#this is chapter six of the wip and uh

[inkblackorchid]

...Oops.

[tgmsunmontue]

Season to Taste - 25/? 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 TWENTYFOUR

CHAPTER TWENTYFIVE

                “Customer service is important, but the customer can be a difficult person.”

                “The customer is always right, right?”

                “No. Sometimes they are very wrong. And rude. However you need to temper your own reactions. Sometimes they are assholes, but sometimes they are just having a bad day. Something small may be the last thing that just tips them over, and sometimes you will wear the brunt of that. And sometimes you will be the one experiencing that one little thing that sets you off…”

                “Is this about me losing my temper yesterday?”

                “Maybe,” Leandro pauses, reaches out and pulls Bradley into a hug. “I think I am sometimes too hard on you. We can make our food perfect, but we cannot be perfect ourselves. And expecting others to be perfect will always leave you disappointed.”

                “But what about when they fuck things up?”

                “Do you think they do it with malice in their hearts? On purpose to annoy you or make you look bad?”

                “No…”

                “Then give them a little grace. A little. We can make mistakes. We are human. When it happens over and over, well, then you can maybe find a better solution hmm?”

                “Yeah. Okay.”

…            …            …

                “So I asked him to order thirty bags, and instead he ordered thirty pounds.”

                “What are you going to do with thirty pounds of spinach?” Jake doesn’t know what he’d do with any spinach, isn’t sure he even eats or likes spinach. If he eats it, it’s probably hidden in other things if his sisters are cooking. Leo can also probably make it taste good.

                “Well, I'm making a green risotto, and also making a spinach and ricotta filling... Just, it’s just over twice as much spinach what we usually get delivered. It just kept fucking coming…”

                “This is kind of funny.”

                “Fucking annoying and potentially wasteful, if I hadn't caught it in time.”

                “Noone died. You need to lighten up a little. Can you return it?”

                “Uh…”

                “You didn’t even think about ringing and asking did you?”

                “Fuck.”

                “Oh babe, simplest solution…” Jake says, and he knows the others are making kissy-faces at him, because privacy is hard to come by on a carrier, but he can’t find it anywhere in him to care. So what, he’s soft for his boyfriend. He’s still the best in the air where it matters most to them, and Leo deserves the best, and if he likes Jake being soft then he’ll be the damned softest.

…            …            …

                Bradley feels like a cold hand is digging fingers tight into his heart, long after he and Jake have ended their short call.

                Noone died.

                Jake’s words, said in a joking manner. And no one will die in his kitchen, barring freak explosions. But Jake... Jake's job is far more dangerous. He closes his eyes and forces himself to not borrow trouble. Not over something he has zero control over. There are plenty of people he could ring and talk to, of course there are, about the hazards of being a naval aviator. He knows better than most just how dangerous the job can be. None of the people he could talk to care for Jake like he does, but there are some… He picks up his phone again and presses call.

                “Hello?”

                “Hey Maria…”

                “Bradley. Hi. This is… uh. Unexpected.”

                “Yeah. Sorry. Just uh, nothing’s wrong, I just… wanted to talk to someone else who was maybe worried about him as well.”

                “Oh… shit. Yeah. Your first deployment huh? I wish I could say it gets easier but it sucks and we all hate it. And he’s been out of the nest since he finished high school, so it’s not like we’re used to him being around but…”

                “You really miss his presence when it’s not there huh?”

                “You got it. He’s a pretty big personality when he wants to be.”

                “Yeah.”

                “So… Is it the distance or the danger?”

                “The danger. Uh. I was just wondering how you cope. When he's away doing his pilot shit?”

                “Well, we've been assured he's damn good at that pilot shit you so eloquently called it. He loves flying. What I try and take comfort in, is that the US Navy has spent a lot of money and time training him. And all the naval aviators. It's in their best interests to keep them as safe as possible while they do their jobs... Do you know much about the Navy?”

                Bradley laughs humorlessly.

                “Yeah. A bit.”

                “What does that mean?”

                “My dad was a naval aviator. He died in a training exercise.”

                “Oh. Oh shit. Jake didn’t mention that.”

                “No. It doesn’t exactly make for nice dinner time conversation.”

                “Are you okay with him being a Naval aviator?”

                “Of course. He loves it. Wish the distance wasn’t a thing of course, but it’s fine.”

                “Very pragmatic of you.”

                “I’d rather have the little bits of him that I can than none at all.”

