#this is chapter six of the wip and uh

[inkblackorchid]

...Oops.

[tgmsunmontue]

Season to Taste - 31/? WIP

Explicit Hangster - Celebrity Chef Bradley and Naval Aviator Jake Seresin who have a relationship spanning the globe before they realize how tightly bound they are to one another. Heading into this little world.

PROLOGUE/ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN (interlude) ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN FORTEEN FIFTEEN SIXTEEN SEVENTEEN EIGHTEEN NINETEEN TWENTY (interlude) TWENTYONE TWENTYTWO TWENTYTHREE TWENTYFOUR TWENTYFIVE TWENTYSIX TWENTYSEVEN TWENTYEIGHT TWENTYNINE THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTYONE

                “Your dad’s name isn’t Charles?”

                “No. It’s like… it’s Italian actually. Giacomo. Got mangled by everyone except my grandparents obviously, so everyone just calls him Chuck.”

                “Huh. Giacomo Seresin. That’s a very Italian sounding name.”

                “Did you think I was learning Italian just for you?” Jake asks, smirking and licking his lips and Bradley flushes.

                “I mean…”

                “I figured it wouldn’t be a bad thing to learn about my heritage and culture. But you were also a consideration. Just incase we ever crossed paths again.”

                “Just in case. Lucky me I guess.”

                “Mmm. Yeah.”

…            …            …

                He knows it’s only a matter of time before he gets the call. The episode aired three weeks ago now and he’s starting to feel a little worried about Ice’s mentality acuity. Maybe he’s just waiting, making Bradley sweat. He wouldn’t put it past him, has thought about what he’s going to say, thought more about why he hasn’t told him. Talked about it with Silvia, dealt with her scolding tone as she talked about family. Okay.

                He’ll be ready when Ice calls.

…            …            …

                “Fuck. We just need to get directions. Is everyone being deliberately obtuse because they think we’re tourists?”

                Jake would argue that right now that’s exactly what they are, but he also has an idea. Leo is probably awake right now, paying attention to the time difference doesn’t really make much sense when Leo’s hours are all over the place. Jake’s Italian is passable now, pretty fluent from talking with Leo when he’s in the right head space, but more importantly when Leo video calls Leandro and Silvia Jake tries very hard to solely speak Italian; he hopes it helps them like him. They seem to like him, but they’ve never met in person.

                Yet.

                So while his Italian is passable, he’s still very clearly American, walking around talking English with a group of four of them. He’s pretty sure they’re being given the run around and he’s over it; they have time, but it’s not unlimited. He can’t help the wide grin when Leo picks up after only two rings.

                “Hey babe.”

                Phoenix makes a gagging motion and Jake flicks her a middle finger, but he can’t help grinning. They’ve been deployed together a few times now and he’d go so far to say they’re friends. At different times she reminds him of any of his sisters and it makes him homesick and lessens it all at once.

                “Hey. To what do I owe the pleasure of a long-distance phone call?”

                “Well. Uh. We’re trying to find that little restaurant you told me about, but we cannot get directions out of anyone.”

                “You’re trying to visit Gallo’s?” Leo asks, and his voice has gone high pitched and Jake wonders if he should have maybe asked if this was okay.

                “Yeah. I mean, I’ve got some limited shore leave, and… I know it’s not ideal. But I’d like to meet them. If that’s okay?” Jake asks, and he’s slipped into Italian, because he doesn’t need the other knowing he’s maybe fucked up. “No one will give us directions though… And it’s like it’s been taken off all maps. Does it still exist?”

                “Oh. Yeah. Uh. Definitely still exists. What street are you on?”

                Jake walks up to the corner and peers up at the side of the building where the street name is attached to the side of a building. He reads it out and Leo lets out a sharp bark of laughter.

                “Wow. I wish I was there with you, you know. Visiting the scene of the crime as it were…”

                “What crime?”

                “When you stole my heart…”

                “Wow. That’s cheesy.”

                “Yeah. I thought so. Blame it on my Italian and French training…”

                “I like your Italian and French training…”

                “I know you do.”

                Then Leo is giving him directions and Jake is walking, waving a hand for the others to follow him. There’s lots of traffic and people to dodge, but Leo is clearly very familiar with the area still, describing what Jake should be able to see, colored awnings and street names as he crosses them, cars honking angrily as the others scurry to keep close. Then he’s there, standing in front of a glass door with Gallo’s written on it in gold. There is also a woman standing just inside and she’s scowling at him. He tries to smile winningly but it simply makes her scowl more and he wonders how they treat customers.

                “Uh. Okay. Is there a woman standing near the door?”

                “Yes… she’s looking at me and doesn’t look pleased.”

                Leo laughs.

                “Normally Silvia is on the front, but it’s early. Pass Maria the phone.”

                Jake does, even as she looks confused and takes it from him. He can vaguely hear Bradley talking Italian and she’s answering back, their pace of conversation far too fast for Jake to follow. Then her eyes are lighting up and she looks at Jake more closely, eyes suddenly shrewd as she takes him in, but she’s starting to smile, tone of voice changing to something clearly happier.

                “Leandro! Silvia!”

                Those names he recognizes at least, and then there are more people, and a lot more noise and he can feel Phoenix, Javy and Fritz all pressing in close, likely feeling overwhelmed. Jake can at least tell the yelling is happy excitement and he hopes he’s the cause. Then they’re there, Leandro and Silvia, looking at him, a little shocked but it quickly turns to wide smiles.

                “Jake!”

                “That would be me…”

                Then he’s being swept into a warm hard hug, air squeezed out of him by surprisingly strong arms. Then he’s doing introductions, everyone being hugged and welcomed. Leandro’s English is surprisingly flawless, which Jake finds surprising. Then there’s an order to close the restaurant and he shakes his head, but Silvia is nodding, ignoring him, telling the other woman to call the family and oh shit… he’s starting to really wish Leo was here, is glad he has Javy, Phoenix and Fritz at least.

                It becomes a party, and he’s really fucking glad he has the level of Italian he has now. Leo’s family is huge, and there are aunts and uncles, cousins, grandmothers who pat his cheek and call him Leo’s paramor which makes him blush for stupid reasons. They’ve been together for three years. There are enough people there that speak English that he’s sure that none of his friends feel left out. Then the food starts coming; they’re treated to a wide variety of different foods, Leandro watching him with the same level of intensity that Leo has, and Jake can see where he gets it from now.

                There isn’t any sauce and he’s honestly not brave enough to even ask, simply eats and enjoys it. Better than getting stabbed by Leo’s mentor. Father. The closest thing he has to a father now anyway and he catches him smiling in Jake’s general direction a few times, so he’ll take that as a reassuring sign. Then there’s dessert and they’re all groaning but also unable to say no to second helpings. They try and pay at the end and are waved off, given kisses and Sylvia presses extra food into their hands and Phoenix slaps a hand over his mouth when he politely tries to decline.

                When he finally chances a look at his phone he sees a stream of heart emojis from Leo.

…            …            …

                “Why didn’t you tell me about your boyfriend?”

                No hello. No name. Just out the gate.

                “Shit.”

                Ice doesn’t say anything, lets the silence stretch between them. He will wait Bradley out for hours if he has to. Has done before and he also knows Ice is hurt. That hadn’t been his intention and he’s going to have to make this right somehow.

                “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to find out that way. I…” he pauses, wonders if he should apologize again. “I… I haven’t told him about you and Mav.”

                “What about us?”

                “Well, that you’re Uncle Tom and he’s…”

                “He’s Maverick.”

                “Yeah.”

                “I would have thought, assumed, that you were simply keeping these two areas of your life distinct and separate. However the fact that Slider not only knows who it is, but has met him several times… tells me you’re not.”

                Fuck. That it’s that which Ice sounds the most upset and hurt about makes him feel worse. This has kind of backfired, because he’s let it drag out far too long and that’s all on him.

                “No. I’m not. I’m… Originally I didn’t want to freak him out with your rank. And Mav’s…” Ice snorts at that, because there’s no way to accurately summarize Mav’s Mav-ness.

                “Is that the only reason?”

                “I… no,” Bradley admits quietly, guiltily. Because Silvia had pointed it out to him, that maybe he was doing it to hurt them, like they had hurt him. Even though it’s been fifteen years and Ice never left him alone. He’d denied it initially when she’d brought it up, but it had made him think. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I think I wanted to. I really am sorry.”

                “Hmm.”

                “Uncle Tom…”

                “Well I can’t say I’m not hurt. Did you think I wouldn’t be happy for you?”

                “No! Of course not! But also, uh, I wanted to tell Jake about you, and you about Jake, but…”

                “Ah. So we are your dirty little secret.”

                “No! Well…”

                “Hmm. So… Jake. Would that be… Lieutenant Jake Seresin?”

                “Did you just look him up? Ice!”

                “I have a mind like a steel trap. I remember all sorts of names. Now, I have a favor to ask…”

                “Of course. Anything.”

                “Good. I hope you mean that.”

                “You know I do.”

                “Will you listen to him? Mav. When he calls you.”

                “Why should I?” Bradley asks, although he knows that he will. If only to now assuage his curiosity.

                “He has something to tell you. And I think it’s important that you hear it.”

                Bradley freezes at that, his mind flooded with worst-case scenarios.

                “Is he okay?”

                “He’s fine… just,” Ice lets out a long tired sounding breath and Bradley frowns, wonders if Ice is okay. “I’ve been trying to get him to talk to you for fifteen years. And it occurred to me that you might not want to hear what he has to say. So… when he calls, please hear him out.”

                “If he calls you mean.”

                “No. It’ll be when.”

THIRTYTWO

[the-inkwell-variable]

author ask tag

thank you so much for the tag, @the-golden-comet! ooh this is gonna be fun!

i'm going to focus on my current wip, Why Should I Be Careful? I'm Going To Die Anyway! because it's still very much in the planning stages (despite how much I'm writing for it) and I have Thoughts

What is the main lesson of your story? Why did you choose it?

I'll be honest, I haven't really thought that far ahead. I suppose, if there is a lesson to take from WSIBC?IGTDA!, it might be that you should always chase your goals and desires, and screw what other people think. Maybe put a little more thought and planning into yours than Aura does hers, though. I mean, she almost dies due to her recklessness. Don't be like Aura.

What did you use as inspiration for your worldbuilding?

Well, it's a zombie book - I love zombies, in case you can't tell - so the world is an amalgamation of zombie stuff I love. The zombies are based off of the Train to Busan zombies. This is a self-insert mess, so I'm using the town and people I know in the town as location and characters. Little tropes here and there that I love in movies and books alike. It's just a big chimera of stuff that I grab from stuff I remember and shove into it. It definitely needs polish when it's done, but I'm having a blast so far, so I'm'a keep doing it :3

What is your MC trying to achieve, and what are you, the writer, trying to achieve with them? Do you want to inspire others, teach forgiveness, or help the reader grow as a person?

Uhhhhhh this is a tough question. Right now, Aura is trying to make it to Roger's Grocery Mart to save her girlfriend, but most of the time, she's just trying to have a good time in the zombie apocalypse and hopefully not die. She does eventually grow into a character that (mostly) thinks things through and takes other people's situations into account, so I suppose the lesson is "the world doesn't revolve around you - be kind and helpful to others"?

As for what I'm trying to achieve... mostly, to be honest, I just want people to pick up my book and have a good time reading it. I want to write a zombie book because it's my passion and because there aren't enough zombie books out there. I guess I'm trying to inspire others? To show them that you can survive an impossible situation if you work hard and think things through?

How many chapters is your story going to have?

The only time I've written a full-length book (sorry, the only two times, forgot about Zero: ALPHA), it had about twenty-odd chapters. Z:A had...uh...thirty? That was a long time ago and I sadly no longer have that draft. This one is going to go until it's done. Hopefully more than thirty though!

Is it fanfiction or original content? Where do you plan to post it?

Original content! I have no idea where I'm going to post it. I'm torn between Draft2Digital (originally Smashwords) or Substack. Thing is, I'm really bad at marketing and keywords and all that technical stuff that goes into publicizing, so I'm really hesitant to share it at all. I'm the type of person that gets absolutely morally devastated if my own self-inflicted goals aren't met, and I'm not sure if I can handle that kind of crushing heartbreak with this one lol

So yeah. Might publish, might not. Unsure right now.

When did you start writing?

My dad set up a Windows 95 computer for me in his office, his old one, and taught me the basics of using it. I was five, about to turn six. I immediately sat down and wrote a story about unicorns. I've been writing ever since.

I didn't start writing fanfiction until I was thirteen and had just binge-watched Lord of the Rings for the first time. We don't talk about those works. They were awful.

