#[stands in front of cupboard of wips]

[inorganicorgan]

@randosfandos @baxieblur-turnip

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Besotted 5

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, virginity loss, 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: your new neighbour brings intrigue and a bit of danger.

Characters: ex-con!Bucky Barnes (silverfox)

Note: Friday at last and my house guest is away for a couple days.

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. 💖

Bucky plants his feet as the bike comes to a stop. You look up at the duplex and your insides get all swirly. You're home and still giddy. You've made up your mind. It's now or never.

He shuts off the engine and waits for you to get off first. You hang onto his shoulder for balance as you hop down. He gets off without much effort and heaves a dark sigh. He hesitates and you do too.

"That was awesome, Bucky," you shimmy. 

"Mm," he drones and flinches, moving toward the saddle bag. He unbuckles it and takes out the cookies. "Don't forget these."

You take them reluctantly and he hauls out his bag of groceries. He wraps one arm around it and lets the flap fall open. He faces you as you clutch the box to your chest. Don't let him do it. He can't send you away now.

"Hey, you want... want to try some? I could make us some tea."

His eyes dart to the side then he looks down at the bag. He fidgets and shifts on his feet. He looks at you and his forehead lines. He deflates just a little as you watch him with rounded, hopeful eyes.

"Sure, I should get the yogurt in the fridge though so why don't you come in?" He relents.

You could fist pump and jump in glee. You don't. You're not that lame. You bounce and smile.

"Oh, yay," you grin, "so you got everything set up?"

"Hm, not much. Still got a few things to grab," he grits.

You walk up the steps beside him and stand aside, waiting for him to unlock the door. He keeps the screen door open with his elbow then pauses before he pushes open the inner one. He sniffs.

"Go on, girl," he waves inside.

Huh, what happened to doll?

You enter as if you've discovered some ancient crypt full of treasures meant for the after world. There's a couch and a coffee table, a floor lamp behind the former. The area rug is the only piece of decor to give it any warmth. You try not to be too obvious as you take account of the barren space.

"I might got some tea," he says as he gentle touches your back and slips by. You savour the tingle along your spine.

You take off your boots before you break the threshold of the front room. You tiptoe in as you hear him in the kitchen. He sighs as cupboards open and close.

"It doesn't have to be tea," you call to him. You near the table and examine the motorcycle magazine, a sheet of paper tucked under the cover.

"Good, all I got is beer," he says. 

"Mmm," you turn as he comes close with the bottles.

"Coasters," he says.

"Oh, uh, right," you set the box next to the magazine and take two of the cork coasters from the stack. You place them down and he swiftly clanks the bottles into place.

"I know it's not much but uh, get comfortable," he says.

You pluck up a bottle and sit on the couch. You taste the malty beer. It's not bad. He paces around and nears the window. You watch his back.

You lean forward to set down the bottle and tear the seal on the box. You flip the top and pick out two cookies. You get up and approach him. You stop beside him.

"Try one," you offer.

He exhales and accepts it with a thanks. You nibble and he crunches into his. It's a bit dry by sweet.

You're nervous. You've never been this close in your life. Now you have the prime opportunity. You're in his space. You finish the cookie and smack your lips.

"Dry," you chuckle, "need to wash it down."

"Me too," he says.

He follows you as you go to grab your beer. You drink and sit. He does the same, stiffly, as he takes his beer and swigs. Your eyes stick to him. You watch his throat and the way his chest stretches the fabric of his shirt. You set the beer back on the cork and sidle closer. You're fuzzy all over.

You put your hand on his knee. He flinches and lowers the bottle. He looks at your hand and reaches to set down the beer. His other hand covers yours and he peels it off.

"Look, doll," he squeezes and clears his throat, gently laying your hand in your own lap. "There's things you don't know about me. I think you better just finish and go."

"Bucky, I... it's okay. Whatever it is."

"I'm too old for ya," he puffs. "You're young. Don't do this."

His eyes bore into yours. You pout.

"I might be young but I can make my own choices. So why don't you tell me so I can?"

His cheek twitches, "girl--"

"Please. Don't I deserve to know?"

"I don't know what you're thinking, girl. Alright? Look at us. I'm... I gotta twice your age. And you're... you're too sweet for your own good."

"Tell me," you reach for him again, petting the denim on his thigh. "I won't go until you do. Or you can drag me out."

His eyes flicker and he looks at the window behind you. His jaw squares and he shakes his head. He slaps his hand over yours again but doesn't move it away.

"I'm a criminal. I just got out and I'm tryna rebuild, but I'm not changed. Alright? You understand me," he snarls. "I'm a bad man. I hurt people. Too late for me to change that."

You search his face, "but... you haven't hurt me. And you did your time."

"Girl, don't be foolish."

"No, Bucky, you told me and I don't care. I don't care what you are. I know that you feel this too," you move closer. "Don't you?"

He turns his head and stares at the wall. You squeeze his thigh and get up on your knees. You trail your touch up to his belt and he grunts, stopping you with his thick fingers around your wrist.

"Bucky, please," you beg. "It's just us. Nothing else."

"Girl--" he pleads.

"You're not too old, you're not too bad," you slip free of his grasp and tickle up his shirt, "you're perfect for me, baby."

You bring your hand to his jaw and flutter your fingers along his beard. He shudders and you raise yourself on your knees. You lean in and press your lips to his. He grabs your upper arm but doesn't push you away. He growls as you open your mouth and slide your tongue along his lips.