                “Wow. That’s sweet. You’re sweet.”

                “Mostly,” Bradley says with a grin. “Anyway, I have something else I need to bring up. Vi will come and do the actual business talk, but apparently everyone thinks the sauce I made could do well commercially, but I don’t really want to put my name on it. It’s Jake’s sauce…”

                “If everyone could hear you now they would never believe the foul-mouthed and hot-tempered chef Bradley Bradshaw was so smitten with a guy he made him an entire range of ketchups…”

                “Yeah well, it was hurting to watch him put fucking store bought shit on stuff. At least now there’s more nutritional value at least.”

                “If you start making ketchup commercially don’t you think he might get a clue that you’re, I don’t know, more famous that you let on?”

                “He’s seen me on your recipe books. You’re right about him being kind of oblivious about the whole thing.”

                “Yes, well. He won’t care, when he does realize.”

                “Yeah, I think you’re right. He won’t. It’s good, because I’ve got something else which is probably more important to him…”

                “What do you mean?”

                “Well, my dad was a naval aviator and I’ve got a few family friends who are still active. Some of them are quite high up. I think Jake will care more about those than he will about me being famous.”

                “Yes. You are definitely right there. Like… high up family friends?”

                “Like the highest ranking admiral on his current carrier. I asked him to deliver Jake a care package a couple of weeks ago. Jake just mentioned it in passing, no big deal…”

                “Uh…”

                “What?”

                “Oh, he’ll wait until he sees you in person to say something. However, he’ll also have plenty of time to cool down if he was angry about it.”

                “I don’t think he was angry. More curious. It’s not like it’s my actual dad or anything…”

                “Just family friends willing to do you favors. Right.”

                “I’m little orphan Annie. They feel sorry for me.”

                “Hmm. I think you just put on the charm.”

                “Wow Maria, I’m hurt…”

                “Okay, now I see why you and Jake make a good match. I look forward to talking to Vi.”

                “Thanks for the chat…”

                “Anytime Bradley. I mean it.”

…            …            …

                “What are we doing in here?”

                “Well, I know what I’m doing. You just followed me in here like a lost puppy…”

                “Well, I am cute. You didn’t answer my question though.”

                “I’m browsing…”

                “In a culinary store?”

                “Yeah, I want to send Leo something…” Jake says, looking at the different versions of chef whites, and he knows Leo muttered about boring uniform whites, but these are black and have brightly colored fabric on the cuffs and chest piece, and oh… there’s one that’s fucking perfect. He grabs it off the rack and eyes it up, pretty sure it’s the right size, grin wide and he ignores the skeptical eyebrow that Phoenix has raised, clearly unimpressed with his choice.

                “He’s got a giant, uh…” Jake blinks, frowns, his brain not able to come up with the word he’s looking for. “Cock-“

                “I don’t need to know that!”

                “No! Well… no!”

                “La la la la la, I’m not listening!”

                Jake rolls his eyes and pulls her hands away from her ears.

                “What’s another word for male chicken, or cockerel?”

                “Oh,” she lets her hands drop. "You mean rooster?”

                “That’s it! He has a giant rooster tattoo on his leg, and his last name means rooster in Italian…”

                “Oh… okay. Then that’s kind of sweet. Maybe you’re not such a bad catch after all Hangman…”

                “Too late for you to have that realization Phoenix, I am well and truly taken.”

TWENTYSIX

[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.

[fastlikealambo]

hi I love your writing it's so incredible! I was wondering if you have a master list with all of your work, I want to binge read everything I can lol

*screaming, crying throwing up* Hi my love! Thank you for reading my work! I had a master list of just my eddie munson works at one point but I recently took it down so I could update the list to include all my work and uh, well I never did that lol. Here's a makeshift list of links to everything I've ever written, finished and unfinished.

Hunger Games x Reader

Coriolanus Snow

Connubium- completed.

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Burn For You- currently working on part one.

Sneak Peek.

Stranger Things x Reader

Eddie Munson

Links.- currently on a hiatus from stranger things fics due to lack of engagement

Steve Harrington

Links.- currently on a hiatus from stranger things fics due to lack of engagement, all these fics are unfinished.

The Fruity Four (Nancy Wheeler, Robin Buckley, Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson.)

Links.- currently on a hiatus from stranger things fics due to lack of engagement.

Marvel & DC X Reader

Matt Murdock, Wanda Maximoff/Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Wayne

Links.- currently on a hiatus and all these fics are unfinished.

