how to fix it, that's his little one everyone, he's so fond of him, Googie is so grateful for him in return

Wordcount: 1.7k

a/n: Requested by anonie literally two years ago 🥴 I found it buried deep under all the things on my wips list jsjs I can't even find the ask to it anymore but it was basically them wanting a domestic fluff drabble of yoonkook fixing something together to make Kookie see that his hands can do other things than break. I finally wrote it because i miss them and i'm big sad about it 🖤

The knock on his door is faint; shy in a way. Perhaps even hesitant. 

“Come in”, Yoongi allows whoever is nervous to see him entrance. 

He was playing the electric guitar before that, sitting on the floor against his sofa and only candlelight accompanying him. The guitar sits beside him for now.

Jungkook enters the room, having his head lowered and hands folded in front of his crotch. Yoongi waits for him to speak.

“Hyung, I did something bad”, Jungkook gets out quietly.

“Are you okay? What did you do?” Yoongi asks him in a soft voice.

“I’m sorry but I broke the, the door in the kitchen.”

“The door?”

Jungkook nods his head.

“The actual door?”

“No, a cupboard.”

“Mhm. How did that happen?”

“I, I was uhm, I opened it. I didn’t mean to, I swear!”

“That’s okay, kiddo. Accidents happen. Did you hurt yourself?” Yoongi speaks gently.

Jungkook shakes his head, sniffling.

“That’s good to hear.” Yoongi stands up. “Come on, let’s see what we can do to fix it, yeah?”

He intertwines hands with Jungkook, leading him to the kitchen. Jungkook follows him, barely daring to look at him in fear of seeing his anger. There is no anger on Yoongi’s features, Jungkook merely has the habit of beating himself up for every little mistake he makes. In his eyes, mistakes are awful when he makes them. They are the reason for anger and shame. Yoongi doesn’t share this sentiment, caressing his knuckles soothingly as he walks with him.

“Are you angry at me now?” Jungkook asks quietly.

“Of course not. You didn’t mean to break it.”

“I’m really sorry, hyung.”

“You’re okay, kiddo. Hyung’s not angry.”

They have reached the kitchen. The door Jungkook broke is lying on the floor. It is missing from one of the lower cupboards. 

“Oh this one. Little bugger, I meant to tighten it for ages but was too lazy to do so. It was about to fall off.”

“I swear I only opened it and it already fell.”

“I’m sure you did. Don’t worry, bun. The hinges were old. It would have broken sooner or later.” Yoongi says and squats down to inspect the door. “Let’s see.”

Jungkook kneels next to him, sitting down on his folded feet. He squeezes his hands between his thighs, rocking back and forth in self-soothing.

“Can you fix it?” he asks, gnawing on his lower lip.

“Of course. We’ll see if I have a set of hinges in my workshop. Come on, you’re helping”, Yoongi says, standing back up.

Jungkook scrambles back to his feet to follow Yoongi, “okay, hyung.”

Yoongi glances at Jungkook halfway to the workshop. Jungkook’s features are twisted in guilt and self-anger. Yoongi closes the distance and places his hand on the back of Jungkook’s neck sweetly. 

“Don’t beat yourself up about it, okay?”

Jungkook glances at him, hand coming up to rub his own cheek. Almost as if he wanted to wipe tears away.

“I feel so angry at myself.”

“I know you do, but don’t. Stuff breaks around the house, it’s prone to happen. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I could have opened it softer or, or been more careful.”

“Maybe, but you’ll never know if the outcome would have been different. You gotta focus on the now, kiddo, and in the now, nothing terrible happened. We’ll get new hinges and fix the door, okay?”

Jungkook hesitates with accepting the words. So Yoongi gives him a gentle shake, following it up with a pat to his butt. 

“Okay, kiddo?” 

“Yeah, okay”, Jungkook murmurs and smiles shyly. 

“That’s my boy”, Yoongi praises with a fond sparkle in his eyes, making Jungkook’s smile grow.

For the rest of the way, Jungkook walks next to Yoongi with lightness in his steps and his head held high. 

Yoongi’s workshop is in one of the many outhouses of the estate. The two men have to leave through the main door and then take the gravel path west, the opposite direction of where the horse stables are located. The outhouse is a sandstone cottage with one floor and a small herb garden and an outdoor smithy in the front. A few of the many workers are busy in front of it, greeting Yoongi and Jungkook with a bow of their heads as they pass them. 

Yoongi keeps his workshop very neat and organised. His tools are stored in cupboards and shelves on the walls. There is also a metal sink and many worktops to get crafty on. He kept one corner tidy, filling it with a two-seater and a table for refreshments. In winter when the nights are long, one can often find him cozied up in here with the fireplace lit and the radio playing music. He does all of his woodworking here and sees this house as a space to relax in. 

It doesn’t take him long to find what he is looking for, handing Jungkook the needed tools while he carries the new hinges. 

“It smells so good in here”, Jungkook comments between deep inhales of the woody air. 

“I worked on some wood carvings recently.”

“It smells really good. What are you working on?”

“Just some decorations for Emma’s town shop. She asked me to make cats.” Yoongi says, pointing at one of the worktops. 

Seven cat figures of different sizes are standing on it. Some are already completely finished, while others are still in the process of getting carved. 

“So cute, wow”, Jungkook gushes, petting each of them carefully. 

“Mhm, they’re pretty adorable yeah”, Yoongi agrees, watching his boy handle the figures so gently. He never doubted it, but Jungkook has such tender hands. Even if he thinks that they are only good for destroying. Yoongi knows better.

Jungkook turns to him, smiling shyly.

“They’re really pretty, hyungie.”

“Thanks”, Yoongi says and gestures Jungkook to leave. “I hope Emma will like them.” 

“I’m sure that she will. They’re really so, so pretty.”

“Thanks, kiddo”, Yoongi says, turning off the lights behind them now that they got everything that they needed. 

The two men wander back to the estate, greeting whoever passes them. They don’t chat a lot with each other, but that was alright for both. They are lovers of silence and sharing it together is a way to bond for them. 

The kitchen is how they left it and other than before, Jungkook doesn’t feel sickening guilt at the view of the broken cabinet. He feels hopeful. 

They lay out the tools, both sitting on the floor cross-legged. 

“Did you fix a cupboard before?” Yoongi asks Jungkook. 

“Yes, just not that type of cupboard.”

“Mhm, well it’s probably not that much different than other cupboards. You see this?”

Jungkook inspects where Yoongi points with squinted eyes. 

“The plastic is cracked.”

“Exactly. Old fucking shit finally gave up. That’s what modern hinges do. Back in my days, you would wither away before your hinges gave up.”

Jungkook laughs. 

“I’m serious. The older the earth gets, the younger companies make the life-expectancies of their shit. One day, I’ll rip out this modern dust catcher and build a good, sturdy kitchen. Just how I built it back then. With real wood and real metal hinges and good stone oven.”

Jungkook laughs harder, painting a fond smile onto Yoongi’s face. He scoffs and shakes his head. 

“I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”

“No, I like it when you talk like this”, Jungkook assures him and rests his cheek on his shoulder, “when you do that, can I help?”

“Of course you can, kiddo. I’d be happy to do that with you”, Yoongi promises him with a chaste kiss to the crown of his head. “Now look here. I need your help.”

“What do you need?”

“Hold the door right there and I’ll tighten the screws.”

“Yes, okay.” Jungkook does as he is told, watching Yoongi work. “This was really quick.”

“Mhm. Just had to unscrew the old hinges and put on the new ones”, Yoongi murmurs, fixing the door back into its place. Three more tight twists with the screwdriver and the cupboard is officially as good as new. 

Jungkook gazes at it with sparkling eyes while Yoongi gathers all the tools. He stands up, placing the tools on the kitchen island so he could wash his hands. 

Jungkook stands up, looking at Yoongi. He has his back turned to him, wiping his hands on the towel.

He made his life worthwhile again, Jungkook thinks, he is the reason that Jungkook is able to actually exist again. And he has no fucking idea. He goes day by day thinking that his impact was minimal, when in reality he is the very reason for Jungkook’s perfect life. 

Jungkook closes the distance and takes Yoongi into his arms. The smaller man freezes up, dropping the towel in surprise. Jungkook has both arms around him, chest melted against his back and face buried in the crook of his neck. 

“Thank you.”

“For what?” 

“For coming into my life.”

Yoongi lowers his head, feeling flustered. His embarrassment about the highly emotional moment is instant. He begins wiggling to pretend that he doesn’t want to be hugged.

“Yeah, yeah whatever. Let go of me, you brat.”

But Jungkook doesn’t let him go today. He hugs him tighter until Yoongi has to give up with an involuntary whimper which Jungkook squeezes out of him. 

