#Untitled writing project

[canisalbus]

This is kind of an odd thing, but your art made me realized that I wasn't aromantic. I've never had a bunch of romantic inclinations and assumed it just wasn't for me, but your art made me realized that it's definitely more complicated than just an across-the-board disinterest in romance!

That's nice to hear, I'm happy for you!

I'm not an expert but to my understanding it's also entirely possible to be aromantic and interested in romantic themes, while rarely experiencing romantic attraction in practice, or something like that. The lines are sort of blurry and I guess in the end it comes down to what labels one feels most comfortable using.

#turns out for me the secret ingredient was being very invested in the characters first and foremost #answered #untitled-writing-projects #if people who previously were completely disinterested in romance look at my pictures of tender dogs and think 'that's kind of nice' #I can't be doing abysmally bad job at navigating these topics? #that's an encouraging thought

[galacticgoldfishart]

She is fun to dress-up

#this one's for me #artists on tumblr #digital art #drawing #sketches #concept art #digital drawing #character design #henchmen #little hero #untitled personal project #naoka #fior #orphie #outfits #i swear to god im writing chapter one I just wanted to dressup my girl

[artbyblastweave]

"The thing about this, about being like this, is that you're slowly. You're slowly, you go to pieces. Holes in your skin, holes in your memory. Holes in your brain where words and ideas and whole years of your life used to live. Holes in your arms and your legs where they bite you, where they hold you down and get their fingers in to widen it. Alright. Fine. Engineering problem.

So every year I'm a little less me and a little more something I built. And there's maybe, I want to say maybe five minutes each day where I can sort of spin that as a positive thing, I get, wassuhword- Nietzschean, I can get Nietzschean about it. Will-to-Power or some shit like that. I'm not unproud of it. But when I sit with it, it's not empowering. It's mostly just scary. Because before all of this kicked off, right, before I got bitten the first time, I smoked three packs a day, slept three hours a night, and I knew it wasn't doing anything good for me, but in a distant way, you know? And when it's distant you can put it out of your mind, for a while. Now I can't pretend not to know what the shelf life is. I know exactly what's good for another week and what's shoddy, what I had to rush or stopgap on or improvise in the field. I know the exact angle that'll shatter the knee actuator if I land on it wrong, I know exactly how far I can move left or right without tearing the abdominal mounts, I know exactly how hard I can punch something before the gauntlet backfires, puts my humerus through whatever's behind me. I know exactly how I'm gonna go to pieces because I've already done it in the opposite direction. And I've basically got as long left as it takes for one of those holes to open up, eat the part of my brain that keeps track of just how fucking tenuous I am, the part that remembers to be scared. Because you're scared enough to keep on top of things, or you're dead. True before, truer now."

#Absolutely could not draw a guy this greebled in a comic but it's fun to go nuts #character design #my art #character art #OC #untitled zombie project #zombie #zombies #zombie art #zombie apocalypse #my writing

[eusuntgratie]

different banner bc this one is just a bunch of lines from my various wips that i've poked at recently. i tried to actually write and it didn't go well but i am rotating all my blorbos like rotisserie chickens in my mind palace which i'm sure will eventually bear fruit. enjoy some random sentences!

i wanna be adored (elliott lefevre from chambers x marco peña from kissing booth 2 & 3)

Marco tries to catch Elliott’s eye. He’s honestly not sure if he’s drunk or if he just wants everyone to think he is.

mechanic alex (firstprince) this one is so close to being done please sir can i have some spoons 🙏

“Oh,” Henry whispers. “You beautiful slut. Look at you.” 

taylor pov of the second half of chapter 3 of disaster (taynick) i'm thinking i'll throw disaster in a series and post some ficlets, taylor pov, etc when inspo strikes (aka when jon gives me brainworms)

A buzzing sound from Nick’s nightstand jerks Taylor’s thoughts away from all the things he could do to get Nick to make more of those delicious noises.

untitled raf/alex (what is says on the tin. i'm FERAL for these two)

“I’ve got you,” Raf tells him, stroking a thumb over his cheek.

ryliver villa fic

“You fucking slut,” Oliver growls right into his ear. “You could barely tear your eyes off of me long enough to tell her how pretty she is, could you?”

i know you can't ignore me (another taynick fic)

