#until we cleared off some from the WIP list!!!!

[nixie-deangel]

me to me: stop coming up with AU's until we finish at least 3 off the list!!

me to me: but just think about young nerdy professor Bradley in glasses and unruly curls with older, jaded, Jake trying to get his life together who both mistake the other as a teacher/student!

[whinlatter]

<Art credit: Margaryta Yermolayeva>

Wild card trick or treat: go nuts, friend.

Send an ask with “Trick or treat!” to the writer who reblogged this & you could receive a 3-sentence fic, drabble, headcanon, sneak-peek at a WIP, the last sentence they wrote, a new fic idea, random line from a fic, picture of their notebook, a deleted line they love, an idea for a sequel, something they’re researching, behind-the-scenes info on a published fic, or something else!

an excuse to post hinny deleted scenes??? 👀👀👀

i bit off more than i can chew with this delightful trick or treat challenge but i do have literally mountains of dumb harry/ginny letters that didn't make the cut in beasts so here's some deleted scenes/the two of them doing what they do best (flirting by post, shooting the shit). do i love these lines? not particularly, but i love these two and i couldn't find anywhere for this extremely dumb exchange to go in the fic so sharing it here in honour of halloween will have to do! thank you sm @turanga4!

Gin, 

How’s your week? It’s shit here. Work’s shit, weather’s shit, house is shit. Today I also stood in literal dog shit and I couldn’t even scourgify my shoe because I was in a street full of Muggles so I had to wait until I was in the employee entrance at work to try clean it out. And then when I walked in someone said ‘what’s that smell’, and then someone else started retching and someone else started pointing and going ‘shit is that Harry Potter’. So then I had to try to pretend like it wasn’t me that had shit on my shoe until the room had cleared and I could finally sort it out. And now I’m worried the Prophet is going to run a story about how Harry Potter smells like shit, or start calling me The Boy Who Lived in His Own Filth, or bring those Potter Stinks badges out of retirement and send them into mass production, or something.

Yours (drowning in shit) -

Harry

—

The Boy Who Lived in His Own Filth (catchy),

I’m sorry your week has been so full of shit (literal and figurative). It does seem cosmically cruel that you can save the Wizarding World and still find yourself standing in dog shit. You’d think the universe would give you a pass, or something. Really, no treading in dog shit for the rest of your life seems the least the universe could do for you, given how much trouble you’ve gone to. I’m outraged on your behalf and willing to write to whatever necessary higher power to make this right. 

It’s pretty shit here too. I miss you (yawn, lame, boring). When you inevitably go into hiding from the brutal Prophet expose of your personal hygiene habits you are very welcome to hang out with me up here/hide out in Hagrid’s cabin and help me try to explain to him the proper consistency of custard. 

Yours in shitty solidarity,

Hagrid’s long suffering sous chef

—

Dear Hagrid’s long suffering sous chef/custard de-lumper in chief,

Thanks for the sympathy. I miss you too, a lot (yawn, lame, boring). Ron’s just asked if I’m writing to you ‘again’ like he doesn’t write to Hermione each time there’s a Y in the day. He just asked what we even talk about. So if he asks I told him we’re working on a big list of his flaws and most embarrassing moments to read out at his thirtieth and/or him and Hermione’s wedding, whichever comes first. Now he’s saying we’re ‘very childish’ and keeps trying to get a look at the parchment to check if I was lying or not. Oh wait no now he’s going up to his room to write Hermione about his very busy exciting day spent reading evidence logs and complaining about the canteen’s stingy pie portions. What a lucky girl.

Keep fighting the good custard fight. 

Yours,

Harry

PS. Thanks for the offer but have to say no to hiding out in Hagrid’s hut. Fang’s poos are huge. I can’t risk it. Can I not crash in your dormitory? The steps up to the girls’ rooms don’t still turn into slides, do they? 

—

Outrageous and scandalous attempt to wangle your way into my bed, Potter. Of course the steps still turn into slides. What, you thought because there was a war on and the castle got pounded to smithereens the relics of archaic magical paternalism designed to defend young witches’ virtues would somehow cease to function? How naive. Anyway, I for one am grateful for the slides, if they stop you bringing your stinky shit covered shoes into our dormitory.

Tell Ron I'm writing you absolute filth. Like debauched sexual propositions, truly eye-watering stuff. That said, if you think for a second I’m not going to back my dear brother in his campaign for generous pie portions then you’re out of your mind. Despite the sneering of critics (you), we Weasleys believe in the importance of hearty pie helpings, almost as much as we believe in the importance of perfect custard viscosity.

Yours,

Ginny

PS. You're literally not going to believe this - wrote this letter at Hagrid’s, was heading out and sealing it up to send and I literally stepped in one of Fang's enormous shits. What are the chances???

[not-krys]

WIP Wednesday: Perfect Strangers

I had wanted to do this for Fictober this year, but couldn't finish it in time for Comte's bday.

However, since his bday falls on a Wednesday this year, this month's WIP Wednesday will be that WIP instead of my usual fare of putting my OCs into situations.

Normal warnings apply: Raw, unfinished writing, based on the Perfect Strangers AU event

Check out my masterlist!

-----------

"Your eyes are wandering again, Monsieur."

Comte, shaken out of his reverie, turned back to the lady at the table as she sipped her lemonade. The lady that was going to be his fiancée, he thought with a sigh.

"She's on an errand in town." The lady giggled. "If you stay until evening, you're bound to catch a glance of her before you leave."

"Mademoiselle, forgive my rudeness. It seems my attention lingers elsewhere this afternoon."

"As well as every other time you've visited the manor. If I didn't know any better, I would believe you seek the eye of someone else in this household. My lady maid, perhaps?"

Comte paused, caught red-handed, but she seemed to hold only amusement in her gaze.

"You're not exactly subtle about it, sir."

"…Again, I must ask for your forgiveness-"

"No need. She has a tender heart. It catches your attention in a way nothing else does. Trust me, I understand."

"You do?"

"She's been like an older sister to me for as long as I've known her. And she is easy on the eyes."

"Mademoiselle, I didn't mean-"

"Again, you overestimate your ability to be inconspicuous, especially when it comes to her. It's quite charming."

She folded her hands, resting her chin on their bridge.

"Anyway, we are alone right now, so I would like to discuss some things with you, without the prying ears of my parents and to spare the feelings of my dear maid."

"Yes." Comte cleared his throat. "The venue, perhaps? I have a list of locations that would be-"

"I want to call off the marriage."

"…Pardon?"

"I want to call it off."

"…Mademoiselle?"

"Just as your eyes search for a soul that isn't here at present, I'm afraid I'm just as preoccupied. A lovely baker's daughter in town. My parents would never approve."

"So, we are in the same boat?"

"Loving another when we are supposed to be loving each other? Precisely."

Comte looked down, thinking about their predicament.

"It's the reason I called you here, le Comte." said the lady, "I want to give you my blessing to court my maid, but, circumstances being what they are, we are at an impasse."

She pushed her empty glass aside and pushed forward an envelope.

"However, what's in this envelope might be the solution to our problem."

"What's this?"

"Documents pertaining to my dear maid. How she came into my family's service when she was a young girl. The articles are only part of the story, I'm afraid. I was caught before I could complete my investigation and was reprimanded for digging in places I shouldn't have. Which is why I'm handing them over to you. To finish what I couldn't."

Comte opened the envelope, taking out the old papers with care. Some were ledger copies from the house when the lady was in her infancy, inventory mostly, employment papers, and, oddly enough, what seemed to be personal letters to the lady's father addressed from a person with a woman's name. It wasn't the lady's mother's name either. Comte frowned.

"Specifically, that name mentioned in Father's letters comes up a few times. I would like to find out who she is… or was, if my hunch is correct."

"And if your hunch is correct?"

"Then both of us will get what we want, with some arm twisting along the way."

Now it was Comte's turn to look amused.

"You would do anything for her, wouldn't you?"

"And you wouldn't? After searching for her all this time?"

"I would take down all the stars in the sky and place them in her hands if it would make her smile."

"Good answer." The lady stood up. "I wish you luck in the investigation. Pray that you have more luck than I have been having."

She walked towards the door.

"And, I would appreciate it if you would keep this a secret from [Name]. At least until you finish the search."

"I will. And thank you, mademoiselle."

She smiled.

"I want her to be happy, just as you undoubtedly do. Make her happy, Monsieur, as I know where Father keeps his rifles and his keys."

"…You are quite frightening when you want to be, dear."

"Only when I need to be." She blew him a cheeky kiss and stepped out the room to get more lemonade.

