“Mom!” Sutton complained, throwing the ball back – only a little too far to the right. “I gotta get better at this so I can get on the team.” “Then you really should practice with someone who knows what they’re doing,” Mom pointed out, tossing the ball gently. “Michael, maybe, or—” “Michael is not a sports guy, I can tell you that,” Sutton said scornfully. “And he’s always working, when he’s not—” When he wasn’t babysitting her and Jacob, that is, but Sutton was not about to spill those beans.

Michael picked up the crowbar and started in on the next one. His arms caught the sunbeams coming in through the window—there were fine bits of sawdust stuck on the hairs, glowing in the late afternoon light. He didn’t even want to think about how much was in his hair.

“I’d only really mind if I had to share my bedroom,” Michael said honestly, itching to fiddle with the radio so it wasn’t so quiet. “I’d mind that too, actually,” Nick said with a lifted eyebrow. Michael still wasn't used to how he understood everything so quickly, how he saw through Michael’s crap and gave it right back.

The second gymnastics girl poked her head in on Giselle’s other side, causing Jefferey to curse and swat at her in irritation. “Nick Mitchell the cute handyman guy?” “Cute? He’s old, baby,” Giselle scoffed. “He’s like. Forty.” “Sorry,” the other girl said, offering Sutton her hand around Giselle’s legs. She was shorter, no less muscled, and smiling a really nice squinty smile. “Harmony Ocampo.” “Sutton Byford,” Sutton said, shaking her hand. “Okay,” Harmony said. “Nick Mitchell the cute handyman?”

Nick had quietly told him where they were going and said not another word. Already overwhelmed by every sensation from the juddering of the truck to his own sporadic breathing, Michael had remained silent and let the road pour them out wherever it desired.

Rules: post lines from your WIP that follow the given prompts! Then change ONE prompt for the next folks!

Share some fun facts about some OCs!

• Didn't start walking till he was around 5 years old.
• Used to put on little plays where he acted every part.
• Was particularly fond of his sister Lenore growing up.
• When he lived at home he used to spy on his family members and the household staff and knew everyone's secrets.
• Would sometimes pretend to be dead/to pass out to get attention.
• Every so often just actually faints. Passes out. For real.
• His hair gets lighter over time after he runs away from home. The sun exposure turns it from black to more of a deep chocolate brown.
• Uses a face cream "to improve the complexion" that has lead in it👍
• Saw apparitions his whole life, including a recurring one of a sopping wet woman at the foot of his bed.
• Snores when he sleeps. Loudly.

• Has rounded, human-shaped ears, even though everyone else in his family/species has pointed ears.
• Does, however, have extremely sharp teeth.
• Had to have a spell cast on him in order to survive off human food.
• When first meets Tristan, lies and tells him he's a species of fairy.
• Really good at making shoes.
• Had to learn how to laugh. Sounds more like a cackle.
• Speaks in an archaic English accent, an accent spoken in the 1600s. If you've ever heard Shakespeare performed in "original pronunciation" that's sorta what he sounds like.
• Food that is stolen or otherwise "ill-gotten" or cursed tastes the best to him.
• Didn't learn to read or write until he came into the human realm.

Time for the drop-off and even though my body slowed down on the way here, my mind’s still racing.

“Abandon all hope et cetera,” she says, and we attach.

Calla pulled Enkarini aside while Colm continued to work. “She’s badly injured. We’ll be able to heal most of the damage with enough time, but that wing is beyond anything either of us can do. She’ll never fly again, not in this incarnation.” She ran her hand through her hair, dislodging some of the leaves that were stuck in it. “I don’t know how to tell her.”

Enkarini looked at the broken and shredded wing poking out of Achlys’ right side, then at Calla’s metal left arm. “Does she need that wing? I mean, does it have to be specifically that wing, or could it be replaced?”

Rules: show off some dialogue!

Rules: Share your characters' names and ONE quote from them with zero context and let others make assumptions about said character.

“Damn, babe. If you wanted privacy that bad, I could’ve gotten us a room."

"Have you tried making an avatar of him in Fighting Crown 12 and punching him in the face a few times? [...] You sure? It’s got really good haptics. Super squishy when you hit ‘em in the nose.”

“Dude, that’s so fucked,” Paris says for the seventh time.

“Monday Night Deadstream’s not the same without you. [...] I'm stuck doing it alone—who else is gonna watch House of Smiling Rats 7 with me? Paris?”

“Jacqueline, what have I told you about asking people why they're daemons?”

“You don’t want in on this one, Vy. Trust me. You don’t.”

Rules: Make a moodboard of your WIP using nine colors

ALT

A PR nightmare: that's all Vy is. They've done good with the crew the last few years. Helped and stayed out of the way, by turns; saved up a lot of good grace. About now, they figure they've just about burned through all of it. They take a swig of coffee, relishing the burn when it goes down too fast, and start taking inventory. They can't change what they did; they can't pretend they've made the last month easy or good or worthwhile for anybody. They've been a huge pain in the ass. But they can work on reminding the crew that they're not always a pain in the ass. Sometimes they like to think they're downright useful. They’d better still be fucking useful.

I woke up, the memory of scales of the basilisk coiled against my skin as I kicked off the bed sheet that I’d managed to wrap myself up in. I was drenched in a cold sweat, and by jolting myself awake, I’d reignited the pain in my side. Hissing air in through my clenched teeth, I lowered myself back down onto my mattress, pushing the heel of my hands into my side as I waited for the pain to subside.  I’d pretty much collapsed into bed as soon as Auggie had closed the portal to my home. I’d taken a bite out of the block of tofu in my fridge and a glug of milk, which tasted like it would become yoghurt in the next twenty-four hours, so that I wasn’t taking my pain meds on an empty stomach.  Carefully rolling onto my side, I checked the glowing light of the clock at the side of my bed.  “You’re getting old.” I scolded myself. I’d managed a couple of hours of unconsciousness- I could hardly call it sleep- and it was only ten at night.

I’m early, by accident, but also not. I have no idea if he’s going to show, so I’m smoking my third cigarette outside a bar I never go to, trying to come to terms with being not fully in control of the situation. It’s new, but it’s not as wrong as I expected it to be. Decisions keep making themselves these days. Seeing him in the street on Wednesday night when I went for a drive for no reason other than I felt like I needed to. Running into him outside Alchemy yesterday, miles from where either of us live. It all felt significant enough that I couldn’t walk away. It still does, so here I am. Waiting for someone who’s part bodhisattva, part lightning strike, and I don’t even know his name.