#what if i said i have more of this that's still a wip

[orangeblossomsintheair]

HONEY YOU’RE FAMILIAR | MV33

summary : For a second, he thinks about turning around. Walking out. Pretending he never saw you, because what’s the point? It’s not like he can just waltz up to you and say, “Hey, sorry I ghosted you for no reason other than I’m emotionally constipated. Want to get a drink?”

wc : 5k

an : writing this to distract myself from my other wips? ..i would never.. 😦 also i wrote this at 12 am so let this not be a place of judgement :))

Max sometimes forgets how small Monaco is.

It’s easy to do when most of his memories of the place are a blur of fast cars and glittering parties. He spends most of his time racing through the streets during the Grand Prix or holed up in a hotel room overlooking the harbor.

When you’re constantly traveling the world, hopping between paddocks and podiums, the compactness of Monaco barely registers. It’s a speck on the map, a gilded bubble he never really bothers to think about until it’s right in his face.

But sometimes, like tonight, he’s reminded.

Monaco isn’t a city, not really.

It’s a playground. A handful of streets strung together like a necklace, choked with Lamborghinis, Rolls-Royces, and yachts so big they could be small countries. It’s a place where everyone knows everyone.

Or, at the very least, they know of everyone.

The millionaires gossip about the billionaires. The bartenders know who tips in cash and who never tips at all. Even the stray cats probably have dirt on the local royals.

It’s not just small in size. It’s tight.

Wealth wraps around this place like a noose, strangling it into exclusivity.

There are no dark corners to disappear into, no sprawling suburbs to lose yourself in.

Just a few restaurants, a few clubs, and a few streets where the same people circle each other like they’re on a carousel. If you’re here long enough, you’ll eventually run into everyone you’ve ever met.

Even the ones you’ve been trying to avoid.

Max doesn’t think about that when he walks into the bar.

He’s not in the mood for deep reflection or existential dread. He’s here because Daniel said he needed a drink, and when Daniel Ricciardo says you need a drink, you listen.

That’s how Max ends up at some overpriced lounge that smells like vodka and ambition, standing under soft, warm lighting that’s trying too hard to make the place feel classy instead of claustrophobic.

He’s nursing a beer, half-listening to Daniel tell some convoluted story about a failed date and a stolen Vespa, when he hears it.

A voice.

Your voice.

It’s the kind of thing that cuts through the noise without him even realizing why. It’s not loud or particularly distinct; it’s not like you’re screaming or making a scene. But it’s you. The way you talk, your cadence, the rise and fall of your words. It’s all so achingly familiar that it grabs him by the throat and yanks.

Max freezes. His drink doesn’t make it to his lips.

The years fall away in a blink, and suddenly, it’s like no time has passed.

He’s twenty-two again, still figuring out how to smile for cameras, while you’re draped over the back of his couch, talking absolute nonsense about whether or not the cars in Cars have insurance or not.

He doesn’t even realize he’s turned to look until he spots you.

You’re standing at the bar, laughing as you say something to the bartender. It’s loud, and Max can’t hear you properly, but he can feel you.

The way you lean casually on the counter, the tilt of your head, the way you wave your hand to punctuate whatever you’re saying. It’s so painfully, annoyingly you.

And God, you look good.

For a second, all he can do is stare. You haven’t seen him yet, thank God, because Max Verstappen does not know what the hell to do with himself right now.

You look different.

Not in a drastic way, just… grown.

Your edges are sharper, your presence more refined, like a photo that’s come into focus after years of being a little blurry. But the core of you is still the same. It’s in the way you throw your head back when you laugh, like the world isn’t slowly crumbling under the weight of climate change, billionaires, and whatever Kardashian family drama is brewing this week.

And suddenly, Max is thrown back years.

To a time when you were his person. The one he called when things went sideways, or when he won, or when he was just bored and needed someone to hear him rant about understeer.

You were his best friend.

No. The friend. The one. The only one who ever really got him. And then…Well, then he was an asshole.

He tries to tell himself that you two drifted apart.

People do that, right? It’s life. Except that’s a lie, and Max knows it. You didn’t drift; you held on like a freaking tow hook. You tried—texted him, called him, showed up to races, tried to remind him there was a world outside of 300 km/h and tire degradation.

Max doesn’t know what to do with this. With you. He’s not used to seeing ghosts in real life, and you might as well be one now.

Max debates his next move. He could just… not. Pretend he didn’t notice you. Slip out quietly, finish his drink somewhere else, and avoid whatever emotional grenade this is about to be. That would be the smart thing. The logical thing.

But Max has never been great at logic.

For a second, he thinks about turning around. Walking out. Pretending he never saw you, because what’s the point? It’s not like he can just waltz up to you and say, “Hey, sorry I ghosted you for no reason other than I’m emotionally constipated. Want to get a drink?”

But then you glance over your shoulder.

And your eyes lock.

He doesn’t have time to decide whether to stay or bolt

You see him.

And Max realizes he’s fucked.

For a split second, he thinks you might look away, maybe pretend you didn’t see him either.

He’s not sure if he’s hoping for that or dreading it. But then your face lights up, and the look you give him isn’t what he expects.

It’s warm. Familiar. Like you’re genuinely happy to see him.

His chest tightens. Max isn’t sure what he thought he’d see. Resentment, awkwardness, indifference, maybe.

But this? This disarms him completely.

You wave, and before he knows it, his feet are moving.

“Maxy,” you say as he approaches, your voice carrying that teasing lilt that could only ever be you. It knocks the breath out of him, so familiar and effortless it almost hurts. “Long time no see.”

Max freezes for the briefest of moments, the nickname hitting him like a slap and a hug all at once. Maxy. No one’s called him that in years. Not his family. Not his team. Not anyone.

No one except you.

“Yeah, uh, long time,” he manages, scratching the back of his neck in a gesture so awkwardly familiar it almost makes you laugh. He looks like he’s 17 again, shy and unsure.

Before either of you can say more, Daniel sidles up next to him, a beer in hand and an amused eyebrow raised as he glances between the two of you. “Know her?” Daniel asks, his voice dripping with curiosity.

“He does,” you reply smoothly before Max can fumble an answer. Your smirk is playful, but there’s no bite to it, just that same easy warmth Max hasn’t felt in what feels like forever. “I used to keep this one in line. Back when he was all awkward interviews and tragic haircuts.”

Daniel barks out a laugh, glancing at Max’s meticulously styled hair. “Tragic haircuts? Wait, this-” he gestures wildly at Max’s head, like it’s some architectural masterpiece “-is the improved version?”

You’re already laughing, and it’s the kind of laugh Max hasn’t heard in years.

He groans, dragging a hand over his face, though the corners of his mouth are betraying him with a faint smile. “Don’t encourage her,” he mutters to Daniel, but his tone is far too soft to have any weight.

It’s stupid how easy this feels. How natural. Max isn’t used to easy anymore.

Daniel, bless him, is soaking it all in.

“So?” he says, giving Max a teasing nudge. “Aren’t you going to introduce me, or do I have to guess?”

“I was getting there,” Max grumbles, shooting him a half-hearted glare before looking at you. For a moment, he falters. He doesn’t know what to call you. Acquaintance feels too cold. Stranger would be a lie. And friend? That feels like stepping too far into a past he’s not sure he’s ready to face.

“An old friend,” you offer, saving him effortlessly, like you always did. “And you must be the famous Daniel Ricciardo.”

Daniel grins, full of boyish charm. “Guilty as charged,” he says, tipping his beer in a mock toast. “And let me just say, I already like you. Great taste in insults.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Ricciardo,” you say, though your smirk says otherwise.

The three of you fall into an almost absurdly natural rhythm, as though you’ve all been doing this for years. Daniel’s effortless charisma bounces off your sharp wit, and Max finds himself smiling more in five minutes than he has in weeks.

Maybe months.

It’s like the weight on his shoulders has lifted, just for a moment, and he can breathe again.

You’re mid-story when he realizes he hasn’t felt this light in ages.

“So there I was,” you’re saying to Daniel, gesturing dramatically, “dragging Max out of his hotel room because he was refusing to face the world after a bad race.”

“I wasn’t refusing to face the world,” Max interjects, but there’s no real heat in his voice.

You give him a look that could level a building. “You were lying on the floor eating Haribo like it was your last meal,” you say, deadpan. “It was tragic. Genuinely tragic.”

Daniel’s cackling now, nearly spilling his beer. “Please tell me there are photos of this.”

“Sadly, no,” you reply with mock disappointment. “But the image is burned into my brain forever. It was that bad.”

Max groans, shaking his head, though the grin tugging at his lips is impossible to hide. “Why did I ever let you into my life?”

“Because no one else could handle you,” you fire back, and it’s so quick, so natural, it makes his chest ache.

Daniel takes a step back, still laughing. “You two are too much,” he says, pointing at the two of you like you’ve just performed a comedy sketch. “I’ll leave you to it. Don’t get too emotional without me, okay? I’m going to find another beer. Or maybe a Vespa to steal. Who knows?”

You watch him disappear into the crowd, still grinning. For a moment, the two of you are left standing there, and the noise of the party seems to fade just slightly.

“Daniel’s fun,” you say, breaking the silence.

“He is,” Max agrees.

When the music starts bumping up again, the two of you are faced with a whole other problem entirely.

“So, you’ve been busy!” you yell, leaning across the sticky bar top, your voice barely cutting through the bass thumping around you.

“What?” Max shouts back, leaning closer.

“I SAID, YOU’VE BEEN BUSY!”

