#and yes this is from a WIP I WILL NOT BE SHARING EARLY I PROMISE

[withacapitalp]

tagged by @stargyle and @thefreakandthehair thanks yall I love getting tagged in these things!!

RULES: post the last sentence you wrote (fanfic / original / anything) and tag as many people as there are words in the sentence

And all Steve has now is a gravestone above an empty grave, a stone dedicated to a boy who had never really belonged to him in the first place. 

Twenty. Nine. LIAM WRITE SMALLER SENTENCES CHALLENGE

@stevethehairington @riality-check @subbaculture @thelastwalkingsoul @henderdads @steveshairychest @stevesbipanic @strawberryspence @frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe @willowworkswithwords @unclewaynemunson @hexiewrites @legitcookie @steddiealltheway @sidekick-hero @yournowheregirl @steventhusiast @cassaloopa @hairstevington @sharpbutsoft @findafight @i-less-than-three-you @bayouteche @shares-a-vest @spoookysix @maxinemaxmayfield @maxineholtzmann @findafight @farahsamboolents @cranberrymoons

[mari-positas]

call it what it is

Jackson! Joel Miller x Female Reader

summary: A disagreement over patrol duty leads to declarations that have been long overdue.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. established relationship. HEFTY AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and joel is 56). ellie and joel are fine bc i said so and they deserve nothing less. reader handles a rifle, joel’s a little too overprotective and almost seems controlling, but i promise he is not. well, maybe just a smidge. arguing, admission of feelings, joel miller says i love you (yes this is ooc, no i do not care bc i need this old man to tell me he loves me). angst, fluff. quite a bit of side character interaction before we get to joel and reader in the second half. the only physical description of reader is that she is shorter than joel. fair warning, i am quite rusty.

word count: 4.2k

a/n: hi hello. i have not shared a wip in over 2 months. i was going back and forth on whether or not i wanted to share a fic with so much going on but decided i wanted to get back to doing what i enjoy. that and ofc that new footage was a boost of inspo. i am sending so, so much love to anyone who happens to see this author note, whether you read this fic or just happen to see this note in passing whilst scrolling. i know things have been tough, but i am here with you. <3

Joel wakes with a gentle start. Yawning, he rolls over from his side onto his back, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as warm, golden sunlight filters into the bedroom through the sheer, white linen curtains drawn over the window. He stares up at the ceiling, his breathing slow, steady, and even. He’s still getting used to it, it seems. Waking this calmly, with a tranquil peace he had been so certain he would never in his life feel again. He knew it couldn’t be a mere coincidence the nightmares had all but stopped tormenting him in his sleep when the two of you stopped doing that awkward little tap dance around one another and began sharing a bed, a home, a life.

No more bolting upright in sheer panic in the middle of the night, heart pounding and drenched head to toe in a cold sweat. No more believing he’s failing in his sleep. No more waking up feeling like he’s lost something.

Even his dreams about Sarah had become so, so much more pleasant. Images of her in that field on that night were replaced by different memories, like watching her teammates dogpile her after she’d scored the winning goal in their soccer tournament, or the big, triumphant grin she’d flashed him over her chocolate milkshake as the pair sat in their usual corner booth at their favorite fifties-themed diner in Austin—much to Joel’s surprise, Sarah had politely declined her teammates’ invitation for pizza once the match ended, choosing to celebrate her victory with him. Just the two of them.

“Y’sure you don’t wanna go with your friends, kiddo?” he’d asked, raising an eyebrow. He had been certain she was approaching the age where she would start spending less and less time with her old man. “I wouldn’t mind, y’know.”

“Positive,” she had reassured him with a smile, looping her arm through his and leading him off the pitch. “I’d much rather be with you, dad.”

Rather than smelling metallic in his slumber, he smells the grass that stained her white and blue striped jersey. Her cheeks are smeared with dirt, not with crimson.

Stifling another loud yawn, Joel stretches his arm out over towards your side of the bed, his calloused fingers seeking the warmth and softness of your naked body—instead, all they find are empty sheets, cold and long abandoned. He turns his head, and as suspected, you are not laying there beside him. That’s hardly out of the ordinary. Out of the two of you, you were the early riser, up before the neighbors’ rooster even had the chance to sound the alarm. Joel knows how much you treasure your quiet mornings lounging on the porch swing he’d built for you as you watched the sunrise with a hot cup of coffee in hand. He often made a genuine effort to get up and join you, but lately, his patrol rotations had been all over the place thanks to a shortage of patrolmen. He found himself sleeping in whenever he had the chance, seeing as he never knew when he might have to work a damn double. Or maybe it was just his age catching up with him.

He checks the time and then rolls out of bed, groaning when his sore knees and his aching lower back protest his movement.

After taking a quick shower using whatever hot water the kid had left for him after her own shower—much to his annoyance, it was not very much—Joel brushes his teeth and gets dressed for the day before pulling on his boots and heading downstairs into the kitchen where he finds the culprit responsible for the cold downpour he’d been forced to wash himself under. Ellie’s sitting at the table, absentmindedly stirring her oatmeal around her bowl with her spoon as she flips through one of her comic books. Just as he’s about to greet her, he spots the clean, empty coffee pot on the kitchen counter and frowns. You hadn’t even made coffee yet?

Now, that—that is out of the ordinary.

“Where is she?” he asks.

“Well, good morning to you too, old man. Oh, I slept great, thanks for asking,” Ellie quips without looking up at him as she flips the page. She mumbles something under her breath he doesn’t quite catch, something like, and you get on my ass about my manners?

Rolling his eyes, Joel snorts in response and pads over to the coffee maker on the counter. He spoons in some of the grounds he’d traded for earlier that week into the reusable filter, pours in water from the tap, and turns it on to brew. He grabs two ceramic mugs from the wire dish rack beside the sink and sets them down on the counter. “She out back?” he questions, yanking the refrigerator door open—he tries to remember the little things, like how you enjoyed your coffee with a bit of milk as well as a dash of cinnamon, if you had the rations, or something to trade for the precious spice. He always made sure that you did.

“Nope.” Ellie shovels a spoonful of oatmeal into her mouth and adds thickly, “She went to get some eggs.”

Joel shoots her a look of disgust over his shoulder. “Jesus, Ellie! How many times do I gotta tell you? Don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s bad manners,” he scolds her, shaking his head. He turns his attention back to the refrigerator. As he reaches for the glass bottle of milk, he pauses and his eyebrows pull together in confusion when he sees the wicker basket on the top shelf. “Wait a minute.” He feels her stiffen in her chair. “Why the hell would she go get eggs when we’ve got a full basket of ‘em right here in the fridge?”

She clears her throat. “Oh, uh, my bad. I got confused. Think she said she was gonna go get more honey? Uh, I used the last of it to make my breakfast this morning and she, uh—she wanted some for her toast. You know, ‘cause she really likes putting honey on her toast,” she rambles before piling more oatmeal into her mouth.

Closing the refrigerator door, he turns to her, his eyes narrowing with suspicion as uneasiness settles deep in the pit of his stomach. “Ellie?”

There’s a momentary pause. “...yeah?”

This time, Joel doesn’t bother to chastise the teenager for talking with her mouth full. “Where is she?”

Ellie nervously swallows her food and holds up both of her hands. “Hey, I already fucking told you, man.”

“Look, I know you like the back of my own hand, kiddo. And I know damn good and well when you’re lying to me.” Joel crosses his arms over his chest. “Now tell me the truth. What do you know that I don’t?”

Groaning, Ellie sits back in her chair. “Ugh. She made me swear not to tell you! She’ll fucking strangle me if I do—”

“Yeah, well, not if I fuckin’ strangle you first myself,” he threatens her. “M’Serious, Ellie. Tell me what’s going on. Right now.”

“Alright, alright! Jesus,” she huffs. “She’s with Tommy. He’s been taking her out of town to do target practice in the mornings, just the two of them. She usually gets back to the house before you get up,” she admits.

Joel’s arms fall back to his sides, his shoulders tense. “And how long has this been goin’ on?” he asks, rigidly. There’s a sudden tightness inside his chest, a feeling he hasn’t felt it in a while, but is still all too familiar to him.

After Tommy spread the word around town that more people were needed for patrol duties, you’d expressed an interest in the role, but Joel had been all too quick to shut you down, telling you he didn’t want you stepping foot outside the community’s gates.

“No,” he’d said. “Not happenin’. S’too dangerous.”

“But Joel—”

“I said,” he lowered his voice. “No.”

He hadn’t offered you an explanation as to why he was against it, refused to give you one good, solid reason as to why it was acceptable for him to risk his own life to protect Jackson, but it wasn’t acceptable for you to do the same.

Joel hadn’t known how to tell you the truth. How he needed you far, far more than you needed him, how the mere thought of losing you, the best fucking thing that could have possibly happened to him since the world ended, made him feel like his heart was going to stop.

A few weeks had passed since then, and thankfully, you never brought it up to him again. You had lost interest in patrol duty. Or so he’d thought.

“How long has this been going on?” he repeats after a minute.

“C’mon, man! Haven’t I already snitched enough?”

“Ellie,” Joel bites out her name. “Tell me. How long?”

She sighs in defeat. “Two weeks? Maybe three?” When she notices the muscle in his jaw tick, she grimaces. “You do realize why she didn’t fucking tell you, right?”

“Don’t,” he warns her, sharply.

“I’m just saying,” Ellie mutters, peering down into her bowl.

Without another word, Joel angrily storms past her and straight out the front door, snatching up his rifle on the way. He heads straight for the stables, trying to ignore the anxiety flaring inside of his chest.

Focus.

Now, breathe in. And breathe out.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe...

You exhale as you slowly squeeze the trigger.

Y’squeeze it like you love it, you had been told by your reluctant instructor.

The round fires off into the distance and you swiftly grab the bolt handle, bringing it up, back, forward, and then down again. You pull the trigger once more, then repeat and continue firing one shot after the other for a total of five rounds.

The rifle’s recoil nearly sends you flying backwards, but a strong hand on your back keeps you nice and steady. That same hand then moves to your shoulder and gives you three firm taps.

