WIP Game Rules: Go to page 7 of your WIP, count down 7 lines, share 7 sentences, and then tag 7 other writers.
This turned into more like pick a random file of preexisting stuffs and oh we’ve been talking about Sith!OC lately hmmm let’s go back into those three years of hell we haven’t entirely figured out yet - basically, aaaaaaaahhh!
So what if, what if, Eliot got stuck in a time loop. What if, in this time loop, Parker and Hardison die. And die. And die. And live! And then the same set of actions cause them to die the next time. What if Eliot has to live through them dying over and over and over again with no way to know for sure if he’s going to be able to save them this time, even though he’s saved them before?
The little date on his phone keeps telling him it’s Thursday.
He calls Hardison. When Hardison answers, he can’t help the shuddering sigh of relief that escapes him.
“Stay there,” he says, and, “something fucked up is going on,” and, “I think you’re being watched.”
He thinks about Groundhog Day.
He thinks about Parker, in a sticky pool of her own blood.
He thinks about Hardison, crumpling to the concrete before he can get to him.
He thinks, “thank you,” and tears out of the apartment.
He finds the men outside their apartment easily enough now that he knows he’s looking for something, kills two of them with quick twists of the neck and interrogates the third. Before he kills him, the man twists out of his grasp and manages to gasp into the radio, “Move in, now.”
He races for their apartment, takes the stairs three at a time, when he gets there, the apartment is trashed and Parker and Hardison are missing. This is… only slightly better.
He finds their bodies three hours later.
He gets drunk, and before he falls asleep, he thinks, “please.”
Tagged by these baes @nefertsukia and @dragonescence! The rules are as follows: Go to page 7 of your WIP, go to the seventh line, share seven sentences, and tag other writer-bloggers to continue the challenge.
Lmao this is just something that’s been sitting my drafts forever and idk if it’s worth finishing or if it’ll even post in the tags which is why i can’t post my completed drabbles till i figure out why that keeps happening jfc
His tongue slipped into her mouth, gently taking her by surprise and at once the heat she’d lost seemed to seep back in her bones.She made a small noise at the back of her throat; a fluttering whisper of pleasure that reverberated through his own thudding heartbeat.
“Hiccup,” she mumbled between his insistent kisses, “Let me at least go check on Stormfly in the stables.”
He wrapped himself tighter around her, tossing the rest of his leather armor to the floor. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said sternly.
“But I’m not hurt-”
“- It’s ragnarok out there, Astrid. You can’t see anything past your nose in that blizzard.”
She noted the way he was draped over her, how he held her close, lips pressing heatedly against her throat. Clever fingers slipped beneath the hem of her tunic and began drawing lazy circles over her stomach to tickle her…
“Chief,” she whispers, “you’re just selfish and want me to warm your bed.”
He flushes as red as her tunic and grins against her skin. “Nonsense. I’m looking out for the safety of my citizens.”
Foggy originally thought [Karen] was secretly seeing Matt again, but when he broached that subject one evening, she shook her head. “Matt and I were both in love with someone we wanted the other to be, not who we really are,” she said, voice sad but not regretful. “I’m not willing to change who I am to fit into someone else’s box. Or on their pedestal,” she added, corners of her mouth twitching up into a wry smile.
Dorian glanced around the bar nervouslybefore burying his face in his drink. Visiting Skyhold, the new gay bar downthe street from Campus, had seemed like a good idea in theory. Except
that when he and Felix had discussed it, Felix was supposed to come with him as
a show of support, not be stuck in his dorm with the flu.
Dorian sighed. He’d thought he’d be fine to
come on his own. He’d been out to his friends for months, surely visiting a gay
bar for the first time shouldn’t have seemed like such a big step.
Except that it was, and he really
could have used a friend next to him to help calm his nerves. The loud music
and strobe lighting certainly weren’t doing the job.
He tipped his glass up to take another
drink, and found it regrettably empty.