His hand slides away from your arm and to your back, crawling to the back of your neck. You brace his shoulder and swing your leg across him, straddling his lap as you deepen the kiss. He groans as you hook an arm around his neck and snare him. You rock him slightly as you breathe into him, tilting your pelvis against him. 

He grips your hip with his other hand and parts from your mouth. His eyes are cloudy as he gazes up at you. The tension is his cheek pulses.

"Doll," he shakes his head, "one last chance..."

"I got condoms," you say as you sit back and reach to your cross body bag, still resting against your side.

He shivers and slackens against the couch. "You're too much."

"I know what I want," you assure him.

He stares at you and his lashes flick, He grabs the strap of your cross body bag and unhooks it from around you. He puts it on the cushion and gulps. He frames your face with his hands, his thumbs rubbing your cheekbones. He sighs. 

You reach up to curl your fingers under the straps of your tanks top and drag them down your arms. You feel him beneath you. He's hard already. You're soaking through your panties, not that there's much to them.

You push down the sheath of your top to your waist. He inhales sharply and you reach back, your chest bulging as you tug at the band of your bra. You unhook it and quickly drop it down to your wrists. Your tits pop free and jiggle as you toss your bra.

He blinks at your chest. He just sits there, paralysed. You giggle and grab his hands, putting them on your tits, making him squeeze them. He purrs and rolls his hips.

"Doll, you're... you're..." He gropes you then slips his hands down to lift your tits. He leans forward and nuzzles your flesh, pushing your chest around his face as he snarls. You got him. There's no going back.

You arch your back and cling to his head, urging him on. He nips and teethes at you, tracing your nipple with his thumb before popping it between his lips. He hums and swirls his tongue around the hard bud. It must have been a while for him, having been in jail. That sends another thrill through you.

You twine your fingers into his hair and grazes his scalp with your nails. He snarls as he continues to bounce your tits, squeezing and pawing. You never cared much for the extra weight, but now that he's drowning in them, you can't complain.

You lip your hand down between your bodies and feel along the front of his jeans. He groans and wriggles against your touch. He's rock-hard. He hisses as he pulls away and drops back against the couch heavily.

"Doll," he tenses up.

You giggle and tug at the bottom of his shirt. You push it up his stomach and over his broad chest. You mess his hair as you swoop it past his head and drop it over the back of the couch.

Now it's your turn. You flatten your hands across his pecs and moan. He growls and you drag your nails lightly down his skin, the soft hair contrasting against hard muscle. His stomach is cushier but not in a bad way.

"Baby, you got me struggling," he groans and rubs your thighs, his pelvis tilting desperately.

"Me too," you breathe.

You linger at the top of his jeans then back off of him carefully. His eyes widen. You see fear in him. You grin and turn to wiggle your ass as him. You hook your fingers inside your leggings and bend as you push them down. Your thong rides up between your cheeks. He hums as the couch springs whine beneath him.

You shiver as your nerves flurry in your chest. This is it. So close. You're throbbing. You can see the slickness in your leggings as you step out of them.

"How... why do you want me, doll? You're... you're gorgeous," he rasps.

You stand and face him again. You shake your chest at him and he brings his fist up to bite his knuckle. You feel powerful.

You slink closer to him and touch the front of your bejeweled thong, a little heart on black. "Can I keep these on?"

"Yes," he croaks and clears his throat, "yes, doll."

You grin and grab your bag. You unzip the front pocket and slide free the strip of condoms. It unfurls and you laugh. "Oops... think we'll need them all?"

He startles you as he swipes up the end and tears one off, "we'll see."

You drop the rest beside your bag and blink at him. You sense something different. He tears open his pants and raises himself off the cushion as he shoves the denim down. His dick bobs above the elastic of his briefs, the head swollen and weeping. You get even wetter as you see the veins bulging under the skin.

He rips the wrapper with his teeth. He trembles as he presses the rubber to his tip and you near him, wavering as you weigh the moment. This is your last day a virgin. You take a silent breath and lean forward to grab his shoulders. He quakes and moans as he slides the condom down his length.

You bring yourself over his lap, hovering above him as he grips himself. He frames your hip and hisses, "doll, please, please, I need you on me. I need--"

You reach down and wrap your fingers above his. He lets go and gasps. You angle his tip along your cunt and push your panties aside. You stare down at him. Your eyes cling to his and you bite your lip.

You dip down carefully. As you open around him, you grunt. You sink your nails into his trap and your eyes speckle with tears. Oh, it hurts more than you expect.

He taps your hip, "stop," he snarls.

You bat your lashes but obey, "I can take it--"

"Come on," he feels along your side. He loops his arm around you and in an instant, he has your back to the cushion. He slips out of you. 

He fishes out your bag from beneath you and sweeps it onto the floor. He knees on the other end of the couch and urges you further up. You drag yourself until your head is against the armrest. 

He bends between your knees and kneads your thighs, his eyes on your cunt. He licks his lips before he plunges in. You yipe in surprise as he laps at you, his beard tickling your lips as he pushes your legs wider.

He flicks his tongue around and across your clit. You spasm and clasp onto his hair as the sensations stir within like flames. Your thighs clench and your spine stiffen. You pout and gulp loudly as he toys with you, suckling and swiping as you squirm.