“Thank you. Thank you so much. Thank you.” he chants, kissing his neck and shoulder over and over again.

Yoongi hums, patting his lower arm. 

“You are so important. You are so loved. Oh so loved, hyungie. And, and you make my life possible.”

“The one who’s making it possible is you, kiddo. You’ve come so far.”

“I only came that far because of you.”

They share a moment of deep, comfortable silence. It is filled with emotions. Yoongi takes a deep breath and turns in Jungkook’s arms, cradling his face in both hands. 

Jungkook meets his fond eyes. His features are so soft and adoring. 

“Hyung is….” He shakes his head and smiles, “I’m proud of you, Jungkookie-ah.”

Jungkook exhales in emotion.

Yoongi pulls his head down and kisses his forehead.

Jungkook whimpers, closing his eyes. He never kissed him there before.

“I’m so proud of you, my little one. And…and you’re loved too.”

“Hyungie”, Jungkook breathes, falling around Yoongi’s neck to hug him tightly. 

Yoongi hugs him back, ruffling his hair. He is so very fond of his boy. Quite frankly, he would steal the stars for him if he asked him to. They may not have had many happy endings in their past, but at least in this life they will. Together. Because being together is the best which could have happened to them.

[toothpastecanyon]

Oooh Sherlock Dipper for the wip ask game 👀 that sounds hella cool

Hi! This is the working title I had for Return, to the Scene of the Crime! I've liked working on this a lot; exploring RRR concepts is really fun to me and I liked conceiving this Dipper and Mizar as a sort of Holmes vs Moriarty dynamic where they're competing against each other in a series of mysteries. I was also super inspired by the TV series Fargo in how it follows both the side investigating the crime and the side covering it up, which I hope to explore more now that the cat is out of the bag in the latest chapter :3

Still working on the next chapter, but here's a snippet from it!

_

“You got your net?”

“Yup.” Lucy Ann extended the handle. “Got the long one too, in case he tries going over me.”

Dipper nodded, and hefted his own. “Alright. Stand back, Mr. Yancin.”

“It’s Professor Yancin, actually.” The chemistry professor said, then blinked and backed up behind his desk. “Just be careful. There’s some potent chemicals in there.”

“Potent- hang on, you said this was the cleaning cupboard!”

“There’s bleach and ammonia cleaners in there!” He ducked a little lower. “Just don’t go smashing stuff, okay?”

“Smashing stuff?” Dipper gave a chuckle. “I told you, Yancin. We’re professionals.”

At that moment there was a banging behind the door; he turned back to it, and gave Lucy Ann a nod. She readied her net, and he reached out and grasped the handle. Then he threw it open, and in one motion he raised his net and brought it down on-

-on the beak of one huge griffin filling the entire space of the closet. Dipper heard a low growl, and his eyes went wide.

“Hey, that’s not a teacup griiiiiFFIN!” It bit down on the net and charged into him, leaving him hanging on for dear life as it started running around the lab. “Whoa, whoa, stop! Stop!”

Lucy Ann glared at the man. “Wha- This is not a teacup griffin, man! This is full size!”

“But that’s what the internet listing said- eek!” He ducked as the griffin jumped on his desk, crushed his monitor under its feet, and spread its massive wingspan. “My computer! Noo, it’s destroying everything!”

“I got it, I-” Dipper grabbed for the edge of the desk, only for that to be ripped out of his hands as it took flight. ���I don’t got it - Lucy Ann! Heeeelp!”

“Stultissimi,” Lucy Ann muttered under her breath; she cast aside the tiny net and looked around the room. The flag of the California Federation was hanging by the door, flapping wildly on its post as the griffin half-flew, half ran laps around the narrow lab. She jumped up, tore it down and held it out in front of her like a matador.

The griffin slammed into the drywall as it made its turn to her, Dipper hanging off its neck inches from the floor. It tried to weave past her but she pounced on it, wrapping the flag over its eyes and pushing back as hard as she could. It was like stopping a train, but first they skidded, then they slid to a stop, her back landing against a window just hard enough to hurt.

Quiet, again. She took a moment to let out a breath - then looked down at the griffin. It was utterly still now under the darkness of the flag, its breathing returning to normal. She could see a movement under the feathers, a hand struggling to make it out.

“Lucy Ann?” Said his muffled voice. “A little hel- whoa!” She dragged him out from under the griffin, and he jumped to his feet, brushing himself off. “Uh, there we go, I guess! But I don’t think it’s gonna fit in our cage.”

“Eh, animal control can deal with that. Which is exactly what I said when you took this job!”

“Hey, if it was actually a teacup griffin, this would’ve been a breeze! Besides, we had that cancellation-“

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you had to fill it.” She rolled her eyes. “I thought you wanted to keep this focused on mysteries.”

[daffi-990]

Wip Wednesday ✍️

Tagged by the lovely @jesuisici33. Be sure to check out what they shared 😊

I had a little bit of writing mojo for The Lightning Amnesia Fic and have the day off tomorrow so fingers crossed I’m able to get some more done … maybe even finish it 🤷🏻‍♀️(wishful thinking haha)

This is a continuation of the last snippet I shared for this fic, which you can find here

Buck’s frame shakes with barely contained laughter as Eddie removes his lips to crane his neck so he can see his son. “Sorry, didn’t mean to offend your sensitive eyeballs”. He adds an eye roll for good measure.

Chris returns the eye roll with one of his own, “Just save it for later. I’m happy for you guys and everything, but no kid wants to see their parents being all”, he gestures at the two of them with one hand, "this".

Parents. It’s just one word but it has Eddie’s heart lightening up like a fucking Christmas tree. Chris sees Buck as his other dad. Fuck, he’s so ridiculously happy right now he could cry, and by the shine in Buck’s eyes, he’s in the same boat. Eddie loosens his hold on Buck and moves his hands down to his waist, squeezing gently.

“Hey buddy, you may want to look away cos I’m about to kiss Buck now”, it's the only warning he gives Chris before he’s using the hands on Buck’s waist to turn him so they’re standing chest to chest. Buck’s hands come up to drape over his shoulders as Eddie leans in to kiss him, swears he can taste the happiness on Buck’s smile. He wants to dive deeper and relish it on his tongue, but Chris is here and dinner is cooking and they only have a few more hours until they’ll be alone where they can lose themselves in each other. His nose brushes along Buck’s as he pulls back from the kiss.

“Later” he promises before pulling away to open the cupboard, grabbing plates amd cups for the table. He can feel Buck’s gaze lingering on him and looks over his shoulder to find Buck’s eyes tracing his body, looking him up and down with a hunger that has a pool of warmth forming in Eddie’s belly. The way Buck looks at him, he’s never felt so wanted, so desired and if he keeps it up, well Eddie only has so much will power and really doesn’t want to traumatise his son by dropping to his knees in front of Buck right here in the kitchen.

Buck’s lips curl into a smirk like he knows exactly what’s running through Eddie’s mind. “I’m holding you to that”. His voice is low and full of promise and Eddie feels himself shudder in anticipation.

“Like I’m going to forget” he mutters under his breath. Buck hears him anyway and chuckles quietly before turning back to the stove as Eddie makes his escape to the dining room to set the table, Chris following after him with the salad and rolls.

No pressure tagging: @exhuastedpigeon @lover-of-mine @giddyupbuck @fortheloveofbuddie @forthewolves @thewolvesof1998 @hippolotamus @callaplums @callmenewbie @spotsandsocks @wikiangela @eddiebabygirldiaz @monsterrae1 @steadfastsaturnsrings @wildlife4life @rainbow-nerdss @rewritetheending @try-set-me-on-fire @athenagranted @devirnis @disasterbuckdiaz @honestlydarkprincess @hoodie-buck @ladydorian05 @loserdiaz @captain-hen and as always, anyone else who wants to share 💕

[goldeneyedgirl]

Sonya! (Imagine, for a moment, that Tumblr Staff actually fixed the bug that means I have to screenshot and tag you @sonyawix for replies.) I missed you!

Jasper's just there realising that a couple of decades of training and practice with the Cullens was no match for a tiny teenage girl who looks at him like he's the second coming. She did more for his self-esteem in one night than anyone has done for him since he was human.

Jasper's softer in STL and his trauma has already been sorted, organised, and filed in his mental storage unit so he just has to simp over worry about Mary-Alice. Mary-Alice has the trauma conga-line but it gets pretty soft for both of them starting next chapter.

But it's why Jasper chapters are usually easier to write.

And listen, we all switch hyperfixations. I read a whole bunch of MCU fics that had Correct Vibes but Incorrect Takes, and beautililies had to stop me from writing MCU fic before I worked on Jalice fics. Also the idea I am carrying 70% of your Jalice experience is fucking wild. What do you want? I feel like I need to give you something because 2024 was not my most active year ever.