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

“I KNOW! THAT’S WHY I’M SHOUTING!”

“WHAT?”

You throw your hands up in exasperation, but he just smirks, clearly enjoying this.

So you double down.

“DO YOU WANT ANOTHER DRINK?” you bellow, miming holding a glass.

“WHY ARE YOU YELLING ABOUT DRINKS?” he shouts back, baffled.

“BECAUSE IT’S TOO LOUD IN HERE!”

“WHAT?”

This back-and-forth nonsense goes on for an impressively ridiculous three minutes, the two of you getting progressively louder, until Max finally groans, shaking his head like he’s reached his limit.

He steps closer, leans in like he’s about to shout something else, then just presses a warm, steady hand to the small of your back. “Come on,” he says, not even bothering to raise his voice this time.

“What?” you yell, still committed to the bit.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he starts gently steering you toward the stairs, and you stumble a little, caught off guard by the unexpected physical contact.

“Where are we going?” you shout, craning your neck to look at him as you climb.

“UPSTAIRS!”

“WHY?”

“BECAUSE I VALUE MY HEARING!” he fires back, glaring at you over his shoulder.

“OH, NOW YOU CARE ABOUT YOUR HEARING?” you tease, but he ignores you, his hand still firm and insistent on your back as he guides you upstairs.

The VIP section is quieter, tucked away from the pulsating bass and the sweaty chaos of the main club floor. Max had slipped a word to a bouncer—who nodded in a way that made you roll your eyes—and now you’re here, sinking into the plush leather of a semi-circular booth with a ridiculous view of the dance floor below.

The relative silence hits you like a warm blanket. You blink, adjusting to the sudden absence of aggressive EDM, and turn to Max, who looks much too smug for your liking.

“Smuggled into VIP like I’m some sort of black-market item,” you tease. “Careful, Verstappen. This is how egos start.”

“You’re welcome,” he says dryly.

“For what?” you shoot back. “The privilege of not getting tinnitus at 27?”

“Yes,” he replies smoothly, sliding into a nearby booth like he owns the place. “You’re lucky to know me.”

“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpan. “My life has improved immeasurably since you dragged me up here. I’ll write a thank-you card.”

“Make sure it’s handwritten,” he quips, signaling a waiter for drinks. “And don’t skimp on the stationery.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, rolling your eyes but you’re smiling, and he knows it.

He chuckles, leaning forward slightly. “Hey, if you’re going to criticize, at least admit this is better than shouting at each other over terrible music.”

You glance around the room, all dark wood and dim lighting, where a few scattered people are having hushed conversations or staring down at the dance floor with an air of superiority. “Alright,” you admit, “it’s not terrible. But the crowd up here…”

You nod toward a guy at the next table wearing sunglasses, inside, and sipping champagne like it’s water. “Is this your scene now? Bottle service bros and indoor eyewear enthusiasts?”

Max glances at the guy, smirking. “Not my scene. But I figured you deserved something better than sticky floors and overpriced tequila shots.”

You laugh. “Wow. I feel so special. Nothing says friendship like a quiet room and a drink I can’t pronounce.”

“Admit it,” he says, leaning back again. “You love it.”

“I love judging it,” you correct, grinning. “Big difference.”

Max watches you for a moment, shaking his head with an almost fond expression. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“And you’ve changed too much,” you shoot back, gesturing at his ridiculously put-together outfit. “Look at you, Verstappen. Fancy haircut, custom clothes, actual social skills. Who are you?”

“First of all, the haircut is functional,” he retorts, mock offended. “Aerodynamics.”

“Oh, of course. Wouldn’t want your hair slowing you down at 300 kph,” you say, pretending to be serious.

“It’s a real thing!” he insists, laughing now. “If you knew anything about racing-”

“If I knew anything about racing?” you interrupt, your voice rising in mock outrage. “Excuse me, I was there when you had to Google how to talk to the media without sounding like a robot. You think I don’t know the intricacies of racing, Maxy?”

“Don’t call me Maxy,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face.

“Oh, I’m definitely calling you Maxy,” you say, delighted. “I might even get a custom T-shirt. ‘Maxy’s Biggest Fan.’ I’ll wear it to a race.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “If you do that, I’ll steal your phone and delete every embarrassing photo you’ve ever taken of me.”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t have backups,” you say smugly, sipping your drink.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, shaking his head, but there’s a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

For a moment, the two of you fall into an easy silence, the noise of the club below fading into the background. You glance at Max, noting the relaxed set of his shoulders, the way he’s fiddling with the label on his beer bottle—a habit he’s had for as long as you can remember.

“So,” you say, breaking the quiet, “what’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve bought since you became all… you know.”

“All what?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You know,” you say, waving a hand vaguely. “World Champion. Multi-millionaire. Guy who smuggles old friends into VIP sections.”

He chuckles. “Ridiculous? I don’t know… probably the private jet.”

You stare at him, deadpan. “The private jet is the least ridiculous thing about you, Verstappen. Try again.”

“Fine,” he says, thinking for a moment. “I bought a sauna for my house. Didn’t use it for six months.”

You burst out laughing. “A sauna? For what? Post-race existential crises?”

He groans, rubbing his temples. “It was a bad idea, okay? I thought it would be relaxing.”

“Did it come with, like, a tiny man who throws water on the rocks for you?” you ask, grinning.

“No, but now I kind of want one,” he admits, laughing.

“God, you’re the worst,” you say, shaking your head, but your tone is full of affection.

“And you’re jealous,” he fires back.

“Of your unused sauna?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, I’m absolutely consumed with envy.”

The two of you dissolve into laughter and the conversation continues.

Next thing you know it’s 3 am and you and Max are stumbling out of the club, too giggly for both of your sakes.

Daniel had hopped on to another place hours ago so it’s just you and him.

The cool night air hits you like a slap, but instead of sobering up, it just makes you giggle harder.

Max freezes mid-stumble, his head lolling back like he’s auditioning for Les Mis on the world’s worst stage. “Why’s the air so aggressive?” he slurs. “Feels like it’s… pushing me. Rude.”

“Why’s the ground so spinny?” you counter, stumbling sideways into him.

“'Cause you’re bad at walking,” he accuses, latching onto your arm like a barnacle while swaying dramatically.

“You’re bad at walking,” you fire back, immediately tripping over a shadow and nearly eating pavement.

“You can’t even walk straight!” Max protests, laughing as he catches you before you faceplant.

His arm slides around your waist, steadying you in the most unsteady way possible.

“You’re the one spinning,” you argue, slurring every other word. “Maaaybe you should ju- just stay still for once in your life.”

“Oh, because you’re the expert,” he fires back, wheezing as you nearly trip again. “Where- where are you even staying at?”

You squint at him, trying to focus. “Uh… good question.”

Max stops dead in his tracks, turning to look at you with a mix of disbelief and amusement. “What do you mean good question? How do you not know?”

“I don’t rememb- ber,” you admit, cackling as if it’s the funniest thing in the world.

Max groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re just- what? Homeless now?”

“Homeless for the night,” you correct, wagging a finger at him like that somehow makes it better.

Max laughs so hard he has to pause, doubling over slightly. “How- how do you forget where you’re staying?”

“’S not my fault!” you defend yourself, leaning heavily against him. “The hotel has, like… a name! A boring one! And too many floors!”

Max groans so loudly it echoes off the buildings. “Oh my God. You’re homeless now. You’re a wandering drunk with no home.”

“I'm trying a new lifestyle,” you say, grinning. “Like… nomadic, y’know? Spiritual.”

“Yeah, okay, Buddha, let’s find you a real place to sleep before you start befriending rats,” he mutters, dragging you down the street.

“I like rats,” you say cheerfully. “They’re just misunderstood.”

“You’re misunderstood,” Max shoots back. “Come on. You’re crashing at my hotel. I can’t leave you out here to, like, adopt a possum or something.”

“I don’t wanna!” you whine, digging your heels into the ground.

“Tough!” Max barks, throwing his arm around your shoulders to keep you moving. “You’ll thank me in the morning when you’re not spooning a garbage can.”

You groan dramatically, slumping into him. “Maxxyyy, I’m tired. Can’t I just sleep on a bench or something?”

“Nooo. No benches. Benches are gross. You’ll get, like… pigeons on you.”

“Pigeons are my friends,” you declare solemnly, as if this is a hill you’re prepared to die on.

Max shakes his head, clearly trying to stay serious but failing miserably. “Okay, Dr. Dolittle, you’re not sleeping outside.”

You groan again, dragging your feet even as he starts pulling you along.

“Stop whining,” he slurs, swaying as he tries to walk in a straight line. “It’ll be like- like a sleepover! Like when we were five.”

“Sleepovers at five were better,” you mutter. “Less… you.”

“Excuse me?” Max stops, glaring at you like you’ve mortally offended him. “I’m the best sleepover buddy. I let you steal my Haribo once.”

“You hid the Haribo under your pillow!” you counter, poking him in the chest.

“’Cause you’re a thief!” he says, grinning as he pulls you toward the street corner.

“Am not,” you huff, pouting.

“Are too,” he replies, but his tone is teasing as he hails a cab.

When the cab pulls up, it feels like the world is tilted just enough that the ground might collapse under your feet at any moment. You both tumble into the backseat in a fit of giggles, your laughter echoing off the darkened streets.

It’s the kind of laughter that’s born of a little bit too much alcohol and a whole lot of absurdity. You could’ve sworn you heard a streetlight flicker in disbelief at the sound of your shared joy.

Max flops dramatically against you as if the very act of sitting upright requires more effort than it’s worth.