He growls into you and traces a finger along your ass up to your entrance. He spreads the wetness there before he delves inside. He pushes his finger in bit by bit then draws it back out. He adds another and urges inside even deeper.

His tongue teases you to the edge as he pushes in and out of your cunt. He hums and drinks you up, spreading his tongue as wide as he can to taste all over you. He seals his lips once more around your clit and the pressure pinpoints, pulsing faster and faster until your muscles release.

There's a sudden surge and a hot flow coursing from you, dripping down his fingers. You convulse and whimper as you wash away with your orgasm.

He kisses your cunt before he sits up. You watch him, bleary-eyed, and he wipes the glisten from his beard with a hum. He inhales so his chest puffs out and he cracks his neck.

"If we're gonna do this, we're gonna do it right," he growls.

[oathkeeperoxas]

wip wednesday

Was reading this part of the wip again, decided that it deserves to see the light of day sooner rather than later. You're welcome!

Mav straight out of the shower is pure temptation. His hair is wet and is sticking up, his cheeks are a little flushed from the heat, and he smells like Carole’s soap – like home. It’s doing something to Ice’s brain. He puts away the grill for Carole, trying to focus on that instead of thinking about Mav, but then they’re both outside and the door is closed and Mav is pressing him up against the side of the house. Ice goes easily under his hands as Mav pins him, eyes intense. 

“Ice,” Mav says, and Ice doesn’t say anything at all; he just puts his hand under Mav’s chin to angle it up so he can kiss him.

Mav groans against his mouth, and he tastes like cheap beer and the wine he’d been sneaking from the bottle after he’d finished his dinner, and he’s warm in Ice’s arms and he’s here. Ice seizes him, wrapping him up in his arms, heart thundering away as he squeezes, not letting go, never letting go, he was gone for so long–

“Ice, Ice,” Mav is mumbling against his mouth between kisses, “I missed you, fuck.” Ice bites his lip, sucking on it eagerly, and Mav slips his tongue into Ice’s mouth, licking and claiming. He’s warming in Ice’s arms – Ice can feel his earthy alpha scent coming to the fore. Ice can’t help running his hands over Mav’s body, checking for anything that Mav might not have mentioned, anything that might have left its mark on him. His blood is quickening in anticipation. He hasn’t been touched in a year, and he presses closer into Mav now, challenging him, wanting him. Mav leans even firmer against Ice, using his body weight as an anchor – he’s heavy, strong muscle lining his bones, and he can keep Ice in place if he wants to, and Ice shivers and feels his gut stir–

“Hmm,” Ice manages between fierce kisses. “Hmm, Mav, let’s go home.”

Mav laughs, pulling away slightly. They tremble against each other. Can’t quite believe that this is real, that this is happening.

He can feel it as Mav smiles against him. “Don’t want to go at it on Carole’s back porch?” he asks, a note of teasing in his voice. Ice blows out a breath, and he’s so, so happy that Mav can treat this lightly.

“Something like that,” Ice says. “And there’s actual supplies at home, too.”

Mav’s eyes darken. “Alright,” he says. “Alright.”

Ice pushes him back softly, and Mav goes. Ice catches his hand for a second, and they stand there in the dark, holding hands, getting their breathing under control.

Carole sees right through them, but she lets them go anyway. Slider waves them off, tells Ice he’ll see them on Sunday, and then Ice is alone, alone, gloriously alone with Maverick Mitchell, and they’re driving back to their home. Ice has spent the week cleaning up so that Mav won’t come home to a complete mess, and the kitchen is stocked so that Ice can cook for him, and for the weekend they can revel in each other. Ice made sure he didn’t have any pressing work he needed to get done. This time is going to be for them.

Mav helps him unpack when they get home. Ice feels his regard sweep across Ice’s skin every time that Mav looks at him; his hair stands on end. He’s alive, eager, and when they lock the front door and Mav puts his hands on Ice’s hips, kissing the back of his shoulder sweetly, Ice is so ready he’d bend over right here for him.

“I was thinking,” Mav murmurs. “You didn’t swim.”

“So?” Ice asks, pulse heavy in his throat. He’s already sporting a semi; embarrassing.

“So, let’s go,” Mav says. 

“Go?” Ice repeats, confused. “Go where?”

“Outside,” Mav says, kissing him again and letting him go. “To swim.”

“Swim–wait, Mav–”

Mav detours to grab a bottle of vodka from the cupboard and then is straight out the back door. Ice follows him as he unlatches the back gate and walks towards the beach, where the grass swiftly turns to coarse sand. 

“You aren’t wearing your swimmers anymore,” Ice points out.

“Yeah,” Mav says thoughtfully. “I guess I’m not.”

And as Ice walks up to him, Mav bends down to put the bottle in the sand, and then strips his shirt off. Ice isn’t surprised when his jeans join the shirt, and then his boxers, too.

“Mav,” Ice says, mouth dry.

“It’s a dark night,” Mav says, tilting his head up. “Moon’s not out yet. No one’s going to see.”

It’s true; Ice can barely see Mav, and he’s fifteen paces away and looking for him. His body is a study in shadows, and Mav turns so that Ice can see all of him that’s possible in this light, before he retrieves the bottle of vodka and takes a gulp of it.

“Mav,” Ice says again as he reaches him. Mav holds the bottle out; Ice takes it and has a swig for solidarity.

“You’re wearing your swimmers,” Mav says. “You don’t need to strip. If you don’t want to.”

