#Wip meme

[sanguinarysanguinity]

I have Just enough understanding of what you're up to with 'Omega3-verse' to be both curious and also somewhat trepidatious... so do tell!!

So, you might remember a post by @jeejyboard that was making the rounds:

...yeah.

It was spawning season, when the Highland's departed sons and daughters returned in their masses, each seeking the glen of their birth. There were fewer on the roads these last years: too many killed at Culloden or exiled in France. The French exiles would arrive eventually, the poor brutes -- too late, haggard and wounded, to die alone and unsatisfied in the spawning grounds. So it had happened in the years after the '15, Ewen had been told, and the '19, too.

There was no small number of spawning Redcoats on the road, either, headed for Argyle, the Lowlands, or the southlands. Most had shed their eponymous red coats, the narrow backs of their uniforms burst by the bulging shoulders beneath. But even without their coats, they were still recognisable, their military footgear and distinctive waistcoats surviving their owners' increase somewhat better than their coats.

But Redcoat or Highlander, the salmon-kin were harmless so long as one did not impede their journey. It was not until they reached their respective spawning grounds that the cock hookjaws became fierce, their breeding fangs and newfound five stone of muscle at last finding employment -- but only against each other. So long as one posed no competition for the henfish, one had nothing to fear from the jealous cockfish. But there were always a few intrepid youth, who, more horny than wise, tried for one of the henfish and were savaged for their impudence. Lachlan, as a boy, had donned skirts and bonnet and almost succeeded in slipping in and out of the spawning grounds undetected, before running afoul of a hookjaw's wrath.

Ewen had never been tempted by such sport. He yielded to the salmon-kin on the roads, and guarded the privacy of Ardroy's spawning grounds so that the Cameron salmon-kin may conduct their affairs unmolested. When the season was over, he arranged for the pregnant henfish to be taken in and cared for, and likewise saw to the dead. Not one in twenty hookjaws survived the spawning grounds to see another season. They died of exhaustion or hunger or their festering wounds, their bodies a feasting for carrion-birds. Only a few kelts -- emaciated, wounded, and barely conscious -- were found alive, lying scarcely breathing among their dead kin. Ewen saw that they, too, were cared for. Most still died, but at least they died in comfort. They were as Cameron as those who never left, and the Clan took care of their own...

[char-writes]

3AM writing brain: We came up with so many ideas today!

Daytime writing brain: You put twelve unconnected words into a note app and there is not a single complete sentence to be found

3AM writing brain:

[huginsmemory]

I'm dying over here FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKK

[reagi-df]

Sketches

[solarmorrigan]

Mom says it's my turn to write about Eddie finding out about the fight between Billy and Steve post-S2 and I can’t wait to see it

Hello! This one was something just... very self-indulgent that I started writing when I was trying to get the wheels turning again. I love post-S2 AU's where Steve gets adopted by Eddie/Hellfire generally, and my favorite part is always the reveal of everything that went down between Steve and Billy

The whole fic is actually done, I just never posted it because I wasn't sure how much interest there would be, since it's mostly Steve and Eddie talking that night out (and flirting awkwardly). But here's a snippet! (Also, in case context doesn't make it clear, the fic as a whole is not Hargrove-friendly; just as a heads up!)

Steve makes it to the bathroom down the hall from the shop classroom—the one that’s far from the cafeteria and always empty during lunch, where people really only come to smoke, anyway—before he completely loses his shit. “Son of a bitch!” He’s almost screaming as he hauls off and punches the wall of one of the bathroom stalls, putting every ounce of anger and frustration and humiliation into it, hitting it so hard that the whole construction rattles. “Motherfucker,” he hisses, shaking his hand out, because it had hurt, and then he winds up to do it again, to make it hurt more, because at least he’s in control of that much, at least it’s anything but what he’s feeling right now. “That’s a good way to break your hand, y’know,” a voice comes from the doorway, startling Steve into pivoting and aiming his fist at whoever is coming after him now. He stops short when he sees nobody but Eddie goddamn Munson standing there, cringing into a startled flinch to protect his head as Steve nearly swings at him. “Jesus shit,” Steve barks, dropping his fist and stepping back, shaky with adrenaline. “You walk like a fucking ghost, Munson.” Munson peeks out of his defensive crouch before straightening up and sending a meaningful glance at the stall wall. “Somehow, I don’t think you would’ve heard me even if I was making all the noise in the world.”