“Alright, alright! Christ,” Tommy laughs. He withdraws his arm from around you and shakes his head. “Fuckin’ calm down, Annie Oakley.”

Picking up his binoculars, he rises to his feet and looks through the lens at the makeshift targets that he’d set up for you, three empty soup cans lined up in a row on top of a wooden fence about twenty-five yards away—your longest shooting distance to date.

“Well?” You don’t even bother masking your impatience as you lower the rifle, carefully propping the weapon up against the tree stump you’re perched behind. Rubbing your sore shoulder, you hope the kickback won’t leave a bruise. You wouldn’t know how to explain that to Joel. “How did I do?”

His response comes in the form of a long, low whistle.

There is no telling if that had been good whistle, or if it had been a bad one. You groan. Now was not the time for him to dick around. “Please tell me I got at least one of them?”

“You got ‘em all, actually.” Tommy replies, lowering the binoculars and peering down at you. There’s a glimmer of pride in his eyes. “Good job, kid.”

Kid? Not exactly a nickname one wants to be called by the brother of the much, much older man that they are romantically involved with. It’d taken Tommy months to accept your relationship with Joel, especially when you moved your things out of your unit and into his over the summer. Part of you wonders if him referring to you as a kid is simply his own subtle way of telling you—no, of reminding you, that he’s still not comfortable with it.

And perhaps he never would be.

After all, you had still been a teenager when you first arrived to Jackson a few years ago, stumbling upon the town just a few months shy of the twentieth birthday you weren’t sure you would survive long enough to see.

You were indeed a kid when you’d met Tommy Miller.

Were.

Scowling up at him, you snap, “I told you to stop calling me that. I’m not nineteen anymore, Tommy.”

Having read your mind, he gives you a small smile and acknowledges, “Yeah, you’re right. You definitely ain’t a kid anymore.” He offers you his hand and hoists you up to your feet. Before dropping your hand, he gives it an apologetic squeeze.

You relax a little and smile back at him. “Did I really get all three?”

Tommy nods. “You sure did. You’re a damn good shot. I gotta be honest with you—I didn’t expect you to be this fuckin’ good,” he admits sheepishly.

Chuckling, you scoff, “Thanks. I think.”

“It’s a compliment, sugar.” He winks and flashes you a lopsided grin. “In fact, I’d say my work here is done.”

“Great! So when are you putting me on the roster?”

His grin instantly vanishes. “Uh, listen. About that....”

He trails off, and your heart sinks a little.

Tommy wouldn’t back out of this now—would he?

“Oh, no. Don’t you dare go back on your word, Miller,” you say, lightly poking him in the chest. “We had a deal. You said if I did well enough, you’d think about it.”

He nods in agreement. “Exactly. Said I’d think about it. And I think that puttin’ you on the roster for patrol ain’t a good idea.”

Your mouth falls open. If he never had any intention of holding up his end of the bargain, then what had been the point of teaching you how to shoot?

You didn’t understand.

“You just said it yourself, I’m a great shot! I’m a good on horseback, too. I’m stealthy. I’m diligent. What more do you fucking need from me, Tommy?”

Tommy’s chest heaves with a heavy sigh. “Joel would fuckin’ murder me with his bare hands if I even thought about puttin’ you on patrol duty. Hell, he’d murder me just knowin’ we’re out here and I’m teachin’ you how to shoot. It’s a damn fuckin’ miracle he still hasn’t caught onto this, y’know.”

Shocked, your eyebrows shoot to your hairline. “This is about Joel? Are you serious?”

“‘Course it is.” He pauses. “Listen, now I know the three of us had our—differences—when he first told me ‘bout you two. Still takin’ me a bit of gettin’ used to, but I can see he’s real serious about you. I know my brother, and I know he won’t risk losin’ what’s most important to him. Ain’t no way in hell. He doesn’t want you out here and you know that as well as I do.” Tommy shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, shrugging as he shuffles his weight from one cowboy boot to the other. “Unless he’s alright with it, I ain’t gonna put you on the roster.”

For a moment, you’re at a complete loss for words.

Upon seeing the crestfallen expression on your face, he makes a suggestion. “You can try talkin’ to him ‘bout it again if it means that much to you. Ask him—”

“Ask?” You want to laugh. You almost do. “I’m an adult, Tommy. I don’t need his permission to do this. Or to do anything for that matter. Joel doesn’t tell me what I can and can’t do.”

Tommy smiles wryly. “Well then, if that’s the case, why are we sneakin’ around and doin’ this behind his back?”

Your shoulders slump in defeat.

Because the ramifications could be disastrous.

Joel had made his stance on the matter abundantly clear, and yet here you were, deliberately disobeying him.

“Stumped you real good, didn’t I?”

Before you can even start to think about how you can possibly respond to that, you hear the sound of hooves in the dirt behind you, followed by whinny of a horse.

Tommy’s face pales as he glances over your shoulder.

“Shit.”

There’s no need for you to ask. His grimace says it all.

Somehow, you will yourself to turn around just as Joel’s steed comes to a halt beside the mare you and Tommy had ridden out on together. He jumps out of the saddle, grunting at the forceful impact on his knees when his feet hit the ground. His rifle hangs from a worn, brown leather strap slung across his back.

He approaches the two of you looking absolutely livid, and your throat goes dry.

“The hell is goin’ on here?” He breezes right past you, roughly shoving his brother with both hands. “Why the fuck would you bring her out here, Tommy? What the fuck is the matter with you?”

“Joel, c’mon. Take it easy—”

“Don’t fuckin’ tell me to take it easy!”

“Joel!” You reach for his arm. “Wait, it’s not his fault!”

Joel shoves him again, then takes him by the collar of his shirt and pins him against the ponderosa pine tree behind him. “You’ve been bringin’ her outside the gates behind my fuckin’ back for weeks, asshole?”

The panic begins to set in—he’s taking his anger out on the wrong person, and deep down, he knows this too.

“Joel! Stop! Let him go!” Grabbing fistfuls of his jacket, you try pulling him off of the younger man. “Stop it! It’s not his fault! I asked Tommy to bring me out here!”

He whirls around, his nostrils flared, jaw clenched.

You’ve seen this side of him a handful of times before.

But his anger has never been directed at you.

“What?”

Immediately, you let go of him and take a step back. “I asked Tommy to bring me out here and teach me how to shoot so that I can start working patrol,” you explain, hoping, praying, he doesn’t catch the slight tremble in your voice. “This was all my idea, okay? If you’re going to be mad at someone, then be mad at me. Not at him.”

“So you did this after I fuckin’ told you I didn’t want you out here?” Joel seethes. His neck becomes flushed, his tan skin now a deep shade of red.

“Joel—”

He cuts you off. “I had to find out from Ellie? You tried to get her to fuckin’ lie to me? After all the work it took for me and her to—” Stopping mid sentence, he places his hands on his hips and shakes his head.

“Joel. Please.” Behind the anger in his dark brown eyes, you detect something else. A mingle of hurt, concern—fear?

Tommy awkwardly clears his throat. “Well I’m, uh—I’m gonna head back to town,” he says, touching a hand to the back of his neck. “I’ll let the two of you work things out in private.” As he passes Joel, he lightly claps him on the shoulder. “Girl’s a sharp shooter, big brother. I’d reckon she’s almost better than you.”

His effort to lighten the mood fails. Miserably.

Offering you a subtle nod of encouragement, Tommy hops into the saddle of his mare and takes off towards the commune.

Silence falls over the both of you. It feels suffocating.

Unfamiliar.

Finally, you speak. “Joel, please just hear me out—”

“What the hell were you thinkin’? Or were you just not thinkin’ at all?”

“I was thinking I want to pull my weight in Jackson.”

“You already have a fuckin’ job,” Joel reminds you.

“Making sandwiches and serving whiskey at The Tipsy Bison?” You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “I am capable of more than that, Joel. So much more. Don’t you believe I’m capable of doing more?”

“I don’t want you out here,” he grits through his teeth. “Capable or not, I don’t want you outside Jackson’s walls. I don’t want you on patrol and that’s fuckin’ final. You understand me?” Now it’s him who falters, and you wonder if you’re imagining things, or if that’s really a tear you see sliding down the side of his face, disappearing into the salt and pepper scruff of his beard.

“That’s not your decision to make, Joel. It’s mine.”

“M’responsible for you. It’s my job to look after you—to protect you.”

Something about the way he is looking at you, it feels like a punch to the gut, and it’s at that precise moment when you begin to realize that he’s not angry. He’s afraid.

“Joel, I know that all you want to do is protect me,” you sigh, letting your arms fall down to your sides. “I know you do. But you’re doing me no favors by trying to keep me sheltered. By treating me like I’m defenseless. Don’t forget, I’m a survivor too.”

“You already know how fuckin’ dangerous it is out here. Clickers, raiders—”

“I can handle it,” you insist, stubbornly.

“You’d be puttin’ yourself right in harm’s way!”

You shoot back, “You mean, the way you and so many other people put yourselves in harm’s way every single day for the sake of keeping Jackson safe?”

A frustrated growl rumbles through his chest. “Christ, why are you bein’ so fuckin’ foolish? You’re just askin’ to get yourself killed!”

“I can take care of myself!” You realize your hands are shaking and curl them into tight fists at your sides in an effort to hide it. “Just accept it, Joel! Accept that I can take care of myself, alright?”

That is all it takes to tip Joel over the edge he’s been teetering on. “Then what do you fuckin’ need me for?” he shouts, his voice thundering over the quiet plains of Wyoming. “If you can take care of yourself, what’s the point in us bein’ together? Why are you with me?”

“Because I love you!”

As soon as the confession comes tumbling out of your mouth, you take a step back, your wide eyes meeting his own. Until now, neither of you have ever called this what it is, been bold enough to say it’s love.

Loving after so much grief, so much loss, is daunting. It’s something you thought you would never be capable of doing again, not in this lifetime. Not in this world. It’s happened, though.

You love Joel Miller.

And he loves you.

He’s never told you he does, but he’s shown you.