The water is calm, washing up on the shore slowly. The sand continues here until the water is deep enough that you can’t stand up in it, and Mav wades out fearlessly, unstoppable. Ice takes another drink from the bottle to steady himself, and then follows Mav down to the water, leaving his clothes in a pile next to Mav’s.

It’s cold; he wades up to his knees and then watches Mav fucking around in the water as the waves soak his skin. Mav’s just behind where the waves start rolling in – if he can even call them waves. You’d never surf at this beach – and is splashing, then floating, looking up at the stars. Ice keeps his eyes fixed on him. All of this could almost be routine, except for the fact that he’s here.

Mav rights himself and then comes back to Ice, dripping water. He’s serious, unsmiling, as Ice folds him into his arms despite being wet and cold. Ice isn’t wearing anything; it’s fine. They’re together. Everything’s perfect.

“Good to be home,” Mav says quietly into his chest. “Good to see Carole and Slider and the kid.”

“And me?” Ice asks, loneliness rising to snap at him.

“And you,” Mav agrees. He slides his arms up around Ice’s neck. Ice leans down to kiss him, and Mav moves their lips against each other slowly, their bodies warming each other where they touch. Mav’s lips are cold. Ice resolves to do something about that.

“How are you?” Ice asks, desperately. “I mean it, Mav.”

Mav sighs. “Happy to be home,” he says again. “It was fine, Ice. I mean, it fucking sucked, but I’m fine. I promise. It didn’t fuck me up. Not like–”

He buries his head in Ice’s shoulder. Ice grips him close, not needing him to finish the sentence.

“And you didn’t get hurt?” Ice asks. 

“No. Worst thing was a bellyache from all their crap food,” Mav says.

Ice swallows. “I want you to tell me all about it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mav says, looking resigned. “Not tonight though, yeah?”

“Not tonight,” Ice says. “When you want to.”

“Never, then.”

“Mav…”

Mav huffs. “Okay. Next week or something then, at least.”

“Okay,” Ice agrees. That’s an easy promise to accept.

Mav tugs him out deeper into the water. Ice takes a step and then resists going any further.

“It’s cold, Mav,” he says. 

“I want to go swimming with you,” Mav says. “You know how many times I thought about that?”

And, well. He can’t say no to that.

Ice lets Mav tug him out deeper, until they’re both swimming in the dark. He can feel the warmth of the vodka in his stomach, but it’s hardly enough. He tries for a bit to do some serious swimming just to warm himself up, and finds Mav cutting through the water, chasing after him. They go back and forth for a while, sticking close to the house and not too far from the shore, until Ice gets tired and goes back in until he can stand again in the water. Mav follows without protest, and clings to Ice when he stops.

“We can’t go a little further in?” he complains.

Ice laughs. “Too deep for you?”

“I’m not that much shorter than you are,” Mav groans, but then stops when Ice gathers him in his arms and kisses him. If it weren’t so cold, being pressed naked against Mav would have been the end of him; as it is, he’s clutching Mav close, slotting their mouths together, feeling the imprint of his body where they touch.

“Mav,” Ice whispers, and now it’s Mav groaning against his mouth. 

“Okay, out, out.” 

Ice attempts to shake the sand off, but his efforts are rendered useless when Mav drags him down next to their clothes and the vodka. Ice sighs as they’re both covered, but Mav is laying down and pulling Ice down on top of him, so he stops thinking about that. They’re wet and cold and sandy, and Mav takes another long pull from the bottle, offers it to Ice. Ice is used to drinking vodka straight, but Mav has never really liked it.

“Got a taste for this while you were gone?” he asks, not bothering to cap the bottle again. More interested in licking Mav’s salt covered skin.

“Yeah,” Mav grunts, running his hands up Ice’s back. “Tastes like you.”

Ice has to kiss him again. They’re in their mid thirties, tipsy, naked on the beach, and he doesn’t care. Mav offers him more alcohol between kisses that are turning hot. Ice is warmed up again, even in the cool night, and his legs are splayed wide over Mav’s hips. He can’t hide what he wants, and he doesn’t want to.

“Mav,” Ice grunts. “Mav, let’s go inside.”

Mav laughs. “Still want a bed, Kazansky?”

“I’m not twenty,” he groans as Mav fondles his ass, squeezing firmly to bring them close together, grinding up against each other. “And there’s sand. Everywhere.”

“It’s a bit rough,” Mav agrees. “Okay, okay.”

He takes the bottle, and Ice gathers up their clothes. There’s a bathroom downstairs next to the laundry, put there for occasions exactly like this; coming into the house after swimming in the ocean. Ice puts their clothes in a hamper, Mav abandons the vodka on top of the washing machine, and they go into the shower together.

God, there really is sand everywhere – Ice scrubs it out of every crevice, washing his hair, soaping up a few times for good measure, and yet he’s still sure he’s missed some. It’s better than it was. Mav is utilitarian, gets out first which allows Ice the space to pick sand out from between his toes. Okay. Ice dries himself off in a hurry, but Mav is already gone, headed upstairs, hasn’t put any clothes on. Okay.

Ice follows him, heart in his throat, naked and warm and willing. Mav is standing by the window in their bedroom, looking out over the ocean as the moon starts to rise on the horizon. Ice can only see half his face, and even then it’s cast in shadows. He goes to turn the bedside lamp on, only for Mav to softly whisper, “Don’t.”

