#WIP WEDNESDAY BAYBEE

[sentientcave]

Wildflowers and Honey

IT'S WIP WEDNESDAY BAYBEEE and you know what that means! It means I've ignored the projects I planned on working on and started working on a semi-historical omegaverse fic instead. Because I haven't written one before I obviously had to make it extra difficult on myself by making it a low-key Western. No blockers for scents or heats we are just out here rawdogging life.

We can blame this on @dragonnarrative-writes tbh, making me want to write omegaverse. But we're HERE now and we're having FUN with it. As per usual the "reader" is an OC.

You hum noncommittally, tugging your sleeves to make sure you’re as covered as possible. “Are you, um, enjoying living here so far?” you ask, hunting for conversation.

“We sure are,” John says. “It gets better all the time. You ladies want to come in for tea? Ain’t got nothing fancy, no one’s made a habit of callin’ on us yet. We’ll be better prepared next time.”

“We’d love to,” Sarah says cheerfully. “Let me just take Nosy to the pond for a drink.” She unhooks the horse quickly, and leads her away, leaving you standing beside the cart, the four alphas all studying you openly.

“Come on in, then.” John steps in beside you, and gently steers you toward the house, his hand pressed against your lower back. Up close, there’s a warm touch of whiskey in his scent. You clamp down on the instinct to lean in closer. You just have to be polite until Sarah’s satisfied that you’ve met your neighbours. They seem nice enough, but you can’t help but feel like a plump little rabbit surrounded by dogs.

The feeling only intensifies when you step inside. You would expect a building that houses four alphas would be overwhelming, maybe even unpleasant, but you’re hit but a combination of heady scents that make your knees weak. Sourdough bread and sweet fruit and spices, honeysuckle, citrus, that warm tobacco and whiskey that clings to John’s skin, faint traces of leather and wood smoke and spruce and sun-dried cotton. It smells homey.

It’s also surprisingly tidy inside, the floors swept clean, the counters and table scrubbed clean. Kyle pulls a chair out for you, and lifts it right off the ground when he slides it back in. “Sorry,” he says when you squeak, but there’s a laugh in his voice, and you suspect he’s not all that sorry. He’s the one that smells like spices, cloves and cardamom, and sweet peach. Something subtle and slightly bitter underneath, like toasted walnut. He makes a low rumbling sound of approval, like he’s just tasted your scent and thinks it’s just as nice.

Soap tosses the package onto the table and moves a chair closer, spinning it around so he can lean on the back of it, propping his chin on his folded arms. His blue eyes are sharper than John’s, a brighter, more intense blue. “So, Kitty—”

“I’d prefer Miss Haydon,” you say weakly.

“Not very neighbourly of you.” Simon sits across from you, his foot tapping yours. You slide your feet under your chair and out of the way. “Figure we ought to be friendly, eh?”

“Oh stoppit, ye wee big bastart, yer scarin’ the poor lass. Put yer eyes away.” Soap reaches over and tilts the brim of Simon’s hat down over his eyes, then looks at you with all the bearing of a large, silly dog that wants praise for doing a good job. “So, Kitty,” he continues, like he hadn’t been corrected before. “D’ye need any help around yer farm? We’re almos’ done our big work for the season, except the big drive down to Helena for market. Happy to help oot where we can.”

“Oh, I don’t think my daddy’s gonna want your help,” you say quickly. “It’s a very kind offer, but he won’t abide other alphas in his territory.”

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[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

[totally-not-deacon]

A Late WIP Wednesday For You!

Tagged by @throughtrialbyfire!! And I'm pretty sure most of y'all have been tagged already, so consider this an open invite to anyone who hasn't yet! Lemme see yo stuff!

So, writing's going slow, but it IS there. Not gonna share from AR this week, cause most of what I have down is really plor-centric. BUT. I've been having a blast goofing off with this silly, self-indulgent epilogue of sorts and getting to write and flesh out Marasa's family. I've also discovered writing kids is really fun. So y'all can have that instead!

Fluff time ahead, baybee!

