#endeavour ficcage

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"as if it were a destination"

Fred Thursday is dead, Joan and Jim Strange have moved back to Oxford, and Morse is still a Detective Sergeant. (rated e)

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(fic link) (vampire au)

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don't get attached - Endeavour coffee shop AU (e, >10k, finished for now...)

It’s not every day that the entire small staff of the tiny, branded, non-trademarked (that’s important) coffee shop around the Cowley area of Oxford are all working on the same shift, but it’s the end of September, and the university students are flooding the city, in search of caffeine in the morning and booze and sex at night...

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today, the first chapter of my >30k endeavour fic, "left-handed bridegroom" goes up! many thanks to my beta, @terribleoldwhitemen, as well as to anyone who has cheered it on during the writing process. a second chapter will go up three days from now.

endeavour, e, morse/thursday, >30k when all posted, canon-divergent post-s8

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go read imported (in glamorized form) for some spooky endeavour-morseverse vamp halloween-themed fun (there will be more of it...)

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sweet is the night-air! (e, morse/thursday, trewlove/bright, series of 8 short fics)

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fandom trumps hate 2024! i'm offering either endeavour/morseverse fic or for all mankind fic! outbid the for all mankind peeps endeavour fandom! i believe in you! i'll write a fic of 10k-20k of your CHOICE (no, really. embracing my multishipper life i guess.)

see here for more details: https://fth2024offerings.dreamwidth.org/168365.html

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Freya had asked Morse once if she’d ever been engaged, and Morse had gone still for a moment, her fidgeting paused for once. “No one ever offered,” she finally said, with a shrug, clearly trying not to betray that she cared a great deal more than she was trying to let on, the stillness saying quite enough in that regard.

(e, f!morse/f!thursday, 2/2 [?])

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"these violent delights" (e, morseday, 3k words)

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newly posted: "sister suffragette," an Endeavour multi-ship Joan Thursday POV post-World War I AU one-shot (rated E), that might be something more one of these days...

My dear Trewlove, How are you? So much has happened since we last met, and the world has changed on its axis. I made it back home from Ireland, Sam in tow, and they say it may be independent within a few months. They say (our fellow soldiers in the fight that has not ended) that you are living in sin with a young man you helped carry the stretcher for on the front, and that the two of you comfort your troubled minds with plenty of liquor and sex. I hope I get an invitation to that flat of yours one of these days....

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the second chapter of "left-handed bridegroom," "what are we becoming," is now live on ao3! look for the third and final chapter on saturday. thank you all for your support and readership so far; i deeply appreciate it!

endeavour, e, morse/thursday, (2/)3 chapters, >30k when all posted, canon-divergent post-s8

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the third and final chapter of "left-handed bridegroom," "mind how you go," is now live on ao3! it's done, it's finished. (imagine me as frodo overlooking mount doom after the ring's been tossed in, frankly.)

thank you all so much for your kind words and appreciations over the past week. it's been very gratifying to watch this fic take flight. deep thanks again to my beta, @terribleoldwhitemen!

endeavour, e, morse/thursday, 3/3 chapters, 33k, canon-divergent post-s8, complete

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oooo titanic au? i am INTRIGUED!!

thanks!!! so this is in part @terribleoldwhitemen's fault -- she turned me onto the idea of it... it's definitely a more historically accurate take on the doomed voyage, and focuses on the survivor aspect of it all more than the tragedy itself! my titanic hyperfixating pre-teen ass is thrilled.

here's a taste:

The young man is ghost pale and still shivering when Shirley spots him again. Hands clutching his knees to his chest, he had only managed to bite out his last name, ‘Morse,’ when she threw a half-soaked blanket around him in the collapsible, trying to prevent him from becoming completely frozen.

He had managed to survive the night; a few other men who had been pulled from the ocean had not been so lucky.

Neither had dear Mr. Bright, whose name did not appear familiar to the crew member tasked with the census of the first-class survivors. It makes sense, Shirley decides, with a stiff lip -- he wouldn’t have wanted to survive when so many innocents perished.

“T…t…th…Thursday?” chatters Morse, a clammy hand on Shirley’s still damp sleeve.

“Yes, it is.” It was the 18th of April, and New York had been spotted not too long ago.

“Not the day… of the week,” Morse wheezes… “Name of a… man. My… companion.”

