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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 11 months

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A Rose Without A Thorn (ao3)

Behold! Baby’s first Elucien fic. (For @elucienweekofficial day one)

Growing tired of all the barriers between them, Elain finally snaps during one of Lucien’s visits to the River House. Set post-acosf.

(The idea for this fic has been sitting in my wips folder since November, so it has been such a long time coming, but I'm a tad nervous because this is not my usual wheelhouse. It’s inspired by Sam Ryder’s song Tiny Riot, and the title was taken from and inspired by, of all things, Henry VIII. I’m a historian. What did you expect?)

The first Elain heard was his voice.

As warm as the sunlight that streamed through the kitchen window, and as soft as the butter she spooned into the mixing bowl, Lucien’s honeyed voice drifted down the hallway— so damned familiar and yet still so foreign. His voice was a song she ought to remember, a melody she thought she might once have heard in a dream— but still he was a stranger to her, no more solid to her than the wind, slipping through slack fingers.

Elain stood frozen, rooted to the spot, and as the string of polite words exchanged at the front door echoed, still she remained unmoving in the kitchen, static, trying to remember what it was to breathe.

In her dreams she heard that voice.

Every night when she closed her eyes she heard him speak, and in her dreams they spoke like friends, like lovers, like they had known one another forever. In her dreams he laughed, his tongue sharp and wicked, and in her dreams she blushed, smiling at the glint in his eye. Every night he spun her stories, weaving tales of romance and beauty whilst she slept— but every morning Elain woke alone, her heart sinking as if yearning for the beat of his.

Her dreams were pretty, but the reality…

The reality was this— the stark truth of it laid bare as Elain remained tucked away in the kitchen, up to her elbows in batter, unable to take a single step forward. He stood only in the hall, separated from her by just a handful of feet and a few wooden doors, but the distance felt like so much more, a stretch made impassable, uncrossable, by every awkward meeting and each stilted conversation, by all those times they’d sat politely across from one another, Elain quiet in her chair, knowing nothing but his name.

Every month he came, like clockwork, to meet with Rhys and Feyre and discuss whatever it was he’d been up to in his role as ambassador. Every month Feyre insisted Elain be present, and every month the four of them sat down to lunch at the river house. Elain always made cake, and she spent every single moment of every single luncheon trying not to notice the gleam in Feyre’s eyes, the way she looked at her as if she was wondering if this might be the month that Elain would offer Lucien more than just a perfunctory greeting and a small, subdued smile.

And every month all they shared was small talk, mild pleasantries exchanged with tight, straining smiles.

Elain might have been a seer, but she didn’t think her dreams were anything but figments of her imagination, the fractured pieces of a life she might once have had. She didn’t think they were any sort of glimpse into the future— how could they be? There was simply too much disconnect between them, like she and Lucien weren’t just on different pages— they were reading from different books altogether, and it hadn’t bothered her at first, back when she hadn’t really wanted to know more than his name.

But something had shifted lately, changed with the seasons, and with the deepening spring Elain found herself with every passing day growing… curious.

She heard the telltale sound of Feyre leading Lucien into the sitting room, the door closing behind them, and questions unasked and unanswered balanced on Elain’s tongue. She thought of him— how he’d spent so long in the Spring Court, surrounded by flowers and sunlight.

What was it like, she wondered?

What was he like, when the air smelled of roses and blossoms? In the bright light of day, in the summer heat— what was he like? What did that red hair look like beneath the midday sun, and who was he, outside these walls, beyond this court? Who was he really, the man that fate had bound her to?

He was an enigma, and as she cracked an egg against the side of the mixing bowl, Elain huffed. It sent a small cloud of flour rising from the countertop, and throughout the kitchen silence reigned.

All of those questions burned within her chest— but how could she ever ask, how did she even begin, when she was only ever forced to endure tea parties and elegant lunches when he visited, with Feyre always lingering? Or Rhys, or Nesta?

It was ludicrous. Suffocating— exhausting.

She was twenty-three years old, and her every move, every breath, every look was examined and analysed like she was a debutante at her first ball, barely cut from her governess’ apron strings. It was the weight of others’ expectations sinking them before they could hope to swim, and the most ironic thing - the most infuriating - was that Elain spent every luncheon trying not to study the lines of Lucien’s face. Trying not to notice the way his lips curved when he smiled, or how he tucked his hair behind his ear when he laughed. Trying, too, to pretend she didn’t see the way he looked at her, like she was a secret he was trying to figure out.

Slowly, she drew a breath, one made heavy by exhaustion and exasperation. Maybe, just maybe, Elain would like Lucien, if only she had to space to decide for herself.

Maybe.

She gritted her teeth now, that deep breath swelling in her lungs, coalescing with something bitter, and when she cracked another egg into the bowl, the shell shattered.

It was just… impossible.

Lucien was only ever polite, but every time Elain found herself in a room with him the conversation was forced— like neither of them quite knew where they were supposed to fit together. He looked at her like she was porcelain, breakable, afraid of saying the wrong thing, and though Feyre had broken the curse and freed him from the mask he’d worn for so long, Elain couldn’t help but feel he’d merely exchanged one mask for another when it came to her. He hid, now, behind those manners and that charming smile, that devastatingly polite exterior, and she couldn’t blame him, not really.

After all, her guileless smile was a mask of its own, wasn’t it?

One she had hidden behind for years— that demure and delicate little smile, the one Greysen had liked so much, so wholly appropriate for a woman of society, meant to be seen and not heard, to be looked at and admired. She had let that smile carry her through every social season, and though she’d once thought it as much of a weapon to her as Feyre’s bow and arrow…

It was different now.

It wasn’t a comfort or an asset— it had turned her into something fragile, something to be protected, like the smile on her face somehow made her weak. She hadn’t minded so much at first - Rhys and the others had always been so kind to her - but now… it was becoming an effort to curve her lips when they held their meetings behind closed doors, as though convinced she couldn’t handle it.

She plucked up her wooden spoon now, and as she began to mix the batter in the bowl she gripped the handle so hard her nails dug into her palm, tiny crescent moons marking the soft skin. She let out a single embittered huff - the last she would allow herself - glancing towards the doorway that separated them, the hall that stretched beyond.

Lucien was just as bad as the rest of them.

He looked at her like he didn’t know what to do with her, how to approach her, like she was a startled deer in the forest. In her dreams, he looked at her like he knew every inch of her, inside and out. Like he had committed every part of her to memory, knowing her as keenly, as acutely, as he knew himself. As the timbre of his voice resonated from the sitting room, for a moment Elain wished he would look at her that way now, in the bright light of day. She wished, too, that she knew what that voice sounded like in grand halls and marble ballrooms, in small spaces and quiet corners. For a moment she wished she had the courage to find out.

Furiously, she mixed that batter.

It was a mess— everything was a mess, and she hadn’t the slightest idea of how to fix it, how to make it better.

And then—

“Hello, Elain.”

Every nerve in Elain’s body stilled.

He’d come upon her silently— or had she just been so lost in her own thoughts that she’d stopped hearing his heartbeat through the walls?

Her hand went slack around the wooden spoon, her mind emptying as that voice filled the silence that stretched through the kitchen. It was a lilting voice, so elegant it was almost musical, with the hint of an accent softening his words, rounding out the edges of her name. Elain let her eyes slide closed for the briefest of seconds, feeling those smooth tones echo in her bones, warming her right the way through like a shaft of pure, brilliant sunlight. For just a moment - spare and singular - she let herself feel the bond in her chest, the warmth of it wrapping around her ribs, dancing as he spoke her name. It almost stole her breath, and Elain caught herself before it got stuck in her throat, righted herself before she could fall. She straightened her shoulders, plastered that stiff and stifling smile onto her face and lifted her eyes, catching sight of him in the doorway.

Gods, she almost wished she hadn’t.

Her dreams might have been wide of the mark when it came to their conversations, but even they had not exaggerated Lucien’s beauty. He stood, effortless and immaculate, in fawn coloured breeches and a loose white shirt, his long hair shining like burnished amber in the sunlight. His golden eye glinted as he clasped his hands behind his back, the golden hoop in his ear winking as the sun danced across his skin. He was lovely— lithe and graceful and elegant, and as Elain let the spoon fall with a clatter against the side of the bowl, she cursed herself for being so distracted.

