#IT'S WIP WEDNESDAY BAYBEE

[sentientcave]

It's WIP Wednesday! Been a while since I posted one of these. Have some Victorian era romance that I've been writing instead of new chapters of the things you all actually want to read!

Something was going on.

A few weeks ago, there had been a long list of young men that wanted to dance with her. It was as if her feet hardly touched the ground when she was out, whirling between partners, pink and breathless by the end of each glittering evening.

Danny Galkin had shown up to one of the next parties with a black eye, and refused to so much as look at her, and he’d been one of her most frequent partners on the dance floor. There had been rumours he would make a courting request. More and more of her partners began to avoid her, until she was spending most of her time sitting to the side, left out.

And it should have been just the opposite. There were officers in town, and soldiers loved to dance with pretty girls.

She had to corner Johnny Mactavish (bruised high on his cheekbone, knuckles split) to get an answer. One of the soldiers had taken a fancy to her.

Riley.

“He’s tha one with the big purple bruise on his jaw. Ye’ll ken who I mean.” Johnny grinned. “Ye cannae say I dinnae give as good as I get, bonnie.”

She did know who Johnny meant, the moment she locked eyes with the stranger across the ballroom. Tall, broad, dark eyes that burned hot like coals. The purple bruise on his face was stark against a pale, freckled complexion, the red coat no benefit to either.

She marched up to him, fury propelling her forward, overriding common sense or the desire to not cause a scene. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. He looked down his broken-and-set-wrong nose at her. “Not ladylike to swear,” he said, voice gruff.

“My apologies. Who the fuck do you think you are?”

His lips twitched up on one side, eyes flicking for just a moment to a bystander who was whispering about the foul language. “Simon Riley.”

His attention was only off of her for a moment, but she missed the heat of it anyway. “Were you ever planning to ask me to dance, Simon Riley? Or is enough for you to scare off every other young man that might like to?”

He drained his glass and handed it off to someone nearby that looked both deeply offended and reluctant to say anything about it. “Olright. I’ll dance with you, birdie. Since you asked so nice.”

“Good. I was worried you were too much a coward.” She took his hand and pulled him to the dance floor.

The music started, and he pulled her into his arms.

And he never let go.

[moongreenlight]

U already KNOW what time it is baybee!!!! WIP WEDNESDAY!

Been riding the Gaz high and this has been in the works recently (I wrote 2k words yesterday) so here's this!

Director!Gaz x Actress!Reader

Summary: It’s the mid-1970’s and you’ve recently made the unshocking discovery that it’s difficult to find good work acting. Lucky you stumble on the wrong opportunity at the right time!

You’re not dumb enough to fall for the advertisements in the papers looking for actors in ‘up and coming independent films.’ Not anymore.

After being burned so many times by ‘pay to audition’ schemes and sleazy directors only looking to collect videotapes of girls doing porno auditions, you gave up on that front.

But what’s the stipulation on extenuating circumstances? Like when you’re working at a bar a few blocks away from the community theater and a man comes up and sits at the counter all by himself.

He’s gorgeous and a sweet talker. Seems intent on chatting with you even though you really should be polishing glassware. And once he’s finally caught you in his snare, he drops a bomb that up until this point you’d only ever heard stories about.

He says he’s a small-time director and he saw you in the last production the theatre put on. He laughs and makes a lighthearted self-deprecating joke about being “one of those wankers in the paper” to which you wrinkle your nose and give him a weary smile.

But, Jesus, if he can’t make a bad thing good. He’s got all the makings of a politician the way he’s able to talk circles around you until you agree to show up to an audition for his latest project. ‘Trouble in paradise’ or something to that tune.

He tips you twenty pounds and his business card on a coke he barely touches. Uses your pen to write your audition time on the back of the card.

Wednesday at 11a. x

He doesn’t give back the pen.

Your roommates do no good talking you out of it. Hushing your half-arsed arguments about scams and serial killers and all kinds of things. It ends with the four of you in a pile on the couch, wine-drunk and giggling yourselves into hysterics.