[finemealcreates]

This is a meme for a story stuck in WIP hell :3

[bardic-inspo]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by the lovely @kalmiaphlox & @pursuitseternal 💜 (& later by @nyx-knox 💜)

Been working on my new fic, Aeterna Nostalgia. Summary below:

Astarion’s carefully crafted empire is thrown into upheaval when his bride falls victim to a modify memory spell. Without any memory of her lover or her own vampirism, his dark consort is a threat to both herself and her sire.   Astarion must win back her trust and affections, all while hunting down whoever sought to break the most powerful bond in Faerûn.

A little more from chapter two. Co-dependency go brrrrrrr (that's not the actual chapter title. But maybe it could be 'Co-dependency go OUCH').

[Astarion's] own thoughts constantly snag on the thorn-sharp fear turning their link into a prickling, untenable tether. Tenderly, he reaches out to graze her consciousness the same way he might tuck her hair behind her ear. But the surface of her thoughts is scalding. He bites back a hiss, recoiling from the connection.  They’ve had ill feelings before. They’ve shared rage, aired grievances, vented disappointments. All of it dissolves in the balm of their bond. Through it, he feeds her consolation. Comfort. And in the same manner, she soothes the fleeting but many frustrations of the most powerful vampire the world has ever known. At times, she’s been reluctant. At others, he’s been stubborn. But sooner or later, with or without coaxing, they both succumb to the salve that is each other. 

Tagging in turn @electricshoebox, @totally-not-deacon, @brain-rot-central, @astarionancuntnin, and @pinkberrytea to share if you'd like! No worries if you'd rather not. 💜

[khorazir]

WIP Meme

I was tagged by @nuttersinc to share something from my current WIP. It’s from chapter 3 of the Payneland fic The Case of the Stolen Barrow:

“Wait for us, or better, come back down,” calls Crystal, before muttering, “What a fucking mess,” under her breath. She makes to walk on, but Charles grabs the sleeve of her jacket.

“Wait,” he hisses. “Something’s off.”

“Everything’s off here,” she returns, before drawing her jacket more tightly around herself. “For one, it’s getting colder by the minute. Do you guys feel that, too?”

“Yes, we do,” nods Edwin, intrigued by the chill creeping into his garments and making the hairs on the back on his hand stand up. He has not felt this kind of cold in more than a century, bone-chilling fear aside. The Doll House in Hell was a humid mess, always slightly too cold or too warm for comfort but never this chilly. He looks at Charles, who is frowning deeply as he zips up his Harrington jacket.

“Edwin, I can’t think up my black coat,” he says while a visible shiver runs through him.

Concentrating on materialsing his own tweed overcoat to hand it to Charles to keep him warm, Edwin realises that he can’t, either. Normally, making their clothes requires only very little energy, but now it feels like an impossibly difficult task. On his wrist, the glowing cord flickers, a sure sign that Edwin’s magic is increasingly compromised.

“Something seems to be actively blocking my powers now,” says Crystal, her teeth clattering.

“My magic, too,” says Edwin. He steps closer to Charles who even more than Crystal is shaking with cold now, his face pale and his lips tinged blue, deep dark shadows under his eyes. He looks shockingly like the frightened boy dying of internal bleeding and hypothermia whom Edwin encountered in the attic of St. Hilarion’s thirty-five years ago.

“Charles?” he enquires softly, hesitantly reaching out to rub his shaking shoulder encouraginly.

“I’m okay, mate,” rasps Charles. “Just fucking freezing. Haven’t been this cold since ... well. You know. Since I died.”

“Have you got a blanket or something in your backpack?” asks Crystal, also huddling closer for warmth, despite the two ghosts being unable to produce any she could actually feel.

“Yeah, think so,” replies Charles, visibly lightening up. He begins to rummage in his pack while Edwin calls out to the pictsies again.

This time, the only reply he gets is a hissing murmur, like wind sighing over the turf. “Yes, we are up here. We are waiting for you. Come now, come to us.”

“Those aren’t the pictsies speaking,” mutters Charles, his uncorded arm buried in the depths of his bag. “For one, they don’t say ‘yes’. They say ‘aye’.”

“Brilliantly observed, Charles,” nods Edwin. “This begs the question, however, of who is speaking.”

“Someone capable of doing some really fucked up magic,” says Crystal. Then she sighs when Charles wraps a patterned blanket round her shoulders – one Edwin knitted over the course of several years, in fact, while wearing his disguise. Snuggling into it, she huffs a thanks. “Guys, I think we should turn round and head back down. We can’t just blindly – literally – walk further into this fog. We don’t even know what we’re up against.”