Do you have any words of encouragement for fellow writers of writeblr? What other writers do you follow?

Write it. Oh it's cringe? Who cares? Write it. Oh, it's a rare pair? Write it. You're worried people will hate it? Fuck the haters. Write it. Writing is about having fun. Writing is about pouring your soul onto the page. Writing is about getting those ideas out of your head so they don't drive you insane. It's about reaching that one person that finds your work and loves it. Even if no one reads it - you still accomplished something. You still wrote it. And no one can take that from you.

I have so many writers in my follow list. Uhh. I have no idea how many are still active, so I'm just going to tag who I know and hope for the best lol

@idyllicocean, @keeping-writing-frosty, @bloodtiesnovel, @asher-writes, @kitswrite, @theink-stainedfolk, @karkkidoeswriting, @lavender-gloom, @orphanheirs, @aquixoticwrites, @alinacapellabooks, @marlowethelibrarian, @flock-from-the-void, @dyrewrites, @storycraftcafe, @writer-imagination, @toragay-writing, @inseasofgreen, @stephtuckerauthor, @thatndginger, @finickyfelix, @eternalwritingstudent, @drchenquill, @paeliae-occasionally, @the-golden-comet, @talesofsorrowandofruin, @watermeezer, @goldfinchwrites, @winterandwords, @badscientist, @clairelsonao3, @i-can-even-burn-salad, @leahpardo-pa-potato, @mjparkerwriting, @rowanwriting, @oliolioxenfreewrites, @emelkae, @rita-rae-siller, @rebelxwriter, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @stesierra, @francineiswriting, @sunset-a-story, @chauceryfairytales, @hollyannewrites, @jaydenswaywrites, @captain-kraken, @violets-in-her-arms-writes, @romy-thewriter, @pure-solomon, @writingmaidenwarrior, @koiwrites

go, go follow them. they're all so good and make my timeline glow.

[bitbybitwrites]

Well . . hellloooooooo out there folks!

Thanks again for the following folks who have tagged me for Six/Seven/Several Sentence Sunday and WIP Weds these past few weeks:

@nocoastposts, @iboatedhere, @porcelainmortal, @forabeatofadrum, @sophie1973

@blueeyedgrlwrites, @alasse9, @daisyishedwig, @tinyarmedtrex, @onthewaytosomewhere

@henrysfox, @caramelcoffeeaddict, @tailsbeth-writes, @caterpills, @littlemisskittentoes

(and if I've forgotten anyone, I apologize!!!!)

Let's see . . did a bit of writing lately I was able to crank out the following:

Smutsgiving 2024- Klaine/Glee

Smutsgiving 2024 - FirstPrince/RWRB

The latest chapter of Puppy Love (FirstPrince/RWRB Fic)

I'm working still on finishing up my Klaine fic, If I Can Make Your Heart My Home. About 2,500 words in on the next chapter.

Here's an excerpt below the cut: ( cc @datshitrandom)

******** “I swear, I was clear from the beginning, Kurt.  I told him I wasn’t interested in him.  I told him it wasn’t a date that night.  I just agreed to go with him only because he said he’d donate a lot to the charity if I did.  I didn’t think anything of it.  I thought it was . .” “Nothing?” Blaine’s shoulders sagged.  “Yeah, “ he whispered.  “I thought it was.”  He scooted up the bed, so he could lean back against the headboard. “God, I’m so stupid . . “ he muttered as he closed his eyes. A weight settled in his lap, causing him to look up and see Kurt there, straddling him.  Blaine could see the concern in those blue eyes. “You’re not stupid.” “But . .” “Blaine, listen to me.  You’re not stupid.”  Kurt leaned forward to cup Blaine’s face in between his hands.  “Sebastian is a conniving, manipulative son-of-a-bitch and at this moment I’d like to heave his sorry ass and his smarmy meerkat face into the East River.” Kurt spat. Blaine’s hands tightened around Kurt’s waist.  This must have been what Cooper had described when he witnessed Kurt confront their father -  this unfettered protectiveness of Blaine.  He only had Cooper and Nan been so passionately in his corner before. Now he had Kurt . . and that . . that feeling was overwhelming. "You’re not going to bludgeon him with a rolling pin when you go into the tea salon next, will you?” Blaine said with a weak smile, pulling Kurt closer and trying to calm him down with a little gallows humor. “Don’t tempt me,”  growled Kurt.  “If I could, I’d set Chef Sue on him.  Then he’d really know what its like to fear for his life on a daily minute by minute basis.” “So. . . you love me enough to commit murder for me. . . I’m touched,” Blaine murmured quietly. “I love you. Period.” Kurt said, making sure Blaine could see in his eyes that he was telling the truth.   “Now, would I defile my baking equipment to beat a man to death to uphold your honor?  You fucking bet I would.” Kurt said, his mouth set into a grim line. *****

I know the holidays are upon us and these next two weeks there will probably be less writing for me and more running around like crazy taking are of holiday responsibilities. But yes folks, have no fear, I'm still very slowly ( as I do) working on my WIPs :)

Uh and I might have signed up for the Klaine secret santa writing thing - because I'm a masochist. 😂

Dear Secret Santa, please be patient with me! Its coming - I did start it!

Hope you all have a wonderful holiday season . . .

Tagging. . .for those who want to play . . . besides the lovely folks already tagged above . . if you want to share what they've been working on lately :

@special-bc-ur-part-of-it, @little-escapist, @wowbright, @gleefulpoppet, @hkvoyage

@myheartalivewrites, @14carrotghoul , @kirakiwiwrites, @thesleepyskipper, @kirakiwiwrites

@madas-ahatters-world, @spaceorphan18 @firstprincehornyramblings , @rockitmans, @sparklepocalypse

@cryscendo @justgleekout @sarkyblueeyes @esilher @mynonah

[idontknowreallywhy]

WIP challenge progress - first of the poll ones I promised

I’m technically cheating from the outset because I said it would be 8 sentences from the very next chapter but because of how things are panning out it might be the one after that? And it’s a little more than 8 sentences but some are quite short.

It’s ‘in progress’ so is mostly just dialogue that I need to add the surrounding gubbins to. But that is generally how all the stuff between these two starts so… yeah, in progress.

Scott and Estera are perched at the top of neighbouring trees because, reasons…

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

“When did you last climb a tree?”

Scott frowned slightly. “Five weeks, three days ago. California. Parachute team miscalculated and ended up suspended over a gorge. The canopy was too dense to allow a firefly pod or a jetpack so we climbed up on each side to fasten a net below before shimmying out to untangle the harnesses. Bit hairy, Alan nearly pinned my arm to the trunk with a grapple but everyone survived. Including Alan.”

“I meant for fun. Not rescues or training or anything, just for fun.”

“Oh. Well…”

He shifted slightly on the branch and took an intense interest in the twig he was rolling between his thumb and forefinger.

“Quite a long time. We used to do it a lot, there were some great ones on the ranch. You could get a long way up before the branches even started thinning out, five, maybe six metres. But Gordy tried to copy and he fell and broke his arm and there was a huge row. So, uh, I stopped doing that.”

“Wait, how old was Gordon?”

“Only six, I was being a terrible example.”

“So you were a teenager?”

“Yeah, Mom hadn’t been gone long and I guess I hadn’t got used to being the grown up yet. But I figured it out pretty fast after that so, uh, all good.”

“Gordon’s in his twenties.”

“He is.”

“Alan flies a space rocket.”

“He does.”

Scott let out an awkward laugh.

“He probably didn’t mean it as a lifetime prohibition. I just… well, it’s never really come up since.”

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

[voxofthevoid]

Yo, it's Demon/Hunter Horror Wednesday #16—first WIP Wednesday of the year, technically, since the last week ended up being excerpt games.

I still don't have any straight-up porn to post (only two such scenes left in the whole fic, and the next two chapters should cover those), but I did write two interlinked scenes featuring Yuuji, Gojou, and Tōji that should be entertaining on their own—and maybe tease some of the missing context 👀

“So he did come,” Satoru murmurs. “We have a guest, Yuuji.”

Yuuji drags his mind to the present—and the man lounging on Satoru’s front steps. “Tōji-san?”

A lazy wave. “Yo. Playing favorites, Six Eyes?”

“H-huh?”

“Not you, kid.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Satoru says pleasantly. “I’m perfectly willing to involve Megumi. Are you?”

Tōji continues to stare up at them, his eyes narrow slits despite the angle. When Yuuji looks at Satoru, he finds a bland smile that gives nothing away.

“Involve Fushiguro in what?” Yuuji asks. “Guys?”

“Training.” Satoru’s the one who replies, and it’s the same tone as before but…different somehow. “Tōji here would make a better teacher for you than for Megumi, but I’m far more versatile. There’s a lot I could teach your cute little son—isn’t that right, Papa-san?”

“Don’t push it, you little shit.”

Satoru’s grin widens unsettlingly. “Is that a no?”

“You know damn well you’re not touching that brat for three more years. Or did you get fucked so hard you forgot to count?”

Heat rushes to Yuuji’s face, but Satoru only laughs.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he says.

“What the hell is going on?” Yuuji grits out.

Two pairs of unfairly intense eyes snap to him. Yuuji holds Tōji’s gaze and ignores Satoru’s. Both these men are intimidating, but Yuuji’s been surviving Sukuna and his freakshow for fucking months.

“Heh.” Tōji stands up—and up and up, unfolding his entire immense bulk. He finishes it off with a leisurely stretch of his arms above his head; the fabric around his biceps cries for help. “At least you’ll be more fun than all this grunt work. Don’t disappoint me too much, pinkie.”

“Careful,” Satoru chimes in. His hand comes to rest on Yuuji’s shoulder, the touch light but the weight heavy. “You’re not allowed to break Yuuji.”

“How stupid do you think I am?”

“Stupid?” Satoru tilts his head, the movement oddly liquid. “Not at all. You do, however, have a track record of trying to kill hapless teenagers.”

Tōji snorts. “Hapless my ass. You and your dead boyfriend were monsters.”

Satoru’s hand flexes on Yuuji’s shoulder, tightening briefly before relaxing with a deliberation that makes Yuuji’s own knuckles ache. “Takes one to know one.”

“Sure does.” Tōji’s eyes sweep back to Yuuji. “Let’s see where you fall on the spectrum. Training wheels are off, kiddo. You’re playing with the big boys now.”

“Uh…” Yuuji looks between the two of them; Satoru’s smile tells him as much as Tōji’s sneer does—absolutely nothing. “I have no idea what you two are talking about.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll do fine. Tōji’s here to train your body. I’ll take over later to hone your spiritual senses. Ideally, I’d do both, but I have a demon to corral—and you two get along well enough. Still, don’t let him bully you, Yuuji.”

“You’re one to talk,” Tōji drawls. “The kid looks like he’d crawl out of his skin to get away from you.”

Yuuji freezes.

At his side, Satoru does too. Then the hand on Yuuji’s shoulder falls away.

Yuuji doesn’t miss it; he doesn’t.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Satoru says blandly, stepping back and out of Yuuji’s peripheral vision. “Yuuji has a key. I’ll be back before nightfall.”

There’s a soft, strange noise—displaced air, with an electric crackle. Yuuji’s heard it exactly once before, in that deserted road in front of Sukuna’s church a second before Satoru showed him it wasn’t so deserted after all.

When he turns around, Satoru’s gone.

“Idiot,” Tōji scoffs behind him. “Come on, pinkie. Let’s beat you into shape.”

-

The spar with Tōji ends very predictably.

There was a moment there at the start when Yuuji thought he might be able to put up a better fight. Sukuna is a lot more formidable than the high school bullies and yakuza wannabes who had been the extent of Yuuji’s fighting experience the last time he’d tangled with Tōji, and Yuuji’s never once won against Sukuna either, but he’s learned a lot.

He’s changed, in ways he can sometimes feel like stains in his soul.

But one second was all it took for Yuuji to realize just how much Tōji had been holding back the first and no-longer-only time they’d done this, and then he was getting real closely acquainted with the bark of a tree.

That first and no-longer-only fight feels like a joke now. It must have felt like one to Tōji. And it’s not like Yuuji had walked away from that either, but he’d felt all warm about Tōji’s appraisal afterward, and there’d been a fun thrill to the way Fushiguro had looked at him, his expression grudgingly impressed despite how he’d warned Yuuji away from his dad’s antics.

What just happened feels more like utter slaughter. Yuuji’s bones are unbroken and there are no holes in his body, but even the worst Sukuna had done to him hadn’t been so one-sided.

A pair of feet enter his peripheral vision.

Tōji’s dark eyes peer down at him. His expression is…no different than what he wears when he greets Yuuji at the door. Boredom, mostly, but with an edge to it that warrants straightened spines and ready hands.