“Why?” Ice asks.

“Let’s just hold each other. I want to feel you.”

Ice understands. Just seeing Mav is making his head light, making his gut lurch. Seeing him and feeling him at the same time? He’s not sure he’s cut out for it.

So they find each other in the darkness. Ice trails an open mouth over Mav’s skin, licking, licking. Their usual soap is stocked downstairs, and Ice is so used to it that he barely even tastes it. Instead he’s going after the clean, new scent of Mav, so dear and so missed. When he latches onto Mav’s throat, he has to squeeze his eyes shut, he’s nearly overwhelmed with it – Mav’s scent, beautiful and amazing and heady against his tongue.

Mav touches him in return, gently, like he can’t believe Ice is here with him. Nope. Not having that. Ice moves against him, and Mav’s hands firm. Ice lets out a soft whine; asking without asking. Mav inhales shakily.

“I haven’t,” he whispers. “Not–not since I left.”

“Me either,” Ice says, deliriously licking everything he can get his mouth on. He finds Mav’s lips again and they settle into sucking on each other’s tongues while their fingers make imprints into each other’s skins. Searching out what they have committed to memory to make sure that it really is still the same, that the person here with him is the person he’s been yearning after. When Mav pushes him onto his back, Ice goes; and when Mav nudges his legs apart he feels like every spare drop of blood in his body drains to sit between his legs, to pulse with warmth and want.

“Ice,” Mav murmurs.

“Oh, God,” Ice manages. “Mav, please–”

“Yeah, baby,” Mav says. “I’ve got you.”

He puts his hands on Ice’s knees and pushes them wide. Ice flexes his hips up into the motion automatically, chest heaving, as Mav sits up and looks down at him. Ice swallows and resists the urge to curl up and avoid his scrutiny; he trusts Mav. And Mav is only seeing him as Ice can see Mav right now – covered in shadows, more a suggestion of a person than anything else. Except where they’re touching. Where their skin meets, Ice knows he’s real.

Mav leans over to where they’ve always kept the bottle of slick, and Ice lays back against the bed. He can’t stop the minute trembles that have overtaken him, and Mav feels them when he comes back to touch Ice.

“Sweetheart,” Mav says, destroying any chance that Ice had to keep himself together. “What do you want? Talk to me.”

“You,” Ice manages, voice scratchy. “Please, Pete. Just you.”

Mav kisses the inside of his knee, and Ice hears the click of the bottle opening. No fuss, no foreplay; they’ve had a year of waiting. This isn’t going to last very long anyway. And Ice doesn’t need it. He breathes through Mav’s first touch, trying to blink away tears. It’s not that it hurts – Mav knows what he’s doing. But his touch is so comforting, so overwhelming, that the emotion in Ice’s chest can’t be put aside or ignored. No. It’s here, it’s now, it’s rising up in him even as Mav kisses Ice’s thigh, rubbing his stubble over the skin. Always his way to try and distract Ice from the first intrusion. As if Ice wants to be distracted right now. As if Ice doesn’t want everything that Mav is willing to give him.

Ice moves against Mav’s fingers, desperate, and Mav hushes him gently. Ice squeezes his eyes shut, flexing his fingers into the sheets.

“Whenever I tried to do this to myself it wasn’t the same,” Ice has to admit. Mav moving inside him is nothing like Ice’s fumbling attempts to slake the demands of his body. “Nothing. Do you hear me Mav? Nothing–”

Mav sinks his teeth into Ice’s thigh. Ice jerks under the pressure and pleasure, the sharp reminder that Mav is here and exists, then arches his back up, opening for Mav, asking for more. Giving him this homecoming. Mav’s breaths have gone fast against Ice’s skin, and Mav’s fingers inside his body, moving, pressing Ice open, spreading him apart. Ice moans, can’t help it, as Mav moves against him and in him, deep where heat gathers and sparks.

“Come on,” Ice pants as Mav flexes his hand, “Come on, Mav, do it–”

“And rush this?” Mav asks, voice hoarse. “I’m savouring it, gimme a second–”

Ice bears down on him, needing the fuller press of Mav’s cock, and needing it now. Mav groans, and then retreats, and Ice whimpers at the loss, reaching his hands out as Mav scrambles up to him, stroking his cock to get it wet on the way. Ice feels frozen inside, still, as Mav lowers himself down, captures Ice’s mouth. This is an indelible claim. This is what Ice wants. 

Mav mouths at his jaw, slotting them together, and Ice rolls his head back and to the side, offering himself. Mav is heavy on top of him, pressing Ice into the sheets. Ice tries to buck a little bit, instinctive, and Mav puts a hand on his neck to quieten him. It makes Ice squirm; he wants this, but he’s not used to it anymore. Mav puts his nose under Ice’s jaw and lazily licks as he seats himself inside, hoisting Ice’s thighs up over his hips. Ice feels like he’s one long line of tension, a bowstring about to snap, a counterweight about to break. Only Mav is keeping him tethered. Only Mav can keep him tethered.

“God, you’re so…” Mav murmurs, pressing open mouthed kisses against Ice’s neck. Ice is too strung out to answer in words, drowning in Mav’s touch. “So beautiful,” Mav whispers, tongue working against Ice’s pulse. “All for me, huh. Sure is something to come home to.”