From the way remembers how you take your coffee in the mornings, to the way he laces his fingers with your own, holding your hand when he’s buried inside of you, whispering sweet nothings into your collarbone every single night.

“You—you what?” Joel’s whisper is hardly audible.

You inch your way closer to him, your voice soft. “I love you,” you declare once more. “I’m not with you because of what you can do for me. I’m not with you because you can take care of me.” Closer. “I’m with you because I love you—because I’m in love with you, Joel.” Closer, until your chest brushes against his, and he can smell the subtle scent of your homemade, rosewater soap. “The only thing I need, and have ever needed from you, is your love in return.”

His throat bobs. Before you can utter another word, he lifts his hands and gently takes your face, cradling it in between his large palms, gently. His eyes search yours, immediately finding the sincerity behind your words. Leaning down, he brushes the tip of nose against your own as one of his hands travels down, his long fingers curling around the nape of your neck. His thumb lightly strokes the column of your throat.

“I love you,” Joel says hoarsely. Three words he hadn’t said to anyone in over two decades—it feels foreign to him, they ring strange in his own ears. He tries it again, clearer this time, and with a little more confidence. After all, he’s only saying what he has known from the very start. “I love you.” His other hand moves to your hip, pulling you even closer to him. “M’gonna love you for the rest of my life, baby.”

He leans in further and presses his lips to yours lightly, at first, but he wastes no time in sweeping his tongue across your bottom lip, silently asking for more.

Your mouth parts for him, and he backs you against the ponderosa, kissing you deeply, greedily, like he’s a man starved.

You whimper into him, your hands sliding up his broad chest and past his shoulders until they’re tangled in his soft, graying curls. He breathes you in, like you are the oxygen he needs to stay alive.

It isn’t until you both hear the sound of rustling behind a nearby shrub that you’re forced to pull apart. “Don’t move,” Joel instructs in a hushed voice. He keeps you pinned against the tree, his hand abandoning your hip. He glances around, slowly reaching behind his back for his rifle. His tense shoulders relax when the both of you see a pair of rabbits dart out from one dried bush and straight into another. Exhaling an amused huff, Joel shifts his attention back to you and rests his forehead against yours.

Smiling, you reach up and softly graze his beard with your fingertips. “Guess it’s about time we called this what it is, huh?”

“Guess you’re right, darlin’.” He lifts his chin, brushing a kiss onto your forehead. “M’sorry for raisin’ my voice to you. For talkin’ to you the way I did. S’just, the thought of somethin’ happenin’ to you out here scares shit out of me.” Taking a step back, he pulls the strap of his rifle from around his shoulder. He chews the inside of his cheek and silently stares at the gun in his hands. After a minute, he meets your curious gaze. “Do you really wanna do this, sweet girl?”

You nod. “Yeah. I really do.”

Joel sighs. “Can I put a condition it?”

“Depends on what that condition is.”

“I’m your patrol partner. Every shift. Every rotation.”

You roll your eyes. “Joel.”

“At least for the first few weeks,” he bargains. “Last thing I need is for you to be paired up with some fuckin’ idiot who doesn’t know what the hell they’re doin’.”

Knowing that would be the only way he’d have some peace of mind, you decide to agree. “Fine. We’re patrol partners.”

“Alright then.” Joel nods and hands you the rifle. He flashes you a small grin. “Show me what you got, baby.”

divider credit to @/saradika 💛

for fic notifications please follow @joelsgreysupdates!

[wososcripts]

Face to Face (Part 1)

Fridolina Rolfö x reader

Summary: After months of a toxic back and forth with Frido, things reach a breaking point.

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: I know it's been forever but that's what being a full time uni student will do! I hope you all enjoy this fic as much as I do, its been a wip for a while now!

As usual this is all fiction and in good fun! Nothing is meant to represent reality. All italicized dialogue is in a language other than English, and I promise... things will get better in this fic eventually.

Warnings⚠️: unhealthy situationship lol, injury, light medical description

"Get out!" You screamed, repeating it over and over until you were alone in your bedroom.

You hated yelling. Absolutely hated it. You couldn't remember the last time before today that you had actually yelled in someone's face. Plenty of people in your sport lost their tempers and shouted on the pitch—whether at a ref or another player—but it wasn’t your style. You always managed to keep your cool. It was your sport, yes, but not your life.

You'd been yelled at too much as a child to think it had any productive effect on a situation, which may have been part of why you immediately felt horrible once Fridolina left the room. You pulled your comforter around your half-naked form, wishing you were less exposed.

This was the end. Whatever you and Fridolina had, it was over. Finally.

You'd been trying to build up the will to make this happen for weeks, and yet your heart felt like it was being strangled with every moment you sat here alone. The worst part was, you knew Fridolina didn't care. She was probably angry, sure, but she was not feeling the heartbreak you were.

You weren't sure how you were going to make it through the next few days. You had to fly to Germany tomorrow for national camp—and then on Friday you were playing Sweden in a friendly. It was hard to imagine that you had been excited to get the news about the friendly last month. It meant you got to be around Frido more, got to see a few of your old teammates from Chelsea like Magda and Zećira, and you genuinely enjoyed being around the German girls. It was still home to you, there, even if you hadn't played for a German league in nearly a decade.

Now you just wanted to stay in Barcelona while Frido left. You wanted to call Alexia, or Patri, and ask them to come over and comfort you. You wanted Patri’s jokes and Alexia’s solid presence, but you were afraid of the questions they might ask. Your eyes were red now, tears running down your face, and your room was a mess. Everything had a trace of Frido, and you hated it.

Ingrid and Mapí, who you would usually call if you wanted to get your mind off of things, weren’t an option either. Though you were fairly certain they wouldn’t ask any pressing questions, Ingrid was Frido’s best friend. And that made her off limits for now, for anything regarding this.

You just had to make it through the night, and the next morning. Then you could collapse into the familiar arms of your national teammates, your family, your language, and try to forget all about this.

—

Your mother knew something was off the second you appeared on her doorstep, Laura in tow.

She wrapped her arms firmly around you, holding you tight for a minute. It had been three months since you were home for Christmas, and you hadn’t seen each other since then. You melted into her, wanting nothing more than the comfort of her protective embrace after all that had been swimming around your head lately.

Your mother greeted Laura next, and you were instructed to bring your bags up to the guest room. You’d have to share, but it wasn’t all that big of an issue. You and Laura often shared rooms when you were at national camp anyway, so this wouldn’t be much different.

“Wie ist Barcelona? Gefällt es? ” Laura asked you quietly that night, rolling over in the bed to face you.

It was late, too late to still be up. Tomorrow you’d have to be at training bright and early.

“I love it there.”

Something about your voice must have been off, because Laura stayed silent. You knew she fretted over you. She was protective too, something you experienced first hand when people were rough with you on the field—Laura hated most of your exes too. You’d known each other since secondary school, when you were barely tall enough to reach the top of your lockers.

“I’ve always wondered if it’s difficult, fitting in with the Spanish girls…”

“And I’m shy, which doesn’t make it easier.”

Laura laughed lightly.

“Well I wasn’t going to say anything!”

You poked her side playfully, and smiled.

“They’re all very welcoming. It can be intimidating when you don’t speak Spanish at first, but I’m pretty good now so I don’t have many issues.”

Laura began playing with strands of your long hair, putting it in small braids.

“What is it, Lau?”

“I can tell something is bothering you. In your texts, the way you looked when I picked you up at the airport, something is off.”

You weren't sure what to say. Laura didn't know anything about you and Frido. Nobody did. You'd have to explain the whole thing, start to finish. You'd have to explain why you stayed even when she treated you like garbage. Why you made excuses for her, compromised things you told yourself you wouldn't.

"It's hard to explain…" you mumbled.

Laura continued to play with your hair, pushing a few wisps back from your forehead.

"You don't have to if you don't want to."

You needed an ally in this, you realized. Desperately.

"Just be prepared, it's kind of a long story."

And so you launched into how you and Frido had been attracted to each other immediately when she was playing at Bayern and you were at Frankfurt. How you had danced around each other when you were signed in Barcelona. How she kissed you one day after a game, before she was even out of her relationship, and then ignored you for weeks—a pattern you didn't realize was going to dominate your life for the next year.

By the end you were crying. You hadn't cried in so long it felt foreign. Everything had been building up for months and nobody had been there to help you carry the weight of it until that moment.

Laura pulled you into her arms, rubbing your back in soothing circles as you sobbed into her neck.

"It's okay, you're okay," she whispered.

"I feel like a fucking idiot."

"She's the idiot for treating you like that, not you. Not you at all." Laura looked at you sternly. "I'm sorry you had to deal with that all by yourself…"

You snuggled closer to her and kept quiet.

"If you need someone to accidentally slide tackle her on Monday let me know…" Laura teased.

You giggled into her hair, and she couldn't help but smile in return.

-

You were nervous. Typically friendlies didn't worry you much, but you didn't want to see Fridolina. You had been playing well in training sessions, but your teammates could tell something was on your mind.

"Hey—" Sara's voice broke you out of your thoughts. The two of you had played together at Frankfurt for a little while, and she was like an older sister to you. She placed both her hands on your cheeks and pressed her forehead to yours. "Whatever it is, put it out of your mind. Leave it here and just play. Just for a few hours."

You closed your eyes and listened to her, letting her voice ground you. You squeezed her hands and nodded. Just a few hours. Then you could avoid Frido for an entire week before you had to fly back to Barcelona.

You assumed your position on the pitch, the roar of the German fans filling your ears. That was the benefit of playing at home. You spotted a few of the Swedish girls you knew: Magda, Zećira, Stina, and Rebecca. All of whom gave you small smiles.

In the few seconds before the match began you closed your eyes, counting down from seven as you always did before a match. Then the whistle blew and you began.

It was a tough match between the two teams. Where the Germans were weak the Swedish girls pounced, and vice versa. You were constantly fighting for the ball, the defenders packed onto you. Stina was the first to score, slipping the ball into the box amidst a chaotic mess just the way she was good at.

From there on out you were determined to score. You were playing all out, more than necessary really. It was a throwaway game, but you just had to get a point on the board.