Taylor’s not sure if Nick spent all night fighting off memories of the night they spent together, but he certainly did.

i'm always happy to chat about any of my wips! feel free to poke me - maybe some words will fall out! open tag + some no pressure tags under the cut.

i'm scheduling for midnight my time so if you beat me somehow i'm sorry! i'll hopefully be snoozin'!

tagging @bigassbowlingballhead @oxfordslutphase @lostcol @winderlylandchime @taste-thewaste

@dreamsinthewitchouse @basil-bird @sheepywritesfics @agostobuwan @ninzied

@hgejfmw-hgejhsf @thinkof-england @wordsofhoneydew @happiness-of-the-pursuit @cactusdragon517

@violetbaudelaire-quagmire @dragonflylady77 @cha-melodius @heysweetheart-writes @captainjunglegym

#wip wednesday #grace writes #i wanna be adored #mechanic alex #disaster #untitled raf/alex #villa fic #i know you can't ignore me #i didn't even open exes i want to bang out a few short things before i tackle a big project again

[bigassbowlingballhead]

six sentence sunday 2/11/2024

tagged by: @wordsofhoneydew @eusuntgratie @nocoastposts @magicandarchery @captainjunglegym @littlemisskittentoes

i come to you with another excerpt from the [untitled pool project]

Nick grabs Taylor’s hand, “Good game, mate.”  The grip of Nick’s hand sends a shock through Taylor’s arm. He’s not ready to walk away, not yet. “I’m just warming up, what do you say? Another game?” Nick furrows his brow, “You should really walk away while you still have your dignity.”  Taylor scoffs, “How 'bout a bet?” “A bet?”

no pressure tags: @anincompletelist @violetbaudelaire-quagmire @getmehighonmagic @firenati0n @heybuddy-drabbles @oldtshirtsouls @firstprincehornyramblings @lostcol and an open tag for anyone who has some words to share.

#jon writes now? #six sentence sunday #rpf foolishness #untitled pool project #i thought i shook the rpf bug with testicoli del toro #turns out between that and reading disaster #i'm only worse

[townofcrosshollow]

This project is currently unnamed and very early, so I'm not sure about sharing it anywhere more official until I've written more and gotten a better handle on it. But I'm happy with it so far. Synopsis: A suicidally depressed man discovers a dying fallen angel in the woods. In nursing it back to health, he not only finds a reason to keep living, but discovers a darkness in his heart he'd never even imagined. Massive CW for suicide, depression, alcoholism, religious imagery, and a little gore.

Every day when the early morning sun was hovering just below the horizon (on the days he wasn't blackout drunk), Samson would put the noose around his neck. He'd originally tied it what, a month ago? It could have been two or three by now, as a cocktail of SSRIs and vodka had started to turn time into a haze of half-remembered days. The calendar on the wall was two years out of date, the clock on the stove blinked all zeroes after a power outage (he didn't have the manual to figure out how to reset it), and his cell phone was at the bottom of the lake out front.

Samson learned how to tie a noose in Scouts. Or more accurately, he figured it out himself fucking around with ropes while the other kids were following instructions. It had been a poor approximation of the real thing as used for generations of cruelty, but he'd tied it secure and gotten it to tighten around another boy's neck. It was a joke, obviously, but they didn't see it that way. That was the last time he went to Scouts, but only the first of many nooses he'd tie over two decades. This one felt nice and strong, secured to a beam in the roof of the old cottage's attic with a stiff hitch knot. It was an old polypropylene rope his daddy used to use to keep the boat in place by the docks. Maybe the reason he hadn't kicked out that stepladder yet was the image of this stupid fucking blue-and-yellow striped rope around his rotting corpse-neck when they found him, bloated and maggot-ridden and leaking fluids all over the attic floorboards. "What a pathetic bastard," they'd say, and they'd be spot on. But the walk to the hardware store was long, and he sold the truck to stock up on liquor, so he was caught between laziness and his last remaining shreds of dignity.

Today that shred went out the window. Samson found her number on the side of the fridge where daddy used to keep all his contacts (daddy always had a shit memory even before he got old, and he passed it on). He tried dialing it into the old landline and only realized he was still paying for that shit when the call connected and her voice came through loud and clear. "This is Cynthia Dawn, I'm not at the phone right now. Leave a message and I'll get back to you." Her voice was soft like downy feathers and blindingly bright. The voicemail Samson left was probably worth a restraining order. So that noose was looking nicer than ever, and that stepladder was looking flimsier than ever.

