#wip intro: TAP

[johaerys-writes]

WIP Wednesday

I have been working on As Fate Would Have It, so here's a sneak peek from the next chapter!! We have some Thetis POV, and sort of an intro into the next arc of the story 👁👁

The nymphs’ tittering laughter echoes lightly across the beach like windchimes. Few of the oceanids are strangers to the Trojan shores—the Dardanelle straits are rich with fish, and the Trojans generous with their sacrifices—and many of them have seen Priam's sons and daughters first-hand. They know of Hector's piousness and his famed skill with spear and sword, and of his brother Paris' love of wine and women.

“Helen, Zeus' daughter, is known the world over for her beauty and her glib tongue,” Cymothoe says, her usually placid blue eyes dark like stormy seas now, “but young Paris must have grown to be handsomer and glibber still to have been able to convince her to leave behind her husband's bed and her daughter. I hear she's but a baby in the cradle.”

“Ah, but he wasn’t acting alone, my lady," Hermes says with a knowing smile. "It was—"

"Aphrodite," Thetis finishes quietly for him. "Aphrodite acted for him."

The nereid's laughter and excited chatter dies down as they all turn to stare at her. Thetis has been silent all along, frozen and numb as she listened to Hermes’ tidings, but now the words rise like waves to her lips. 

“Lady Hera, queen of the gods, and the wise Athena offered that boy power, wisdom and riches beyond counting," she continues, "but it had been Lady Aphrodite of the white sea foam that promised him Helen’s hand. Is that not so, Lord Hermes?”

The god’s winged foot, which had been tapping impatiently on the sand all the while they have been talking, now stops its ceaseless motion. His flashing coal-black eyes focus on her in a hawk-like stare. “Quite right, my lady, quite right!” he exclaims. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you know this; after all, it was at your very own wedding that the seeds of strife were first planted among the goddesses.” 

The reminder brings bitter memories to her. Thetis had been but a young goddess then, but already Zeus and Poseidon had been clamouring for years for her hand. When goddess Themis of the white hands had delivered to her the prophecy—that she would bring forth a son, of strength mightier than his father—all attempts at courting her or claiming her by force had swiftly been abandoned. No god, no man wanted a child whose fame would come to eclipse their own. 

All but one.

How small and unassuming he had seemed to her when he had arrived to the shore she dwelt, with carriages filled to the brim with precious gifts, all the wealth he had gathered after sacking the city of Iolcus. A king of men in his own right, but of modest fame, from a small kingdom. But he was favoured by Zeus, and that alone had been enough for Peleus Aeacides to summon the courage to ask for her hand. 

Thrice she had refused him, and thrice he had returned, each time bearing gifts more rare and priceless than the last. And when Zeus, the king of the gods, had made it clear that she had no other choice but to submit to the man's advances, only then had Thetis finally accepted.

The wedding had been an extravagant affair, with every god, nymph and lesser spirit bringing gifts and paying their respects, wishing them every happiness—everyone, except for Eris, goddess of strife, who never received her invitation. She had been the one to plant discord among the three goddesses, and disagreements such as these never reach a happy ending. Not for anyone.

“Menelaus," Hermes continues, "much distressed by his queen's abduction, has already sought counsel with his brother Agamemnon. Night and day they have been talking, rumour has it, and not a few of those nights have been spent with the king of Sparta crying on his poor brother's shoulder," he adds with a mocking little laugh. "But not all of this time has been spent lamenting. Atreides are a proud and stubborn folk. It is said they are preparing—” 

“War,” Thetis whispers. “A war unlike anything mortals or gods have witnessed before.”

Silence falls among the sisters. They all look at each other uneasily, the full magnitude of the situation now dawning on them. After all, they all have sons and daughters, either in Greece or Troy, that might get caught in the crossfire. The waves fall quiet, not even the sea birds along the rocks making a sound.

Hermes clears his throat. 

“Yes. Well. You are not wrong about that,” the god says, evidently miffed that Thetis stole from him the pleasure of breaking the big news to them for the second time.

Tagging forth to (no pressure): @baejax-the-great @rowanisawriter @darlingpoppet @hekateinhell @babyrdie @glossc1 @supernova3space @tragediegh @iiktend to share some art or writing you're working on, as well as anyone else who'd like to grab a tag and do this!

[courtingchaos]

Amaretto Sour

Line Cook Eddie x Barista Reader

A/N: Clearing out some things, using this as an intro for Steve in this little universe, getting another pin off my wip list.

No warnings however:

18+ No Minors

“Let me guess, amaretto sour?”

Your head swivels back to the bar from where you were staring through the pickup window at Eddie being absolutely too smooth with it. “I’m sorry?”

The bartender smiles wide and laughs, tucking his towel into the back pocket of his tight black jeans. “You look like a sour kind of girl.”

“Oh?”

“I’m wrong aren’t I?” He bounces his finger at you, eyes squinting while he guesses. “Whiskey, neat.” It only takes you cocking your head before he laughs again. “I’m kidding. Mule?”

“Yeah, those’ll do in a pinch.”

There’s a lock of light brown hair that falls into his eyes, something you just know he uses to his advantage. Between the straight white teeth and the too tight t-shirt you know everything is carefully curated here. His charm oozes out between his lips and the corners of his eyes, the faint lines that decorate the thin skin there a testament to his humor.

“What’s your favorite then?” He already has the copper mug set in front of him while he packs in chipped ice. “I mean I’m making you a mule right now, but for next time.” He tips the Tito’s bottle into the cup for a pour too long before letting his gaze dance over your features.

“Next time?” You can’t help but be impressed. This is one of those men that’s always been out of your league in many ways, but mostly socially. It doesn’t help that his constant grin and the glances he keeps shooting over the rim of his thin glasses makes you want to giggle even though Eddie is right behind you working. Mere moments ago he was holding your attention captive and now this bartender you’ve only just met has you basically kicking your feet and twirling your hair.

“Yeah.” He pushes your cup over in front of you and places the straw in lightly. “Next round on me.”

“Oh I gotta drive home soon.” You’ve got laundry and a podcast waiting for you but he makes a convincing argument when he pouts at you, pretty lips in a downturn.

“You don’t wanna stay and hang?” He plants his hands on the bar to lean in toward you, nothing too close but enough you can catch a whiff of his sweet sea water cologne. “You haven’t even told me your name yet.” There’s a thin cuban chain that sneaks out halfway from his collar that catches your eye. “Or your favorite drink.” He’s laying it on thick and you’re spooning it up like peanut butter, smile pressed up hard into your cheeks.

“It’s a J&G.” Says the warm body practically pressed up against your back, Eddie’s voice above your head where he stares at the bartender. Your attention whips to him just as he leans on the bar too and you get to watch him shoot his coworker a look. “But like she said, she’s gotta get home soon.” He isn’t angry but his tone is flat, a communication happening between them that you aren’t privy to.

“I can have a drink Eddie.” You admonish him lightly with a tap to his arm braced next to you.

“Yeah well Steve isn’t always good at reading a cue.”

The bartender, Steve apparently, looks affronted, chin tilting down to shoot his own look. “Hey, I’m great at reading cues. Better than you, and we were having a pleasant conversation before you-”

“This is my friend. From the coffee shop.” Eddie practically barks it at Steve and it startles you.

“Eddie, it’s fine.” You laugh to try to break the tension you can see rising in his shoulders. You’d love nothing more than to reach over and lay a hand on his neck, dig your thumb in along the tight line and help him relax.

But you aren’t there. Not yet.

“Oh wait.” Steve’s eyes light up and he immediately backs up to lean on the counter behind him.

“Yeah.”

“My bad.”

Your head snaps between the two of them. Steve raises his hands in surrender and apology, a huffed laugh following him through the swinging door into the storeroom.

“What was that about?”

“Nothing.” Eddie deflates a little and drops onto the stool beside you. “Steve is just a lot.”