-----

Another month had passed before Comte returned to the little mansion on the hill, hearing the excited, bubbly voice of the lady that had once been his fiancée. She was telling someone with a soft voice about how she wasn't engaged anymore. The gasp of horror from his beloved's lips, while it pulled at his heartstrings to hear her heart ache for her mistress and friend, he also couldn't help but feel proud of his accomplishment.

He had turned around a marriage proposal once aimed at his beloved's mistress now it was a promise he wanted to give to his true beloved, the sweet maid he had danced with once upon a time.

[kaylinalexanderbooks]

ROYGBIV TAG GAME

Thanks @buffythevampirelover for the tag!

Rules: find the main rainbow colors in your WIP!

Last time I think I had a lot of TSP, so this will be SOTL heavy

Okay I'll tag @illarian-rambling @mk-writes-stuff @somethingclevermahogony @elsie-writes @willtheweaver @frostedlemonwriter @spitefulbull @infinnative + anyone else who'd like to do this

Keep reading for:

Jack is nimble and quick

George is hungry

Úrsula is reading

Beau is excited

Beau is excited again

Kwasiyaa is going through the portal

Tierney is testing something

Red ❤️- from School of the Legends Year One

He closed his eyes and braced himself for the excruciating pain he was about to feel. But nothing came. Even the light from the flame no longer shone red through his eyelids. He crashed onto something soft with a grunt. He opened his eyes.

Orange 🧡 - from The Secret Portal Part One (Ash POV)

George walked over to an array of buttons on one of the walls. In a streak of orange, he pressed some of them, faster than the naked eye could have seen. Below the buttons was a small alcove, from which he pulled out a meaty sandwich that resembled a cheeseburger, but I sensed wasn't cow.

Yellow 💛 - from School of the Legends Year One

After she finished clearing off her plate, she pressed the pause button on her music. Usually, Úrsula would allow whatever was playing to finish as she awaited Mamãe to bring her whatever dessert she had made, but she had left her book on a cliffhanger. It pained her to leave the music, but at the moment, this was her priority. She leapt on her bed and picked up her book right where she had left off, not bothering to get into her usual comfortable position, as she was too excited. Immediately, she felt her surroundings disappear. She left the confines of the room she’d lived in for the past five years, and entered the world that only existed in the ink forever tattooed on the face of the binded yellowed pages.

Green 💚 - from School of the Legends

Beau shrugged. “A few months? Well, I always liked plants and had a green thumb for gardening, but yeah, I soon found out that I had a gift.” He smiled. “And I got this!” He reached into his backpack and pulled out a piece of paper, holding it out. Jill took it, holding it so Jack could see it, too.

Blue 💙 - from School of the Legends

“So we’ll be going to school together!” Beau was saying, his blue eyes sparkling. Jack was snapped out of his thoughts--not sure if he’d missed anything or not. “Now, hold on,” said Dad, “I think we should talk about this. I’m not against it, but we should at least see if Jack wants to go.”

Indigo 💜* - from The Secret Portal Part One

Almost at once, brilliant colors erupted from the ground, a bright contrast with the indigo-tinted forest. As the portal surrounded them, Kwasiyaa and Dylan’s visions were limited, as the dark world they knew as their home began to fade away against its bright, colorful light.

Violet Purple 🩷* - from School of the Legends Year One

Tierney glanced down at the duvet he was sitting on. He rubbed his hand across it, feeling the familiar static shock. He kept sliding his palm back and forth and back and forth until he heard a crackling sound. He lifted his hand, concentrating as hard as he could, until he saw a spark. He rubbed his hands together until what appeared to be a purple lightning flickered around them. He stood, holding one hand palm-up, curling his fingers inward. A sparking purple ball of electricity had formed in his palm. He laughed giddly, opening his hand slightly so the ball got bigger. His hand shook and the electricity shot upward, blasting Tierney over the bed and causing him to crash onto the floor.

*there needs to be an indigo heart so I don't have to do this

Edit: Forgot taglist because it was so SOTL heavy

TSP intro

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

Enjoy the two paragraphs lol but SOTL is fun too

[meanlesbean]

For the WIP game 3, 18 and 11

For Cadence chapter 2:

3. Who's your favorite character for this chapter/fic?

So even though this fic is Twilight POV, and therefore very Twilight-centric, I am 100% writing this because I wanted more Time (including younger Time) content, and I have 20+ years of brainrot about Ocarina of Time to get outta me. So uhh my favorite LU boy is Time. by a longshot (lol). And that holds true for this fic. But the plot I came up with does not work at all with Time as the POV character, so it turned into a Twilight & Time relationship fic as well.

When it comes to the fic, it feels unfair to choose between Mask and Time, but I'll choose Mask because he is a delight to write. For this chapter in particular, I'll pick Hyrule, because he ended up with a lot of good dialogue.

11. What scene are you most hyped for this chapter/fic?

Previously answered, but I'll give you another. In the current outline for chapter 4 (estimate, don't hold me to this, chapter 3's outline is already so incredibly long) we have a Plot Critical Fishing Trip that I'm excited to write.

18. Share the scene you just wrote, written from another character’s POV.

Snippet of Mask's POV at the beginning of the Grown-Up Talk scene. Disclaimer that Mask should not be taken as a super reliable source for so many reasons, one being that he is 11. This also has zero editing so don't judge it too harshly. This now has some editing but nowhere near what I do for posted chapters. Anyway, bone apple teeth:

The one with the pink hair pulls the prissy guy away. “Finally,” Link mutters to Epona, and he gets about five full seconds to himself before there's another one taking prissy guy’s place.  

It’s the skinny kid, the only one with enough magic to cause a problem besides the wolf and him—the other one. Skinny kid's magic tastes like the waters from a fairy fountain. It’s rolling off of him in waves even though the healing session’s stopped, the tips of his fingers still glowing a faint green. He’s young, but he should have better control by now. 

Link unwinds another braid from Epona’s mane. Her coat and hooves look nice enough, but he’s going to have words with the wolf about mane lengths and stupid hairstyles. His fingers catch on another tangle. Maybe he should just cut her mane himself. 

The kid is talking at him now, but Link looks past him to the clearing’s edge where the wolf is arguing with pinky and prissy. It’s problem number two on his list, and not something he can deal with until he has a chance to talk with the other guy.

Problem number one is laying across the lap of the guy with the white cape. There’s no mistaking the sword even in its sheath. The guy is running his fingers over its etchings in a circular rhythm, back and forth, back and forth. Stupid, holding that sword like it’s some kind of security blanket. 

Unlike you?

Stupid, shut up. 

Something sharp flicks his forehead and drops in his lap. A still-green acorn sits in the curve of his tunic. He glares up at the skinny kid, gets another mouthful of fairy water, and flings the acorn back at his stupid face.

The kid dodges, but Link still gets him in the shoulder. Should’ve thrown it harder. 

“Fuck off,” he says.

Skinny kid smirks. “Managed to get your attention, didn’t I?”

“Managed to piss me off is what you did.” He sinks his fingers in the soil, clenches his teeth so he won’t start pulling up clumps of dirt and pelting him with it. 

“The rancher explained who we are, right?” the skinny kid asks.

“Yeah,” Link says. The dirt digs under his nails. He can feel the eyes of the other one on him. He wants a rock in his fist to throw, he wants to stop choking on fairy water, he wants to stick his hands in the ground and turn this whole clearing into an abyss, he—

He bites at the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. 

Idiots, every single one of them.

And you?

Especially me, shut up.

The skinny kid is still talking. “You don’t want to learn about any of the other heroes?” 

Link can’t help but make a face. “No?”

[aphroditestummyrolls]

I’d love the engagement series for the wip

game. It’s one of fav you’ve done.

Hi anon! Thanks so much for sending this— writing out the rest of this little scene was such a nice break from working on BHaD chapter 3!

“I want to ask Wy to marry me.”

Well. Well, that was just… That was a bloody sunbeam through a cloud. That was what that was.

Colm couldn’t have kept the smile off his face for anything in the world. He couldn’t keep the happy little twitch from his fingers or try to squash the warm expansion that filled up his chest. He very nearly wanted to cry.

Jesper blinked at him. “What is happening to your face right now?”

“Oh hush, I’m so happy for you!” He gushed. His hands reached out and took his son— his grown, wonderful, clever, handsome boy— by the cheeks. By some miracle Jesper humoured him, and Colm was grateful. Through the misty eyed lens of time, he could see all the variations of wild and young that his boy had been, and all the ways he’d grown. All of the wonderful future paths he could take.