He says, “You fight differently.”

Yuuji tries to ask a question, but all that comes out is a weak croak.

Tōji lets out an amused huff and raises a hand. It’s clutching a bottle of water. When did he—

“Ack—” Yuuji gasps and sputters as the water is poured onto his hot, swollen face, and some of it goes inside, soothing his throat almost by accident. It’s a miracle none of it ends up in his windpipe. “Tōji-san! Cut it out!”

“Look at that, you’re alive,” Tōji drawls, but the stream of water cuts off. “Just watering you. Hydration is important.”

Yuuji glares up at him. “I’m not a plant.”

“You’re about as useless as one right now.” Tōji crouches down, and Yuuji tries to brace himself, an instinct violently obtained in the last handful of minutes, but those hands don’t reach for him with the intent to hurt, just dangle between Tōji’s spread legs while he surveys Yuuji with unreadable eyes. “Eh, I guess you’ll do.”

“What did you mean?” Yuuji asks, blinking hard to make his eyes stop stinging from the water assault. The cuts all over his face and neck burn, but that’s easy enough to ignore. The rest of his body feels like one big bruise. “How am I fighting differently?”

“You’ve learned what real pain feels like.” Tōji’s voice is low, his eyes unblinking. “And it doesn’t bother you much. It shows. It always does.”

“…Oh.”

“Don’t let it get to your head. You’ve still got a ways to go.” Tōji cracks his neck, veins bulging along the thick column of it. “At least training you won’t be a total waste.”

Yuuji bites his lip, reminded of something he’d thought of in scattered bursts in the couple of minutes between Satoru leaving and Tōji laying into him. “Tōji-san, is it really alright to leave Fushiguro out of this?”

“Out of what? This ain’t some super cool club, pinkie. You’re here to get beaten up till you’re a little less likely to shit yourself and die if one of those fuckers that go bump in the night looks at you wrong. What, you want company in your misery?”

“No, that’s not—” Yuuji takes a deep breath, trying to figure out what he does want to say. “It’s nothing like that. I’m just worried. Sukuna knows him, he’s—sorry, it’s my fault, I should’ve—”

“Can it.” Tōji pulls a face, blowing out an explosive breath. “Kids these days. You didn’t do shit. This is just the ugly, festering face of reality. Most people just can’t see it. Sometimes, they’re lucky for it. Sometimes, they’re just dumb cattle. That’s the way it is.”

Yuuji can’t help thinking of what Satoru said yesterday about monsters and people—about food and feasting.

“Won’t he be safer,” he asks quietly, “if he can protect himself better?”

Tōji blinks, a languid motion that leaves his eyes heavy-lidded. “Is that what you think he’s doing with you?”

“H-huh?”

“Gojou,” Tōji clarifies, except it doesn’t explain anything at all.

“I don’t—”

“Make no mistake, kid—this is a farce. I don’t know why he’s bothering. I can guess, but I don’t really give a fuck. Just take what you’re given and hope you’ll live long enough to use it. It won’t be here. It won’t even be this year. I know too well what it takes to make a hunter worth the air they waste.” The base of the plastic bottle, still heavy with water, is brought to rest against Yuuji’s stomach. It taps idly, once. Then it presses unerringly into a bruise, and Yuuji’s left breathing slow and soft past the burst of pain. “At least you’ve got a good body. You even know how to use it. It’s still not enough. Megumi? He’d need to eat the thing in the church to even taste his own damn power. Now call that a fucking birthright.”

Yuuji swallows, tasting blood, and that’s just the cut inside his mouth from when a punch shoved his flesh against his own canine, but the undertone of rot is something else, isn’t it?

“Tōji-san…”

“You’re just brats who’d be useless in this fight.” Tōji rises to his feet in one fluid motion, turning away from Yuuji. “So stay brats.”

Yuuji breathlessly watches him take a few steps toward the open back door of Gojou’s house.

Then— “Satoru said you tried to kill him.”

Tōji pauses, doesn’t look back. “Sure did.”

And Yuuji’s not surprised, not really. He heard what these two said. But it was a lot, and he still doesn’t know what to feel about hapless teenagers and dead boyfriends and monsters.

He can still see the shape of a story; it’s not a good one.

“Was he my age then?”

“Who knows.”

“He was still young.”

“He was a brat too, if that’s what you’re getting at. Should’ve been an easy kill. Would’ve saved us all some trouble if I’d finished the damn job.” Tōji sticks a finger in his ear, giving it a violent shake. “Whatever. This pays better.”

[i-hope-this-is-a-phase]

Insult to Injury

Homeward Bound by Zuesue for @honelle56 (T | WIP | 3k)

#bathing/washing #hurt/comfort Dream and George want to go home. They find it together.

Thank you to everyone who commented and shared my fic yesterday! Here's the penultimate chapter.

Happy reading!

(Fic under the cut for those who prefer reading on Tumblr)

The nurses wake George every couple of hours. They say they’re monitoring his vitals, but Dream knows enough to understand they’re making sure his concussion isn't getting worse.

George is accommodating, but Dream knows the lack of sleep is getting to him. He isn’t grouchy to the nurses (of course he isn’t) but by the fifth check-in, he’s demanding Dream for a smoothie.

“It’s six a.m. George.”

“Gimme smoothie.” His voice is smothered by the pillow he’s placed over his eyes. The lights are still dimmed, but maybe the headache is getting worse from the lack of sleep. “I want a smoothie.”

“George—”

“Now, Dream.”

Dream sighs, but he stands up from his chair. He stretches. “Anything else you want, my King?”

“No, that will be all peasant.” George shoos him away, and Dream chuckles to himself while he goes in search of the cafeteria.

If he’s being honest, Dream hasn’t slept the entire night. The chair was too uncomfortable, plus he’s been too busy researching concussion recovery and texting Sapnap all the things they need to buy. He’s sent Sapnap at least a dozen articles on Discord of various products money can buy. And, his schedule is already fucked, so what’s one more sleepless night if he can make George feel a little more comfortable when he gets home.

“So, good news and bad news,” Dream announces as he walks back into George’s room.

George rolls over and flips him off.

“Bad news: there were no smoothies in the cafeteria.”

“Ugh.” George starts sitting up, rubbing his eyes. “Okay.”

“But, good news is,” Dream says, producing two smoothies from behind his back, “you can apparently fucking DoorDash the hospital.”

George laughs as Dream hands him his smoothie. The two drink in silence for a moment. It’s good, the smoothie. Dream doesn’t often go for the sugary smoothies, but he didn’t feel like ordering something else. Besides, he gets to share the experience with George, which counts as a win in his book.

“Has Sapnap texted yet?” George asks.

Dream thinks of the last text he had gotten from Sapnap at 3 a.m., reading dude shut the fuck up and go to sleep. “Uh—well.” He takes a big slurp of his smoothie. “He hasn’t texted if the house is ready yet.”

George grumbles. “We can’t leave yet even if it was,” Dream adds. “The nurses haven't come by to discharge you.”

“But I’m fine, Dream. Take me home now.”

Dream takes another sip from his smoothie as he shakes his head. “Not yet,” he says. “Not until the nurses discharge you.”

“Now.”

“No.”

“Now.”

“No.”

“Dreeeeeaaaam,” George whines. He takes another big sip of his smoothie before putting it down on the bedside tray and flopping dramatically onto the bed. He pouts for a moment, but then he stops. He looks up at Dream with wide, soft eyes, and practically flutters his eyelashes. “Please?” he pleads, giving him an innocent look. “Ask? For me?”

Dream sighs again. No wonder Sapnap says I don’t have a backbone. “I’ll…go talk to the nurses.”

“Thank you!” George smiles, the small, real one he only gives Dream (and sometimes Sapnap), and when Dream leaves the room to look for the nurse, Dream thinks maybe it’s alright that his soft spot is for George.

It takes a few more hours (much to George’s chagrin), but the nurses eventually clear George to go home. Dream has bought George a pair of women’s sunglasses from the shop (“They have the best coverage and darkest lens George!”), so with George’s eyes closed to block the sun, Dream is able to lead him by the arm to the car without a problem.

Driving back is a weird experience. Dream feels himself being extra careful on the road, even though it wasn’t really a car accident that got George injured. He’s mindful of every bump, every turn on the road. He can’t help but wonder if George is thinking about it too, or if he’s just being paranoid.

When they get home, George says he feels gross and wants to take a shower. And before he can stop himself, Dream blurts out: “Why don’t you use my bathroom.”

George turns to look at him. They’re still sitting in the garage, waiting for Sapnap to confirm the lights are off or dimmed in the house, and Dream curses himself for starting this conversation in a confined space where he can’t run away. “Uh,” George says. “Why?”

“Well—you see, my bathroom has an adjustable light switch.”

George stares at him. Dream fidgets with his hands. “I know,” George says. “Mine does too.”

“Yeah—well, I also have candles if you don’t want that, and bath bombs and, um, oils—not for that!” he exclaims at George’s face. “They’re for scents, essential oil shit. You shouldn’t use them for—I don’t use them for jerking off, and you don’t have to either, wait—”

“Dream.” George is full-on grinning now, and Dream’s face burns. “Who said anything about jerking off?”

“...I did. But you don’t—don’t have to, unless you want to, but then don’t use those, I have other stuff—not that you are going to, y’know, but if you wanted to, I can get you—”

George is full-on laughing now, and Dream feels helplessly embarrassed.

“Shut up! It’s been a day, I don’t know what you want.”

“And you think I need to jerk off?”

“Oh my god—”

“Fine, okay, I’ll use your stupid bath,” George says. “Will that make you happy?”

“Yes.” Dream nods, then pauses. “Will you need—”

“No, Dream.”

Dream’s phone buzzes with a text. He immediately grabs it, glad to have a distraction from this conversation. Never mind that he caused it. “It’s Nick,” he says. “We’re clear to go in. I’ll uh.” He gestures vaguely. “I’ll get it prepared while you grab your stuff.”

“Okay.” George is still smiling. Dream nods again, and gets out of the car, opening George’s door before walking toward the exit. Before he shuts the door behind him, he hears George call out, “Dream?”

Dream turns back around.

“Don’t grab the lube.”

He feels his face heat, and he can hear George’s laugh echoing behind him as walks away.

Goddamnit.

About ten minutes later, Dream has the bath prepared, with candles placed along the counter and floor. He’s using the cheap plastic candles because the real ones he has would flicker, and he’s not sure if those would hurt George’s eyes or not.

There’s a knock on the door, and Dream looks up from where he’s fiddling with the bath bombs. “Come in!” he calls.

George walks in, holding a towel and pajamas. He stops. “Dream,” he says. “What the fuck.”

“Okay, look.” He gestures at the quite substantial number of products on the ground and around the bathroom. “I didn’t know what you wanted—”

“So you bought out the drugstore?”

“Shut up, there’s not that much.”

George places his clothing and towel on the counter and walks over to the assortment of bath supplies. “Dream, this is crazy.” He picks up two bottles and squints at them. “Why do you have two shampoos?”

“Stop that, you’re not supposed to be reading right now.” He grabs the bottles out of his hand. “The fans send me products, and I don’t want them to go to waste.”

“Why don’t you just give them to your sister?”

“Wow, can’t believe GeorgeNotFound is sexist.” George freezes at that remark, and Dream backtracks. “No, wait, don’t listen to that. Dumb joke.” He clears his throat. “I do give them to my sisters. And my mom. But, some of the stuff is good, and I do occasionally use some.”

George rolls his eyes, but he gets up. “Whatever Dream. Just get me the normal stuff then.”

Dream scoffs at that, but he grabs a fairly typical shampoo and soap and puts it closer to the tub. He grabs one of the seven bath bombs he has (he likes them okay?), and places it on the edge of the tub.

“You just put it in the water and it’ll—why are you shirtless?”

George looks at him like he’s crazy. “Because I’m about to take a bath?”

“Yeah—but I’m still here.”

“Well, no one asked you to be.”

Dream’s face heats, but he stops messing with the bath and gets up. “Well, then.” He waves his hand. “I’ll get out of your way.” He heads to the door.

“Wait.”

Dream looks back over his shoulder. George has turned to where he’s standing. He shifts his weight to his other foot. Mumbles something.

“What did you say?”

“I said,” George says, “you could stay if you wanted.”

Everything gets quiet in Dream’s head. “Huh?”

George does a half-shrug with his shoulder, but he shifts his weight again. Nervous. “Well, you smell as bad as me right now.”

“Wha—I don’t smell.”

