“Wait!” Gansey’s hand lands on Henry’s chest and shoves him back to the wall. “Just wait a second, Henry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
Henry doesn’t know what Gansey didn’t mean; all he knows is that Gansey’s hand is still on his chest, holding him to the wall. The difference between them had always been significant; Henry had noticed. Henry thought about it a lot, in fact – even when sharing tiny motel rooms and crowding into tents and sprawling at all angles in the Pig made it a dangerous thought to have.
Early Wip Wednesday because I will be traveling on actual wednesday and will probably be using my time tuesday to Freak Out :)
The Chengsey CNC Wip has gained a wordcount... It also may end up with a nice lump of whump to start it...
Henry’s bound wrists and laced fingers shift to cover his lap. “How’d you get here?” he asks, enunciating the words over his headache, trying to buy himself a distraction.
“What?” Gansey’s brows furrow. He catches the shift. “Your wrists.” There’s a movement, a tiny flick. “Jesus, Henry, doesn’t that hurt?”
Okay. So. I want to start this out by saying that if you're waiting on any of these updates/fics, I love you (lots) and also I'm going through Something right now and I'm not sure when any of them will actually be done.
I am running on very little sleep, less money than that, so much caffeine (insert vibrating skeleton meme), and I will once again be traveling about 2000 miles next week to get to my next job...which is in a fairly remote area with questionable cell service and wi-fi. (thumbs up, melty face -> i'm on desktop and don't want to waste time on emojipedia)
Anyway, I am slowly but surely working on these, (among others.)
Final Parametric Chapter (Bedroom Hymns V)
Ronan holds his fist out to Blue, but she shoves it aside to hug him instead. Her arms cinch so tightly around his ribs that it seems like he is the one leaving her behind instead of the other way around.
"Calla's coming to check on you at the end of the week and --" She pauses when Ronan's arms come around her in return. There's a silent second of them appreciating the gesture before each looks embarrassed and mutually pulls away. "If she doesn't tell you; you call me."
Parametric Epilogue I
Ronan's feet dangle over the edge of the loft. He kicks them idly as he watches Kavinsky and Adam inspect his... Charge? Recruit? Foster?
Declan says, "They're looking for him and they're going to find him."
Ronan says, "They were looking for me, too."
"And they found you," Adam reminds.
Additionally, I have come to a decision on the Epilogues. I'm going to shorten what I've got to tie up the ends in the 3 epilogues as originally planned. And then, sometime later, I'm going to polish up the long versions and post them as mini-stories (if all goes well)
--
Declan Genfic, newly named: "The Stories We Tell Ourselves"
Declan’s mother had flinched. It had been almost reflexive: a slight wince whenever Ronan hugged her until he finally stopped trying altogether. Just his presence, too close, made her guards come up. It was a reaction she mostly avoided with Niall and Declan, though she wasn’t overly affectionate with them either.
(Every smile and pet from his mother had been a coveted prize – Ronan would never understand it now that he’d been spoilt with cheap attention.)
Not going to lie, y'all are probably going to get the Declan Genfic (title pending) before anything else because it's easier to work on right now. With it being the last chapter of the main parametric story, I'm being a bit precious with it ^^;
That said, a snippet from the polished portion of the Declan Genfic:
His parents look at him in a long silence.
Despite an entirely self-imposed bedtime, he has a childish moment of panic at being caught awake. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticks off the hour. He’d never known the precise time – but it’s late. Late enough that, in stories, the fae and body-snatchers would be stalking the good people of the world.
Yet, even with their faces illuminated and guilty, they don’t look like ghouls to him.
And another portion of Bedroom Hymns V
“Buzzkill,” Kavinsky pouts and turns to Ronan for support, only to find him solidly asleep. “Seriously?”
“He didn’t go far.” Adam says in that eerie way that he says most of his psychic things.
Kavinsky doesn’t need him to say it. He can feel Ronan’s dreaming like a tug on a fishing line. He wonders how far out the connection will carry; would there be echoes of it out in South America or is this the only line that ties them together? The mechanics hadn’t meant much to him before, but now he wishes that he’d had the same drive as Adam to figure it all out.
And another smidgen of Epilogue 1 of Parametric:
“Hey, can you give me a ride after this? The subway makes me feel like I’m getting hepatitis.”
“Parrish?” Declan guesses.
“We’re in the same time zone,” Kavinsky says by way of explanation. “Don’t you want to be part of a miracle?”