So two days later you go. Forcing your roommates to promise no less than five times that if you’re not heard from in an hour that they’ll send in the authorities.

You find your way to the address on the card that now looks tired in comparison to when you first got it. The edges are fussy and dog-eared from your worrying with it and passing it around to prove its legitimacy.

It doesn’t look like any studio or office you’ve seen. Far from. And that should have been the final nail in the coffin. Should have been the reason you turned tail and went back home. But something pulled you up the worn steps of the house. That same something, now cowering a bit at the looming possibility, brought you to rap your knuckles sharply on the part of the door with a few different layers of paint chipped away to expose the cheap metal underneath.

You’re left standing on the stoop for a few moments too long with no answer. And just as you were about to come to your senses and return home with some sliver of your dignity still intact; the door swung inward and exposed the same man from the bar - Kyle - with his horrible, beautiful, toothy smile.

“Thought you were going to stand me up. Wouldn’t have known what to do with myself.”

You catch yourself thinking it’s a shame that he’s directing and not starring in movies. His devastating good-looks and all. Must be a terrible read.

There’s a card table set up in the living room. Two folding chairs behind it that look flimsy at best. Three thick packets that have been three-hole punched on the side, but held together by a binder clip in the top center.

The rest of the furniture is pushed up against the wall. A hodge-podge of mismatched chairs and a sofa that very well could have been your grandmothers and a few banged-up side tables.

He offers water. Offers to take your purse. You decline both. Opt to stand a bit stiffly on the faded rug in the center of the room with your bag tucked snugly under your arm.

Maybe you should make a run for it. Maybe you were stupid to come at all. He’s a total stranger for Christ sake.

Before you can will your feet to move, there’s s bang from behind you. A screen door slamming shut and rattling on its hinges. It startles you almost a foot into the air.

“Nervous?”

Kyle is cool as ever, sliding into one of the chairs, waggling his eyebrows at you. It whines under his weight and you’re suddenly very aware of just how bulky he is. Doesn’t look it on passing glance, but when all you’ve got to look at is the way his shirt fits it becomes glaringly obvious.

“Easily startled.”

You correct, trying to decide whether or not it’s passé to turn over your shoulder to find the source of the heavy footsteps behind you.

He hums and grabs one of the packets, taking off the clip and leafing through it. Pulling out a few odd pages and setting them on the table.

The footsteps reveal their maker when he rounds the corner into the room and shuffles behind the table. If you thought Kyle was big, this man is properly a behemoth. A bit taller, broader in the shoulders, a layer of fat packed on over his muscles. He looks to be older by a few years. He gets crows feet when he nods and smiles at you before taking his seat.

The chair looks as though it would be happier pulling its own legs out from underneath itself.

“Cap’.”

Kyle doesn’t look up from his papers when he addresses the man.

You get no formal introduction to ‘Cap’ though he doesn’t seem to be truly involved in the audition process. He barely glances up from his packet. Content to nurse a fresh cigar and lean further back in the chair than you think should be plausible.

You read from the stack of pulled-out papers with sloppily highlighted lines and try not to shy away from meeting Kyle’s watchful eye.

The audition goes normally, all things considered. You’re instructed to read three different scenes. Without the time to read the blurb on the project, you draw the conclusion that “Trouble in Paradise” is some sort of short suspense film centered around a woman living, shockingly, in paradise.

The writing isn’t first-rate, but you suppose that’s to be expected. You have a hard time piecing together how the scenes flow, but that’s not your largest concern.

“Lovely. Really, darl’.”

Kyle stands when he talks. Commands the attention even of such a small audience. Takes up space in the room like he’s owed it.

You smile, feeling a bit more at-ease now that things seem to be wrapping up.

“N’ how do you look in a bathing suit?”

The question takes you entirely off-guard. It makes your jaw fall far enough open that you’re left looking like a fish out of water.

“I- sorry?”

Kyle’s face doesn’t change. Fantastic at keeping up appearances. He’s still casting that warm smile over you. The focus of it makes you feel like you’re sunbathing.

“Bathing suit, love. How d’you look?”