As though only now remembering that she was supposed to be making a cake, she reached for the measuring cups as her mouth went dry, her tongue heavy. That feeling behind her ribs swelled, tugging the way it always did, and as Elain dunked the measuring cup into the sugar, she took a breath and somehow found the will to say,

“Hello, Lucien.”

Something flashed briefly in his eye when she spoke his name, a momentary spark, but she didn’t have time to study it. He buried it, hid it quickly as he dipped his chin in a courteous, practically genteel bow, a polite smile drifting across his lips.

Polite— he was always so damned polite, and though Elain didn’t doubt his manners for a second, sometimes she wished he would let his composure slip— let her see the sharp-tongued fae who had, by all accounts, suited the fox mask he’d been stuck in for half a century.

Silence crawled back into the kitchen, settling thick as Elain dumped the sugar into the mixing bowl. She was all too aware of his presence at the door as she added another cup, her eyes flicking up to find him watching her intently, following her every move.

“Do you need any help?” he asked.

She shook her head, biting her tongue as she filled another cup with sugar. She forced an easy smile on her face, accommodating and bland, the kind her mother had always told her worked well in high society. Lucien nodded, and Elain poured the sugar in the bowl, trying to remember how many cups she’d already added.

Was that the second cup? Or the third?

She couldn’t remember, his presence in the doorway a distraction so complete she couldn’t remember anything from the past five minutes.

Lucien cleared his throat. “Well, then,” he said, unlinking his hands from behind his back. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Elain nodded, wiping her hands on her apron as he gave her a long, searching look before turning on his heel and heading back to the sitting room. Once he was gone, Elain let out another disaffected sigh, one that was heavy in her lungs. She looked at the doorway, at the space absent of him now, and felt something like regret curling uncomfortably within.

Cursing softly under her breath, Elain huffed sharply and added another damned cup of sugar to the bowl.

***

Too much sugar.

She’d put too much sugar in the cake.

Elain’s hand tightened around the silver cake fork, one so dainty, so tiny, it was a wonder it didn’t snap. The cake wasn’t… bad. Not exactly. It was just…

The icing was too thick, the sponge far too dense from where she’d over-mixed it, and sweet, it was so, so sweet.

Lucien’s fault, she thought as her entire body recoiled from the sweetness on her tongue. It was his fault— him and that stupid smile of his, that stupidly lovely face that had seemed to glow in the sunlight. She’d lost count of the sugar she’d put into the bowl and just added another three cups anyway, and now there was a cloying taste clinging to the back of her throat, making her teeth ache and her gut twist, and as she did the maths… Oh gods— there were six cups of sugar in a recipe that called for three.

She glanced around the table, gritting her teeth as Feyre swallowed, pasting a smile on her face as she took another bite. The cake was terrible, and yet they wouldn’t tell her— too afraid of upsetting her, like they didn’t think she could handle it. Feyre practically winced as she closed her mouth around her second bite, and Elain glared down at her fork.

Lucien seemed more interested in his tea than in the cake that he had delicately taken only a small bite of, but Feyre smiled blandly as she forced a swallow, and at her side Rhys cleared his throat, silver fork cutting through the icing Elain had done an inch too thick— the glaze she had made whilst trying not to think of the look that had flashed in Lucien’s eye, wondering what it was and why he’d hidden it.

“Lovely as always, Elain,” Rhys said, masking a grimace as, with effort, he swallowed. “It’s sweet,” he added. “Just like you.”

He offered her a winning smile, but Elain couldn’t see the bright side. She half wanted to throw something. It was a joke, a comment made in jest to lighten the mood, but… she scowled. A Nesta scowl, an expression she’d seen on her sister’s face a thousand times and yet never once allowed to grace her own.

“A rose without a thorn,” Rhys finished.

And Elain… snapped.

“If it had no thorns it wouldn’t be a rose,” she countered flatly. “That’s not how roses work.”

Rhys paused, fork an inch from his mouth, and on the other side of the table, Lucien choked on his tea. Elain put down her own fork, hands lying flat on the table.

Wasn’t she allowed to have thorns, just for a day? To make a cake that wasn’t perfect and lovely? Why must she always be gentle and kind and sweet— why must she be coddled and cosseted?

Couldn’t she, just for once, make a mistake?

Vexed, she pushed away from the table.

Her chair scraped roughly against the polished floorboards, and Lucien’s teacup rattled against his saucer as he set it down, but Elain only tossed her napkin to the table, letting it lie in a pile of crumpled ivory fabric, half lying across her porcelain plate still laden with inedible cake. Honesty— it was all she had wanted, to be treated like a person instead of a child. She couldn’t bear it, and she didn’t look back at the table, at the cake half unfinished or the shock that cross her sister’s face as Elain made a beeline for the hall, for the kitchen, for the back door beyond that would take her out to the garden.

Feyre called out her name, but Elain didn’t stop.

She wanted her garden— wanted the peace and quiet of her garden, the only place she ever felt at home, but—

The breath sawed from her throat as she pushed open the door, gasping as the air kissed her cheeks.

It wasn’t hers, was it?

It was just a plot she tended in Feyre’s garden. In Rhys’ garden. It wasn’t hers, even though she’d cultivated every single bloom in every single bed. She could lay no real claim to it, no ownership, and as she breathed in the fresh air, drawing it deep into her lungs, Elain felt part of herself splintering, cracking beneath the pressure.

At the roses, she stopped.

She came to a halt, looking at the flowers - at the thorns - and reaching out, she traced one with her finger, feeling the sharp edge press against her fingertip, knowing it would take only the slightest bit of pressure to break the skin and bring blood blossoming.

Regret fluttered in her stomach.

The irritation she’d felt turned sour, and as her heartbeat calmed… Elain knew she ought to apologise to Rhys for snapping. To Feyre for ruining her lunch. To Lucien for… everything. For being so stand-offish, for closing herself off when all he’d ever done was try and get to know her.

But how could he ever succeed, Elain thought bitterly, when she didn’t even know who she was herself? She’d been lost— whoever she’d been before having vanished with the cauldron, dried up when she came out, dripping and freezing on the cold stone floor. Lucien had given her his jacket then, and ever since she’d plastered on that unassuming mask, only to find that, like poison ivy, it had burrowed its way beneath her skin and wound itself tight around her veins.

Who was she, without that bland little smile?

She didn’t know anymore— the answer always escaped her, snatched by the wind.

As if she’d conjured him, Elain heard footsteps on the gravel path behind her. Instinctually, she knew who it was. It wasn’t that she recognised the tread— no, it was the way the thread behind her ribs began to vibrate, to tremble, and she knew without needing to turn that Lucien had found her.

She turned, expecting to find a face lined with concern— but instead his expression was calm, like the afternoon sky after a morning storm, and he looked at her with a kind of ease Elain had never seen before. He stood with his hands so casually in his pockets, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. His head tilted an inch to the side, and Elain had never once seen him so… relaxed. He gave her a small smile, and for the first time it didn’t seem contrived. His eyes were alight - both the russet and the gleaming gold - a fire beneath the afternoon sun, and when that smile turned wider, showed teeth, for the very, very first time he wasn’t looking at her like she was some dainty, fragile little thing.

He didn’t look afraid that she’d break.

And for the first time he didn’t look like the kind of man who would buy her gardening gloves. No— he looked like he’d let her get her hands dirty, let her feel the earth, and sit right beside her as she did. His golden eye shone in the sun, and as Elain dragged her gaze over his face, the look he’d buried earlier in the kitchen flashed again, a flare in his single russet eye, and this time Lucien didn’t bother to hide it, to mask it. This time he let her see it, and Elain found… interest there, sharp and glinting, mingling with appreciation, with something that seemed an awful lot like attraction.

He looked at her like he wanted her, and Elain suppressed a shiver.

“I’m sorry,” she said, turning her gaze to the roses, to the thorns. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” Lucien cut in, interrupting her. He’d never interrupted her before, always let her finish. Elain suddenly felt like some pretence was dropping away, both his mask and hers eroding at last. “Don’t apologise.”

