Go to your current WIP. Find the seventh line on the seventh page and copy and paste seven sentences below. Then tag seven other writers to do the same.
I was tagged by @matildajones but since I don’t actually HAVE 7 pages of a WIP right now and since i am a RULEBREAKER and I haven’t been very active on this blog lately, have 7 sentences from 7 different WIPs instead. I’m also not gonna tell you what they’re about, maybe you can guess. 👀 (Or tell me which you’re most interested in seeing more of)
“It’s just for a few days,” Cora said. “And I know for a fact you signed up to be a dorm buddy for prospective freshmen. Boyd told me you had three high schoolers stay over last semester and that it absolutely wasn’t his idea and that he was kind of annoyed that you didn’t stop them from raiding his snacks while he was in class. So I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of this.”
“First of all,” Derek said, “I restocked those, after he snapped at me a month later when I tried to grab a handful of his Doritos and he finally told me what Greenberg had done while I was also in class. I’m a dorm buddy, not a babysitter, for fuck’s sake. It’s not my fault Greenberg refused to leave the room once his parents dropped him off.”
Stiles did his best to ignore the worry that accompanied that thought: why was his blind date thoroughly engrossed in his book, rather than watching the door? He obviously wasn’t struggling with any nerves, which was fine. Good, even. One overthinker in a relationship was more than enough.
There was no indication of excitement, though, which made Stiles’s heart sink a little. Either Lydia hadn’t talked him up much, or she had, and this guy wasn’t particularly into it. That must’ve been the catch; Lydia had held onto this picture-perfect friend of hers, only pulling him out when times seemed sufficiently desperate.
Derek closed his eyes and drifted on the fringes of sleep, letting the darkness ebb and flow to the sound of the contents of Stiles’s pockets clinking, the zip of his hoodie, then of his jeans, as he let each fall to the floor.
Another moment, a soft breath of empty air, a hesitation that grew a little shorter each time, and Stiles was clambering into bed, his knees knocking Derek in the shins, his fingers digging into Derek’s ribs as he tumbled over him.
“Ow,” Derek said, out of habit.
“Shh, fuck,” Stiles said, thumping his elbow painfully against the wall as he wiggled under the sheets.
Derek moved his hand until his fingers brushed against cool skin - too cool, a part of his brain filed away, distantly connecting it to the rain he’d only registered in some back corner of his brain as he’d slept.
Stiles sighed and pushed his hand away, but only after Derek had tugged out the last tendrils of throbbing, bone-aching pain.
“You should stop doing that,” Derek said drowsily. “Last week it was your head, though, so I guess your mobility’s improving.”
Being a single dad was a lot easier when Derek still had his mom around to help out. That wasn’t the only reason he missed her, of course, or even the main one. But on days when he was particularly exhausted, or when Drew’s typically sweet nature suddenly turned sullen or angry for reasons Derek couldn’t get him to explain, his first impulse was still to reach for the phone.
He’d actually dialed a few times before remembering his mom wasn’t there anymore. He’d hung up, palms sweating, not sure if it’d be worse to hear an out of service dial tone or a stranger’s voice on the other end.
Relocating had seemed like a good idea at the time. He’d been born in Beacon Hills, and although they’d moved away when he was still in elementary school, he had fond memories of the summers there - the freedom of riding his bike around quiet neighborhoods, the sense of small town community and neighbors who watched out for each other.
Elite Supernatural Accommodations. Stiles isn’t sure whether it’s an advertisement, a boast, or an extension of the hotel’s name. Printed in neat block letters under the slightly pretentious script reading Harris Towers, it’s been the driving force behind Stiles’s entire life.
As he’s been regularly reminded since he was old enough to process and retain language, elves are inextricably tied to either their birthplace or their place of employment. For Stiles, they’re one and the same.
He’s a hotel elf. He says it out loud, to the sky shimmering with the first shreds of daylight, to test whether it feels any more fulfilling than it has for the last twenty-odd years.
Stiles toppled gracelessly into his chair when Derek’s broad back was turned, then casually leaned his chin on his hand and tried to look suitably thoughtful and attentive. “Let’s start with a few basic questions first, if you don’t mind.”
Derek nodded, sitting on the edge of his chair, hands clasped together on top of his knees.
“I’ll be taking notes, and if you’re okay with it, recording our conversation for reference.”
“Oh, I - sure. I guess that’s fine. I didn’t know that was a part of it. I thought this was - confidential?”
“I actually saw it a couple of weeks ago,” Derek finally said, sliding two fingers into the front pocket of his tight jeans and withdrawing a tiny slip of paper. He unfolded it carefully and leaned across the desk to hand it to Stiles. Their fingers brushed, and Derek’s twitched sharply, as though he didn’t particularly like being touched. When he sat back, he settled a little more fully into his chair, tugging the sleeves of his soft, slightly oversized cardigan over his hands.
Stiles looked down at the scrap, which listed the name of his study and his email address. When he looked back up, not sure what he was supposed to do with it, Derek nodded at him.
“I tore it off then, and kept it with me for a while, trying to make up my mind.”
And to be slightly more of a rule-follower, I guess I gotta tag 7 people. @mad-madam-m @bleep0bleep @cobrilee @the-deep-magic @alocalband @inkforwordsart @thewinterotter