Disappointment drops like a stone in your belly. Heavy and fast. It’s another scam. Of course it is.

“Oh. I don’t- I don’t do dirty movies.”

It must be palpable on your face even more than it is in your voice.

‘Cap’ glances up at Kyle when he ashes his cigar. The smell is nauseating. He seems to be chewing on a smile. Kyle meets his eye for only a moment, amusement painfully evident on his face.

“You’ve just read the pool scene. Hardly anything dirty about costuming.”

[honeybee-bard]

WIP Wednesday

I took a lil break from posting WIPs/snippets this past week but we're back baybee! This is from the oneshot I'm working on for the Kinktober prompt "hate sex". It's an Astarion POV piece!

“I could kill you,” you growl. “But you won’t,” she says with a shit-eating grin. She’s right. She’s always right, and it’s infuriating. She shouldn’t be able to read you like this. She shouldn’t be enjoying this. She should be scared. She should be absolutely terrified. “I think,” she continues, “that there are a couple of things you’d rather do than kill me. And right now, I’m pinned beneath you, helpless and entirely at your mercy. Nothing is stopping you from doing exactly what you want to do to me.” You can feel it every time her heart skips a beat, every time her pulse quickens. You can feel the thrum of her lifeforce, so strong and so very close. She tilts her head to the side, baring her neck. It feels like an eternity before you let instinct take over, though you know it was likely only a matter of seconds. Her blood is sweet and warm on your tongue, just as it had been the night she let you feed on her before. That’s what started this, started you inexplicably wanting her while still finding her absolutely infuriating. Her insistence on doing good and helping everyone extended to you as well, you had realized that night. She kept helping every godsdamned orphan and refugee you crossed paths with, delaying your search for a cure over and over again. It enraged you. It drew you in. It led you to having her pinned beneath you with your fangs embedded in her flesh and gods, she’s still not scared of you at all, is she? With a dagger to her neck and your teeth in her throat, she’s still not scared.

No-pressure tags: @bardic-inspo @kimberbohwrites @locallegume @pinkberrytea @nyx-knox

[paperstorm]

wip wednesday

I was tagged by @inflarescent @alrightbuckaroo @birdclowns and @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut

Season 3 of Missing Moments is in the initial phases baybee so have a scene I wrote at 4am while insomniatic and trying to dig into Carlos's mindset at the hospital. (does that low key count as self harm lol probably)

-

Carlos tugs his jacket tighter around his shoulders as he steps out into the still-falling snow thought the automatic sliding doors. He passes by others, concerned visitors braving the storm to visit their loved ones. The chill seeps quickly through his clothes and into his bones. Carlos has lived his entire life in Austin, he’s never felt cold like this. TK used to tell him about winters in Manhattan, about snow and sleet and the kind of cold that burrows into muscles and tightens skin and leaves a person with chattering teeth and lungs aching from inhaling ice crystals, but Carlos could only ever imagine it until now. It’s worse than TK’d described. But come to really think of it, the cold might not be the reason he’s having trouble gasping for a proper breath.

He finds a brick half-wall, a built in planter than in the summer months would be filled with flowers, and he sits onto it. It’s all he can do not to collapse onto the snowy ground. Carlos tucks his shaking hands into his own armpits, clenching every muscle in his body as his molars press together in a useless attempt to stop himself from bursting into tears. His eyes burn, his head pounds, his breath comes in uneven bursts through his nose.

It can, the doctor had said. Their chosen course of treatment can work, for someone in TK’s condition. She hadn’t meant it. Carlos may not be a medical professional like she is, he may not be the same sort of hero as her and Captain Vega and TK and Nancy, but he’s still a first responder. He still knows that dance. He knows intimately the mask of sympathy to wear and the tone of voice to adopt when the situation calls for kindly offering a grain of false hope to someone in a sand-dune of despair.

His shoulders shake. A woman with a teenaged daughter in tow crosses in front of him on their way towards the parking lot, and Carlos tucks his chin down against his chest so they won’t see the way his eyes are filled with tears.