Samson would never find out if he was really gonna do it that day, cause in that split second before, as he stared out at the sun rising over the lake, the room went ablaze with a light more effulgent than any he'd seen. In an instant his vision went white, only pierced by soft little pins of red and green and blue, like when you press down on your eyelids with your fingertips. No matter how tight he squeezed his lids closed, hoping to banish the flash, it was like he was staring straight into the sun. Tears started streaming down his cheeks and drenching his beard.

And then it was over. The light retreated out through the attic window, leaving Samson's world dancing with colours like an impressionist painting. He stood there a long moment, heart heating in his neck, mouth dry, wondering if he'd just seen God or if a stun grenade had been silently lobbed through his window. With shaking hands, he slipped the noose off his neck and climbed down off the ladder. He took a few tentative steps towards the window, pressed his hands against the glass, craned his neck to look out. The lake was so placid it was like time stood still, stained golden by the sun's rays spilling out over the horizon. Out to the left side of the cottage, the shed where daddy kept all his fishing shit back in the day. It was untouched, both by him and by whatever caused that light. But off to the right, where the woods sprung up around the old slipway, there was a dying remnant of that glow that bleached the leaves and filled the sky with an odd haze.

He grabbed one of daddy's rifles from the safe and slipped a hunting knife in his jeans pocket before setting off out the back door. The lawn that spread out from the cottage to the road was overgrown, dotted with those little white wildflowers. It would've looked picturesque, if it weren't for the rusting lawnmower, the dying garden twisted with weeds, the dilapidated guest house that hadn't been used in a decade. Actually, come to think of it, this might have been Samson's first outing beyond the cottage walls in weeks- he'd been subsisting on canned food, liquor, and over-prescribed Zoloft for god knows how long.

So for the first time in weeks, he walked down that old paved road until the sign for Fire Route 41 came up on his left, just past the slipway. The gravel road seemed to wind on for eternity through those woods, dotted with the occasional cabin that lay vacant- it was just coming up to the end of the off-season, and soon eager tourists would swarm the lake looking for a fantasy of the life Samson grew up hating. For now, though, the woods sat still apart from the glow that beckoned him.

The light faded as the determined man grew ever closer, threatening to be extinguished any moment and leave him at a loss. A few times, he wondered what he was hoping to find at the source of that divine glimmer. The face of God? Salvation? Some kind of science-fiction portal that could whisk him away from this existence into a more prosperous one? He clutched the rifle against his chest as he stood there on the edge of the woods, the epicenter of the glow just a few dozen feet away. It was waning dangerously low now, no longer capable of blinding Samson, leaving the spot looking like a sun-bleached photograph. Whatever he was looking for, he trudged ever closer to his prize.

And through the trees, in the underbrush, a thing unlike any that Samson had seen revealed itself. At first he wondered if an egret had been shot down, as a layer of downy white feathers was scattered about the trees like berries in spring. Just past the treeline, a pair of massive white wings spread across the ground, broken and twitching like a thing about to die. They glittered like fresh snow as he got closer, rifle raised to put the poor thing out of its misery. And then the wing shifted like a bolt of pain had rushed through it, and he heard a cry of anguish unlike anything bird or beast could produce. Something soft and melodic, like a piano screaming in pain but trapped by the beautiful temperament of its keys. And when those feathers moved away, beneath them, Samson saw a writhing, contorted body of nude flesh punctuated by cuts and scrapes that oozed a thick golden fluid. The bird-thing turned, craning its neck, looking up at the man that towered over it. Its lips were parted as if in prayer, its eyes staring down the barrel of daddy's gun.

Samson lowered the rifle as he looked into the face of God.

Next part

#writing #untitled project #i hope somebody likes this! #i like it lmao #cw suicide #cw depression #cw alcohol #cw religious imagery

[pb-dot]

WIP Wednesday: Meet my new protagonist

So, in these days leading up to November I've spent some time trying to capture my vague and ephemeral plans for the unnamed horror project I really should settle on a title for one of these days. I still have a ways to go, but I figured it was time to talk a little bit about the poor sap who's going to go through my made-to-order horrors. Well, I say poor sap, but the fact of the matter is that our hero is a bit of a bastard in some respects.