“I think he was pretty nice.” You say lightly, eyebrows raised high while you stir your drink with the tiny straw.

“Yeah that’s the problem.”

“How so? Am I only allowed to have one friend here?” You tease him with a tap of your shoe against his boot and a conspiratorial tilt of your head towards him.

He grins and reaches over to pull your drink over to steal a sip. “Maybe.”

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Hi hi! I’d love to know more about Asset Codename: Bricks! Feel free to elaborate on anything you want, I’ve literally been obsessed with this wip since I first read it!

Ah, Bricks! My darling and my delight! Veronica "Bricks" Mason is a CIA asset, specializing in infiltration. Didn't she say her name was Ericka in the WIP Wednesday? Yes! Because I was still working out how I want her to exist in the universe lol.

Have an alternate intro!

CW: Objectification, canon-compliant violence

“Steamin’ Jesus,” Soap mutters, looking down the sight.

The big house on the private island is picture perfect, right out of a vacation guide. Two stories, floor to ceiling windows, and an absolute goddess of a woman lounging by the pool. Soap clocks one guard on the edge of the patio facing out, makes sure there’s no one else, and looks back at her.

Her dark skin glistens in the sun, and her curly hair shines. The tiny bikini she wears barely covers anything, bright pink as it is. He can’t exactly see through her sunglasses, but he gets the impression that her eyes are closed. Which is good, because once they break the tree line, she’ll have a clear view of them.

“Got a fuckin’ civilian,” he reports.

Price makes an exasperated sound. “Civilian?”

“Hen by the pool,” he confirms. “…No weapons.”

“How can you-” Gaz’s voice cuts off as he sucks in a breath. “No, I see her. Goddamn.”

Ghost’s voice rumbles, “Hold until she’s clear.”

Gaz mutters, “Why do the baddies always end up with evil sons of bitches?”

“Money,” Simon and Price answer at once. Price continues, “Nice view, though.”

“Cannae complain about the delay,” Soap says, letting himself take a long moment to admire her breasts. “Wouldnae mind a chance wit’ a bird like her.”

“Doubt you could 'andle ‘er,” Ghost chuckles.

“Away wit ye,” Soap grumbles.

All of them go silent when the woman stretches her arms above her head and sits up to grab her drink from a little table. And then she stands and walks over to the guard. He turns to her when he hears her voice, and walks to meet her at the corner of the house.

Soap will not admit that staring at the way her arse swallows the thong bikini is why he misses what happens next. One moment the woman is sipping her drink and smiling, and the next the man’s silenced gun is in her hand and his body topples into the hedges.

“What the fuck?” Gaz hisses.

And then she places the gun and her drink on the bar by the sliding patio door. She opens it, stands in the doorway with her back to the pool, and holds up a closed fist. She gestures: four fingers to the right, three to the left. Then she steps inside, turns left, and strolls past the floor to ceiling windows until she’s out of sight.

The door is left open.

“Let’s move,” Price growls.

Clearing the house is easy. Ghost and Gaz head right, Soap and Price follow the woman and run into two guards, easily dispatched. They find a third with a neat bullet hole between his eyes, on his back on another small patio.

And then they hear a woman’s shriek of terror.

Heart racing, Soap takes point as they ascend the stairs. In his ear, Ghost confirms that he and Gaz have dispatched four guards and are also making their way up. They clear two empty rooms, then hear a frantic voice.

“I don’t know,” a woman sobs. “I was by the pool, I just wanted another drink! And then I turned the corner and Ivan! Vanya was-! He’s-!” The voice is wracked by sobs.

“Fuck.” And that’s the target’s voice, Tarasovich. He snarls something in Russian, then reverts to English. “We need to get to the car, now.”

“Don’t leave me,” the woman’s voice cries, “Please, oh god what are we going to do?”

“To the car, you stupid woman,” the Russian snaps. “I will have Sasha call the pilot, we need to-”

Ghost and Gaz appear at the other end of the hall as Tarasovich chokes on his next words. There’s a scuffle, and a thud. At Price’s tap on the shoulder, Soap breaches the door, gun raised.

He can’t help but curse as he circles left and Price goes right, guns trained on where the woman has Tarasovich’s in a choke hold from the back. The man is bright red and struggling, but her legs lock his arms to his sides, ankles crossed over his solar plexus as his legs kick wildly.

Soap is dimly aware of Ghost and Gaz filing in, guns trained on the pair as he runs out of air and his struggles slow. His arms twitch, and then his legs kick once, twice. And he slowly goes limp.

“Rope’s in the top drawer on the left,” the woman huffs, not letting go. Price opens a drawer and pulls out a neatly wrapped bundle of thick, soft-looking, braided, red rope. He approaches the woman, and she dumps Tarasovich to the side. She stands and adjusts her bikini as he ties the man’s legs together and his hands behind his back.

When Price stands, she grins. “Hey there, Captain. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Bricks,” Price says, his own grin splitting his face as he pulls her in by her hips. Her arms settle around his neck and she smacks a kiss on his cheek. “Laswell didn’t tell us you were our contact.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” she laughs. “And who can turn down a trip to a private island?”

On the floor, the Russian grunts and starts twitching awake. Bricks steps over him and saunters over to Ghost.

“Hello, handsome,” she purrs.

Soap tries not to let his jaw hang open like a muppet. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Ghost sounds affectionate when he answers. “’ave fun skippin’ around in the buff, then?”

“You like it?” She turns in a little circle, wiggles her ass at him. “I know you prefer orange, but it felt like a pink kind of day.”

“Like your arse in and out of anythin’, lovie,” Ghost rumbles, pulling her close with one arm and lifting his mask up over his nose. “Give us a kiss.”

Soap looks to Gaz for confirmation that this is really happening. The other man looks just as floored as their lieutenant and this Bricks woman share the kind of kiss that reminds him of just how almost naked she is. Soap clears his throat and turns away.

[thewolvesof1998]

✨ 2023 writing round-up ✨

Edit: must have accidentally copied someone else’s intro without realising 😂

I’ve posted 57,184 words to ao3 this year (I also started in June) I have almost the same number of words in my wips 😭 This year has been crazy and this fandom has provided me so much joy, not just writing but getting to know all my wonderful mutuals <3 The 911 brainrot is strong and I can’t wait to see what 2024 brings!

I posted the more words to Ao3 this year than I have in any other previous year, which is wild since I only really started writing again in June. It's wild the choke hold that Eddie Diaz and Evan Buckley have on me. Here's my writing round-up for 2023 :)

June

I posted my first fic on June 20 and in nine days I had posted 6 fics 😂

I ain't proud of all the punches that I've thrown 

Teen | 826w

Rage, like a broken window to an oxygen-deprived room that’s already in flames, explodes within him and almost takes him out. He resists the urge to slam the phone’s receiver into the wall until it's just fragments of plastic that dig into the palm of his hand, drawing blood. He breathes through his nose and then out of his mouth and repeats that until he gets himself under control. or Eddie's in Jail and he almost calls Buck.

You with the dark curls, you with the watercolour eyes

Mature | 1.6k

Blue eyes meet his, washed out in the morning light, he's like the watercolour paintings they had seen in the museum with Chris last week, soft and fuzzy around the edges, with just a hint of bright colours. Blue like the sky, splashes of pink at his eyebrow and lips. Those lips, that still looked bruised from last night. Or The morning after Buck and Eddie finally get together.

asking all these questions, just to be polite, while dying inside

Teen | 1.2K

But Eddie looks good, like really good, like how is anyone allowed to look that good in jeans and a green henley? His hair is all fluffy which means he hasn't put any product in it, he wonders if it still smells like the green apple conditioner that Eddie and Chris liked to use. There's a new wrinkle at the corners of his eyes like he's been smiling a lot these last few years and it shouldn't hurt this much to know that Eddie's been happy without him but it does. or Buck dreams of what it would be like to lose Eddie as a friend and run into him five years down the line and having to ask all of these stupid questions just to be polite while dying inside.