It’s important to know when a thing is over, he’d said to Marjan, only hours ago before his world was tilted off its axis. Like the well-meaning but misleading doctor, Carlos hadn’t meant it. The mask he’s constructed out of his grief and anger and loneliness and heartbreak disintegrates right off his face and seems to crumble to dust at his feet. He wipes in annoyance and tears on his cheeks, that freeze to his skin almost as soon as they’ve spilled from his stinging eyes.

When to move on, he’d said. She saw through him.

Once upon a time, Carlos was a master of this deception. He built a home for himself constructed almost entirely in lies, in half-truths and secrets and pieces of himself given only on a need-to-know basis, and he wasn’t happy, but it was good enough. It was enough that his parents still invited him over for dinner. It was enough that his coworkers only speculated about his sexuality in private and to his face behaved at least cordially and professionally, even if behind his back they were sneering at him. It was enough that Michelle knew he was gay and accepted him for it, even if she was always too consumed with loss to ever really take an interest in Carlos’s wellbeing after Iris was gone. It was all enough, and then TK came along, and then it wasn’t. And Carlos’s ability to lie to himself so successfully burned up along with everything else he lost in the fire.

He never moved on, he’s still stuck right where he was the day TK walked out on him, and if he loses TK forever, Carlos can’t see a way to ever extricate himself from this spot.

He untucks his right hand, exposing his bare skin to the frigid air and reaching with trembling fingers into the pocket of his jacket for his cellphone. He’s been avoiding this very action for months, but Carlos hurts in every inch of his body as he sits here in the snow and considers a future in which TK is just a jumble of increasingly bittersweet memories and a gravestone he’ll never work up the courage to visit, he can’t avoid it anymore. He presses his thumb into Mama in his contacts and brings the phone up to his ear, choking on an inhale as his heart races while it rings.

“Carlitos,” she answers. “Hola, mi amor, are you keeping warm?”

Carlos vibrates. A miserable noise escapes from his throat and he quickly covers his mouth with his free hand, reduced to clawing back desperate sobs the very second he hears her warm, familiar voice in his ear.

“Carlos?” Andrea says sharply. “Mjio, what’s wrong? Are you alright?”

Carlos gasps and squeezes his eyes shut so tightly he gives himself an instant headache, rocking back and forth just slightly against the flowerbed as he fights to pull himself under control – or at the very least to wrestle back enough control so that he can stop scaring her.

“Carlos!”

“It’s not me,” he manages to force out, with a cough. “It’s TK.”

Andrea inhales. “What happened?”

“He was … there was a little boy trapped under the ice.” Carlos’s voice shakes but he pushes through it. “His team was trying to rescue him, and TK went into the water. I’m at the hospital, he’s … they’re saying he might not wake up.”

“I – might not why?” Andrea asks. She sounds so upset, and it only makes Carlos feel even more like he’s about to throw up on the sidewalk underneath his boots.

“Hypothermia. They’re trying, but …” He trails off, unable to finish the sentence.

“Oh, mijo,” Andrea sighs.

“I can’t …” Carlos sniffs and shakes his head. “I just wanted you to know.”

“What hospital?”

“Austin General.”

“Stay right where you are, I will be there in 30 minutes.”

“No.” Carlos sits up a bit straighter and shakes his head. A few fractions of the anguish fall away. He wipes at the tears on his face and new ones don’t replace them. “It’s dangerous, there are people sliding into ditches all over the roads and the first responders are all slammed. Stay where you are.”

“Carlos – ”

“I mean it,” he insists, kind but firm. “This is bad enough without me having to worry about you stuck in a snowbank somewhere the paramedics can’t get to you. Okay?”

She’s quiet for a moment and Carlos thinks she’s going to continue arguing, but she doesn’t. In a heavy, displeased voice, Andrea replies, “Alright. Keep me updated.”

“I will.”

“Te amo. I’m so sorry this is happening.”

“Thanks. I love you, too.” He sniffs again and ends the call before he can catch her response. If he hears her voice for one more second Carlos thinks he might break apart into a million pieces, and he can’t do that right now. He shoves his phone back into his pocket and stands, scrubbing hands over his face one last time to make sure it’s dry and then heading back inside.