The Last of Us x Reader

Joel Miller x Reader

Links.- not on a hiatus but here's his one fic.

Barbie

Barbie x Reader

Link.- this is a headcanons post not a fic but I'm gonna include it anyway.

Link.-this is a headcanons post not a fic but I'm gonna include it anyway.

Dune X Reader

Paul Atreides x Reader

Holy Crowns- WIP

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Feyd Rautha Harkonnen x Reader

Gospel of Pain (One Shot.)

[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?

[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.”

[syoddeye]

wip wednesday! two snippets this week:

good hunting, a pricegaz x reader oneshot

loser barista chapter six, price x reader

Good Hunting

The full force of your idiocy hits as the older man stoops to pluck your drying overshirt from the ground. While you didn’t necessarily picture the most benevolent people to own the blind, considering the whole poaching thing, the alarm bells in your head couldn’t ring any louder. Even—Even if the man didn’t just sniff your shirt. The grins on their faces tell you everything you need to know.

You start to push to your feet with one hand, clutching the knife tightly, and the younger man lifts a hand to stop you. 

“No need. You look comfortable.”

“I—This place is yours, I take it?” You continue to push up, blatantly ignoring how the man’s open palm retracts beneath his coat to rest on what you presume to be either a knife or sidearm. You get a knee under you, hands still hidden by your jacket. “Sorry to intrude, I saw it was empty, it’s raining, I’ll uh. I’ll be going—”

“What’s the rush? In a hurry to catch your death?”

You swallow the lump in your throat, unsure which of the men to focus on, and slowly stand. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Neither do we.” The older man drops your shirt to ease the rifle strap over a shoulder. “Company on the other hand...Wouldn’t refuse a conversation. Got a name?”

Bars. Rideshares. It’s instinct to give the name of your ex-roommate from a decade ago. There’s a chance in hell you’re giving these creeps your real name. “Mia.”

“Mia. I’m John, this is Kyle.” John extends a hand, grin widening when you don't take it. “Probably for the better. Rain washed most of the blood off, but I wouldn’t want to sully a lady’s hand.”

There are a couple things to say to that. You keep them to yourself. “John. Kyle. Pleasure. Listen, it sounds like the storm’s letting up, and I’m expected home, so I’ll be going now.”

Kyle doesn’t move from the door. He smirks, then gestures to his face. “Do you know that when you’re lying, you scrunch your nose a little? It’s cute.”

Loser Barista Chapter Six

John’s hair is still damp when he spots her at a two-top in the garden, nursing a cider. He waves, then ducks inside for his own drink. His head buzzes with whatever this invite means.

He checked with the florist twice to ensure the flowers arrived intact at her place. Made the woman on the phone read back his apologetic note and bit his tongue when she reminded him it wasn’t her ‘place to say whether it sounded good enough or not’. He never heard if she liked them.

There’s a stiffness to her smile but relief in her voice. “You came.”

“‘Course.”

“How’re you doing?”

In six words or less, John knows something’s off. He eases into the seat, trying to exude humor and not telegraph that he has a dozen questions. “Undercaffeinated, but I’m more interested in how you’re doing.”

“I noticed you hadn’t stopped in.”

“Didn’t think you wanted to see me.”

[wsdanon]

hi \o/ i mentioned a while ago i was likely going to be posting more wips here--especially if i'm going a while without posting actual fics. this one is a fuga four pirate au \o/

like with the vampire au, i have some information surrounding what is actually written here (backstory + future plot), but i'm unlikely to continue writing it right now due to having other multi-chaptered fics to focus on. anything else at the moment will likely be wip snippets like this one

it's 3k words, but it cuts off pretty abruptly. reblogs appreciated \o/

Honestly, this isn’t Pac’s worst day. It’s pretty up there, but going to jail and losing his leg manages to beat it out. 

After all, this is just a local jail. More of a holding cell than anything. For petty crimes or executions. Pac, luckily, is in for the former. Unluckily for him, he’s separated from Mike and hasn’t been able to breathe properly since they threw him in here. 

He’ll be spending a week in here, or until bail. 

It’s only been a day. And excuse him for being dramatic, but he doesn’t think he’s going to make it. 

He can imagine Mike is probably weighing up the pros and cons of staging a breakout. After all, it’s only a week. Breaking out might just put an unnecessary target on their backs, and they’ll have to move towns again. 