Tapping Morse Code into your heart 

Explicit | 2.8k

Buck can’t keep still. It was a known fact that some part of Buck’s body will be in constant motion, and when it wasn’t? You should be concerned. A bouncing knee, an elastic band wound around his fingers, head bopping, fingers tapping Morse code he had learned on a whim after Eddie told him that he knew it. So Buck can’t stay still even if his life depended on it. Or in this case an orgasm. And Eddie-well Eddie is annoyed. or Buck and Eddie use Morse Code to communicate when words can't be said.

I want you to be selfish with me 

Mature | 4.6k

When Eddie gets the call is 12.24 am. He’s lying awake in bed, trying to avoid spiralling but failing when his phone lights up, vibrating and blaring out the stupid song Buck had changed his ringtone to. “So you know it's me calling.” Eddie didn’t say that he always knew it was Buck calling even without the ringtone. Buck’s the only one that calls him this late at night, it's also the only time Buck calls since he prefers to text during the normal hours of the day. Eddie sighs, dragging a hand over his face, looks like trying and failing to fall asleep is going to have to wait. His other hand reaches for his phone, answering. “Buck,” He says, he can hear a lot of background noise, voices and music, so it’s not an ‘I woke up from a nightmare and I needed to make sure you're still alive’ call. “Eddie,” Buck slurs, drunk, “Eds, Eds, did I wake you?” or Buck called Eddie while drunk and Eddie ends up using some of his military training to save him.

You bring me comfort

Teen | 4.1k

Frank asks him “When was the last time you were hugged?” He’d hugged Chris that morning. “No, I mean the last time you were held” He didn’t really understand the difference, he regularly hugs Christopher, Tia Pepa, Abuela, and even a few quick hugs with Buck which never seem like enough. “Not you holding someone else, comforting someone else, just purely someone holding you because you need it” Eddie thinks back to the hospital, thinks back to seeing Shannon’s body on the gurney, the way Bobby’s arms had gone around him and held him up. “When Shannon died, Bobby, my Captain, he-he hugged me” It had been so long ago, years and before that? He couldn’t remember. Frank doesn’t exactly give him homework called “get hugged” but he suggests that Eddie should ask for want he wants next time he needs comfort instead of putting on the sweater. or Eddie is touched starved and just needs a hug instead, instead he has his sweater.

July

I Can See You 

Teen | 3.1k

Eddie gets out of his truck and watches as Buck sings along to whatever song is playing in his car. It’s captivating but Eddie thinks many things about Buck are. He’s unashamed as he belts, singing into his phone like it’s a microphone. Buck looks up and makes eye contact with Eddie, who can feel his lips stretched in a smile. Buck smiles back, continuing his impromptu show, now singing to Eddie even though he can’t hear it from across the parking lot. Eddie watches for a minute or so before walking over to Buck’s jeep, drawn to him like he has his own gravitational pull, stronger than the earth's as if Buck is the only reason Eddie hasn’t gone floating off into space yet. As he gets closer he can hear the muffled music, he can see the blue of Buck’s eyes as they gleam from joy. Eddie can barely make out the words: I see you, I see you, baby, Oh, baby OR Buck’s a Swiftie and he makes Eddie listen to Speak Now (TV) and accidentally confesses his love because of the song I Can See You

Alright, Cowboy, Go Get 'Em 

Explicit | 17k | 2/3

“What can I get you?” The bartender asks as Eddie slides up to the bar. “Whiskey, neat, thanks” “Make that two” A voice says from beside him, Eddie turns and takes in a black leather protection vest that’s undone over a bright blue button-down shirt. He drags his eyes up, over pale skin, an adam apple and stubble to blue eyes a shade or two lighter than his shirt. His white cowboy hat is back on, it makes the pink mark on his eyebrow stand out. There's a small smirk on his lips that Eddie does not linger on. “Evan Buckley,” He says, holding out his hand. Eddie clears his throat, “Eddie Diaz” He says shaking the offered hand, noticing the callous and firm grip before pulling back. OR What if Eddie had never left El Paso? What if Buck became a bull rider after being a ranch hand? After Eddie gets back from Afghanistan and Shannon divorces him some of his high school buddies decided to drag him to the rodeo to cheer him up. I don’t think they had in mind Eddie getting blown by a rodeo star behind the stable but it sure did improve his mood. Now Eddie can’t get Buck out of his mind and he might just become a rodeo regular.

Under the Guise of Violence

Explicit | 3k

Buck was kneeling. Not in the way Eddie had too frequently fantasised about, though from the lascivious smile on his face, maybe in a way Buck had fantasised about. There’s a cut above his right eyebrow, it’s a reflection of his pink birthmark, his nose is broken and blood-half dried-is trailing down to those plump pink lips. Eddie has to force himself to drag his eyes away. His hand tightens on the pummel of his sword, careful of its sharp edge that rests against the fragile skin of Buck’s neck. He doesn’t know how they got here. OR Eddie can't touch Buck unless it's to hurt him, after a sparring match Buck confronts him and it leads them back to Eddie's bedroom.

August, September and October I didn't post any fic- I was moving country and could not finish a fic to save my life 😂

November

nicknames, supernova similes and the family we make 

Teen | 800w

“Bobby, I’d like you to meet, Robin Buckley-Diaz,” Buck looks at the small bundle in his arms, bright blues staring right back up at him, “This is your Grandpops.” Bobby clears his throat, “Grandpops?” Buck looks up at the man who’s been more of a dad to him than his own blood, who had been by his bedside at every hospital visit and helped him grow up into the man he is today, “If that’s okay with you?” OR Bobby and Athena meet Buck and Eddie's new baby girl.

let me cradle your body (be a safe place to rest)

General | 1.9k

“Seat theif,” Buck pouts, “Where am I supposed to sit?” He asks and look, if he purposely makes his eyes all big and puts a little whine in his voice in a deadly combination that usually has Eddie folding to his whims that it’s between him and the universe okay? “Here,” Eddie says, patting his thigh and it shortcircuits Buck’s brain for longer than it probably should’ve. Eddie doesn’t actually mean that, he’s just messing with Buck right? Because as much as they’ve been accused of practically sitting on each other, they’ve never actually sat in each other’s laps. Buck opens and closes his mouth a few times before deciding that if Eddie is pulling his chain then he’s going to regret it and if it’s being earnest then it probably is comfier than the floor and better than being squeezed into a too-tight spot. “Okay,” Buck says, Eddie offers him a smile and his hand, as if daring him to do it. Buck takes the offered hand and Eddie pulls Buck onto his lap. OR What starts out as a normal 118 gathering ends with Buck sitting on Eddie's lap.

December

even when the heat breaks I’m still yours

Explicit | 6.1k

Eddie has many regrets in his life, lying on the floor of the cabin in the middle of a heat wave with his six foot two best friend pressing into his side while they were both trying to stay cool under the pitiful breeze of the ancient ceiling fan had the possibility to be high on that list. He turns his head to be confronted with a tattooed and freckle-covered shoulder, he can’t remember when they decided to strip down to their boxers -he might have suggested it after Buck’s third shirt had been soaked with sweat and had been clinging to his muscles in a dangerously distracting way- but at the time it had seemed like a good idea, he wasn’t sure about that now considering this was the third time in the last hour that he’s found himself turning to stare at the miles of bare skin. OR Buck and Eddie get stuck in a cabin during a heatwave, they finally take the next step and fuck nasty on the floor.

We might end up real close

Explicit | 2.2k

“Said you wanted us to bond. We might end up real close.” When Buck said those words to Bobby just merely few hours ago, it had been a joke about how if the bomb went off they would be reduced to blood, shards of bone and flesh, mixed so together that you wouldn’t be able to tell them apart without DNA testing. He hadn’t meant it in the way that it was now true with Eddie balls deep in him as he fucks Buck against the tile wall of the firehouse showers, both of them still fully dressed, uniform pants undone and pulled only down to mid-thigh in their haste. Though he thinks maybe Bobby wouldn’t be too surprised by this development given Buck’s recent past. OR the 2x01 Rewrite where Buck and Eddie fuck after removing the bomb.