When your quick pass to Lena had the ball soaring into the back of the net you thought you might explode from joy. You jumped into her arms, letting her twirl you around, laughing. In your head you might as well have won the Olympics.

At halftime it was still 1-1. Your heart was pounding. Laura made you drink some of your water, massaging your shoulders in an effort to get you to calm down. Popp was side eyeing you, considering pulling you out. This behavior wasn't like you.

The second half was considerably more intense than the first. Both teams wanted to score, and the more physical players on both sides were pushing hard. It was a miracle nobody had been carded.

And then suddenly you had the ball at your feet. There was a golden opportunity in front of you. Eyes facing forward, you raced down the pitch, completely blindsided to the weight that slammed into from the side. Suddenly the world went sideways and you were slamming into the ground, not enough time to even think about trying to catch yourself. Your hip and shoulder took most of the initial impact, but something about how you'd been standing, or how you'd been hit, meant your head followed, hitting the ground with a resounding thud.

You came to a few seconds later. Someone was kneeling next to your head, and their hands were on your cheeks.

Fuck. Everything hurt. You kept your eyes closed, thinking maybe that would lessen the next wave of pain you knew was coming. At first you weren't sure what had happened.

"Are you okay?" You heard Zećira's voice in your ear.

"Zećira?" You mumbled. "What happened?"

"You went down and hit your head."

You had gone down near the goal, that was right. Things were a bit blurry. You figured it was a bad idea to move your neck, what with the severe headache you could feel blossoming, and opening your eyes seemed to run the 50/50 chance of you vomiting.

"Do you remember that now? Do you feel okay?"

So you gave her a weak thumbs up, hoping it was clear you needed the medics.

After a moment in which you gathered your resolve and swallowed your nausea, you opened your eyes. There was Zećira looking worriedly down at you. She glanced upwards, probably at the medical team that was surely coming.

"Fuck, fuck…" you heard another voice, those of your German teammates beginning to filter into your awareness. And further away, the sharp sound of yelling.

The medical team finally arrived, clearing the space around you. Your hand shot out, grabbing onto Zećira's you gave her a look that said it all. Fear and panic met in equal amounts as she squeezed your hand lightly.

"You're gonna be okay, älskling, everything is gonna be alright." If anything, her tone scared you even more. You knew Zećira, and she wasn't someone you would describe as warm and cuddly. For her to be using that tone with you meant something had gone wrong.

"Okay, we're gonna sit you up now." The medic warned you, and you felt two pairs of hands rest on your body, one on the back of your neck, slowly pull you upright.

Your nausea came back in full swing, and you fought to keep your breakfast in.

"Can you hear me?" You nodded.

"Can you understand what I'm saying?" You nodded again, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

"Can you squeeze my hand?" You squeezed his hand tightly.

"Okay, I'm gonna shine this light in your eyes for a moment, can you try and follow it for me?" You did your best, but it wasn't easy.

"Okay," he put the light away and you thanked whatever God in the universe for that. "We think it's likely you have a pretty bad concussion. We'll have to run a few more tests to be sure, but she definitely has to come off."

He must've been talking to your coach at that point, because the next thing you knew Zećira and the medic were helping you up to your feet, the man supporting you heavily with your arms draped across his shoulders.

"I'll visit you after the match, okay?" You heard Zećira assure you, to which you gave another thumbs up.

You cringed slightly at the sound of the crowd cheering you off.

[tinytalkingtina]

WIP Weekend

Oh goodness I did this late so thanks for the tags @vthx @hbyrde36 @pearynice and @helpimstuckposting!

Rules: Send me an emoji in an ask, and I'll write 3-5 sentences and/or paragraphs from that WIP. No limits to the amount of emojis you can request, please feel free to send multiple!

In an effort to catch up on the other outstanding asks I have for B.A.D. D.O.G. and my Star Trek Steddie AU gonna have only two options for new emojis this week!

🏴‍☠️ Eddierotica: "Eddie writes the world's worst erotica about characters who are just poorly disguised versions of himself and Steve. They're not dating" now features Steve playing mind games right back at Eddie heh heh.

💥Steddie Big Bang: Secret fic is at 9k words now! This can't be publicly shared yet, so if you send in this emoji feel free to pick another fic as well, and I'll write 3 sentences for both. Hopefully by next week I can start sharing snippets :D

Tagging some folks to join in on the fun and work on their own WIPs this weekend:

@apomaro-mellow @eriquin @zombiethingy @dame-zoom-a-lot @fkinkindagauche

@wynnyfryd @fuctacles @stevesjockstrap @shares-a-vest @runninriot

@onirislanding @strangerthingswritersguild

Enjoy a snippet from 🏴‍☠️ below the cut:

Yeah, he could just tell Eddie his hopeless crush wasn’t completely hopeless, buuut...there was no reason Steve couldn’t play a little dirty. See just how far he could push Eddie before he cracked.

The plan formed in Steve’s head pretty fast: The walls of their apartment were pretty thin. His roommate had mentioned he could hear Steve busy pleasing his partners before, usually with some sort of teasing snarky comment once they left.

Eddie had obviously taken those noises and let his imagination run wild. So now Steve had to step up his game and put on a show to inspire his voyageristic audience.

If Eddie wanted more, but was too chicken shit scared to ask? Well now he was about to get almost everything he wanted and listen in on a completely new side of his roommate:

It was time for Daddy to have some alone time with his toys.

Operation Fuck With Eddie (Then Maybe Fuck Him For Real If Things Work Out) got thrown into motion earlier than Steve expected it to. Robin and Vickie called in sick to their usual football/potluck/movie night, which meant the two of them would be alone in the apartment all Sunday. Steve barely kept a shit-eating grin off his face while he promised Robin that no, she wouldn’t have gotten rabies from her girlfriend sneezing on her, and yes, he’d drop off some soup tomorrow if they didn’t feel better.

Right after halftime, he gave a totally real and not fake-sounding yawn to interrupt Eddie’s rant about some burrito commercial ‘violating the sacred trust of documentarians’.

“Wow I’m sooo tired man, think I’m gonna head to bed early today,” he said, doing an exaggerated stretch. His would-be author of a roommate raised an eyebrow.

“I know you get up stupid early for your job but last I checked it’s four pm Steve.”

“Uh, yup, I see that.” Shit, think fast Harrington! “I’ve...got an early morning meeting! Yeah, the principal wants us there at five thirty. AM. Yup, early meeting. At the school. Where I work. With kids in it sometimes but not at five thirty in the morning.” Smooth.

Eddie stared at him for a second before shrugging.

“That sucks. Go get your beauty sleep Harrington. I’ll let you know if the world ends and the Browns win somehow. Really hope they don’t," he added with a wink, "Or I’ll have to let Gareth dye my hair. Think I'd look good as a blonde Big Boy?”

The combo of imagining Eddie posing like the sexy lady from that movie about the cross-dressing musicians and the college nickname nearly took him out.

“Haha, yeah, totally. Well, night! Shower time for Dadd-Steve!” He capped his train-wreck of a sentence off with finger guns, the classic.

Eddie laughed and turned back to the game. Fuck yeah, he bought it! Take that Robin, he totally could be as sneaky as a ninja if he wanted. He should probably tell his roommate to stop making bets with Gareth though, what if the guy tried to shear him like a sheep next?

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

WIP Weekend

Weekly WIP update:

Still trudging along with three major WIPs, but the good news is that I'm finally working on the fina chapter of Saltwater Symphony, so it should be out by early May at the latest! 🦭🦜

Also, I'm some 8k into my Big Bang fic already (now I just need to find a moment to sit down and work on that summary and excerpt!!!)

Two prompts to go on the Hop into Spring bonus card for the Steddie Bingo, and three prompts to go on the main card! 💪🏻

Send me an emoji, and I'll write and share threee sentences from that project.

🏰 The King's Gift

🦭 Saltwater Symphony

❓Steddie Big Bang 2025 (snippets will be redacted)

🎲 Steddie Bingo

Snippet from 🏰

Eddie lifts his hand. Steve can feel its warmth bleeding into his own palm as it hovers over his, but the air around them is rapidly turning cold.

“You promise you’ll be there with me? Even when I’m scared?”

“Yes,” Steve says. “Always. Especially when you’re scared.”

“Even when I’m old?”

The question startles a laugh out of him that he didn’t know was still there. Eddie flinches a little and cocks his head, like he’s wondering if he said anything wrong.

“I think there’s nothing,” Steve says through the laughter and the tears, “that I’d like more than to grow old with you.”

[flyinghome-againstthewind]

WIP Tag Game

Rules: Share a snippet from whatever you’re currently working on, and then tag 5 people.

Tagged by @philtstone, thank you so much!

From the next chapter of Seaside, which promises to be a nice long one!

Before she could turn to check on Faith, a door opened down the hall and Faith appeared, her eyes still heavy-lidded from sleep as she smiled sweetly and twined her arms around Claire’s waist before burying her head in Claire’s belly.  There were many things she mourned to have missed in both Fergus and Faith’s early years, but these years with them held their own treasures for which Claire was grateful to see, like Faith’s sleepy sweetness first thing in the mornings.  Claire brushed Faith’s hair out of the girl’s face. “Come with me. I’ll make us some tea and we can sit in the parlor.”  With Faith’s help, she found her way around Lallybroch’s kitchen, and the two of them snuck quietly to the parlor. They squeezed into a padded window seat together, taking in the morning sunlight across Lallybroch’s fields with quiet contentment.  “Faith, do you remember when you taught me what ‘my darling’ is in Gaelic?”  “Aye, when I was sick.”  “Yes.” Claire felt her heartbeat quicken, as though what she was about to do was illicit in some way. “Do you know… Do you know what mugrye means?” “Mo ghraidh?” Faith repeated, matching Jamie’s articulation. Claire could only nod. “Grannie says it means ‘my love.’”

no-pressure tagging my buds @walkinginland @theawkwardterrier @frasers-of-my-heart @forgetmenotsassenach17 and anyone else who has something to share!

[yevanss]

@hprecfest Day 9: a WIP

In Search of Something More by @kay-elle-cee [Jily, M, Regency AU: Convenience marriage, strangers➡️married➡️lovers. Multi chap. 2024].

