tagged by @two-hands-toward-the-sun. i have...more wips than i remember at any given time, and i just peck at whichever one when the spirit moves me (usually when i'm procrastinating actual work). currently there's eight active in the rotation, with another handful that are more conceptual/bits and pieces i want to come back to later.

Sandman

Lucienne takes the Corinthian for walkies: this is in response to a Valentines day prompt @two-hands-toward-the-sun sent me, "going on a platonic date and being mistaken for a couple." Dream weaponized his sad wet eyes at Luce to make her take some PTO and also provide some enrichment for his recreated masterpiece. they go to the MOMAT

As though attuned to her thoughts, the Corinthian hangs back at a respectable distance—not out of sight, but perhaps out of mind, if she wished. When Lucienne frowns at him, trying to discern whether this is some kind of trick, he makes a show of fiddling with the audio guide, head turned away as he hooks the piece over his ear.

does your husband know the way the sunlight gleams on your wedding ring: Corinthian/Calliope fic in the period between Orpheus and Calliope & Dream's divorce. once again, a woman takes Coco out for her idea of a good time and proves literally anyone else would be a better owner for the Corinthian than Dream.

He means to retreat. He doesn’t think she’s noticed him, and he wouldn’t impose on her privacy. Calliope was always nice to him. But grief smells like weakness, and a Muse’s grief smells different from that of the humans he stalks in dreams, wearing the faces of their long-departed. His mouths water at the scent, unfamiliar but delectable. For a fleeting moment, he wonders what her eyes might taste like, what he’d see if he took them in his own.

gay coworkers: words are HAPPENING in the next installment!

“Technically—" “C’mon, a memory wipe is hardly better—" “I’m not defending his actions, I’m simply pointing out—" “Stop talking about me like I’m not here,” the Corinthian snaps. Matthew and Lucienne exchange guilty glances. “You could at least wait until you’re back at the palace. Doing it in my house, that’s just fucking rude.”

la guard dog literal: Morpheus recreated the Corinthian as a (sort of, semi-eldritch) dog because surely that will fix his behavioral issues. Daniel still rehomes him with Rose Walker.

Jed twists around in his seat. The Corinthian snuffles obligingly at the hand he offers, gives the fingertips a quick swipe with his tongue. Jed’s face splits into a smile. That smile makes something warm unfurl in the Corinthian’s belly, prompts him to worm closer with a thready whimper. No threat. Which is maybe the biggest lie he’s ever told and he didn’t even speak it in human words, but in the moment he desperately wants Jed to believe it, and not just so he can sink his teeth into that vulnerable neck still soft with baby fat.

what if we made those daddy issues literal: semi-period accurate 1920s fic where the Corinthian is Dream's troublesome ward and Matthew is the tutor Dream hires to bring him in line. is this because i'm obsessed with Assad Zaman's outfits in hotel portofino? yes.

“Dream’s not my father.” “I thought—" “He’s my guardian. Keeper. Master. Whatever.” “He—" “Of course he’s benevolent. Can afford to be, I suppose. So long as I perform well.” “Does he—?” “Not how you’re thinking.” Cori barks a short, humorless laugh. “That wouldn’t be conducive to his long-term plans, would it? Breaking his toy before it can be of any real use.” “That’s—" “Good? Yeah. Sure.” Something shutters in his expression. “After all, what would become of this poor orphan child without some generous benefactor to mold him into a productive member of society? Why, then he might just be a scoundrel or, worse—an inconvenient corpse rotting in the road.” “I—" “Well. No use speculating, right?” He flashes a grin that makes Matt think of a dog baring its teeth. “I’ll see you after lunch.” Matt, dumbfounded, watches him walk away.

Logan/X-men

rehome that animal: sequel to the dog crate fic

Mendez isn’t sure what he expected to find in the Wolverine’s hideout. It certainly wasn’t this. This being his former boss, presumed dead after A-T’s last (as in latest, as in final) attempt to retcon its X-23 project several months ago. Mendez didn’t recognize him at first, but he thinks he’d be forgiven for the slight: the Donald Pierce before him looks a lot different from the Reaver commander who’d swanned around in a leather duster and tinted sunglasses, barking orders. Now he’s mostly naked and washed-out looking like maybe he hasn’t seen much sun. His once carefully groomed beard has been shaved to expose sharp cheekbones and a delicate chin. All his muscle and fat is gone, so the jut of his ribs and spine and pelvis show with every small twitch. There’s a lot of twitching, like his body can’t decide whether to prepare for fight or flight.

horse is a one-trick pony and the trick is Werewolves: if you didn't foresee me turning the Reavers into a (literal) wolf pack...well, that's on you at this point.

The pack leader is keeping an eye on him. Not quite staring: casual flickers of his attention between Donald and whatever is happening on the laptop. Mendez’s eyes shine almost green in the bluish screen light. His face looks sharper. His lip twitches and shows the barest glimpse of fang.

tagged by @two-hands-toward-the-sun. sharing the latest lines from the postdoc werewolf fic because i am Excited for people to read it:

They do the ritual on new moon. According to Dream’s notes, it’s crucial that the “excision” happen on the cusp of the change. Dream clears out a wide area in the living room and draws an intricate circle of runes for the process. Cori asks, “shouldn’t we do this in a sterile lab?” and gets a flat glare for the trouble. Fuck him for not wanting sepsis, apparently. Then again, most of their research indicates werewolves benefit from a rapid healing factor. Dream, oddly enough, has been hesitant to test those claims, although he is putting them to the ultimate test with his hypothesis that Cori will regenerate an eye. Just looking at the rune circle makes Cori’s head hurt. Danger, trap, howls the wolf, and he can’t even muster the yeah, for you retort that should be ready on his tongue. He catches himself sneaking quick glances at the chalked symbols, the reflexive impulse to keep a predator in your line of sight. In the days leading up to new moon, his heart races with alternate hope and apprehension. What he wouldn’t give for some benzos to tamp down the constant stutter pulse in his throat, but his taste in recreational drugs tends toward uppers and he’s out of weed.

excellent point. Dream can hold multiple positionalities at once. even when he's not containing the entire collective unconscious. and oh boy. the positions we are making him occupy...

Dream grabs a tape measure and takes several measurements. Writes them down in his little notebook. He uses his pen to lift Cori’s upper lip, exposing the teeth that have grown sharper and longer overnight. Cori grumbles, his displeasure resonant in his broadened chest. “Can’t we take an Advil break?”

Something wicked this way comes.