“—and you didn’t shower last night because you were with me, so.” He looks up into Dream’s eyes, and something must give him the wrong impression because George begins to backtrack. “It’s not like I’m forcing you to stay, Dream, you can say no.”

“I mean—I don’t.” Dream feels off-kilter. “Do you even want me to stay?”

George scoffs at that. “Why would I ask if I didn’t want you to stay?”

“Well—okay, that’s true.” He thinks about it for a moment.

Since George has arrived, their relationship has taken some…interesting turns.

He should’ve expected as much. His friendship with George has never been typical, and he should have anticipated that, on George’s first night home, he would end up in Dream’s bed.

“How are you still awake,” Dream had asked when George came barging in after the fireworks.

“Can’t keep up with my stamina?” George had teased, which had made Dream choke on a laugh.

“You’re so fucking weird George.” Dream had laid back down on the bed, and a moment later, he had felt George lifting the sheets up and climbing in as well.

There was a beat of silence, and then the bed shifted as George turned to face him. “Is this okay?” he had asked.

Dream had turned his head as well to look at him. He could feel the way the bed dipped closer, the extra warmth from another body in the sheets. ”Uh, yeah,” Dream had said. “It’s—um, like we’re sleepcalling, but IRL, right?”

George had scoffed, and Dream had felt the air on his face. Not exactly like sleepcalling, he had thought, but Dream couldn’t say it wasn’t a welcome change. “You’re so dumb,” George had replied, but even in the dark, Dream could see his smile.

It had only taken a few moments more for them to fall asleep, and even though it wasn’t a regular occurrence for them to share, boundaries between them had never adjusted to “normal ass friendship boundaries,” as Sapnap put it after he caught them napping together on the couch.

“I can, um, stay, yeah."

George smiled. “Alright.” George started pulling down his pants, and Dream immediately averted his eyes. “Get naked then.”

This isn’t weird, he tells himself. They’ve shared a bed. They’ve cuddled for hours at a time. They even kissed twice: once on New Year’s, when the high of finally being home and being able to embrace the new year together ended with a soft peck and a firm hug; another after a drunken night in January when they were, once again, in love with life and in love being together. Not, together together, and not in love with each other. Just very happy to share a life. Together.

(Even if that night had also ended in a bed, snuggled warm and close.)

It honestly won’t even be the first time he had been naked around George. Their house had an open-door policy that included bathrooms: if George needed something, he would often walk in while Drem was changing or in the bath.

And even though Dream tried to be respectful of George’s space when he first arrived, George allowed him to see. Whether that was inviting Dream in while he was taking a shit, or it was insisting Dream stay by his side while the doctor gave him steroids, there was little Dream had not seen of George’s body.

And yet, this felt different. More intense. More intimate.

Dream pulls his hoodie over his head and shucks off his sweatpants. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees George getting into the bath, so as soon as he’s naked, he walks over to join.

Only to come across a problem.

“Where do I go?”

George looks at him as if he is losing it. “Inside the bathtub.”<

“Yeah—but like, where do I sit?” If he sits on George's opposite side, their legs would be too close together to be comfortable, and this is supposed to help George relax, not make him more uncomfortable. Maybe this is a bad idea, maybe he should leave—

“You’re gonna sit behind me. Obviously.”

“That is—that is not obvious!” he sputters. “It’s perfectly reasonable to ask where I’m going to sit if we’re two men sharing a bath.”

“So,” George says. “It’d be different if we were heterosexual;?”

“...what!?”

George dissolves into giggles. “Wow, I can’t believe Dream is homophobic.”

“I don’t—I’m not—whatever, scoot over.” George moves forward so Dream can climb in behind him, and, suddenly, they’re sharing a bath.

t’s still a bit tight. They’re two grown men, after all, and the bath was built for one occupant, not two.

But, it’s nice.

Really nice.

It’s a tad slippery. They don’t smell the greatest. Dream’s dick is literally against George’s back. It should be awkward.

But all those facts aren’t what Dream is focusing on.

George is a solid weight against his chest. He’s not that small, but against Dream, he feels small. Like Dream can hold him here, keep him safe from the world.

His arms are around George’s waist because of the position, and he can feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. If he wanted to, he could put his hands on George’s stomach and feel the softness of his tummy and the muscles beneath. If he went lower, he could feel so much more.

He doesn’t. He doesn’t want to. Not right now. This is a tender moment. A quiet moment. Right now, he wants to hold his best friend and relax after their ordeal.

And so, he does just that.

He reaches over and places the bath bomb he picked into the water. It fizzles as it dissolves, and George reaches out to touch it, delighted. While he’s distracted, Dream pours some shampoo into his hand. George’s hair is already wet, so he lathers his hands up and begins rubbing circles into George’s scalp.

He will go to his grave before he ever tells George, but when George had gotten his hair for him, he wondered what it would feel like under his hands. At the had rationalized it as loneliness. Maybe it was, in part. The pre face-reveal times were not without loneliness.

But, another part understood that he wanted to know because he wanted to know everything about George.

Because they’re best friends.

It isn’t an extraordinary experience. It’s just washing hair. However, as he’s rubbing the shampoo into George’s scalp, it soothes him in an almost intrinsic way.

He’s taking care of George. He’s making his head, the injured part of him, feel better. He’s making his best friend happy.

It isn’t long before he’s gathering water and pouring it over George’s head (making sure to shield his eyes first of course). Before he’s able to start on his body, George asks, “Can I wash your hair too?”

“Uh.” He can’t think of a reason to decline. “Sure.”

George grabs the bottle from the side and turns to face Dream. The water gets dangerously close to spilling out, so Dream helps him move until George is perched on Dream’s thighs. He’s looking into George’s eyes without needing to look down, for once.

“You’re so small,” he tells him, and George smacks Dream’s head. “Ow!”

“I am not.” George pours some shampoo into his hands and begins lathering it between his fingers.

“That’s not fair—I can’t even hit you back.”

There’s a beat of silence.

George stops soaping his hands.

“Well,” he finally says. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“George—“

“Tilt your head toward me,” he interrupts Dream before he can say…something. He obliges, giving his head as an offering.

George takes his time getting the shampoo into the roots of his hair, then gently applies the rest while making sure he doesn’t pull on his curls. It’s more methodical than what Dream did, but he’s as thorough. He's good at taking care of Dream.

He's always good at taking care of Dream.

A minute later, he’s scooping water to rinse out the suds, brushing the hair out of Dream’s eyes when he’s done. Their eyes meet for a moment, and for a brief instant, Dream thinks, He’s perfect.

The rest of the bath goes without incident. They take turns using the body wash on each other, rinsing with the bath water, and shifting positions for better angles. It’s easy. It’s simple. It’s Dream and George, of course it would be.

They get out of the bath, taking turns drying the other off before facing away as they get changed. They don’t need to, they’ve already seen everything. But it feels right in the moment.

They make their way back into the bedroom, and Dream offers to nap together since they didn’t get much sleep.

“We can watch Better Call Saul with the stuff blind people use so you can understand.”

“I have a concussion, I’m not blind, Dream.”

“Yeah, but you can’t look at the screen, so.” George looks incredulously at him, so Dream changes tactics. “Or, we could just talk. We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”

George gives him the soft smile again, but he shakes his head. “I’m good.” He reaches out and grasps Dream’s hand. Squeezes. One. Two. Three times. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours, alright?”

Dream nods. George turns and leaves the room.

And even though George isn’t with him, the bed feels warm when Dream falls asleep.

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

WIP Wednesday Thursday

Thank you to @schnarfer, @burntheedges, and @mrsmando for the tags!

I am currently in the mood board factory working on boards for my Little Mood Mood milestone celebration. Please head over there and send me an ask so I can make you something lovely!

I do have a couple pieces in the fire though.

First I have yet another Dieter fic for the lovely @yopossum-loves's celebration.

“Here?”  “Yes baby,” Dieter crowds you against a table filled with gardening supplies. Your body knocks against the wood top, trowels and rakes clatter against one another. His tongue runs up the column of your neck, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin of your jaw. You can feel the bulge of him growing against your behind.  “It’s so dirty in here,” you say, angling your head to try to meet his lips.  “So?” he asks before sealing his mouth over yours, a large hand grabbing your chin, the other, snaking to grip your breast. “Shouldn’t have teased me all night.”

I have a hot DILF neighbor Joel Miller teaches you about baseball fic, but in all reality it's just a way to write first base, second, third, scoring.

“Can I play coach?” You wink scooting even closer to him. “Batter up baby,” he growls grabbing and lifting you to straddle his lap. Your barely clad ass rests against the soft fabric of his sweatpants. “Show me first base.” “First base,” you nuzzle your nose against his, “kissing.” “Mm,” he nips at your bottom lip. “Then kiss me pretty girl.” “But what about your important game?” “Don’t care about the game, they’re losing by four.”

As for Elks, listen, they are my first babies and I love them but when I go back and read the first few chapters I can really see where my writing needed help back then. (Shout out to all of the lovely beta readers and friends who have helped me with my writing, all 229992 of you.) So with that being said, I think as another somewhat milestone celebration, I'm going to go in and edit the chapters, make it flow better, correct grammar mistakes, etc. I love the story of soft Jackson Joel and we're coming up on the six month anniversary of my first fic posting ever. I adore the story and I especially love my Colorado, artsy bookworm reader. I want to do them justice, so if you're one of the lovely folks waiting, please wait longer, it'll be worth it. Also, there is a Green Part 2 coming where Joel gets bossed around again.

I'm a day late sooooo uh, I'm going to tag you and if you've already done it... take this tag as an ILY.

@luxurychristmaspudding, @pascalispretty, @guiltyasdave, @sizzlingcloudmentality, @sawymredfox

Just going to come down here and tag @magpiepills so I just get more insane lists/thoughts of insane things that drive me insane.

[thedistortedfroggit]

FANART DROP RAHHH💥💥

My latest fandom craze: Lego Monkie Kid! Especially after Season 4.

season 4. I'm not the biggest fan of Season 5, but slowly im easing into it.

(HE SAID 'DONT MAKE ME DO THIS'HFJASJK)

coughAnyway.

With this new obsession, naturally comes obsessively reading fanfiction. AND GUESS WHO FOUND A GEM.

Or, perhaps.. an Emerald? (wink)(kill me)

The Green Eyed Macaque is a fic written by ChristyKitty

TOTALLY CHECK THEM OUT!!

As of writing this, 15 chapters are currently out, and the tail end of the 15th one is what finally drove me over the edge to draw them silly!!

Had to practice drawing Macaque and the Mayor, so it'll explain the shitty quality n lil unfinished mayor head lmao/

Now, I know what Author PROBABLY meant with the tail is probably just.. the tip of it nudging the Mayor up. BUT I JUST HAD TO HAVE IT CURLING AROUND AND CHOKING HIM. THE VOICES.

Nobody can convince me that the Mayor wouldn't act smug even with a tail wrapped around his throat.

(Rip Macaque's children, I had to cut them outta the scene to draw these two mainly.)

The right was more of a practice sketch for Macaque, n thats why its kinda shitty- BUT YOU CAN TELL WHAT KINDA POSE I WAS IMAGINING FOR THE SCENE RIGHT??

Here's some progress pics I took of em!! I had sm struggle with the hand placement.

Like, I KNEW it where it was supposed to be?? but idk how to connect it properly???

Here's a little extra, if you've reached all the way down here! A little WIP of my current sketches. YES!! I am not done!! But I decided to just throw what I've got up to feed em something!!

Clearly trying to redo the hair thing (this time w a proper reference..)

The right one is more a personal hc-but-not-rlly scenario. Like, just imagining it. (I.e: What if Wukong could see Reader through Gold Vision? [Mac: "Look at me, do I look like the Six-Eared Macaque?"]) Since I'm too lazy to go reread ALL of the 1st part of the series for Reader Lore, I skimmed through the last chapter to jog any memories and went from there

Reader can't shapeshift, only cast illusions(which I'm assuming is the same thing as glamour just more widespread). Which would mean they're still the same person underneath all that. Gold Vision.. uh, well idk exactly what gold vision can do(didn't exactly finish JTTW) but if hypothetically it COULD see through illusions...

Could Wukong see through mac's illusions? What would he see? The Six-Ears Macaque, or Mac's ACTUAL self?

[kaylinalexanderbooks]

Writeblr Questionnaire

Thanks @illarian-rambling here, @paeliae-occasionally here, @willtheweaver here, @honeybewrites here, @urnumber1star here,

And @leahnardo-da-veggie here!

About You:

When did you start writing?

Genuinely I'm not sure, but I do have physical evidence that it's been a while. The first story I wrote was called "In the Dark." I was at the age where I drew several pictures with one color of marker with stick figures and my mom wrote the words for me. I'd say preschool-aged. I think I was three.