Tagging @theghostofashton @strandnreyes @reyestrandd @heartstringsduet @bonheur-cafe @goodways @beautifulhigh @carlos-in-glasses @liminalmemories21 @redshirt2 @orchidscript @freneticfloetry @whatsintheboxmh @wtfuckevenknows

[nny11writes]

Deputy Moon has certainly been working hard. To do both her jobs, to help the town, and most importantly to catch a no good killer.

Shame that no one else seems to appreciate the efforts!

[buck-yyyy]

WIP WEDNESDAY BAYBEE!!!!

tfw you’ve written the ending but not everything else- anyways

[lastoneout]

wip wednesday baybee have some surveyshipping

[this-should-do]

wip wednesday baybee

hdhd thanks for tagging me @cciarants :)

@fandomanxiety-fa @valen-dreth hope yall don mind me tagging ya

anyways this is part of a 10 page song based comic that i started god knows how many months back that im almost to the coloring stage with

[bigdaddycrozier]

WIP WEDNESDAY BAYBEE~

Is this the hysteria fic I SHOULD be writing? No. Is this the Youth Pastor! Irving fic that is now rotting in my head?? Yes.

“Don’t get me wrong, mate, that whole ‘hallelujah’ racket might work for you,” Solomon sucked grimly at his teeth, revelling in the bristling pastor before him. “I’m here for the kids. They need someone who can give ‘em a kind word and a pat on the head...so let me do that for them, eh?”

I’ll be damned if you think I’m one of you god-botherers.

Sitting there with his oxford shirt buttoned right to the top, his butter-wouldn’t-melt shtick currently ruined by the flushed spots that now coloured his cheeks, the pastor looked anything but the placid act he had painted in the church hall with his guitar and little granny groupies.

The derision that had crossed his face once he realised Solomon was the sole applicant for the youth group leader was enough to fuel his spite-filled coal heart for a month.

Solomon was this close to walking out and leaving him to run the whole bloody youth group by himself if it wasn’t for the earlier wheedling of Mrs Armitage.

“Poor little Tommy loves his Cub friends,” she’d tugged on his heartstrings, bringing up the little mite. Even before Solomon had buggered off to the Marines, that wee one had fawned over him every time they had bumped into one another. The thought of the quiet lad left with no dad and no escape from the cruel words of primary kids had pushed Solomon past his religious derision to sit opposite the mild-mannered Pastor please-call-me-John Irving.

[nuka-nuke]

WIP Sampler Basket

I saw @tarberrymentats and @ronqueesha do this, so then I had to because WIP Wednesday baybee

Rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Send me an ask with the title that most intrigues you and interests you and I’ll post a little snippet of it or tell you something about it!

Insomnia

Wingman

Go Back To Sleep

A Little Less Conversation

Dream2ElectricBoogaloo

And that’s it!! For once I do not have hundreds of WIPs hahah

[sentientcave]

A little WIP wednesday before the day is out, since I worked on Retirement Party today

[sentientcave]

WIP WEDNESDAY BABES

Got two little bite size snippets for you all if you would care to partake. One from the next chapter of Retirement Party and one from chapter uhhhhh sixteen? Of Sparrow. I swear I'm gonna start posting that soon.

As usual, MDNI please

Retirement Party

It’s strange to be back in London. He still comes here once a week— A staunch refusal to switch to a new therapist, even if it would save him the short flight from Aberdeen Airport every Friday, his whole day eaten away by travel and the hour appointment with Dr. Clara. He doesn’t like her. She thinks he’s stubborn and resistant. She’s probably right. For the first time, he thinks it might be a good idea to switch. Or stop coming in personally, conduct therapy online. Being away from Dalisay bothers him. He doesn’t like that she’s alone in the house. If something happened, he’d be too far away to do anything about it. If she left, he wouldn't be able to stop her, but... She’d seen him off, kissed him at the door, said she’d make dinner for when he got back. She wasn’t going anywhere. She didn’t want to. He had to trust her, even if it was a difficult thing to do. It would probably kill him if he came home to an empty house.