Logically, he gets that. 

In reality he’s in the corner of the cell with his knees hugged tight to his chest. The cell is big enough that from here he can’t see the guard—which is both a blessing and a curse. 

He’s fine being alone. But being separated from Mike makes his skin itch. He’s almost desperate for any kind of company, even if it’s just some bored guard not paying attention to him. 

And then—like his prayers are answered—he hears two sets of footsteps, and the cell door unlocking. He looks up to see a man being shoved—stumbling, but not falling—and the door being slammed shut again behind him. 

“Well…” The man shrugs, and sighs, and turns to inspect his new quarters. His eyes catch on Pac’s. A pretty smile crosses his face. “Oh! Hi!”

“Uh… hi.” Pac uncurls himself from his corner, and gets to his feet. “Nice to meet you?”

“Nice to meet you!” He sticks out his hand for Pac to shake. Pac’s eyes catch on the pirate branding on his wrist. “I’m Captain Felps. To some.”

“To some?”

Felps makes a hesitant noise before admitting, “Felps who crashed the boat to others.” 

Pac laughs, and shakes his hand. He should really be more hesitant—it’s always a gamble with pirates. Him and Mike have run into plenty who were perfectly honourable, and plenty who they’d happily watch hang. 

This pirate, though, seems like the former. If Pac is a good judge of character, which he’s often told he isn’t. 

“I’m Pac.” 

“What are you in for?” 

Felps takes a seat on one of the beds, and Pac takes the one opposite him. 

“Stealing.” Then he rolls his eyes. “Allegedly.”

He did, in fact, steal. He stole a lot more than they charged him for, actually. But they’ll never get him to admit it out loud. 

“Allegedly?” Felps raises his eyebrows. “How long will I have your company for then?” 

“Uh… six days now?” Pac looks out the tiny barred window—night has fallen—and nods to himself. “Yeah, six days. Well, and tonight.”

“Nice, nice.” His eyes dart out to where Pac assumes he might be able to see the guard, and sighs. “Longer than I’ll have to live, apparently.”

“Oh.” Pac shifts, uncomfortable. He’s interacted with plenty of people on death row before, but he never knows how to react. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s for piracy.” Felps admits. Then, he gestures to Pac. “Allegedly.”

“Allegedly.” Pac echoes back with a slight laugh. 

The conversation between them dwindles. Pac is just starting to consider lying down and trying to get some sleep, when Felps stands up on the bed and looks out the window. 

“Hello?” He calls lowly, and Pac wonders what the hell his game plan is. A quick look at the guard shows he’s unbothered. Although, admittedly, he’s probably used to desperate pleas for help. “Anyone? Cellbit?” 

Pac’s heart freezes in his chest. 

Surely he can’t mean… Cell, right? They left Cell for dead. And Felps doesn’t seem like the kind of man to get along with him. He’s nice, for starters. 

Ignoring that Pac also thought Cell was nice at first. 

No. It’s just a really awful coincidence because the universe likes to taunt him. Cell’s dead. Rotting somewhere on an abandoned island. 

“Anyone out there?” Felps continues.

“It’s just guards.” Pac mutters. “The window faces into the fort.”

Felps looks back at the guard. Then he jumps off the bed, and crowds in close to Pac. His eyes search Pac’s face. Pac feels his cheeks grow warm. 

“Do you know how to get out of here?” He asks in a whisper. 

“No, sorry.” Pac shakes his head. “I just had a lot of free time today.”

“Damn…” 

Felps goes to move back, but Pac gestures for him to stay close. 

“Do you think your crew will try to help you?” He whispers. 

“I’m not going to count on it.” Felps says without even stopping to think about it. 

And then he’s up by the window again, calling out for… anyone, it seems. Pac lies down on his bed. At least he didn’t expect to get much sleep, anyway. 

“Hello? Anyone out there?” 

Pac wonders how he got into this situation. He didn’t respond with an outright no, so it probably wasn’t his crew betraying him. 

“Cellbit?”

It could’ve been a single member of his crew, though. A first mate, perhaps, looking to become captain. If Cellbit really is somehow Cell, Pac wouldn’t put it past him. 

“Anyone? Hello?”

Or maybe he was just unlucky. In the wrong place at the wrong time. 

“Cucurucho?”

That causes Pac to sit up. 

“Wait, wait, why are you calling for him?” 

Felps looks down at him, something unreadable on his face. Then he shrugs. 

“Why not?” 