His head lands squarely on your shoulder, and for a split second, you’re both tangled in the shared warmth of a really questionable decision.

He looks up at you, eyes half-lidded, and grins like a kid who just got away with stealing candy.

“You smell like tequila and poor decisions,” he mutters with a lazy drawl, his words slow but somehow still cutting through the haze of the night.

You’re already shaking your head before you even speak, the words spilling out one over the other. “You smell like someone who wore Axe in high school.”

Max’s eyes widen in mock outrage. “I did not!” He shoots up from your shoulder like you just insulted his very existence, but the motion sends him veering dangerously toward the cab door.

He catches himself at the last second, gripping the seat like it’s a lifeline.

By the time the cab pulls up to Max’s hotel, you're both deep into a discussion about whether Axe body spray could be classified as a biohazard in certain quantities.

It’s a ridiculous debate, fueled by far too much tequila and a complete disregard for logic, but it’s the most fun either of you have had in ages.

Max is practically in tears from laughing, his snort-laugh echoing off the walls of the cab as he tries to argue that Axe is, in fact, a perfectly fine product, just poorly misunderstood by society.

The cab screeches to a halt, and Max stumbles out first, holding the door open for you with the kind of exaggerated flair you’d expect from someone who probably practices his dramatic entrances in front of a mirror.

As he pays the driver, his wallet slips from his hands not once, but twice, and he’s already apologizing profusely, his face flushed from the alcohol and his own clumsiness.

Finally, he gets the wallet sorted, tucks it back in his pocket, and reaches down to drag you out of the cab like you’re a piece of luggage.

You’re both barely standing, teetering back and forth on your feet as if gravity itself is conspiring to make the night even more ridiculous.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Max says, throwing his arm out grandly to gesture toward the hotel lobby like he’s unveiling the Louvre.

The marble floors, polished to a shine, the sleek, understated furniture… none of it compares to the visual assault that is the ugly carpet underfoot.

“Your palace has really ugly carpet,” you mutter, laughing as you trip over the offending fabric, your feet not quite able to keep up with your brain’s idea of where they should go.

Max snorts, his hand steadying you as you almost face-plant into a particularly gaudy potted plant. “You’re banned from the palace,” he retorts, giving you a playful shove.

You recover, and together, you stagger toward the elevator, which, for some reason, feels like an obstacle course in itself.

The elevator doors open with a dramatic ding, and Max promptly starts jabbing the wrong floor button in a series of random, very confident moves.

Each one is a miss, but he keeps at it, as if this were somehow part of the plan.

You lean against the wall, your body shaking with laughter as you struggle to breathe through the giggles.

“This is why they don’t let you operate machinery,” you manage to gasp, watching him fumble with the buttons in disbelief.

Max grumbles under his breath but finally, miraculously, hits the correct floor button. He turns to you with an exaggerated wink. “See? I told you. Genius.”

You raise an eyebrow, patting him on the head condescendingly. “Sure you are, buddy. A true mastermind.”

The elevator ride is a blur of jokes and half-baked insults as you both fight to keep your composure.

Max leans against the wall with a smug look, clearly reveling in his victory over the elevator button.

When the doors finally open, you both stumble out, holding on to each other uselessly.

At the door to his room, Max proceeds to fumble with his key card in a way that can only be described as tragically incompetent.

The key card slips from his fingers twice, and each time, he lets out a string of expletives in a garble of Dutch and English.

“Jesus. You okay there, Einstein?” you tease, leaning casually against the wall and watching him drop the card once more. You can’t help but laugh.

“Shut up,” he mutters, his voice already tinged with frustration. “Technology’s hard.”

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the door swings open, and Max stumbles inside with the grace of a rhino on roller skates.

He turns to face you with a theatrical sigh. “There. I did it. Happy now?”

You’re already halfway to the bed, your shoes flying off in opposite directions, one ending up by the dresser and the other getting lodged under a chair.

With a dramatic thud, you collapse onto the bed, your body sinking into the soft, luxurious comfort like it was the only thing holding you together.

“This bed is softer than my hopes and dreams,” you mumble, your voice muffled by the comforter as you stretch out like a starfish.

Max, predictably, flops down beside you with the subtlety of a sack of bricks, his arms and legs sprawling out in every direction.

“Move over,” he grumbles, his face smooshed into the pillow.

“Nope,” you reply, barely lifting a finger to indicate where his side is. “Your side’s over there,” you say, pointing vaguely toward the edge of the bed, but it’s clear from the way your eyes are barely staying open that you’re not in any shape to play the “bedroom politics” game.

“Too bad,” Max grunts, grabbing your pillow from beneath your head and smushing it over his face. “This is a dictatorship, and I’m the dictator.”

“Goodnight, Haribo hoarder,” you slur, your words trailing off into nothing as sleep drags you under.

The last thing you hear before you fully fade into unconsciousness is Max’s muffled laugh, and you can’t help but smile.

For a brief moment, it feels like nothing’s changed at all.

—-

Max’s eyes snap open, and for a second, everything is blurry.

He blinks a few times, the weight of his eyelids making it feel like he’s wading through molasses.

A dull ache sits in the back of his skull, a reminder of the questionable choices he made the night before.

He groans, dry, scratchy, the kind of noise that only belongs to mornings where you regret both your life decisions and your snack choices.

He’s still in his room. So far, so good.

Nothing seems out of the ordinary... except for that persistent feeling in the air that something is off.

Max stretches, or at least tries to. His arms flail in an uncoordinated spasm, which results in a series of awkward grunts and a pop from his back that sounds like a joint trying to jump ship.

For a second, he considers staying perfectly still, hoping his body will remember how to function like a normal human.

But then—

There’s something warm beside him. Something... alive.

Max freezes, eyes snapping wide open. His breath catches in his throat as he tries to process what’s happening. The warmth next to him isn’t the soft comfort of a pillow.

It’s... a person.

A person in his bed.

What the actual hell?

His brain goes into overdrive, trying to make sense of the situation. His mind races through a thousand thoughts in a second, each one more ridiculous than the last.

Did he... did he end up getting a stranger drunk last night? Did someone break into his room to cuddle with him?

Max’s eyes dart to his left, and it hits him like a freight train.

The person is you.

You, sprawled across the bed, fast asleep, your hair tousled and your face peaceful, completely unaware of his mounting panic.

For a moment, Max just stares, brain failing to catch up.

How did this happen? His head starts swimming. His mouth goes dry. His first thought is that he’s dreaming..except, no.

This is far too real. He’s not that lucky.

“I need to call Daniel..”

[saraannereads]

WIP Elriel Fic Part 4

Thank you for your patience while I worked through so more of this fic! Quick refresh for you — Az and Elain are in love and secretly seeing each as tension brews with Beron, Koschei and the Night Court’s hidden enemies. Rhys and Feyre have been exploring all options to bolster their defenses and prevent an all-consuming war. Tamlin has still not rallied his pre-war strength and control of his court. In an effort to prevent Beron and Koschei from sacking the Spring Court and forcing the fae in that region to fight for them, Beron has proposed a treaty — Elain accepts the bond with Lucien, and Tamlin names Lucien the heir to the Spring Court. In exchange, he will ally with the Night Court against Koschei.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You’re not a pawn, Elain,” Azriel whispered, his heart breaking with every word. “You don’t have to sacrifice yourself. I won’t let you.”

“I’m not sacrificing myself,” she said quietly, her hand clutching at her chest as though to calm the ache. “And if I don’t do this, people will die. I’m trying to keep us all safe.” She stepped back, her breath unsteady. “I love you, Az. But this is what I have to do. I can’t—”

“Don’t you dare say it,” he interrupted, his voice low and raw. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, as the weight of this decision settled. “I can’t watch you do this. Not like this. Not when—”

Her tears finally broke free, streaking down her cheeks as she looked away, as if she couldn’t bear to see him like this. “I have no choice,” she whispered, barely audible.

Tagging @lunaatthezoo, @shedoessoshedoes, @tswaney17, @ydubbu, @elrielffs, @jasmineandcedar, @nikethestatue and @nikachansstuff, whose work and theories I love!

Fingers and toes crossed for an announcement!

[pepis-benis]

Swanqueen smoke sesh wip

“Here,” she said, handing Regina the glass of water. “I’ll go find you something to sleep in.”

“Emma, I can just go home.”

“Regina, you can’t drive and it’s the middle of the night, anyway.”

“I don’t have to drive, Em-ma,” Regina over-enunciated, placing the glass of water on the table. Her heart leapt back up her throat at the sound of her name in that tone. Regina wiggled her fingers. “Magic.”

“Magic yourself some pajamas and I’ll let you poof home,” Emma countered, elbowing her heart back down as Regina’s eyes closed and her nose screwed up in concentration; she was adorable. Then a sudden gasp, one that Emma would unfortunately be thinking about forever, and her eyes flew open and darted away from Emma. She was still in the same clothes. Concern flooded Emma, now worried that Regina had hurt herself somehow. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Regina assured, taking a large gulp of water in a very un-Regina-like manner. Emma watched her carefully, looking for any sign of a magical mishap. Her face was more flushed than it had been, but it could have been the magic exertion. She was breathing heavily but it was evening out quickly. Eyes were fixated on the furthest point away from her. Regina seemed physically fine, but she was… embarrassed?

“What's wrong? Couldn’t make pajamas happen?” Emma teased, trying to make light of whatever happened and pull Regina back to the fun, easy time they were having.