My little Mabel has recovered from the infections she had well, but decided to keep things interesting and acquired an ear infection which has since been upgraded to a double ear infection because what's more fun than a lot of credit card debt? Even more credit card debt! She is why I can only stare longing at Coach bags and not own fun stuff like that.

And honestly, I join you in solidarity that my sister and father are also Shitty Fucking People. Sometimes, people are rancid, and we just need to salute their bullshit and carry on our merry way.

It is law that if you bring up Anathema, I post something. I picked this scene WIP because Alice being a dramatic teenage girl is somehow so funny in my head? I can't wait to get to a scene where she's dramatic in front of Jasper and he's just "...you're adorable, you know that right?" And she's like, "absolutely not."

But for now, Alice makes a small scene.

“This is to never get back to the Clearwaters,” I could hear Freddie saying to Charlie Swan in a low voice. “Any of them. I trust you, Charlie.”

Charlie sighed. “Fred, I’ve known you a long time, and I don’t like this at all. What is so important you have to meet with them alone, without Sue and Billy knowing?"

Silence, and I was tempted to creep up the hallway to be able to hear better.

“… This is about Alice and her well-being. If… I have reason to believe that if Sue, Harry, and Billy knew more about Alice’s … health and genetic make-up, they would be deeply unhappy."

That was most likely an understatement. I had a feeling that if Sue found out that I was biologically half-vampire, I would be persona-non-grata in the Clearwater household. There was a fifty-percent chance that Harry would hunt me for sport, honestly. His aim with a shotgun was second-to-none.

//

Dr Cullen had brought his wife, and there was something almost funny seeing them in our home - they were both dressed in very stiff, fancy clothing, standing in the entrance looking awkward. I was in the kitchen finishing the washing up in pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt; both Freddie and Charlie were still wearing work clothing.

The apartment was still mostly in the late 60s style from when it was built. Lots of brown and yellow. Freddie always intended to renovate, but we never seemed to get around to it - moving all the books would take us days, and we’d have to stay downstairs. It was cozy up here, and if we made any changes, it would be to clean out the third floor.

“Hello Alice.” Mrs Cullen smiled so warmly at me, but I felt oddly shy, offering a little wave as I put plates back into the cupboard.

“Turn on the coffee maker, love, before you go,” Freddie said, and I got the message that this wasn’t going to be a meeting I was included in. I wasn’t upset about that; somehow Dr and Mrs Cullen were far and away more intimidating than Jasper was. Somehow the golden eyes and the pale skin that looked so right on him made me nervous around them.

Thankfully, Dulcie was having dinner with her brother’s family tonight. It meant we could have this meeting at home and she’d probably bring home left-over dessert. Hopefully that really good blueberry donut thing that Mrs Stanley usually made for Dulcie’s birthday.

It also meant that whilst I had been told I wouldn’t be joining in on the meeting today, there was no one in the house that would check to make sure I was wearing headphones and watching movies on my laptop instead of eavesdropping for all I was worth. And in my defence, I had to know what Freddie was telling everyone so I didn’t mess up the story later on. It was just planning ahead.

//

“He can read minds?” I shrieked, giving myself away instantly.

Charlie Swan swore, sloshing his coffee in surprise, as the rest of them spun around to look at me in the hallway.

“Alice,” Freddie groaned but I didn’t care that I would be doing extra cleaning this week or whatever as punishment.

A girl’s mind is private. There are things happening up there that die with me, okay?

Things like me contemplating the logistics of having sex on a gurney now that I’d met Jasper and realised he was a foot and a half taller than me, and probably 100lb heavier.

Or the fact that whilst my visions hadn’t been instructional, so to speak, they had given me a certain amount of reference material to reflect on. I might never have been a Girl Scout, but I do like to be prepared.

And the idea that one of the Cullens could mind-read and had probably told the entire family that a good fifty-percent of my brain power was solely dedicated to what I had seen of Jasper’s body in my vision at any time was… not ideal. Not at all how I planned to integrate myself into their lives. I was aiming for lovable future daughter-in-law, not mouth-breathing creeper.

“Edward considers the contents of everyone’s mind private, unless harm would result in keeping it secret,” Mrs Cullen quickly reassured me. Please. I had seen Leah and Seth together; I knew what siblings were like. There was no way in hell that Jasper hadn't been informed that I had absolutely noticed he was ripped when he helped me up.

“I’m taking a lot of emotional damage learning this,” I said slightly hysterically. “Can he hear everything?”

“Only when he’s present.” Was Dr Cullen laughing at me? He looked amused.

“Alice,” Freddie sounded tired. “There are brownies in the downstairs freezer if you want some dessert.”

Huh. It was bad if Freddie was bribing me with the catering supplies.

“That would help,” I said, trying to walk through the kitchen to get a knife with some kind of dignity. “You understand why I would be uncomfortable with a teenage boy reading my mind, right?”

“I think we’re all on the same page about that,” Charlie said. He didn’t look amused.

"Alice, I really don't think there's anything in your head that Edward Cullen would worry about," Freddie said, obviously trying to sound comforting and mostly made me want to slam my head against a wall.

"I've had unmonitored access to the internet since I was eleven and no boyfriend! Or girlfriend! There's plenty up there I don't want Jasper's brother knowing!" I snatched up the cake knife and looked over to see Freddie looking like he needed a drink, Charlie Swan looking the most uncomfortable I had ever seen him - and that included the ass-injury incident - and Mrs Cullen trying very unsuccessfully not to laugh at me.

"And now I've made it worse. I'm calling Cynthia!"

It's not the fact that my father was a vampire that makes me a freak. I manage to do that all by myself.

[beloved-child-of-the-house]

@thehoneybeet tagged me to post a WIP snip, which I love tysm!!! i've been kicking around this 8th year fic for like. many months. it's coming out a very little at a time, and i'm just trying to chill and enjoy the process. anyway this snip is very near to where i left off.

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

To Draco's utter surprise, when they reached the room, Potter dropped his rucksack on the floor, extracted a tent from its depths, erected, and Disillusioned the tent. 

"So no one will see us, if they look in," he explained. 

"Are we not meant to be here?" 

"Well. Probably not, but that's not really it," said Potter, but he vanished into the tent without explaining further. 

Draco didn't think much of the furnishings once he was inside. The little space was dominated by an oversized faded pink chintz sofa with a dust ruffle. Spilling off the sofa was an enormous, moss green knitted blanket, which Potter rolled up into a ball and tossed into a wooden chair in the corner. There were three mugs on the coffee table, which looked comically miniature in comparison with the huge sofa. Potter took them all up and brought them to a sink, which formed about half of the smallest kitchen Draco had ever seen. The other half comprising of a tiny stove and cupboard in which, presumably the remaining store of dishes or perhaps comestibles was kept. 

"Sit down," Potter called over his shoulder, seeing Draco was still standing. After considering the only chair, which was taken up with the blanket, and a pouffe with very dubious structural integrity, Draco perched himself on the sofa. Satisfied, Potter began to wash the mugs--only two, Draco noted, and leaving the third to sit in the sink--then filled the kettle and put it to boil on the stove. "You said you didn't have pudding," Potter remarked absently and began rummaging in the cupboard.

"I want to have a word with your decorator, Potter," Draco said, his eyes on what he considered to be a very objectionable lurid pink china vase, standing on top of an equally objectionable doily, sitting on top of a ridiculous spindly little table too small to hold anything else. "I suspect he drinks, whoever he is."

Potter laughed, returning to the sofa Hovering a tray in front of him, "I borrowed the tent from Bill Weasley a bit back. I expect his wife has been using it to stash the things his mother gives them so she doesn't have to put them in her own house." 

"Seems like good sound sense to me," said Draco, reaching out to take a tart off the tray as it landed in front of him on the little coffee table. "What's this?" he added, through an undignified mouthful of tart. 

"Cherry bakewell," said Potter modestly. "Do you like it?"

"I'm going to eat both of them," Draco announced.

"I made them," said Potter with the hint of a gloat in his voice, like he'd played rather a clever joke on Draco and Draco had walked right into it. 

"Ergh," said Draco and took another bite. "Where'd you learn to do that?" 

"Ron's mum taught me," Potter told him. 

Draco had an uncomfortable recollection of a number of very unpleasant things he had said about Weasley's mother, "The woman's a genius. Even if you're poisoning me, I don't care. It's worth it." And he ate the last of his tart, chasing the sweet bits of cherry off his fingers with his tongue, though of course it was abominable manners. He did not think Potter would mind. "I don't know anyone who can cook."

Potter looked rather shocked and then sorry, but all he said was, "I'm not poisoning you." 

Draco wanted to say something witty in response, but when he opened his mouth, what came out was, "Why are you doing this?"