Pac can think of a hundred reasons why not, and he’s surprised a pirate can’t think of a hundred more. 

“Cucurucho?” Felps calls again, dragging the name out at the end.

Then he laughs despairingly, and rests his forehead against the bricks. 

Pac closes his eyes. As good as he is at escaping, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to help much in the amount of time Felps has likely been given. He doesn’t know enough about the fort layout, or the guards’ patrol routes. It takes time to learn all that. Especially when he’s confined to just this jail cell. And he isn’t about to risk worse punishments and further separation from Mike on a half-assed escape plan. 

The bed creaks as Felps—presumably—sits down on it. He’s muttering to himself, but it’s quiet enough that Pac can’t make out any of it. 

Pac spins attempts at comfort in his mind, trying to figure out the best one. Nothing seems adequate. All he can really offer is a distraction, so—

—There’s a commotion outside their cell. 

Pac sits up enough just in time to see someone skilfully kill the guard that was stationed down here. He’s wearing a navy officer’s uniform that’s splattered with blood. 

“Cellbit?” Felps asks, hesitantly. Like he’s not quite sure what to make of the situation. 

“Felps!” 

The man runs up to the bars into the lantern light, and Pac is seeing a ghost. 

The blood turns to ice in his veins. He presses his back to the wall behind him, and tries to make himself look small. 

Cell’s eyes haven’t caught on him yet. His entire focus is on Felps—a delighted smile on his face as he watches the pirate step closer. 

Pac’s leg aches. 

“What are you doing here?” Felps asks. 

“I’m getting you out!” Cell replies, almost offended. Then he ducks down to rifle through the belongings of the guard. “Obviously.”

“Obviously.” Felps echoes. He looks back at Pac. “Do you want to come with us?”

Pac’s breath is stuttering in his chest. His eyes are wide as they dart between Felps’ open expression, and a man who should be dead. 

“Got it.” Cell stands up. 

And pauses. 

“Cellbit.” Felps says his name with a tone of despair, and reaches through the bars to try and grab the keys. “Open the door.”

Cellbit dances out of the way. 

“Say you owe me one?” 

“I owe you one.” Felps responds, easier than Pac thought he would. “Let me out. Please.”

“And I can collect on it whenever?” Cell pushes. “And you’ll have to do it?”

“Well.” Felps stops grabbing for the key, and lets his arms rest loosely on the horizontal bars. “Hold on. How much is one?”

“One is one! We can discuss it later.”

“Cellbit.” Felps sighs. “Just open the door.”

“Fine.” 

He does so. Grumbling to himself a little as he tries to find the right key. 

He’s not… entirely the spitting image of Cell. His hair is longer. There’s a white streak in it. And despite just trying to bribe Felps, there’s a distinct lack of cruelty in the way he holds himself. 

That doesn’t really mean anything, though, when he nods his head in Pac’s direction, and Pac’s entire body tenses. 

“Is your friend coming?”

He hasn’t recognised Pac yet. Which Pac chalks up the shadows of the cell. But if Pac accepts, there’ll be no hiding. 

If he stays here, though, the guards could take out their frustrations over an escaped pirate on him. Besides, maybe Cell doesn’t even remember him. 

“Pac?” Felps prompts. 

And Cell’s head snaps up to look at him.

“Pac?” 

Well, there goes that hope. Lady Luck once again laughs at him from the heavens. 

“Oh, you two know each other?” 

“You could… say that.” Cell frowns, and goes back to unlocking the door. 

It swings open, and Pac is frozen. 

Felps, on the other hand, has no problem stepping out. Even when Cellbit punches his arm, he doesn’t do more than let out an ow, and rub at the spot where he was hit. 

He doesn’t seem afraid. At all. 

“What was that for?” Felps complains. 

“You’re so stupid.” Cellbit bites out. “I was worried.”

Hesitantly, Pac stands. 

He really does need to get out of here. They’ll probably charge him with being an accomplice if he doesn’t. Cell eyes him warily as he approaches, so Pac tries to focus instead on the way Felps smiles at him. 

“It’ll be better if we stick together.” Cellbit says, and Pac can feel the weight of his gaze lingering on him. “Let’s go.” 

They have to follow Cellbit to get out. Pac makes a point of keeping Felps between them at all times, but that’s a false comfort. If Cell really wanted to kill him, Pac doubts Felps would intervene. 