“Mav,” Ice manages, shuddering around him. Mav sighs and leans up a bit for a better angle, even though that means taking his mouth away from Ice’s skin. Ice wants him back immediately; he settles for reaching out and putting his hands on Mav’s back. Mav rocks them gently, enough so that he slides all the way in, hips pressed flushed. He pauses there for a second, just looking. Ice doesn’t know what he’s seeing – he’s about to combust. He can’t live in the pauses anymore. “Please,” he whispers, and Mav finally, finally, obliges him.

He still doesn’t know how another man inside him can feel so good. Mav works for it, proves that he’s been keeping in shape, that he hasn’t forgotten how Ice likes to be fucked. Deep rolls of his hips, pulling out only to luxuriously sink back in, sweat on his brow, concentration clear on his face. He’s thinking about this. He’s thinking about Ice. This isn’t some mindless moment to thoughtlessly have and discard. This means something. To him, Ice means something. Ice is about to lose his mind. He’s already feeling the urge in his guts to return Mav’s movements thrust for thrust, to throw his head back and let it all go. No. Keep going, just for a bit longer. What had Mav said? I’m savouring it. Ice wants to savour this. Even though he knows that Mav is staying for now, there’s no guarantee he’ll stay forever. Ice isn’t taking anything for granted anymore. He’s thinking about it too; what he can do to show Mav what this means to him. What he can say to prove that he’s in it, just like Mav is.

Mav’s breathing is stuttering. His hips are firm and forceful, but Ice can smell him, the sweat that’s starting to leak from him, in the line of his spine and in his throat too. He wants this. He’s close. Ice closes his eyes, digs his fingers in harder. Their bed is squeaking, as unused to this as they are. Mav is hot, and Ice is sweating now. too, and there’s not much more he can do to deny himself, not when Mav is rolling his hips like that, up and in and down and out, the hard line of him reminding Ice with every movement that he’s here–

Yeah. He doesn’t last much longer.

Ice bites his lip, then gives into the urge to cry out. Another way he can show Mav he means it. He can’t control it anymore, goes wild against Mav, demanding, pushing, searching, needing, and Mav gives it all to him, everything, perfect, hard and hot and right where it feels good, deep inside. He puts his teeth in Ice’s shoulder and Ice twists underneath him, blood running smelted ore hot, directed and shown where to go by Mav, shepherded and coaxed into this pleasure by his partner–

He stiffens, overcome by the flush of heat in his body and the pounding desire of his climax. Mav cries out above him, and Ice holds himself still as Mav quickens his pace and then pauses, letting out little panting groans against Ice’s shoulder. Ice scents the change in the air as his scent quickens, musk intensifying into something cloying that settles into Ice’s skin. Another sort of claim made at orgasm.

They solidify together. Neither attempts to move. Ice wants everything, every part of Mav he can keep, and in this foggy state, this makes sense. To lie here with his partner, where they’re meant to be. Ice drowsily looks up at the ceiling. Mav is a solid weight on his chest. He never wants to leave where they are.

Mav sighs and presses his face into Ice’s neck, kissing there before he shifts his weight away. Ice makes a small sound of protest.

“I can fuck you again later if you want,” Mav promises him. “Let me take care of you, baby.”

Ice relents. Accepting the semi-permanence of it once again. This is just something that they do. It doesn’t mean anything more than that.

Mav wipes the proof of their coupling off both their bodies, gives Ice a glass of water to drink, and then curls them together under the covers. Ice presses forward into the warmth of his body, tucking Mav’s head under his chin to keep him safe. He’s dully surprised that he’s not used to sleeping with another person anymore. Mav was here, and then he wasn’t, and sometime between then and now, Ice got used to that fact.

Mav threads their fingers together. Ice closes his hand around him, and something settles in his chest. If Mav leaves, he’ll wake up and notice it now. Okay. That means he can sleep.

Mav kisses his shoulder, mouthing against the skin because he can. Ice closes his eyes. Warm and held and loved. Finally able to relax for the first time in a year, he goes limp against Mav easily, and falls asleep; just like that.

[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.

[fenharel-apologist94]

WIP Whenever

I was working on some drafts so I decided I'd get one rollin'. Tagging @rosella-writes @idolsgf @greypetrel and @theheartmold if you feel like it ofc!

---

He needed coffee.

Kieran trudged across the cobblestone courtyard, thanking whatever deities left in this damn universe that it never rained at the Lighthouse. He’d probably just lie down in front of the ferryman until Neve found him there. There must be something about Tevenes, he tiredly mused. Something that gave them a six-fucking-sense to his particular dismay.

He shoved away that line of thought with a push against the large doors of the dining hall, leaning with some of his weight to open them. The stern rumble of Taash’s voice sounded from within the walk-in cupboard. Kieran frowned and padded forward with caution.

"Demon’s back,” Taash drawled when he poked his head into the walk-in pantry.

No shit, Kieran wanted to shoot back. Beyond them, Lucanis was seated upright, as if waiting, his feet planted squarely on the ground. Sweeping arcs of ash painted the visage of wings on the stone behind him, the scent of burnt magic sharp in the air.

“I don’t think he ever leaves, actually,” Kieran rasped instead. He moved to stand beside Taash, who snorted, wrinkling their nose.

“Then he’s acting weird.”

Was he? Kieran turned his attention back forward. He supposed Spite was sitting still. As if sensing his assessment, Spite’s electric, violet gaze narrowed back at Kieran.