Oscar H. Skerry would never dare to call himself an expert on art, but he will also be dead in the ground before he concedes that anyone on god's green earth knows more about art he likes than he does. From his home in San Franscisco, he has made a modest but sustained success as an art critic, paying the bills by a series of freelance consultant gigs, mostly for "particularly daft multi-millionaires looking to get some art into their portfolios," to quote the man himself.

While he may make a living advising people he has nothing but contempt for make what could be argued to be wise investment decisions, it is far from Oscar's passion. You're unlikely to hear him talk about his true passion unless he deems you to be of considerable intellect or in a position to further his goals, though. It's not a secret, exactly, but Oscar considers it "need-to-know information."

In short, Oscar is captivated by the work of one Tomasz Gildebrant, a reclusive artist who made his name with his unique visual style, other art critics than Oscar has called it "pleasantly unpleasant" or "containing angles and strokes evocative of the nightmare," and an unflinching dedication to his reclusivity that has him placed in the category of "outsider art" because nobody can figure out enough about him to put him anywhere else. Oscar believes himself to be the one to write the definitive, defining work on Gildebrant and form a thesis that'll open the art world's eyes fully to his beloved artist. So far it's not going very well, and Oscar is struggling to even explain why he likes the paintings.

Leaving the topic of Oscar's fascination for more biographical details. Oscar Henry Skerry was born to Linda and Harold Skerry in Rochester, MN on September 12th 1989. Oscar, named after his great-grandfather, had a childhood that was considered normal at the time, but that in retrospect probably contained more bullying than what's healthy. This bullying came to a peak in Oscar's early teens, around the time Oscar realized he was queer. Unfortunately for Oscar's tormentors, he also realized he wasn't going to take it on the chin anymore. Oscar grew into somewhat of a problem child as his many fights and waning interest in academia saw his grades decline.

Art became somewhat of a salvation for young mr. Skerry, as his sympathetic if not somewhat willfully ignorant parents, encouraged him to explore his artistic side as a possible outlet for what they percieved to be baseless aggression. Although Oscar did take to the creation of art, he seemed to rapidly change his mind through high school and towards college. Oscar is tight-lipped on this part of his life, but may be plied to confess that this was the time he saw his first Gildebrant painting, and have since been striving to understand the experience and the feelings this awoke in him.

So that's Oscar in a nutshell. He's not as fleshed out as I want him to be when all of this is done, but then again I'm planning to pants a lot of the finer detail since that worked pretty well with Clockwork Boy. Expect many ask prompts and tag your OC posts about this boy, the target of his obsession, and Mara, his bitchy-but-wise frenemy with benefits.

#writing #hitherto untitled horror project #Oscar H Skerry #my god I need a title for this goddamn WIP

[onbearfeet]

March Patreon Flash Story!

This month's story is a quick one based on a prompt I found while googling desperately: "The funeral was at noon." I hadn't planned on having anyone attend any funerals, but Maggie has her reasons, and I suddenly found myself wondering whatever happened to the Jimmy Olsens of my universe after the capes all disappeared.

Since I ended up not using the one prompt I got, I decided I'm entitled to post the story here without consulting anyone. MWAHAHAHA.

For more context on this 'verse, see my AO3 (onethingconstant) or the tag "Untitled Superhero Project" on this blog.

For the Living

The funeral was at noon, in a quiet little church in Indiana. There had been no announcement—well, no public announcement.

Snap Anderson had been old-school—the oldest school, he would have said. He’d been wearing Jetfighter’s signal watch since 1961, and even after the mirror-helmeted alien had gone down in flames in 1982, Snap had kept wearing the watch, deactivated and silent, as a memorial to his best friend. He’d been a lot of people’s best friend, actually—half of Vanguard’s ever-changing lineup had counted Snap as an ally or a sidekick at one point or another, and there were as many clips of Snap attending heroes’ funerals as there were of him saying outlandish things on talk shows.

Now, Snap’s own funeral had barely a dozen people huddled in the pews.