��I shouldn’t have snapped.”

Lucien snorted, taking another step closer until he was there looking at her roses too. He reached out, brushing a finger along the petals, velvet soft. Elain wondered what that touch would feel like against her skin, the drag of his hands on her waist.

“For the record,” he said softly, his voice carrying the hint of smoke, like he knew where her mind had gone. “I like roses.”

There was something heated in his gaze, his eyes lowering as for the first time he let himself look at her, really look at her. He dragged his focus over her cheekbones, across her jaw, lingering on her lips, so blatant and brazen she almost couldn’t believe it. Oh, Lucien was a gentleman, of that she was sure— but not all the time. There was a streak of something else in him too, something a little bit rakish, a shade of daring, and here it was at last, coming out to play as they stood between the roses.

He gave her a knowing smile, a sidelong glance that had the bond between them thrumming, alive in a way it had never been before, and Elain didn’t pull away or put space between them, even though this was the closest they had been since she’d been tipped out of the cauldron, when he’d draped his jacket over her bare shoulders. He was so close now that his arm was brushing hers, and when she breathed she could smell him— could feel his scent being pulled into her lungs as though it were the only kind of air she needed. It was something sweet and warm with a sharp undertone, and in her rose garden it was delectable, all sugar and spice and crackling embers. He was so close, all she’d have to do was tilt her head and—

His hand fell away from the flower, and he canted his head to the side as Elain looked up at him, suddenly feeling the world narrow until it contained nothing but this little square of the garden. His eye sparked, and as she watched… Lucien winked.

There he is, Elain thought. There’s the man Feyre told me about.

“And I like my roses with thorns,” he added in a whisper, almost conspiratorial.

Elain let out a surprised laugh as her heart kicked in her chest, and with the way his eyes widened, it shocked him almost as much as it did her. His eyes glinted as his lips split into a bright smile, and it was… lovely. Gods, how had she not noticed before, how utterly lovely he was when he smiled?

“And did you like my cake?” she challenged, raising an eyebrow.

It was Lucien’s turn to laugh now, a shocked bark escaping him as he shook his head, auburn hair cascading over his shoulder.

“No,” he said, apologetic. “No, I didn’t.”

“At least you’re honest,” Elain sighed. “I didn’t like it either.”

Lucien laughed again, softer this time, and as he dipped his head his hair fell across his face, masking the scar and the golden eye.

“Apologies, my lady.”

“Don’t call me that,” she whispered.

Not now— not yet. She wanted him to call her my lady when his lips were against her skin, wanted him to whisper it against the crook of her neck as his hands roamed. In her dreams, the only time he called her my lady was when he made love to her. Now— now it was only another barrier between them, a formality she couldn’t stand.

And she’d had enough of formality.

Suddenly Elain wanted to push that hair back, wanted to see his face— the face of the only one who had given her honesty when she asked for it. She wanted to run her hands through that hair, burnished by the afternoon sun. Wanted to see how warm his skin was beneath her fingers, how soft, and something began to build inside her, some kind of desperate anticipation, and even though she knew she should probably keep her hands to herself…

Tentatively, she lifted her hand, eyes growing wider as her heart began to hammer in her chest. Lucien stilled, his smile falling away as slowly, agonisingly slowly, Elain curled her fingers and brushed the hair back behind his pointed ear, feeling the strands between her fingers. Both of his eyes widened, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

It was silent, but this wasn’t the silence of all their other meetings, where they had nothing to say to one another.

No— now there was too much, and Elain didn’t know where to begin.

“Call me Elain,” she said at last.

“Elain,” Lucien whispered, his eyes shuttering as though her name on his tongue was an unexpected pleasure, a delicacy he’d just discovered and didn’t ever wish to be without. His lips parted, and when he murmured her name again, it was as though he found it to be a balm to every one of his burns, spoken with a kind of wonder that made her shiver, made her feel like the world was shaking.

And gods— Elain felt the tremble in her blood and smiled.

“Perhaps,” she said quietly, barely able to hear her voice beyond the pounding of her heart, “you could call again next week and I’ll have a better cake for you.”

Lucien didn’t mask his smile this time. He met her eyes, gaze boring into hers as he held her wine-eyed stare. It started small, a soft smirk playing at the corners of his lips, but as he scanned her face it spread— like a wildfire, catching. His fingers rose in the space between them, his eyes turning bold as he brushed the back of his knuckles across her cheek.

“I’d like that,” he said, his smile so easy Elain couldn’t understand why he’d ever hidden it, ever kept this part of himself back.

She leaned into his touch, feeling his fingers against her skin warm and light, like the first kiss of sunrise after a long, dark night.

“I’d like that too,” she said, before pausing and looking back towards the house, to the windows lining the kitchen where everything had gone so decidedly wrong earlier. “But you should probably stay out of the kitchen until it’s done,” she added.

Lucien frowned as confusion flitted across his russet eye, and Elain shrugged.

“It’s your fault I lost count of the sugar,” she explained.

Lucien laughed again, and with the sound something inside Elain began to unfurl, and for the first time… For the very first time, she felt like maybe this mating bond wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

#elucien #elucienweek2023

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xanthippe74 · 5 months

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The mood this year, as this header photo demonstrates, was Le Tired. Just physically and emotionally slogging along. Brain stuck on perpetual static. A pull-the-covers-over-my-head sort of year. I read a few books, watched a lot of shows, found new songs to listen to on repeat, and spent way too much time futzing around on Tumblr.

But that's not what this post is about! This is to remind myself that I did accomplish writer-ly things this year, even if it didn't feel like it sometimes. So here's my 2023 Fandom Year in Review:

Drarry

🐈 A Dreadful Invasion (of the Feline Persuasion) rated G | 6K words

Most of the time, it’s easy for Harry to forget that Draco Malfoy is his next-door neighbour—until the night Malfoy seemingly goes round the twist in his back garden. Of course Harry has to investigate. A birthday gift for @caroll-in.

🍷 Under the Table rated T, 4K words

A string of nearly-insufferable dinner parties has made Draco acquainted with Harry Potter’s completely insufferable, social-climbing boyfriend. But tonight it seems like Potter’s finally had enough, and Draco’s more than happy to watch it all play out from across the table.

WIP progress: I added about 25K to my Drarry retelling of Howl's Moving Castle. The working title is "Skybound" and it will be about 55 to 60K words when complete (by spring 2024, god help me!). Featuring: lots of banter, secret identities, adventures and misadventures in a floating house, a plucky house-elf, and (of course) a fire demon who wants to make a bargain.

9-1-1 fics, HP recs, and 2023 highlights under the cut!

9-1-1/Buddie

🌧️ It pours, man it pours rated T | 11K words

An endless rainstorm. A head-on collision on a dark canyon road. Eddie and Buck find themselves stranded with a woman in labor after they’re cut off from the rest of the 118 by a flash flood. With the fate of their team unknown, can they weather the night ahead—and mend the rift Buck caused by trying to kiss his best friend?

💣 A Few Good Pranks rated T | 4K words

The firefighters of the 118 decide to give Bobby a turn at pranking them after seeing how disappointed he was to be left out. And since two heads are better than one, why not three? Or four? If only they could figure out who's pranking and who isn't, and who the intended victim is. It's all in good fun, though—as long as everyone is too distracted to notice that Buck and Eddie keep sneaking off alone.

❤️‍🩹Let It Be Me rated T | 1.8K words

After another Buckley Family reunion-turned-disaster, Buck makes a decision about his parents. Of course the 118 has his back. Or, Bobby employs some LAFD equipment to help Buck out—and tell him something he needs to hear.

Episode codas/fix-it ficlets: 1x01 | 1x03 | 2x01 | 2x03 | 6x10 | 6x11 | 6x12 | 6x13 | 6x15

WIP progress: First chapter of a season 3/canon divergence Buddie fic. Featuring: angst with a happy ending, a secret marriage of convenience, and pandemic bed sharing.

HP Rec List

I was inspired by this post to rec twelve favorite fan works from 2023 in twelve days in December. It actually took fourteen days, but I did it!

💖 12 Favorites from 2023 💖

(after posting those twelve, of course I thought of a few more faves that I missed. I'll try to share them soon!)