“Smells like melon…” Spite hissed. He inhaled, then added, “and woodsmoke.”

Smells like espresso and depresso. The corner of Kieran’s mouth twitched in suppressed amusement before he could catch himself. Spite growled, rising to his feet.

“Hey! No! No. Sit your ass back down.” Taash snarled. Bitter irritation punctuated the air, as sharp as a dagger. Kieran instantly pivoted in front of Taash. Placing a gentle hand on their shoulder, he began nudging them gently towards the exit with a what he hoped passed for a smile.

“I’ll handle this.” Fendhis, he hoped Taash was their usual oblivious self today. They were getting unusually perceptive recently. “Maybe make sure the eluvian room is blocked?”

With a wordless huff of acknowledgment, Taash departed, a sense of purpose in their steps. Kieran couldn’t stop a sigh from escaping from between his lips.

Gratitude. You wish to hide.

A muscle in Kieran’s jaw tightened.

“Now. We get to talk.” Spite purred, obviously pleased by the turn of events.

“When demons say they want to talk, that usually means they want to bargain. How about this,” Kieran gestured a hand towards Lucanis’ coffee station. “You make us both some coffee, and then we get to talk.”

Spite hesitated, glancing black and forth between the coffee station and Kieran’s hand as if trying to find the answer in the space between. Finding none, he nodded. Kieran smiled and settled himself onto the edge of Lucanis’ bed while Spite set to work.

[tanktopdiaz]

wip wednesday :)

taggggggged by the stunning lyss @lookforanewangle :) this is my ghost whisperer deadbobby fix-it piece - i've hit a lull with it and am working on another wip in the meantime, but more than anything i wanted to share so there's some accountability :) if you know ghost whisperer or otherwise have Qs or want to talk abt this plllllease lemme know i'd love to gab

She’s shaking her head, taking deep breaths. “This is crazy, Bobby – you’re –“ she lets out a sob and smothers it quickly, “ – you’re dead, we buried you, and you have to cross over.”

“I’m not dead!” The walls shake and the floor groans with his voice. Toys shake and blare dance music, the dishes in the cupboard rattle and the chairs dance on all four legs in a terrifying, distending orchestra around them. Bobby’s puffed up, chest swelled and a hard, desperate look in his eyes. When Maddie gets a grip on the countertop and eyes on him she nearly falls backwards at the sight.

The movements around them bloat and Bobby starts to flicker in and out of existence, popping around the room as he speaks. “I’m not dead Maddie! They took me, and they – ” He’s gone for a second longer than before. “Listen to me. You have to find me.”

“Bobby…” Bobby pops back in front of her, still flickering, and she reaches out a hand for him. He watches the movement, and when she’s close he flickers and reappears near the doorway. “It’s too late to change this. You’re dead,” she shakes with a long, deep breath, “and if you can’t accept that you’ll become a monster, Bobby, a shadow stuck in a loop of grief with no way out.”

“Madeline.”

The rattling dishes quiet. Maddie seems to stand straighter.

“Did you just try to full name me?”

“Is it…” he deflates. “Madelyn?”

Tears soaking her face, Maddie can’t help but gulp a breath around a retched, incredulous laugh. “It’s just Maddie.”

“Even on your birth certificate?”

She falls against the countertop, one hand on her head and the other propping her up, her laughs becoming less wet as they flow out of her. “You’re a ghost and you’re trying to scald me!” What a world! Her hand slides down to her elbow, then she turns until both elbows are against the marble and she buries her head in her hand, hiccupping out another laugh. “Oh my god. My husband’s captain is a ghost and he’s trying to convince me he’s alive and he doesn’t even know my name.”

the only person im even remotely comfortable tagging is lyss who tagged me so if u want an excuse to share something here u go :)

[stottlemorgan]

WIP day

Because I'm feeling very much in an anxious PTSD funk.

This is a very tiny peek of my first ever Aruby (My OC Ruby Meyer x Arthur) fanfic which will detail how they meet! I'm not super sure on what style I want to write it in so, it's very much a WIP.

Mrs. Meyer is Ruby's mother, Robert is her brother; I haven't killed Ruby off lmaoooo

TW for blood, death, corpses, rdr2 typical darkness but not overly descriptive.

“Mrs. Mey–?” As his knuckles knock the wood just once, the door opens marginally. Not enough to see anything, but enough for Arthur’s hand to steadily move down to his holster. Using his free hand, he slowly pushes the door open, peeking his head in cautiously, “Mrs. Meyer?” He calls out softly, only to choke on his next breath in. His free hand comes up, pressing the back of his glove to his mouth as he stifles a cough and forces himself to breathe in. The cabin is stuffy; the air acrid. Metallic. 

With another forced breath, Arthur takes a step in. Scanning what little he can see through the shroud of darkness, he softly tries to breathe away his unease. The grainy outline of a round table and chairs stands across from him in the corner of the small room. To the right of him are two doors, the furthest away open, the other closed. A fireplace, he thinks, takes up the farther end of the left wall with a door to its right in the back wall. Vague lines of cabinets and cupboards fill out the corner to the left along with the wall at his back. Another step, and Arthur’s boot tacks to the floor. He freezes, peering down, and rocks his foot; both feeling and hearing a thick, sticky substance mucking beneath his boot. With a grimace, he turns and moves towards the window above the cabinets. The same boot knocks into something heavy, something plush. Huffing out a curse, Arthur hastens. Clumsily stepping over what his quivering gut is telling him are most definitely limbs, he grabs at the curtains and yanks them apart, turning back to the rest of the room. Light of both moon and lamp spills in, bluing Arthur’s sight but allowing him to see the oaken furnishings, which have been thoroughly ransacked. Although, Arhur only notices that after a long, slow moment of dragging his gaze over the lurid spatterings of vinous fluid marking the surfaces surrounding the table, accompanied by not one fresh body, but two.