Sparrow

Well. Makarov was a secondary objective at this point. If the opportunity to kill him presented itself he’d shoot, but there was no sense hunting the man down and losing his chance to get off the bloody boat with him and Morgan in one piece. If it were just Ghost, he might’ve chanced it. Maybe blown up the whole bloody ship. He didn’t really care if he lived or died— In many ways he’d been dead for years now, if not since they buried him, since he buried himself along with his family in that gray little cemetery in Manchester— But he did care if she lived. He could lie to himself and say it was out of loyalty to Price, getting his girl back home for him, but it wasn’t that. There was something in that soft, stubborn little bird that he recognized, something that resonated with the part of him that was still Simon Riley, deep down inside where the light couldn’t get in. He could feel the first stirrings of life in a long while, like she was spring, thawing the frozen ground and coaxing something green and delicate out of the mud. Maybe it was just him being selfish (he’d always been selfish), but he wanted to see what could grow.

[sentientcave]

It's wip wednesday once again. Have a little more Rugby! Just a short segment bc I'm actually getting close to finishing it and posting the whole thing. Sorry it's mostly dialogue a lot of the other stuff gets added in the editing stages lmao

We join Ripper at his office job... (Your welcome to anyone who thinks Ripper would look hot in a suit. Because he absolutely would)

You're eyeing the clock as it crawls just past 4:15, when someone knocks on your office door. "Come in," you call, reopening exel on your computer so it at least looks like you're doing something productive.

"Hey, pally," Brandon says cheerfully, throwing your door open and sitting in the chair in front of your desk. "How's things?"

A social visit? Brandon is the boss's nephew, and a right idiot. You steer clear, generally, and he's mostly left you alone thus far. "Uh. Fine. Headed out soon."

"Rugby on Friday," he says.

You frown at him. Why would he know that? "Uh. Yeah?"

His grin widens. "Your team's playin' mine. Think you've got a chance?"

You think of Simon and Johnny, and the way they can plow through the opposing team. You didn't even know Brandon played. "Uh. Yeah. Figure we do."

"Care to make it interesting?"

A bet? Is that what he interrupted your day for? "Guess I'd put a tenner on it."

He shakes his head, like you’re being ridiculous. "That wouldn't be very interesting, would it?"

He's angling for something, but it's hard to tell what, exactly. "You have stakes in mind?"

"I do. Figure if my team wins, you'll let me take you out for dinner. If yours does, we can, I dunno, switch offices? Two windows in mine. Your little houseplants might like that." He wiggles his fingers at the plants you have hanging in and sitting in front of the window (Spiderplant Georg, Pontius Pilea, and Monstera Mash. Not that you had ever told anyone in the office that you’d named them).

"Dinner?" You ask. "With you?" It's an insane notion. You barely speak to him. You don't want to speak to him.

"Course with me." He grins at you again, propping his feet up on your desk, leaning back in his chair.

You blink at him. "You're kidding."

"What, you don't think I haven't noticed the way you fill out that suit? You're a little unit, Ripley. Wouldn't mind seeing you outside the office now and again."

"I've got a boyfriend," you say automatically. "It wouldn't be anything more than just dinner."

"We'll see."

You hate him for the way he smiles at you, like he doesn't believe you for a second. You're going to have to ask yet another favour, and see if Johnny or Simon will pretend to be your boyfriend. "Well, I'll take the bet. Wouldn't mind two windows."

He sets his feet down and sticks his hand across the desk. "Can't wait to take you out. We'll have fun."

You stand up to shake his hand, glancing at the clock again. Time to go, thank fucking god. “You’re gonna lose, you know. And even if you don’t, there’s no way Simon won’t sit across the restaurant and glare at you the whole time we have dinner.” Internally, you kick yourself for saying Simon. Johnny’s the more obvious choice, and easier to approach for a favour like that too.