“No, it would seem I should take you up on both of your offers,” Regina conceded, finally meeting Emma’s eyes. Her pupils were blown, eyes rimmed red. Emma smiled at her widely.

“Don’t wanna try one more time?”

“I’m worried that if I do, I’ll accidentally disappear more than just my bra.” Regina held her gaze, head tilted slightly as if she were daring Emma to continue. Emma’s mouth went dry.

“I’ll, uh- I think I’ve got an extra shirt and sweats,” Emma said lamely, catching the edge of the table and stumbling slightly as she hurried past Regina toward the stairs. Unabashed giggles echoed behind her as she hurried upstairs, ducking into the bathroom.

[d-esmond]

; wip wednesday

wasn’t tagged and i said i was going to bed but u know what. i am nothing if not inconsistent <3

more hesham content. one childhood moment & one gabriele moment.

—

The first time I truly got angry, was right before my eleventh birthday, and Rashid told me he was moving to Port Said.

“Why?” was all I asked. And all Rashid did was shrug.

I wanted a real answer — I always do — so I nudged him with my foot. Rashid looked annoyed, but I didn’t care.

“My dad says we have to, it’s for his job.”

“What’s in Port Said?”

“Why would he tell me?”

First I got impatient. “He’s training you, isn’t he?”

Rashid rolled his eyes. “You know I can’t tell you.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Hesham, it’s none of your business, okay?”

Back then, I didn’t know, but Rashid used to have this way of behaving that he emulated from his father. Looking back, I think it was on purpose. He lifted his chin and really articulated his words, in an attempt to look and sound older than he was. I never pointed it out.

I had been nervously swing my legs back and forth from the wall we were sitting on. They became still and rigid when I tried to find the words.

I have known anger, my dad introduced me to it. He would throw plates and slam doors and yell a lot. I would have to stand there and watch, anything else made it worse. Although I didn’t throw a plate like he would, I was angry.

“You’re my friend. It is my business.”

—

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” I breathed.

“Why not? There’s nobody watching us.”

“You know that’s not—“ His left hand lightly touched my side and I shuddered. It was mortifying how easy I had lost control of my own body.

Gabriele noticed and he pulled away, still remaining inches from my face. I didn’t dare to breathe. I could distinguish every freckle on his nose and took him in as I would a rare piece of art. He tilted his head, and lifted his hand to trace his fingers over my cheek.

“That’s a face worth going to hell for,” he said slowly, followed by an incredulous laugh; the most beautiful laugh I have ever heard in my life. I laughed along with him, despite the frantic beating of my heart.

As I eagerly leaned back in, I could still feel his smile against my lips.

tag list:

@adelaidedrubman @auricfog @carlosoliveiraa @cetra @cptcassian

@confidentandgood @elvves @famewolf @florbelles @full---ofstarlight

@imogenkol @jackiesarch @johnnystorm @lavampira @leviiackrman

@loriane-elmuerto @pricemarshfield @risingsh0t @roberthouse69 @raresvtm

@shellibisshe @statichvm @thedeadthree @tommyarashikage @travellingseal

@tuseranita @unholymilf @viktorgf

[more-mara]

Here’s an old WIP of mine that I have yet to finish.

Only now did Oscar actually get a good look at the captain's face. The man who had basically ruled the seven seas for the last 8 years, the man whose name alone could send a man trembling to his knees. Oscar didn’t think he’d ever get the misfortune to meet him.

Oscar bowed his head, looking away from the scarred yet shockingly young looking face of the captain. He flexed his hand in his binds, feeling the rope start to burn and chafe against his damp skin.

“What is your name, boy?” The captain asked as Oscar raked his eyes up from the pristinely polished boots to stare at the sword hilted in the captain's belt.

Oscar bit the inside of his cheek, knowing that giving his name would probably be the last thing he ever did, no one survived a run in with Captain Sainz- it’s why no one knew for sure what he looked like. Oscar felt a little defiant, wanting to at least die with dignity.

Suddenly, a booted foot was planted against his back, Oscar fell forward with a groan as his face planted straight into the wooden floor of the ship, his hands still tied behind him.

“Answer when the captain speaks to you,” A voice said. He sounded French, maybe. Oscar struggled to place it exactly but as he turned his head to look at the man, he had an amused glint in his eye- as if he was enjoying Oscar’s guts for defiance.

“Oscar,” He grunted, gaze fixed on the man behind him- decidedly not at the captain. The man’s face lit up. Yeah, he was definitely enjoying this.

“Oscar? Not a very nobel name,” The man said with a smirk.

“I am not a nobel,” Oscar said, straining in his confines. The man behind him seemed to take pity, removing his foot from Oscar’s back to haul him back onto his knees. Oscar was faced with the captain once more, whose face was deep in a frown.

“What are you, then? You don’t look like you can fight,” The captain said, his eyes raking across Oscar’s figure, taking in the tattered clothing and overall dishevelled appearance.

Oscar bit his bottom lip, eyes meeting the captain’s once more. He tried not to let his voice shake as he spoke.

“Women are prohibited on our ships by the articles, sir, bad luck, you see?” Oscar said, looking almost a little desperately at the captain- praying he knew what he meant without having to explain.

“Are you seriously explaining pirate code to me?” The captain asked. He looked completely unimpressed and almost angered. Oscar winced a little, straightening his back.

“The men- they need…they are still men, and men have needs…”

The wave of silence crashed over them quicker than the ripples on the ocean. Oscar could see the tension in the captain's face and he heard a small gasp coming from his left- another of captain Sainzs crew.

“If I spare your life, will you be useful to me?” The captain asked, his gaze narrow and steely. Oscar swallowed thickly- he had done this ‘job’ for years now, a different crew would be no different. He knew how to please- how to be of worth.

“Whatever you ask, I will do, sir” Oscar said and he hated how his voice shook. When his previous ship was attacked, he thought he was saved. They flew the flag of the navy and Oscar felt his heart lurch in his chest when he spotted it. Freedom, at last, after 6 gruelling years. But no, it appears Captain Sainz had flown the flag of the monarchy as a ruse to capture their cargo. And it worked, with Oscar being captured along the way.

“You will help the men clean their weapons, you can start tomorrow morning,” The Captain said, and Oscar felt himself frowning.

“I thought-“

“You said you will do whatever I ask, correct?”

Oscar nodded.

“Well, this is what I am asking. Charles, keep him straight,” The Captain said, nodding to the man behind him. So Charles was his name, good to know, Oscar supposed. Charles gave him a smug grin before unsheathing his sword, cutting away Oscar’s binds with swift accuracy.

“Welcome aboard, matey,”

[shivunin]

WIP Wednesday

Right under the wire! Thanks for the tag @heniareth!

It is statistically unlikely to still be Wednesday for most of you, but tagging back @dreadfutures @dungeons-and-dragon-age @elfroot-and-laurels @pinayelf @inquisimer in case you have anything you want to share (no pressure, as always!)

Here's a bit from a WIP set immediately after the not-a-kiss scene with Lucanis, ft. Lenore being Totally Normal:

(Lucanis/Rook Ingellvar |486 words | vague romance progression spoilers)

Shouldn’t be watching him like this. It’d been days since they’d almost kissed. She’d been strong. Focused. Had kept things aboveboard and friendly, no matter how much she wanted to ask him… What? What could she say, really? How’s your head feeling these days? Pretty clear? No, that was silly. There was too much else to be worrying about to worry about whatever was between—whatever she’d imagined was between them.  “Well, I did remember it was Lace’s turn to cook,” she told him, focusing on the cutting board with far more attention than was warranted, “and Davrin may have mentioned something about an alarming amount of cheese earlier…” “It was for a cheese soup, I believe,” Lucanis agreed, and his hands moved in her periphery. Taking another sip of coffee, presumably. She suspected it was a proportionately significant component of his blood content at this point. She wasn’t going to watch the way his lips moved when he pressed them to the rim of the cup. 

“You can’t be serious,” she said, though she knew he was. Lace had been most of the way through grating a block of cheese when Rook had walked in.  “You don’t think she would?”  Rook laughed at that, settled the lid on the pot, and turned away again. There was half a block of grated cheese to do something with now—a troubling thought, since none of the rest of them were Fereldan and thus did not share the scout’s love of cheese.  “Well, in any case,” she went on. “The letter came in earlier. I may have waited until she’d started cooking to let her know.” “Devious.” “You wouldn’t be the first to say so.” She tapped her hips, surveying the available ingredients before selecting a likely-looking loaf of bread. Lucanis shifted in her periphery. Despite herself, she looked at him. He’d pressed a hand to his head, forefinger and thumb pinching the bridge of his nose. “Spite?” she asked, and he nodded. “He want to say anything in particular or is he just hungry, too?”  The muscle in his jaw twitched. Slowly, deliberately, he set his mug on the table beside him.  “It is nothing worth sharing. I will make more coffee. Would you like some?”  What could she say? Pity would shame him and sympathy was hardly better. She sometimes wished she had Emmrich’s talent for hearing spirits. Perhaps if she could address both of them at once…but no. Maybe letting him do something for her would help.  “If you’re making it.” “Sweet, with cream,” he said.  The soft sounds of metal and glass to her left told her he’d already begun. Could he see her smiling? Surely not. She’d turned her head enough that she wouldn’t be caught.  “You remembered.” “How could I forget?” he said.  She laughed. He didn’t, but distracted as she was by the absence of the bread knife Rook hardly noticed.

[andthekitchensinkao3]

Thanks for the tag @elodiah :3 Next week I'll have a Lokius WiP snippet, I promise. Or, ooh, even for this Sunday's SSS. Stay tuned!