Are the genres/themes you enjoy reading different from the ones you write?

I am a person with a huge bias toward fantasy in the things I write and consume. However, I'm not picky with genres, it just happens to be a pattern. I really do love plenty of realistic fiction books. It just so happens that I have exactly one realistic fiction story in my WIP ideas. One. And even then, it needed a gimmick to be interesting for me to write. I have no interest in writing realistic fiction other than that. But I really do love plenty of realistic fiction books!

I want to write a mystery one day, but it'll have to be a fantasy mystery. I do love plenty of realistic fiction mystery books and shows and stuff. I could never write historical fiction, although that isn't a frequented genre to begin with.

Theme-wise, I couldn't say. I don't really care.

Is there an author (or just a fellow writer!) you want to emulate, or one to whom you’re often compared?

Nope. I think people will make their own comparisons, but there's no one in particular I am trying to emulate. I'm just me.

Can you tell me a little about your writing space(s)? (Room, coffee shop, desk, etc.)

Sometimes I just write on the couch or at a random place at school, but I've been going to my desk a lot more. It's just in my room, I'm on a swivel chair, and my laptop is on top of it. Nothing special.

What’s your most effective way to muster up some muse?

Read my old writing or my notes! I see stuff I forgot about or I get ideas from the details. Occasionally I'll check out a video or something if I'm truly stuck.

Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and places you write about?

Uh, yes. Why do you think I set the "real world" in a middle-class intermediate school in the greater Houston area on a six-lane FM road with a Sonic, Walgreens, and apartment complex nearby? It's a lot easier to describe things that way. Everywhere else I have to make up a floor plan for interiors and use Google Maps for the surrounding scenery.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing, and if so, do they surprise you at all?

A lot of queer and neurodivergent people. No, that does not surprise me. It me. It accident.

Friends-to-lovers is my most common romantic relationship, but there's also a lot of platonic and queerplatonic relationships.

Interpersonal relationships in general are huge themes of mine and appear in almost everything I write.

Since I write YA, there's a lot of coming of age.

None surprise me.

Your Characters:

Would you please tell me about your current favorite character? (Current WIP, past WIP, never used, etc.)

Oof that's hard. For TSP... I love talking about Carmen. She's such an asshole, but she's super interesting. I want to put her under a microscope and study her. She's a character I'm constantly thinking about. I like seeing why she does the things she does. She's developed into a character I originally didn't think much about, and now I can't stop! She's also funny. She doesn't mean to be, but she's so high-strung and angry that she is fun to write for.

For SOTL, it's Tierney. I have one chapter with him, but that doesn't matter. He's amazing and I love talking about him. He's a mess. He's a nerd. He's awkward. I love him.

Which of your characters do you think you’d be friends with in real life?

Well, the characters closest to my age are Liam and George, and I think I'd be friends with them! Liam may occasionally get on my nerves in the debate side of him, but I think I'd get used to it, especially because his part of the grilled cheese debate is based on someone I actually know and am friends with.

I'm not sure about being friends with the kids, but I do hang out with plenty due to being an educator, and I remember how I was at that age. Out of everyone, Robbie and Akash feel like they'd perfectly fit into my friend group, which may be why I love writing them so much. Individually I think Gwen is the one I'd be most likely to get along with.

I haven't written enough of SOTL, but I'd get along with Jill. Also Ritchie and their group of friends.

Which of your characters would you dislike the most if you met them?

Carmen, I'm so sorry, I would not like you. Gabriel also can get rude and boring. Noelle constantly mentioning her mom would get on my nerves, if I'm being honest. I feel like I could only take Parker in small doses, even if I really like Wade.

I'm not far enough in SOTL to make a decision except for the purposefully antagonistic characters.

Tell me about the process of coming up with of one, all, or any of your characters.

Well, TSP it really depends. Here are all the characters I think are worth mentioning for the entire series.

Originally based on someone I knew before developing a completely different personality: Lexi, Maddie, Ash, Gwen, Noelle, Rose, Kelsey, Carla, George, Hye-Jin, Atsila

They started out as someone completely different in previous drafts and then in the process of developing them I got attached: Jedi, Carmen

I created them for Draft Four as a love interests and then I got attached: Robbie, Akash

I created them in Draft Four to fill up the background: Liam, Ewan, Jazlyn, Wade, Parker, Tyler, Niri, Gabriel, Sam

I needed a name for a prominent figure and then I kept using it and they became important: Raissa

I needed characters for the AU didn't I?: Alex, Issa, CJ, Wendy

Background characters I had no intention of making important: Teo, Xitlali, Anathi

For SOTL, it's simple. Get a character from a fairy tale, nursery rhyme, fable, legend, other public domain work, etc and make them my own!

Do you notice any recurring themes/traits among your characters?

Most of them are queer and neurodivergent. Most are in the 11-25 range given the demographic I write in.

How do you picture them? (As real people you imagined, as models/actors who exist in real life, as imaginary artwork, as artwork you made or commissioned, anime style, etc.)

I want TSP and SOTL to both be in hand-drawn animation, so I imagine them like that. Western animation with anime inspiration like ATLA, Teen Titans, etc is what I typically imagine it in.

Your Writing:

What’s your reason for writing?

I love it!! And also I'd go insane. It's also why I write reviews and analyses of stuff. I've stayed up until 2 am before thinking thoughts on TV shows and I legit can't sleep until I've written an essay.

Is there a specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating coming from your readers?

I've gotten "oh I like this little detail" or "wow good dialogue" or "realistic friendship!!" And that always makes me happy.

How do you want to be thought of by those who read your work? (For example: as a literary genius, or as a writer who “gets” the human condition; as a talented worldbuilder, as a role model, etc.)

I just want people to like my characters, is that too much to ask?

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

I really like character building and details around their lives. I think I'm good at writing consistent characters because I've put so much work behind them.

What have you been frequently told your greatest writing strength is by others?

Dialogue! So many people comment on the realism of my dialogue, and I really like that!

How do you feel about your own writing? (Answer in whatever way you interpret this question.)

If it's at 1 am I think it's awful. When I read my old writing I cringe. Sometimes if I'm in a bad mood my self esteem plummets. But overall, when I look back, I see how far I've come. When I make a revision, even a small one, I smile because I know my writing is getting better. I just get excited about improvement!

If you were the last person on earth and knew your writing would never be read by another human, would you still write?

Yes because it helps me sleep. Were you not paying attention lol

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely what you enjoy? If it’s a mix of the two, which holds the most influence?

No. I write for ME.

Tagging @mk-writes-stuff @elsie-writes @eccaiia @mysticstarlightduck @chauceryfairytales

+ ANYONE ELSE

TSP intro

TSP tag list (ask to be +/-): @thepeculiarbird @illarian-rambling @televisionjester @finchwrites

@nebula--nix @literarynecromancy @honeybewrites @the-golden-comet

SOTL intro

SOTL tag list (ask to be +/-): @illarian-rambling @katwritesshit @wyked-ao3

Under the cut are the blank questions put together for easy copy/paste

About You: When did you start writing? Are the genres/themes you enjoy reading different from the ones you write? Is there an author (or just a fellow writer!) you want to emulate, or one to whom you’re often compared? Can you tell me a little about your writing space(s)? (Room, coffee shop, desk, etc.) What’s your most effective way to muster up some muse? Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and places you write about? Are there any recurring themes in your writing, and if so, do they surprise you at all? Your Characters: Would you please tell me about your current favorite character? (Current WIP, past WIP, never used, etc.) Which of your characters do you think you’d be friends with in real life? Which of your characters would you dislike the most if you met them? Tell me about the process of coming up with of one, all, or any of your characters. Do you notice any recurring themes/traits among your characters? How do you picture them? (As real people you imagined, as models/actors who exist in real life, as imaginary artwork, as artwork you made or commissioned, anime style, etc.) Your Writing: What’s your reason for writing? Is there a specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating coming from your readers? How do you want to be thought of by those who read your work? (For example: as a literary genius, or as a writer who “gets” the human condition; as a talented worldbuilder, as a role model, etc.) What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer? What have you been frequently told your greatest writing strength is by others? How do you feel about your own writing? (Answer in whatever way you interpret this question.) If you were the last person on earth and knew your writing would never be read by another human, would you still write? When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely what you enjoy? If it’s a mix of the two, which holds the most influence?

[tgmsunmontue]

Season to Taste - 24/? WIP

Explicit Hangster - Celebrity Chef Bradley and Naval Aviator Jake Seresin who have a relationship spanning the globe before they realize how tightly bound they are to one another. Heading into this little world.

PROLOGUE/ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN FORTEEN FIFTEEN SIXTEEN SEVENTEEN EIGHTEEN NINETEEN TWENTY TWENTYONE TWENTYTWO TWENTYTHREE

CHAPTER TWENTYFOUR

                He loses his temper much easier when he’s tired and he’s tired a lot the first year the restaurant is open. He knows the saying burning the candle at both ends, but he’s found some way to hollow himself out and also burn the candle from the middle as well. Of course he’s a hard worker, expects those around him to put in just as much and expects the best from them, but when Vi calls him a thoughtless and heartless bastard in Italian while the film crew are still rolling he knows he’s gone too far but his brain is so fried he doesn’t even know what it is he’s done wrong. He crashes for sixteen hours and then has to go and make several apologies. Especially to Vi.

…            …            …

                “This is Admiral Kerner.”

                “Hello Admiral, this is Bradley Bradshaw.”

                There’s a pause on the other end of the line and Bradley bites his lip. He has no idea if the man he called Uncle Sli growing up will remember him. It’s been over fifteen years since he left, and longer since he’s seen him or spoken to him. But he knows how to sweet talk people and enough people to get Slider’s work number.

                “Baby Goose?”

                “Yeah. Hi Uncle Sli… you do remember me huh?”

                “Holy shit… of course I remember you kid. And as if I could forget your face on my TV every time the misses puts it on when I’m home.”

                “Oh. Sorry?”

                “No. Don’t be sorry. It’s nice to see you doing so well. Wait. Why are you calling me?”

                “Uh, I’m really sorry to ask, but I sort of have a favor to ask. Maybe a couple of favors.”

                “Okay. So you’re calling me out of the blue, after not talking to me for years… What do you need?”

                “Uh. It’s probably available to family, I was just wondering if I could know when and where your ship will be calling into port and for how long."

                “Uh. Okay. That’s… all fine. It’s information I can share. Can I ask why?”

                “My, uh, my boyfriend I guess? He’s going to be on your ship for seven months.”

                “You have a boyfriend?”

                “Yeah. So if I could know when and where I might be able to see him, I’d really appreciate it…”

                “I’m helping you organize booty calls!”

                “Uh, yeah, sorry if that’s too – ”

                “Oh no, this is perfect. Your dad would be so proud. Using all the resources available to you so you can get your dick wet!”

                Bradley rolls his eyes and pulls a face, glad he can’t be seen. Because while he’s not wrong it’s not the only reason why Bradley wants to see Jake. He hasn’t heard things like this about his dad in a long time, not since he left Mav’s. He barely remembers his father, but considering his best friend was Maverick, Ice and Slider also considered him friends speaks enough to the joking kind of personality he can imagine him having, coupled with what his mom told him. He remembers warm laughter the most, along with music. Strong arms picking him up.

                “Also, it’s kind of romantic. Your dad was always doing sweet stuff for your mom, making the rest of us look bad.” Oh. He’s never heard that before. Never imagined what kind of partner his dad might have been like and he adds it to the little list he keeps tucked away in his head. “Of course, he was also a terrible flirt, ladies flocked to him. Lucky for the rest of us all he did was flirt and he’d send them our way.”

                Okay, maybe more than he wants or needs to know about his dad.

                “Yeah, anyway Uncle Slider, thank you so much for this. Let me know what I can do to repay you… maybe come and cook you and your wife dinner?”

                “Well, I wouldn’t say no to that, she’d kill me if she found out you’d offered and I turned it down. But I have to ask… does Ice not know about this boyfriend? He could have got you the same info.”

                “Yeah, I know, but… No. He doesn’t know. I kind of want to keep it on the down low for now. We’re only just starting out… Very early days.” God, he doesn’t want to say it’s literally only weeks old, can only imagine how crazy other people might think he is.

                “No no, wait, go back. You mean I know something before Ice? Not only that you have a boyfriend but that he’s a good Navy boy…”

                “Actually he’s one of your aviators,” Bradley says, because there’s no point in not sharing that information. As soon as he sends the care packages and asks Slider to deliver them, he’s going to know exactly who it is. Fuck. He really needs to give Jake a heads up.