That he and Wylan could take together.

Jes patted his hand over Colm’s, only a little awkwardly, laughing a little. “C’mon Da, it’s not like he’s said yes yet.”

Colm tsked, swatting at the words like an irritation. It was a mere formality. “Oh, don’t give me that! I barely spent an hour with the two of you before I knew you two were special.”

“You did not—“

“The point is,” he let the bubbles of his joy settle a little, taking his son’s hands in both of his, “that that boy is clearly ass over tea kettle about you. And you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

That was the moment, it seemed, where Jesper finally let himself relax into the moment. His shoulders deflated, a proper grin spreading across his face like a sunrise. Those grey eyes were sparkling and bright, and he exhaled in a gust. It must be something, to get the weight off his chest.

“Is this the first time you’ve said it all out loud?”

He shrugged a little. “It’s the first time it feels really real, I suppose. I asked Marya for her blessing just before we left, but this feels… different.” It was a good different, clearly. It was the type of different that lit Jesper up from within, the type of different that glowed so bright, it warmed the whole room ten degrees.

It made him look terribly like his mother.

“Jesper, I…” it came out a little raspier than he’d like, clearing his throat. “Your momma—“

“Da, I—“

“Jesper Fahey.” They’d spent too long hiding her memory in the shadows, wearing her like a yoke around their necks. It still took so much to say the words aloud. But, they’d both promised to change, and this was the most important thing— learning how to carry her with them in a way that wasn’t stifling. “Your mother would be so, so proud of the man you’ve become. And she would love your Wylan.”

Jesper blinked hard, fluttering his short lashes as he looked down at their hands. But his smile didn’t waver.

“I, um… actually, I wanted to ask you about her. Is there anything of hers— her jewelry, I mean— around? Maybe something that I could fabrikate a bit?” He was fiddling with Colm’s fingers, not looking up at him. “It’s alright, if you can’t part with anything! It’s just that having something of hers, it would mean a lot, for making Wylan part of the family, I think. It would mean a lot to him— to us. And I wanted to make it, y’know? Like how you pass down and, and remake family rings in the Wandering Isle? It’s alright, though, if—“

Colm stood up and pulled Jesper with him, pulling him into a hug that could hopefully ease the nervous rambling. He didn’t even know what to say, or how else to express it all otherwise. Jesper had put so much thought into this. So much care.

He wanted to honour them.

Colm didn’t ease up his hold on his son until he finally let himself be held. He wrapped his gangly arms around Colm’s shoulders, and went comfortably quiet for a moment.

Thanks for playing! ❤️❤️❤️ (want to play? click the link for WIP list!)

[elsajeni]

My new year's goals this year revolve around finishing things - some existing unfinished stuff, like abandoned (or bought-the-kit-but-never-started) craft projects and fic WIPs and the long list of House Stuff that was generated when we moved this year but only the urgent ones ever actually got done. But also just Finishing Stuff, generally, starting things and then finishing them, at levels ranging from ambitious home improvement projects to, like, "the final step of doing laundry is Put Laundry Away and it is not actually finished until you do that."

I do want to be clear that this is partly a boring self-improvement goal, yes, but it is also a "please eat the fancy cheese before you have 'saved' it so long it grows mold" goal. I am a Saver Of Little Treats For Later and a Putter-Offer Of Things and I would like to do both of those a little less! (Also also I tend to abandon books and shows I'm enjoying just before the end, especially if I feel like something bad is going to happen, and I would like to... do that less? What's that about, anyway, psychologically speaking? Anyway it's probably too late for Being Human (UK) which I didn't finish watching 12 years ago because something horrible was obviously going to happen to Mitchell but maybe I can knock some of these other books and shows and whatnot off the list.)

Originally this post was going to be a poll about which of several unfinished projects I should work on first, which I may still post later for funsies, but I think I will let this post stand as simply: here is a goal, good luck to me on achieving it.

[pertinax--loculos]

And now, because I'm feeling miserable chaotic as fuck, after just posting some banners for Vibes WIP earlier this arvo, I'm going to post a rewritten version of the first scene of Absent That Night.

Note that this is just a first pass, so even those it's technically ~draft two~ there still may be typos, etc etc.

But regardless! I hope you enjoy. ^_^ Any feedback is welcome -- particularly things like would you like to read on, does this make sense, do you have any questions that aren't plot related? (I'm super close to and familiar with this WIP, so I sometimes forget what the reader would and wouldn't know, and I'm not sure if foreshadowing etc would come across correctly.)

Anyway, it's approximately 2.5k words, so really if you read it at all I love you for it. <3

Latrell stared at the blank space on the wall, incensed. It used to host a painting. Much like the sections of wall to his left and right, in fact. Though those paintings were still there. Of course. Voices drifted down the long featureless corridor from his right. “I just don’t understand.” Shrill, piercing, unbelievably loud. A woman accustomed to getting her own way. “We pay all this money, and that is supposed to protect us from situations like these, and now you’re telling me that it doesn’t?” Latrell narrowed his eyes until the wall in front of him almost disappeared. “I understand your frustration, ma’am.” Albie’s voice was low, soothing, a stark contrast. Ever the professional. “And you are correct, your contract with LEAH does guarantee swift retrieval of all listed items. However, the item in question was not on the list. Surely you understand how that might change the situation.” Latrell smiled to himself and moved down the corridor, away from the woman’s increasingly hysterical objections.

Habitually, he dipped mental fingers into the Orn, the waterlike texture of his flow shimmering in his mind’s eye. A few signatures jumped out at him, the paintings lining the corridor. Not the one that was missing. He’d never touched that one before, never even seen it, hadn’t had a chance to familiarise himself. Absolutely no chance of tracking its location.

He blinked, moving away from the Orn and back into the physical world.

The corridor was lined on both sides, no rhyme or reason to the order of the artwork, no overarching theme. The only thing the pieces had in common was their price. The corridor was an exhibition of wealth, not of passion.

At this end it opened up into a large, airy living space, made to seem even larger by the wall of windows directly opposite. They looked out over the centre of the city, all steel and glass and whitewashed concrete. Far off in the distance, the dark line of the waterfront, the ocean stretching to the horizon.

“Nice view,” Albie said from his elbow.

Latrell glanced at her. “You manage to calm Mrs. Bishop down?”

“Calm might be too strong a word.” Albie rolled her eyes. “I think I’ve talked her down from a lawsuit. And she’s going to let us actually do our jobs, so that’s something.”

“It sure is.”

“Oh, c’mon, you know you love me.”

She patted his shoulder, the bad one, and Latrell had to hide his flinch. Albie probably wouldn’t have noticed anyway; she stepped further into the living area, spinning in a slow circle as she took it in. “Got anything yet?”

“Besides the obvious? No.” Latrell rubbed at an eye under his glasses, a headache beginning to tug at his temples. “Honestly I don’t even think there’s any point searching.”

“Naw, don’t be like that. It’s not our job. Besides, he’s gotta make a mistake eventually. Today might be our lucky day.”

Latrell seriously doubted it, but he moved next to her to examine the table.

It was an ostentatious piece of furniture if he’d ever seen one. Swirling patterns from the original tree paired with spaces of black and clear resin, sitting on legs that seemed to Latrell at best impractical and at worst dangerous for the tens of thousands of dollars he was sure the tabletop cost.

Not that it would be worth that now.

Etched directly into the resin — deep enough that it hit the centuries-old wood in some places, small shavings dusting the surface around the gouges — was a series of lines, swirling around each other. An artwork in itself, really, evocative of water, or perhaps a representation of wind. Latrell couldn’t look at it without thinking of his flow. And in the centre, a single word.

Nox

Latrell brushed his gloved fingers over the edge of the carvings. They were deep yet smooth, nothing rushed or crude about them. Each line a separate groove. Not made with anything as pedestrian as a knife. Perhaps a hammer and chisel. A specialised instrument, at the very least.

“He’s getting bolder.” Albie stalked around the table as if to view the signature from every angle. “This is bigger than anything else we’ve seen.”

“More space to work with, maybe. Not often the most expensive item in a room is a table.” Latrell traced the sharp angles of the ‘N’. “Did the Bishops tell you where they were last night?”

“Dinner at the Station House, then apparently they went to a friend’s house to kick on. No plan to stay the night, but that’s what ended up happened. Got home about three hours ago, took them an hour to discover the theft.”

Surprising it was that fast. The apartment was big enough they could’ve spent days inside without visiting every room.

“Do they often stay out all night after a dinner?”