Summary: In the sunlit garden of her sister’s home, Lord Potter had promised Lily a life of her own design, with minimal expectations—her presence at community events, companionship, and an heir. As the two stumble into the routine of marriage and work to make a life together at Stinchcombe Hall, unsolicited feelings provoke each to start wondering if this is merely a marriage…or if it could be something more.

Is it possible to be in love with a piece of writing? Yes, yes it is. I remember adoring the whole meet-cute microfics *collection where ISOSM originated from, so for Kelsey to be so generous to write and share a full story out of one of those has been like a way-early Christmas present. 💗

*yes, bonus rec: it's (always) you. Every meet-cute is a gem.

[kaylinalexanderbooks]

WIP Wednesday/Writing Share

Thanks @eccaiia here, @aalinaaaaaa here, and here, @drchenquill here, and @mysticstarlightduck here!

WIP Wednesday Rules: post something (anything!) about your WIP on a Wednesday

Writing Share Rules: share some writing!

Since I just posted an intro post for IWAJAD, why not post something about it?

I wrote an early draft in high school, so here's the opening! I'll refine it later....

“And the next award will be for the most influential person in our school,” said Ms. Dakota from the top of the stage. I was in the front row seat, waiting in anticipation. Ms. Dakota opened the envelope, pulling out a card. “Kyla Tran!” I gasped as the room applauded around me. I heard the football team cheering, the artists hollering. Noemi beside me patted me on the back, encouraging me to my feet. On the stage, Ms. Dakota gave me a hug. “We are all so happy that you’re at our school, Kyla. Whatever would we do without you?” “I don’t know, Ms. Dakota,” I said. “Well, we’ve decided to give you all of these awards!” Ms. Dakota gestured behind her, and a man with long, dark hair in all black pulled out a wagon stacked high with awards. “Wow,” I said. “Thank you, Keanu Reeves.” Keanu smiled at me and handed me one of the awards. I gazed out into the audience. There had to be a few hundred people here. “Thank you. Thank you everyone. I’m so glad to be your most influential person. I’ve had the speech prepared, but I am so overwhelmed, that I couldn’t speak. The lights were now off. No, my eyes were just closed. The stage was soft. Wait, I was lying down. The audience was still there. I felt them. I wanted to speak. Thank them for the award. Then I realized my head was on a pillow. The audience wasn't there. I didn’t have an award in my hand. What was happening? Wait, didn’t--hold on, Keanu Reeves was there. I was now aware that I was awake, but I refused to open my eyes. Maybe I could finish the dream so I could finish my acceptance speech. My alarm wasn't going off. Great. I’d woken up before my alarm. I promise that you'll never find another like me…. I know that I’m a handful, baby, uh…. Oh, there it is. I reached for my phone, blindly swiping the alarm left to stop the Taylor Swift song. It was Friday. No, wait, Thursday. Right? Wait, what happened yesterday? I stayed after school for volleyball. Yes, that happens on Wednesdays. Not Thursdays. Therefore, because that was yesterday, that means it was Thursday. Unless it was Tuesday or Saturday. Practices were three times a week. Was it only Tuesday? Was I waking up this early on a Saturday? No, yesterday was Thursday. No, wait, today was Thursday. Yes.

I feel like when I start the next draft I'll have a similar opening. Not exactly, but similar. It's gonna be in present tense though.

Tagging @illarian-rambling @mk-writes-stuff @paeliae-occasionally @honeybewrites @the-golden-comet

+ ANYONE ELSE

IWAJAD intro

IWAJAD tag list (ask to be +/-): @thepeculiarbird @mrbexwrites @drchenquill

[crispyjenkins]

dha kar'ta "crispy has lost control of their life again" celebration sneak peek

am planning on starting up a wip wednesday sort of thing (maybe next week?), which will definitely be more than star wars related stuff, but i've also just exceeded a thousand hours on skyrim in less than a year and wanted to celebrate(?) (i actually hit a thousand a few days ago, but in true fixation fashion, kept playing instead of posting anything over here lmao) so here's a dha kar'ta wip 'cause jango is fighting me a little bit but new chapter soon!! i promise!!

 “As soon as Satine is unseated, the Mandalore System’s full neutrality nullifies, unless Jango chooses to reinstate it.”

  “And he’d rather die than do that,” Bosoloc pipes up helpfully.

  “Yes, and at that point, Mandalore can choose to pursue rejoining the Republic for the first time since the Kyr’am Turr’e, because New Mandalore never officially seceded to the Senate.”

  “Which Jang’alor would also rather die than do.”

  Obi-Wan acknowledges Ezovac with a nod. “The politics of sovereign states that exist within sectors technically under control of the Republic are a disaster at best, and almost no one in the Senate is willing to deal with it long enough for a planet to get the flimsiwork through.” Melidaan is a Republic planet now, but the Young didn’t always intend it to be, and Nield couldn’t read, so Obi-Wan had done a lot of that research between battles; and being on the run from Death Watch actually afforded a considerable amount of downtime during his year on Mandalore, and, well. A big part of that Obi-Wan had thought it was all information he’d need to know if Satine asked him to stay, and Obi-Wan still hasn’t quite learned how to let someone love him unless he can be useful to them.

  Actually, it’s rather convenient that he had done all this research for Mandalore specifically, if thirteen years too early — perhaps the Force was simply preparing him for this Mandalore, not Satine’s. 

  Across the mess table, Kal groans loudly and slumps his head down. “Fine, I’ll bite, kih’Alor: what’s any of that got to do with Duchess Demagolka?”

  “Theoretically,” Obi-Wan sighs again, pushing a grumbling Dha further into his mind so he can concentrate, “Mandalore does not actually have to declare itself as anything; there are plenty of planets in the outer rim that have sovereignty without officialising it with the Republic.”

  “But...?”

  “But, thanks to Satine, Mandalore is embroiled in Senate politics nine ways to Corellian Hells, and it’ll be even worse if she makes any headway with the beskar mines while we’re off fighting Vizsla. We simply can’t withdraw from those politics, not when Mandalore’s history is so entwined with the Republic’s, not unless we want to go full isolationist from the rest of the galaxy.” He glances at his other table-/councilmates, and is relieved to see they seem to be keeping up, if looking a bit exhausted by it; Obi-Wan shares the sentiment.

  Luckily, the mess is empty now with everyone returning to their increased post-battle duties, or Obi-Wan is sure they’d have had quite a few more complaints about the impromptu government lesson happening in the middle of the tent.

  Kal rubs his eyes, shaking himself before turning back to Obi-Wan, his frown as deep as ever, but at least he still seems willing to listen.

  “So, we can’t just go after the Senate’s pet Mandalorian without burning those bridges, unless we have proof she’s in league with a terrorist?”

  “Precisely. And technically, with Mandalore as a sovereign state, the Senate can’t do anything about the change in power, unless they plan to go to war with every Mandalorian in the galaxy, but proving she made the first move will give us significantly more support for instating Jango instead.”

  “I feel like my brains are coming out my ears,” Bosoloc whispers woodenly, staring down at the remains of the protein gruel on her tray. 

  “You don’t have ears,” Myles reminds her, chin in his hand, and she kicks him under the table. 

  “What I want to know,” Mij speaks for the first time, easily dodging one of Myles’ flailing arms, “is how you even know about the Kyr’am Turr’e, Obi-Wan.”

  Bosoloc turns away from tormenting Myles to add, “Yes, I was going to ask about that, because I have no idea what the Death Days are.”

-

[halfbakedspuds]

Alright, I see other writing blogs doing this, so here's my writeblr intro. Still needs some work but this'll do for now.

Hi! I'm Logan (Yes, like Wolverine), I'm 19 years old, use He/him pronouns, and I'm from South Africa. My main interests are writing, philosophy, history, binge-reading entire series' at a time and any kind of experimental artistic media. All my characters' sexualities and gender identities are up for interpretation unless explicitly stated.

Despite being an English language writer, English is not actually my first language and thus I do still have my fair share of idiot moments in it. If you notice that I used a word wrong, or if my grammar or a phrase seems little bit off, don't hesitate to let me know.

Below are my current WIP's:

Children of the Stars

Perspective: third person limitted.

Genre: Science fiction political drama and mystery.

Tropes: Slowburn lovers, enemies to friends to lovers (more like mutual annoyances to friends to lovers), a stranger in a stranger land, found family.

Status: Currently being worked on.

First chapter

Lyanni has been condemned and incarcerated, charged with witchcraft under the paranoid reign of her home kingdom. Under the laws of her people, she is offered up to their patron Angel as a gift of thanks for ending a long and bloody war, and to her horror: he accepts.

Soon, however, she learns the shocking truth of the universe. Her people's angels are members of an Alien organisation in service to the Empire of Earth, charged with working from the shadows to foster the upliftment of her people in order to free up the human garrison for the front lines of a star-spanning war, and the same is happening on a thousand other worlds.

This Angel, however- who calls himself Adrian- is about as happy about their new living arrangement as she is, which is to say not at all.

When a ship carrying an experimental superweapon crashes on her world, the two must begrudgingly work together in a desperate race against time to find it, while also holding back the tide of forces that threaten to plunge her world into armageddon.

Children of the Wolves

Perspective: First person limitted

Genre: Sci-fi political drama and heist story with some pulp western and cyberpunk elements.

Tropes: found family, heists, honour among thieves, glorious bastards, a lot of gay, high-tech Low-lifes, class divide, redemption arc.

Status: Scheduled to be written sometime after Children of the Stars.

Four years after Children of the Stars, Adrian Castellan returns to Callisto to make amends with his family and tie up the final loose ends of his early life.

Accompanied by Lyanni Sverik and Wilhelm Freedman, he links up with his siblings: Isabelle and Marcus Castellan, and while the trio catch up and scheme to finally exact vengeance for the deaths of their mother and friends at the hands of a rival clan's lord, Lyanni learns the story of why Adrian left his homeworld in the first place.

Seven years before Adrian became an IUC praetor, he was a member of the Volnur, a gang of six young but promising Callistoan gunslingers who acted as the enforcers of clan Castellan.