They don’t know (your name is already mine) 

General | 7.6k | 3/4

“Sir, can you tell me your name?” Buck opens his mouth, his tongue feels like lead, “E-ed-” “Ed? Is your name Ed?” Buck shakes his head and winces when he sends a spike of pain through his head. Hands pull at his shirt and he feels the cold metal of scissors as they cut his brand new shirt. He’s supposed to be wearing that to tomorrow's Christmas Eve dinner. Eddie had said the colour makes his eyes pop. “He’s wearing dog tags…Eddie Diaz,” Buck moans, blackness at the edges of his vision seeps in, he tries to blink it away, no, they need to call Eddie, “It’s okay Eddie, we’ve got you,” is the last thing he hears before the darkness takes over. OR Buck gets in a car accident on Christmas Eve Eve and the only ID he has on him is Eddie's dog tags. A case of mistaken Identity, a trip to the hospital and a Christmas Surprise.

tagged by: @exhuastedpigeon @smilingbuckley @jamespearce9-1-1 @wikiangela @spotsandsocks @buddierights @callmenewbie @try-set-me-on-fire @hoodie-buck @carrierofthepaperclips

tagging (no pressure): @wildlife4life ​ @eddiebabygirldiaz @disasterbuckdiaz @jesuisici33​ @bekkachaos @spagheddiediaz @911-on-abc @hippolotamus @shitouttabuck @911onabc @malewifediaz @loserdiaz @ladydorian05 @watchyourbuck @king-buckley @chaoticgremlinwholikescheese @daffi-990 @fortheloveofbuddie @mangacat201 @eowon @rainbow-nerdss @nmcggg @pirrusstuff @evanbegins @giddyupbuck @sammysouffle @jeeyuns @thosetwofirefighters @monsterrae1 @princehattric @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @singlethread @your-catfish-friend @theotherbuckley @steadfastsaturnsrings @blurredbuddie @aquamarineglitter @devirnis

[kidukami]

WIP INTRO :: WILL O' THE WISP

※ genre: sci-fi/superhero fiction/thriller/tragicomedy novel ※ status: outlining/first draft ※ rating: mature (see notes)

wip page || main wip tag || playlist (coming soon!)

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synopsis!

Noe Crane is on his way to becoming a household name in his hometown of Las Glorias, California. His investigative talk show, Exposé, is known for delving deep into people involved in the ins and outs of the city, from obnoxious internet celebrities to ex-convicts and criminals. As a host, Noe himself assumes a rather eccentric—if not slightly controversial—persona on camera: witty, intensely brutal, and above all, an insatiable appetite for the truth. What the public doesn’t know, however, is that his quest for justice continues behind closed doors, as he partners up with his longtime acquaintance, Azra Moyer, becoming violent vigilantes hiding in the shadows. With the help of Noe’s mysterious ability to conjure and manipulate fire, they’d stop at nothing to cleanse the city of all evil and leave no trace behind, allowing them to tread safely between their two lives. But their work is jeopardised when a figure from the past comes back into their lives, reminding them of the days they thought they’ve left behind. Noe soon finds great danger lying ahead of his twisted sense of justice, and as he taps into his powers and how they came to be, he will discover that his perception of “evil” may have already overlapped with his existence itself.

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meet the characters!

noe crane || he/him. born 1991. main protagonist. popular talk show host and journalist with his own show, exposé. witty, bold, and charismatic, he knows how to charm his audience despite his rather unconventional approach to journalism. little is known to the public about who he is off-camera, as he takes good care as to keep his work and private life separate—for a good reason.

azra moyer || he/him. born 1991. deuteragonist. a reserved, highly intelligent criminal attorney with an impressive track record despite his relatively young age. he's a longtime acquaintance of noe, having known each other since their childhood, and acts as his right-hand man and confidant as vigilantes. while he's deemed trustworthy enough by noe, azra has his own secret to hide—one he will take to the grave if he must.

jesse shim || he/him. born 1991. antagonist. a mysterious figure who resurfaces in noe's and azra's lives after being presumed dead for two decades. he claims to be a social worker who has just moved back to las glorias after being away for two decades and shows great interest in reconnecting as long lost friends, but is that truly his goal in approaching them?

+ other secondary characters!

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notes!

features || morally grey characters, lgbt+ characters, poc characters, unreliable narrator, complex character relationships, childhood friends, rivalry, government conspiracies, unethical human experiments, moral dilemma, trauma, fictional setting in the real world, tragedy, dark comedy, satire, superpowers, plot twists, subverted tropes, etc.

potential content warnings || explicit language, sexual themes, violence, crime, deaths, depictions of abuse, substance use. not suitable for those under 18.

taglist || @writeouswriter (please ask to be added/removed!)

[thirtysixsavefiles]