“I agree,” says Charles. “This feels like that chapter of Lord of the Rings you read to me two days ago, Edwin. You know, when the hobbits travel through the Barrow-Downs and get lost in the fog, and end up in that old barrow and—” He stares at Edwin wide-eyed when apparently, he has an epiphany.

“You think that’s what we’re dealing with here? A barrow-wight or something?”

Edwin nods thoughtfully. “I have never come across any account that hints at those creatures being real, but given these strange circumstances, I would not rule it out. Good thinking, Charles. The question is, how do we proceed? We could head down, but that would not solve the actual problem.”

“Getting lost in a fucking magical mist wouldn’t, either,” growls Crystal.

“We can still nagivate by the lie of the land,” says Edwin. He takes a few cautious steps up the slope towards a darker shadow that can only be the tree-gate Fergus spoke about. It was right across their path. They cannot have missed it.

Crack!

I tag @discordantwords @raina-at and @jrow

[kraehenkunst]

👀

Wynafryd and Wylla Manderly

[missmungoe]

I Hope it's not too late to send a whole bouquet of roses

🌹🌹🌹

I still have a bunch of these in my inbox from the last WIP meme, and am hoping that posting some snippets might help get me back into the writing groove! I've also been itching to get back into this fic, so from the next chapter of Salt Vows:

Someone was patting her cheek.

Blinking awake found the room doused in buttery light, the parting kiss of a setting sun, its long limbs stretched across the floor towards her where she lay. Her face was pressed into something soft, like a carpet.

Realisation found her by degrees: that she was on the floor, and closely at its heels―that she had no idea where she was.

Before she could unearth an answer from her surroundings, there was another gentle pat to her upturned cheek, before a happy little coo drew her attention to the source, and squinting through the sunlight found a familiar face, soft, round cheeks, and big doe-brown eyes identical to the ones she found in the mirror every morning, creased with a grin she knew still more intimately, although Shanks' was nowhere near as innocent.

Grinning, their son watched her, his cheek pressed into the carpet where he’d scooted close, the tips of their noses nearly touching. A tiny hand patted her cheek as he giggled, as though they were playing a game.

Her own smile swept away some of her disorientation, and, “Hey,” Makino murmured, lifting her hand to thread her fingers through his hair, warmed by the sunlight.

That’s when it hit her―that her baby was supposed to be in Fuschia.

She sat upright so fast it made her head spin, and sucked a hiss through her teeth, the heel of her palm pressed to her brow to dampen the throbbing ache splitting her skull. Had she hit her head?

Her memories were fragmented, jagged pieces that barely fit together. She’d been on Emptee Bluffs, with Cross Guild. There’d been a party; she remembered talking to Buggy and Mihawk, and stealing the keys for Smoker's cell, but then…

Looking up at her surroundings, she stilled.

To say the room was big felt like a pitiful description, taking in the grandest chamber she'd ever seen, a space so vast the ceiling vaulted overhead, the curved arches painted with frescoes, the kind she'd only ever read about. Tall, arched windows lined the walls in front of her from floor to ceiling, although the sunlight pouring through them made it hard to see anything beyond but uninterrupted sky, although there was enough within the chamber to distract her, her wide eyes drinking in the expensive furnishings, velvet-upholstered chairs and large, mahogany bookshelves, and a marble fireplace carved with nymphs and flowers so lifelike, she half-expected one of them to move.

She didn't breathe, captivatd by the sight. This wasn’t Cross Guild’s city of tents, or the brig of a ship, although beyond that, Makino couldn’t begin to guess where she was.

On the floor beside her, Ace was babbling, and looking him over found him as he’d been on the morning of her arrest, not a scratch on him, or any evidence that he’d been harmed, happily distracted by the carpet, the threads dyed a deep, vibrant red, interspersed with a repeating pattern of blue and white, a circular symbol that snagged her attention, although before she could recognise it―

“Have you collected yourself?”

The voice startled her―she’d been so distracted by her surroundings, she hadn’t even realised there was anyone else within the room―and her head snapped around, only to find a man seated on the velvet chaise behind her.

He was older, around Garp’s age or close, his serious features weathered from a long life, although it wasn't work and regret that had lefts its marks on this face, observing the grooves carved between his brows and at the corners of his severe mouth, holding none of the warmth she associated with Garp. Whatever had hewn these features, it wasn't kindness.