Albie was at the head of the table, arms crossed. “Took a bit of finagling, but I reckon so, yeah. Mrs. Bishop wouldn’t admit it but the way she talked gives me the impression it’s not an uncommon occurrence.”

“So no way to be certain they wouldn’t return, but the odds were pretty good.” Latrell massaged his temple with two fingers. “Still, he wouldn’t leave anything to chance. Would’ve gotten in early. Security cameras?”

The hopeful uptick in his voice made Albie smile. “Nothing.”

“I fucking hate this guy.”

“Oh, I know.” Albie’s voice was teasing, but there was a note of censure behind it. Latrell kept his eyes on the table so she wouldn’t see his wince.

Fucking Nox. The man had been a thorn in Latrell’s side for nearly three years, and that thorn was quickly turning into an entire branch.

LEAH’s Artefact Recovery Division served the clients who could afford to have their most valuable pieces insured with something more than money. Every Agent assigned to the unit had an affinity for object tracking; a location on the Orn that allowed them to see, touch, familiarise themselves with a certain item, and then use the Orn to find it. Latrell had been assigned to the ARD eight years ago, a consolation prize after an on-the-job injury had caused the police to fire him. He’d met Albie about twelve months later, and they’d been partnered six months after that.

Most of the time an ARD Agent’s job was fairly simple. If a thief managed to bypass the comprehensive security systems a LEAH client could afford, they tended to know which piece would get them the most on the black market. Unfortunately for them, so did the Agents, so the pieces were already listed and a part of an Agent’s repertoire. A brief look at what item was missing and the relevant Agent briefly checking out the Orn would usually locate the piece.

Usually. Nox was a different story.

He had an uncanny ability to target only those items that Agents hadn’t yet had a chance to itemise. Generally new acquisitions, often those on the books to be added to a client’s list within the next few days. It was specific enough that there’d been talk of Nox having some inside source.

Latrell wasn’t sure that was true. But it was getting to the point that he’d have to agree or figure out a more compelling theory soon.

Because the last six pieces that Nox had stolen — the last six households where he’d taken something and then destroyed something else, picking a room and defacing the most expensive item to leave his signature and no doubt of who it was that had committed the theft — had all been on Latrell’s register.

Once was an anomaly. Twice was coincidence. Three times was a pattern. Six times got people asking questions.

The sharp trill of Latrell’s phone cut through his musing. He answered it without looking at the screen. “Latrell.”

“Good morning, Agent,” a voice purred in his ear. Male. Smooth. Smug. “Enjoying yourself, I trust?”

“Who is this?” Latrell snapped. Albie raised an eyebrow, and he held up a hand. The voice was utterly unfamiliar, which raised a host of problems, chief among which was— “How did you get this number?”

“I have resources.” The man managed to convey the wave of his hand with the tone of his voice. “I should think you would know this by now.”

“Look, whoever you think I am, you’re mistaken. You’ve clearly got the wrong number, and I’m busy right now, so—”

“Forgive me. I thought you’d pardon the intrusion, given that it’s my handiwork you’re currently admiring.”

“What?” Latrell spun. Pointless. There was no one else in the room. “Fuck off. You think I’m going to fall for that?”

A chuckle in his ear, silky and deep. Whoever it was, they had a hell of a voice for radio. “Is it really that improbable that I would contact you, Agent Latrell?”

Latrell stopped.

Forced his mind back into its box. There was any number of reason the caller would know his name. No need to get ahead of himself. No reason to let his thoughts careen out of control down paths that made no sense—

“Have you seen the Michelson, by the way? It truly is a stunning piece. They say his use of colour is unrivalled.”

Latrell’s heart tripped. Stumbled. Caught its balance at a speed that felt unhealthy. They hadn’t known which piece had been stolen until they arrived. That information hadn’t been publicised. It hadn’t even been passed along to LEAH yet.

“Latrell,” Albie said quietly.

He waved in her direction again. Turned away. “Okay, so you’ve managed to find out some information. Congrats. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna believe—”

“Agent,” the man cut in again, “If you examine the table from the end closest to the couch, I believe that will be proof enough.”

The reference to the table, the knowledge of the signature, was proof enough. Nothing that had ever been released to the press. And it was unusual, moreso than any other scene. Not a coffee machine. Not a couch. Not, perhaps most memorably, an entire sound system. Never the artworks themselves, but always an item of incredible value — generally more than Latrell’s annual paycheck — marked, dismantled, defaced. Ruined.

Latrell stepped around the table. Stared down at it for a few long seconds. Saw only swirls and whisps and curving, branching lines.

He squinted a little, tilted his head, and it jumped out at him like an optical illusion snapping into focus. Seamlessly integrated into the pattern, a series of letters, distinct and separate from the larger, blocky moniker.

Hello, Latrell

“The hell…” The words were faint.

The man on the phone chuckled again. “You’re welcome. I am quite sure your boss will be very curious as to the meaning of that.”

“What the—”

“Apologies, Agent, but I really must be going. Places to go, paintings to fence. You know how it is. Though if I may offer some advice?”

He paused. Not long enough for Latrell to formulate a response.

“You really should make an effort to leave work earlier. Eight pm every night this week? It’s a recipe for burnout.”

Latrell dropped the phone from his ear, staring at the screen. The unknown number stared back at him, stark black numbers on a too-white screen.

Implausible. Impractical. Impossible. Beyond that, beyond the logistics and the motivation and the feasibilityof it all, it was just fucking insane. If he was right, if the man on the phone was who he thought it was, then he’d done all that, found Latrell’s number, tracked his movements, knew that he’d be at this crime scene, knew enough about his life to know when he was leaving work every night, all with the ultimate goal of calling him to— what? Gloat? Provide a clue? Hear the sound of his own fucking voice?

Each possibly theory was more insane than the last. Latrell swept off his glasses and pinched at his eyes with a thumb and forefinger.

“Brishan!” Albie all but shoved him, and Latrell realised it wasn’t the first time she’d tried to get his attention.

“Sorry,” he said, too distracted to bother with sincerity, mind racing, whirling, unmoored. He shoved his glasses back on, tried to school his expression back into neutrality. “I was just—”

“Who was that?” she demanded.

“I don’t know. It was nothing. Nobody. A prank call.” Yeah, right.

“Who’d they say it was?”

“They didn’t, actually.” He realised the truth of the statement even as it left his mouth. Not that it mattered. The content of the conversation left very little doubt just who he’d been speaking to. As much as his brain was trying to find ways to deny it. “Never actually identified themselves. They just implied— but it wasn’t really— I mean, I’m not sure—”

He exhaled, rubbed at his eye again. Spoke without lowering his hand. “I actually— I think it was Nox.”

Beat. Then: “What?”

Latrell kept rubbing at his eye. Didn’t really think that question deserved an answer.

Albie took a few moments to realise that was his conclusion, then added, “Are you sure?”

“Fuck, no, I’m not sure!” Latrell dropped his hand in time to catch the hurt look flicker over Albie’s face, shoulders tense, spine straight. He sucked in a deep breath, tried to modulate his tone. “No, I’m not sure. But… well, he was certainly pretty convincing.”

Albie chewed her lower lip for a moment. “We’re gonna have to report this.”

Irritation flickered hot and fluid in Latrell’s chest. He loosened his jaw, endeavoured to keep his voice entirely level when he said, “Of course I’m going to report it.”

It still came out sharp. Too sharp, if the slight lift to Albie’s eyebrows was anything to go by.

Latrell closed his eyes for a beat. Shoved down the slow boil of annoyance licking at his insides, forced himself to inhale, exhale. Slowly. Repeated, “I’m going to report it.”

Some of her scepticism faded, though an element of obstinance remained in the jut of her chin, the wrinkle between her brows. “Good.”

Latrell’s jaw locked. He turned away from her, back towards the table. Let his eyes skip over those two horrifying words, embedded in the centre of a criminal’s signature. Abruptly wished he’d chosen something else to look at.

“It’s… weird, right?” Albie’s voice had softened. “After the last few months…”

“Yeah it fucking is.” He sucked in a deep breath, gestured towards the table. “And this doesn’t help.”

Albie stepped up next to him. He didn’t really want to show her this. Didn’t really have a choice. It wasn’t exactly something he could hide, couldn’t change the signature so those two words were no longer a part of it.

But it was okay. Most people so far believed what he thought, that he was just a random target. Believed that he had no idea why Nox was fixated on him. Believed that he was just as in the dark as the rest of them.

But things kept piling up. Coincidence upon coincidence. As a cop Latrell had been trained to believe coincidences didn’t exist. But coming up with any other theory now seemed even harder.