[sentientcave]

Once Again I am Asking You to Celebrate WIP Wednesday (Baybeee)

More Rugby! Contains Gaz, a reference to top surgery, a joke about having too many nipples, and no actual rugby. Maybe there will never be any actual rugby. Who can say?

Sunday mornings are always football with Simon and Johnny’s friend Gaz, as least when he’s not deployed. He’s a lieutenant or something, part of the unit that your friends used to be in. He’s nice, if a bit too charming for you to be entirely comfortable around him. On sunny days he always finds an excuse to take his shirt off and flash all his well-maintained muscle at any watchers, but annoyingly, today he’s trying to persuade you to do the same. “Ah, come on, Ripper. You’re gonna be as pale as that one if you don’t get some sun,” he says playfully, jerking his thumb in Simon’s direction. Simon is, as always, fully covered, with long sleeves under his t-shirt and socks up to his knees.

You roll your eyes. It would be physically impossible for you to ever be as pale as Simon, regardless of how little sun you get. “I think between you and Johnny, we’re showing plenty of skin as a group.”

“Never have seen ye take off yer shirt.” Johnny leans against Gaz’s shoulder, blue eyes curious. “Never even change ‘fore or after games. Ye just goan home as is.”

“So?” you ask.

“Johnny, leave ‘im alone.” Simon ruffles your hair playfully. “Lad’s just shy.”

“Not shy,” you say amiably. “Just have several sets more nipples than the average person. Bit self conscious about it.”

Johnny’s eyes bug out. “Really?”

Simon swats his arm. “No not really, Johnny. ‘E’s ‘avin’ us on.”

“Did we come here to play football, or did we come here to speculate on the number of nipples I have?” In all fairness, you probably could take off your shirt without worrying about it now. Your scars are a few years old, fully faded, and you’ve put on so much muscle since (and especially since getting to know Simon and Johnny) that you don’t even notice them when you look in the mirror now. Still, the risk of them seeing, the risk of them noticing and treating you differently is not one you’re particularly keen on.

“Sure we came here to play, but tha’s all Ah’m goan ta be able ta think about noo.”

“Well, I don’t see how that’s my problem.”

Simon’s hand comes down on the back of your neck, that affectionate scruff he usually uses on Johnny. “Aw, come on, Rip, ‘e’s not goin’ to be useful to anyone if you don’t. If you’re not shy and you’ve got the normal amount of nipples, don’t see why not.” His hand is heavy, his thumb brushing across the skin under your ear deliberately. “Wun’t mind seein’ the results of all that work you’ve been puttin’ in myself.”

You give him a sharp look for encouraging the other two, but he’s unconcerned, just gently squeezes the back of your neck. Your knees wobble.

SHARE WHAT YOU'RE WORKING ON! I DON'T DO TAGS ABOUT IT BUT IF YOU WANT TO YOU SHOULD! WIP WEDNESDAY FOR EVERYONE.

[sentientcave]

So it's WIP Wednesday...

Sorry everyone I'm writing DragonAge fanfiction right now have a little bite of something for Veilguard

@dragonnarrative-writes tagged me last week so now they have to post something too (or not, since she already wrote so much this week)

[sentientcave]

IT'S WIP WEDNESDAY LADS - For something a little different, have a taste of one of my original works *The Heart of the Ocean*. It's just a fun little treasure hunting fantasy novel, featuring pirates, and magic and princesses and elves and intrigue! And orcs!

Tycho ducked into an ally to catch his breath, listening for the tell-tale clatter of hob-nailed boots down the cities narrow cobblestone streets. It was quiet, a sign that he had lost his pursuers, for the moment at least.

He was too big to blend in with human crowds, forcing him to navigate his way from the castle on the hill to the safe house on Pine street through the narrow, winding back streets, where he was less likely to be seen by anyone who would turn him over to the Imps. Other criminals would be likely to turn a blind eye, as loathe to draw Imperial attention as Tycho was.

He kept going, walking rather than running now, although his long legs carried him along the streets at a brisk pace. The medallion in his boot was chafing slightly and he looked forward to kicking them off once he made it to Pine Street.

