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hi hi, me again, reds again, sinning again
I have been one impatient fucker lately, especially when it comes to writing. Why won't all my projects write themselves? Why do I need sleep? Why does everything require energy, writing included?
Anyway, that's all to say I need to remember the key thing: writing porn breaks writing slumps.
Not that it's done yet, but here's a relatively sfw cookie, save for one comment at the end, I guess.
---
Bed by 6. Please pack so we’ll be ready to leave tomorrow. Prep, please.
Brick studied the text, then looked up and gave the bedroom the once over. His last checkpoint before he was to climb into bed and fall asleep—or, at least, make an attempt. The days were getting longer; sundown wasn’t to come until nearly two hours after his ordered bedtime. Melatonin would hardly have an affect on his superpowered body; weed had a better chance but he hadn’t packed any since this had, ostensibly, been a business trip for the both of them. With the power of flight, he could always make a quick stop home for anything he was missing. But that hardly seemed worth the effort.
I’ll make do.
He’d done as she asked. Their things were packed, save for some overnight essentials. The weeklong stay in their borrowed house had given them just enough time to settle in, so packing had been a little more intense than usual, but between the short hours Blossom had been “home” and the gift of superspeed, there hadn’t been that much to do. Kitchen, living, bath, plus any miscellaneous rooms were done. And now, so was the bedroom.
A small pile of personal bags was now resting next to the front door—they tended to travel light—as well as a separate pile of work equipment that was to be left behind for the cleanup team that would follow tomorrow afternoon, after they had left.
Blossom’s team had only needed Brick for the first couple of days, when they were tracking down the lair. He had questioned the ethics of his hire—only freelance, but still. Seeing as he was married to the Prevention of Villainy’s (POV’s) department head, it seemed at odds with standard business practice.
“It’s not feasible to put a normal person at risk, though,” Blossom had explained. “More resources, higher margins of error—I used to do it myself, but they refuse to ever since I was promoted.”
This obviously frustrated her, Brick could tell, but he could also tell she wasn’t willing to expend the political capital to push it. Besides, Brick was a supervillain. Had been, whatever. The argument was he was particularly well-equipped to locate and break into a hidden supervillain’s lair, being a former supervillain himself. Not that he’d ever had his own lair, of course. Lairs were for those who didn’t have powers, who had something to hide. The only thing Brick had ever needed to hide were feelings, and that, he’d never needed physical space for.
So he’d put in a few hours the first two days, then reverted back into house husband mode while Blossom and her team of so-called specialists completed the breakdown and extraction. The whole idea had been that this could serve as a mini-getaway of sorts, at least when Blossom wasn’t working. An unfamiliar house, an unfamiliar city—in theory, an upgrade from their city center apartment. In theory. In practice, the house was a generic build in a subdivision of generic builds, the small city it bordered had nothing but chain restaurants, itself mainly a commuter town. Nobody actually worked or hung out here. And Blossom’s hours had kept her from being home long enough for them to actually take advantage of going anywhere more interesting.
So it was with a not insignificant amount of relief that Brick packed their things. He—and he couldn’t believe the thought even crossed his mind—couldn’t wait to get back to Townsville. He missed their apartment, which was a little cramped but had gradually been filled with things that were meaningful and precious. He missed their kitchen, with spices overflowing out of the cabinets and onto the counters. Here he’d had all the space in the world but a fraction of the items available. He missed the city noise, the fullness of the sound, the anonymity of being in a crowd. Though it wasn’t like he and Blossom were ever truly anonymous. But still. He missed it.
At the very least, it had proven that house living was not for him. Honestly, househusbandry barely was. But… well, with the right motivation, it was another story.
There was one drawer in the bedroom he hadn’t touched, one with a blank, bright pink post-it on it. It had appeared shortly after they had arrived, and it was part of the reason Brick hadn’t taken off after the second day. Blossom had brought something. A surprise. Or, if not a surprise, the promise of something special.
Prep, please.
Those last two words were what he had been fixated on, all throughout his prep, all throughout his packing and tidying, and now he allowed his attention to volley between the message and the drawer, wondering, wondering what she had brought.
It was their last night here.
Prep, please.
There was one last thing left for his prep before he could climb into bed—he shucked his clothes, tossed them into a laundry bag, and went to rub one out in the shower so he wouldn’t embarrass himself later when she finally came home.
---
Writing progresses! I still dream of the day I can truly make the pivot to doing this full-time. I mean, not writing nsfw fic all the time. Just, like, some of the time, in between other writing projects. ykwim.
Oh! Speaking of ppg stuff! Remember that PpG zine that rb printed years ago? Now you can get it digitally here.