As he turned to order another drink, a
large figure settled on the bar stool next to him. He glanced over and up (and
up), taking in the broad shoulders and muscular arms before his eyes reached
the man’s face. He was a Qunari (unsurprising, considering the rest of him),
with large horns that stuck out the sides, and an eye patch (an actual eye patch)
over his left eye. His other eye…
Oh Maker, his other eye was looking at him.
Dorian was fairly certain he didn’t
blush at getting caught staring – and in the dark, who could say otherwise?
“Hey,” he replied, his mouth
suddenly dry as all of his usual wit flew out the door. He wasn’t even sure if
he could be heard over the loud music.
“Saw you standing alone, and thought
you looked a bit rattled. Did you want some company?”
Dorian considered saying no; He’d had no
intentions of trying to pick up anyone tonight, after all. But something
in the Qunari’s expression told him that it wasn’t necessarily sex that was
“I don’t know, to be honest,” he
admitted with a light chuckle.
“Well, if you decide you do, my
buddies and I are sitting over there.” He nudged his head in the direction
of a small group of people gathered around a pool table. “And I wouldn’t
say no to a dance.”
Without another word, and with a
surprisingly genuine looking smile, the Qunari got up and walked away.
Dorian wasn’t sure how long he stared after
him, but it was apparently long enough for the bartender to notice. “You
should go for it.”
He turned, startled, and the Elven woman
behind the counter giggled, “C'mon, yer not gonna get laid by just starin’
Dorian ran a hand across his face – Okay,
he was definitely blushing now. “Maker I need a drink.”
“Well, that I can help you
with. How drunk d'you wanna get?”
“Just enough for courage,” he
“Here, try this.” She filled a
shot glass with something red. “Sourpuss. ‘Cause you’ve been a sour puss
all night, get it?” She snorted at her own joke, and Dorian rolled his
eyes. “Alright, but serious, that’ll top off your buzz without getting you
Dorian reached for his wallet, but the elf
waved her hand. “Nah, it’s on me so long as you go talk to ‘im.”
Well, who could say no to that?
He downed the shot – Maker, sour indeed –
then gave his head a shake. “Alright. I’ll just ask him to dance. That’s
simple, right? It could lead somewhere, but it doesn’t have to,
“Right! Now go!” She made a
shooing motion with her hand, giggling.
(There’s a bit more that I have written, but this was a good spot to end it. And yes, the bartender is Sera.)
mouth against his is still warm from the cocoa.
He smells like chocolate and whipped cream and cinnamon. His lips are soft and sweet and when he
gasps, the tip of Jack’s tongue brushes his and Jack shivers, stepping closer.
This is from a probably will never get finished Percy and Annabeth in Tartarus fic where Annabeth gets attacked by some poisonous monster who’s venom makes her fall into a coma and have Inception-like dreams of a totally normal life. Eventually, there’s a “Choose your choice!” scene where Annabeth would decide if she’d stay in dreamland (aka die) or go back to Tartarus.
“You look exhausted. Stay up late studying for this test, Wise Girl?”
Annabeth glanced up from her book, glaring over the top as a certain black haired boy slid into the seat next to her. He smiled at her, the teasing sort of grin her reserved for her and her alone, and Annabeth felt her glare weaken just a bit as her chest flared with warmth. Percy Jackson was hard person to stay mad at, although his pestering during Geometry almost always drove her to her wits’ end.
“I thought I told you to stop calling me that, Jackson,” she replied, snapping her book closed and stuffing it in her bag. It would be of no use trying to read with Percy present and there were only a few minutes left before the bell rang anyway. “Or has your memory been compromised by one too many basketballs to the head?”
“Way harsh, Annabeth,” he said, playfully putting his hand over his heart as if she’d stabbed him. She noticed he was wearing the Goode High basketball team’s warm-up sweat suits — a standard practice for the team on game days — and decided he looked rather good in it. “Maybe I <i>do</i> remember and I just like riling you up, huh? You get all flustered and cute when you’re angry.”