                “Jesus kid. Seriously?”

                “Yeah.”

                “Wow. You really couldn’t escape even when you tried huh?”

                Bradley laughs, because yeah, he guesses it might look like that from the outside, but Jake’s career doesn’t actually matter to him, other than the fact that he’s now got the background niggling worry that he’s in a dangerous profession. He finds that there’s no longer any bitterness about not being an aviator himself.

                “Well, I didn’t exactly go seeking him out. Just happens to be what he does, and well… you’re right. I’m not above using any contacts I might have to keep an eye on him and keep him in some comforts of home.”

                Slider snorts at that.

                “I’ll send you all the dates and locations. Plans change of course, but I can keep you updated.”

                “Thanks. I’ll send you some cookies or biscotti next time I send a care package. You still partial to pistachios?”

                “Oh, this just gets better and better. Yeah kid, send me something to keep me on your good side. I am all open to bribery from you.”

                “Oh, there’s one more thing. He calls me Leo. Leonardo. We met in Italy and that’s how I introduced myself, he knows my name is really Bradley Bradshaw, and what happened to my dad, but uh, he’s either completely oblivious about who I am exactly, or he’s really good at pretending he has no idea. So uh… yeah.”

                “Right. Got it. So keep it on the down-low that you’re Bradley Bradshaw.”

                “No. Not really. Just don’t announce it over the PA system?”

                “Got ya.”

…            …            …

                “Lieutenant.”

                “Admiral Kerner sir.”

                “Relax son, I’m not here for work. Just. Turns out we have a mutual friend.”

                “Sir?”

                “Bradley Bradshaw.”

                “Oh! Leo.”

                “Ah. Yes. He did say you called him that. Anyway, I flew with his old man. Was at Top Gun when the training accident happened.”

                “Oh. Yeah. He told me about that. I didn’t realize he still knew people in the service.”

                “Oh, he knows a few,” Admiral Kerner says dryly and Jake wonders who else might pop out of the woodwork. “He was forced onto a different path, and while it might have worked out for the best there are still some deep hurts there.”

                Jake keeps his mouth shut.

                “Anyway, he sent me a care package, because I get mail more regularly. However he sent this to you, care of me. So. I’m now apparently his delivery man.”

                “I’m sorry sir, I’ll ask him not –”

                “It’s fine Lieutenant. He did ring and ask first. Just… he sounded happy. It was good to hear.”

                “Yes sir,” Jake says, not really sure how he can take part in this conversation safely, if this is somehow a weird sort of semi-shovel talk given the reference he made to knowing Leo’s dead father. Does he consider Leo a sort-of son?

                “Enjoy your care package. I know I’ll enjoy mine.”

                “Oh, yes. You too sir,” Jake says, suddenly understanding that Leo must have also sent Admiral Kerner something to his liking, and yeah, if it’s going to keep his CO happy then Jake’s all for it. He takes the package and nods his farewell as he watches Admiral Kerner stride away. He’s going to look up Bradshaw in the database, have a look at whatever Top Gun class Leo’s dad was in, because it might pop up again and he’d rather not be taken by surprise again. He suspects that the whole class might be keeping tabs on Leo, whether he knows about it or not.

                “Why was Admiral Kerner talking to you? What did you do?”

                “Phoenix. Always a pleasure. Why do you automatically assume I’ve done something?”

                “Because you’ve usually done something?”

                “Haha. No. He just, uh, introduced himself I guess. He flew with my boyfriend’s old man,” Jake says, rolling the word boyfriend around in his mouth, because that’s all he can think of calling Leo. He’s never had a boyfriend before, and he finds himself smiling at just the sweet gesture of Leo sending him a care package via the fucking Admiral of all people. Stupidly sweet.

                “You have a boyfriend?”

                “Yeah… You?”

                “More trouble than they’re worth.”

                “Not my one. He sent me a care package.”

                “Through Admiral Kerner?”

                “Yeah. You want to see what he sent me?

                “Do I want to?” Phoenix asks, pulling a face and Jake laughs, in too much of a good mood to get smart.

                “Live dangerously Trace. You might get lucky and I’ll share with you…”

                “Again, do I want that?”

                “He’s a chef. I know you have a sweet tooth.”

                “A chef? Well. Why didn’t you lead with that?”

                Then they’re opening the box, and there’s several carboard boxes, written on the top what they’ve got inside. Cranberry and pistachio cookies. Chocolate chip cookies. Almond and dark chocolate biscotti. Pistachio biscotti. He shouldn’t be surprised, Leo going overboard a little seems very on brand and he has to stop himself from just smiling so widely at the gesture. God, what did he do to deserve such a sweet man doing things like this for him? His sisters are definitely right to be envious.

                “Holy shit these are good…” Phoenix says, and he looks up to find she’s already opened one of the boxes to reveal a resealable plastic bag containing the baked goods. It’s the chocolate chip biscuits and he bites one, crunchy outside, chewy inside, milk chocolate chips and there’s so much sugar he thinks he hears his teeth squeak.

                “Yeah, they’re not bad.”

                “Not bad? These are like… crack.”

                “Hmm. Maybe I just need a glass of milk for the full experience.”

                “Does he sell these? Do you think he’d make me some? I’d suck his dick if he sent me cookies like this.”

                “Well, lucky for you I’m sharing.”

                “Are you sure? If these were mine I’d be hoarding them.”

                “They’re a little too sweet for me.”

                “Your boyfriend is a chef and you critique his cooking?”

                “Everyone has room for improvement Trace.”

                “Even you?”

                “Well, no. It’s hard to improve on perfection.”

                “Perfect asshole maybe…”

                “To your perfect bitch…”

                “What’s his name, this boyfriend of yours?”

                “Leo. Funny story actually. I met him in Italy years ago, like a decade. We… uh, exchanged names, then went our separate ways. Then I was home and there he was at the farmers market my sisters sell their stuff at…”

                “Wow. That’s actually kind of sweet and romantic and nothing like how I imagined your love story might go…”

                “Aw Trace, you imagined my love story?”

                “Yeah, usually it involved conjugal visits.”

                Jake laughs.

TWENTYFIVE

[canadianfangirl-95]

WIP

My six chapter series coming soon; Paramedic Frankie x f!reader

Snippet from Chapter 2;

Tapping him gently on the elbow, he slowly turns, and you watch as his eyes light up at the sight of you.

“Hi,” You begin, shifting your weight nervously. “Sorry, to interrupt. You, probably don’t remember me but-,”

He says your name confidently with a smile and your cheeks warm. “Um, yeah. I don’t think I got your name actually.”

Nodding he replies, “Oh yeah, I’m Frankie.” He holds out his hand to shake, you gladly accept and shake it as confidently as you can.

“Frankie.” You repeat, relieved to have a name for your hero.

He smiles, “How’s your head?”

“It’s fine, thank you for asking. It stopped hurting by the next day, so you were right.” You say sheepishly. “Thank you again, for what you do. I’m sure it’s not easy.”

A bit of redness creeps up his neck and he rubs it with his hand. “You’re welcome, and it’s really not as bad as you think.”

“That’s good.” You say, growing nervous as the conversation seems to not be flowing as seamlessly as you were hoping. It feels like there’s a beaver dam of some sorts in the way, but you can’t quite put your finger on it.

He looks over your shoulder nervously, “Well, it was nice seeing you. Glad you’re doing well, but I uh, don’t want to keep you from your boyfriend.”

Your eyebrows pull together and you look over your shoulder confused before looking back at Frankie. “Boyfriend? I don’t have a boyfriend.” You say flatly.

He stills his hand that was bringing his beer up to his mouth and looks at you confused. “Isn’t that the guy who picked you up? Your boyfriend?”

A slight chuckle erupts from your throat, and he looks surprised, you quickly apologize and touch his arm. “Sorry, shit sorry I’m not laughing at you. No, no, that’s my brother.”

Frankie’s heartbeat suddenly quickens, and he can feel his palms growing moisture again. “Brother, really?”

Nodding, you reply, “Yeah, yeah he’s my younger brother.”

“No kidding.” He says, almost to himself.

A feeling of mutual attraction bursts through the dam and smitten smiles grow on both of your faces. He looks down at your nearly empty beer and asks, “Well, I know you’re here with him, but would I be able to get you a drink?”

“Oh yeah, fuck him. He already said I can ditch him if I want.” You laugh and he grins.

“Alright well, another beer then or something a little stronger?”

Biting your lip, you feel a little adventurous, “How about a sex on the beach?”

His eyebrows raise and the right side of his smile pulls up, “I mean I’m more partial to a bed, but I’ll try anything once.”

You can’t help but snort and cover your mouth at his joke, “Alright, nice line. I’m gonna go kick my brother out of the booth if you wanna join me?”

“Will do.” He watches as you turn, taking a careful eye of your ass in your jeans before turning to his friends, all casually pretending not to listen.

[bitbybitwrites]

Ugh - life is so crazy, got to this really late. Sorry!

Thanks for tagging me in this and past six /seven/several sentence sundays and WIP Wednesdays that I've missed!:

@porcelainmortal, @alasse9 @sheepywritesfics @softboynick @forabeatofadrum

@daisyishedwig @sophie1973 @taste-thewaste @14carrotghoul @wordsofhoneydew

If I forgot anyone, I apologize!

****

What's been up with writing:

Well I recently posted my latest chapter in my Klaine fic, If I Can Make Your Heart My Home. I have quite a few writing asks to tackle (I'll get to them, I promise) and my immensely large WIP list . . .

But of course, because I'm a sucker for punishment, I started, what I am jokingly referring to as - one prompt, 2 ships 😂.

Basically saw a writing prompt on Tumblr and loved the idea so much I could see it fit in both for Klaine and FirstPrince.

So I started writing something for both because my brain won't let it go.

Both stories are fantasy AUs, each with a little "saving someone from a dragon" element aspect to it - we'll see where they go.

Pardon the silly fire themed titles - thought they went well with the dragon aspect of the story 😂

Really rough snippets are below:

baby won't you light my fire - Klaine WIP

“I’m not sure I understand, Sir, “ Blaine said, as he shifted uncomfortably in the heat of the summer sun, his leather jerkin feeling a bit stiff and uncomfortable. The sword strapped to his side grew heavy after his long journey from Westerville. 

Perhaps it was just the fatigue.  Perhaps it was his lack of a morning meal, thanks to him leaving at the crack of dawn to avoid his brother Cooper’s incessant questions about his latest quest.  Whatever the reason was, Blaine unable to focus on the words coming out of the other man’s mouth.

Burt sighed as he pushed his cloth cap from his head, rubbing his forehead.  “Perhaps it’s best I show you son.”

The blacksmith paused first to call out to dark innards of the forge.  “Finn!” He shouted “Finn!”

A tall, lanky young man emerged, a leather apron wrapped around his frame and a smear of soot across his forehead.  He removed a pair of thick gloves, also leather, from his hands as he squinted in the bright sunlight, spying Burt and giving him a bright smile.  “Yes, Burt?” He asked.

Burt nodded towards Blaine.  “This is Blaine.  He’s here to help your brother.”

For a moment, the younger blacksmith looked puzzled.  Then after noticing the sword at  his belt, the furrow on his brow smoothed. 

“OH . . .” Finn’s eyes lit up with understanding, and then softened a bit with sympathy just a moment later.  “I’m glad.  Don’t let Kurt intimidate you.  He’s got a . . um . . strong personality.”

Blaine nodded.  “I’ve had to rescue many a temperamental damsel in distress,” he confided, thinking back to Lady Kitty and the Baroness Sugar de Motta.  Those quests were nothing but headaches.  He tolerated it for the pay though.  “I think I should be fine.”

Finn’s eyes shifted from Burt to Blaine.  “Yes . . .” he said, appearing as if he was unsure how much farther to explain.  “Well, Kurt’s situation might be a bit different that any other ladies in ivory towers that needed saving,” the young blacksmith told Blaine cryptically.

“Well,” Burt said, as he coughed  and nodded, looking about nervously.  “I think we should get going before nightfall.  Tell your mother I may be home later for dinner.”

Finn nodded as he held out his hand to the visitor.  “Um . . .good luck, I guess,” Finn said.  “Safe travels and . . uh,” Finn straightened, puffing out his chest and lifting his chin.  “You make sure to treat my brother right, or you’ll have to deal with me.”

Blaine stared up wordlessly at Finn, clueless as to what he was trying to convey.

Burt snorted in the background.  “Finn,” he gently chastised his step-son.  “I think Kurt can take care of himself . . don’t you?”

“But I’m still the older brother . . .”

“Kurt is older than you.”

“Bigger brother then . . .“

With a chuckle, Burt gave his step son a look.  Finn begrudgingly sighed, his shoulders deflating a bit as he gave in.