Maggie slipped in through the back of the church after the organ started up, feeling the tag on her stolen black dress itch between her shoulder blades. Coming here had been a risk, she knew; most of Snap’s social circle had vanished in white light three years ago, and she was in serious danger of standing out in a crowd that would surely all know whoever was left. Being the only likely attendee under fifty wouldn’t help, either.

But it had been on her way to New York, and she couldn’t resist.

She scurried down the aisle in her stolen kitten heels, trying to look like she’d been caught in midday traffic, and slid into the first open seat in the frontmost empty pew. Everyone was singing, droning along to a song she hadn’t heard growing up in St. Joseph’s, so she stared at the floor and mumbled watermelon watermelon watermelon until it was time to stop.

The eulogy was bland, from what she could tell, and seemed to have copied several sentences verbatim from Snap’s Wikipedia page. That didn’t stop the occasional sob or sniffle from the gathered mourners. She wasn’t sure they were listening either.

One of the nuns had told her once that funerals are for the living, not the dead. Maybe the words didn’t matter as long as someone said them. As long as someone said something.

She wondered whether anyone would say anything when she died. Probably not, except for whoever had to clean up the mess.

The eulogy ended, and the organ started up again, and as the creaky mourners levered themselves out of their pews for a final round of what sounded like “Oh God Triumphant And Invisible”, Maggie craned her neck and saw it.

Standing by the head of the casket, just for an instant, was a tall figure in black body armor, half-swathed in a long black cloak, with a gleaming white mask carved to look like a grinning skull. It wasn’t a friendly skull, or even a particularly scary one. Not a Día de los Muertos calavera or a grinning rubber Halloween mask from a party store. It looked like someone had simply taken an ordinary human skull off a pile of them somewhere, sliced off the front of it, and glued it to the front of an otherwise formless black void.

Got you, you bastard, Maggie snarled to herself. The obituary had said Snap had died a natural death, but she knew better now.

Skullfaced freak never could resist a good chance to gloat.

The figure vanished again before she could so much as twitch out of her seat, and no one else in the little congregation reacted, but that was all right. She knew what she’d seen.

When the service ended, she retrieved her pack from behind the dumpster where she’d stashed it and wrote another name in her notebook. The dress and shoes went into the trash, her jeans and sneakers went back on, and she was walking toward the bus station before Snap Anderson’s casket was back in the hearse.

#untitled superhero project #kat writes #patreon story #this story brought to you by panic and desperation #snap anderson is not in this book #but skully dude sure is #have fun speculating lol

[siobhanory]

nothing comes between me and my fanfiction drafts.

#in holes (untitled princess kenstew project) is at 7k now #making (a ten year old) is also getting off its feet. #like owen and sassoon is literally like. needs to be proof read and then its done im just scared of posting it bc. i dont even go there #(tomgreg) #my writing #succession

[nausikaaa]

Six Sentence Sunday Monday

thanks for tagging me @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @confused-bi-queer @forabeatofadrum and @aristocratic-otter!

i had a super tiring weekend and forgot to post last night, so i'll do it now.

here's some more Hermione from my post troy wip, i'm getting really into exploring the different cultures and settings of Ancient Greece and sort of doing that through her eyes.

I thought I'd prepared myself for the change, for how different Skyros would be from Sparta, but I evidently had not prepared enough. From the moment the ship docked, everything was so different from my home. The docks in Sparta had been bustling, our royal dock still crowded with well-wishers and ordinary folks searching for something to celebrate as we pulled away, while further down one way men hauled cargo from a seemingly never ending stream of ships, and the other way, not quite far enough to dispel the smell, women gutted fish and ground up the sea snails to create the royal purple dye I was dressed in.