Percy’s obvious flirtation startled her. Usually, she made most of the subtle passes that tended to go right over his head. He wasn’t a very good flirt yet; it just wasn’t something he’d gotten the time to practice before they — they —
Her temples started to ache again. Before they what?
“Oh, whatever, Seaweed Brain,” she sneered, the silly nickname slipping out before she can stop herself.
One of Percy’s thick, dark eyebrows arched with curiosity. “Seaweed Brain? Where did that come from?”
“I — ” Annabeth stuttered, her vision dimming as the pain in her forehead grew. No, this wasn’t going to happen again! She focused on Percy’s face, willing herself to stay in the moment, to not see that horrible bloody man again. “I don’t know. It just… popped out.”
“Seaweed Brain,” Percy muttered to himself, grinning like he’d just won a battle. The bell rang and he swiveled to face the front of the room. “I’ll have to remember that one.”
She nodded and, slowly, the pressure in her head began to lessen and her vision returned to normal. She sighed, tension leaking out of her shoulders. What was wrong with her? Maybe she should go see the nurse. There was a strand of the flu going around that was particularly rough and…
Her thoughts trailed off as she glanced down at her notebook. A paralyzing cold settled in her veins as she read the message scrawled in shiny red ink across the pages.
Eames loves animals. He especially loves dogs with smushed-in faces, so of course when they walk past a bulldog, Eames has to drop to all fours and make friends. This is how Arthur ends up a block ahead of him. They’re almost home, after all; Arthur has no desire to see—or be seen with—his boyfriend (and that still feels weird to think, even after a year) tongue kissing a dog. There are more and more things Arthur will do for Eames, but he refuses to associate with that.
He’s feeling a little harried, wondering now if Eames will be annoyed that Arthur left him there, then wondering if he can make Eames wash his mouth out before he touches Arthur, by the time he reaches the wrought-iron gates outside his building, and then something happens that distracts him from Eames altogether. A stranger standing patiently outside the gates looks over at him and says, “You must be Arthur.”
“What?” Arthur’s so startled, he stops punching in the key code. “How do you—?”
The man gives a low, pleasant chuckle. Then he says, “You are just Eames’ type.”
Arthur’s stomach pitches. For a second he panics. This cannot be happening, this total stranger cannot just walk up and know about Arthur and Eames…
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says sharply, feeling his face get hot. He turns back to the gates, punches the code in wrong and tries again, desperately willing himself to be far away or at least on the other side of these gates.
“Arthur.” The man’s voice is gentle. It’s low-pitched and, Arthur is just realizing, heavily French-accented. “My name is Henri.”
If he expects this to mean something to Arthur, it doesn’t. He offers a hand, smiling pleasantly, and Arthur wars with himself, almost trembling, before he takes it. As he does, a rush of understanding hits him. The stranger stands a couple inches taller than Arthur, and he’s—Arthur is no real judge of these things, but he’s—devastatingly handsome, really. He’s wearing sunglasses, so Arthur can’t see his eyes, but his smile is earnest and his teeth are white and straight, and his wavy, sandy-brown hair is parted on one side.
And he’s gay. Arthur knows it. He takes his hand back. He feels ambushed now.
“It’s good to meet you,” Henri says politely, when Arthur fails to say anything at all.
“I don’t know who you are,” Arthur says bluntly.
For the first time, Henri’s gentle smile falters. “Oh,” he says. “I … I thought Eames might have …”
Arthur just shrugs stiffly. “You’re his friend?” he says, intending to tell the guy just to wait for Eames to finish making out with that dog so Arthur can escape inside. But Henri answers:
“I’m his ex-boyfriend.”
Arthur wants to be anywhere but on this sidewalk, having this conversation. Inexplicable embarrassment floods him. Nobody ever warned him of this. Nobody had told him, upon agreeing to be Eames’ boyfriend, that he might one day have to meet Eames’ ex.