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

I tag @citrusses, @geesenoises @stationintern @vukovich @skeptiquewrites and anyone else who feels like sharing!

[oflights]

wip snip 4.1

thank you for the tag, @teledild0nix! your wip seems like such an interesting start and i'm excited to see more of it!

here's about 900 words of the time travel fic, featuring a draco vs dumbledore confrontation 2.0 😌 i'll tag @the-starryknight, @kittycargo, @purplehotmess, and @chamomileteafuel to post their own with absolutely zero pressure!

in this snip, draco is in the past, has just made the absolutely insane decision to take harry with him, has put the dursleys to sleep, got harry to agree to go with him, was caught out by mrs. figg, and now dumbledore's here.

Albus Dumbledore stands before him.

He looks as if he’s just stepped off the Hogwarts grounds, in his familiar purple robes and wizard’s cap, his long beard stark white against the deep color. He doesn’t look any younger than the Dumbledore Draco had known, but he supposes that’s the trick of old wizards; he exudes a timeless sort of power that used to both intimidate and annoy Draco in turn. It’s doing both of those here, mixed with lingering, flickering guilt that had risen in him after the year he was 16 along with the resentment that had grown over the same time period.

Dumbledore is possibly the very last person Draco wants to see here; he can’t think of anyone worse off the top of his head.

Draco angles himself in front of Harry, putting his hand on his shoulder very gently, as Dumbledore stares at him before meeting Draco’s eyes.

“Lucius,” he says softly. Draco’s shoulders straighten instinctively, and he holds himself taller; his father is quite a bit taller than him. “You’ve cut your hair.”

He can feel Harry’s eyes on him and gives his shoulder a light, entreating squeeze, gathering his own strength, tipping his chin in the air and trying to gather the exact haughty cadence of his father’s voice on his tongue.

“Albus,” Draco says coldly, nodding stiffly, the name so odd and discomfiting in his mouth. “Yes; I’m told this is a more modern fashion.”

Dumbledore cracks a near smile at that, even though Draco had been careful not to leave even a hint of humor in his tone; his father never has and never would joke even lightly with Albus Dumbledore.

“It suits you.” His eyes shift back down to Harry, the lamplight glowing faintly in his spectacles. “Hello, Harry. It’s been a long time.”

Draco fights the urge to tighten his hand on Harry’s shoulder, to shove him further behind him. An unpleasant revelation is starting to niggle at him, like the edges of a bad dream he can’t quite recall, the outline of a thought he should be upset or angry about.

It starts to fill in when Harry says, “Hello, sir. I’m sorry, I don’t remember you.”

“I met you when you were just a baby,” Dumbledore says. “I arranged for you to live here with your family.”

He knew, Draco realizes, the thought screaming through his consciousness. Behind him, Harry stiffens up too, and crowds in a bit at Draco’s hip. Draco reaches his arm over to rest on Harry’s farther shoulder, looped behind his back. He has let go of the pouch of sand to hold his wand instead.

Dumbledore must have known exactly where he left Harry. He’d known that Draco was here—and suddenly Mrs. Figg and her cats and her cabbages, staggering out through a horrible storm, makes a whole lot of sense—and he’d have known from her reports what the Dursleys were like, as least some of it. Now Draco wishes he hadn’t destroyed the padlock and the cupboard door, just to march Dumbledore in front of it, make him stand there and explain himself.

But that’s not right, either—Draco has heard Dumbledore explain himself before. He remembers hearing about mercy, about the all-knowing, omniscient Headmaster of the school he attended as a child knowing a student had been pressed into committing murder and doing absolutely fuck-all about it. He remembers not being a killer. And for a moment, he is so angry he can’t quite remember why he’s not.

Draco draws his wand. Dumbledore hasn’t drawn his, simply looks mildly disappointed; he tilts his head to the side.

“Your wand. Another new fashion?”

Draco ignores him, glancing at the mirror. He can’t take Harry through it if Dumbledore plans to stop them; while this method of time travel was only invented after Dumbledore’s death, even an idiot would recognize the way to stop travel through a mirror would be to break it. Draco has an awful vision of Harry stuck in a mirror shard for years before Dumbledore lets him out to fulfill his Dark Lord killing destiny and dismisses it out of hand, thinking over his options.

He has a backup, of course, a small hand mirror he keeps in another inner pocket, but he doesn’t think two people can get through it intact, even someone as small as Harry. He could also try doing it the hard way, pure magic, no instruments or sand, the way a Time Master does—instinct, focus, careful and measured steps through time—but he’s not quite there yet. He’s only ever managed short and quick jumps after years of practice, and never with another person. He won’t risk it now; won’t risk Harry.

So Draco will have to incapacitate Dumbledore somehow; he didn’t really have dueling the most powerful wizard in an age wielding the bloody Elder wand on his to-do list for today, but then he hadn’t really had any of this on it.

He clutches his own wand, looking at it for a moment—Potter had given it back to him years ago, looking utterly pained to do so, forcing out a huffy sort of “Thanks, I guess,” while eyeing Draco like he was a bug a cat had spit up. It’s still one of their most positive interactions to date.

He hadn’t known until it was over that he’d briefly been the owner of the Elder wand. The thought of having a second crack at it isn’t all that unappealing.

[alexandia03]

Wip Wednesday (Thursday but shhh)

Tagged by the lovely @siobhanbooks

Ah crap, I have to find a snippet I haven't posted already. At this rate I will have to start sending you parts of my thesis.

“Let me look at you,” I whisper softly, disentangling myself from our hug just a bit, enough that I can properly look at him and take in his physical state. “How bad? And no bullshitting, you know it doesn’t fly with me.”  “Aside from the arm? I am just a little sore after all the mending and I feel like I could sleep for a century.” Bodhi admits, rolling his eyes when he notices my gaze lingering on his bandages. “They are just cuts and scrapes from the landing and Brennan wrapped them to avoid an infection or something like that.” He explains, lifting his healthy arm to touch my jaw, inspecting the long cut that I didn’t get a chance to tend to - now it’s my turn to roll my eyes at his concerned look.  “You fell from your dragon’s back, Durran. I’d say that is a little more concerning than a small cut.” I argue, standing up from the bed to get some supplies from the little cupboard each room has. For a moment I am afraid I won’t find what I need, but it turns out I am on Zihnal’s good side today.  “Well, let’s hope you don’t end up with a scar to match Garrick’s. Wouldn’t want you to be one of those couples.” He comments, watching as I return to the bed with a pair of scissors, some standard tincture for wounds and bandages. “What are you doing?” I sit with my legs under me on the bed in front of Bodhi and I start cutting the poorly made wraps around his arms and chest. “Protecting myself from my mother’s ghost coming to yell at me for leaving you with those sorry excuses of bandages.” I sigh. Apparently, Garrick was not joking when he said that Brennan sucks as basic healer stuff - you would think he at least knew better than to dress the wounds before properly cleaning them, but no. 

Tagging whoever needs an excuse to post a snippet <3

[sarah-sandwich-writes]

Word Search Tag Game!

Rules: In a new post use the words below (or choose your own) to find where they appear in your WIP/s and share those parts.

Thanks for tagging me @writer-or-whatever! This is one of my favorite games 🥰 and it didn't even take a full month for me to get to it haha

I'm oversharing as usual! This time from my as of yet unnamed fic that I've been calling Not SM4: Bring it on Home. It's my Harley-centric nonparkner canon compliant post-nwh fic where trans!Harley uses his homemade Iron Man suit to steal in order to keep Rose Hill afloat post-blip.

Breath:

“D’you want me to bring Evrett by today?” [Harley] asks, abandoning the previous subject entirely.

[Mama]’s squatting in front of a cupboard, digging through Tupperware for the matching lid to the bowl in her hand. “A few days with Tonya’ll do him good, I expect. I’ll be a breath of fresh air in comparison.”

He can’t see it.

“I’ll bring him in a few days then.”

He waits while she spoons the remaining fried apples into the bowl and seals it. The lid steams over and the plastic is hot in his hand as he takes it and allows his mother to kiss his cheek.

“You make sure that gets to your sister,” she says. Her eyes are dark as they sweep over his face. He sees neither guilt nor regret in their depths. “I love you.”

He swallows his pride and says, “I love you, too.”

And he does. He just wishes it didn’t hurt so much.

Out and Clarity:

“Tell me what’s happening,” [Harley] barks into the comm as the parking garage comes into view. There are two sets of headlights where there should only be one.

Through the comm, Josh sounds rattled and that’s when he knows the shit has truly hit the fan.

“There’s another group trying to— Alison, no!”