Because Felps may be nice, but he’s a pirate. And he’s a pirate who’s friends with Cell.

Man, he really is a bad judge of character.

The alarms start ringing about halfway through their escape. Cellbit curses, and twists abruptly to take them down a different pathway. 

This one is narrower. They run through one at a time—Cellbit in the lead, dragging Felps by the hand behind him, and Pac taking up the rear. 

He wishes he’d thought to pick up the guard’s sword. Or the gun. Instead, all he can do is look behind himself as much as he can without stumbling, and hope that Cellbit will give him something to defend himself with if someone tries to follow them. 

Luckily, though, Cellbit seems to know what he’s doing. They get to a small alcove—where he’s clearly stashed some things—without much trouble. 

He quickly throws a cloak to Felps, who puts it on gratefully. Then he locks eyes with Pac. And tosses him the other. 

“I only brought two.” Cellbit explains, shouldering the bag, and getting ready to move. 

“You take it then.” Pac holds the cloak out to him. “I’m just in for thievery, I doubt they remember my face. But, uh, you—you look like you’ve been stabbed, you know? With all the blood? They might, like, ask questions.” 

Cellbit doesn’t move, staring at the material in Pac’s outstretched hand with a frown. 

“If they know my face, they’ll know yours, Cellbit.” Felps says. 

“Okay.” Cellbit trades his bag for the cloak. “Put this on, keep your head down, and be careful.”

Pac nods, trying to ignore the way his hands are shaking after Cell’s fingers brushed his. He puts the bag on as Cellbit throws on the cloak. It mostly hides the bloodied navy uniform. 

“Okay,” Cellbit gestures for them to inch closer, “we just need to wait for the signal.”

“What’s the signal?” Pac asks. 

An explosion sounds in the distance. It’s too far away for even the aftershocks to hit them, but Pac still jumps. 

“That.” 

Cellbit darts off towards the fort wall, and Pac scrambles to follow him. Felps is by his side as he runs. 

Another explosion—still far away from them. Pac hears commotion in the distance. They dash up the stairs to the top of the wall just in time to hear the hasty march of soldiers below them. 

“Pac.” Cell whispers, holding a hand out. Pac tenses. “Rope.”

He stares back at Cell with wide, uncomprehending eyes. 

“What?”

“The bag. There’s rope.” 

Pac scrambles to get it out and pass it off to Cellbit. It has large knots spaced out evenly throughout it.

An explosion—even more distant this time—goes off while Cellbit secures the rope for them to climb down it. He forces Felps to go first. 

And then Pac. 

The distance really isn’t far. If Pac drops it would hurt but he’d survive. So, he tries to ignore all thoughts of Cell cutting the rope and letting him fall. Instead, he focuses on not slipping off of the hand and foot holds. 

He lands a little roughly, but Felps’ hands come up to steady him. He restrains himself from collapsing into the hold. There’ll be plenty of time to calm down from the stress of escape, and Cell later on with Mike. 

Cellbit lands with a dull thud. He leaves the rope, and leads them through the bushes, and into town. 

Once they hit the streets, Pac feels a little safer. A small crowd has formed, staring off at the fire, and smoke in the distance. It’s easy enough to sneak behind them, and once they do, it’s clear that the guards haven’t made it into town yet. 

They duck quickly through alleyways until they hit a main road again. Once there, Cellbit encourages them to slow down into a more casual gait. 

“So,” Cellbit asks, “where’s your boyfriend?”

“Mike?” 

“Yeah, Mike. I’m assuming you’ll want to go to him?”

“Yeah.” Pac shrugs. “He’s either at the store, or at the house.”

“Well, lead us there.” 

The thing is, is that Cell always had a tone about him. He had a couple of tones, actually, and all of them felt like they were sticking to you. The sickly sweet promises of safety like being covered in suffocating honey, the low threats rolling over them like waves, and the explosive anger stabbing into them like knives. 

Pac rarely walked out of an encounter without feeling like Cell’s words were clouded around him. 

This, however, was said so casually Pac doesn’t know what to think of it. It doesn’t feel like Cell’s friendly schtick. It doesn’t have the pressing weight of a threat. 

And Pac stumbles into the lead, taking them towards their shop, because it doesn’t feel like revenge. Maybe he’s naive for that. 

Cellbit and Felps bicker next to him. The words flow in one ear, and out the other. 