He knew the instant Albie saw it. Felt her tension lurch like a physical presence in the room.

“Oh,” she said, quiet, loaded.

“I know.”

Albie turned to him, her face as earnest as her voice. “You’re fucked.”

Latrell removed his glasses to pinch his eyes again. “I know.”

[kyberblade]

twenty questions for fic writers

Thank you so much for the tag @littlemisspascal ❤️

1. how many works do you have on AO3? - For this account? 7. Altogether? *Looks off into the distance hauntedly* Too many…. 😮‍💨

2. what's your total AO3 word count? For here? 315,097 Altogether? *Twitches from flashbacks*

3. what fandoms do you write for? The Mandalorian and The Last Of Us.

4. top five fics by kudos

Back To You

Dincember 2022

Shatter

Drabbles || Din Djarin x Reader

Dincember 2023

5. do you respond to comments? I try to. Sometimes I don’t know what to say but I try to.

6. what is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? I guess that would have to be the end of the epilogue for BTY? It’s just kinda while happy, leaves you on a well damn note.

7. what's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? If I say BTY people are gonna pitchfork me bc it’s a cut away before the good part. Um…. Probably the end of my Drabble Give it to Me in Basic.

8. do you get hate on fics? I have in other fandoms but not in these so far. 🤞🏻 I didn’t get any until people found out I was a “fake” fan for only seeing the movies and not having read the books yet and then it was a whole gatekeeping thing. Then suddenly my fics weren’t worth reading. 🙄 But, you know, we let shit go here.

9. do you write smut? I haven’t. I have written spice, and lots of heat, but I haven’t gotten that far yet. I don’t think I ever will. I’m an awkward turtle of a human.

10. craziest crossover: @fordo-kixed-rex and I have a crack fic idea for a Mando-TLOU crossover. 🤣🤣🤣 But I have actually written an SPN/Teen Wolf crossover once upon a time, and every time I read it again, I’m like, “Why didn’t this actually happen????”

11. have you ever had a fic stolen? Yes, but not that I found it, it was pointed out to me. Once I lived through the massive FFnet duplicate debacle, but also I’ve had people ask me if I thought fics were copied.

12. have you ever had a fic translated? Um…. I wanna say no but the back of my head is saying yes.

13. have you ever co-written a fic before? Yes. In my THG and Teen Wolf days I did it often. @grippingbeskar and I have teamed up a few times here. I say that. She writes awesome things and then I scream about them and make a few suggestions she turns into beautiful things.

14. all time favorite ship? Razor Crest. JK. The N1. JK JK JK!!! ….. Millennium Falcon. I’m just teasing. Chuck and Sarah from Chuck. “Tell me our story.” 😭 Nobody fucking touch me.

15. what's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will? Some things from other fandoms, I’m sorry. Drama happened and you just…. There’s nothing there anymore. I’m sorry.

16. what are your writing strengths? I’d like to say fluff and being able to paint clear pictures (usually.) I’m told my dialogue is realistic and writing immersive, and fight scenes high gear, but idk about all that. I cringe at most all of what I write. I’m just glad if it’s not run on sentences or lots of “and”s and “quickly”s. These are just things I’ve been told. Most of the time I’m 🫣 when I go over what I wrote. And then I yeet it out to all of you.

17. what are your writing weaknesses? Listed above. I use too many words to say simple things. I say things very confusingly. I use too many words in general. 🤣

18. thoughts on dialogue in another language? As someone who has written in Mando’a and Huttese, I am all for it, just don’t like the headache. 🤣🤣🤣

19. first fandom you wrote in? THG 🫣🫣🫣

20. favorite fic you've written? Oh Lordy. Once again, I cringe at most of my stuff, but I’m really happy with how both BTY and Shatter have come together.

EDIT: AGAST! I forgot to tag people!!! Asdfghjkl!!!

@grippingbeskar @the-ginger-hedge-witch @dontletyourchildrenwatchthis @what-the-heckin-heck @joelsgreys

[eriquin]

WIP Weekend Game

Tagged by @scarcrossdlvrs and @patchworkgargoyle and @starryeyedjanai

Rules from the original post:

In a reblog (or new post w/ rules attached), post up to five (5) filenames of your WIPs; not titles, file names.

Post a snippet from one of them. Snippet must be words you wrote in the last 7 days. We’re posting progress here. If you haven’t made any, go make some and come back to post!

After you’ve posted, people can send you an ask with one of your file names. You must then write 3 sentences in that file. If the filename is one you can’t share from (for example, an event fic), write 3 sentences on it anyway, and then 3 more on another to share.

That’s it! You can invite others to join in, or just post. If you tag me in your post, I will send you an ask request!

If you’re reading this, you’re invited!

If you see someone posting a WIP Wednesday Game snippet, send them an ask! Make them write.

File list:

Crown of Thorns

Nightswimming (Steddie Bigbang)

The Prophetic D&D Game

Time Travel

Chart:

I'm only putting up the 4 Stranger Things fics from my last week for now but I suspect I will also write things from other stuff tomorrow because Weekend Writing Marathon is having a super sprint Saturday tomorrow and I usually try to write a lot on those. Join us, if you want.

Snippet and Tags beneath the cut

Snippet from Crown of Thorns. Do you want the little bit of Rockie I'm writing in? 'Cause that's what you're getting:

“We’re going to go stay with my aunt Gertie in Kansas,” Vickie said. “Mom didn’t want to at first, because they have a new baby and absolutely no room, but they offered, so off we go. At least I can still help by babysitting, I guess? I hope we can come back soon.”

“I hope so, too,” Robin said. They were just wrapping up their shift and more workers were coming in to relieve them, and she didn’t know how to say goodbye. “I mean, I’ll still be here, so I can call and give you updates when we get the all clear?”

“That’s so cool that your parents let you stay,” Vickie said. “I’m not brave enough to stand up to mine.”

Vickie reached out first for a hug, and Robin felt awkward about it until she felt her really squeeze tight. She tucked her head against Vickie’s and whispered, “I’m glad you’ll be safe.”

When they pulled away from each other, she could see that Vickie was on the verge of tears. “I don’t actually know my aunt’s phone number,” she said, “or else I’d write it down for you.”

“Oh, here.” Robin grabbed a pad of paper and wrote Steve’s number down. “I’m staying with Steve until this all clears up. He’s basically running a halfway house for his stubborn friends who won’t leave. Like he’s one to talk.”

Tagging: I want you to know that I keep a running list of writers now and I've gone through to edit out the ones who have already been tagged in the two WIP weekend posts I've seen so far. This is the rest of my list. It is long and distinguished (sorry not sorry).

@2btheanswertothequestion

@artaxlivs

@atmilliways

@corrodedcoughin

@disastardly

@fiore-della-valle

@hellsfireclub

@greenbergsays

@greenlikethesea

@kedreeva

@laundrybiscuits

@lorifragolina

@momotonescreaming

@qprstobin

@redbirdblogs

@riality-check

@sayesayes

@spacebarrette

@stargyles

@steddierthings

If you're not tagged here and you know I know you on discord, then it's because I don't remember your tumblr name. Tell me and I'll add it.

[void-botanist]

hello and how are you?

We had to come scurrying over after we found your WIP Name Game! Honestly, a lot of those names make us want to ask after them, this Work seems to be filled with good things, but!

Can we see something from these parts? Whatever you want to share? ( •̀ω•́ )σ

Farewell to the Ancestors, Tatiana Arvenswold, that secret option from the tags that you want to scream about

Have fun with it too! If ya wanna pass or go wild, then this is your invitation to do so! we're entirely intrigued!

☕ Natsume Rune, @365runesoftheamalgamations

From this list

Thank you so much for the ask! I actually talked about the one that made me want to scream over here, but "queueing" is a similar sort of scene, where Spinder gets into a different unusual conversation. The Nicea has been queueing for a warp transit for hours, Tristan has taken a sleeping pill, and Rodney is left having to make his first non-training warp transit:

The door slid open six inches and Spinder blinked sleepily up at him. “What?” he said with the distance of someone still shaking off a dream. “We’re clear to transit in a few minutes, and I just need someone to sit on the bridge with me while I do it.” He raised his eyebrows but didn’t argue. “Let me get some pants on. I’ll be right there.” The door shut again. Rodney decided to trust him and go back to the pilot’s seat. Tristan’s seat. It felt too big, even though it was only marginally larger than his own. He was about to take the unnecessary step of strapping himself in when he remembered that his coffee was halfway across the bridge and went to grab it. Spinder showed up at the same time, half-covering a massive yawn while he dropped into his usual seat. The pants he’d put on were just the lower half of his flight suit, zipped up to his waist with the sleeves tied over it.