Harley puts on a burst of speed that brings the people on the roof into clarity just as an Alison-shaped figure leaps from the back of the box truck and tackles an unfamiliar figure in all black. He’s flying in hot to do anything short of a brutal amount of damage, so he doesn’t grab her by her jacket and throw her back into the truck like he wants to. Instead, he blasts the concrete roof with a small burst from his repulsor to send one of their adversaries dancing back, away from the truck, and then lands with a concrete-crushing crash between the open back doors and what he now sees is a team of seven dressed in matching fatigues.

Great. This is why nobody bothers with New York except egomaniacs with something to prove. Nothing can ever be simple. You always run into some big shot living out their crime lord fantasy or some big shot with delusions of heroism. If you're really unlucky you get caught between the two.

Almost as though summoned by the thought, a blur of red and blue flips over the tall concrete wall that rings the roof and shouts something quippy as he blasts a spray of webbing at the guy standing closest to the truck.

Harley panics. He’s made his peace with the idea of eventually getting caught and being brought to justice, but not his team. He’s supposed to protect his team. They’re not supposed to get pulled under by the crumbling of his little gambling operation. It’s supposed to land on his shoulders and his shoulder alone.

He turns his back on Spider-Man, braced for the tug of web against his armor, part of him already running the calculations—tensile strength vs. repulsor torque, which would win?—and hauls Alison up by the back of her jacket. A body hits the ground behind him with a groan while Spider-Man chirps something about getting punchy when he’s out past his bed time.

“Get back in the truck and this time stay there!” Harley says with an audible pitch in his voice.

Immediately after he wishes he would have thought to whisper, although it likely doesn’t matter. It’s no secret Spider-Man is ridiculously enhanced. While most people like to speculate about what is, Harley has found it’s more productive to note what isn’t. The list is depressingly short.

Tagging: @zerolostwalks @sheps-shepherd @shipskicksandgiggles @physalian and anyone else who wants to play!

YOUR WORDS: leave, drain, and rest

[direwombat]

ough...my wednesdays...they've been wipped

kicking off a wip wednesday with a little bit of katc and a little bit of th&tw for your reading pleasure today (altho warnings for vomiting in the first snippet and uh...allusions to murder in the second)

tagging @inafieldofdaisies, @theresaruggedroad, @wrathfulrook, @madparadoxum, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @strangefable, @jillvalentinesday, @adelaidedrubman, @g0dspeeed, @gaeadene, @ivymarquis, @aceghosts, @voidika, @confidentandgood, @purplehairsecretlair, @cassietrn, @neverthesameneveranother, @deputyash, @miyabilicious, @simplegenius042, @trench-rot, @euryalex, @clonesupport, @josephslittledeputy, @alexxmason, and anyone else with something to share (and again, here's the opt-in/opt-out of wip tags post which i'll be using starting in october)

An already quick drive is made even quicker by her lead foot. She speeds out of town, roaring down the empty roads. If she believed in such things, she might’ve considered it a miracle that she doesn’t come across any Project trucks along her way, but she’ll take the good fortune where she can. There’s a distinct pit in her gut that tells her such luck will be in short supply in the coming days. 

She pulls into the driveway and her stomach drops when she realizes that Augustine’s Jeep is nowhere to be seen. Dammit. There was a part of her that desperately hoped he was able to make it home and hunker down until she got there. 

Apparently God’s good will  doesn’t extend quite that far. 

Throwing herself out of the car, she staggers up the front steps and through the door that hangs ajar off its hinges. Immediately, she’s on high alert, a shot of adrenaline pumping through her veins and dulling the pain in her gut. She pulls her sidearm from the holster at her thigh and carefully proceeds inside, prepared to clear her home of any and all threats. 

Broken glass from the windows crunches under her boots, and the entire place has been torn apart. The kitchen cupboards are thrown open, thoroughly cleaned of all non-perishable goods. The refrigerator is in a similar state, door wide open while the food left behind already smells like it’s beginning to spoil. The television screen has been smashed and couch cushions have been thrown to the floor. 

Peggie handiwork, no doubt. 

She moves through the house, into the bathroom, but something nags at the back of her mind. The Hell were they lookin’ for? The pantry raiding, she understands, but why rip apart the living room? She files that question away to ponder later. The pain in her abdomen is nigh unbearable, and before she can open the medicine cabinet behind the mirror, she’s vomiting beer and bar food into the sink. 

Every heave and cough only makes it worse. She fumbles with the faucet, turning the knob to wash away the mess. With her head still bowed, a trembling hand reaches out to pilfer the cabinet. But as she gropes blindly for the bottle of Tylenol she remembers buying, she finds that these shelves have also been emptied. 

She sucks in deep, gasping breaths and lifts her head. Through bleary eyes, she finds all her prescriptions gone as well. 

The only thing left behind is Augustine’s emergency box of Claritin. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, really?” 

and some of the horror and the wild

She leans up against the car, pulls a carton of cigarettes from her uniform’s breast pocket, and lights up. Extending the carton to Staci, he gratefully takes one and she holds out her lighter for him as well. They stand, smoking in silence for a long moment before she heaves a sigh and exhales a thick plume of smoke. “Somethin’ ‘bout this don’t sit right,” she says. 

“I’ve lived here all my life. Never seen anything like that,” Staci says. He rolls his cigarette between his fingers, looking at her anxiously from the corner of his eyes. “You really think a wolf could’ve done all that?”

“On the record? Couldn’t say,” she shrugs. “But off?” She sighs heavily and shakes her head. “Ain’t no way this was just a wolf -- or even a pack of them.”

“What do you mean?”

They watch as the pieces of Chad are carried from his cabin in a body bag. 

“I ain’t sayin’ there weren’t an animal attack,” she starts, “but wolves ain’t exactly known for B’n’E -- whole no-thumbs thing makes it kinda hard. Besides, weren’t no glass on the floor from the windows; the only thing broken down was the front door -- which I will remind you is made of fortified steel -- and on top of that, Chad ain’t exactly easy prey. Why would some wolves go to the trouble, expend that much energy tryin’ to get inside a cabin to go after a strong, healthy man when there are weak, sick deer that are much easier to catch?”

“What do you think happened, then?” 

“Need more evidence before I can say anything for certain, but -- gut instinct -- I’d say someone broke down the door and let the wolves in.”

Staci’s eyes go wide. “You think this was murder?”

“Like I said, we need more evidence, but this sure as Hell feels targeted to me. Someone wanted Chad dead and they didn’t want it easily traced back to them.” 

Pratt blinks and exhales deeply, sliding down against the cruiser. “Pack of wolves as a murder weapon,” he breathes with disbelief. “Fucking Montana.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Leader of the Landslide 1

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

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

Summary: Life with your alcoholic mother is tough and you problems only mount when the local sheriff takes an interest in you.

Character: Lee Bodecker

Note: I'm so tireddddddddd.

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

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

The mobile home creaks with your movement. The tight walls of your room watch you dig around under your bed frame, retrieving the empty tea tin from under the slats. You pop off the lid as you sit back on your heels and slip out the small roll of bills. You keep cotton balls in the bottom to keep the coins from jingling, not wanting any listening ears to suss out your stash.

You take what you need and put the rest back. You snake your arm up to replace the canister in your hiding spot. You stand and dusty off your knees, the worn denim fading and thinning. You tuck the bills in your back pocket and grab your flannel jacket from the bed post. 

You look around the cramped space, a modest and meagre dwelling place. You don't think too much about it, you’ve never known any better. Just like the big spenders in their shiny cadillacs don't give you much thought. You find that money can only bring trouble.

You go out into the living room. Your ma's sprawled on the couch, one leg over the edge, yesterday's newspaper over her head, and an arm dangling like there's no drop of life left in her. You go to the slender counter set under the narrow cupboards and put the kettle on the single burner. You pop open the cupboard door and grab the instant coffee, adding a healthy dose to an empty mug. 

"Ma," you say in a crusty tone, throat dry from sleep, "coffee."

"Eh," she mutters but doesn't unveil herself from beneath the newsprint.

"I'm gonna grab some groceries on the way home tonight," you explain as you cross your arms and lean against the wall across from the short couch where she languishes, "why didn't you take out the bed?"

She grumbles and the newspaper slips off of her as she props her head up. She wobbles as she squints across at the dinette that converts to a cozy double. She shakes her head and lays flat again. You don't fail to notice the empty bottle beside her.

"Alright, then, I gotta head down to Ernie's. I'll make dinner tonight," you suggest.

She waves you off and pulls the newspaper closer to her face, hiding behind it.

"Think ya can grab more whiskey?" She croaks from beneath.

"You got whiskey money?" You challenge with a sigh, "ma, it ain't good for ya."

"Don't tell me what's good for me. I raised ya," she barks as she rips the newspaper away and sits up, nearly keeling over as she winces with her whole body, "urgh, what're you rilin' me up for?"