Declan busies himself with a message on his blackberry before replying. “I don’t want to be a part of anything you two have going on.”
“That’s hurtful, D,” Kavinsky says and pats his hand over his heart.
“After I drove all this way for you, you can’t do me a favor? It’s only a couple hours.”
everyone in the notes we are all holding hands. everyone who hasnt worked on a wip in weeks or months or years, its okay. we are going slow but we are going
There are going to be days (or weeks, or months) where you sit down to write and feel... disconnected. From your voice, from your characters, from your ideas. Like the person who used to write your stories just packed up and left.
They didn't. They're just tired. Here's how to keep writing anyway:
Lower the bar (Until it's on the floor)
You are not here to write something brilliant. You are here to write something. A paragraph. A sentence. A single line of dialogue. Movement matters way more than quality.
Write around the story
Don't force it. If you can't write the scene, try:
⋆ A character ramble / journal entry
⋆ A conversation that won't be included in the final draft
⋆ A list of things the character would never admit out loud
⋆ A messy summary of what should happen
Engage with the story from a different angle.
Borrow a voice until yours comes back
No, not with AI. Read something that feels close to what you want to write, or watch a scene that captures the tone, then write immediately after. Not to copy, to reignite your instincts.
Write the emotion, not the plot.
What is your character feeling in this moment? What are they afraid of? What do they want but won't say? What's being kept from them? The emotion leads, the plot catches up later.
Stop trying to "feel like a writer" first.
You don't write when you feel like a writer. You feel like a writer because you write.
You are still a writer, even on the days it feels distant. Especially then.
However, once this chapter is fully edited and posted, if anyone wants to see the vibes that become the scenes... i do actually find the conversion process to be kinda fun.
The Worst Wip Wednesday you have ever been, but you HAVE seen it.
From the Next Chapter of Parametric (Bedroom Hymns V)
Kavinsky reaches for his shades again, and this time Ronan lets him. He swears a few times, softly, and glances at the bag by Adam’s foot. “It’s fine there. Can’t trip on it from the bedroom.”
Adam says, “Really?”
Kavinsky’s brows shoot up above his shades. “You think I’m kidding?”
From the first epilogue of Parametric:
"Great," Kavinsky snaps, then says the thing that Adam's had enough tact to keep quiet: "This is going to be a fucking problem."
From the Declan Genfic:
"It's so --" His fingers skid over the shell violently, the peas inside squished to pulp with one untamed move.
Reckless.
He drops the mess to the grass by his knee and takes another from the bowl in Aurora's lap. This one he picks apart, quiet and meticulous. "He didn't think it through. Sometimes, I don't think he thinks at all."
While I work on my main project, I've had the rest of my RAM hijacked by a Genfic about Declan and how he viewed/dealt with Aurora replacing Mor. I just copied this to type from a handwritten snippet, so It's still very rough.
Yes. Declan longed to go. But he peers back at the strange woman. What would happen to Ronan if they left? Left him alone? Some sick part of Declan wanted to be an only child again but the idea of being away and finding it so upon his return struck an uncomfortable fear into him.
Why did his dad trust like this? Why couldn’t he be the one to see the danger?
“Boyo?” Niall prompts, his abundant confidence shrinking to something less bruising. “You’ll go?”
“I’ll stay.” And then, seeing his dad’s puzzled frown, he adds, “This time.”
adansey d/s au!!! no pressure to ever continue it but if you did I would be so interested!!
Aw thanks for sending this. At this point I've got little more than a few snippets and a rough outline of what I think the first couple chapters would be, so we'll see if it develops.
I'm running into the problem of too many ideas/projects and not enough energy time right now, though, and my brain has currently been hijacked by a Declan-central genfic and fine-tuning the last story chapter of Parametric and drafting the epilogues ^^;;;
I think I need two of me, a time loop, or a million dollars direct deposited into my bank account with no strings attached to actually be good at juggling them,
but until then I might post more stuff on WIP Wednesdays
do u think. post trk. ronan is back at that store and he sees that snowglobe and for some reason he feels compelled to buy it. he doesn't know why, but something is tugging on the back of his shirt and telling him to. and back at the barns in the sunlight the glitter is so bright and alive and it feels like someone else would love this but he can't place who and it bothers him to no end so he just shakes it again and watches the glitter fall and revels in the feeling of almost.
Oh Goodness, It's been forever since I've done one of these, but I'd like to get back on the horse!