2023 Highlights

I'm so very grateful for the wonderful, funny, imaginative people here who shared their creative works, the memes that made them laugh, photos of their pets, gif sets of shows I didn't know I needed to watch, and insights into the characters we love. You all got me through the year, honestly.

I had a good time doodling some Halloween treats for Inbox Trick-or-Treating. I hope it will become an annual Tumblr event! Thanks to the folks who rang my doorbell that night and the other blogs who gave out treats.

I truly treasured every kudos, comment, and rec I received this year. I was also very fortunate to receive a few special gifts:

🎙️ EllaMcSmellBella recorded a Podfic of "Spooked in Salem," my Drarry 'Round the World fic.

🎙️ Spades/bumblingbees recorded a Podfic of "Crimson Neon."

📕 @cheriecherishchen wrote a lovely rec for "Vortex" and designed gorgeous book covers for that fic and its sequel, "Riptide."

✏️ @saijordison drew this incredible piece of art for "Riptide."

And finally, if you read all the way to the end of this post, I'm grateful for YOU. 😁

Wishing everyone a very Happy New Year and an excellent 2024!

#2023 year in review #my writing #drarry #buddie

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itsjaywalkers · 2 months

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titles tag <3

i know i was tagged ages ago but.. better late than never i guess!!

thank u so much to my beloveds @carniferous @buttfaceingtons @static-radio-ao3 @inevitablestars @messrsage @sommerregenjuniluft

rules —

1. list the titles of your top five priorities for WIP updates

2. an upcoming scene, event, or detail in each fic that you're looking forward to writing

3. make a poll for your followers to vote on which top 5 WIPs they're most excited to see an update on

4. tag writer friends

titles

making ghosts (sirius and james have a ghost hunting youtube show and reg's house just happens to be haunted)

oby (reg and james start hooking up behind sirius' back and struggle to keep it casual)

nothing happens (most toxic codependent and unhealthy childhood friends to lovers jegulus version)

fucked up road trip fic (jegulus, horror au, based on the left right game)

boxer au (boxer james and sports journalist/interviewer regulus)

scenes

making ghosts — really heavy supernatural shit going down and james being on his own and having a panic attack and reg coming to his rescue, helping him calm down and talking him through it. james holding onto him and reg going all soft and calling him 'baby'

oby — sirius finding out about reg and james

nothing happens — barty provoking james this one time they ran into each other once barty and reg have already started going out and the almost fight they get into

fucked up road trip fic — their first kiss, or maybe the hitchhiker scene (what can i say i'm very fond of that part in the original story)

boxer au — james and reg meeting the first time + their first interview

not tagging anyone this time bc i'm pretty sure everyone has already done this but !! if anyone wants to do it, pls go for it and tag me so i can see !! MWAH <333

#tag game

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inkblot-inc · 1 year

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Call Me Anything But Human

Summary: There's aways something that lurks in the dark, but often what's scarier is what lies out in the open.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Werewolf!Reader

Warning(s): 18+ as per usual, so hey MINORS DNI. there's also smut near the end; we got cnc, strap on use (wanda recieving), and edging (R recieving). Dark Themes; R literally eats someone alive, so like blood and gore + cannibalism(?), pretty sure there's language as well, I dunno about you, but that's probably the least of your concerns reading the previous warnings-

Note(s): What’s more self-indulgent than sharing a new universe earlier than planned? Hahaha someone please humor me here, I have so many goddamn WIPS. It's a lil intro for everything else to come as usual. I hope you enjoy :3

Word Count: floating around 2.2k

*squints* I give NO ONE permission to repost or translate my work. Make your own shit

You watched from afar as the frail old lady hobbled her way back into her tiny cabin. The closest house was miles away, let alone a market.

You watched a dim light flicker on from inside with a static noise following soon after; she cut the TV on. You licked your chops in anticipation, creeping out from the tree line to make your way closer to the residence.

Silently coming up to the front window, you peer inside to see the older woman settle into a recliner with a steaming bowl of food ready to watch the tube. You don’t know how senile this lady is, but it’s definitely to your advantage that she’s not more aware. Looking around through the window still, you notice a slightly larger window cracked open over what looks like the kitchen sink.

It’s ballsy. A straight shot view from the main room.

Walking around the side of the cabin, you make your way to the kitchen window and slip your hand under the crack to lift the screen up slowly. There’s an audible *clack* when it goes all the way up.

There’s a cough and some shuffling as you stay stock still…

Nothing else happens.

You hoist yourself through the window, landing with a dull thud, The click of your claws on the rickety wood flooring was hardly noticeable. The TV droning on helped cover up a lot of noise no doubt.

From there, there was no real need to be discreet as you surged forward to maul the drowsy elderly woman. You were on her before she could even think to get up. Her half-eaten bowl of chicken and rice tumbled to the floor in a heap as you tore her neck open. Your other clawed hand ripped open the old lady’s stomach exposing its contents as she choked on her own blood. Her attempts to yell or even call for help were useless out here; her eyes were wide and mortified as she was essentially eaten alive. Bones and all.

The old woman’s head was the last to be devoured and you couldn’t even look at it as you shoved it down your gullet.

It helps that you don't know this lady personally at least.

Crunching on a bony hand that was left, you eyed the spilled food that remained lukewarm with the oily sauce trying to stain the unvarnished floorboards.

It could never compare to the full course meal you just had…

The scene had next to no sign of struggle, with all but a small collecting pool of blood and a smattering of torn and bloody clothes on the pleather lazy boy.

Before you could get to tidying up any evidence you could have left behind, your ears pricked up.

Footsteps and a light jangle of keys.

Your eyes widened as you made your way back to the kitchen sink to clean your newly shifted face and neck of blood, along with your hands. Finding a hallway closet, you tore off your crewneck before balling it up and chucking it inside. You were left in a black t-shirt and jeans as everything in the closet was either too small or too identifiable.

You pulled the flashlight from the top shelf along with your phone as you heard the front door open.

Turning around the corner, you call out to the person that's just entered the cabin, flashing the light in their direction. "Westview county sheriff's department! Keep your hands where I can see them!"

"Whoa wait! What's going on?" The person was revealed to be a brunette woman, probably in her mid to late 20s.

"I was called to check out a new missing person's case we got at the station. One Agnes Black. The trail led me to discover the scene here. I'm going to need to ask for your name and ID, miss."

You made sure to keep the interest on her for a bit as you tried to get yourself together to form a plan. "Oh! Um, Wanda Maximoff. Agnes is a family friend, she's the only one that's still around. Or she was… I tried to stop in every so often to make sure she's doing okay out here on her own."

You bury your nerves at the situation as you watch the young woman go to scramble through her bag to get her identification. She pulls it out to show you clearest day: 'Wanda Maximoff, twenty seven, NJ driver's license'. Designation: human.

Not a threat.

You look back up at her, " Right, well, this was the scene when I got here. No sign of forced entry, but quite a bit of blood."

Wanda raised a brow, " You came out to an unknown residence, in the middle of the woods miles from town, alone?"

You felt your face burn with embarrassment at her tone.

It did sound stupid as hell.

You cleared your throat, " I'm new. I guess I just… wanted a chance to prove myself I guess." In a sense this was true. You had just landed a job in the sheriff's department, but You didn't care to impress any of your peers in the slightest. You'd rather the woman think you an overzealous idiot, than have her build suspicion.

Wanda looked up slightly to squint at your face before a look of recognition took over her features. " You're Bigby, right? I know I've heard that name mentioned around town. The hot new deputy sheriff that came down from New York -"

Wanda's hand came to cover her mouth a bit too late, " or so I've heard, you know,"

You flash a bit of a pointy smile at the brunette before you scratch the back of your neck. " Well, for the record, Bigby is my uncle, my name is Y/n." If only he could see his "Lil Bean" now…

Wanda's answering smile with sheepish, but there was a subtle shift in her green eyes that you couldn't exactly place. " I wonder if he'd be proud or disappointed to see you follow in your family's footsteps."

You gave a brief laugh through your nose, taken a bit of back before Wanda spoke up again. " At least he never shat where he ate though, right?"