Chaos erupted as the door swung open, the sound of two small pairs of feet stormed through the entryway, alongside a cacophony of high-pitched shrieks and giggles. Nebarra glanced at her with a mixture of confusion and alarm. She responded with a knowing smirk.

The sources of the noise skid to a halt across the room, two pairs of eyes peering at the strangers in the house. A third, older and taller mer – though still a good head below Nebarra – stopped behind them, a bright smile on his face. The resemblance was uncanny; this must be one of her brothers. Baeren, going by the children in tow.

“Took you long enough! C’mere!”

“Oof–” She was drawn into another bone-crushing hug. This was going to be a common occurrence, wasn’t it? Marasa swatted him away, still grinning. “Ouch, you ghul!”

Baeren laughed, waving the two children over. They both approached cautiously, not sure what to make of all this. “This is your aunt Mar – remember I told you about her?” They nodded, eyeing her. “And this is… er, I’m not sure if I ever caught your name?”

Nebarra introduced himself once again, the name slowly becoming familiar again. Marasa likely never mentioned it in her letters, keeping it to herself as she’d promised years ago. He jumped, feeling something tugging on the leg of his trousers. One of the little ones gawked up at him. A little girl, sandy hair pulled into two long braids and the tiniest nubs of Bosmeri antlers just beginning to show, looked at him in wonder. Should he… say something?

“Wow, you’re really, really tall!” she chirped before standing up proudly, puffing out her chest. “My name is Lorne and I’m almost five years old! Papa says I’m a big girl now. Right Papa?”

The other, a small boy with a mop of wild auburn hair and dark eyes not unlike both Marasa and her brother, stood behind his sister, looking a bit more suspicious of the strange mer. He took the pair of them in for a moment before he spoke up.

“Why are you yellow?” Nebarra blinked.

Marasa burst into laughter, doubling over with her hands on her knees and tears in her eyes. Each time she thought she’d contained herself, his dumbfounded expression just set her off once again. The small boy watched her for a moment before bursting into a fit of giggles as well, clearly pleased with himself. So much for not encouraging bad behavior.

“Oh, by Y’ffre – I’m sorry about that. They’ve never met an Altmer before.” Baeren crouched down, gently scolding the boy. “You can’t just ask something like that, Faedon.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s impolite.”

“Why?”

“Ohoho, we are not doing this again – not after last time,” he shook his head. “Took an hour to wear him out, I swear.”

The front door slammed open once again and another pair of footfalls stormed in, however these were much heavier than the ones belonging to the tiny mer in front of them. They, too, were accompanied by raucous laughter, this time distinctly adult – though one wouldn’t guess as such listening to the… colorful story one was telling the other.

“Oh, boy.” Marasa chuckled under her breath.

“What do you mean oh, boy? I don’t think I like tha –”

“Sis!!” called a pair of not-quite-identical twins in unison, each with autumn orange eyes and small antlers, though only one sported the auburn hair most of the family had, the other matched his niece and father. Other than that, however, there was very little difference between them. They were tall for Bosmer – not that it was saying much, in Nebarra’s opinion – made all the more evident when they lifted Marasa off the ground, squishing her between them in a massive hug. She squirmed, getting her hands over her head to yank both of them by the antlers to get them to let her go. Nebarra had to admit it was amusing to watch.

“Ugh, you two smell like a kollopi’s ass! Did you even bathe when you got back into town?”

“Papa!” Lorne yelped, scandalized. “Papa, auntie Mar said a bad word!”

[buck-yyyy]

WIP WEDNESDAY BAYBEE!!!!

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

[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!

[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]

It's WIP Wednesday once again! I've got some Impound for you because it's been a while and it's still not finished (I've been working on Sparrow instead and just hit 55k today which is pretty exciting).

Contains: Blue collar Simon, Price as a cop, petty nonsense from men who should know better, but they're unfortunately not very emotionally intelligent

That’s when he saw the cruiser, parked on the street out front, too close to the fire hydrant.