AO3 | FFNet | Ko-Fi | Mailing List
Anyway, that's all to say I need to remember the key thing: writing porn breaks writing slumps.
Not that it's done yet, but here's a relatively sfw cookie, save for one comment at the end, I guess.
---
Bed by 6. Please pack so we’ll be ready to leave tomorrow. Prep, please.
Brick studied the text, then looked up and gave the bedroom the once over. His last checkpoint before he was to climb into bed and fall asleep—or, at least, make an attempt. The days were getting longer; sundown wasn’t to come until nearly two hours after his ordered bedtime. Melatonin would hardly have an affect on his superpowered body; weed had a better chance but he hadn’t packed any since this had, ostensibly, been a business trip for the both of them. With the power of flight, he could always make a quick stop home for anything he was missing. But that hardly seemed worth the effort.
I’ll make do.
He’d done as she asked. Their things were packed, save for some overnight essentials. The weeklong stay in their borrowed house had given them just enough time to settle in, so packing had been a little more intense than usual, but between the short hours Blossom had been “home” and the gift of superspeed, there hadn’t been that much to do. Kitchen, living, bath, plus any miscellaneous rooms were done. And now, so was the bedroom.
A small pile of personal bags was now resting next to the front door—they tended to travel light—as well as a separate pile of work equipment that was to be left behind for the cleanup team that would follow tomorrow afternoon, after they had left.
Blossom’s team had only needed Brick for the first couple of days, when they were tracking down the lair. He had questioned the ethics of his hire—only freelance, but still. Seeing as he was married to the Prevention of Villainy’s (POV’s) department head, it seemed at odds with standard business practice.
“It’s not feasible to put a normal person at risk, though,” Blossom had explained. “More resources, higher margins of error—I used to do it myself, but they refuse to ever since I was promoted.”
This obviously frustrated her, Brick could tell, but he could also tell she wasn’t willing to expend the political capital to push it. Besides, Brick was a supervillain. Had been, whatever. The argument was he was particularly well-equipped to locate and break into a hidden supervillain’s lair, being a former supervillain himself. Not that he’d ever had his own lair, of course. Lairs were for those who didn’t have powers, who had something to hide. The only thing Brick had ever needed to hide were feelings, and that, he’d never needed physical space for.
So he’d put in a few hours the first two days, then reverted back into house husband mode while Blossom and her team of so-called specialists completed the breakdown and extraction. The whole idea had been that this could serve as a mini-getaway of sorts, at least when Blossom wasn’t working. An unfamiliar house, an unfamiliar city—in theory, an upgrade from their city center apartment. In theory. In practice, the house was a generic build in a subdivision of generic builds, the small city it bordered had nothing but chain restaurants, itself mainly a commuter town. Nobody actually worked or hung out here. And Blossom’s hours had kept her from being home long enough for them to actually take advantage of going anywhere more interesting.
So it was with a not insignificant amount of relief that Brick packed their things. He—and he couldn’t believe the thought even crossed his mind—couldn’t wait to get back to Townsville. He missed their apartment, which was a little cramped but had gradually been filled with things that were meaningful and precious. He missed their kitchen, with spices overflowing out of the cabinets and onto the counters. Here he’d had all the space in the world but a fraction of the items available. He missed the city noise, the fullness of the sound, the anonymity of being in a crowd. Though it wasn’t like he and Blossom were ever truly anonymous. But still. He missed it.
At the very least, it had proven that house living was not for him. Honestly, househusbandry barely was. But… well, with the right motivation, it was another story.
There was one drawer in the bedroom he hadn’t touched, one with a blank, bright pink post-it on it. It had appeared shortly after they had arrived, and it was part of the reason Brick hadn’t taken off after the second day. Blossom had brought something. A surprise. Or, if not a surprise, the promise of something special.
Prep, please.
Those last two words were what he had been fixated on, all throughout his prep, all throughout his packing and tidying, and now he allowed his attention to volley between the message and the drawer, wondering, wondering what she had brought.
It was their last night here.
Prep, please.
There was one last thing left for his prep before he could climb into bed—he shucked his clothes, tossed them into a laundry bag, and went to rub one out in the shower so he wouldn’t embarrass himself later when she finally came home.
---
Writing progresses! I still dream of the day I can truly make the pivot to doing this full-time. I mean, not writing nsfw fic all the time. Just, like, some of the time, in between other writing projects. ykwim.
Oh! Speaking of ppg stuff! Remember that PpG zine that rb printed years ago? Now you can get it digitally here.
AO3 | FFNet | Ko-Fi | Mailing List