"What?-"

All you saw was a red mist passed over your eyes before you were knocked out cold, Wanda standing over your unconscious body.

—-------------

Waking up, you found yourself in what you could only assume was a basement or some other underground room. The cement floor and persistent draft lending to this as well. While trying to move around, you found your hands and feet bound together with chains. Your attempts to break free with your supernatural strength proved to be pointless against whatever this metal was.

The sound of a door creaking open had you halting all movement. " I still have to get things insulated down here, but my guess is that it's not even cold enough for you to feel little more than a breeze right now."

You can only stare straight ahead as you heard the subtle clop of footsteps coming down cobbled stairs from behind you. Wanda came around to stand in front of you with a subtle smirk and a tilt of her head.

Her diffident posture was long gone.

" Well, Natasha wasn't lying. You are pretty cute." Wanda firmly grasped your chin between her thumb and four finger as she moved your head this way and that. " Human meat must work wonders for a mutt's skin."

To be quite frank: you were terrified. All creatures that brought undue terrors or committed crimes onto others, especially if it involved the harm of humans, were promptly and harshly dealt with. The most efficient way being torture for intentions before death. Government authorities often worked hand in hand with the Purifiers in that way.

Wanda briefly rolled her eyes as she sensed your heart rate spike, most likely from fear. " I'm not with the human puritans, if that's your worry, Wolfie. More like an interested third party."

You took a small breath of relief as you could cross the worst case scenario off of your list of possibilities. " Then- what do you want with me? Did you even know that lady?-"

" You mean your dinner? Yes, but Agatha has served her purpose. She owed it to me after all," You turned slightly as Wanda went on. "And I want you, officer, to be my inside person while I conduct my dealings."

Your eyes narrowed at her assured voice, " and I would just agree to that right? Be for real, woman."

Wanda’s smirk simply stayed in place. " Well, I could just drop off all the photographic evidence I have of you scouting and devouring your last four victims, all of whom are on the missing persons listings." Plenty of photos fluttered to the ground, fanned out for you to see yourself at your most vulnerable. Wanda tutted her tongue almost mockingly, " such a sloppy puppy, they'd have a field day with you I'm sure."

Your eyes were frozen on the high-definition pictures of you hastily leaving a woman's penthouse, clothes still bloody; one of the few cases that you've filed after spending the night with them. Gwen-something. Jesus, wasn't this in New York? Her father was still looking for her when you moved away...

You vaguely knew that Wanda was still speaking. " And, if that's not enough, you ingested Agatha's whole body. One of my own reanimated corpses bound with a fealty clause. One could assume it had passed on to you. I'd hate for you to have to find out what happens when that clause is broken firsthand." Your mouth could only open and close like a fish as you thought through the whole thing.

You don't have an option. You really don't.

Wanda sauntered closer to your restrained form as her fingers ran across your shoulders. She leaned over till her lips we next to your ear. "Way to be thorough, huh, Y/n?" Her hands lightly smoothed down your arm.

You tried to keep your face as stoic as you could. "Fine. What do you want me to do?" Wanda patted the your cheek rough enough for it to be considered patronizing instead of soothing. "We'll hash that out in time, don't you worry your fuzzy little head about it."

"But details, details…" Wanda's voice trailed off as she proceeded to straddle your waist, your breath caught. " You must be relieved to finally have some familiarity, huh?" As Wanda continues to shift on top of you to make yourself comfortable, you feel an odd amount of pressure that causes you to gasp.

Wanda's mouth lifts into a sly smirk, " there we are. This will end different then you're used to, I'm certain. There is one other thing you'll have to get acquainted with." One of Wanda's hands runs down your shirt over your stomach before lifting up the hem halfway for you to see.

A new wave of panicked confusion would have had you jolting around again if Wanda wasn't holding you steady.

From your pelvis and spreading outward, we're visible black and dimly glowing veins under your skin. Staring hard enough, you could see them pulse occasionally before the anomaly seemed to fade into your skin.

And it was all connected to the strap on between your legs.

Still struggling to comprehend, you just about lost your ever-loving mind when Wanda gripped it in her hand.

You could feel it.

The new feeling of sensitivity you basically had you like putting in Wanda's hands. "Hah- how…" You catch Wanda's eyes glow again, and it was almost impossible to string two thoughts together with the constant pump of her hand.

" It's more than you probably deserve, but I'm going to enjoy bringing you to your knees this way." You whine involuntarily as Wanda takes her hand off to untie her robe.

Wanda's breasts were now exposed, nipples hard with a rise of goose flesh being out in the cool air. She lifts herself up and lines your cock up at her entrance, and you watch as she fully sinks herself down on it, and she doesn't move. For a good minute. The haziness goes away as you fully connect with Wanda. The pleasure you feel is immediate and you feel a familiar tightening sensation in your stomach.

Wanda leans forward, her mouth latching onto the side of your neck. God, she felt so full. Her hands come to rest over your shoulders before her nails dig in. She feels the muscles there a bunch up a bit before slowly relaxing. The moment Wanda starts moving, she gets a low grunt from you as the toy slides in and out of her pussy. Every stroke, every flutter from inside does something to you, and it's the most tantalizing thing for Wanda to watch and feel.

Your hands keep trying to break through their bonds as you feel your high coming up. You can't help but whimper from under the brunette as she keeps abruptly stopping right at the edge. " Please," Wanda's watched you struggle this whole time, but she all but stops writing you and she's plays coy. "Hmm? What do you want now, baby?" Her rhythm is slower, teasing.

"I'm so fuckin close, can I please just cum?" Your hands clench open and closed behind you in desperation.

Wanda hums before she purses her lips, making her look far more innocent than her actions would dictate. " I don't know, I still feel like you haven't learned your place, honey. You might even use those claws for something you shouldn't…"

"I-" she can see your cheeks bloom with a blush at the situation You found yourself in. You were supposed to be angry, fight back, hold your ground even! But Wanda held all the cards and you knew it. You both knew.

And it didn't take her much to get here.

" Please, Wanda. I just wanna make you feel good, I just wanna cum!- I... I won't try anything. Just please…"

Wanda, continue to look down at you before her smirk returns. " You say please really pretty, puppy…"

You sounded pitiful to yourself. Practically groveling to fuck Wanda properly and cum, but at this point? Pride be damned. The red was all consuming.

But there are worse things to give in to.

#marvel #marvel one shots #call me anything but human #scarlet witch #wanda maximoff #succuwitch!wanda #werewolf!reader #succuwitch!wanda x werewolf!reader #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x yn #jc inkworks #ink.wanda #ib-jc.

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atonalginger · 6 days

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WIP Wednesday

the lovely and talented @fangbangerghoul reminded me it was WIP Wednesday and I have something to share! Thank you for the reminder and tag!

I am going to extend the tag/invitation to any of y'all who see this and think, "hey I got something to share!" No pressure, just a general invitation.

My excerpt is a rough snippet from the Fallout 4 universe with Dawn, my current sole survivor. I'm still working on the Dellarov fic too but the chapter I wrote was an extended, hella downer and I'm letting it sit before I continue on...So for now I'm writing action and danger in the Commonwealth!

“Should we keep looking?” the raspy voiced raider asked near the road.

Dawn laid on her left side, curled in the fetal position with another empty stimpak clutched tightly in her hand. Her armor and utility suit, or what was left of it after the initial flames went out, was soaked in blood. The sticky residue of the napalm spewed from the incinerator still smoldered on her suit and skin. Her mouth tasted of blood, bile, and the lingering tinge of stimpak and med-x. She prayed the bush she’d crashed behind was enough and the raiders were too hopped up on psycho to notice the blood trail that would lead them straight to her.

“No, bitch is probably dead by now.” The one in the hellfire power armor said, the creaking of the frame telling her they didn’t know how to maintain their rare treasure.

“What about the loot?” the raspy one asked, “looked like they had a bag weighed down with shit.”

“Shit is what it’ll be alright, after we torched them,” the sound of metal hitting flesh popped in the distance, “get back to your fucking post.”

“All right, all right,” the raspy one whined, “don’t have to be so fucking rough.”

“Keep talking and I’ll send you to meet that toasted bitch.” Heavy foot steps were moving away from her location.