"Water's boiling," you say as you check your watch, the one with the silver chain your granny gave you before she passed. "If you gotta puke, do it outside."

"Aw, baby, please," she shakes and touches her temples, "don't leave me. I can't do it alone--"

"Ma, you just gotta pour the water and stir. It's that instant stuff."

She harrumphs but doesn't argue as you're already at the door. You pull open the door and let it close heavily at your back as you tramp down the front steps. You button up your wool-lined flannel as you come down to ground level, your boots kicking up dust.

You head up between the rows of mobile homes. Most of them are nicer than your own. The paint on the siding isn't all chipped and the doors don't creak so loud. Plus, there isn't a mess of dead plants rotting away in the garden plot.

As you head past Theo's picnic table with the bright red umbrella, the nose of a car pokes around from the next row. You stop and watch the cruiser roll by, a sheriff's star emblazoned on the brown paint. It's not that unusual to see a cop hanging around, they like to rove the area for vagrants.

The man in the front seat turns his head as he passes, meeting your eye with a nod. You don't know him, you've never seen him before, but his hat makes him seem rather fancy. He must be high up. You don't know why he's hanging around there if he is.

You wait until he's past you and cross the row and head up towards the entrance of the community. The place is an assortment of wealthy city slickers vacationing, comfy middle classers with their tots, and the dregs like yourself and your mother, living on pennies and nickels.

Work isn't far. You sit at the desk in Ernie's shop and tell the folks where to park their beaters and lemons. The men talk loudly over engines as you throw Rufus' bone and watch him bring it back to you. The place is quaint and a bit shady, but the only job that would have you.

You walk in and greet the old bloodhound as he raises his wrinkly face. He gets up, he rarely does that for anyone else, and follows you to the wooden desk where you perch and drink the burnt coffee they have on the burner.  He lays at the foot of your stool as you say hello to the first mechanic through the door. Glenn doesn't seem to hear or see you as he pulls down his cap and ducks into the garage.

The smell of autumn creeps in from the open door of the garage, blowing into your little nook. A lady with tattered tights shows up with a rattling pipe and you call in Jethro to have a look. She gives him a look, the type that may get her a lower price on the second-hand part.

You pull out the book you keep lodged underneath the desk with the cup of pencils and receipt pad. You open it, the broken spine laying flat as you read and pet the lazy dog's snout as he leans his large head on your leg.

The day wiles by as usual. Not abnormal, nothing out of order. The mechanics hang up their overalls and leave oil stained rags in the crate. You take those down to the laundromat on Wednesdays.

Ernie locks up as you leave, offering you a drive to the grocer that you gratefully accept. There, you walk the aisles with your list, choosing between one staple and another to fit your budget. A bag of rice will go further than potatoes.

You leave with a paper bag full of goods. A good amount to stretch until your next pay. You take your usual path back, cutting through the path behind Alfred Horsk's stables.

You enter the park. A man rakes his front lawn despite the leaf fall being sparse. Nellie, the old woman who complains about your torn jeans, sends a glare as you pass, and you shoulder her out of your mind as you turn down the far row.

Your mother's dented mobile home beckons you forth. You have no illusions, you know what people think, you know what they've seen. Your mother is hardly the paragon of virtue. And your father, while you don't know who he is, you're certain he's a deadbeat.

You slow as you approach. A white and brown cruiser is parked at an angle, just in the space between your mother's trailer and the next. The siren on top is dulled but shiny. The car is well-kept. Shoot, you're not prepared to talk your mother out of another fine.

The scene is even stranger as there are no officers to go with the vehicle. There's usually at least one keeping watch or listening to the scanner. Just as peculiar, the trailer is shut up and there's not hollering coming from inside. Typically, the door's wide open for you to stumble in upon your mother's latest turmoil.

You balance the paper bag in one arm as you climb the low steps to the door and twist back the handle. The door opens easy and you step into a low dim, curtains drawn and lights all out. There's still light in the sky but it doesn't touch the place.

Your mother's cackle jars you and the deep rumble in response puts you on edge. You let the grim dim of the autumn in behind you as you feel around for the light knob. You turn it and light up the glass shade over the dinette.

You nearly drop your armful as you find your mother on the bench, giggling as a uniformed man pours whiskey past her lips, the dark brown neck of the bottle glugging loudly. You recoil and stammer. It's not the first time you've stumbled on your mother with a man, usually she leaves a scarf on the door to prevent that. You're only thankful they are fully clothed.

"Sorry," you back up and spin out the door, snapping it shut behind you.

You hop down to the gravel and sit on the bottom step. You put the groceries beside you and roll your shoulders, trying to escape that grimy feeling. Really, a cop? Well, that might keep her out of trouble. Or at least, make the law look in the other direction.

You try not to think about it but your eyes are drawn over to the round headlight of the cruiser. You frown. It can't be the same officer as earlier. You rub your cheek and think. You can't tell, he was missing that wide-brimmed hat.

You tear your attention from the nose of the car and watch some kids run by in a game of tag. You begrudge your empty stomach and heavy head. All day you only wanted to be home so you could get the groceries away and turn in. Nothing ever goes to plan with your ma.

You place your chin in your hand and blow a raspberry. What kind of lawman feeds liquor to a woman like that? It's plain to see that your ma has a problem. It's slimy, really. Barely preferable to him booking her. There's something nasty about him holding that bottle, laughing at her desperation to sate her bottomless thirst.

Their voices come clearer through the thin wall of the trailer. You get up and take the groceries, hiding them around the back. Hopefully no one stumbles on them. You go back around and set off down the gravel. He should be gone by the time you get back.

The kids run by you, puffing and panting in their game. You watch them, mourning the days when life was as simple as that. For you, the carefree era of your childhood didn’t last long. If it ever was.

You hear a parent holler and one of the children disperses. The others disappear around the next row as they continue on in their back and forth. You cross your arms as the evening chill nips at your flannel. You loop around, making a full lap of the outer path of the park.

You come back in sight of your mother’s trailer. The door is open as the officer sits on your former perch, sucking on a cigarette. You think of turning back. You’re tired and the sky is getting dim. You just want to eat and go to bed.

As you approach, he looks up and blows out a cloud of smoke. You cross your arms as he bows and gives a half-salute with two fingers. He looks up at you as he flicks ash from the cigarette.

“Must be junior,” he stands with a grunt, “sorry to chase ya out like that.”

You shrug, “officer.”

He smirks, “I’m off-duty.”

You nod and look away. There’s something about him, something slimy. Maybe it’s the way his stomach hangs over his pants or how he lets the bolo tie hang loose down his chest, his top buttons still undone.

“Gotta grab the, er, groceries,” you excuse yourself.

You sweep around the trailer and retrieve your haul, thankfully undiscovered. As you come back to the front, the officer remains, crushing the cigarette beneath his boot. You go to the steps and he stops you, stretching his arm in front of you.

“What’s yer name, girl?”

You shake your head, “does it matter?”

“Ma’s a nice lady, ain’t she? I’m only curious…” he says, “if I’m gonna be comin’ around.”

You hug the paper bag and bite down. You don’t want to tell him. If he’s anything like the other men, he won’t be back.

Your mother calls your name as he she clatters against the door from the inside. She manages to tear it open as you cringe. She’s in her underwear and a tank top barely clinging to her shoulders. You unthinkingly bull past the cop and rush up the stairs.

“Ma, it’s too cold out,” you usher her inside, “Christ.”

“Hey, you watch your mouth,” she sneers.

“I just don’t want you to get sick,” you say as you put the bag down. You turn to close the door but it swings inward from the other side. It’s him, officer slime.

“So, Molly,” he leers at your mother, “this your girl, then?”

“Yeah, that’s her,” your mother grumbles and falls against the couch, nearly missing as the man catches her and sets her right.

You exhale through your nose. She wouldn’t be like that if he didn’t bring her liquor. You grab the mostly empty bottle from the table and go to the sink. You hover it over the drain as you mouth shrieks like a hurt cat.

“Don’t you be wastin’ that!” She howls.

“Ma, look at you–”

“Now, now,” the man comes close and reaches to put his hand around yours, “I paid for that.”

“Great,” you turn to him, “you can take it with you.”

“With me?”

“Have a good night, officer,” you let him have the bottle, “I gotta make dinner.”

“Don’t be rude,” your mother slurs, “he stayin’.”

“Staying?” you sneer as you eye the man warily.

“Now I raised you right, we don’t send a good man off with an empty belly,” she snickers and reaches for his hand, tugging him towards her, “we make sure he’s nice and full.”

“Ma–” you begin.

“You ain’t even introduced us, Moll,” the man kisses her knuckles before wiggling free of her grasp. He hands her the whiskey. “Sheriff Bodecker,” he grins at you, “Lee when I’m off the beat.”