A little wip amnesty for wip Wednesday Thursday: I still think Zoro and Sanji and sex pollen is a winning combination, but I am focusing on other things at the moment and so I’m releasing this intro into the wild :D

~~~

Sanji draws a cigarette out with shaking fingers. The box is crushed and half full of sandy dirt but the cigarettes inside are still intact, thank fuck. He reaches for his crumpled jacket, fishing around for his lighter, but it’s not in the breast pocket, or either of the sides, or —

“Here.” A snick and a flame pops up in front of him, courtesy of his own lighter held in Zoro’s outstretched hand. Sanji lets his eyes travel up Zoro’s arm to his face — he’s put his shirt back on but there’s a blue-brown mark blooming just above his collar, and Sanji feels his stomach flutter.

“Stealing my lighter now?” Sanji mumbles, but he leans forward and lights up.

“Hardly.” Zoro snaps the lighter closed and tosses it to Sanji. “It fell out when your jacket came off, when you —”

“All right, all right,” Sanji interrupts, grabbing the lighter out of the air. “Don’t remind me.”

Zoro shifts on his feet for a moment, the dirt of the clearing sliding beneath his boots. Then he steps back, settling himself a few feet away — out of arm’s reach, Sanji notes — on the rock formation Sanji is propping himself up with. Zoro leans against the rough side of the formation, crossing his arms.

“What are we going to tell the others?” he says in a neutral, expressionless tone, but Sanji can still hear the uncertainty in it. If Zoro’s asking, he hasn’t made up his own mind yet. He can still be swayed.

Sanji takes a deep drag on his cigarette, considering. He has to plot this course carefully.

“The truth,” he decides, exhaling a thin plume of smoke toward the sky.

“The truth?” Zoro says. It doesn’t sound as if this option had occurred to him.

“Yeah.” Sanji taps the ash from his cigarette onto the dirt beneath his feet. “We went on a scouting run for fresh water. We didn’t find any. We returned to the ship. End of story.”

“How are you going to explain your —” Zoro gestures vaguely up and down toward Sanji.

Sanji looks down. His jacket had mostly been spared; it will cover the damage done to his shirt, but there’s dirt streaking his trousers, especially the knees. He sighs.

“I tripped.” Sanji leans down to brush the worst of it off. “So did you, for that matter. We both tripped.” He straightens with a wince.

Zoro’s mouth is a flat line. “You really think anyone’s going to buy that?”

Sanji takes a drag and blows a smoke ring at him. “You want to go into more detail? You want me to tell them how you begged to —”

“All right.” Zoro scowls, waving the smoke away. “Fine. We’ll go with your story.”

“It’s not a story,” Sanji reminds him, looking back up at the sky and lifting the cigarette to his mouth. “It’s the truth. Just not…all of it.”

[kaylinalexanderbooks]

WIP Anagram Tag

Thanks @somethingclevermahogony here and @melpomene-grey here!

Rules: given a word, share a sentence from your WIP(s) that starts with each letter of the word

Once again pulling from The Secret Portal Part One

ANGEL

A - A peek into George’s mind explained something about the technology, but I got dizzy almost immediately upon doing so.

N - No matter how much either of us told her she didn’t mean to, she did do it.

G - Gwen insisted she was fine with sleeping on the recliner, even when told it wouldn’t be comfortable.

E - Eventually, my eyes rested on a box containing a 100-piece puzzle of an elephant that looked like it had never been opened, save the plastic that was around it pre-purchase.

L - Lexi and Sam appeared to be reacting to something Robbie said—based on his smug reaction. Kelsey and Maddie giggled.

CRAWL

C - Cathrin and Peyton were both doctors, so of course they’d be concerned for Robbie’s health.

R - Regardless, the sight was surreal.

A - After a few minutes, Akash tapped me on the shoulder.

W - While everyone else got to do things, I was now forced to sit and listen to this weird talking thing I didn’t understand.

L - Lexi felt the discomfort that previously plagued her drift away as she watched Ash’s face light up when she unwrapped a box set of The Lord of the Rings, plus The Hobbit, that Rose bought her.

Alright I'll tag @leahnardo-da-veggie @cwritesfiction @ceph-the-ghost-writer @space-writes @duckingwriting

+ ANYONE ELSE

Your word is SAMPLE

TSP intro

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

@nebula--nix @literarynecromancy @honeybewrites

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

In The Summertime 3

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, manipulation, power imbalance, grooming behaviour, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your father’s best friend gives you a job for the summer, but he’s not so interested in your work ethic.

Character: dbf!Helmut Zemo

Note: Onto my break. I'll still be around for any of your asks, etc.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

Zemo’s temporary office is airier, cozier. The lender of the space has much more modern taste, photos of the world’s capitals framed all around with some obscure foreign films intermingled.  A large daybed looks out a bay window in the front and a desk sits before a wall of shelves, white and pristine unlike his own antique mahogany and walnut. 

There’s a sofa against the other wall and a minifridge in the corner, a kettle on top with a chest of tea bags and jar of instant coffee. Beside the daybed, a small square metal table with a dining chair set before it. He apologises at the impromptu set up as he deems it your own.

You set to unpacking his books on the shelf emptied for his occupation. He’s at the desk pulling open the drawers and shuffling through his things as he sorts them out. You glance along those things remaining in the other cubbies, a crystal bottle of pink perfume with a vintage style pump and dried roses. 

It must be a woman. That makes you wonder. It is a rather generous favour.

You carry on in the hazy silence of a high summer noon. A sudden crackle interrupts the lull and you turn to watch Zemo twist the knob on a small yellow radio, flicking the antenna to catch a signal.

Through the static, you hear the intro of radio jockeys and the low intro of the next song. He continues his efforts until the reception clears and you can make out the retro tones of The Police.

Inside him, there's longing This girl's an open page Book marking, she's so close now This girl is half his age…

You don't know the song very well. Your father listens to some of that band, mostly the one about a castaway. You're grateful for the music, it fills the tedium of your work and eases the underlying nervousness that piques now and again. It comes to you that rarely did you spend so much time alone with Zemo.

“Ah, what a tedious day,” Zemo remarks as he rubs his lower back, standing behind the desk with a swoop of hair hanging forward, a sheen of sweat across his brow.

“It’s not so bad,” you chime, “it’s a nice place.”

“Oh yes, wonderful. My companion did say I could have full use of the home. My late nights need not be spent sleeping in a chair,” he chuckles and sits heavily in the leather seat, “ah, but the heat reminds me of my age.”

You keep a hold of the book in your hand and come closer, “are you alright?”

“Ah, I am only dramatic,” he waves you off and unbuttons his collar. “What one is that?” 

He points and you look down to the novel in your hand. You bring it up and admire the tattered edges of the embossed cover; The Portrait of a Lady. You’ve never heard of it. It looks Victorian. You hold it out as you approach.

“Oh, yes, a classic. If not wildly unknown. I recommend it.”

You glance at it again and shrug. He chuckles and you look at him once more. He seems amused.

“First assignment, read it,” he taps the desk, “simple.”

“Pardon?”

“Oh yes, of course, it will aid you in our coming research,” he declares, “which I’m afraid I’ve not even shared my thesis with you. Hard to do prior to our delve into the literature. All I can say is we will be looking at a very common trope among writers, ancient, medieval, Victorian, near every era has had some fascination with the older man and the younger woman,” he pushes back his hair, trying to fix it as a stubborn strands sticks up at his crown, “it speaks often of the way of culture and society. The structural imbalances internalised by the author and characters alike.”

“Oh, wow,” you turn back with the book, “interesting.”

“It isn’t some new phenomenon or point of intrigue, but I shall explore it nonetheless. History is more than dates and boring wars,” he girds, “I always found the most interesting pieces to be the innately humanistic and what is more human than romance. Than what we perceive as love. Sex, at it’s basest, and companionship at its most genuine.”

“I never thought much of it, I guess,” you sit at the small table and lay the book down.

“But it is all around you. How many couples do you see pasted across tabloids and gossip blogs akin to Jane Eyre and her Rochester. A whole generation apart and yet they are lovers? How curious that we deify such a tale over and over.”

“Hmm,” you hum thoughtfully, cheeks touched with the warmth.

“As an older man, I suppose I notice it more often. Perhaps it is why it has stuck. I remain the eternal bachelor and can’t help but wonder at what element of youth draws these men so strongly to these women. It must be more than attraction, surely, but something deeper,” he puts his hands up as he explains his thoughts, “my preliminary assumption is that these stories are covert explorations of the male crises of middle age, countered in turn by the vulnerability of feminine youth and beauty.”