Dawn tried to pull herself closer to the old listening post. It would be safer to wait inside the bunker than risk mongrels, mole rats, or ghouls finding her before the Minutemen. Her body was in full revolt, her vision blurring, ears ringing, and limbs barely cooperating. She gave up, pawing at her radio on her left shoulder and squeezing the button down with all her remaining strength, “Preston? This is General Faulkner.”

“General?” Emmett Mallory answered near immediately, “you sound rough.”

“I am,” she choked out and coughed, “chems are the only thing keeping me alert. I need…you need to…”

Emmett was yelling to Preston off in the distance from the ham radio set up at the farm house in the Hills. She heard him say it was time to go. Preston had already prepped a team, it would seem, waiting for her eventual call. Soon Emmett was back with her on the line, “can you flip on the tracker on the radio? We can locate you quickly that way.”

They’d delved back into vault 111 and pulled a dozen unused pipboys from storage crates near the back, assigning them to those Preston and Dawn deemed responsible enough to lead. Preston didn’t like wearing his but admitted it made work easier.

“I…think…” Dawn struggled to find the tiny gray switch, “Tell Preston…tell him he was right. Tell him I’m sorry for…”

She knocked the switch on, the force knocking the radio out of her hand. Her vision swirled, the static chaos in her ears drowning out Emmett’s voice. Lieutenant Harkins always told me my arrogance would be what did me in, she thought as chills started to set in, and her vision went dark, should have just died in the vault.

#fanfic #atonalginger writes #wip wednesday #the coemancer crew #oc Dawn #Fallout 4 #fallout 4 fanfic

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shuacore · 2 years

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everything so far :)

joshua

no thorns, no roses (11.4K) mature, 18+ — a modeling gig turns into a test of your patience (and your self-control) warm glow (1.1K) teen & up — early mornings with joshua are always the best ones WIPs five stars for beezus! mature, 18+ — you rent a house in rural Vermont and... shit, your host is a lot hotter than you realized.

mingyu

like real people do (4.3K) gen audiences — in a (pointless) effort to get your workaholic boyfriend to rest, mingyu teaches you how to dance. WIPs national effing geographic — college au mature, 18+ — your photography professor gives you an assignment that requires you to follow a subject around for two weeks and take at least one photo every day. naturally, you choose the school’s in-house celebrity athlete, Kim Mingyu. to win a prince — regency au mature, 18+ — a tale as old as time. you have a duty to uphold. he's brash and loves to break the rules. naturally, chaos ensues.

jeonghan

say something (like you love me) (4.5K) mature, 18+ — "don't go on that date," he had said. in the six years you had lived with yoon jeonghan, you had never seen him look so forlorn. it's unfamiliarity scared you.

dokyeom

never gonna be alone (3.1K) mature, 18+ — seokmin asks you what you do when you're all alone. barcelona nights (6.9K) mature, 18+ — "The music is all but static in the background, and for a moment it’s just the two of you again, drinking in the airless summer night and the sounds of other couples enjoying each other’s company. You run your thumb across Seokmin’s bottom lip, completely enraptured. His eyes are dangerously dark."

jun

skating in central park (1.7K) gen audiences — you visit a christmas market with your boyfriend, jun.

series

lizzy mcalpine series (ot13) — WIP

misc.

apes — castlecomer — vn (18+) bad omens — ww (18+) clubbing w/ josh

#shuacore masterlist #masterlist #seventeen smut #seventeen fluff #seventeen #seventeen fanfic #seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #svt smut #svt fluff

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sentientcave · 13 days

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IT'S WIP WEDNESDAY LADS - For something a little different, have a taste of one of my original works *The Heart of the Ocean*. It's just a fun little treasure hunting fantasy novel, featuring pirates, and magic and princesses and elves and intrigue! And orcs!

Tycho ducked into an ally to catch his breath, listening for the tell-tale clatter of hob-nailed boots down the cities narrow cobblestone streets. It was quiet, a sign that he had lost his pursuers, for the moment at least.

He was too big to blend in with human crowds, forcing him to navigate his way from the castle on the hill to the safe house on Pine street through the narrow, winding back streets, where he was less likely to be seen by anyone who would turn him over to the Imps. Other criminals would be likely to turn a blind eye, as loathe to draw Imperial attention as Tycho was.

He kept going, walking rather than running now, although his long legs carried him along the streets at a brisk pace. The medallion in his boot was chafing slightly and he looked forward to kicking them off once he made it to Pine Street.

“Now gentlemen, I really do think you’ve made a mistake. If you go about your business you will not be harmed, but I’m afraid I don’t have time to play nice. Get out of my way.”

Tycho’s ears pricked forward at the voice spilling out from around a corner. A woman, nervous, if not fearful, despite her bold words. There were gangs in King's Head that ruled the streets, and they would be none too kind to a woman out on her own in the back alleys. Why wasn’t she out on the well-patrolled main streets? Didn’t she know any better?

Harsh laughter followed. “Big words from such a pretty little girl, hey lads? It’s sweet of her to think about our welfare.”

Tycho peered around the corner, contemplating the scene. A plump little woman stood with her back to the brick wall, with four men standing in a loose semi-circle around her. She held the strap of her satchel with both hands, her dark eyes wide and anxious. She dressed simply, dark trousers tucked into boots and a well-made blue tunic belted around her middle, a warm woolen cloak pinned around her shoulders. Her hair was braided, but curling hair had escaped all around her face, giving her a slightly disheveled air, and her cheeks were rosy-red from either anger or the cold weather.

“I’m not concerned about your welfare,” she snapped. “I’m warning you.”

Mist was collecting around her ankles, rolling in from the far end of the alley. The thugs laughed again, not paying any heed to the thick, static feel of magic in the air. Humans weren’t as well-attuned to it, unless they worked their own spells, and even the worst human mage could make better coin than what could be made robbing women in dark corners of the city.

She must have been a mage, but she held herself like a noble, shoulders back, spine straight and stiff, her chin raised. She was someone who did not like to have to repeat herself, and she was running out of patience. The mist climbed higher, around her knees now, thick and clinging like un-spun wool.

The leader of the men stepped closer, not touching her yet, clearly intending to intimidate with his size. She glared back, unimpressed even though he was nearly a foot taller than her, and heavyset with muscle. “Warn me again,” he said, laughing down at her nastily. “I like the sound of your voice.”

The fog swallowed them whole.

The leader was the first to start swearing, and then there was the sound of bodies colliding, and the voices multiplied, accompanied by grunts and the sounds of bodies hitting each other. The woman appeared a moment later, backing out of the fog, an expression of deep concentration on her face. She bumped right into Tycho, and jumped, squeaking with surprise, and the fog disappeared in an instant, revealing the pile of fighting men, who froze in position, realizing that they were attacking each other rather than the slippery little mage.

She looked at Tycho, her eyes wide and wild, and then back at the others, who were beginning to recover from their own shock, and then back to Tycho again.

He wasn’t sure what had possessed him. She could clearly take care of herself. He grabbed her hand, and started walking fast, pulling her along. “Come on,” he said urgently, keeping his voice soft. “Let’s get out of here.”

She had to run to keep up with him, with her much shorter legs, so he slowed once they had taken enough random twists and turns to lose their pursuers, if they had even bothered to follow. Tycho was fairly sure his appearance would have scared them off. He was head and shoulders taller than the biggest among them, and a Breskar*, and his people had a fearsome reputation all across the world.

Tycho let go of her hand and she staggered back a few steps, breathing hard. “Are you alright?” he asked, a bit worried that he had pushed her too hard.

“Oh, yes,” she huffed. “I’m just—” She pressed a hand to her ribs, tipping her head back to look up at him properly. “Goddess you’re big. The legs on you!” She waved her hand vaguely at his lower half, like she’d never seen anyone his size in her life. “I’m Coraline. Thanks for the help.”

“You didn’t need my help,” Tycho said warmly. “I surprised you out of your spell.”