You look at him, then your mother. She gulps down the whiskey sloppily. You turn back to the counter and hide your chagrin.

“Hope you like beans,” you utter in defeat.

“I ain’t picky,” he drawls as he leans on the table, watching you.

You peek over your shoulder. Your mother is barely conscious as she leans back, letting the bottle rest on the empty space beside her on the couch. The quicker she passes out, the sooner this man can leave.

[deathclassic]

thank you @lingy910y and @depressedstressedlemonzest for tagging me in WIP Wednesday!!

This is part of my horror/supernatural gallavich fic and it is NOT a happy fic at all, the complete opposite of a happy fic okay? like dead dove do not read it is not happy.

-

He’s tried everything to get Ian to admit himself voluntarily to the psych ward for a few days. Ian’s too paranoid to sleep, sits up in bed and looks around the entire night. He doesn’t go to the bathroom because he says someone watches him shower and appears in the mirror. And because Ian isn’t sleeping, Mickey also isn’t sleeping. 

Mickey can’t go anywhere in their apartment on his own anymore. It’s gotten to the point where Ian stands in the doorway while Mickey takes a shit because he’s so scared that this hallucination is going to attack Mickey when he’s vulnerable. 

He’s talked to Lip about it, texting him without Ians knowledge and Lip has started to see why he’s concerned. 

They don’t have any plates or bowls because they’re all been smashed in different rooms. Mickey’s cleaned up after them as Ian keeps watch, sometimes trying to help but ending up cutting his hands open when he doesn’t pay enough attention. Sometimes throwing the ceramic pieces into empty spaces again or holding one like a shiv and mimicking stabbing someone with it. 

With Lip's advice, he calls an ambulance. Sits Ian down on the couch as they wait and just talks to him like nothing is happening. Ian’s eyes keep darting to the ceiling, eyes following a movement that no one else can see until it lands in the right corner of the room. 

His eyes snap to the front door when a knock sounds and Mickey stands up to open it. He can barely get a word out without sobbing as he lets the paramedics in. They’re rolling a gurney in with them which Mickey was expecting, he can see the restraints laying down the side and he has to close his eyes and take a deep breath.

“Ian” Mickey walks over and crouches down. Ian locks eyes with him for the first time in a very long time before they dart back to the corner. He’s breathing heavily and there’s a tremor in his pale hands as Mickey grabs them and holds them to his own chest for comfort. “We need to to go to the hospital”

“No” Ian whispers “I’m not sick”

“It’s okay” Mickey replies just as softly “It’s okay, it’s going to be a short trip”

“No” Ian repeats “I’m not sick”

“You’ll be okay” Mickey keeps talking “I’m gonna visit you everyday”

Ian looks at Mickey once more and nods his head so slightly that he almost misses it. He stands up and gently tugs Ian up from the couch. He’s gone back to looking at the corner but lets Mickey lead him to the paramedics. 

Ian doesn’t say anything as he lays down on the gurney, he’s not looking at the corner anymore but instead at a spot next to him. His jaw clenches slightly when his arms and legs are restrained and then Mickey’s walking next to him as they make their way back to the ambulance. 

Mickey knows that neighbours are watching, peering from behind their curtains and pretending to be busy out the front. He bites the inside of his cheek and climbs into the back. He’s mindlessly rubbing his thumb on the back of Ian’s hand.

He signs Ian in and then says goodbye to his husband. Ian is still out of it, whatever he’s been seeing at the apartment doesn’t seem to be bothering him as much here but he’s still on edge. 

“I’m gonna come visit tomorrow” Mickey promises, placing a kiss on Ian’s temple. 

“Okay” Ian says quietly. 

The apartment is cold without Ian. It feels weird to sit on the couch without him next to him and it feels weird to eat alone. He’s heated up some soup he found in a cupboard and drinking it out of a mug because they have no bowls anymore. 

There’s a breath that tickles the back of his neck, the hairs stand up and he shivers because it wasn’t a cold wind from an open window, this was a hot breath. He doesn’t want to turn around, wishes he had a glock on him, one of the ceramic shards he’d tossed away but he doesn’t. 

He turns around and no one is there but he hears Ian’s voice in his head telling him to look up. Long, stringy black hair like it’s been pulled out of the shower drain hangs from the ceiling, a figure that doesn’t look human with pointy limbs and hollow eyes stares back at him. It grins behind the curtain of hair. 

Now that Ian’s away, they’ve shown themself to him.

-

not tagging anyone but hope you like the little snippet!

[scribbledquillz]

WIP WHENEVER

I was tagged by @blarrghe to share this week. Thank you so much for thinking of me!

I have unfortunately not been able to get much work in on my Dragon Age WIPs lately with summer shenanigans now in full swing. BUT I have been killing it with my comic script. And if you all can forgive some unconventional script formatting, I'd love to share one of the pages I've drafted up. ☺️

For a basic rundown of how this works - each page has a header showing how many panels the comic will have. The panels have basic descriptions of the action taking place in them, as well as notes of the overall mood of the moment for the artist I'm working with to capture the emotion I intend. Each numbered blurb is a speech bubble that will appear for the listed character. SFX is for visual sound effects - think onomatopoeia.

I hope you guys like the glimpse of what I'm building! Putting it under a cut to spare the dash, as well as tags. 🥰

PAGE TWENTY-TWO - EIGHT PANELS

PANEL ONE:

We see from behind SHAE as she opens her front door. ADAM is standing on her doorstep, a softer look on his face than we’ve seen since his arrival. His hands are in his coat pockets, the quad parked next to SHAE’s truck.

1. SHAE: …Dad? 

2. ADAM: Hey, sweetheart. 

3. ADAM: Did I catch you at a bad time?

PANEL TWO:

We see SHAE from the outside of the trailer at a side angle, one hand still on the door. She is clearly surprised to see that ADAM has come here. 

4. SHAE: Oh-! No, no I… I just didn’t think you-

5. SHAE: Do you want to come in? I just made coffee.

6. ADAM: That’d be real nice. 

PANEL THREE:

The two of them have stepped inside together. SHAE is walking back to the counter where her coffee mug is waiting, along with the rest of the pot. ADAM is wiping his boots off on a rug in front of the door as he looks around the trailer. 

7. ADAM: Looks good in here, Shae. Been doing a good job keeping the place up to your Mom’s standards. 

8. SHAE: Ha, yeah… Thanks. Pretty easy once you get into the habit, I guess.

PANEL FOUR:

ADAM is now standing next to SHAE’s table, and we can see the top of it from a downward angle. His hand is resting on it beside the paperwork SHAE has stacked back into a neat pile.  

SFX (from ADAM): whistle

9. ADAM (from off panel): This all for your school?

PANEL FIVE:

SHAE, who had opened up a cabinet and was reaching for another coffee mug, is looking back at her dad from over her shoulder with her hands still raised to hold open the cupboard, the other gripping said mug. 

10. SHAE: Oh - yeah it is. 

11. SHAE: Just the financial aid stuff. 

12. ADAM (off panel): Seems like a lot just for a few classes.

13. SHAE: Yeah, I guess it is. That should be the last of it I need to finish up, though.

PANEL SIX:

SHAE is in the foreground still facing the countertop. The coffee pot is in her hand and she is looking down at the new mug as she fills it for her dad. ADAM is still looking down at the paperwork, his fingers pushing the papers to see what’s underneath despite looking only half interested. 

14. ADAM: What’d you say you were going for again?

15. SHAE: Um, well - right now just the basics. You’ve got to take some core classes no matter what you want to major in. 

16. SHAE: Redwood’s more affordable so I figured I’d do those there. Then once I’ve got some good grades on my file I’m hoping to transfer to State on scholarship. 

17. ADAM: Why would you wanna do that if Redwood is cheaper?

PANEL SEVEN:

For a moment SHAE looks dead ahead - her dad might not have meant it, but that comment stung. 

PANEL EIGHT:

SHAE sighs as she picks up the two coffee mugs, letting her dad’s comment roll off her back. Like always. 

18. SHAE: Because Redwood doesn’t have the Environmental Conservation program I want to get my degree in, Dad.  

19. ADAM (off panel): Hmmph.

20. ADAM (off panel, under breath): Woods seem to be doing just fine on their own, far as I can tell.

Tags: @heniareth , @siriskulksnerding , @rosella-writes , @melisusthewee , @greypetrel, @shivunin , @jinakadaisy and YOU!

[happilyhertale]

Thanks for tagging @just-some-random-blogger 💕

I found some words... And I have way too many WIP's for Daemon stories! 😄

"Dark" Aemond WIP:

"Aemond tries to make out something around him, but when he looks up he sees the outline of Arrax. He can literally smell their fear. A dark laugh can be heard in the darkness. Almost unnoticed, Vhagar leads him under Arrax."