It sounds complicated but makes sense. While many would condemn an age difference so vast, there is a common fascination underlying these stories. Bronte is still regarded as romance, isn’t it? And you watched a few too many teen shows that presented similar gaps as forbidden love.

“I… yeah, I think I get it,” you say, “now that you say it.”

“Of course there is some reality to these tropes. Men’s worth as regarded in society has historically been economic, thus it lasts longer, whereas women were traditionally prized for their fertility and physical attributes. As muses, wives, mothers…” he seems to lose himself in a medley of racing thoughts, “and so we seek to bridge between fiction and fact.”

“Hmm, I never really considered it…” you shrug, “well, I’m young, I guess I just didn’t notice.”

“Ah, yes, naivete, another common theme to these stories. I’m afraid in this moment we are reenacting the most common steps of the dance; the young innocent enlightened by the weathered pessimist.” He laughs and claps his chest, “ugh, forgive me, I’ve some indigestion. A hair too much coffee.”

“Uh, yeah,” you open the cover and read the first page, printed with fading ink. You admire the intricate bold type of the title. “I suppose I should start reading?”

“At your leisure,” he stands, the chair lurching harshly. “We’ve only just got settled,” he walks across the room, close behind you as he stands by the daybed and peers out the tall window, “it is near lunchtime.”

“Is it?” You look over your shoulder.

“Are you hungry? I am a bit peckish. There is a bistro close by, me and the owner of this house frequent it when we argue about some dead philosopher or another.”

“Oh?” you let the book close as you put your hands in your lap. “I brought a sandwich–”

“Save it,” he insists, “let it be my treat. As a welcome and a show of appreciation for your hard work. I’ll admit, I think I was ambitious in packing. I likely won’t need all that we brought.”

You don’t argue. Your father says it often how once Zemo has an idea, he does not let it go. Besides, you won’t complain for a free meal.

“Alright,” you stand, careful not to hit him with the chair. You come close to him and smell the subtle tones of bergamot that cling to him, “what kind of food do they have?”

“Standard fare,” he looks at you, his dark eyes meeting yours before he inches back on his heels. He turns and clears his throat, “salad, sandwiches, soup. They have a cabbage soup which often runs out before I can even order.” 

He goes to his chair and takes his blazer from the back of it, shrugging it onto his shoulders, “and dessert.” He smirks, “I know you’ve a sweet tooth, dear.”

You laugh. You’re sure your father mentions how he can rarely get a single cookie before the sleeve is empty. You grab your purse and approach the door as he does too, nearly colliding.

“Careful,” he warns as he touches your arm and beckons you ahead of him, “ladies first.”

You take his direction, his word hanging over you. Ladies. In that moment, you feel quite mature.

☀️

You sit at the table. You have a glass of sparkling water with a spear of lime over the brim. It’s a lot fancier than the chain restaurants your dad adores. 

“A lot tamer than college, eh?” He asks as he pushes the lemon off the rim of his glass and watches it sink in the water.

“Oh, not really. I mostly studied.”

“You needn’t lie to me. I was a student once too. It is not all books and stuffy lectures. Well, I should know, I’ve accepted many a hangover as means for an extension,” he teases, “there is nothing wrong with indulging in the freedom of youth.”

“Really,” you say, “I didn’t really go out. My friends aren’t really into that scene. The most excitement I got was bubble soccer.”

“Oh, sounds… interesting.”

“It is. Kinda dangerous. You run around in these plastic bubbles and get bounced around trying to score a point,” you snort, “I was mostly on my back.”

“Adventurous,” he muses, “you made many friends?”

“A few. Classes are pretty big, it’s hard to know everyone.”

“Not like here,” he says, “and your professors? Did you like them?”

“Yeah, they were good. Well, except one, he was kind of… strict.”

“Ah yes, that type can drain the joy right out of the subject,” he tuts, “have you given any thought to what you’ll do after your degree? Another?”

“Uh, oh, no, I haven’t…” you sputter.

“Not to worry, you’ve time. But I warn you, it goes fast. Just look at me,” he plays with the streak of silver at his temple.

“Yeah,” you chew your lip.

“If you do consider a masters, you can always consider me,” he offers, “I take on assistants now and then. Of course, this year, I didn’t have any candidates. Better for it, I was abroad rather often.”

“Hmm, I’ll have to think about it,” you take a sip from your drink, “I’ll have to see what dad says. He is paying for all this.”

“He knows the importance of education. Even a man of craft can appreciate intellect,” he says, “even him.”

The waiter returns and sets down your plates. You thank him as your stomach growls at the smell of the grilled chicken wrap and fries. You notice that Zemo has opted only for a bowl of soup and crackers.

“Smells great,” you say as you carefully wiggle free the long toothpick, “thank you so much.”

“Not at all, it is my pleasure,” he picks up his spoon and stirs the soup, “lunch with a pretty young woman, I should thank you.”

“Uh, right” you murmur.

“You know I do tend to carry my shoe between my teeth with how often I put my foot in my mouth,” he kids, “my honesty does come off rather bluntly. I only mean, well, you’ve blossomed, yes? I can sense it in how you hold yourself, in how you take in the world around you. Curiosity is a very admirable quality.”

You don’t know what to say so you bite into your wrap. It’s a compliment, surely, but unlike any you’ve received before. Zemo’s way of talking, his demeanour, always keeps you on his toes. He’s eccentric but well-meaning. Your father always laughed whenever he blustered over his books vehemently. It was almost comical to think of the man as anything but a feckless scholar.

“There’s a lot to learn,” you swallow, “if college has taught me anything, it’s that.”

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

WIP Intro - Changing States

Genre: Adult literary fiction, short fiction (a Moth Work story that occurs after BODY BACK)

Status: Currently drafting / 3k words

Synopsis: After a whirlwind romance devastatingly ends, Jeremiah moves back to his hometown in Maryland for support only to receive word there’s been a death in the family the day he's set to arrive.

Setting: Baltimore, MD

Vibe: Sunny backroads, noonday fields, retro diners, long car rides, the sparkle of headlights, motion blur, undeveloped film, dusty sunsets, a purple MP3 player, the way childhood feels in photographs, crackling home movies, misty autumn evenings, quiet bursts of grief, summers at the lakeside, the first dreamy flare of sunrise, returning to a place you once knew

Characters:

Jeremiah (narrator - 21) | gentle, thoughtful, nostalgic, devoted, wistful, romantic, sad, brokenhearted

Excerpt:

On the evening Jeremiah decides he’ll drive thirty hours to Maryland, the other half of his mattress is cold and Madonna’s on the radio. In his bedroom, he taps his cigarette on the windowsill, the ash scattering into rainy blue hour, and listens. Time goes by so slowly, she goes, her voice singed through his boombox’s broken speakers. He’s meant to replace it, though he’s meant to do a lot of things: check the mail, make a quiche, buy lightbulbs, call his sister, take up cross-stitch, recycle an olive jar, move his bed to the opposite side of his room. But time goes by so slowly, and Jeremiah would know—he’s twenty-one, yet feels he’s been alive for much, much longer.

[pickel182]

I was tagged by @cinnamontails-ff on a surprise smut Sunday, but my health decided to take a nose dive between then and now 😅 But this is the intro to my Murder Tribunal Durge Titania AU one-shot. Things will get messy.

Tav lied and tricked her way through the murder tribunal, only to meet a final test that she couldn’t refuse. If it came to a fight against Saverok and the echoes of Bhalists past, there was no guarantee they would survive. Shadowheart had used up all her healing after fighting their way down here. Gale was tapped out too, and a fireball in a room this size wouldn't do any good. Astarion would never say how badly he was hurt, but she could tell he was favoring one leg over the other from the moment they entered the chamber. They couldn’t take the risk. Tav wouldn’t take the risk. She rose from the bloody baptismal as an Unholy Assassin, at the cost of one celestial, and another piece of herself that fell away every time she was forced to take a life in Bhaal’s name.

Later that evening, once the others were asleep, she led Astarion out of the Elfsong and back down the secret passage. He walked beside her in silence, only offering a squeeze of his hand when hers started to shake. She stopped in front of the shallow pool and swallowed hard.

There was very little Halsin would deny her. But Tav would never ask this of him. Part of her wondered if it was fair to ask this of Astarion. He knew that he could always say no. That was their only rule. But if there was anyone she could hope would understand what it’s like to wrestle in the void between your shadow and yourself, knowing that part of you exists only to kill, it was him. There’s a certain way shame and revulsion churn in your gut when you come back to face the horrors from orders you couldn’t refuse. She’d seen his shame, and he had seen hers. It had to be him, or not at all.

“You only did what you had to,” he said simply.

I’ll have this finished up soon and post it when it’s done. Just a forewarning, mind the tags when the time comes!

No pressure tags for other smut WIPS!

@ficbrish @shockdowndefiance @inkymoonbunny @mjwiththefangs

[burntblanc]

WIP Intro: Iradell