Not blocking it, exactly, but still too close. If it were anyone else, he’d’ve let it slide, since the fire crew would still be able to get to the hydrant. But it was Price, and he’d just warned him about this very thing.

He pulled out his phone. “Hey, Johnny?” he said as soon as the line picked up, not waiting for Johnny to speak. “Send Roach out to city hall. Got someone parked by a fire ‘ydrant.”

“Fer fuck’s sake, Si, isnae the feckin’ cop again?”

“It is. I’ll come round to handle the paperwork. Won’t make you do it.”

“Awlright, but dinnae let him catch Roach at it neither. Ye know he’ll say somethin’ stupid and get his arse arrested.”

“Oh I know. Lad dun’t know ‘ow to keep his trap shut.” Simon hung up and headed back inside, hardly paying attention to the meeting, his eyes flicking back to Price over and over again, and holding whenever he found Price looking back. It was clear that neither of them retained anything said, too busy glaring at each other over the heads of the people sitting between them.

Simon got out of the building first, and stood off to the side to smoke another cigarette, leaning against a tree where he could get a good view of Price’s reaction when he came out to find his cruiser missing yet again.

He didn’t disappoint. He came out of the building a few minutes after the initial crush of humanity, talking to Kate and Nikolai. Price stopped in his tracks a little ways out the door, focused in on where his cruiser was supposed to be, and immediately scanned the vicinity, his whole body going rigid, hands tightening into fists, shoulders squared up for war, jaw set like concrete. His blazing blue eyes found Simon, and he marched over without saying a word, leaving Nikolai and Kate looking confused, and then amused when they realized what must have happened.

Price stopped in front of him, fury radiating off of him like heat off an engine, all that energy practically warping the space between them. “What’s your fuckin’ problem, mate?” he asked, jabbing a finger against Simon’s chest.

“No problem. I was ‘ere the whole time, wasn’t I?” Simon batted Price’s hand away, resisting the impulse to punch him for having the nerve to lay his bloody hands on him in the first place. Price was lucky that Simon was so rehabilitated now. That he had his temper on a good strong leash these days. “If you din’t want to get towed, you shunt’ve parked there. Not my problem if my people know ‘ow to do their jobs and you ‘aven’t got a clue ‘ow to do yours.”

“You don’t want to start a war with me, son,” Price growled.

Simon leaned forward, the barest curve of a smile on his lips, eyes narrowed and flinty. To his credit, Price didn’t flinch, didn’t move back, didn’t drop his eyes. He wasn’t intimidated by Simon’s size, like a lesser man would be. “You don’t want to start a war with me, old man.” He wasn’t sure there was much difference in their ages, if any, but if Price was going to try and talk down to him with the son shite than Simon was going to shovel it right back, like he was an unruly teenager in a rebellious phase. “I’m not goin’ to be pushed around by a fuckin’ badge. You don’t get special treatment because you wear a bloody uniform.”

Price’s jaw clenched even tighter. He had an impressive scowl, one that could probably level anyone else. “Watch yourself,” he grit out, like each word cost him something to force from his mouth.

Simon leaned a little closer. Their noses were almost touching. He could feel the currents of air stirred up by Price’s breath on his own face. “Or what?” he asked.

“Or else,” Price said, too angry to come up with anything resembling a real threat.

Simon pulled back with an amused grunt, and turned away, glancing over his shoulder dismissively. “See you as the impound lot, hm? I’ll be waitin’.”

In the end, it was Gaz who came around to pick up the cruiser.

[sentientcave]

The Good Ol' Rugby Game

It's the middle of the so called "work week" and you know what that means:

IT'S WIP WEDNESDAY

I was thinking about Rugby AUs because have you seen the thighs on those lads? But I don't know anything about Rugby tbh this is just vibes and thots. Something somethin elaborate rituals. But it's also fun. Pardon my errors I wrote most of this on discord today

Reader is a trans man - No name but he's referred to as Ripper by Simon and Johnny because they think he's like a little terrier/ankle biter on the pitch (It's a pitch for rugby, right?). And he is.