In the meantime, I'm still with the Veilguard canon-divergent epic brainrot that is, or will be, Stories Told and Forgotten.

In chapter 7, we follow Emmrich's POV through a hellscape - fighting a blighted dragon and darkspawn towards the end of Act 1, when that sort of thing's usually reserved for professionals, at the end of a DA game. And Emmrich, the gentleman necromancer, will have to face his biggest fear. Dying.

The floating city was on fire. The thought itself, the very concept, failed to make any sense: Minrathous, most powerful city of the north, populated by more mages per capita than any other nation in all of Thedas - on fire.

As they rushed through the streets, fighting off Venatori cultists shouting about the glory of Tevinter, all Emmrich could see was blatant misery. Entire residential areas crumbling under the onslaught of the dragon, and the fire, spreading from wherever the dragon saw fit to spew its fiery misery onto the proud city. Say what you will of Minrathous’ politics, but politics couldn’t lose their homes to a monster on blighted wings.

They worked their way ever downward, to the last known location of the dragon. It was easy enough: just follow its path of destruction. Neve led the charge for Rook, Bellara and Emmrich, while Harding, Davrin and Assan, and Lucanis made their way from the other way around, hoping to hit the beast from two vantage points instead of one.

Past Dumat Plaza, onwards to the Andoralis grounds - there came a clamoring unlike anything Emmrich had ever heard, even in his worst nightmares. A thousand voices, roaring into the Tevene night sky. No. Snarling.

“Darkspawn ahead!” Rook called out, whipping his head around to meet their eyes - “Emmrich, raise the dead, and raise Hell while you’re at it! Bellara, hit them with everything you’ve got, arrows or temporal magic, everything! Neve?”

“I’ll freeze the bastards solid. I’ll send the dragon into its own, personal ice age if I have to.”

Rook nodded. “Our primary focus is taking down that dragon, and every darkspawn down there. Fight smart, not fast. We don’t want to get infected, so keep your distance and attack from afar. You see someone hurting, don’t hesitate to act backup, but be safe.”

Emmrich’s pulse throbbed against his collar, which felt so tight he could barely swallow down the taste of bile. Bellara readied two of her arrows, as grim as their objective. Rook’s eyes went to him, and Emmrich could only hope he looked calmer than he felt.

“I’ll raise a small army, Rook. The darkspawn won’t know what hit them,” he said, already calculating mana pool versus sustaining animation by the dozens-or-hundreds. Fight smart, not fast was possibly the cleverest thing he’d heard since they left for Minrathous. There would be no point to hitting the dragon with everything they had, only to be dragged off by the darkspawn… possibly to be eaten alive.

Rook’s jaw settled into a line so firm it looked painful. “I’ll draw the dragon’s attention. Solas said Ghilan’nain and Elgar’nan want the dagger. If that’s the case, they’d better come and get it.”

Emmrich’s heart all but sank to his stomach like a block of ice. “Rook--”

But Rook merely smiled, and showed the palm of his hand. “I can run faster than a panicked nug. And I’ll hit them hard. If we all do our part, we can do this.”

---

TAGS In no specific order: @redheadsramblings @starfleetteddybear @mercars-musings @starrose17 @holyglassbone @genocidalfetus @wolfpup026 @lokimobius

@ghoulehhh @natendo-art @in-my-loki-feels @kusakichan15

@devilbearingtrouble @impulsemuppet @mirilyawrites @scifikimmi @silentxsymphony

@rin-love-is-green @confetti39x @stillwanderingflame

@insert-witty-user-name-here @blackbirdofasgard @dreamycloud @distracteddream

@mobius-m-mobius @dilfmobius @adorbspotat @lgwilt

And, as alwyas, if I forgot to tag you, please consider yourself tagged!

[vampirejohn]

And if I want snippets from all 3 WIPs?????

spike ily quite literally anything for you

and i still call home is the big bang sized preseries deanjohn fic nobody asked for. dean gets john to let him and sam stay in town while sam finishes school (and dean gets to play housewife!!). he doesn't exactly mention it's so sam can go to college, which ofc ends well (i'm lying 😈)

He rolled on his side and spread a nervous hand over John’s waist, and then moved down to feel the hard, thick length of him through his jeans. He had to bite back a groan, his own cock twitching valiantly at the thought of getting to see it, really see it, not just in casual passing the way you did when you lived with someone your whole life. But then John took his wrist, pushed him off. “It’s okay,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m good like this.” “But—” Bemused, Dean shifted sort of awkwardly. “It just… doesn’t seem all that fair to you.” John’s eyes narrowed, the line of his mouth going flat and mean. “Why don’t you let me worry about what’s fair to me?” Dean rolled onto his back again so he didn’t have to look at him, hot behind his ears. Maybe this was new for John—and that was admirable, really—but Dean didn’t remember a time when it wasn’t like this for him. The wanting was born somewhere between tucking him in and holding his hands steady around pistols and pool cues and watch out for Sammy, between dental floss stitches in motel bathrooms and it was never supposed to be like this and it’s okay, Dad and you really want to talk about Sam right now? Dean had been capable of this during all of it.

deanjohn dv screening ✨

“You know we’ve been here a couple of hours already, right? Costs an arm and a leg to park here, too.” “There’s a bit of a wait for the X-ray machine, unfortunately. We’re a smaller hospital.” The nurse was still pulling and turning Dean’s wrist, like there was some threshold of pain she had to put him in before she was allowed to give him some goddamned painkillers. “I promise we’ll get him in as soon as we can.” She raised her eyes to Dean’s for a moment, and he took the opportunity to give her an apologetic smile, the one reserved for civilians caught up in John’s wrath. She didn’t return it, mouth turning down into a frown for just a split second. Finally, she let Dean go, turning her attention on John. “Sir, would you mind stepping out for just one second? There’s a few more diagnostics we’d like to run on Dean.” John’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally, only noticeable if you knew to look for it. “I’m good here,” he said, planting his feet more firmly. Dean rolled his eyes. “It’s fine. Do whatever you have to do.” She studied Dean for a moment, and then nodded decisively. “Alright. Give me a few moments.” She wasn’t out of the room two seconds before John said, “The hell was that about?” Dean was busy trying to find a comfortable position to lay his wrist in his lap. “They think you’re beating me,” he snapped. He watched John’s face turn to stone. “And why the hell would they think that?” “Because you’re being an asshole.” Dean stopped to hiss as a twinge of shocky pain shot up his arm. “Look. If they try to get me alone again, just play along, alright? So we can get off their radar.”

deanjohn abo au is my s1 au deanjohn/samdean double feature, where sam figures out that dean let john claim him and goes absolutely bonkers over it

“You’re fucking deranged. You think you're defending my honor or something? Because I got news for you—ever since you found out, you’ve been stomping around, whining like a jealous bitch. Spineless too, like pretending this is about Dad makes it okay. There something you want from me, Sam? Speak up.” Sam didn’t, only pressed his arm harder across Dean’s throat when he tried to move again. Dean’s mouth curled into a nasty grin. “It’s driving you crazy, isn’t it? Thinking about him on top of me. His knot inside me. D’you think about me begging for it? ‘Cause I do, Sammy, I beg him to shove it so deep I can’t fucking breathe, to put me on my knees and fucking knock me up. Just curious—would you prefer a little brother or a sister?” “You don’t have to convince me you’re a fucking whore, Dean.” The last thing Dean remembered before the world tilted and went black was rearing back and spitting in Sam’s face.

[ladylucksrogue]

I was going to wait til Monday to post a bit of this, you know for mental health Monday but I decided to roll with it now.

I don’t post a lot of real life things here because this tends to be my little fandom safe space where I love posting my fandom messiness and thirsting over clones and posting my fanfic.  But I have noticed a lot of peeps that I interact with are going through a rough patch.  Post Holiday blues, January blues…something.  It’s rough out there, especially in the real world.

Went through a bit of a slump myself.  Prior to the holidays, I did up my writing plan for all my WIPs.  It was very…ambitious for lack of a better word.  Like damn, I know I can write a lot in a session but we’re talking like a fic a day and that…just hasn’t happened.  So, when I missed a couple days of writing, I was hard on myself.  I hold myself to impossible standards sometimes and forget to give myself space.  

I was pretty hungover on January 1st, the wine got to me a bit more than usual and I just wasn’t feeling writing at all, though I did push myself to write a few words.  I was able to post my New Years story a couple days later but I remember posting and thinking this is shit.  This isn’t your usual, though it’s not terrible in retrospect.  I just…it got to me.  So instead of following my crazy plan I focused on some drabbles and doing Whumpuary, which is thankfully every other day, so it gives me a bit of space.  I have been working on my next installment of my fix-it, which the first scene is light hearted and it’s been fun but slow going.

Had a bit of an epiphany a couple days ago, because of a comment someone said.  And it sent me into a bit of a tail spin.  An angry tailspin that my hubby had to catch the brunt of.  He is fabulous though and just rolls with it, lets me rant and knows that I’ll feel better for it.  Someone in our extended friends group cracked a joke about me not working yet and how I’m just enjoying sitting around at home.  It was meant to be light hearted but it hit wrong on so many levels.