"Farewell to the ancestors" was previously an almost-empty scene where I planned to have Tristan visit the graveyard where most of her family is buried and say goodbye to them before the trip, but this ask made me want to work on it some more:

Tristan climbed to the top of the hill, weaving the familiar path through the generations of her family’s gravestones. At each one, she ran a hand over the small dome carved from the top of the stone, feeling the grooves left by increasing generations of hands. On the oldest markers at the top, the dome had started to become a valley.

And "Tatiana Arvenswold" is one of my favorites. This is deep into their space journey, after assorted disasters, when Spinder and Isabel first meet Tatya, who stays with them pretty much to the end of the book:

Isabel was aware of someone passing their table, but didn’t look up until a pale brown hand rapped on the tabletop. Standing over her was a person whose brown hair seemed to be all cowlicks, even into their loose ponytail, with a scruffy half-attempt at a chinstrap beard and a wide baby-pink collar choker peeking out past the massive triangular lapels of their khaki jacket. They were completely ignoring her in favor of Spinder, and she prepared herself to bolster his defense. “Hey, are you Spinder?” they asked. “You look just like the picture Gwinny sent me.” Spinder blinked. “I am. Are you…the warp witch?” They grinned. “Tatiana Arvenswold at your service. She-her or whatever you feel like.” They turned just enough that Isabel could see the silver heart-shaped ring in the front of their choker. Their eyes lingered on her face, and at first she thought they were looking at her bruises in order to make a dumbass comment about them. Then she got a full once-over, and when their eyes met again Tatiana’s gaze was thirsty. “And who are you?” “I’m Isabel,” she said. “The captain of the Nicea.” “Oh, nice, nice. So, uh, y’all in need of a warp witch? Or a finder?”

Nicea taglist: @kahvilahuhut @malloen8c @outpost51 @writernopal @athenswrites

[backburnerdio]

OC Kiss Week Day 7 Sloppy

WIP: Time Borrowed Pairing: Ives & Ryker cw: Injury Mention Words: 2033 Tag List: @irnalia, @waysofink, @ashen-crest, @spacetimewraithwrites,@dustylovelyrun, @idreamonpaper, @abalonetea, @jaimistoryteller, @kaiusvnoir, @writeouswriter, @reininginthefirewriting, @concealeddarkness13, @winterandwords (Used the Time Borrowed taglist, please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed from this event or the main taglist)

I did not mean for this one to get so long! 😅 Sorry my dudes!

“We’re not able to get a connection.”

“Use the pry bar here and get under the paneling. The port has come loose –Ives, can you hear me? Can you give me some kind of response?”

“It’s all loose in here.”

Ryker maneuvered his way through the crowd, excusing himself as he hurried over. Ives was sitting on the ground hands limp at his side with his gaze unfocused on the ground. Dust and small clumps of cement dusted his head and shoulders, hair spilling forward over his brow. Mikki crouched beside him, hand on his face trying to get his attention without any luck.

“We’ve got a system crash,” one of the techs announced, leaning down to try and see into the open port on his neck. “There’s a faulty connection around his CPU, he keeps trying to connect and crashing.” Mikki got up, hurrying around to their side, shooing them out of the way.

“Is it hurt?” someone in the crowd whispered. “Is it hurting?”

“They pushed that slab right off the seventh floor. I saw it!” someone else chimed in. “They did it on purpose. Landed right on top of him!”

“Ryker, give us some air,” Mikki spoke up, snapping his attention from the deadened look on Ives’ face.

“Alright, alright!” Ryker came to, turning to the crowd and waving his arms. “Let’s back up, give our tech room to work. I need everyone to take five giant steps back.” He helped make room, someone bringing over markers to project the lighted barriers.

Ives was eventually loaded into a tech van to get away from the crowd and provide more tools to help his condition. It was hours later when Ryker was able to take one of his breaks and head over, hoping to get an update on Ives’ condition. He knocked on the back door and what surprised when Mikki opened it, stepping out.

“Perfect, Captain, you’re exactly who I wanted to see,” she removed the stained gloves from her hands, hooking them on her hips. “We’re having to put Ives into safe-mode. There was some damage to his hardware, loose connections and overheating after the initial point of contact. We were able to replace any damage to the chassis, and luckily there wasn’t any physical harm to his hardware. He just needs time to readjust.”

Ryker glanced behind her to where Ives was sitting on the table, taking directions from one of the techs who was having him follow their hand with his eyes.

“Safe-mode? What… what does that mean?”

“He’s not entirely up and running. He’s functioning, there are just a few scripts and functions he has to work out. That’s simply going to take time.” Mikki turned to look back at him. “Similar to a human concussion. He’s just in self-diagnostics, which has a higher recovery rate than an Auditor resetting him.”

“Shit,” Ryker sighed. “Is he going to be alright?”

“Of course,” Mikki nodded. “It could take a few hours or a few days. But it’s quicker than wiping him and having to upload from a backup. That could take weeks for his system to adjust. I don’t recommend it.”

“Yeah, I’d like to steer clear from a wipe too.” Ryker frowned.

“I was actually on my way to get a hold of you,” Mikki turned back to him, blindly reaching for the van door to pull it to. “I don’t think it would be wise to leave Ives unattended,” she spoke quietly, face impassive. “I’m reporting after hours for scheduled maintenance and won’t be back at the station until tomorrow afternoon. I could take Ives with me but I don’t know that Auditors would agree with this process.”

She tilted her head down to peer at him through her lashes.

“Oh, well, yeah. Would you like me to watch him tonight?” He guessed and she straightened back up with a smile.

“I appreciate your offer,” she nodded, opening the door back up. “Are you on your way back to the station?” She spoke a little louder than a normal volume and Ryker caught on.

“Yeah, I was just headed back that way.”

“Do you mind taking Ives with you? Dropping him off there?” She blinked a number of times.

“Sure,” he winced as she suddenly turned to lean back inside.

“Captain Ryker is going to take Ives back by the station. I can ride back with you to BloomingTek.” Mikki told the tech, waving at Ives before turning back around to whisper. "Take him home."

DATE AND TIME UNKNOWN NETWORK UNAVAILABLE

There was the sway of big band music in the other room, Ives sitting up on the bed to look around. His olfactory sensors picked up the smell of braised meat, onions, and peppers, coming to the conclusion that Ryker must have been cooking in the kitchen. Feeling successful at that deduction, he smiled and pulled his feet off the side of the bed.

It took some time to get his equilibrium, still wobbly as he held his balance on the bed. And then the dresser. His HUD attempted to pull up the name of the song, trying to hum along to it as he studied the photographs pinned to the corkboard above the dresser. He recognized himself in a few of them, smiling as he leaned closer.

It wasn’t long before he was rifling through the drawers, pulling out one of the light blue shirts he recognized with a band name on it. Deciding he liked it, he stumbled against the dresser as he fought to pull his own shirt off and replace it with the band tee. He also found a small drawer of sunglasses, picking out a pair that caught his fancy to slide on.

He wandered about the room a little longer, visuals having one hell of a time recognizing anything through the sunglasses which he could only describe as hilarious –tricking and obscuring his HUD to see just how many error messages he could get. Finally, he drifted out into the hall, hand bracing along the wall as he stumbled into the kitchen.

Ryker was standing at the stove, turning at the motion to laugh. “Hey there, buddy.” He snickered, looking Ives over in the sunglasses, stolen shirt bunched up above his boxers. “Feeling pretty good?”

Ives made his way over, peering over his shoulder into the pan on the stove. The steam made the lenses of the glasses fog up instantly frustrating his HUD further. “I feel great,” Ives mumbled.

“You’re sure you don’t need a little more time?” Ryker snickered, turning to look at him.

“No, nope I just wanted to talk to you.” He smiled, the sunglasses sliding down his nose.

“Here, let me get these,” Ryker reached up, taking them off earning a pout.

“Why? I like them. Can’t I wear them?”

“Of course,” Ryker sat them aside, “but if you’re here to talk, I’d like to see those pretty blue eyes.”

“Oh,” Ives grinned, swaying closer only to catch himself on the counter. “Are you trying to flirt with me, Captain?”

“Have been for seven years, but thanks for noticing,” he stirred at the pan before cutting the heat. “Maybe we should sit down to talk about things—”

“Do you have feelings for me, Captain?” Ives blurted, turning his back to the counter to help support his unsteady weight.

“We should get you back—”

“Valetta thinks you do. They’ve got a bet going, you see.”