“Fine . . .”  Finn still tried to give Blaine an intimidating glare.  “Just, be nice to Kurt, ok?” he asked.  “He’s been through a lot lately.”

Blaine nodded at the puzzling request.  “I promise.”

*****

2.) burn baby burn - FirstPrince WIP

“I think you’re crazy.”

Alex snorted as he shoved a few more items into his rucksack “You would," he countered.

His best friend rolled over from her position lying down. Her gilt embroidered slippers glinted in the early morning sun as she waggled her toes while she perched precariously on the bed. Her head hung over the edge and her dark curls reached downwards toward the floor. Nora continued watching him pack, with a smirk on her face. 

“Only you, Alejandro, would accept this sort of one-man-needed, dangerous, save-a-damsel-in-distress type of job”.  she said, still very amused. "Just face it, you’re hoping the princess is pretty and you might get a roll in the royal bedsheets before accepting payments and heading off on your way.”

A soiled shirt flew across the room and hit Nora squarely in the face.

Alex sighed.  “We are not discussing my love life right now.  I have to prepare for this job.”

“What love life?” Nora teased.

“Lalalallalalalalala . . .” June sang loudly as she entered, her hands full of items.  “No talking about my little brother’s love life.  Don’t want to know the details.”

“You sure, because there was that one time . . “ Alex began as he smirked.

June let out an exasperated sound and tossed the armful of items at her brother.  He quickly cursed, dropped what he was holding to attempt to catch everything hurtling his way. What items he failed to grasp floated in the air before him. June’s eyes twinkled as she wiggled her fingers causing them to dance around her brother’s head, inches out of his reach,  occasionally making  one or two dip down and smack him in the skull.

Nora cackled as she watched the siblings from her upside down position.

“Why on earth do I need all this , Bug?” Alex said exasperated, trying to jump up to catch a floating bundle of herbs, but failing to reach it miserably.

“Because you can’t go in and face a dragon by yourself (which is INSANE) . . “

“Told him that already!” chirped Nora

“ . . And not have some magic in your pocket. Since you won’t take me with you, I'm stocking you up on herbs and crystals.” June said firmly.

With a few swift waves of her hands all the items bounced into the air into a open bag of holding that dangled between her fingers. After peering inside, June sniffed, contented that it was ready. She tied the drawstrings of the velvet pouch shut and held it out to her younger sibling who took it reluctantly.  

It wasn't that Alex had anything against magic. But he was a more of a practical, hands-on swordsman for hire. Steel blades, arrows, maces . . working with any sort of weaponry was his forte, along with being devastatingly handsome and charming, the combination of the all of that usually was all that he needed to get the job done.

Magic had its own place, he figured. And he'd do anything to placate his sister's worries. So he tossed what he often referred to as June's "bag of rocks and weeds" into his rucksack.

“I’m not sending you out there unprepared, Lil Bit.  I’d like for you to come back in one piece . .  .“ June continued as she began weaving a spell to ensure his traveling cloak would be impervious to weather.

“And sexually satisfied . . “ crowed Nora.

June groaned, stopping mid way through her motions. “Did I not say I didn’t want to hear anything about that.”

*****

Tagging to share their WIP ( writing or art or anything) (if they want to and they haven't done so already!) :

@kirakiwiwrites, @madas-ahatters-world, @caramelcoffeeaddict @little-escapist @littlemisskittentoes

@datshitrandom, @justgleekout, @mynonah, @esilher

@myheartalivewrites @kiwiana-writes @spaceorphan18 @annepi-blog @special-bc-ur-part-of-it

@sarkyblueeyes @blueeyedgrlwrites , @gleefulpoppet and an OPEN TAG for anyone else who sees this.

[lizardkingeliot]

Hello, lovelies. It's been nearly a month since I posted chapter five of until i come back from the dead for you so I thought I'd treat you all to a lil snippet from chapter six on this lovely WIP Wednesday. As usual I have noooo idea when this one is going to be finished I only know it's going to be a long one lol. Keep your fingers crossed for me and enjoy... 🥰

—

Eliot’s gaze flicked from Quentin’s eyes to his mouth and back again. God. The urge to press forward and crash their lips together was so strong it made him dizzy. And he promised himself right then that if Quentin kissed him first he’d never push away the gift of all that warmth again. They’d go back to the way it had been before. It wouldn’t have to be any different. And Arielle would go back home and it would be just the two of them again. For as long as their time in this place would allow. And—

“Yeah, uh…” Quentin sighed when Eliot passed him the cigarette. His eyes trained on the orb of magic light that bobbed over their heads like a planet. “I don’t know. Um…”

Eliot watched Quentin press the cigarette to his mouth. Fuck. He was pretty sure he’d never been so jealous of an object in his life. And he found himself scooting a little closer to Quentin on instinct. Bringing their bodies nearer by a hair’s breadth, and another, and a third. Until they were so close their hips seemed to join as though they’d been born just like that. Always together, one flesh never ever to be parted.

He knocked his head against the wall, eyes on Quentin, the swell of his lips. Watching as he smoked and exhaled and held the burning length of the cigarette between his fingers. Eliot blinked. And Quentin said something Eliot’s ears registered as nothing more than a garbled mess of static. His head felt like it was bobbing on the ocean. He felt like he was listening to Quentin speak from deep down underwater. And—

He blinked again. His brain felt like it was burning as it tried to catch up. The garbled mess of Quentin’s words slowly coming together in his head. It was—

Oh.

It had almost sounded like Quentin said, “She’s pregnant.”

[yandecifi]

Convenience ☻ Chapter One

☻ masterlist

☻ cw: violence

hawks/reader, omegaverse, dystopia, psychological, wip shortfic

Cold counters, weirdly loud fluorescent lights that flicker sometimes, shitty vapes and pens and sexy magazines. Your life in a sentence.

You’re flipping through one of the aforementioned magazines. It’s got betas (not that you can smell pictures, but what else would they be) in bikinis and swim trunks, all either packing or with huge boobs, but not packing too much or with too huge boobs. Not too small or too flat, either, just at that perfect middle ground of hugeness. Perfectly beta.

“Dayummm…”

Before you ask what you’re doing ogling these poor models, occasionally glancing between yourself and those really sexy models, and actually measuring some of them with your fingers to compare to the rest of those poor, poor models (really, you should stop) at your fucking workplace, well, you work the night shift. It’s two in the morning. For you, there’s an average of one customer per night and someone came in about two hours ago, so you consider yourself safe. Safe and bored.

“Oh, shit, a bunny costume!” You sit up in your chair, both the magazine and the grin on your face spread wide. “That is so hot!”

The door squawks. You nearly fall out of your chair.

When the front door, uh, ‘squawks’ as you call it, that means somebody’s entered the store. Your manager really hates bells, so she got this weird buzzer that sounds like an angry crow. Or maybe a parrot that smokes. Basically, the door squawks.

You toss the magazine. It doesn’t go far enough, though, so you get up and kick it, but it just slides up next to the backroom door. Whatever, good enough, whoever’s here is probably going to be high off their ass anyway. It’s not like they’re going to check out your behind-the-counter space.

The door slams shut. You jump and turn around, only, it’s just a guy awkwardly re-closing it, gently, quietly, like redoing it would erase the loudness somehow. When he spots you, he raises an apologetic hand. “My bad!”

“Uh, it’s fine.” You swear you hear him wheezing. “Happens all the time.”

You don’t usually watch your customers. Your manager actively advises against it, actually, since it’s fucking creepy. However, you can’t help but peer at him from your spot at the counter.

He’s wearing the baggiest hoodie you’ve ever seen, like, it is wearing him . Beneath that is what seems to be another hoodie, though not an XXXXXL considering he’s actually wearing the hood. He’s also got one of those paper medical masks on — two, actually — and sunglasses. His shoes and sweats look like he’s waded through a swamp to get here; the shoes are literally just covered entirely by mud while his sweats have streaks and splatters up to his thigh, along with a couple of leaves, and… tire marks? What? Can alligators drive?

He shuffles up to your counter around a minute later, huffing, very noticeably not okay. You fight the urge to ask him ‘what the fuck?’ as you start checking out his beer, six king-size snickers, ten bottles of water, and — and — that — how many boxes of condoms is that — you lose.

“Hey, man?” His head jerks back to you. He keeps glancing out of the windows. You think you’ve been hearing him grinding his teeth. “You good?”

“Yeah, uh — yeah.” He peels himself off of the counter. He’s been keeling over it since he came over. It looks like he wants some distance from you, now. “Actually, uh, what time is it?”

“2:30, I think.” You just continue scanning and bagging the boxes of condoms. According to the register, there are fifteen entire fucking boxes. You’ve gotten fairly good at crunching numbers since getting this job, so… twelve condoms per box…

Your hands shake as you ring everything up. One-hundred-and-eighty individual condoms. How the fu-

“ID?” Maybe he needs them for an art project. Art, art, think art. You watch as he glances at the three bags of condoms. Fuck, now you’re both thinking about condoms. “Uh, for the beer.”

“Oh.” He lets out a breathless laugh, fidgets. “I don’t have one — like, on me. Right now.” He reaches for the beer, then thinks better of it. Was he about to rob you? “Nevermind.”

“So, no beer?”

He nods.

You go to remove it from his bags, but something about his skittish, abused puppy stance makes you unable to. You drag a hand over your face. “You outta high school?”

“Uh, I’m twenty-two.”

“Alright, cool.” You raise your hands and back off from the bags. He doesn’t seem to get it until you nudge your little card reader toward him.

“Oh, no, you don’t gotta do that—“

“It’s fine, there’s no cameras.” You mentally slap yourself. “I mean, uh, there are, just my manager doesn’t check ‘em.”

“Oh.” He looks between the card reader and you. Then, with a sigh, he gives in and starts pulling out cash. “Thanks, kiddo.”

You snort. “I’m the same age as you.”

“Huh?” He looks up. His brows furrow from behind the sunglasses, blonde and scraggly, and he cocks his head. After a moment, he smiles, or you think he does since the masks shift upwards. “You telling me you aren’t twelve?”

It takes you a moment to register he’s joking with you. When you do, you let out a mock-offended gasp, then laugh. He joins in with a low chuckle. You won’t lie, even if this guy’s totally going through some kinda withdrawal, it’s nice to have some chill human interaction. That’s hard to come by for people like you.

He hands you the wad of cash and a couple of coins. His fingers brush yours, and you can feel warmth even with the gloves he’s got on. Er, actually, not warmth — heat. Extreme, burning heat. It’s like he’s stuck himself in a microwave. You nearly drop some of the coins.

He waits by the counter as you count and put the money away. Once you’re done, you hand him his four bags (with plenty of awkward maneuvering) and, well, that's the end of that. He should be on his way.

He doesn’t move. It’s like he’s missed his cue to leave.

Is he waiting for a receipt? You’ve been out of receipt paper since, like, yesterday, though. Your manager always orders just under what you need to run the shop to keep costs low, tryna make herself look good for corporate. Unsure what else to do, you cross your arms on the counter and give him a smile.

“Need anything else?”

“Uh.” He snaps out of it, kinda takes a weird step back only to move back to the counter. “Bathroom?”

Your smile wavers. You stand up.  “Sorry man, you gotta find somewhere else to get high.”

“Woah, no, no, no!” He shakes his head, waves his hands around as well as he can with the bags in them. “I’m not… that’s not what I’m doing.”

“Look, I’m sorry, but my manager checks the bathroom with that UV stuff. I’ll get fired.”

“No, no…” It’s like he’s struggling to turn his thoughts into words. “I swear I’m not. I just — I just need… a sec, okay? Please.”

This is getting a bit into ‘call the cops’ territory, not that you ever would. Tire marks and skittish behavior, okay, weird, but you can mind your own business. Now, he’s getting pushy, leaning into the counter. Without the masks, you’re sure you’d feel his breath on your face. You swallow.

“I, uh.” He starts sniffing you. You resist flinching away at that, instead opting to press a hand against your neck — against one of your scent glands. Vaseline sticks to your trembling fingers. The drugs you’ve been taking are expensive as fuck, your guy told you they were the good ones. They’ve gotten you this far so you believe him. 

And yet, this dude seems to be able to smell you.

“Hey, man, personal space.” You watch him remember himself and flinch away. The door to your side of the counter unlocks with a click as you undo the latch. “The bathroom’s in the back, okay?”

“Thank you so much. I swear I’m not doing drugs.”

And with that, he’s barging into the back of your store, the bathroom door slamming shut soon after. You narrow your eyes after him.

He smelled like… you smelled him and your chest hurt. You smelled him and your chest swelled with him. You feel warm.