I lost my job last year due to a company restructuring.  It was sudden and I was really angry at the circumstances of it.  And more importantly, because it was the second job I had lost in two years to no fault of my own.  But I still gave myself the fault in all of it.  There was a time where I really struggled to hold down a job for a variety of reasons after I got out of the military, and every time something like this happens, it digs up a bunch of stuff from then…

But the fact of the matter is, since losing my job a lot has happened healthwise and I am actually on disability.  As of right now, I can’t work.  It’s something that has been a long time coming and the timing just happened to work out.  At the same time, people who know react one of two ways, oh but you’re fine, you don’t look sick, why can’t you work, or they start on some BS about must be nice, etc.  I won’t even start on the whole who is deserving and mooching off the government stuff, because I will just make myself upset.

It isn’t nice.  For someone who has worked all their life, I would much rather go to work every day than sit at home.  Weird but true.  And I feel doubt and second guess this and wonder if I can go to work and all this is just me being weak, etc.

Comments like that from people don’t help at all.  And then it happened, the moment of clarity…because usually I’m fine on most days.  And then I was working on a scene, got up to make myself some coffee and I had a moment.  There was a sound in my apartment, no clue what it was, but it set something off in my head and for a good moment, I had this really disorienting moment of not really knowing where I was, like half in a memory and half in the present and trying to sort it.  It’s happened before.  I have PTSD, an autoimmune condition, and a whole list of things, so the amount of times something has gone wrong suddenly is long.  But I’m standing there at my kettle like nearly going into a panic attack and managed to calm myself down and sort what happened.  Had this happened at work, I would have had to go sit somewhere for a bit, wasting work time to pull myself out of it and then pretend to be productive for the rest of the day.  Because, in the immediate aftermath of this, after I calmed down, I was dizzy and exhausted and just done.  No energy left.

And the fact that I was home allowed me to go take a nap for a couple hours and reset so to speak, which is probably the best and most effective way I have found in dealing with a PTSD attack.  It works for me personally better than any med they have given me.  Can’t do that working.  Not to mention, if someone is next to you when stuff like this happens, most people are not willing to understand.  You are immediately judged and ostracized (in my experience) because you do not fit into society’s mold.  

But after all this, it made me realize that I need to give myself a bit of grace.  To allow myself moments to feel bad.  To focus on myself and be accepting.  I think it is a big part of self-care we all forget.  Like even people that don’t have medical conditions or diagnoses need to remember.  We all cannot be perfect and productive always.  Sometimes we need a break.  We need to allow ourselves that.

Especially during this time of year, when stress is high and people are frustrated.  We just all need to give ourselves a pat on the back, take things a day at a time and practice a little acceptance.  Like if we finish that chapter or art or whatever in a day, that is fantastic.  On other days we might not do much of anything, and that is ok too.

This is in no way a message saying I am taking a break btw, so no worries! To those who follow my writing, I am here and writing, just on my own time. So at times, I'll probably post a bunch at once and other times, it'll be a bit slow going. Also, keep asks and interactions coming, absolutely keeps me sane and happy to keep interacting!

[morningstargirl666]

Rules: you will be given a word. Then you share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that starts with each letter of your word!

I was tagged by the lovely @galvanizedfriend The word was 🐺CLAWS🐺

My excerpts are mostly long, okay, and it's because the TBBW rewrite is HUGE. These don't even scratch the surface of it lmao---they're still snippets. (Also I've lost track of what i have and haven't shared at this point, so russian roulette it is I guess?)

C.

Caroline knew Sam was dangerous.

He wasn’t like Klaus or Damon, or any of the other Original vampires; he hid it well, behind kind smiles and carefree laughter that she couldn’t help but see herself in. But that sharp, dangerous edge was always there, taunting anyone who dared dig a little deeper. There was the fact he was a hybrid of course, his bite toxic to any vampire unfortunate to cross it. But it was more than that—there was a Klaus-like familiarity to anytime she glimpsed his rage, burning behind his eyes with the force of a thousand suns, simmering just below the surface. It was like staring up at a sky full of dark, thunderous clouds approaching on the horizon and smelling the spark of ozone in the air; feeling the ache in your joints and knowing without reason or logic that—beyond a doubt—a storm was brewing.

So, Caroline knew. But there was a reason they said seeing was believing. And when she saw his gaze latch onto Elena’s bloody neck, eyes bleeding wolf gold, she felt the full force of her terror.

“ELENA, RUN!” Stefan roared, pushing Elena behind him, just before Sam lunged forward, lip pulled back in a savage snarl.

Stefan rose to meet him, and the two collided, Stefan barely bracing his arm against Sam’s neck in time to stop his fangs from descending on his neck. The two crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs, claws and fangs bared, Sam blurring with the speed he lurched for Elena again, only stopped by Stefan’s arms wrapped around his middle, yanking him back a hair’s breadth from Elena’s face. Caroline grabbed her friend’s arm and pulled her to her feet, pushing her towards the door as the two forces wrestled on the floor, Tyler immediately leaping to Stefan’s aid to hold Sam back.

“Elena, go!” she yelled, shoving her again towards the door when Elena planted her feet, refusing to move.

“But Stefan—”

“RUN!” Caroline roared, her panic snapping her resolve. There was a crash behind her, and she turned, just in time to see Sam hurl Tyler across the room, into the coffee table that smashed under the weight of the impact, the cracking sound of wood splintering piercing the air. Then Sam whirled on Stefan still on the floor, slashing his claws across the vampire’s face and making him roll back. As Stefan cried out, shielding his face with his arm, Sam pounced forward, fangs poised to sink his teeth into the vampire’s skin.

Caroline’s eyes widened with horror.

“STEFAN!”

In a blur, Elijah was suddenly there, throwing Sam off Stefan by the nape of his neck, fingers curled around his collar. Sam snarled, a fierce growl rumbling out of his throat, lashing out and struggling against Elijah’s hold but the Original vampire was strong, stronger than Sam, quickly manoeuvring the hybrid into a chokehold from behind, arm pressed against his windpipe. He even managed to brace his hands against Sam’s head, poised to snap his neck. But in that moment, Elijah made one grave miscalculation: he may have been stronger, but Sam was hungrier.

Driven feral from the bloodlust, he struggled wildly against Elijah’s hold and sank his fangs into the man’s hand. 

Elijah screamed.

Not giving him enough chance to recover, Sam jerked his elbow back into Elijah’s nose and flashed out of his hold and spun, slamming into Elijah and lunging for his neck. His fangs sank into the Original’s jugular with such savage force it brought the man to his knees, ravaging his skin and tearing apart his throat. Within the span of a few seconds, he had grabbed Elijah’s head and yanked his neck to the side, breaking it with a resounding CRACK before the man could even react. His limp body dropped to the floor, hitting the lavishly decorated rug with a thud, head at an awkward angle and vacant eyes staring towards them, the ravaged skin of his neck a mutilated mess from Sam’s venom-laced bite.

Somewhere to the left, Caroline heard Rebekah's heartbroken wail, but she couldn't move. Couldn’t speak. As they all looked on in horror, Sam stilled over Elijah’s body, straightening his spine and standing tall. He tilted his head in that distinctly canine-like way and sniffed the air, chasing a scent. And then he was slowly turning around, golden eyes landing on Jeremy a few feet away, still standing with Matt. Elijah’s blood was still smeared all over his face, dripping down his chin, and when his black, yellow-rimmed eyes landed on the humans, his lips pulled back over his bloody double fangs. There was no trace of Sam in the animal’s eyes; only the wolf within.

Jeremy took a frightened step backwards and that was all it took for the prey drive to kick in.

“NO! JEREMY!” Elena screamed as Sam pounced, claws extended, and Caroline couldn’t stop her running to her brother, couldn’t save Jeremy, he was too fucking far away—

—And then Kol crashed into Sam’s side, sending them both to the floor.

[TBBW Rewrite, Chapter 39]

L.

“Love is a vampire’s greatest weakness,” he ground out, calling after him before he could disappear, determined to get in the last word.

Sam stopped in his tracks, slightly turning his head back towards Klaus. Then he smiled, and with one sentence, shattered a belief Klaus had closely courted for centuries. 

“Good thing you’re not a vampire then, isn’t it?”

And with that parting remark, Sam turned and left the room, leaving Klaus wide-eyed, forced to contemplate over what he had said. In the dancing flames of the hearth, the sketches Klaus had thrown into the fire continued to burn, flames licking at their edges and crawling across the lines of charcoal and pencil, leaving nothing but ash behind. He looked down at the last sketch of Caroline he’d drawn: the first moment she stepped into his studio, eyes wide with awe as she craned her head to look up at the paintings hung around on the walls. Fingers reverently skimming over her face, he gently tugged the paper from the pad but didn’t throw it into the flames like the others, placing his sketchbook aside on the mantel almost with half a mind. Then, careful not to damage the soft lines of Caroline’s features, he folded the sketch tentatively in two and slipped it into his back pocket.

He told himself he would burn it later. He didn’t.

[TBBW Rewrite, Chapter 21]

A.

As he had done a thousand times, Klaus snuck past the soldiers guarding Aurora’s chambers, using the empty servants’ corridors to gain entry after Aurora’s handmaiden had been dismissed for the night. He didn’t bother knocking in his haste, barging into the chambers with little foresight.

Aurora leapt to her feet beside her dresser, whirling around and gasping in fright. Only when she recognised him did she relax, pulling nervously at the edges of her night garments. 

“Nik?” she breathed in surprise, eyes darting to the doors of her chambers, where soldiers were no doubt stationed outside. “What are you doing, the guards will hear you—”

Klaus didn’t stop as he strode across the room towards her.

“Word’s been sent to Elijah that Mikael was spotted across the border. He’s coming.” He grasped her shoulders, leaning down to kiss her brow, before jumping into action again, moving towards her wardrobe. “We have to leave. Tonight.”