They tapered to a narrow chin; he had a long, pointed beard, styled like his hair in a severe, crescent curve that she might have called flashy on anyone else. A pair of tinted, half-moon glasses perched on the hooked tip of his nose, but despite his age, the eyes above were sharp, and shrewd.

Suppressing the shiver that climbed up her spine, gripped by that hard gaze, “Where am I?” Makino rasped, although it took hearing the tremble in her voice to realise what she was feeling.

Fear.

And she already knew she wasn’t in East Blue, or anywhere close, although nothing could have prepared her for the truth as the stranger told her, his deep voice betraying no more than his unyielding features, “Mariejois.”

Her heart stilled.

The gaze holding hers revealed no glee at this revelation, although right then Makino thought she would have preferred it, or anything that resembled a feeling of some kind. Even the Fleet Admiral, for all his contempt of her and everything she represented, had still looked at her like she was human. This man...

He hadn’t taken his eyes off her, and searching his face, she was arrested by a sense of familiarity, taking in the stillness in his tall frame, recogniseable as a swordman’s even without the sabre at his waist. But it was the severe downturn of his mouth that tugged at something in her chest, an almost intimate recognition, although the face that appeared in her mind was different, hewn with feeling, and the wide mouth shaping his expressions made for smiling.

The man before her looked like he hadn’t smiled a day in his life, and the shiver in her voice betrayed the first inkling of realisation, as Makino asked him,

“Who are you?”

[dsudis]

Last line tag game

Thanks to @teejaystumbles for tagging me just when I've actually written something for the first time in ages!

As he sat down, Finn was drinking from his cup, still watching Hob intently from over the rim. Hob smiled at him as reassuringly as he could, and said, "That's good, sweetheart. That's perfect. Dream, would you like... coffee, or tea or anything?"  Dream's lips parted--Hob could see the polite but inevitable no, thank you, I do not need such things forming on his lips--and then he glanced down toward Finn.  Finn was no longer drinking from his cup, but was still holding it near his mouth, and was watching Dream intently.  "Thank you," Dream said. "I would like a cup of milk, please, and perhaps some bread?"  "Yes, of course," Hob said immediately, catching the notion that Dream wanted to model proper accepting-offered-food behavior for Finn, and sternly shushing the part of him that was all but dancing a jig at finally getting Dream to accept anything from him. 

Now that I'm all done with smol!Dream, time to radically change gears and work on the fic where... Hob and Dream are parenting Finn! Look, you can tell this one is different because there is no cheese on toast!

So far!

Ahem. Tagging (with no pressure, of course, only if you both want to play and remember to do so!) @that-banhus, @softest-punk, @pellaaearien, @marvagon, @missingrache, @moorishflower, and @the-apocrypha!

[honestlydarkprincess]

[Image ID: meme guy in the middle with arrows going in a circle saying start a new wip, get bored, start a new wip, get bored. End ID]

[oathkeeperoxas]

👀👀👀 More surrogate Ice fic? Please?

This fic is going to end up being 80% domestic fluff. As I deserve

-

Maverick hammers the last nail into the joint, the satisfying feeling of it biting into the wood letting him know that he’s doing a clean job.

“How did this even happen?” Maverick asks Ice, who is holding the ladder steady for him.

Ice sighs. “You can’t laugh.”

“Oh, this will be fucking good,” Maverick grins, putting the hammer in his toolbox so he can tug at the landing to make sure everything is tight.

“I tripped,” Ice says. “Which would have been fine normally, but–”

“But currently something that can’t be brushed off, yeah,” Maverick agrees.

“My centre of balance is off,” Ice complains. “I’m not even showing yet. It shouldn’t happen.”

Maverick pretends to be busy staring at his repairs so he won’t have to look at Ice. Ice might like to think that he’s not visibly pregnant, but Maverick can definitely tell. Not that he lets Ice catch him looking.

“Anyway, I was carrying some of the stuff for the nursery,” Ice sighs. “Maybe more than I should have been. Okay, I was carrying one of the crib pieces up there.”

“That giant hardwood thing?” Maverick asks, alarmed. “By yourself?”

“I can do things by myself,” Ice says, a little pissy. “I’m not helpless.”

“I wouldn’t want anyone to carry it up those stairs alone,” Maverick frowns, stepping down the ladder. “Are you okay?”

“It breaks up into pieces,” Ice tells him, like that should make it better. “But that was one of the… bigger pieces. And because I was trying not to fall over, I dropped it. And it went over the side of the railing, catching the landing on the way down. And landing on a cabinet and breaking it.”