Contains: Mentions of alcohol, mentions of rugby, takeout food, Johnny and Simon, bros being bros, you know how it is

You've won.

It takes a minute for the cheering to register, for you to realize that the whistle's been blown and the game is finished, and by the time you do realize, you're in the air, brawny arms hooked around your middle, flying until you hit the ground hard, Johnny on top of you. "Fuckin' beautiful!" He shouts, his voice hoarse. And then an even heavier weight drops down on the two of you, squeezing all your air out.

"Brilliant, lads," Simon growls, knocking his forehead against yours. "Fuckin' perfect play."

"Riley, you're going to break me if you don't get your fat arse up," you grouse. "You too, Tav. Fuckin' muppets."

"Aw, love you too, Ripper," Johnny lands a wet, sweaty kiss on the side of your head before he shoulders Simon off the two of you and pounces on the giant, kissing him on the mouth with zeal.

You get up with a groan, your whole body one big fucking bruise. "Shoulda picked football," you complain to no one in particular. "I'm going to feel this forever."

Johnny swats at you blindly as you limp off, somehow managing to connect, his hand a guided missile that's only capable of targeting asses.

It’s just an amateur league— You know that, everyone on both sides of the pitch know, but it feels like your neighbourhood never got the memo. As the seasons gone on, more and more people have been showing up, wearing green and white, and when you go out to the pub after games, you never have to buy your own pints. It’s almost like being a girl again, except now you feel at home in your own skin, and the only person that tries to grab your arse is Johnny.

You know it’s Johnny and Simon that everyone’s there for, and you don’t care— You’re proud of your huge friends. They joined the league a little after you did, newly retired from the military, both of them with too much energy and muscle and training to not play some kind of sport. And they rope you into training with them. Runs with Simon so early in the morning it’s still practically dark, running drills on free afternoons in the park, tagging along to the gym and watching Johnny lift insane amounts of weight. It’s more fun than you think you’ve ever had.

You’re definitely a third wheel, but they’re good about it, obviously together but obviously wanting you around, careful to include you.

And it feels good to be one of the boys.

You grab your bag from under the bench and head off the pitch, eager to go home and shower the grass stains and flecks of someone else’s blood off of you, maybe curl up with a pint of dark beer and a pint of chocolate ice cream. Everyone’s likely going out for drinks, but you’ve been jostled around plenty for the day, head still ringing a bit from an elbow you took to the side of the head during a scrum.

“Hey, Ripper,” Johnny yells after you. He has lungs, even after a game of shouting himself hoarse. “Ye comin’ to tha pub?”

“Nah, not tonight,” you shout back. “Can’t be arsed. Goin’ home to order a Chinese.”

He’s about halfway deflating, and perks back up at the mention of greasy take out. “Order for Si ‘n’ me too, aye? We’ll be round in an hour.”

“Alright!” you call back, because that’s easier than shouting across a crowd that you were really looking forward to cozying up in front of the tv and— Oh, right. “Bring beer!” That saves you a stop on your way home.

You get home and scramble to clean up a bit-- Johnny doesn't mind a bit of mess, but Simon will stare at clutter like it personally offends him (because it does), or worse, just start tidying up. He always tells you you're not as bad as Johnny, but it's not much of a consolation. Half the mess is your roommate's anyway, who is at her girlfriend's for the weekend, again. It likely won't be long till she moves out, and you'll have to leave your cozy little spot. But at least you now have large friends to help you move.

That done, you order takeaway and pop into the shower, tossing your sweaty uniform into your hamper, and you're just getting dressed again when someone knocks at your door. You nearly forget to tuck your packer into the pocket you've sewn into all your boxers, remembering only as you almost reach the door. If anyone on God's green earth will notice that you suddenly don't have anything in your pants where you usually do, its Johnny.

"Takin' ages," he complains when you finally do answer the door. Behind him, Simon is paying for the takeout, making the delivery man look so nervous it would be funny if you didn't feel bad.

"Didn't have pants on yet. And Si, you don't have to--" He shoves the paper bag at you, cutting you off. Okay. Fair enough.