After a slightly botched trade negotiation with a rival clan forces them to scatter and regroup at home base, Adrian bumps into a mysterious offworlder running from both civil security and the Solar homeguard themselves, and offers to bring him to his clan's holdings for safety.

With supplies running low and the botching of the deal that was meant to save them, the six gunslingers and their new offworlder tagalong begin plotting to rob a Civil Security supply train.

Yet other forces move in the shadows, snapping at their people and waiting for their eventual fall, and with a young Adrian's ambition growing constantly, fostered by his mother's guidance as the Lady of clan Castellan, he will eventually come to match wits with some of the most powerful people not only on Callisto, but throughout the entirety of the Jupiter Prefecture, he will come to question who can be trusted, and whether his own well-founded ambition has given way to a fatal hubris.

The Tempest prince

Perspective: multiple pov first person.

Genre: YA contemporary fantasy with some elements of eldritch horror.

Tropes: Stranger in a strange land, finding identity, causality loop, found family (to an extent), recruiting teenagers with an attitude.

Status: On the back-burner til I gain a little more experience with certain writing skills that'll be necessary to write a 21 book series.

"Congratulations. You are now dead"

Those were the last words he heard before his normal life came to an end.

It was just a another day in February, the scorching, vampiric heat of the sun beating down on the brothers as they slogged through just another school day. At least it was just another day, at least until they stumbled into another dimension and accidentally brought something back with them.

From then on, Jason and Alex Haliday found themselves caught up in a hidden world, one where Jaegers -a race of magic-capable supersoldiers- contain and hunt that which shouldn't be; where ancient gods and forgotten horrors seep through every crack and crevice right under humanity's collective nose. When the brothers show abilities that no-one -Human or Jaeger- ever have, they are offered a job.

Of course, the pair first need to survive two years of training. Noone wants to send a pair of untrained teens into the longest battle of human history, after all. But between a school rivalry, a bloodsport tournament, and a looming ancient threat, it quickly becomes apparent that even while surrounded the extraordinary, their lives still refuse to fall within the established 'normal'.

When their home is attacked: their mother put into a coma and Alex kidnapped, Jason- accompanied by his new Demihuman friend Helga Ravenscar- goes on a manhunt to find his brother against the express orders of some of the most powerful people in the hunter cities. The pair must balance hiding such a dangerous endeavour with excelling in the taxing student life of a mage and a medical officer in training, while eldritch forces plot and scheme in the backdrop.

Echoes of Shadows

Perspective: multiple pov third person limitted.

Genre: Gritty Fantasy-noir detective story.

Tropes: Five man band, (Dunno what to call this but it's like the world is halfway through a transition that'll change every aspect of daily life. Will edit once I've figured it out)

Status: Scheduled to be the next project I finish. Probably.

First chapter

The city goes by many names: Novya Koroleva, Zuidpunkt, De Gat, but the local Ost-Rietlanders simply call it The Pit: the city that'll swallow you whole and spit out whatever bones may remain, a nature that has been exasperbated by the recent surge in mages, splitting the population almost evenly between regular people and the magic capable.

To Johan Suiderkloof and Anastasia Retvenko, the city offered a new start, free of the horrors of their pasts, and among it's verminous populace, they have carved out work for themselves as a private detective agency.

It's a stable job, with many opportunities to find work in the Sodom. By day: the pair investigate cartels, murders, infidelity, all the worst that society has to offer.

But late at night, when Zuurveldt, Ost-Rietland and the rest of the continent of Sumer sleep soundly, they stalk the shadows for leads, tracking down the fanatic followers of dark gods and puttinh an end to their machinations.

When mysterious murders with occult symbolism surrounding them begin to crop up throughout the city and surrounding countryside, the pair find their lot unceremoniously cast in with complete strangers, caught in the powerplay of cults and dead gods as they try to untangle a growing conspiracy that threatens their world as they know it.

The lonely god

Perspective: First person.

Genre: Science fiction.

Status: In the process of being finished up.

The lonely god is a short story I wrote more than a year ago (Originally titled "The last human) and am currently in the process of remastering. I'll be posting it here when I'm done with it.

Some sixteen millenia in the future, humanity finds itself forceably coalesced into a single, immortal being. This individual, born of a trillion infighting souls, is the last human, a species made into a god, and 'The lonely god' follows their story til the end of the universe and beyond as they seek out revenge for what was done to their people while slowly learning to let go of hate.

What does it mean to be alive when you'll outlive even the sand beneath your feet? How do you cherish or love when everything vanishes in but a blink of the eye? How can the product of trillions ever be an individual?

And when the score has been settled; When every trail has been blazed, and all knowledge learnt; When all that is left is to watch as the stars slowly whimper away: how will you find meaning?

[speciallivery]

🌧️ for the wip game!

Hi Mitchie <3

🌧️Share something angsty from your WIP.

Thank you! So the really angsty bit has not been edited yet, so I'll share this bit with the public.

It's a MotoGP WIP, I hope you don't mind.

Context: It's 2025 Aragon, Marc crashes thanks to Pecco. Pecco thinks Marc is pissed, and also they're sleeping with each other. Valentino doesn't know that yet, and Marc is not subtle.

Marc crashes out at Aragon. They make contact, and Marc goes down. 

It is ruled a racing incident, it sucks, but stuff happens. God knows that it has happened before, both ways, and it will happen again, both ways. That’s racing. 

But Pecco wins, and the twenty-five points make a major dent into Marc’s championship lead. Not that Pecco cares that much, but he guesses that their casual arrangement will also be put on hold for the night.

But Marc finds him in the Ducati garage after the race. He walks in with a big, practised smile. Which, of course, Marc is allowed to be there, in his own team garage with his own teammate. Except Pecco is here with Vale. 

Early on, after Vale had gone off on another podcast, Marc and Pecco had agreed to avoid the big V-word as much as they possibly could. Pecco was not Vale’s handler, no matter how much Pecco would wish that Vale would just let the issue rest. Marc promised he understood, he would try his best to avoid Valentino when he was around in a paddock. Pecco had solemnly sworn that he would not show Vale any of Marc’s data. It worked. 

Marc struts in like he owns the place (and in a way, he does) but it feels manufactured. Somewhere near uncanny, Marc’s spine is too rigid, the expression on his face is too carefully constructed to be as congenial as possible. Pecco knows no one — especially not Pecco — is ever getting a fully real Marc Marquez, ever. That’s just Marquez’s modus operandi, but today, the mask feels extra thick. 

He ignores Vale and walks right up to Pecco and before Pecco understands what is happening, he is caught in a hug. 

“Congratulations Bagnaia, you did good,” Marc says, as he nearly lifts Pecco off the ground. 

When he lets go, his hand lingers on Pecco’s waist for just a bit too long. Cold fingertips accidentally ghost over a sliver of bare skin as Pecco’s polo-shirt rides up. Valentino swallows audibly. Pecco feels something catch him around his throat.

“Eh, thanks Marc.” Marc, not Marquez, Marc. He cards a hand through his hair and pulls his shirt back in place. His face feels flush red at his teammate’s praise. It’s stupid, he just wasn’t expecting Marc to be, what? — nice? 

“I thought you’d be angry,” he admits.

Marc laughs, “why would I be angry? It’s just a racing accident. It’s hard racing, I like it. I’m sure you didn’t do it on purpose,” he adds.

Ah. 

“Besides, you would’ve won the race anyway. I don’t think I would’ve been able to keep up eventually. It was a good race.” 

Vale watches the exchange, he hasn’t said a word since Marc walked in. His gaze shifting between Pecco and Marc and back to Pecco as Marc grabs Pecco’s hand with both of his, leans in and lowers his voice, conspiratorially.  

“We will be celebrating your win together, yes?” 

It has not just caught; it gets pulled taunt.  

Somewhere behind him, Vale opens his mouth. Either in pure astonishment (unlikely) or to actually say something (more likely), but he closes it and kisses his teeth instead. His eyes wide, his lips form a thin line. 

Breathlessly, Pecco nods, a little too eager for his own liking. “Yes, yes, eh, I’ll see you-?” 

“I’ll text you!” Marc says. 

For a second there, Pecco thinks he can see the mask slip. Marc breaks his chosen smile for something more feral, something more hungry. His eyes dark and trained as he peers past Pecco to look at Valentino. Then, the mask is put back on as easily as it had slipped away. Perhaps it was on purpose. 

Marc gives Pecco’s hand a friendly squeeze. “I’ll text you,” he repeats, softer this time, before he lets go of Pecco’s hand and turns around. 

“Ciao, Pecco! — Valentino.” This might be the first time Marc has acknowledged Valentino Rossi in years. 

He can feel Valentino practically dissecting him with his eyes. There are gears turning, uncomfortable conclusions Vale will get to on his own time. Pecco just turns and shrugs. 

Valentino frowns, considering, but ultimately he says nothing.

[andthekitchensinkao3]

Wip Wed-- Tuesday! October 8

Yes, I'm early. I blame @elodiah 😁 😘

A snippet from the upcoming chapter 10 of A Promise Kept, the BG3 Lokius crossover you never knew you wanted - in which the Fab Four (B-15, or 'Bea', O.B, Casey and Mobius) chat over mid-morning drinks. Also, there is scheming to be had. For Mobius is going to crash a royal wedding reception.

Tagging @thosegayoldmen @lokimobius @in-my-loki-feels @impulsemuppet @kcscribbler @devilbearingtrouble and anyone I have temporarily forgotten the username of. My brain is so full of ideas and stories it's unfortunately not unlike a goldfish's when it comes to things like names and such.

But enough about that. Enjoy this week's wall of text 😁

---

“Fix things?” Mobius stared at her, his mouth hanging open in search for something more logical to say. He didn’t find anything else. “I can’t fix things!”

“Of course you can!” Exclaimed Casey, the number one enabler of romantic entanglements that never ought to ’ve seen the light of day. Just because he was happily attached to O.B’s hip… And good for him. Good for them both.

“Yes, yes, of course he can,” said O.B. “But what did Odin say, exactly? Something’s going to happen at midnight on the thirtieth?”