Homeless people don’t usually have cologne.

You sit back down in your dingy spinny chair, blowing a breath. Everything about him makes sense, all of a sudden; just another night for you, but not for that poor thing.

Fuck. Mind your business.

So what if there’s another omega hiding in your store’s bathroom, clearly about to go into heat and with nowhere to hide? It’s his fault for not preparing, for being so obvious. It’s only a matter of time for someone as stupid as that, anyway.

You can’t get into the porn mag again so you just settle for sweeping. There isn’t really all that much to sweep. The mud he tracked in would have to be mopped up. You kind of just mindlessly poke at corners and brush dust into piles. The ceiling lights drone on. You stop sweeping and mop up the tracks instead.

Fast food was better than this. Harder, sure, but at least you could talk to people. Not that you can afford to do that, anymore. You rest your head on the handle of your mop. Guess that’s one of the reasons you’ve lasted so long.

You see it on the news, the compounds. A dozen or so omegas found and rounded up, sent to xyz compound, hip hip hooray! They always catch the packs. Omegas just can’t resist the need to socialize and that’s what, ultimately, gets them caught. Then there’s their alpha with a bag over their head and you don’t watch much TV anymore.

There’s a bang somewhere in the back.

Your head snaps up to the noise, alert, but the store is still. Maybe you’re hallucinating. The back door stares, reproachful. You set your mop against the wall.

The back is full of rows of boxes and employee uniforms. Your jacket and tote hang on the hooks by the exit. The tablet for manager shit and taking pictures when you’re really, really bored lays on a cluttered desk. It’s just that in the back, that and the bathroom. There’s shuffling.

You press an ear against the bathroom door.

He’s pacing. There’s mutters that join it. That scent from earlier seeps through the cracks. You twist the handle open.

You put your shirt over your nose as your eyes water, screwing shut. It fucking reeks. So, this is what heat looks like from the outside.

The guy is practically naked, standing in just his underwear, eyes wide and round and horrified as he sits in a corner. His bags lay haphazardly on the floor by his clothes. Bite marks adorn his right arm, a beer in hand. His neck is red with nail marks like he’s been scratching, scratching, trying to get the scent glands off. To get the proof off.

Well, you’ve never bitten your arm like that during your heats, but everyone’s different. Probably.

“Okay man, I’m gonna need you to put your clothes back on.” You try your best to soothe him with your voice, even allowing a small, awkward purr. He stutters and gawks at you as you lock the door behind you. “I know you don’t want to, but it helps. I promise.”

“This, uh, sorry, I am doing drugs, actually —”

You toss him one of the discarded hoodies off the floor. “I already know you’re going into heat and I have the drugs. You don’t gotta get sent to the compounds, so just shut up and listen.”

“What?”

He’s lost. His heat must be getting to him, you swear you can see his eyes starting to glaze, so you just start dressing him yourself. You pull the hoodie over him and run outside to your tote, shovel through your snacks and water and earbuds for the vaseline. You’re back in the bathroom in no time, fat tub in hand, the guy swearing under his breath as he packs his things together.

“Hey, man, chill.” You shuffle closer to him. Your purring quiets him, has him staring at you with a clenched jaw. He’s dripping with sweat. “We’re the same.”

You crouch next to him and put out your wrist. His eyes flicker from your wrist to your face, apparently putting two and two together; you know omega customs.

He takes your wrist in his hand gingerly, his fingers still burning to the touch and clammy. He sniffs, furrows his brow. You know the only thing he smells is vaseline, but whatever, he’s calming down.

He lets you inch closer.

“I’m just gonna put some vaseline on your glands, ‘kay?”

Hesitantly, he nods, but he’s right up next to you as you slather the vaseline against the glands on his neck. It should help with the smell enough until you can give him the drugs at your place. His breath fans against your cheek.

“Thank you,” he pants, quietly, his smile watery. “You aren’t afraid?”

Your face scrunches up. What, does he think his soft eyes or frightened demeanor is intimidating?

“Why would I be? It’s just a heat.”

“I’m — this isn’t heat?”

“What?”

His scent is heavy with musk, so much heavier with it than your own. You stare up at him and his eyes are speckled with gold. His teeth flash. He’s so much bigger than you, he’s filling up the room.

You drop the vaseline. “Oh, shit.”

His face drops. Then, he scrambles to his feet, placing himself between you and the door before you can even try. You stumble backward, hit the floor. You’ve never seen an alpha in person before. He isn’t as bulky as they’re supposed to be.

“Yeah, okay, so we’re both stupid,” he mutters, eyeing every twitch of your fingers. He leans down towards one of his bags, towards his sweatpants, and pulls out a gun.

Your mouth hangs open as he gets back to his feet and points it at you. Okay. Okay. He looks like he’s done this before.

“Hey, man.” Your voice shakes as you lift your hands. You look anywhere but the barrel. “I’m not gonna tell anybody. I’m an omega, okay? I get it.”

The alpha takes another step back until his back hits the metal bathroom door, finger still on the trigger. Sweat beads on his forehead.

“Sure as hell don’t smell like one.”

“Because of th-”

“Because of the drugs, yeah, yeah.” The air is thick with his pheromones. He’s the same dude as earlier, face twisted in pain and dressed only in his muddy hoodie, but the glare he fixes you with reveals somebody completely different. “Never heard of drugs that work that well.”

“I mean, yeah, it’s not supposed to be heard about.” You swallow. He narrows his eyes at your sass. It’s hard to think with his scent tying knots in your stomach. Think. Think. What do you say? The door just squawked.

What.

His Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows. Both of you look towards the origin of the sound, listening. Somebody shouts from the front of the store.

The guy swears under his breath. Then, his attention’s back on you.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, moving from the door, gun on you all the while. “Go out there and act normal.”

And then you’re back at the counter, three cops frowning down at you, looking far too big for the shelves that line your store.

“Hey, how can I help you?” You smile your customer service smile, hope they chalk up the dread in your voice to the usual nerves people have around them. Thank God betas can’t smell for shit, the whole store is drenched in that scent now. Your nostrils flare.

The one in the middle is the biggest. He runs through an introduction of his name and the police department he works for too fast for you to really catch. He flashes his badge. His bulletproof vest makes him even bigger. He has a gun tucked away on his hip, they all do.

“Have you seen anybody strange or out of the ordinary tonight?” 

You can’t help but think of the alpha with the bag.

“I see weird people all the time, honestly. Y’know. Night shift.” You laugh a little, lean onto the counter with your elbows. “Sorry, I know that’s not much help.”

“It’s fine. We’re looking for a man in his early twenties, blonde, about a hundred n’ seventy centimeters. Should be wearing a dark blue shirt and jeans.” He has his thumbs tucked between his vest and chest, the rest of his fingers drumming against the vest. “Probably covered in mud.”

The other two scoff, cover their smile.

“Haven’t seen anybody like that.” You glance towards the mop leaning against the far wall. “Sorry.”

“Can we check your cameras?”

“Don’t have any.”

He looks up to the black dome in the corner of the ceiling. You do your best not to sigh.

“It’s a fake, sir. I can show you, if you like.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

So you fetch a ladder from the back and climb up there, pry the black plastic from the base that’s screwed into the ceiling tile. You show him the empty inside.

He shares a glance with his partners. “Call the emergency line immediately if you see him. Have a good night.”

They leave with a squawk. The store is silent except for the lights and the ruckus you make putting the ladder away.

This isn’t what you signed up for when you took this damn job. You didn’t sign up for being robbed at gunpoint twice, either, or at hammerpoint that one time, but shit happens. Still, you’ve got an alpha in rut in your store’s bathroom, had the first conversation with a cop you’ve ever had, and been threatened with a gun by said alpha all in the same shift.

You knock on the bathroom door. “They left, so don’t shoot me when I open the door, please.”

The guy is aiming the gun at you when you enter the bathroom anyway. You don’t blame him, you’d probably be doing the same, but being on the other end of it isn’t exactly pleasant. He’s got his sweats on now, his bags piled neatly in the corner, your tub of vaseline capped and set on the sink.

“I didn’t say anything about you. Seriously.” You shut the door softly behind you. “Getting involved with the cops isn’t in my interest, either.”

“Because you’re an omega?” He’s not looking too great. His face is flushed, forehead and cheeks especially. His voice is strained, body stiff, he’s a rope pulled taut.

“Yeah.”

“I thought all of them were in the compounds.”

“And I thought all of the alphas were dead.” You can’t help but scoff. “Or better at hiding it. Seriously, I’m sure there aren’t many omegas still in hiding, but the government isn’t all knowing.”

He laughs. Like actually, his eyes twinkle with it. “Okay. Thanks for enlightening me, omega.”

“Don’t call me that, jeez. Makes me gag.”

“What, never been in a pack before?” He jokes, gun finally lowering. You just cross your arms and look away.

“No, I haven’t.” Your nose wrinkles when you catch his dumb expression. “Can you leave? I’ve got a shift to finish.”

“You’ve been doing this alone?”

You just stare at him, brows knitted, feet shifting.

“How? You’ve got to know something the rest of us don’t — shit, you even have a job —“

“Just get out, man. You’re stinking the place up.”

He chews on his lip, opens his mouth to say something just to close it. He starts pacing in little circles. He picks at his hair. Then, he stops and starts talking again, gun waving in the air as he gestures at you.

“Your drugs are expensive, yeah?”

“…that’s not your busi—“

“I can get them to you for free.”

“What?”

“Yeah, just let me stay with you for, like, two weeks.”

“Uh, hell no.”

“Uh, hell yes!” His eyes bug out, blonde, frizzy strands of hair falling in front of his eyes, overgrown. “Listen, I can’t get them to you right now, we kinda got — well, that’s not important. What you need to know is I got you if you got me.”

The fluorescent light above you flickers, the AC drones on. You shake your head and rest your forehead in your hand.

Your guy has been upping the price every month. It won’t be long before you have to choose between rent and the drugs, and he knows you’ll always choose the latter.

“One week,” you mutter, raising your head and fixing him with a glare. “And you have to lock yourself in my closet.”

“Deal.” The alpha grins despite himself. “I’d shake your hand but they’re kinda sweaty — what’s your name?”

“We’re not getting friendly. This is just out of convenience.”

“Nice to meet you, too.” His canines flash. Your eyes catch on them. “Call me Keigo.”

[daffi-990]

hiiii 🩵 i know i’m super late to this, but you know i’d love to hear any and everything you wanna share about rival firefighters 😍 i’m so obsessed with that wip 😅

It’s never too late to talk about Rival Firefighters! 😍

When I first started writing it I honestly didn’t think I’d love it so much. I also didn’t think it would turn into a multi chapter fic. I thought maaaaybe a lengthy one shot, but then the story kept unfolding the further I wrote and well .. here I am six out of ten chapters in 😅.

I’m gonna treat you to a little snippet of something from chapter seven. It’s rough and unedited cos that chapter is just a few jumbled scenes atm.

Hope it feeds you well 😘

“So uh, Rosalie said when mum gets here.” Buck points out. “Is- is Shannon coming?”

Eddie sits back in his chair and nods. “She is. We meet up at least twice a month as a family for breakfast.” He bites his lip nervously before asking “Is that okay?”

“Is that okay? Eddie, I’m the one who should be asking if it’s okay for me to be here. This really seems like a family thing and I can head home or- or wait in the car if—.”

“Buck.” Eddie cuts him off before his rambling can descend into a full spiral. “We wouldn’t have invited you if we didn’t want you here.”

His brown eyes are open and honest, and Buck could almost cry over the fact that both Chris and Eddie still want him around after all this time. Most people get tired of him and move on. Apparently not the Diaz’s.

Not yet anyway.

Buck silently tells his brain to shut up.

“Besides, it means you’ll finally get to meet Shannon.”

“Can’t believe we’ve known each other for two years, and I haven’t met her yet.” Buck leans across the table towards Eddie and whispers conspiratorially. “It might make one think that you’ve been trying to avoid us meeting.”

“Okay first of all,” Eddie points an accusatory finger at Buck, “the first year we knew each other, we weren’t exactly friends.”

“And secondly?”

Eddie drops his hand and slumps back in his seat. “I honestly don’t know how you two haven’t met yet.” He crosses his arms over his chest, not in a defensive way, more in a way to comfort himself. “Shannon travelled a lot for work for a while after her mum died. She kind of threw herself into her job to avoid grieving.”

tagging some ppl who might be interested 👀

@jamespearce9-1-1 @wildlife4life @wikiangela @fortheloveofbuddie @hippolotamus @watchyourbuck @jesuisici33 @disasterbuckdiaz @spotsandsocks