Daemon x niece WIP:

„You like it when I take you like that, dont you?“, he grunts, „When I’m gonna fill that little, pretty cunt of yours…“. You can only whimper and fill yourself clenche again around his cock." "His fingers moves faster and are soaking wet by now." "His hand is slick with your moisture, but that doesn't deter him. Your body is his, and he desires it above everything else."

Daemon x reader x Oberyn WIP:

"You look at Daemon and watch him begin to undress as Oberyn's fingers wander over your body."

Daemon x femreader

"Daemon starts to open his trousers, glancing at you from time to time. You look at him, push your dress up a little and sit astride him. Except for your upper bodies, everything is hidden under the skirt of your dress. You suppress a moan as you feel his hard member"

Another Daemon x femreader WIP:

"You gasp slightly as his hand slides under the water and further up your thigh. "Maybe you should come in the water?" you whisper a little breathlessly." "His hands ran up and down her back, cupping her hips. He groans as she moves upon him, his muscles tense with anticipation. His eyes watch the motion of her body in the water."

Ettore x reader

"He takes off his shirt to show his athletic, muscular body and steps closer to you to join you under the water. His gaze is still fully fixed on yours as he slowly pulls down his shorts. And you see his full arousal.“ "He lets his fingers rub faster and harder over your pearl. Until he rubs his fingers through your folds again and penetrates you without warning. He lets his two fingers slide deep inside you. With each thrust he lets them sink deeper."

Tom x reader (requested by the lovely @chainsawsangel ) 💕

„Many women would describe his appearance as attractive. He is tall and has thick, dark hair. He is always elegantly dressed and always has a smile on his lips. He was also not unfriendly towards you, nor do you lack anything. But neither is he interested in you or your interests. You are just his pretty wife“ „Hidden in a cupboard is a small bottle of diluted acetic acid.“ „The smile doesn't leave Tom's face and soon your bodies are touching as you dance, but you don't mind as you notice his warmth coursing through your body.“ „As you stand in front of him, he rubs your arms to bring some warmth back into your body.“

I tag (no pressure!)

@arryn-nyx @arcielee @dreamlandcreations @endless-ineffabilities @ewanmitchellcrumbs @em-writes-stuff-sometimes

And you have to find...

Beauty, pain, lovely, slim, horrific

Find the Word Tag

Tagged by @chromehoplite and @griever-bit-my-finger Y'all find the coolest games!

My words are never, wrong, sin and mouth; Look, Dark, Above, and Whisper- I’ll use two words from each set, from my big WIP Pas de Deux

Never:

Humans had perfected the art of hiding just about anything they wanted behind pretty words and false faces, but art never lied. The way a person’s body moved when they danced, no matter their skill level, never lied. Watching someone dance for a few hours told Sebastian everything he could want to know about the quality of their soul.

Sin:

There it was again! That spark of mischief, that current of sin beneath the sweet-seeming façade. It had been apparent from the first moment Sebastian saw him dance: Ciel Phantomhive’s soul was exquisite, unique, the finest soul he would ever feast on.

Dark:

”Come out and face me!” he spat into the dark. The lights around the square dimmed, and anyone near or in the square had the sudden urge to leave; a bone deep dread that warned of certain death if they stayed. Sebastian kept a very careful check on his rage, keeping it contained and festering until he could unleash it at Claude.

Whisper:

”Let me touch you, dammit!” Ciel half shouted, sitting up as far as Sebastian’s hold would allow. The demon laughed, bending low to whisper in Ciel’s ear. “Say please, darling. Beg me.”

tagging with no pressure:  @cuckoo-on-a-string @peachesofteal @dotieeee @just-french-me-up @just-some-random-blogger @amanitus @plague-of-insomnia @7-wonders @honeybeezgobzzzzz

Find these words in your WIP: Deny, faith, forget, kindness

[reyescarlos]

i’ve been a little preoccupied this week with trying to get an early jump on five alarm fest (🥵🙌🏾) so, admittedly, all my other WIPs have not been getting much attention. but i did want to share a bit more of the exes to lovers au. here's a snippet of a late night heart to heart during an impromptu stay Carlos has at tk’s place

It’s hard to sleep in this bed. How many nights had TK spent in it thinking about him, if any? What’s worse, Carlos thinks, is the prospect of other men occupying this space. It’s none of his business, he knows. He has no right to be jealous or saddened by these thoughts.

Carlos groans, covering his face with hands for a moment before lowering them. He takes in a deep breath and regrets it at once; TK’s scent is everywhere and it makes his chest ache. It makes him wish for impossible, ridiculous things like turning to find TK beside him.

He looks now as if he can manifest TK into being just then. All he gets is a clear view of the clock on the nightstand, its glowing green numbers telling him it’s just past two in the morning.

Carlos sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, his feet anchoring to the ground. Sleep is not an option, he resigns.

He gets out of the bed completely, leaving its warmth in pursuit of someplace far more neutral.

He makes his way down the hall, doing his best to keep quiet knowing TK must be fast asleep on the couch. That theory is quickly debunked as he hears murmurs coming from the living room. He walks toward the sound, freezing as TK speaks.

“Cooper…you're amazing. Thank you,” TK says softly with a sigh.

Carlos’ mind races. TK sounds extremely familiar with this man. Truly must be to be on the phone with him at such a late hour.

He takes a step back and cringes as the floorboard creaks.

TK turns at once.

“I’m sorry,” Carlos says quickly. The last thing he wants is for TK to think he was spying on him or eavesdropping.

TK searches his face for a moment before ending the call, thanking this mysterious Cooper one last time. He stuffs his phone into the front pocket of his hoodie and shifts on the couch, his arm extending over the top.

“That’s alright. Are you okay? It’s pretty late,” he says, as if he isn’t wide awake too, enough to be on the phone no less.

Carlos nods. “I was going to get a glass of water. I didn’t mean to interrupt or spook you. I just can’t seem to fall asleep.”

TK frowns a bit and rises from the couch.

“Yeah…same here,” he mumbles before leading the way over to the kitchen.

Carlos follows after him and stands on the opposite side of the center island.

TK pulls down two glasses from the cupboard before going to the fridge and getting water. Carlos doesn’t say anything, simply watches the easy way TK moves around his kitchen.

He gives a quiet word of thanks as TK sets one of the glasses in front of him.

“I didn’t expect you to be up at this time. You must have really needed to talk to your boyfriend.”

TK’s brows furrow, his head moving back a bit in surprise.

“I’m not seeing anyone. That was Cooper. He’s my sponsor.”

Carlos is taken aback by this, his face flushing a bit out of embarrassment.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed—”

TK waves him off. “It’s alright. It was a fair guess.”

Carlos bites back on his lower lip. For TK to be reaching out to his sponsor in the middle of the night feels like a different reason to worry.

“Is everything alright though?” he asks before taking a drink of water and watching TK over the rim of his glass.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m good. I talk to him about all sorts of stuff, not just when I’m feeling like I’m about to undo my progress. But if I’m feeling stressed or unsure about something, it helps to touch base with him.”

TK takes a sip from his glass and sets it down, tapping his finger against the side absentmindedly.

“He’s also a bit of an insomniac so that comes in handy on nights like this.”

Carlos feels safe guessing that his being here in TK’s home is what prompted his ex to phone his sponsor. He worries he’s the real disruption here, a trigger or something to that effect.

“I’m sorry,” Carlos says.

“For what?” Before Carlos can respond, it seems like TK understands. “I offered for you to stay for a reason. I want you here. I’m not uncomfortable with that. It’s just…kind of disorienting?” TK replies, his last words coming out more like a question.

Carlos gives him a moment to parse through his thoughts.

“I’ve learned to get by without having you around and now we’re seeing each other again, and pretty often at that. I’m glad for it. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve missed talking to you. I guess it’s kind of a lot for me to wrap my head around…the fact that this is actually happening, you know? And tonight…you felt safe enough with me to stay. That counts for a lot.”

Relief floods through Carlos.

“I’m…I’m really proud of you, TK. I know that’s five years late, but I’m seriously so happy for you. You’ve come such a long way,” he says earnestly, pausing for a moment. “Five years sober. A sponsor you check in with regularly. You’ve been putting in serious work and it shows.”

TK looks up, his eyes a bit wet. He blinks a few times and clears his throat.

“That really means a lot coming from you. Thank you.”

Carlos smiles at him, but TK quickly averts his gaze. Carlos can see he’s both touched and perhaps uneasy with this attention. He knows TK well enough to understand how deeply the sentiment has touched him. It makes Carlos wish he could have relayed the message sooner, to have offered closure and comfort of some kind in that stretch of time that separated them.