“Oh, they do?”

“But humans like to project romantic connections on each –on each other.” Ives urged informatively.

“They do, don’t they?”

“They do, don’t they,” Ives nodded, humming as something in his processes lagged. Everything felt warm and slow. “It makes them gentle,” he went on. “It makes them want to pack bond with us, even when they know -they know we’re not like them. We might look like them, you see, but we’re different.”

“I see,” Ryker smiled, cutting off the stove and turning with arms crossed. “And you don’t want to be packbonding with them?”

“I love to pack bond with them.” Ives slapped his knee for emphasis. “They’re so silly. Always in a hurry, trying to get ahead of one another, or look out for one another when they’re all just soft –they trip the wrong way and they could be dead.” He motioned down to the floor. “They need looking after. Someone ought to.”

“Yes, they should.”

“They’re all so different, too. But then there’s Ryker, and he’s not like any other human.” Ives prodded a finger into his shoulder. “When a human is like Hadrian they’re like an outlier, the end of the spectrum that has no comparison. He’s one in a million –no, eight billion.”

“Alright, let’s get you off your feet. Mikki said it might take you a few days to recover,” Ryker patted his shoulder, trying to urge him back to the bedroom.

“No, no, no,” Ives stood his ground, needing to finish his train of thought. It was important. As if the data hadn’t been completely clear or within sequence until now. “Hadrian isn’t like any other person. He always chooses kindness, always. And that’s what humans are about, aren’t they? Some of the oldest findings of human history are archaeological sites of humans with healed broken bones. Specifically femurs. Someone had to help them, care for them, because without that care they wouldn’t have survived. Kindness is what it means to be human. Hadrian is kindness.”

“I… well, thank you. But we really should get you back. Maybe try another reboot?”

“You’re mine,” he cleared the errors in his HUD. Ryker stared at him, dumbfounded, gaping on words he’d only half-started. Ives lurched closer, resting a hand on Ryker’s cheek.

“Wh-what?”

Ives could feel the temperature shift of his blush against his palm. His second hand pressed against Ryker’s other cheek to successfully hold his face in his hands. Eyes wide. Stunned. Face squished just so causing his lips to pillow. “You’re my human,” he whispered, running fingers into his hair to guide him closer.

“Ives, I don’t think we should—!” The words were lost against Ives’ mouth, pulled into the kiss. A new slew of errors popped up, filling his visuals even as Ives closed his eyes. He kept brushing them aside, packing them into the corners of his feed to keep from distracting him. They swarmed and piled up until they had blocked every pel of space with their orange glow.

And then gone.

The last bit of script clicked into place clearing the haze. Ives felt a hand on his chest, opening his eyes as Ryker leaned back. His cheeks were flushed, one hand gripping the counter as the other rested against Ives, holding their balance as he gawked up at him. His hair was disheveled, lips red and irritated. Ives glanced around the kitchen trying to familiarize himself.

“You okay?” Ryker whispered. Ives straightened, absently wiping at his mouth when the backlog hit him. He glanced stiffly at Ryker before taking a step back. “Hey, hey, you’re okay.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“You’re okay,” Ryker followed, reaching up to hold Ives’ face. “It’s okay. Trust me, you don’t have to be sorry.”

“I-I don’t know what happened. It wasn’t professional of me. You were trying to tell me no.”

“I was trying to say to wait until you were out of safe-mode. So you’re thinking clearly. But now you’re here.” Ryker smiled, soothing thumbs across his cheeks. “It’s okay. It doesn’t have to be professional.”

It was Ives’ turn to gawk. “You’re not upset with me? For what I said?”

“Why would I be upset over the nicest thing ever said to me?” Ryker laughed softly, urging him down to rest their foreheads together. Ives released a manual sigh of warm air, leaning against him.

“I can go back to the station for the night now that I’m in order. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You’re not going anywhere with my favorite shirt,” he snickered, leaning back and giving it a tug. “You’re welcome to stay the night. In fact, I’d like you here.”

“You would?”

“Yeah.” He was blushing again, “I kinda like pieyied Ives. A little messy and real honest.” Ives couldn’t help but smile, shyly looking at the floor. “C’mon, stay? I’ll take you back in the morning.”

“Alright, I’ll stay.”

[beautifulhigh]

The small roar of a mind trying to clear itself, 1/6

Credits list Graphic: @chaotictarlos Cheerleading squad: @queen-saltyfries (HBD!) Alpha Reader: @noxsoulmate Adult Fun Times Consultant: @cowlos-reyes Fuel: Diet Coke & Dairy Milk chocolate bars My muse, my sounding board, mydarling: @bubblesandroses8

Six parts to the fic, and I will post a new part on Mondays with the exception of part six which will be on the Sunday ‘cause ya girl will be on a flight out to LA the following day!

I know I have a rep in the fandom for not reading a WiP, and so I will fully appreciate if anyone wants to get their own back. This is a 34k opus, and my love letter to the mess that is Carlos’ headspace, so you do you.

the small roar of a mind trying to clear itself: 1/6 (AO3)

Summary

There's an accident. The driver dies on the scene, but the passenger - Carlos - is rescued by his husband who doesn't take no for an answer and doesn't give up until they're safe. Aside from a few broken ribs and a busted ankle, Carlos is fine. He really is fine. He wasn't driving, he didn't die, and he was saved by probably the one emergency team he knows and trusts completely and implicitly. He will heal up, he will be able to get back to work, and his life will carry on as before.

He is fine.

He is absolutely fine.

(He really isn't.)

--OR--

The Carlos-Whump-Therapy fic we've all been waiting for.

SESSION ONE

"I don't even know why I'm here," Carlos said. "Well, no. I know why I'm here. I just don't know what I'm supposed to talk about."

 "There are no rules here, Carlos," Rebecca said, "people usually come to me just to talk about what's going on in their lives and how they feel about it."

 "I know that's what my husband wants. I just don't know if I can do it."

 "Why not?"

 "Not exactly something you do a lot of in my family. Talking about your feelings that is. We're not like, closed off or anything, and we do talk. My parents are great, so are my sisters. They're loving and supportive and—"

 "OK," Rebecca said calmly, cutting into his rambling speech. "And your husband?"

 "Oh he's a talker. Kinda has to be. He's an addict," Carlos explained off her look. "Does the meetings, all of it. He's sober, has been for years. But he's done this. Therapy, talking things out. Says it helps."

 "Do you think it will help?"

 "I think I need to try."

 "That's a strong word: need."

 "It's how I feel, and that's the point, right?"

 "It is. So why do you feel you need to talk?"

 "Because I'm scared."

 "What of?"

 Carlos paused and took a deep breath. He looked down at the carpet of her office just beyond the rug, an off-grey colour with little flecks of red and white through it. At first he'd thought it was dirty but now that he was looking at it closely he could see how clean it was. It smelled fresh too, like they used some kind of scented product on it.

 "Carlos?"

 Rebecca's voice pulled him from his thoughts and he made himself look up at her. He gave a small shrug.

 "I'm scared of losing my husband. Of wrecking our marriage."

 "And why would that happen?"

 "Because of what happened. With Spence."

 "The accident."

 "Not just that," Carlos said. "I… He was my friend and because of me—" He stopped, choking on the next part of the sentence. "It shouldn't have been him."

 "Let's talk about why you feel that way, shall we?" Rebecca asked.

Keep reading part one

[queenofbaws]

we're here again! in wednesday land!

i'm really and truly trying to make a concerted effort to cross some wips off my list in the coming months - something that, as it turns out, is ABSOLUTELY fighting me tooth and nail - but in that vein, here's a sneaky little snippet of a CREEPS project that's been gathering dust.

(i will, in case anyone was wondering, will be accepting gentle ghost-hunting-au-based bullying until such a time as i actually start poSTING AGAIN WAAAAAAAAH.)