“Yeah…” Mobius had another mouthful of whisky. “Something bad. But that’s-- That’s only half of it. He said he did something to Loki when he was a baby, something that changed him. And now it’s gonna come back and bite him in the ass.”

“Changed him?” O.B and Casey gave each other altogether too cerebral looks for Mobius’ liking, but only because he was about two stiff drinks removed from coming up with anything too brain-y on his own.

Casey made an impressive impersonation of Loki at the cobble party, touching his mouth and forehead, as if to check everything was still attached.

“Yeah…” said O.B. “‘Gotcha!’ Not so much.”

“That shit was creepy.” Bea’s verdict, that. “But not half as creepy as if it’s true. You think he saw… What? His ‘true form,’ or something? Didn’t look like he was hiding, though. More like it’s been kept secret from him all this time.”

“Whatever it was, it scared him.” Mobius downed his double shot of firewhisky in one go. If not for the conversation having taken this route, he might’ve ordered another one. To have, or have not. Or… something along those lines. “And whatever’s going to happen to him, it’s gonna be midnight. On the brink of Midsummer.”

“A night of magic,” said Bea.

“Wild magic,” said O.B, nodding with fresh excitement. “Chaotic, twisted, powerful magic.”

Casey rubbed O.B’s forearm, a soft smile playing with his features. “What are you going to do?” 

“I’m going to be there for it. Even if I have to crash the wedding reception.” Mobius had an inkling they all knew what he was going to say. That the question was more for his sake than theirs. To get him to open up. “And I want you there with me. Bea?”

“I got your six.” She put two fingers to her forehead, saluting the table. “Guard duty. Portyr wants his finest in attendance.”

“Yesss.” Mobius clenched his fist in the first jolt of delight since this morning. It was… beyond good to have his family with him. Even if it didn’t go beyond talking about things. “Casey? O.B?”

“O.B already got his invitation,” Casey said, beaming with pride. “I’m his plus one.”

With a name like Ouroborous, Mobius had once joked, you had to be some kind of nobility. As it turned out O.B was indeed the last in a long line of noble Ouroborouses, hailing from Neverwinter - and that was no joking matter. Neverwinter had spawned its fair share of geniuses and explorers and craftsman, and O.B was right up there with the best of them.

“Then… We have an idea, if not a plan.”

“It’s more than we had five minutes ago.” Bea patted his back with a small smile and stood. “You can wash down all that whisky with my ale, if you promise to sleep it off and not go do something stupid until I get off my shift.”

“Back to work, huh?”

“For me, yeah. You? You’re going straight to bed. No talking to Renslayer.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Bea made verbose gestures at the dynamic duo on the other side of the table, leaving Mobius in their capable hands. “Behave. And make sure he does too.”

Bea’s departure might have put a halt to their morning-to-noontime drinking, but the second she was out of sight and earshot O.B picked up his wooden chair and scooched on over to sit beside him. Behind his thick-framed glasses his eyes shone with intrigue. “The thing Odin spoke about. That happens on the brink of Midsummer.”

“Yeah?” Mobius arched his eyebrows, grateful he had buddies to take care of the cerebral end of things. Sober things. “What about it?”

“Is it a curse? A bargain? A contract?”

“Right. Right…” Mobius waggled his index finger at his friends. His best buds. His non-combatant comrades-in-arms. “Because the distinction is important.”

“If it’s a contract on paper, it can be burned, and they say oral agreements aren’t worth anything. I mean, legally speaking they’re as binding as anything, but really.”

“Depends on the tongue speaking the terms, eh?” Mobius teased his friend.

“But if it’s a poem, or even music? That’s trickier. I hear devils are fond of ear worms with finicky lyrics.”

“I don’t know, O.B.” Mobius let out a heavy sigh that spawned somewhere in his toe region. Twinkly, they were not. Heavy and aching, on the other hand. “Sorry.”

O.B clinked his glass with Mobius’ adopted pint of ale. “It was worth a shot. But I was thinking, if it’s time-specific, or temporally contingent, I could test my new invention. You don’t think Loki would be at all interested in ”

“He's finished another prototype,” Casey informed him, brimming with pride. “Tell him!”

“Yeah!” Mobius shoved his ale into O.B’s drink with friendly encouragement, and a touch too much force. Ale sloshed over the edges and over his hand. “Whatcha workin’ on?”

O.B didn’t mind the mess. He reached for his trusty tool belt, and his hand-dandy handkerchief to mop up the worst of the ale. His grin was nothing short of alarming. “A temporal aura synchronizer.”

[dystopicjumpsuit]

WIP Wednesday

Thanks for tagging me @starrylothcat and @523rdrebel! I have a little snippet of banter from "Double, Double Boil and Trouble" part 2 (because you know Boil would be the king of banter). And yes, this has turned into a full multi-chapter fic, FFS. I anticipate four chapters total, but who knows? No power in the 'verse can stop me!

Thank you again to @goblininawig for inspiring this fic; I never would have considered writing for Boil if not for you, and now I'm hooked.

SFW below the cut, but minors DNI as always.

He took in your attire with astonishment, then said, “You’re really committed to the bit, aren’t you?”

“You’re the one who barged in at the crack of dawn—”

“It’s ten o’clock in the mornin’,” he interrupted.

“—and then have the audacity to mock my pyjamas?” you continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “What do you want?”

He glanced down once again and smirked. “What pyjamas?”

“Ugh.” You started to close the door in his face, but he blocked it with his foot.

“Wait! Just, wait,” he said. “I promise not to make fun of your nonexistent pyjamas or your retina-searing bathrobe.”

“You’re still doing it!” you exclaimed, disgruntled.

“Yeah, but I won’t do it again! At least not more than three or four times…”

You growled and braced your hands against his broad, solid chest, trying to dislodge him from your shop door. Infuriatingly, he didn’t even sway under your hands. Even more infuriatingly, he smelled better than he had any business smelling this early in the morning. He watched you with an expression of amusement that only raised your ire more, until you gave up in disgust and turned away.

Boil followed you into the shop as you stomped toward the reception desk and rummaged around in it until you found what you sought.

“Here,” you said, slapping his leather gloves against his chest. “Now go away.”

He looked down, surprised. “Huh, I wondered where I’d left those.”

“That’s not why you’re here?” you asked.

“No, but it is a nice bonus.” You narrowed your eyes dangerously at him, and he hastened to continue. “I actually came to apologize. And… to bring you this.”

---

No pressure tags for fics, artwork, and anything else you'd like to share (sorry if you've already been tagged): @deejadabbles @multi-fan-dom-madness @nika6q @dickarchivist @mythical-illustrator

[bg3-brainwormed]

more details on "Tav" please

Anon, I don't know who you are, but you have MADE MY DAY.

First off, you may already know this, but for those who don't - My Tav is from my fic "How to Save the World (one companion at a time)" on ao3.

This does, unfortunately, mean that some things shouldn't be revealed just yet. Which has me gnawing on the bars of my enclosure but alas, such is life. But! There is plenty of non-plot relevant information that I can share, only some of which has been revealed in the fic thus far. (As of chapter 8.)

The Basics

Pre-Nautiloid, "Tav" was also known as The Dark Urge, chosen of Bhaal. Yes, my Tav is just a Durge in disguise.

Tav, short for Tavern, short for Tavernus. ...It's a long story. (See white text/first paragraph in "History" and white text/last paragraph in "Present Day" for details.)

Lawful Evil pre-Nautiloid, Chaotic Neutral after

Chosen of Bhaal -> Chosen of Jergal -> Currently ???

Wild Magic Sorcerer

...has always had an interest in music (eventual Bard dual-class)

He/They, transmasc build 3

Not a dragonborn, not a drow, but a secret third thing. They are more drow than anything else, though. (see: Appearance)

Demi-aroace, eventual QPR with the companions. Loves all their companions equally.

However, did have a situationship with Halsin in another life and used to be closest to Gale (see: fic context/present day).

Past Durgetash (future ??? due to ~spoilers~)

Uncanny valley but cute about it. More creature than "human" in actions and somewhat in appearance. Has vocal mimicry skills. Can change sex and minor physical characteristics at will.

Still a cannibal

Hates the majority of the gods and general divinity. Jergal is one of the few who gets a pass.

Honorable mentions include Eilistraee and Loviatar.

Trust, Self-worth, and Abandonment issues. Tries to do the right thing, but their version of the right thing can be... interesting. Also quick to give up on doing the "right thing," especially when someone they care about is in danger.

And most importantly: Ride or die personified

I haven’t been able to find the right mods to make their appearance accurate in-game, but scroll to the end for a wip sketch of what they actually look like.

Now, a read-more. Because oh, is there more.

History/Pre-Nautiloid

They only ever went by "The Dark Urge" before meeting Gortash. Their Unholy Father forbid them from using any other name. It was Gortash who suggested their other names:

Durge (pet name/teasing)

Dark (The Dark Urge, just... without The Urge. Only Gortash was allowed to call them this, though Orin, Ketheric, and Sceleritas all learned it in time. Their 'truest' name.)

Tav (an alias for the outside world)

Keeping in mind that they age like a drow -

Their very early childhood is a blur, spent wandering the planes, fae wild, and Underdak as more creature than thinking being. Eventually, they were found and captured by a group of drow at age 13. They were brought back to Menzoberranzan to serve the group's House.

They were treated less like a person and more like a pet/weapon due to their... abnormalities (see Appearance) and the way they grew up. Was taught language, the lyre, and various fighting styles as part of their role as entertainment. Learned magic on their own. Their only saving grace was having a "female" body and thus some measure of worth. They also hated every moment of it. Hated being the Matron's "tamed beast," hated having to stick to one form/being seen as female, hated the whole society.

When they turned 24, Sceleritas appeared to them the first time and began telling them of Bhaal, promising them freedom and bloody vengeance, etc. The ability to do whatever they wanted whenever they wanted forever.

They resisted only because they had several friends among the fellow servants, but they eventually disappeared one by one. Some were sacrificed, some killed or sold, others bought into the society and religion that Tav hated.