Behind him, Eames says, “That dog’s name was Porkchop, isn’t that cute? Something wrong with the gates, love—?” and then he stops dead at Arthur’s side, because Henri has taken off his sunglasses and fixed Eames in his bright blue eyes. Eames makes a choked sound.
“Hi,” Henri says, kind of shyly.
“Henri.” Numbly, Eames takes a step toward him.
Arthur watches, helpless, as they reach for each other and then are hugging, holding each other far too tightly, in Arthur’s opinion. He and Eames don’t hug like that. And then Henri clasps Eames’ face and kisses him. Suddenly Arthur knows, just like he knew Henri was gay, the knowledge settling in his gut like a block of freezing ice to paralyze him: he is going to lose Eames to this guy.
From the Teen Wolf/PJO I have yet to write more than three scenes for because I have no direction of plot, weeps.
“McCall! Where’s McCall, who’s seen him? Put your hand down, Greenberg, I know you’re lying. MCCALL!”
Scott yanked his gym shirt over his head, hurriedly pushing his arms through his sleeves as Coach Finstock’s abrasive bark echoed throughout the locker room. Stiles looked up from lacing up his tennis shoes, grimacing.
“He can’t want to talk about lacrosse… wait, no that’s a stupid question, of course he wants to talk about lacrosse,” Stiles said. “All that man ever wants to talk about is lacrosse. And his one remaining bal — ”
“McCaaaall, will you get your ass over here already? I’m not yelling it for the fun of it, you know!” Finstock yelled, poking his head around the corner, his eyes wide with manic glee. “And don’t think I didn’t hear that, Stilinski. You’re running laps for the period; your little chicken legs need to get in shape anyway. C’mere, McCall!”
Blaine’s five seconds away from borrowing the latest novel in the Southern Vampire Series when he sees him. The new librarian. He’s sitting behind the front counter with glossy sculpted brown hair and glasses sliding low on his nose. His thumb is wedged between his teeth and he’s rocking gently back and forth on his swivel chair as he flips through the pages of a book, mug at his elbow.
He’s the sexiest librarian in the world. He has to be. And by merit of being a librarian who also happens to be sexy, he’s at least three times sexier than if he were, for example, a sexy lawyer or a sexy cowboy.
Blaine’s the first person to admit he gets a bit of a boner for books, but oh god, his local library has hired the sexiest librarian in existence.
“I didn’t think you’d be this freaked by the idea. I
mean, you’ve always been kind of interested in him.”
Stiles throws a hand up at that because wait, hello, no.
“I’ve said he was hot.
And I’m not going back on that because he is ridiculously attractive, but there’s a difference between wanting
to grind up on a guy for a few hours and being stuck spending your life with him.”
has a thing for pinning Stiles, and Stiles apparently has a serious thing for
goading Derek into it, until four days in he hisses out an insult while Derek’s
doing dishes, and ends up with a bruise low on this back from the counter,
soap-suds soaking his shirt in two neat fists, and Talia nearly catching them
mid-grind when she walks in from the dining room thirty seconds later with the
rest of the dinner plates.
“Okay then.” She smiles, then kneels, the covers falling down and revealing her body. She reaches behind herself to unhook her bra, and waits until the Doctor’s gaze has found her eyes again. “Lie on your stomach.”
“Because I say so. Come on, lie on your stomach.”
He hesitates, then reluctantly complies. “Christina, this really isn’t the first time I've—”
“I know, I know. You’ve done this before. Point it out one more time, and I’m going to stop believing you.”
This is a fic about my Christina role play muse and Jasper’s AU Ten role play muse having sex. Yep, shameless porn. Pretty much. I just need to actually write the porn part. This Ten is even more stuck up about sex than canon!Tens tend to be, so getting him to the point where he will let Christina do anything to him is a challenge.