Aurora blinked, struggling to follow. “What?”

Klaus began to pull out her favourite dresses and attire, dumping the clothing into a pile on top of her bed, pointing to her books set aside and other treasured items, like her mother’s jewelled comb, as he did so. “Grab whatever you need, if we have a headstart we might have a chance—”

Aurora watched him, eyes darting back and forth as Klaus flashed around the room, collecting her things. Her eyes grew panicked and she shook her head, voice rising as she spoke. “Nik, I don’t understand—”

Noticing her panic, Klaus stopped in the middle of the room, expression softening when his eyes landed on her. Abandoning his mad dash to gather her belongings, he strode over to her, slowing to a gentle stop in front of her. 

“Aurora,” he began, picking up her hands with his own and offering a soft smile that hid his nerves. “Run away with me.” When her mouth parted in surprise, he squeezed her hands tighter, rushing to explain. “You’re always talking about how you wish to see the world—I can show it to you. Let me show it to you.”

Overwhelmed, Aurora struggled to speak. “Nik—I—”

“I love you,” he declared, leaning down to catch her eye. “These last few months I have been reminded of what it is like to live, not just survive. You reminded me.” The smile cut across his cheeks, wider than ever, dimples and all. He ducked down and kissed her knuckles. “Please,” he continued when she still didn’t answer, eyes wide, fixed on his face. “Come with me.”

“Run away with you? Leave my brother? My home?” Aurora asked aloud, her voice shaking. “Tristan—”

Klaus shook his head, grasping her hands tighter, imploring her to listen to him. “Tristan does not love you. He loves the idea of you he has created for himself, the fragile little bird he keeps in a golden cage. The world is bigger than this castle. Let me show you.”

He smiled again, tentative around the edges.

She only looked up at him with a look he couldn’t begin to read.

“How? As we hide? Fleeing your brute of a father? Always on the run, living like dogs?” she demanded. She wrenched her hands from his and scoffed, taking a step back from him, the laugh cruel. “I think not.”

Despite his intention to keep the hurt from his expression, the pain of her rejection was written all over his face. 

“Your… Your brother has turned you from me,” he said, trying to rationalise her actions. Tristan had become more paranoid as of late, ever since he was turned, tightening his hold on Aurora as a result. Almost as if, everything he was before when he was human, had been heightened.

“No,” she immediately refuted, shaking her head. “I turn from you because I do not love you.” 

Klaus froze, as did she, realising what she had just said. Her expression flickered, eyes growing distant as she struggled to comprehend her own emotions, her voice growing more confident with each word. 

“I—I thought I did. But it’s as if I see you clearly for the first time and I–I—” Her gaze shot to his, finally, and seeing the disgust in her eyes, Klaus wished she had never looked at him at all. “I find you a cruel, wretched thing, pathetic, really. And unworthy of anyone’s love, let alone mine.”

He swallowed around the ball building in his throat, voice coming out as little more than a croak. His hands, bereft without hers to hold, fell to his sides. “You don’t mean that.”

“You say you are not a monster, yet you killed your own mother. Because why? She did not love you like she loved your siblings?”

Hurt twisted into rage in an instant and his glare seared into her skin. “That is not the reason I killed her, and you know it,” he ground out.

“How?” she scoffed, the sound slightly hysterical as she stared at him like she didn’t even recognise the man before her. “How could I know such a thing? How do I know anything you have told me is true when you lie to your own siblings? Your own family?” Her face hardened, posture straightening with purpose. “I wonder what they would say if they knew Mikael’s rage was justified.”

Suddenly all Klaus could hear was his heart pounding in his ears. “You swore to never speak of what I did.”

“I owe you nothing,” she sneered. “We are not alike. And I could never love you.”

Every word hit him like a physical blow and Klaus felt something inside him shatter, his entire expression splintering apart.

“Aurora, please—”

He stepped forward, reaching for her, wanting to fix this, to tell her it wasn’t true, that she was just scared, that he would protect her from Mikael, from Tristan, because he loved her and she loved—

“Do not touch me,” she hissed, jerking away from his hand, stepping backwards as she grasped her own arms in a white-knuckled grip. He froze, eyes wide and broken. She refused to look at him.

“Go,” she ordered. When he didn’t move, she raised her voice, screeching the words out. “GO! GET OUT!”

She shoved him away and he stumbled backwards, blinking back to life. He ducked when she threw an empty chalice at him, growing increasingly frenzied in her attempts to get him out. It was only then he finally recognised the look in her eyes— Fear.

She was afraid of him.

“GET OUT!”

His heart in his throat, Klaus backed away, escaping out the room the same way he’d arrived as he dodged the projectiles she threw his way. Her screeched cries followed him and in his haste to get away, he didn’t check the corridor was clear when he emerged out of the passageway and into the light. 

“HEY! You there! Halt!” a guard called out, followed by the loud, clattering steps of armoured footsteps. There was the hiss of blades being drawn and Klaus stopped in his tracks. “Identify yourself!”

At his sides, his hands curled into balled up fists.

“That’s Lord Niklaus,” another voice whispered—another guard. He sounded young.

There was a pause, before the first one spoke again, his voice more respectful but no less suspicious. “What business do you have in this wing of the castle, m’lord?”

Unbeknownst to the men, black veins crawled across Klaus’ cheeks as his eyes bled red, flickering to life. 

“Lady Aurora’s chambers are not far. You don’t think—”

The boy had not yet finished his train of thought before Klaus whirled around, grabbing his sword arm and ripping the limb right from his shoulder. He screamed, blood spurting everywhere. Klaus had already moved onto the other guard as the younger one staggered back, swatting away his sword to grab the man’s neck, shoving him into the wall and grabbing his head, fingers clenching around his helmet. It dented under his supernatural grip and the guard screamed as his skull was caved in, deep throated wails of it, before it suddenly stopped, the man’s gaze turning unseeing as he took his last breath, a resounding crack echoing through the corridor as the helmet pierced the skull, right to the brain. Klaus let him fall, body landing a mangled heap on the floor. Blood dripped from under the helmet and down his brow, a steady stream of red staining the frenchman’s skin.

The helmet itself glinted in the candlelight and Klaus could see his own face staring up at him from the reflection in the golden metal. There was blood on his face, wet specs of it sprayed all over his skin like a macabre painting of freckled watercolour.

“We are not alike. And I could never love you.”

He didn’t wipe it away.

[TBBW Rewrite, Chapter 5]

W.

“What do you want this time, daywalker?” the man spat, lip curling over elaborate blue-toned tattoos that covered half of his face, firelight bouncing off one side of his completely shaven scalp. 

“I want information,” Klaus declared with a bright smile, as if he was offering the noblest of deeds to a dear friend. He pulled his leather coin bag from his belt, shaking it at eye level, the golden coins clinking noisily within. “I’m willing to pay you handsomely for it and then, you will never see hair nor hide from me and my family ever again.” 

The witch eyed him suspiciously, glancing between his grin and the bag of coins. After a long, deliberating moment, the witch opened the door wider and reached for the payment. Klaus moved the bag out of reach, expression flatlining into something dangerous. 

“... Unless, of course,” he warned, “You are foolish enough to ever side with my enemies in the near future.”

The witch glared at him, meeting the Original’s challenge with bravery and reaching over the threshold, away from safety, to grab the bag of coins.

“I have no intention to quarrel with the likes of you,” he said, snatching the payment out of Klaus’ hand. “What is it you wish to know?” he asked, eyeing Klaus one more time before turning around.

Klaus moved to follow but stopped, unable to, magic keeping him out without an invite into the home. Mouth curled into a sneer, Klaus raised his gaze from the infuriating doorway to the witch inside, who was walking back to his work table where the carcasses of several animals sat. He grabbed a huge meat cleaver where it hung off a hook attached to the rafters, carrying it over to the table and continuing his work, beginning to gut a brown, pink-nosed weasel.

The smell of blood wafted into the air as flesh was sliced apart and Klaus turned his head away, not squeamish by a long shot but definitely hungry, staring instead at the numerous dried out herbs and charmed objects hanging from the ceiling, the air thick with magic. Along the shelves, ceramic jars stood in stacked rows, packed with all sorts of things; frogs legs and pigs hearts, moonstones and mandrake roots, even hare’s eyes—they stared back at him, magically blinking, very much somehow alive, watching his every movement with unnerving intensity. 

“You are familiar with the wolves in this area, are you not?” Klaus asked, trying to ignore the shiver that crawled up his spine.

He remembered the hut his mother used for spells and blessings throughout his childhood, the heavy atmosphere of magic that thickened the air like an ever-present fog and the uneasiness it gave him whenever he stepped inside. Kol and Finn always loved it, said it felt like mother was embracing them. For Klaus, it was suffocating.

“I was,” the witch drawled, glancing up at Klaus as he pulled out the weasel’s intestines, “Before your family slaughtered what was left of them.”

“What was left of them,” Klaus echoed. His eyes narrowed. “Such a specific choice of words.”

Once Klaus and Kol had reunited with their siblings the morning after the wolf pack’s attack, they had sought those responsible. Unprotected by the might of the full moon, the wolves that had not perished under The Black Wolf’s claws met a terrible end, bled dry by his family’s fangs. But how would the witch know about the Black Wolf that had interfered, even when his family did not?

“Ask your question, demon,” the witch said with a sigh, impatient, wanting him to get to the point.

“A black wolf, larger than your average werewolf. Powerful, too,” Klaus described, intently watching the witch for his reaction. “What do you know of it?”