Coraline smiled at him. It said thanks for saying so and I don’t believe you at the same time. “Well, it hardly matters now. They're gone. Or, we’re gone, rather. I have no idea where we are.” She looked up and around, frowning at the brick buildings that loomed up around them, blocking out the daylight and leaving them in gloom. Brighter daylight spilled across the end of their path, where it crossed a much wider, much busier street. People streamed past in both directions, not so much as glancing at the darker spaces between the tall, narrow buildings.

*Breskarians are a sort of half-orc tiefling type of guy. So you know. HOT.

#Cave writing #Original works #The Heart of the Ocean #I have fun #Fantasy stuff!#IT'S WIP WEDNESDAY BAYBEE #No cod today folks sorry I haven't had a real productive writing week #So you can have part of one of my novels instead

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sunshinediaz · 5 months

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wip wednesday 🥀

it's the last wednesday of the year, hallelujah

finished all my christmas fics which, wow, look at me go, and now i have one more fic i want to try to finish before the end of the year so i can clock 20 buddie fics in, uh, 7 months? a lil challenge, teehee

here's a snip of a bad things happen fic, hope you enjoy <3

This is their home and it’s all going to burn. The mirror shatters, sending Eddie into action. He opens the drawer to the bedside table and digs around until he finds a photograph and the nondescript pill bottle he hid there weeks ago; he shoves it in the pocket of his jeans, grabs Buck’s hand, and then the two of them race out of their room and down the hallway and out into the yard. Chris waits on them, wrapped up in a soft blanket. He’s on the phone, telling dispatch the address like he’s been taught; Buck takes over the call, confirming everything Christopher said and then some, too, before hanging up. “They’re on the way,” he says, hoarse. Eddie nods. Christopher makes a distressed noise, one that filters through the static of Eddie’s brain. He moves close and wraps his arm around his son’s shoulders, turning him away from the fire that’s feeding on their house and into his chest. He sniffles, bleary-eyed and confused, and squeezes Eddie’s middle tight. The fire’s concentrated mostly on the right side of the house, engulfing his and Buck’s bedroom. It’s moved on to the bathroom, where the three of them wrestle for the mirror every morning without fail; the roof of Christopher’s room has gone up, too, where it connects to theirs. Through the curtains—the ones he never pulls to all the way, a little habit he hasn’t outgrown—Eddie watches the ceiling collapse over the top of his son’s bed. If they would’ve been a few minutes late in noticing the fire, Chris would still be in bed.

tagged by @steadfastsaturnsrings and @try-set-me-on-fire

tagging @eddiebabygirldiaz, @callmenewbie, @spagheddiediaz, @jeeyuns, @devirnis, @rogerzsteven, @hippolotamus, @wikiangela, @thewolvesof1998, @loserdiaz, and @monsterrae1 if any of you wanna share!

#sorry it's somewhat blocky i simply don't care anymore lmao #i WANT to finish this before the end of the year because it fits so well to post then + i'll end the year on a high note i think?#alas we'll see what i can do lmao #tag games #♥️

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midnight-moth · 3 months

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has anyone asked you about your "the furniture story" you mentioned in the wips ask game ?? if not, would you be able to share some ? i'm SO intrigued 👀💙

Not yet! So - I haven’t actually gotten to the smut yet. I kind of hit a wall with this one but I’m determined to finish it. But here’s an excerpt! The part that is why my friend calls it the furniture story (They are mushy mushy ghouls!!) (also not proof read so maybe there are typos)

That elm behemoth caught Rain’s eye one night, when he was working late in the basement with Dew, sorting donations. He’d always had a weakness for pieces like this. Functional objects that were still beautiful, whimsical, romantic even.

He ran his fingers across the carvings his eyes had moved over so many times before. Like he’d already explored each and every crevice of filigree, every vine, every flower, and lastly, the two birds situated at the top, embracing as best a pair of wooden birds could.

A warm hand came to rest upon his shoulder, offering a silent question, what are you looking at, what’s interesting over here in the dark where the bulb is burnt out?

“Why is this down here?” Rain muttered, not expecting an answer. The thick coating of dust told him maybe its presence preceded Dew’s time here.

“It was a donation. No one’s ever wanted to brave hauling it back upstairs. Let alone to their house.”

Rain’s hand dropped to his side, wiping the dust on his jeans. “Pretty.”

“Yes, pretty.” Dew responded, although he wasn’t referring to the wardrobe, as his fingers threaded themselves with Rain’s.

“It’s a shame really, that it’s just sitting here.” he sighed.

Dew felt that same charge of static, of blood rushing in his ears, of his lungs squeaking against the compression of anxiety. What he felt every time a certain set of words, an idea, a proposition, inched its way forward to the tip of his tongue.

Rain squeezed his hand, and Dew wasn’t sure if he was looking for a sign, but perhaps that was it. No, he was the master of his own destiny. As are all of Lucifer’s children. He didn’t need a sign to tell him where his life was headed, what path to take.

“We could bring it home with us?” The upward inflection, a question, dangling precariously on the threads of hope he’d been tying to his heart ever since they met.

“We could. I mean - where? You mean my place, or yours?”

“Home. I meant home, ours.”

The even pattern of Rain’s breath faltered, Dew couldn’t entertain the idea that what he said was a mistake.

“Yes, I’d like that. I need somewhere to put my stuff.”

Dew realized he could hear Rain so clearly because he was holding his own in his chest. It came out on the heels of his content sigh of relief.

“Maybe Mounty can help us, it should fit in the bed of his pick up.” Rain’s voice remained even, calm, despite the eruption of emotion flooding his body and mind. He squeezed Dew’s hand a little harder.

“Yes, and maybe at the same time, we can get the rest of your stuff?” Dew squeezed back, and then there was no more give. Their hands were practically fused together.

“All my stuff is already at your place. Has been for weeks.” Rain didn’t give Dew time to contemplate what exactly he’d been doing while he was supposedly stopping by his place to pick up new clothing or toiletries.

Instead he swept him up in his arms and kissed him until his lips went numb, against the wardrobe that didn’t budge or tip when they crashed against it.

And now, as his touch lingers on those crimson robes, hanging off the first piece of furniture they’d procured to

#wip #Midwest emo ghouls au #rain ghoul #dewdrop ghoul #midnight moth answers

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peepos-prose · 7 months

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[Image ID: A photograph of two houses on a rocky cliff. The house on the left is normal, while the house on the right is heavily distorted and overlaid in TV static. The corners of the image are tattered. End ID]

WIP INTRODUCTION: THE HOUSE ON DEARMAD

⇴ Genre: Psychological/Lovecraftian Horror

⇴ POV: Third Person Present

⇴ Content Warnings: Body Horror, Unreality, Psychological Instability, Disturbing Imagery, Paranormal Activity, Death (likely more as I develop further)

⇴ Setting: Fictional Island in Modern Day Ireland

⇴ Status: Barely Plotting

⇴ Layout: Collection of Short Stories

—–

Jessi M'Gie is a paranormal investigator, famous for his resolve and determination. Nothing escapes his attention, and there's never been a haunt too daunting for him and his crew.

When an old friend calls for help with a suspect poltergeist, he's quick to her rescue. After all, his expertise is unmatched - and her relationship is crumbling. But spending a week alone in Dearmad is risky. The locals love to tell stories, generations of sailors weaving tales of monsters across the island. The truth won't be easy to find.

Especially when there are eyes everywhere.

—–

If you’d like to be on a taglist for this story, please let me know!

—-

#i had to drop this on halloween!#i may not circle back to it for a little while but my plans are kinda iffy on the new year #so maybe it'll be my next story! i have no idea #but here it is! :3 #one of the stories on my writer's bucket list #introduction #wip intro #wip introduction #lovecraftian inspired #eldritch horror

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kaseyskat · 1 year

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bolted upright from a nap with this angst-riddled concept; i lowkey wanna write more but i have way too many wips already WHOOPS anyways let me know if u wanna see more... hehe

Lark knows what's happened before he even gets the phone call.

He's all the way in Sacramento checking on the radius of the incursions- it hasn't spread much past Los Angeles, but it can't hurt to check and besides, it isn't as though Lark has much of a place to go anyways. He had been debating about calling Grant and asking if he could crash when it happened, the icy cold stabbing in his chest and something in his head going empty, like a connection was snapped.