First, A bit from the next (and last main story) chapter of Parametric:
...Autumn comes, but it does not stay; they fling snowballs at each other in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. They find marble beneath the snow and their footprints raise up. A gleaming staircase soars up and up, each step forming just in time for a sure-footed ascent. They step off into clouds and it’s summer below. The farmhouse stares up at them, the screen door swinging in the same breeze that ruffles their clothes a thousand feet above.
This is how it’d look from a plane, Adam thinks, reaching absently into the air. He’d never flown before; he’d probably have to book a flight for fall break if he wanted to see Ronan in the few compacted days he’d have off.
And a MAYBE wip that I've written a few scenes for. Not sure it'll turn into a real story... but what if I expanded the Adansey D/S universe to be one??
“My therapist says –"
Gansey winces.
“What?” Adam cocks his head at him and snorts indignation. “You didn’t think I’d be in therapy?”
Gansey blinks rapidly as if startled. “No. Or, yes – well,” He adjusts his hold on his knee and drops his leg to the floor to lean forward towards Adam. “What I mean is that I’m glad you’re talking to someone and I think therapy is an invaluable tool that many could use to learn about themselves. But – I’d prefer if we didn’t phrase discussions around it. It makes me feel like I’m in an argument with someone I’ve never met.”
Adam arches a stubborn eyebrow at him. “Are we in an argument?”
"I don’t want to be…" He leans back to square his shoulders. "But I need to be clear that this is a non-negotiable for me. I won’t do a scene without time for aftercare.”
Prompt/CW: Writer's Choice, clothed/nude, intercrural sex
Gansey’s fingers stroke along the firm, elegant curve of Adam’s inner thigh. He anoints one with slick, warm oil and then switches to the other thigh with the same reverent touch. He puts the tube to his fingers, coats them again, and repeats. One thigh, the other, both painted thoroughly; between them, Adam’s arousal lies heavy and patient, untouched.
“Almost done,” Gansey assures him and swipes another tantalizing stripe over sensitive skin. The cuff of his shirt brushes low, an accident or a tease, and Adam’s stomach flips. “There.” He puts his hands low on Adam’s thighs, thumbs pressing appreciatively into the soft fat that had developed in the years they hadn’t seen each other. “Good?”
Adam’s heart is a rabbit kicking its feet against his chest, but he nods anyway.
Gansey wipes the last of the lube onto the sheets. He undoes his cuff links and presses them into Adam’s hands with a soft hold these for me, please, before he rolls his sleeves up to strain around the curve of his biceps. He undoes two buttons at this collar to show a rakish triangle of tanned skin, the inviting divot between his collarbones. Then, he undoes his belt. Unbuttons his waistband, drops his zipper. He pulls himself out, the dark v of his unbuttoned slacks framing the long, hard length of him.
He presses Adam’s knees together and lifts his calves to where they wrinkle the fabric covering one, strong shoulder.
Adam’s hamstrings ping at the stretch as he moves in closer. Gansey’s slacks rub against Adam’s bare skin, the teeth of the zipper dig into him with measured unpleasantness. Every touch of clothing is a remind that Adam has none, that he’s left as vulnerable and exposed as he can be – that his dignity is only intact because he’s allowed this in the first place.He swallows, closes his eyes.
“Squeeze tight,” Gansey orders. “tight as you can.”
Adam obeys, knees pressing into each other with a diligence he expects might bruise.
Gansey works his fingers between Adam’s thighs, testing their grip and the slide of the lube. He whispers gentle praise and then Adam feels the stiff push of him moving through. “Good God,” he rasps, leaning forward to come out to the other side.
Adam’s hamstrings strain; his face flushes. He tightens his grip around the cufflinks and feels their dull edges dig into his palm.
Gansey steadies himself with a hand by Adam’s head and another pressed firmly to the outside of Adam’s thighs, keeping them together under the weary flex of his hips when he retreats. He presses himself back through the narrow, gripping slit of Adam’s thighs. The full length of him slides hard and hot, gliding through the oil until his head peeks through their expanse and rubs slick and enticing against Adam’s sac.
Adam’s breath hitches at the feeling. He opens his eyes and tilts his head to watch it happen again. Gansey’s cock, between his legs, disappearing and reappearing at insistent intervals. That almost-nothing brush against him. The jangle and tap of his belt mimicking the rhythm of the thrusting. Every heightened touch of skin to skin where clothing can’t intercede.
“You feel good,” Gansey purrs, and Adam fights his fatiguing muscles to tighten his legs for him.