Huh. Yeah, Maverick does remember that there used to be a cabinet here.

“I got rid of that, but I thought that climbing up on the ladder to fix the landing might not be a good idea.”

“Yeah,” Maverick says. “Especially when I’m right down the road.”

“Thank you,” Ice says as Maverick picks the ladder up to put it in Ice’s garage with the toolbox.

“No problem,” Maverick tells him. “As long as you’re feeding me in return.”

Send me a 👀 + a title, and I'll write you at least three sentences!

[solarmorrigan]

Siren!Steve please!

Hullo! I posted a little bit about this one the other day, but here's another snippet!

Warning for a little bit of blood here, just in case

“Oh, shit!” Eddie exclaims, jumping back with enough force that the merman’s grip is broken. “You’re alive!” The merman seems similarly surprised, staring up at Eddie with fright and confusion in his hazel eyes, before he’s trying to scramble back across the rocky ground. He makes it a few feet pulling himself with his arms, but when he tries to go further with a powerful twist of his core, he lets out a pained gasp and stops, pressing his hands to the bloody bite marks on his sides. He’s breathing heavily, looking down at his wounded torso with something nearly like incomprehension, pulling his fingers away to see the blood smeared there, and Eddie takes an almost reflexive step forward. “Hey–” The merman jerks back, literally hissing at Eddie through a set of sharp teeth, and Eddie freezes. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” Eddie promises, hands raised in front of him in a way he really hopes conveys innocence. “I swear, I mean you no harm, I – shit, do you speak English? Do you even understand me? Shit, what if you only speak, like, fish? Is that a thing? Fish language?” Eddie is fully aware that he’s rambling, but somewhere beyond the skipping track that is his brain right now, he sees the merman look him up and down consideringly and then nod slowly. “Oh shit, fish language is a thing?” Eddie asks. “Wait, no.” The merman raises his eyebrows at Eddie and, in spite of everything, he looks almost amused. “Alright, Aquaman, don’t laugh at me, I’m a little stressed. I’ve never met a mer… person, before,” Eddie says, and the merman continues to look amused, if a little puzzled.

[johaerys-writes]

WIP ask game

I was tagged by @baejax-the-great to do this, thanks pal!

Rules: Make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! Then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

I've got a ton of random WIPs right now so let's see what we have... mostly it's patrochilles with a couple original pieces I've been working on:

1. BBB

2. monsterhunting blues

3. WMD

4. Victorian Patrochilles

5. Modern a/b/o

6. cockwarming

7. pyrrha worship

8. Disasters sequel

9. BBB prequel

10. Pleasure slave au

tagging forth to: @midnightprelude @hekateinhell @monstersinthecosmos @cordelia---rose @aristi-achaion @tragediegh @starlightvld @vimlos @supernova3space @maxdurden and anyone else who wants to do this!

[educatedinyellow]

WIP game

Rules: You will be given a word. Share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that start with each letter of that word.

Thanks so much for thinking of me, @thetimemoves! :)

The word I was given is: NAPE. These are from my little Vimes/Vetinari thing <3

N

Nobby had bunged off, naturally, though the three grimy pennies Vimes found in a line by his ashtray had been accepted as a vote of sympathy. Vimes and Fred had taken up the foot of the box; the new kid had handled the front on his own. Between the three of them, they got her to the right patch of ground. Someone had probably said a few words. He remembers the sound of rain.

A

And of course, if Vetinari were in any shape to give orders, he'd tell him not to make waves. The people in this room are the arseholes he has to answer to as long as the world runs from the top down, which it always has and always will. In order to make even the smallest progress, he's got to win them over. He's heard it a hundred times: Easy does it.

Which is all well and good, except that, in Vimes's considered opinion, easy does shit. What this problem calls for is an axe in the council table, and Vimes is more than happy to put it there. Sometimes your statements have to scream.

P

"Please stop. You forget, I already know about your questionable adolescent tastes. You had a thing for practical thinkers a good deal older and deader than you, and she does tick those boxes."

E

Exhaustion did its best to knock him over, but his feet were veterans. They carried him, barely swaying, down the stairs to borrow a broom.

~~~~~~~~

I'm not sure who has already been tagged on this one, but I'll hazard a call to @sanguinarysanguinity, @oldshrewsburyian, @herebesherlocks, and anyone else with WIP files they'd enjoy dusting off and poking through for fun! :) If you'd like to play, I will give you the word: GREAT.