Twin sense is a powerful thing. Even if it had been an annoyance at times, Lark had always considered himself lucky; lucky that if nothing else, he knows where his brother is and his general well-being.

He’s never felt like this before, though.

It slams into him like a truck, and he sits in his car and shakes and shakes for a minute, two minutes. His breath catches in his chest– what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck–?

When his phone rings, Lark dives to answer it.

His mother sounds tired, but she also sounds congested, like she’s holding herself back, nasal and tight. “I’m glad you answered.”

“What happened?” Lark demands, his heart hammering away in his chest as he clutches onto his phone like a lifetime. Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me I’m wrong.

“There was… it was a car accident.”

It was all she had to say.

Lark can picture it now; his brother and his wife both arguing about one thing or another in the car. fully unaware of the danger they are putting themselves into. He had felt off all morning and this is why, because Sparrow was in danger, he was hurt, and now he’s gone, and… and…

“...and Rebecca?”

“On impact,” his mother answers, and she’s definitely crying now, her voice all tight still as she sniffs into the phone. “Luckily the kids weren’t there.”

Fuck.

Sparrow’s fucking kids.

Something in his throat goes dry, and Lark inhales, exhales, tries to control his breathing– the voice in his head, though, sounds an awful lot like his father, and he tunes it out almost immediately. “God,” he breathes, wearily. “Fuck. Okay. Okay, I’m coming home, when…?”

“Not sure yet, we… your father and I still have to talk about it, he’s not taking this very well,” his mother admits, and she, too, takes a deep breath, turning the receiver to static. “We can talk more about… everything when you get here. Stay safe, please.”

He can’t promise her that, not when his head is swimming and empty, so empty, and he can only lean against his steering wheel and take deep, measured breaths to swallow down the nausea creeping up on him. “Okay,” he compromises, swallowing thickly. “Love you.”

The phone clicks, and once again, Lark is alone; this time, though, the loneliness he usually prefers is overcome with a hollow numbness building in his skull, and he chokes on a scream as he slams his head into the steering wheel, trembling.

“Fuck!”

Sparrow is dead. His twin brother, companion from birth, the only one who despite everything, despite their differences, could understand Lark… is dead.

For the first time in his entire life, Lark is well and truly alone.

Getting back to San Dimas is a blur.

Everything is a blur, really. Lark barely remembers the drive, and he definitely doesn’t remember steering to his parents’ house, dragging himself through the front door without even knocking. It’s solemn, with even the skies weeping as he slams the door behind him.

He slowly walks through familiar halls, cautiously peeking his head into the living room with a shyness he didn’t know he possessed. There’s a cartoon playing on the TV, and his father sits with a smal boy that Lark barely recognizes, holding him while an older girl and his mother stand in the kitchen.

Fuck, this is harder than he thought it’d be. Lark swallows thickly again, and he steps fully into the living room, his heart pounding inside his chest like a freight train. “...Father,” he greets coldly, watching as both his father and the boy in his lap perk up.

“Dad!” the boy chirps first, before Henry can say anything, and then Lark has this tiny sprout of a six year old nearly tackling his legs, clinging to his jeans. “You’re home!”

Of all the times to be mistaken for his twin, this one hurts. Lark inhales, and his eyes burn. Still, he knows… he can’t destroy this kid’s hopes, not yet, so he summons up all the Sparrow in him, and forces a smile as he kneels.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says wearily, and he tugs the boy – Normal, though he’s bigger than the last time Lark had seen him – off of his legs and into a proper hug. Normal buries himself into the embrace, and Lark very easily hefts him into the air, his chest tightening at the way Normal squeals in delight.

Henry watches this all from the couch, and when Lark meets eyes with his dad, he can see the grief lined in his eyes, the misery in his face. It reflects Lark’s own emotions and he doesn’t know how to feel about this; this is definitely not how he’d imagine his first family reunion since he was a late teenager.

“Mijo?” Mercedes finally pokes her head out of the kitchen, with Hero trotting after her. If Hero has the same reaction to seeing Lark, she doesn’t say so; in fact, she just stares at him for a moment before immediately turning away.

“Grandma look! It’s Dad!” Normal cheers, and the heartbreak that Lark had felt deep in his bones at the title is reflected right back in his mother’s face, the way her eyes tighten and she grimaces.

“Hey, Norm,” Lark tries to channel his brother’s energy, relaxing his posture enough as he holds Normal in his arms still. “I’m… I’m here for you, but I need to speak with Grandma Mercedes first, okay? Why don’t you go sit with… Grandpa Henry for a bit longer.”

“Okay!” Normal chirps, and he wiggles out of Lark’s grasp, running back to the couch and jumping straight into Henry’s arms. The family resemblance in the two is incomparable when they’re sitting together; Normal might have Sparrow’s curly dark hair and Rebecca’s lighter eyes, but his smile? It is all Henry.

Lark marvels over the resemblance for only a few seconds longer before a hand lands on his shoulder; his mother, who had approached while he was watching Normal, and now gives him the saddest smile as she draws him into a hug.

He hasn’t allowed his mother to hug him in, what, years? Given the occasion, it feels wrong, but he sinks into her arms anyways, clutching onto her back in a way he hasn’t since he was a very small kid. “Mother,” he whispers, and his voice cracks despite himself. “Was it… bad?”

“We shouldn’t talk about it here,” Mercedes whispers back to him, and she squeezes him in her arms before pulling away, wiping at her eyes. “We still have so much else to discuss; your father and I have already talked of selling the house and raising the kids here, but there’s still the matter of… of the funeral, and–”

“-wait,” Lark interrupts, and he glances carefully over at Normal, buried in Henry’s arms, and Hero, still hovering around the kitchen with a glass of water in her hands. “Are you guys taking them?”

“Well, it isn’t like we’d ever allow them to be separated in foster care,” Mercedes huffs. “Your father and I are perfectly capable of raising them ourselves, even if… even if it gets difficult.”

For some reason, the thought of his father and his mother raising his brother’s kids has the nausea bubbling up in his stomach once again. He thinks about the lessons he failed to learn in the past, the way that Normal is such a soft kid and Hero abrasive in a way that just feels familiar, and he shudders.

“I want to raise them,” he blurts before he can think twice about it. “I mean, I should raise them, they’re my brother’s kids. It… it could help them.”

“Are you… are you sure?” Mercedes frowns, and she frets over Lark’s hair, picking out some stray leaves that he must’ve missed from… whenever the last time he showered was, who knows when. “Your father and I already talked it out, it shouldn’t be solely your responsibility to bear.”

Somehow, that just makes him angrier. “I can decide what responsibilities I can handle,” he snips. “They need familiarity. I’ll raise them in their own house, and… you guys can help still, but it should be me.”

“If you say so, chickadee,” Mercedes concedes, and she squeezes him in another tight hug. “I love you so much, okay?”

Lark inhales, and he exhales, and he inhales again. “The last time we spoke was in a fight,” he admits, the words spilling out of his mouth without his consent. “This doesn’t feel real.”

“I know, I know,” Mercedes releases a stifled sob into Lark’s hair, and she guides him over to the couch, where the cartoon is still playing. “Everything will be okay, though, you’ll see.”

Everything will be O-A-K! Sparrow’s voice echoes in Lark’s head, and he swallows.

As soon as he sits down, Normal makes direct eye contact with him, and he springs out of Henry’s arms, climbing over the cushions to curl into Lark’s chest instead. “Grandpa Henry and Grandma Mercedes are so nice,” he informs Lark, “even if the house smells funny. Are we going home soon?”

God. Lark draws his arms around his nephew, and as he glances at his father, who hasn’t spoken a word since Lark’s arrival and didn’t look like he intended on it anytime soon, to his mother, who had solemnly gone back to the kitchen, to Hero, his niece, who hovers awkwardly around his mom, distancing herself from the rest of the family… he knows things will never be the same.

And yet…

“...soon, little dove, soon,” he promises.

#kasey writes stuff #dndads #dungeons and daddies #lark oak garcia #sparrow oak garcia #kinda? in spirit #mercedes oak garcia #henry oak #normal oak #hero oak #shoves lark into the tremendous burden of parenthood. ur welcome #BTW normal is six as mentioned and hero is eight!

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