By the time Pac gets to the shop, he honestly can’t say whether this is a trap of some kind or not. It’s likely that Cell just wants them both in the same place so he can finish the job from all those years ago… 

…But every minute they spend walking together, Pac is sure he’s changed. He’s light as he talks with Felps. And Felps talks back without any apparent fear of angering him. If it wasn’t for his name, and his looks Pac doesn’t think he’d recognise him. 

Still, though, he hesitates in front of the door. Cell can change, but also want revenge. 

“Cute shop.” Felps comments. 

And Pac sends him a shaky smile, and a murmured, “thanks.” 

The lanterns are on inside. He’s pretty sure Mike is here. 

“Let me just…” He turns to Cellbit. “Let me just, um… explain. Before he sees you.”

“Oh. Uh, okay, sure.” 

Cellbit steps away from the doorframe and windows. Pac knocks. 

There’s a commotion inside, and then the door is swinging open. 

“Fuck, Pac, that was you?” Mike hisses, urging him inside. “I was trying to get ready to leave town just in case, but I didn’t think it was actually you.” 

“I had help.” 

Pac gestures back towards Felps, who waves. 

“Hi, I’m Felps! Nice to meet you!” 

“Uh…” Mike scans over him critically. “I’m Mike. Nice to meet you, too.”

“And that’s not all…” He trails off, and winces as Mike frowns at him.

“What?” Mike turns to continue gathering stuff into their bags. “Did something bad happen?”

“Depends. Um… you remember Cell, right?” 

“How could I forget?” Mike spits out. Then he turns back to Pac. “Wait-“

“He’s actually like, super nice now!” Pac says quickly—the words pouring from his mouth before he really thinks about them. “He helped me escape, and didn’t even threaten me once! I think he’s changed, you know?” 

“He went to therapy.” Felps adds helpfully. 

“He went to—wait,” Pac turns to Felps, “did he?” 

“Mhm!” Felps nods, an easy smile on his face. It’s… calming. A little. Makes him feel better about the fact that Mike is probably one step away from killing him himself. “I took him there.” 

“See!” Pac faces Mike again. “He went to therapy.”

Mike is staring at him, his mouth dropped open in shock. Then he groans, and drags his hands down his face. 

“Pac.” He grabs Pac’s shoulders, and shakes them. “You cannot be serious.“

“I am.” Pac confirms, guilt swirling in his stomach. “He’s actually, like, right outside. Sorry.”

--

sorry… that confrontation was going to take some brain power to write, but it's been months and i still haven't written it so i don't think i'll get there any time soon. I hope you guys enjoyed it anyway though \o/

(also: felps and cellbit's conversation about felps owing cellbit one if cellbit lets him out was taken from their federation escape stream because i love it)

[brynnmclean]

in the core of everything drums a beat - snippets round up post

Actually, not a bad idea to have some kind of post with all the Hellblade fic fragments I've posted so far. In vague order of how they should fit together chronologically in the fic:

Chapter one

Rough draft of chapter one where Thórgestr is having a lot of fever dreams (there was an earlier post with a small section that I think is still my favorite in the chapter)

Also from chapter one, but I think @eisoj5 asking me for "and" as a word in that WIP meme remains hilarious, so here's that post

Chapter two

Part of chapter two and the introduction of my Irish healer OC Iseult

Thórgestr awake and making a very bad joke about getting stabbed, my beloved

First Senua Giantsbane name drop!

"Is my father dead?" "He's alive. He's an exile."

I'm really fond of Fargrímr and I do think he cares about Thórgestr, so this is a nice little moment for that

Chapter three

Intro to the chapter where half-asleep Thórgestr eavesdrops on a conversation between Senua and Fargrímr

There is so much in the game about Thórgestr's dad so why not feature a dream of his mother, here's her introduction

I gave her some very specific spirit vibes :)

You know, lot of emphasis on being your father's child, but Thórgestr is also his mother's son and I think that's important. Also I know surnames are patronymic, but there was that whole thing in the game about the importance of names, chosen names included, and so I really dig the idea of Thórgestr privately thinking of himself as Eindridson. (Also I like prophecies and love the idea of Eindrid as ghostly fate-spirit predicting how Áleifr will die... Honestly, chapter three is a fave!)