Johnny kicks his boots off haphazardly at the door. Simon takes his off neatly and sets both pairs neatly to the side.

Johnny's already in the kitchen, stowing beers in the fridge, then banging cupboards open and shut looking for plates. You'd think he'd remember by now, but he never does.

"You guys didn't have to skip the pub, you know," you say, unpacking the bag of takeout on the coffee table. "Everyone'll want to congratulate you."

"S'no fun without our little Ripper," Johnny says, tossing you one of the few beers you did have in the fridge, grinning. "Wouldn't even bother with the league without you."

"Don't be ridiculous," you say, laughing. "You guys are good. Best we've got."

[sentientcave]

IT'S WIP WEDNESDAY

I was gonna post something else but I wasn't happy with it and then had an emotional spiral and had to have a nap. So have more Rugby!

Transman reader - He also has a described tattoo. This also picks up right after this last bit I shared.

“Alright, fine,” you say, ducking under Simon’s hand. You peel off your t-shirt and hold your arms out, shaking your head. “Happy?”

All three of them give you an appreciative, considering, up and down glance. “Didn’t know you had tattoos.” Simon points to the big moth on your shoulder and the accompanying foliage that crawls over your shoulder and down your chest.

You shrug and shake out your t-shirt, preparing to put it back on. “Lots you don’t know. You lads done gawking or what?”

“No, turn around,” Johnny suggests. “Let’s see those back muscles.”

“No.” You start to put your shirt back on, but someone— Johnny— tugs it out of your hands and takes off across the park. “Hey!” you shout, running after him. “Johnny, get your ass back here!”

The cheeky grin he sends over his shoulder makes it clear that he’s not going to listen— Not going to stop until you make him stop. Like a puppy, too excited by the game to realize that you might be angry (you're not, but you could be), entirely too swept up in the thrill of being chased to think at all. You close the gap quickly enough though. He has endurance, can run for miles and miles, but in short sprints you can out-pace him. Your fingers brush his back, so he feints to one side and goes the other.

You know him too well— He’s done that move a thousand times in games— So you throw yourself the same way he goes, and you both crash into the ground.

The problem with that is that he really has the advantage in a grapple. He has reach, weight, experience that you do not, and he’s not afraid to use each and all of them to get you pinned face down in the grass.

“Aw, c’mon Ripper, s’that all ye’ve got?” he growls in your ear, mouth so close you swear you feel the graze of his teeth against your skin. “Thought ye were a scrapper.”

You manage to pitch your weight to the side and take him with you in a roll, and slide out of his grasp before he can get you pinned again, wrapping yourself around one shoulder and his neck. He tries to shake you loose, but you won’t let go, so the best he can do is roll onto his back with you underneath him. You hook one leg around one of his, and he just sort of flails, unable to do anything about it. You can’t really do anything about it either, but it feels like the closest you were going to get to a victory anyway.

A giggle pulls your attention to something behind you, and you let your head fall back to the grass so you can see the group of girls sitting just a couple of feet away, with their iced coffees and sketchbooks, laughing at your antics.

“Sorry ladies,” you pant, flashing them a grin. “He’s a rescue. Still can’t take him anywhere. Bad dog, Johnny.” You let up, and Johnny rolls over, laughing. At least with his bulk off of you, you can breathe again.

One of the girls leans over you a bit, still smiling. Her fingers brush across your shoulder playfully. She’s really pretty, warm brown eyes, coily hair piled up on top of her head, her smile so bright it’s a little like you’re staring directly at the sun. “I like your tattoo.”

“Oh yeah?” you ask. “I think you might like my number even more.”

[sentientcave]

IT'S WIP WEDNESDAY (Baybeeeeee) and P requested more Rugby so that's what you're getting. Everyone say thank you to @pfhwrittes

This is right after HERE if you're wondering where it fits in. I gotta finish this thang one of these days and post it all together in order.