The witch paused. Calmly, he set his cleaver down, discarding the weasel’s pelt and throwing it onto a pile on the floor, wiping his bloody hands in the fabric of his apron. His eyes found Klaus, a grimace on his face.

“The Dolpha pack that rules the northern territories… they call him der Schatten.”

“The Shadow,” Klaus breathed, translating the name.

The witch nodded, hesitantly continuing his story. “He is a ghost, a story wolf-folk tell their children at night before they sleep. A protector that stalks the land, searching for the prince that was taken by der Zerstörer. They say he walks in his shadow, hunting him forevermore.”

“Der Zerstörer?” Klaus repeated, stumbling over the unfamiliar word, the language of the Franks far more familiar to him than his Germanic.

“The Destroyer.”

Klaus felt himself freeze; felt as his muscles tensed at the mere utterance of the feared moniker Mikael had begun to answer to.

“And what is this… ghost?” Klaus asked, teeth gritted as he forced the question out. At his sides, his hands clenched around the wood of the doorframe. “What gives him power?”

“You say his pelt was black, yes? And powerful, very powerful?”

“Yes.”

“My guess is he is a Bloodborne,” the witch said with a shrug, grabbing the organs of the weasel he had just gutted and throwing them into a huge cauldron that bubbled and boiled over the fire-fueled stove. “They are a powerful breed of werewolf, descended from the oldest bloodlines of their kind. At the turn of a blood moon, their power is… unmatched.”

Klaus remembered how Mikael used to cower during the nights of the blood moon when he was but a child, refusing to allow any member of their clan to leave the caves even when the moon had waned and the sun had set twice more. Superstition, he had believed it to be then. Now, more aware of magical practices and the power of celestial events, he knew the true monsters to fear on such a night were the witches, not the werewolves.

But perhaps he was wrong.

“One Bloodborne pack was well-known in the Scandinavian regions for their pelts, black as the night, made of the thickest shadows,” the witch continued, providing Klaus with more food for thought. “They inspired many myths of the great Fenrir in the times of Old, no doubt, before the Great Purge came. Perhaps he is a descendent of them.”

“Can he be killed?” Klaus asked, that ever-present worry that the Black Wolf—despite its peaceful actions so far—was a threat to his family loud in his mind.

“Any werewolf can be killed,” the witch said with a cruel laugh, turning around to shoot Klaus a serious look. “Just make sure you aim for the neck." He grinned. "A wolf cannot bite without a head.”

[TBBW Rewrite, Chapter 7]

S.

Sam had transformed, his wolf chained by the ankles to the walls of the pen, with even a god damn collar circling his neck, locking him to a chain bolted to the floor. They’d attempted to give him a make-shift muzzle; straps of leather wrapped endlessly around his snout, clamping his jaws together so tightly Klaus could see the straps digging painfully into his flesh from where he was standing, rubbing it raw. Patches of blood decorated his pelt, a macabre splash of colour against the shades of brown and cream. The wolf was unconscious—thankfully—motionless against the floor, Kiera kneeled right beside him trying to tear the chains away, straining in her attempt.

“Don’t just stand there! Help me!” she called over to him, eyes panicked. Finally, the chain she was pulling at gave way, the metal links loudly snapping in half under strength. Even as she threw it away, she started coughing, the vervain still hanging in the air clogging her throat. “If he wakes with these around him—”

She choked, and it sounded like a sob before she could quell it. Kiera didn’t cry. In over eight hundred years, Klaus had rarely seen her shed more than one tear—at least, not when there were witnesses. 

Something in Klaus’ expression hardened, and he didn’t need her to finish her train of thought, already rushing to her side. He knelt down, grabbing onto the next chain just as she reached for it herself.

“On three?” he asked her. She nodded. Klaus gritted his teeth as he wrapped his hands around the cold iron, changing his grip. “One…two…three!”

They both pulled on the metal with all their strength, straining from the effort, and this time, with Tyler’s power added to hers—both wolf and vampire—the chain snapped much quicker, breaking from the combined force. Klaus moved to rip the makeshift muzzle away as Kiera moved onto the next chain, desperate to get the wolf out of the restraints.

“Knife,” Klaus ordered, holding a hand out expectantly when he failed to tear the leather wrapped around the wolf’s snout with his bare hands. Kiera quickly paused in her attempts to break the chain, lifting up her foot and planting it on the floor, pulling a wicked-looking knife from her ankle, sharper than those she used to throw. She slammed it onto Tyler’s palm, and Klaus curled the boy’s fingers around the handle, immediately using it to cut away the tight straps of leather, careful not to cut the wolf’s flesh. Underneath the leather, the skin was read and raw, weeping. Klaus clenched his jaw. Kiera refused to look, resuming her attempts to break the last of the chains.

Working together, they managed to free the wolf; Kiera worked the chains, pulling the bolts from the floor and tearing the links from the collar, while Klaus cut away the muzzle, discarding the scraps of leather and wire one by one. Throughout it all, the wolf barely stirred, eyelids fluttering open once or twice, only to fall shut once more.

“Need help with the collar?” Klaus asked, when the muzzle was gone, the wolf’s jaw free. He sincerely hoped that wouldn’t bite him in the arse later. Literally.

The metal collar was a heavy thing, weighing a dozen tonnes. With the added weight, Klaus could barely move the wolf’s head—probably by design.

“Grab the other side,” Kiera ordered, already moving onto it, Klaus following. She grabbed the leather clasps around the neck first, unbuckling them, before nodding at Klaus, indicating for him to pull out the bolt that attached the two halves of the collar on the other side. At her nod, he ripped it out with a snarl, and she caught the part that fell to the floor while Klaus caught the top, careful to make sure both pieces didn’t fall on the wolf’s paws and injure him further.

“How is he?” Klaus asked, watching Kiera as she put her piece of the collar down, reaching for the wolf’s head immediately. She ran her fingers through his fur, brushing back his ears. They twitched at her touch, and on the ground, his paws tensed, claws digging into the wood.

“Sssh,” Kiera hushed softly, and although the wolf’s eyes didn’t open, he must have recognised her voice, because the beast’s entire body sagged. She pulled his huge head into his lap, her lip thinning into a grim line as her eyes landed on his swollen snout.

“He’ll heal, once we’re out of this air,” she murmured, scanning the rest of his body worriedly. “I’m more worried about what this implies. Shouldn’t he have shifted back by now?”

Klaus rolled Tyler’s jaw, shaking his head as he too looked the wolf up and down. “It’s the Heel. It locks them in this form—”

“I know it locks them in this form, Klaus,” Kiera snapped, looking right at him. “I’ve seen what hunters do with their heads, let alone their hides.”

Not all hunters killed vampires and werewolves alike just because of some divine calling to rid the world of all evil, or because they decided they alone could protect those they loved from the monsters lurking in the dark. Some merely used that as an excuse.

Some, hunted the supernatural world for sport.

Those hunters were the kind of men and women that didn’t care whose lives they took, taking fangs from vampires and claws from werewolves as trophies, mounting the wolf heads on their walls and decorating their floors with their hides. Heel locked a werewolf in their canine forms even after a death, making it possible to skin the corpse and take the pelt. On the black market, the rarest werewolf pelts were worth a small fortune—a white pelt, for example, had sold at auction three years ago in Seoul for over 2 billion won.

Klaus dared not imagine how much his pelt would be worth.

“All this time… and they thought we were the monsters,” Kiera continued, gently brushing her fingers through the fur at wolf’s neck. “We need to make them pay,” she whispered. 

Klaus gritted his teeth, shooting her a warning look even though he longed to agree with her. “We will, but not now,” he hissed. “We had a plan.”

“They used Heel on him, Klaus,” she snarled, eyes shooting to glare at him, veins crawling along her cheeks. The monster was hungry. “They need to burn.”

[TBBW Rewrite, Chapter 42]

The word is 🦇BITE🦇

Tagging @stars-and-darkness @marxandangels @bellemorte180 @ks-caster @iturnlemonadeintolemons and @stardust414 because i'm sure you could adapt this for art wips

[a1cov3]

a thing i did for @pyrosomatic-metamorphosis’s qsmp fic, sweet dreams

this fic, specifically this scene, has haunted me for several months

[luck-of-the-drawings]

OH ARTHUR BENNETT.. such a gorgeous and intriguing character. terribly burdened by a GRUESOME set of crimes, his light suffocated by a HEAVY century of GUILT. so tragic, so dark and broody, and yet PAINFULLY awkward in any social setting ever

[pastelaeqy]

wip

dbh brainworms have been lasting too long

[penn-dragon]

Hey, on the topic of my own fic writing, I’ve got a question for my followers/fic readers.

I have a tendency to never post any of my writing, because my various unmedicated (I’m working on it) neurodivergences and mental illnesses make it very hard for me to ever finish pieces, and I feel really bad about starting a fic that someone could be really into and then potentially never finishing it when my brain suddenly decides I’m not allowed to write any more of it. So a long time ago I made it a rule for myself that I never post anything until it’s 100% finished, even if I have like multiple chapter that are perfectly ready to be published. Which ultimately leads to me never posting anything and sitting on a hoard of writing that only myself and select friends ever see.

So my question is, it more upsetting to read part of a story that might never get finished? Or to know that there’s writing out there that you don’t get to read just because it’s not finished?

[averlym]

"bad decisions, that's alright; look, i'm still alive"

[electric-plants]

listen sometimes i just think that when cyno heard alhaitham was going to be acting grand sage he immediately started begging and pleading to be able to go and personally rub it in azar’s face