Shirley recalls seeing the ginger-haired young man strolling down one of the second-class decks with a heavier-set, older man who looked more third-class than second, but with a distinctly impressive air around him.

There’s no way he survived.

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Endeavour (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Endeavour Morse/Joan Thursday Characters: Endeavour Morse, Joan Thursday Additional Tags: oxford student au, References to Sexual Harassment, Overstimulation, Roughness, Face Slapping, i refer to this as saltburn au but they're both oliver coded lol, POV First Person Summary:

Joan becomes one of the first female students at Brasenose. Her new classmate couldn't be more unbothered. (We swear.)

yeah i started writing a saltburn-inspired joan/morse fic months ago. yeah it’s first person. yeah they fuck. what else do you expect from me?! 

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old men yaoi: hard mode!!!!!!!!!!!!! inaugurating that fucking bright/thursday tag!!!!

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wip wednesday?

debated what to post, but this max moment in the lhbg sequel [untitled, languishing] seems fitting today.

On Monday morning, the duty clerk stops him on his way to his shared office with Morse. “Oh, Sergeant Lewis — you received a call Friday afternoon when you were out.” The woman holds a note with a message on it, and Robbie takes it, his heart sinking when he reads the hastily written message. M. DeBryn… nurse called. Said to come soon. Not much time left.

Robbie is at Max’s nice old home in a hurry, noting his garden needs a bit of tending; it is October, but it isn’t like the doctor to let weeds takeover. He knocks on the door a little too gently, almost afraid to see his favorite of the department’s pathologists so frail. He needn’t have been; Max, despite clutching a cane and wearing a line for oxygen under his nose, swings open the door with gusto.

“Why, Robert, I was wondering when you would make it over. He finally let you go for the day, huh? Come in, come in.” Max shuffles towards his sitting room, and Robbie realizes he’s never seen the man not impeccably dressed, and the case holds true today. He’s wearing an ornate robe, plush slippers, and improbably, a bow tie.

“I got your nurse’s message—”

“Nurse?! That was me. I thought it’d get you over here faster.”

“So you’re not…”

“Dying?” Max lets out a cough with a shudder. “Of course I’m dying. We all are, my boy. Morse is dying, too. He just refuses to get an official diagnosis.”

...

“I know he loved Fred Thursday, that he lost the man, that he went through the motions for fifteen years until you showed up, and while I had him off and on that entire time, the Morse I met back in 1965 and worked alongside for seven years was an entirely bloody different person after Thursday left. I love Morse, Robbie, and so do you. He did a piss poor job of ensuring this remained a secret, and if his legacy is going to mean anything, it has to remain a secret.” Max hisses that last part out, and Robbie just nods. “I’m planning on calling him to have goodbye drinks in a few days, and I won’t be telling him any of this. This is in your court, Detective Sergeant.”

Robbie slumps back in his chair, feeling both conscious of looking overwhelmed in front of Max and suspecting that’s exactly what the little ailing pathologist wants. “I don’t know if I care about him as much as you do, sir.”

Max laughs again, less strangled this time, more of a giggle. “Morse was fun for me, a good time— we could match wits. But I could never rise to his need for hopeless romanticism, for emotional rigor as well as intellectual. Only one man I knew could ever match him at his highs and his lows. I bore witness to it a few times, actually. Had to yell at them both—”

“Thursday.”

“Yes, yes. I assume Mrs. Strange noted the… odd resemblance between you two. Not physical, but—”

Robbie just nods, a familiar, queasy feeling forming in the pit of his stomach. He was starting to find himself feeling squeamish about these things, not to mention that if Morse really had fallen in love with Thursday, a man who the sole surviving Thursday had said Robbie reminded her of… then Morse, perhaps, had fallen in love with him, too.

And he wasn’t opposed to poor, lonely Morse having some kind of emotional fulfillment on most grounds, other than—

“Did you know, that like Thursday, when you’re thinking about things that bother you, your face is no good at hiding it?” Max smiles at him fondly, and it isn’t one of the smiles Max would so often throw at people to get them to leave him alone — it’s an honest-to-god, you poor damned sod smile. “I’m not going to say anything about any of what we discussed to him. I won’t even say you visited me.”

Max walks him to the door, despite Robbie’s own protests that Max should rest.

“Thank you, Robert,” he just says, smile now sadder than before. “You’re a good lad.”

It’s the last time Robbie Lewis sees Max DeBryn alive.