Thórgestr probably forgot what his mother's face looked like, so of course he's afraid to look away from her when she appears in his dreams

You ever write a bunch of fun images and then have a friend brainstorm plot developments with you later when you're at a loss on what kind of object you might need characters to go find, so of course your friend is like, "hey, you already wrote what you need." Just me? (thanks @allatariel <3)

Chapter four (current one I'm working on)

The beginning of the chapter

Part of a midnight conversation between Senua and Thórgestr, early in the chapter

A moment I think is cute at the end of that scene

The beginning of an important conversation between Ástríðr and Thórgestr.

"Your father is gone. So is mine. But I’ll have what I’m owed. Tell me, Thórgestr," Ástríðr says, "what is your regret worth? What of your word?"

UPDATED: This is now Chapter six because I have lost control of my outline again!!!

A funny part of a conversation with another OC, this one a Bjarg skáld who pitches a marriage of convenience between Senua and Thórgestr to his utter bewilderment

Chapter... uh, current outline says eight... JUST KIDDING it's Chapter ten now

One of my favorite parts I've written for the whole damn thing even now -- Thórgestr doing sword drills alone on a beach near Bárðarvik

Thórgestr and Fargrímr conversation snippets one and two that are actually part of a larger scene

Other posts:

My fanmix / fic playlist post

Others Narration transcription posts (6 total)

My video games screenshots tag

The overall tag for this fic is hertan writing tag

Feel free to author subscribe on AO3 if you want to catch the fic drop whenever that happens in the future

[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 or 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

[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

[inkblackorchid]

Been thinking WIP thoughts recently and thought I'd share a bit. (Feel free to ignore this if you're just here for 5Ds silliness, that's fine—and also, btw, this is not an "I'm droping the WIP"-post. Just some stuff I thought I'd want to share.)

I checked a little while ago, and Embers (the current working title of the WIP) is now just over a year old. I've been writing this fic, which currently stands at ten chapters, for a year. That's a lot. And it's not like I want to stop or anything, my plans are solid, progress is steady, and I really, really wanna show everyone this story. I was just... hoping I'd be able to write it faster, I think. Didn't think the outline would explode on me several times because there's so many good character moments begging to be written, didn't think the thing's plot would get so tight that I'd become too nervous to upload any chapters before the first draft is done for fear of contradicting myself on accident, and also didn't think I'd actually be mad enough to write six duels into this.

I think what mainly bothers me is that I just wish it was done, not because writing it is boring, but because I'd love to fucking talk about it already. Which, yeah, I know, not exactly an unusual problem for writers.

I don't really know what the point of this post is (beyond getting something off my chest in the hopes it'll stop rattling around in my head so I can actually think about writing more), but here's something for you all: The current, total word count of Embers.

(The current chapter, 10, stands at 26,562 words.)

I'll probably post another snippet once I figure out which tiny shred of this story I can post without giving away massive spoilers. Anyway, happy (belated) birthday to the longest fic I've ever written. And uh, thanks for your patience, everybody.

[passthroughtime]

sunday six (i ran here as quick as i could and haven't even checked my dash properly edition)

heyo! i've been working on the ever-changing's fifth chapter these past few days (i mean, i've been writing daily since february, but uh. we don't talk about the quality here), but there's nothing really interesting so far, so i've quicky put together the other kwgm (not the sick fic one this week, sowwy, but continuation to this snippet (this one is also from this very wip) just for this post

@jichanxo, @overdevelopedglasses, @four-white-trees, @mike----wazowski, @woundedheartwithin, i think that's all who participates? anyway

He leads the way to Kyushu No.1 Star, greets the owner, smiling at his ‘Long time no see’ and ‘I thought you forgot about us, Yagami-san’, and jokes in return as usual, in the process catching Kuwana’s amused look. While their plates of Crushin’ Chashu Challenge are being prepared (Yagami smirks while ordering, and after that Kuwana obviously has no other option but to follow), he leans closer to ask in a low, hushed voice, “You do really know your city, don’t you?”

“Well, word of mouth and all. Necessary in this line of work,” Yagami says, shrugging nonchalantly, hiding the way he shivers under Kuwana’s breath only to honor their silent agreement.

They both know how they make each other feel. There is no need to speak about it. Actions are louder than words between them anyway, but a small ramen place in the web of Kamurocho’s narrow streets is barely an appropriate place to act — or even speak, for that matter.

And so, Yagami knows that if he makes his reaction apparent, Kuwana won’t be able to stop himself from scooching closer and taunting a bit more brazenly; as well as he knows that he will allow and encourage it, and even indulge in the same act himself.

And there is only one place where it always leads to. So, no. Here’s not the place, now’s not the time.