Eventually, the person they were closest to betrayed their trust and revealed to the Matron that they were learning magic in secret. The Matron planned to have their magic sealed and threatened with further punishments, etc.

At the betrayal of one of the few they had left, they snapped and slaughtered the whole House. They have no memory of that night and don't know what happened to their former friend, but don't regret it.

Sceleritas then guided them to Baldur's Gate, where they took up their role as Chosen of Bhaal and began leading the cult age 30. They also learned how to shift sexes and minor characteristics (hair color, etc.) at will, though that was the extent of their ability. Have since spent ??? years loyally following Bhaal and growing the cult.

They tended to give into the Urge very easily but was also very loyal to their people. This led them to gain better control over The Urge, as they had to learn how to direct it away from "their people," much to Bhaal's ire. However, it also put them at odds with Orin after Sarevok began influencing her, as she would just as easily sacrifice a cultist as a stranger.

They also had a soft spot for animals and was often punished for sparing them, feeding the stray cats, etc. Was always a bit sad when The Urge took over and killed them, but followed their Father unquestioningly nonetheless.

Joined forces with Gortash and eventually Ketheric to enact the Absolute Plan. Their own motivations? Their relationship with Gortash? Etc.? To be revealed later, I'm afraid.

They did, however, have fun breaking into Mephistopheles' palace. Absolutely vandalized the fuck out of it on the way out, unknowingly gaining Raphael's regard. They also have plans to kick a certain gnome into either Cania or Menzoberranzan.

And then Orin happened.

Fic Context/Present Day

The first time around after waking up on the nautiloid, everything went to shit. All of their companions (except Halsin, Jaheira, and Minthara) got 'bad endings.' They had been closest to Gale due to their shared curiosity and distrust of the gods, but had not romanced anyone. Had, however, shared a night or two with Halsin, and were in a situationship with him.

The loss that hurts them the most are Gale and Karlach, partially because he thought he could save both of them.

With Karlach, he had thought they had more time, had tried to convince her they could go to Avernus together. In the end, she died too soon for either option.

With Gale, they had grown concerned about the Crown after watching everyone else become corrupted or die and begged Gale to leave it be. He agreed... only to go around behind their back and fix the Crown for himself, disappearing one day without a word. Tara was the one who broke the news to them and thereby pushed them off the edge into a downward spiral.

Before Everything Went to Shit, they also got rather close to "Withers," becoming his Chosen after rejecting Bhaal and taking on a role similar to Arabella's with him. At the 6-month reunion, Withers finds them near the river, mourning the version of their friends they once knew. He gives them the chance for a second try, but only at a "cost."

Tav doesn't know what the cost is, partially because Withers - of course - didn't explain shit, and partially because they're an amnesiac twice over now.

They woke up on the nautiloid with no memories of either past. Additionally, Withers made some... modifications... when he sent them back. On the bright side, they still have access to some of their powers and subconscious manipulation of the tadpole. On the downside, ???

All they have are half-forgotten instincts and faded memories to guide them. They don't know their own name, who they are, or what happened to them, but they do know that these strangers they keep meeting, these broken companions they've gathered? They're worth everything, and they'll do anything - become anything - to protect them. They have also adopted Us and will beat the ass of anyone who even thinks about hurting their creepy little Friend.

I'm sure none of this will have any consequences whatsoever.

Meanwhile, regarding names -

Of the memories Withers yoinked, he also took Tav's names - besides The Dark Urge, that is. However, they have an instinctive hatred of that name - especially after it tried to convince them to kill Gale and Astarion - so they decided to drive me mad by going nameless for the first 8 chapters. Astarion has been internally calling them "Horns" (see: Appearance).

Eventually, the companions came together to try and help them pick a name. One of the ones Gale offered was "Tav." Shadowheart jokingly asked if it was short for "Tavern," and Astarion, who is half-convinced Tav is a demon and just doesn't remember it, replied that "Tavernus" was more likely. Lae'zel approved of a powerful name inspired by the hells, and the group devolved into teasing and debating about it.

Tav found the situation so funny that they decided to keep all three names as a reminder of their companions and new purpose.

Appearance

Unlike the Default Durge we all know and love, Tav is not Dragonborn. ...Not entirely, at least.

I am of the firm belief that nothing created from the flesh of the murdergod will be a plain or straightforward anything. Bhaal has too many doppelgangers and Slayer-shifters and just straight up shapeshifters in his bloodline for me to believe Durge would JUST be a dragonborn, etc.

For this Urge, that manifested a couple ways. First, as mentioned previously, they can change genders and minor things like hair color at will. However, unlike Orin who can shapeshift into anything, they were "born" puzzle-pieced together and permanently stuck that way.

Tav is a dragon/tiefling/drow chimaera, created by Bhaal getting a little too over-eager in unmodded character creation. Their base is a drow, but they also have dragon horns and scale patches from default durge. Their tail is scaled and overall shaped like a dragonborns, but also tipped like a tiefling's. Their eyes are tiefling's and they have natural fire resistance.

Along with these come claws and fangs/sharpened teeth, though both can be changed to "regular" form at will. Tav doesn't actually know this one yet and has only subconsciously activated them once.

Since I haven't been able to find mods that can give them horns, fangs, and/or a tail in drow form, their screenshots only have their base form + transmasc mod. I do have a WIP character sheet for them, but have only had time for a quick sketch so far.

[dogmomwrites]

Heads Up Seven Up

These tags came from @charlesjosephwrites, @talesofsorrowandofruin, @eccaiia, and @tabswrites, so thank you all for including me in this game!

Gonna pass it on with soft tags to @cat-esper, @littlepatchofhell, @athenswrites, @andromeda-grace, @sliceofardath, @hallwriteblr, and @leebrontide, as well as keeping this an open tag! Rules—share the last seven lines of your WIP and tag seven people. Or, if you're like me and have a section that works better uncut, you can group multiple tags in one post. You don't even have to be as far behind as me! 😅

These lines are taken from the unnamed sequel to my unnamed wip (I promise it'll get a title eventually!)

Aaron couldn’t keep his smile away. It was as though they were both incapable of not arguing. Even for a moment. 

“I do make sense—” 

“No the fuck you don’t.” 

Aaron could stop them. If he wanted to. 

“How do I not make sense?” 

“You run, Riley. Every day. Every single day. And so early—you wake up early! Willingly!” 

He could jump in and end the bickering before either of them could really get going. Though he knew they’d just start a new one if he did. He did have to consider that they might go from mild annoyance to actual anger if he let them argue long enough. 

“For my health, James. For my physical maintenance. For my rockin’ bod.” 

But this was real. He knew it. It was real. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such certainty in his reality—had it been years? Or just an hour? 

“You’re not that hot—” 

“Yes, I am.” 

But this was real. Two brothers, six feet apart. They faced each other, one covered in white from bandages, the other covered in white fur, unaware how similar they were from where Aaron sat. 

“I fucking hate that you’re right. I hate it. You’re so unbearable.” 

This was real. And so he let them argue. He shared a smile with Avalanche, knowing she found them just as amusing. Knowing she had no idea that they were all that kept him from the darkness he’d been lost in for a timespan he couldn’t discern. 

This was real.

[oh-stars]

For the WIP Wednesday game: bed-sharing trope in Heart. 👀

Funny enough, this is the opener!! So... double bonus? Thanks for asking :) --

It’s mornings like this that Steve wants to stay in. He’s cocooned in the softest comforter he’s ever found, snuggled under the sheets with Eddie’s legs tangled in his and a hand on his hip, and his head is tucked under the covers blocking out any light. He’s pretty sure there’s a cat pressed against his back in the space between him and Eddie; purring softly in the early hours. It’s perfect.

Until it isn’t. 

The alarm blares beside him, angry red numbers glaring at him to move when he peeks out of the covers. 

“Just turn it off,” Eddie mumbles, gripping his waist tighter. 

“Can’t,” Steve huffs as he pulls his hand out of the warm sheets to turn off the alarm. “You’ve got work.” 

Eddie whines, but his hand eases from Steve’s waist. “I don’t want to go to work.” 

Steve rolls his eyes and untangles their legs so he can roll over. “You weren’t saying that last night,” he says, moving Starbreaker from her perch on their pillows. She glares at him, escaping his hold to tuck herself under Eddie’s chin. “Aren’t you doing that elephant piece today?” 

The weird rumbly noise Eddie makes means yes, Steve’s learned. “Don’t wanna get up though.” 

“God, you’re worse than Max,” Steve says, slowly sliding over to tuck himself into Eddie’s side. He nuzzles his neck, kissing softly at the sleep-warm skin. “I don’t want you to get up either,” he admits, voice lower as he whispers. 

Eddie moves Starbreaker to the side and pulls Steve more on top of him. “Then I’m not going anywhere,” he says, legs wrapping around Steve’s waist. 

Steve closes his eyes and melts into Eddie’s body. He could stay like this forever, honestly. And he would, if Eddie didn’t have work and he didn’t promise to pick Nancy up from the airport in a few hours. “You’re a bad influence,” Steve says into Eddie’s skin. 

“You say that every morning.” 

“And I mean it.” 

Eddie kisses Steve’s head. “I love you.” 

Steve hums and lifts his head, sleepy smile on his face. “Love you,” he mumbles, before capturing Eddie’s lips with his – morning breath be damned. They lay like that for way longer than they’re meant to, trading kisses and soaking in the other’s warmth for a few more minutes.

Starbreaker eventually decides she’s had enough. She climbs onto Eddie’s torso where Steve hasn’t quite managed to shift his body to cover, and begins to knead her paws into his skin. A whiny little mew pierces the room as she cries for food or attention, Steve’s never sure. 

“Oh mighty Starbreak, is thou starved?” Eddie asks, gently moving Steve off him to cradle Starbreaker close. 

He’s been replaced by a cat. 

Steve rolls his eyes and rolls back to his side of the bed. May as well get up. “She asks you to get up once and you do. What is that, Eds?” 

“Aww, baby,” Eddie coos as he climbs out of the bed, boxers low on his hips. “Are you jealous?” He walks toward the door, then stops, brow furrowed. 

“Of our cat? Never.”