“Well hey now, friends and fans!” The drawl was low and thick, blood clotting beneath a scab, and as he heard it playing back in his own ears, it was all he could do to keep from grinning outright. A far cry from the usual podcasting cadence, Josh liked to think of what he brought to the show as antifreeze—a voice that lured you in with just enough sweetness that you couldn’t help but get a second taste, only to knock you down and out when you least expected it, leaving you curled up on the floor with your hands clutching your guts and the tang of blood at the back of your throat. He doubted his co-hosts thought of it like that, but hey, you could only expect so much from the rabble; after all, in today’s day and age? Everyone was a critic. At least he didn’t end every last one of his sentences on an upward inflection in some sort of stilted attempt to sound mysterious…unlike some paranormal-slash-true-crime podcasters he could name. “Longtime listeners will know that this is usually the point in the show where we stop oohing and ahhing over the marvels of the paranormal and true crime worlds long enough to really just—” he bared his teeth in a pantomime of tearing into flesh made no less gruesome by its brevity or the fact their audience wouldn’t be able to see it, accompanying the sight with a sound caught somewhere between a growl and a cough, “—sink our teeth into Hollywood’s latest horror abortion…” It wasn’t necessary, but Chris leaned into his mic all the same, clarifying in his most helpful teacher’s pet voice, “A horrorbortion, if you will!” “Chris,” Sam groaned. “—buuut, as it turns out,” Josh continued, “We’ve got ourselves a bit of a development over here.” He cleared his throat with as much ostentatiousness as he could muster (which was, not to toot his own horn, quite a bit), dragging the moment out longer and longer to build up that delicious tension while…okay, giving Chris time to add a drumroll in post-production. It was mostly to give him room for the drumroll. “And by ‘development,’ I do in fact mean we’ve been served a cease and desist by Washington Pictures, Inc. If I had to guess…probably for our scathing review of Blood Monastery 3D: Lambs to Slaughter.” Sam lifted her head from the disappointed droop Cochise’s awful jokes had caused long enough to tease, “Womp womp.”

as ever, i hope everyone out there is doing well, and that you're being as nice to yourselves as you can be <3 just a few more days to the weekend!!!

(and, per the usual, if you were looking for an excuse to post one of your OWN wips...let this be it! ;P)

[klcthebookworm]

WIP Wednesday

So this was the wrong time for Wolfwood to meet the Davidson kids.

She and Milly made the selections and filled up two bags that Milly insisted on carrying out of the store. The bus from Ripmela had arrived and passengers were disembarking. The last one was a familiar black-haired man dressed in a black suit carrying a cloth-wrapped cross on his back.

Milly stopped in her tracks. “Mr. Priest!”

Wolfwood’s shades slipped down his nose so he could look out above them. “Insurance girls! The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“I guess so,” Milly answered. “Oh, we don’t work for Bernardelli any more.”

“Got too dangerous staying with Needle-noggin?”

“No, it didn’t have anything to do with him,” Meryl said.

He took his sunglasses off and tucked them inside his suit’s jacket. “So can you still point me to him? I’ve got news.”

Meryl glanced around the busy main street. “You better head back to the homestead with us if we’re trading news.” Wolfwood agreed and walked with them as they headed to the scrap heap.

The girl was out of sight and Milly handled the call out. “Hannah? Have you found what you need?”

Hannah’s voice came out from behind a rusted out car. “If this doesn’t work, we’ll have to go to that other town and buy new parts or a whole new car.” She emerged holding some metal tubing in her hand and pulled up short. “Who is this?”

Wolfwood smiled at her. “Hello, Nicholas D. Wolfwood, traveling priest. I patrol the continent doing the Lord’s work.”

“Hannah C. Davidson and I hope that doesn’t include crucifixions.”

He chuckled. “The cross? You know your Earth history. The Church doesn’t involve itself in the affairs of sheriffs.”

“Mr. Priest is our friend,” Milly said. “Vash mentioned him.”

“He did,” Hannah agreed but her green eyes looked wary.

“It’s all right, Tall Girl. It’s not a bad thing to be suspicious these days.”

“Yes, we do have reasons to be on guard,” Meryl said. “Hannah and her brother are traveling with us.”

“When the car wants to go?” He teased.

“I’ll get the car to go.” Hannah’s voice was blunt. “I’m more stubborn than a hunk of metal.”

“It’s not a contest,” Milly said. Hannah just shrugged and they set off down the road that led to the homestead.

Wolfwood didn’t speak until they were well away from the town buildings. “Imagine my surprise to see a familiar face on the wanted poster boards and it wasn’t the one with spiky hair.” He looked down at Meryl.

She nodded. “We got it cleared up quickly, but that’s why we’re no longer employed by Bernardelli.”

“I quit after management threw Meryl to the Cavalry,” Milly said.

“That was rude. Sorry I wasn’t around to help out.”

“I appreciate that,” Meryl said. “So what news do you have for Vash?”

“You’re looking for Vash?” Hannah’s tone went harsh. If she had fur like Chuck, it would be bristling.

“That’s a tone.” Wolfwood pulled out his cigarette pack. “Word going around is to avoid Vash the Stampede. No one has a chance at the bounty since the Gung-Ho Guns are after his head.”

“That’s not news,” Hannah said.

“We already ran into two of them,” Meryl said.

“Three,” Hannah said.

“Three?” Wolfwood asked.

“Meryl and Vash were busy when I had the conversation with Samurai Jack.”

Wolfwood stopped and looked at the orange hair girl. “You dealt with Rai-Dei the Blade?”

“If Rai-Dei the Blade dresses like an ancient Japanese warrior down to carrying a sword with a sheath modified to shoot bullets, I did. He didn’t introduce himself to me while ranting about demons. But that’s okay, I know how to deal with ranting wrenchheads. And we can cross him off the list.” Her green eyes narrowed as her face hardened. “I do not let wrenchheads hurt my bros.”

“You don’t say?” He put a cigarette between his lips. “And just how extensive is your family?”

“That you should worry about? Just two.”

[heartofspells]

tell me about burn the straw house down!!!

ONE DAY, I will make progress on this one, I swear I will. I've talked about it so much and done nothing with it.

Burn the Straw House Down has been gathering dust, untouched, for roughly...ten years now, but I keep it on the list because I love the entire idea far too much to let it go. There's so much world building in it that it's a bit dizzying.

The basic premise is essentially a world where Voldemort won the war, except there's no Voldemort and the changes to the wizarding world happened roughly a century earlier. Things are pretty well set in stone. There are no more purebloods, half-bloods, Muggleborns, Squibs, or Muggles. Now they're referred to as the Pures, the Halfs, the Scum, the In-Betweens, and the Forgettables. The Pures are the royalty of the wizarding world while everyone else is expected to fall at their feet, but there's a resistance in the works, beginning to fight back against the way of the world, attempting to change things back to how they once were.

Sirius is very much himself as we mostly know him, except he doesn't know much different or that he's even really meant to look for it. He's bored, meant to be learning how to run the family, but he prefers watching life happen around him, fascinated by the Lowers and all that they do, trying to understand them. Enter Remus, the disrespectful man who caused a scene in Diagon Alley with the Black family one afternoon and has now been charged with living at Grimmauld Place and working for the family until his debt of embarrassment has been cleared. He begins to open Sirius' eyes as Sirius realizes that maybe Remus being there isn't as much of an accident as he'd once thought.

--

As if by some unknown cue, Remus asks, "Was there something you required, Master?"

Sirius tenses at the epithet and waves Remus off. "Don't call me master."

"Yes, sir," replies Remus flatly.

"Don't call me that either," Sirius fairly snaps.

Remus raises his eyebrows questioningly, but there are no other changes to his still blank expression. "And what, exactly, would you have me call you?'"

"My name," says Sirius, slightly demurer.

Remus turns away and begins to arrange the baubles on a nearby shelf. "As you wish, Sirius." His tone is mocking now, and Sirius can barely stand it. "Was there something you required of me?"

"Yes, I – " Sirius stops, no longer willing to ask his question. "I only wondered if your quarters were acceptable."

Remus stops what he's doing and turns to Sirius, his expression no longer blank but full of mocking contempt. "As though you would so readily do something if it wasn't?"

"Of course I would!" snaps Sirius as he leaps from the chair and advances on Remus.

"Oh yes, of course," scoffs Remus. "You have everything in the world, you're fucking royalty, but all you care about is that I have a decent bed to sleep in. How silly of me for not realizing." He smirks as he turns his back to Sirius.

Sirius grabs his arm and jerks him back around. "I know what you think of me, but you're wrong," he growls in the other man's face, grip tightening with every word. "I'm not like them. Why the fuck else would I ask if I didn't care? And since you seem to be so good at realizing things, let's see if you've realized this." Sirius pulls him closer, so close that their noses are almost touching. "The only reason you're here is because Mother and Father like bringing humiliation down upon others' heads. House elves tend not to understand the concept, unless it comes in the form of freedom. But I don't see that as any reason you or anyone else should be treated like anything less than the human being you are. So, are your quarters acceptable or are they not?"

Sirius studies Remus' expression, which has changed into something akin to muted surprise. So softly that Sirius would not have heard him were he not standing so close, Remus says, "Yes, my quarters are acceptable. Thank you."

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