#I mean it I'll reimburse for the pool noodle someone please just make me finish writing something

[whatevertheweather]

Hello, salutations, happy Wednesday. I've been thinking I want to share something, but I don't know what to share, so I'm going to share a little of everything. Every WIP I have. Six snippets. Roughly in order of how much I've been working on them. Here we go.

One:

Baz had thought of Simon as someone who would indulge in any available vice, but it turns out there are only a few, very particular vices he cares about, and the rest is anyone else’s problem. “I don’t need much,” he said, which is an extremely relative statement at best and a reckless conflation of ‘much’ with ‘many different things’ at worst. He had, in his own words, half a drinking problem for a bit, and he’s never much interested when there’s alcohol on the literal or metaphorical table, but they did get high together the other night. (“Drink is to numb the bad. Weed is to augment the good.”) Simon had brought them up to the roof of Baz’s building because he wanted to look at the moon. They laid down under a sky of sullen grey clouds turned sickly by the city lights, and Baz said, “Where is it?” and Simon shrugged, and then he found them a blunt to smoke instead. They passed it back and forth until Simon told him he wanted to eat the stars, and Baz asked why. Simon said he thought it would feel good. Baz laughed until Simon shut him up with a hand over his mouth and tried to explain that it would be a power trip, that you’d never feel more pure and full than having a star in your belly. Baz told him you would never feel more dead, and Simon threatened to make him dead, and the moon never showed her face, but it was rather a lovely night anyway.

Two:

“What?” Baz says, and Simon’s eyes snap up to his. “Nothing, just, you—” What? You have a nice throat? “—you have a bit of fluff,” he mumbles, and he reaches out to brush the lie off of his neck. It was a bad idea, because now his fingertips are on Baz’s skin, and he’s cool to the touch, he’s softer than Simon expected, and it’s right there, all he wants to do is trace a finger over the shape of his Adam’s apple, down to the hollow of his throat. His collarbones, too, they’ve a nice slope to them. Gentle, smooth. His shirt’s open a bit (his shirt’s always open a bit), and his chest hair peeks out of it. He’s got more than Simon. Simon would get his fingers into that, too, rub his thumb over his chest, push his palm flat over his heart. “Surely you’ve gotten it by now.”

Three:

Simon’s curiosity was losing the fight, honestly. On the whole, he was just so very glad Agatha had whatever weird baggage this was so that Simon had the chance to fix what fate had boggled by not sending him to the same school to room with Baz. (And look at Baz. And talk to Baz. And maybe get under Baz.) (Definitely get under Baz.) (He’d have found an excuse to manage it at school, one way or another.) “And now?” Simon asked. He was downright giddy with it every time he got Baz to look at him. He felt it all the way down to his toes.

Four:

He thinks on that first night, as he shoves at the sash, fights with the frame, rests his hands on the sill to breathe once he’s managed it, that he might be truly, profoundly pathetic. That he craves the familiar, the routine, the mundanity of Snow’s existence so desperately that he will do this for just an echo of it. But he thinks on the second night that he is wrong. That maybe he wants the familiar but it is not this, because the open air doesn’t make Baz think of Snow. It makes him think without relent about how fucking cold he is. No other thought stands a chance. He buries himself under every blanket and he shivers still, he watches that open window and he curls in on himself, he feels no warmth and that is what he wants, something physical and immediate that is so loud in his head that there’s no room for anything else. He aches with the cold, and there are worse things to think about than that.

Five:

This is the first time he’s felt suited to actually sitting in this car like he belongs here instead of accidentally existing in it like some kind of dodgy hitchhiker, and it’s making him restless. He feels like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. He huffs again as he drops his head to the side to look at Baz. “Can I hold your hand?”

Six:

He’d gone out to the alley to get some fresh blood in him. It was a stupid idea—you had to be drunk to be humming happily while you sucked blood from a rat’s neck, and from there sobering up could only be a steep downward tumble—but Baz was a stupid drunk. The sort who thought the line between stupidity and brilliance was very thin, and that he was always wobbling on the correct side of it. The sort who thought he could get away with flashing fang in central London just because everyone else in a three-block radius was also being a stupid drunk.

This is an open invitation for someone to come round and hit me with a pool noodle until I finish any of these, please and thank you.

Now, tags:

@fatalfangirl @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @moodandmist @artsyunderstudy @cutestkilla @confused-bi-queer @ivelovedhimthroughworse @basiltonbutliketheherb @martsonmars @facewithoutheart @captain-aralias @forabeatofadrum @aristocratic-otter @ionlydrinkhotwater

#I mean it I'll reimburse for the pool noodle someone please just make me finish writing something #I'm goin bonkers seeing the dates I started these wips #six doesn't sound like much but many are multi chap k #and each chapter is its own wip in my mind #wip wednesday #my writing