The throne room glittered under the light of the chandelier that hung from a domed ceiling. White marbled flooring had specks of gold in the tiles, which matched the golden ivy that was wrapped around white columns that stretched up to the sky. The walls were a mix of white with gold foliage decoration, yet had scarlet red curtains covering the windows. The throne itself that sat at the head of the room was strong and wide, made of pure gold with a red seat cushion.

The princess was grateful for the cushion, which had provided comfort for what felt like hours as she waited for her father to come home.

She tapped her fingertips against the arms of the chair for a minute before she reached up to stretch. Just as she opened her mouth to yawn, there was a knock at the double-door entrance to the room.

"It's about time!" She pushed herself up from the chair and rushed to open the door. "Goodness, where have you–" She paused when her eyes found the general of the Opellium Army standing at the doorway, with two soldiers behind him. "Oh, hello General Boxney. I'm sorry, I thought you were my father."

The general's lips were pulled into a frown. "I'm afraid it's just us tonight, Princess Luella."

"Well, have you seen him, at least?"

He looked down and sighed while he took his cap off. When he crossed it over his chest and the soldiers behind him followed suit, Luella's heart sank.

"Please, tell me you've seen him."

"I'm sorry, your majesty." He shook his head. "I'm afraid I must bring you the grave news of your father's passing."

The words tried prying into her brain and her heart, but she wouldn't let them. "No, there must be some sort of mistake."

"The king was killed in battle today. I'm very sorry, princess."

[rosesradio]

Intro Post 🫶

hi, i’m rose. i’m a fanfic writer, shitpost reblogger, & in-the-tags rambler.

this blog is about 40% fandom (pjo, mostly), 20% shitposts, 30% talking about my fanfic wips, and 10% ranting about fandom etiquette in a particular old-man-yells-at-clouds type of way.

no DNI, but i do occasionally reblog rent-lowering gunshot posts about how you should…*checks notes* respect people’s rights to ship & create what they want even if you consider it “icky”. so…basic respect & ignoring things you don’t like & it’ll be cool 👍

also, please block the tag “tw smut” if you don’t want to see posts about my smut fics/answers to nsfw polls/things of that nature

if you sent a hate anon & you’re tapping your foot & frothing at the mouth waiting to see my response, chances are i haven’t seen it. my editor has access to my blog & blocks hate anons soon after they come in—and if she doesn’t, i do. if you disagree with me to the point where i live rent-free in your head, i’d encourage for the sake of your mental health that you just block me.

i try to make my blog a chill, fun space, so i hope that you enjoy the rest of my blog !! <3

[oatmealdaydreams]

Ayo, Beta-Readers Discord??

Idk if there's already something like this, but I had an idea.

What if we had a Beta-Readers Discord to better help find available beta-readers for our fanfics and stuff?

Some things I had in mind:

a mod chat room for mods (moderators) & having mods to help keep the server safe for everyone

A ticket channel for any sort of help needed relating to if someone is harassing someone or the like

The tag things to indicate pronouns, if you're a writer or a beta-reader or both, if you're available or not to beta-read, which fandoms you're in, if you're a minor or a major (only so people uncomfy with adults can see who's an adult and who's not; same thing for people uncomfy with kids n stuff), etc.

Different channels for each fandom to seek out Beta-Readers or look for writers who need some help

Channels just to gush about your fics or WIPs because a lot of us are nd and I want to have a space where people can infodump (sorted by fandom or misc. for crossover fics)

I'd encourage writers and beta-readers to dm each other to sort out their agreement details (like when they need it done by, if it's for an event, what they need help with, etc.)

Some channels to share/promote your fics for anyone interested (sorted by fandom and/or tags depending on the trigger/content warnings)

An ideas/prompts channel for each fandom and such to help people with ideas or plot

A beta-readers chat room so beta-readers who can't do it or have to abandon a project for whatever reason can find people to help instead (remember to keep the writers in the loop if ya need to tap out or if beta-readers need to change)

A general chat room so everyone can chill with each other :D

An introductions channel to help everyone meet each other (includes name/pseudo, pronouns, little intro things)

Music/song suggestions channel to help fellow writers with writing to music and stuff

A lil help channel for people who just have a small question and not exactly need a beta-reader, so they can get questions answered by fellow writers and beta-readers

A channel for those who manage the writing events so y'all have help organizing events or just to talk about them with fellow event planners of

Maybe some "study buddy" voice channels/text channels for body doubling (basically like parallel play or companionable silence but for writing and/or beta-reading, in this case)

A suggestions channel for any sort of server suggestions like channels that may help or something

And anything else y'all think would be helpful!

I'd own the server cause I'd make it, but I wanted to make something to help my fellow writers & beta-readers. If I ever actually do this, I'll also make a side blog for the discord's updates and stuff.

Let me know if there's already a server like this, or if y'all have anything else to add to this list!

Just a lil idea because of all the events coming up :D

[magic-is-something-we-create]

WHISPERS - A Formal WIP Intro

“Why don’t you run?”

“Because I’ve seen people try.”

Ivan takes a drag. I watch him let the smoke linger on his lips before exhaling, wonder when he picked up the habit.

“They always come back.” He taps the ash away, and it catches in the breeze like snow, almost enough to distract from the dead resignation in his voice. “The alternative is always worse, and you always know it was your fault.”

The blaring of a train horn in the distance bridges the silence briefly before it fades, the chug of its wheels rumbling through the mountains and building like a crack of rolling thunder.

“Think,” Dakarsa mumbles.

Ivan glances to him. “Hm?”

“You’ll think it was your fault. But it’s the Shadow’s. All of it is.”

Ivan lets the cigarette drop, snuffs it with his shoe. “And whose fault is it if I skate despite everyone’s warnings, only to fall through the ice I was told time and time again was too thin to carry me?”

Genre: Tragic Dark Fantasy/Noir

Target Audience: Adult

POV: Dual POV First-Person present, where one POV frequently drops into First-Person past

Blend pitch: Six of Crows x The Magnus Archives x Carrie

Recurring content warnings: R+ rated violence; emotional abuse; episodes of unreality and loss of autonomy; gambling, smoking, and alcohol addictions; sex and sexual harrassment; transphobia.

Themes: The effects of losing loved ones unexpectedly and without closure or explanation; being trapped by the mistakes you made in the past; the inability to help those around you without digging their graves right next to yours; what do you do when the villain is right? When you see your face, your actions, in theirs?

Marika Swiftfoot has hidden from the Shadow for ten years, but ten years isn't a life complete.

She has a debt to pay, and the Whisper who indebted her has finally come to collect. And once again, she is ripped away from everything she calls home as the result of a poor choice she made years ago, when she didn't know what would come.

But she will not go to Fowden without a fight.

And she swears the man who brings her there will die by her hand, no matter how much she once loved him.

Lorelei, too, is steeped in the regrets of her past, in the legacy of her forebears. For she is known by three names: Softheart. Witmouth. Vowbreaker.

She wants to earn Hopebringer before her legs give out for good.

But first, she needs to find out what happened to her little sister. First, she needs to find the man who's disappeared with just as little trail left behind, thirty years later.

First, she needs to end the Shadow of Fowden.

For she is not her father; she does not break her vows.

WHISPERS is a standalone novel with its first edits complete at 176,000 words. It is in the hands of beta readers as of January 10th, 2024, and will begin querying once the critique period has finished in July.

The taglist for this WIP will be maintained under the cut, alongside a few short character overviews!

Marika Swiftfoot - Narrator I - The easily-angered woman with a past she's buried under soot and blood, who owes her life to the Shadow because of an offered kindness with strings she couldn't see at the time, and who now has to work with the one who offered it in the first place, as well as a naive young man who looks five years too young for a debt of his own.

Lorelei Witmouth, Softheart, Vowbreaker - Narrator II - The woman who has dedicated thirty years of her life to trying to find what happened to her sister between attempts to better the world in her name - including finding answers for all who disappear the same way, and ridding the world of the Shadow.

Ivan Greyheart - The man who helped, loved, and indebted Marika ten years back, and who has spent all of those years forced to shove his humanity aside for the Shadow's purposes.

Dakarsa - The man who looks more innocent than he is, and who has all but the Shadow convinced of it, despite the darkness he's more familiar with than most.

The Shadow of Fowden - The Sorceress who leads the Whispers to her bidding with magical tattoos and more knowledge of the world's depravity than any other, and uses it to strike fear wherever she can.