Arthur removes his hat with a tut, pressing it to his chest. “Mrs. Meyer,” he breathes in greeting to the corpse of a middle aged woman, his focus drifting down over her as she sits slumped into one of the chairs around the table. He blinks at the pair of bullet wounds piercing her chest and staining her grey shirt before continuing down to the second body. “An’ I’m guessin you’re Robert.” Arthur’s hand lifts from his holster, rubbing his moustache absent mindedly as he sighs– partly out of condolence, but also mulling over what he will tell Strauss. The man lies awkwardly on his front, his face lifted toward the front door, eyes and mouth agape and slack. The back of his shirt is spotted with the bloody and blooming tail ends of multiple gunshot wounds. One arm is crushed beneath him; presumably reaching for the empty holster at his side in which his gun must have been tucked away. Arthur glances around the cabin, now able to see properly, and again takes in the sections of disarray. A few drawers are strewn about the floor, one left up on the side along with various miscellania.

“You folks owed a lot more people’n jus’ us, huh?”

Too bad I didn’t make it here first.”

[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.”

[bright-and-burning]

rules: tagger gives a word, then for each letter of that word you share an excerpt from your WIPs that start with that letter.

tagged by beloved darling @wanderingblindly for the word LOVE ! except im 1000% certain without even looking that i have no sentences that start with V 😭

tagging @foggieststars @likepilotlights @deafleppard for the word... hope! bc i hope you do not have to write a new sentence to get the letter like i just did (first new sentence of february tho so. small victories)

L

Large hands are already shoving him over. Gentle, more to make him laugh than anything else, but that doesn’t stop the shockwave radiating down Oscar’s spine as Lando hops up next to him. Nearly a year in, and he’s still not used to this. Not used to Lando spotting him even when he’s not making an effort to to be present. Certainly not used to Lando’s warmth pressed against his shoulders when the rest of the world’s eyes skitter straight over him.

O

Oscar’s door slams against the wall with a bang. Lando stands in the doorway, sheepish expression morphing rapidly into something not unlike how he looks right before tugging his helmet down on Sundays. “Osc—“ he starts, before abruptly cutting himself off to close the door. Oscar sits up. 

V

Vaulting over the side would be funny; he can picture the look on Oscar’s face, pulled violently from sleep by the sudden weight of Lando on top of him. But that’s not what he’s here for. Lando carefully slips into the gap between Oscar and the back of the couch.

E

Esteban and Pierre are yelling at each other somewhere. Lando knocks his head back against the cupboards, banging the door into the shelves. When he kicked the last stragglers out, he meant go home, not argue on our front lawn instead. Oscar jumps at the noise. He quirks an eyebrow at Lando from his spot in front of the stove. Lando kicks his heels into the cupboards below where he’s sat on the counter, just to be a dick.

i probably have posted half of these before; i pretty much havent written since 2024 buuuuuut. was fun... i hope these are new to Someone at least 😭

[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.

[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?” 

[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.

[major-toast]

u said self indulgent and my ears perked up…. can i get ✍️ for my dearest enemy pls

Why yes, of course, del.

It’s as much as one would expect of a laboratory owned by the government. The ceilings are high and vaulted, and the furniture is of dark wood and lacquered. A window front, stretching from the ceiling to the stone-tile floor and all over the right side of the room, is accompanied by heavy dark green curtains able to drown out any light if need be. White linen covers appliances and devices scattered all around. They stand on long tables, are propped up against walls and squeezed between cupboards and shelves stacked with flasks and utensils of varying shapes and sizes. It smells of disinfectant – sterile and clean – and Evan doubts any of these tools have ever been used before. There is not one fingerprint on the binocular microscopes before him, nor the culture dishes beside them. With a quiet grunt, he drops off the heavy boxes he was carrying himself and lets his fingertips ghost over the microscopes curiously. Not only are they brand-new, but also much higher in quality than anything they used back at the Academy. Given such equipment, the opportunities to conduct further research seem to expand promptly before his inner eye. Imagining what discoveries he might make with these tools alone fills him with a silent kind of giddiness. One that itches underneath the nails of his fingers. The rustling of sheets draws his attention. Having wandered off to somewhere near the window front, Bénja is busying himself with uncovering one of the heavier machines. Smooth, brass components, riveted together by heavy bolts, glimmer promisingly under the light. Thick tubes, similar to the bellows of an accordion, go in and out of its body, and there is a large tank at the centre of it all. With only a small and round cross-barred window allowing a glimpse inside, the entire contraption might as well be right out of a submarine-like ship. Evan recognises it immediately. “You’ve got to be kidding me – “

I know it's a bit of a longer snippet, but I really like the atmosphere I was able to create with this excerpt. This entire story is heavily inspired by Arcane. Basically two scientists, who get ripped apart by exterior influences and end up on opposing sides. One influence is an ocean-based Eldritch horror and the other is a man in his 50s... scary.

WIP Thursday | ask game

[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