“Now gentlemen, I really do think you’ve made a mistake. If you go about your business you will not be harmed, but I’m afraid I don’t have time to play nice. Get out of my way.”

Tycho’s ears pricked forward at the voice spilling out from around a corner. A woman, nervous, if not fearful, despite her bold words. There were gangs in King's Head that ruled the streets, and they would be none too kind to a woman out on her own in the back alleys. Why wasn’t she out on the well-patrolled main streets? Didn’t she know any better?

Harsh laughter followed. “Big words from such a pretty little girl, hey lads? It’s sweet of her to think about our welfare.”

Tycho peered around the corner, contemplating the scene. A plump little woman stood with her back to the brick wall, with four men standing in a loose semi-circle around her. She held the strap of her satchel with both hands, her dark eyes wide and anxious. She dressed simply, dark trousers tucked into boots and a well-made blue tunic belted around her middle, a warm woolen cloak pinned around her shoulders. Her hair was braided, but curling hair had escaped all around her face, giving her a slightly disheveled air, and her cheeks were rosy-red from either anger or the cold weather.

“I’m not concerned about your welfare,” she snapped. “I’m warning you.”

Mist was collecting around her ankles, rolling in from the far end of the alley. The thugs laughed again, not paying any heed to the thick, static feel of magic in the air. Humans weren’t as well-attuned to it, unless they worked their own spells, and even the worst human mage could make better coin than what could be made robbing women in dark corners of the city.

She must have been a mage, but she held herself like a noble, shoulders back, spine straight and stiff, her chin raised. She was someone who did not like to have to repeat herself, and she was running out of patience. The mist climbed higher, around her knees now, thick and clinging like un-spun wool.

The leader of the men stepped closer, not touching her yet, clearly intending to intimidate with his size. She glared back, unimpressed even though he was nearly a foot taller than her, and heavyset with muscle. “Warn me again,” he said, laughing down at her nastily. “I like the sound of your voice.”

The fog swallowed them whole.

The leader was the first to start swearing, and then there was the sound of bodies colliding, and the voices multiplied, accompanied by grunts and the sounds of bodies hitting each other. The woman appeared a moment later, backing out of the fog, an expression of deep concentration on her face. She bumped right into Tycho, and jumped, squeaking with surprise, and the fog disappeared in an instant, revealing the pile of fighting men, who froze in position, realizing that they were attacking each other rather than the slippery little mage.

She looked at Tycho, her eyes wide and wild, and then back at the others, who were beginning to recover from their own shock, and then back to Tycho again.

He wasn’t sure what had possessed him. She could clearly take care of herself. He grabbed her hand, and started walking fast, pulling her along. “Come on,” he said urgently, keeping his voice soft. “Let’s get out of here.”

She had to run to keep up with him, with her much shorter legs, so he slowed once they had taken enough random twists and turns to lose their pursuers, if they had even bothered to follow. Tycho was fairly sure his appearance would have scared them off. He was head and shoulders taller than the biggest among them, and a Breskar*, and his people had a fearsome reputation all across the world.

Tycho let go of her hand and she staggered back a few steps, breathing hard. “Are you alright?” he asked, a bit worried that he had pushed her too hard.

“Oh, yes,” she huffed. “I’m just—” She pressed a hand to her ribs, tipping her head back to look up at him properly. “Goddess you’re big. The legs on you!” She waved her hand vaguely at his lower half, like she’d never seen anyone his size in her life. “I’m Coraline. Thanks for the help.”

“You didn’t need my help,” Tycho said warmly. “I surprised you out of your spell.”

Coraline smiled at him. It said thanks for saying so and I don’t believe you at the same time. “Well, it hardly matters now. They're gone. Or, we’re gone, rather. I have no idea where we are.” She looked up and around, frowning at the brick buildings that loomed up around them, blocking out the daylight and leaving them in gloom. Brighter daylight spilled across the end of their path, where it crossed a much wider, much busier street. People streamed past in both directions, not so much as glancing at the darker spaces between the tall, narrow buildings.

*Breskarians are a sort of half-orc tiefling type of guy. So you know. HOT.