Katya Witmouth - Lorelei's eldest sister, bettering the world by helping those most easily left by the wayside, and worrying over each and every one that ceases to stay at her hearth without warning.

Arkady Starsent - The Police Commissioner of Myshari who has worked with Lorelei to try and catch the Shadow for twenty years, and who is losing his battle with addiction and temptation in the process.

Whispers Taglist (ask to be +/-):

@dragon-swords-prophecies ; @indecentpause ; @authoralexharvey ; @ceph-the-ghost-writer; @doriians ; @hungryslothwrites ; @muddshadow ; @kaiusvnoir ; @kd-holloman

NOTE: If you are a minor or are uncomfortable reading excerpts that may contain sexually explicit or similarly mature material, let me know so that I can filter the taglist accordingly for relevant excerpts. You do not need to state your age or any other reasoning; just saying "NSFW exempt, please!" is enough!

[tisiphonewolfe]

Naenia, Through Murder: WIP Intro

Original Fiction - Standalone Novella

Pitch: A homicide detective on the trail of a serial killer doesn’t realise that her girlfriend is the grim reaper, who has a mystery of her own to solve.

Genre: Urban/Paranormal Fantasy

Word Count: 46k

Staus: First Draft Complete

Naenia, the Death responsible for murder victims, is summoned to escort homicide detective Carina Choudhry at the hour of her passing, and is shocked when Carina fails to die. She is even more shocked to find that Carina can see her, thinks that she’s human, and wants to go on a date with her. Carina was supposed to die from a stab wound while investigating a serial killer. When a witness abruptly passes away with no apparent cause of death, Naenia realises that the killer is being assisted by one of her colleagues. She must conceal Carina’s botched death from the other reapers and track down the killer’s accomplice, all while trying to navigate a romance with a living human.

Features

🪦 Supernatural murder-mystery

🪦 Cute dates

🪦 Nine major personifications of Death

🪦 Dramatic hidden identity romance

🪦 A car chase with a skeleton

🪦 Espionage, investigations, and interrogations

🪦 That damnable bird!

Content Warnings (CW): Body horror, gore, death, violence.

Character Intros

Watch this space . . .

Setting

In 'Naenia, Through Murder' the power of human imagination has, over the millenia, brought beings such as the Deaths into existence. They escort the spirits of the dead through the halls of bone and flesh and into the ashen forest. The Deaths reside in a spire of bone which looms into the perpetual moonlit night of the world beyond.

The living world is much like our own, but a bit to the left. The city looks like Victorian London, the fashion comes from Columbo, and technology is all mechanical. The country is ruled by the Lord Minister and his parliament.

Taglist (DM to be added or removed): No-one yet . . .

Prologue below the cut

Naenia stalked the halls of bone and flesh, the twisted veins that pulsed below the ashen forest, seeking her next passenger.

She always stalked; for there was no need to sprint, and to sidle lacked gravitas. The halls would deliver her precisely where and when she was called. The rest was merely professional image - the passengers expected her to be a huntress, and so she was.

The endless ticking in the corridors was too loud today; she laid her hand upon the wall, resting it upon a displaced ulnar between undulating, fleshy membranes, and listened.

Ca-clang! Ca-clang!

The distorted and wavering knell seemed close; she felt it shudder below her ghostly-pale fingertips, her skin - or approximation thereof - so tissue-paper thin that one could see every green vein below it. She traced her fingers along the wall, following the ringing bell through the gloom by touch towards her archway.

Three twists, a fork, and a bend later, the ringing now hit her ears with force; at the tapering end of this hall, tucked between a bellowing pair of lungs, stood a tall, obsidian clock.

Its pendulum hung still; the pointing finger-bones of the clock’s hands jerked in their effort to tick forward. Naenia tapped a knuckle against the glass covering the clock-face to see if it might spring back into movement - the hands twitched miserably.

Atop the clock was a raven, tugging on a ragged rope of twined intestine with its beak. As Naenia withdrew her hand, it let go of the rope and hopped onto her wrist; the great bell’s ringing ceased. The raven croaked at her expectantly, and she brushed the crown of its head with her thumb. “Good work,” she muttered. The bird ruffled its feathers indignantly, then flew away - clearly Aurelia had been feeding it, despite having been told a thousand times not to.

She called to her scythe, and it appeared, singing in her hand. Others among the nine deaths had made their weapons elegant, ominous, elaborate - Naenia found this extravagant. Passengers expected to see a simple farming implement; a lengthy wooden snath to hold it by, and a gleaming steel blade. There was no need to trouble the dead with unexpected golden spikes, silver inlay, or an onyx-black blade that curved nearly three-quarters around the head. She thought of Aurelia again and snorted.

Hefting the scythe, she examined the pulsating crevice that terminated the hallway - finding the appropriate angle, she stepped smartly into a slice that sheared the skin apart. It curled and withered away, letting in the muted orange glow of streetlamps and permitting her to step through into the living world.

Pattering rain soaked her permanently-damp hair. She brushed aside a dark lock, and tucked it behind her ear, and looked around for her passenger.

She had arrived in a gloomy city backstreet. Industrial, red-brick buildings stained with soot loomed into the smog  over the narrow sett-paved road, broken drainpipes pouring their deluge into the gutters. Flowers wilted in hanging-baskets; shutters were boarded over; no lights flickered at the cracked windows. The hem of Naenia’s midnight gown had already grown heavy as she stepped barefoot into the stream, through which the unmistakable trickle of blood was flowing.

She approached the sodden, balled-up figure that lay in the middle of the road, curious to see which unfortunate human had met their end this night. It was a woman - neat, straight-cut dark hair, brown skin, and runner’s muscles, wearing a heavy woollen coat. Below it, she was dressed smartly. Her shirt was adorned with a golden pin and she clutched a snub-nosed revolver to her chest - a chest that bore a deep, gaping wound, from which her heart’s blood spattering into the street. Like many of Naenia’s passengers, her wide, kind face was not set peacefully; it was scrunched up in an expression of agony and despair. Naenia stood beside her, respectfully waiting for the spirit to rise from the body, readying her scythe for the moment she would cut the cord connecting the two - that’s when she heard the moan.

This woman was still alive.

Naenia was not quite sure what to do with this fact. The clock had stopped - she had made certain of that. The woman’s time was over. She could see the spirit breaking free - glassy reflections of the woman’s limbs rose from her prone form, flailing their way out of her stilled body. “It is alright,” she assured the spirit. “Please be calm. It is over now.”

“No,” the spirit said weakly. “I need to catch him. I need to-“

“Shh, shh.” Naenia gripped the woman’s shoulder, gently lifting her from her prison.

“I won’t go!”

The woman’s spirit floated a little above her body, flailing at the air, swimming through the ether - Naenia readied her practised stance, preparing to cut the thread with a swift swing of her scythe - but the spirit struggled still. It looked at her with wide, baleful eyes. Naenia clicked her tongue. Rarely did she have one so difficult as this - she would not be pleased if she found herself battling a phantom tonight.

She had an angle - it was narrow, but she was more than confident that she could cut the cord without harming the spirit. She set her scythe carefully - then watched in wonderment as the spirit began to claw its way back into its body.

“No, no, no, no, no,” the spirit gasped out. “I have to tell them - I have to. We have to get him.”

With a sharp breath and a gurgling cough, the woman’s body convulsed and turned over. Stunned, Naenia watched the woman claw at the wound on her chest, pressing against it with a balled-up fist. “Get help!” the woman pleaded with her hoarsely.

Naenia had existed since the first person thought to bash in another’s head with a rock; as a thought, then a dream, then a god - and now, as a reaper, as Death through Murder. She had never been called to escort anyone who was fated yet to live. She gripped the woman’s hand - the woman stared at her as though she could see her, even though Naenia knew this to be impossible. “It is okay. It will be okay. I will help you.”

[thevagabondexpress]

wip intro: ogham & pine

Theo Spitzer has only barely recovered from a brutal attempt on thir life when Death visits Pine Factory yet again: a man killed alone in the snow outside the walls, bearing a message in foreign code.

Two months ago Laurie Fontaine killed a creature he long thought to be a myth. Now his mother's on him to arrest a killer that leaves no tracks in the snow.

Ash Parsons knows ogham when thei sees it, and thei knows a conspiracy too: this is no single murder, it's a symptom of something running deep, and hell knows where the tap-root is, much less if there even is one.

Welcome to Ai'Tenneke, the land that knows a thousand ways to kill without getting human hands involved. If someone's willing to get their hands dirty, rather than let the land just do its work, you must be something special.

tagging @stabbydragon and @chaosandtwo because i feel like you two might enjoy this one.