Trans man reader, alcohol mention, food mention. All that and more right here below the cut:

"Joined for you," Simon grunts, settling in on the couch in front of you, dark eyes intense. "We was passin' by one of your practices and watched you get flattened by Roy four times in a row, but you just, 'opped right back up grinnin’. Johnny and I both thought you'd be a lad worth knowin'. Was right too." "Aw, sentimental much, Si," you tease. "Got yourself saddled with a runt just because you liked watching me get stomped on, eh?" "He likes doin' the stompin'," Johnny laughed. "Nightmare in bed, LT. Wouldna believe wha he puts me through." He drops the plates on a clear spot on the table and drops onto the couch beside Simon. "You probably deserve it," you tease, not really thinking about it. Not expecting Johnny to sit up straight and look at you like that, his blue eyes feverish, excited. "Oh aye?" He asked. "You think so do ye? You'd be real mean to me too, would ya?" "Easy, Johnny," Simon rumbles, gripping Johnny by the back of the neck. "He started it." You roll your eyes. "Did not." "Ye cannae tell a man you'd be mean ta him and say ye didna start it, Ripper. S'not playin' fair." "Didna say that. Said you deserved what Simon gives you. Not the same thing." "Pretty well the same. Got me all excited just the same." You give Simon a look. "Youd think he'd be tired after all that running around." "Never to tired to flirt, this one." Simon gave Johnny a little shake. "But 'e's a good boy." "Course he is. Johnny's our best boy." You drop into your chair and crack open your beer, grinning at the scandalized look on Johnny's face. "That one was on purpose." "Sure was." "Wee bastard. Dinnae even care what you're doin' ta me." "Oh fuck off, Tav, you do these things to yourself." He grins, leaning forward to put some egg rolls and a pile of noodles on his plate. "Sure, but I think of ye the whole time." You look at Simon, who's apparently hardly paying attention at all while his boyfriend flirts with you, more shameless than ever. You gesture at him, shaking your head. "You've got all this at home, and you're still going to flirt with anything you see, huh? Bit of a slag, Johnny." "You ever shagged a bloke, Rip?" Simon asks, before Johnny has a chance to come up with a response to that. "You only ever mention going out with girls." You snort. "Course I have." "Course ye have?" Johnny splutters. "What do ye mean? Like it's a fuckin' given?" "Johnny, settle down," Simon warns him. "S'just a question." You sip your beer and set it down, shaking your head. "I thought that's why we started hanging out,” you continue while you load up your own plate with greasy takeout, stomach growling. Chinese is pretty much the perfect meal after a game, better than pub food would have been. “We're the only queers in the club. I mean-- All my other friends are lesbians. Did you think I was just some kind of token straight guy?" “Fuck if I know, ye’ve never said as much,” Johnny says. “Would be rude to presume.” “Well, now you know,” you say, tossing the tv remote at him. “Find us something to watch.

[sentientcave]

I'm curious about the wip of the transmasc reader that wants to learn to use tools and blue collar 141 being like yes of course

I would love to share some of that but I have all of uh... 176 words. I got distracted.

But you can have those 176 words if you want!

“Look, I get that you want to learn, but my men and I are professionals, we can’t have someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing on a job site. It’s a liability.” Your stomach swooped down to settle somewhere below your feet. “Yeah. Yeah I get it.” “If you still want to move forward, I’ll send you some quotes.” “Yeah, thank you. I’ll let you know what I decide.” You end the call and slump over your desk, groaning. The sound echoes slightly in the big, empty space. Maybe it was stupid to think that you’d be able to help with any of it— If you wanted to learn, you’d just have to learn on your own, by researching and watching a thousand videos and eventually diving in. Maybe you’d fuck up here and there, but at least you wouldn’t have to put it all in someone else’s hands. This was your house! You’d bought it with your own hard earned money, and you wanted to turn it into a home.

Sorry I don't have more! I got distracted by Pompeii//Good Grief and Wildflowers and Honey and also a Price/Ex-Wife fic and also wrote more Retirement Party and also Daddy's Girl and Rugby. I should not be allowed any more WIPs but I can't fuckin' stop