In Skyros, the dock was serene in comparison: a few ships were docked, though none as big as our own, but the rest of the boats were tiny fishing vessels. The atmosphere was entirely different too, not cold and grey but sunny and warm, the sky and the sea a breathtaking azure. Leaning over the edge of the ship, I saw small fish and crabs through the clear water and found myself smiling for the first time since I'd left home.

should i still tag people on a monday? yeah, i will. consider this a six sentence monday or wip wednesday tag, friends! @ileadacharmedlife @martsonmars @imagineacoolusername @ic3-que3n @tea-brigade @bazzybelle @aroace-genderfluid-sheep @theearlgreymage @facewithoutheart @ebbpettier @larkral @otherpeoplesheartachept-2 @letraspal @prettygoododds @whogaveyoupermission @shemakesmeforget @artsyunderstudy @hushed-chorus @blackberrysummerblog @cutestkilla and @fatalfangirl

#six sentence sunday #untitled post troy project #wip #my writing

[judesstfrancis]

vince darling looooooves reading romance novels he always has one in his stall. reads a couple pages every intermission to keep his mind focused on something else so he doesn't freak out about the game, esp if they're losing. vince darling has never finished a single one. always cuts it off right at the last hundred or so pages, too soft hearted for the inevitable breakup. before the main couple can fight, before they can drift away, can make decisions for each other that the other never wants. he starts to suspect that things are headed for dangerous territory and just drops off. nevermind that they'll always be back together by the last 50 pages, he'd rather keep that last sweet kiss before tragedy strikes fresh in his mind. if he doesn't finish them then the breakups never happen, however fleeting. then nobody has to feel that itch of resentment start to creep up, that ache in their lungs that accompanies being apart when they'd rather not be. nobody has anything to get over. nobody has to be alone.

#I don't have a neat cutting off point for this I'm just in love with him #something about how he falls in love with sammy and dreads the last hundred pages of a romance book even more #bc he has something to compare it to now something to worry about #when does THEIR last hundred pages start when is HE going to have to feel that ache etc #my poor sad man let yourself be loved king sammy wanted to kiss u when u called him fuckface during a line brawl #text post #untitled hockey project #gabby writes

[canisalbus]

This may have been asked already, but is chocolate lethal to the dogs in your world? Are the dogs human enough that they can drink some cocoa and have a chocolate bar, or would that be extremely bad?

Would Machete even enjoy chocolate, or are sweets out of his enjoyment?

I've gone with the human diet option, they can eat the same things we do. I guess I'd just find it sort of unfun and inconvenient if I had to plan their meals and culture around canine food restrictions. For example it's possible that wine would've never been invented because grapes are toxic to dogs (so no communion wine either). In theory you can make wine out of other fruits and berries as well, but to my understanding grapes are uniquely suited for it and respond well to fermentation or something like that.

Machete isn't big on sweets but I think someone suggested earlier that he'd enjoy dark chocolate.

#maybe he likes foods that are on the bitter side #the boy is into tannins #Vaschete lore #answered #untitled-writing-projects

[galacticgoldfishart]

"Hey, good job kid!"

#abbald #lin #untitled personal project #little hero #henchmen #concept art #digital art #artists on tumblr #drawing #i'm having too much fun drawing them and not writing the first chapter :') #combat instructor #antagonist teen

[artbyblastweave]

"The first couple hours are the worst, when they aren't completely physiologically dead yet. I mean the worst for everyone around them, they're having the time of their goddamn lives. You have the full body hemorrhaging, the infection flushing the blood to replace it with more useful stuff. The giggling, the echolalia, the singing- all the higher-order stuff getting flushed as it's sorting what it can use from what isn't worth the trouble. And for most of them, it's when they're the handiest. At their best with tools, blades. And they're prone to arts and crafts, after a fashion."

#sketch #my writing #my art #character design #horror art #horror #zombie art #untitled zombie project

[peregrine-sarka]

[ID in alt text]

I already posted this to my main, but now that I've got a writing-specific sideblog I figured I should post it here as well. The art is by the wonderfully talented @hotdrinks, who you should definitely commission - he has a link to his commission form in his pinned post!

Ariadne was a puzzle that  took a bit of decoding to figure out, but Claire thought she’d gotten quite good at it. A raised eyebrow meant, "Go on," pursed lips meant, "Stop talking." Pinching the bridge of her nose meant performative exasperation, massaging her temple meant genuine exasperation. That one particular smile of hers where the corners of her mouth pinched together tightly meant, “I have somehow convinced myself that if I laugh in front of my coworkers they will never respect me again, so I will not laugh at your dumb joke,” and that one sharp, barking laugh of hers meant the dumb joke in question had caught her off guard. Glasses pushed to the top of her head meant either, “I have a headache,” or, “I’ve had my nose buried in some dense legal document from 1898 for so long that I’ve lost all sense of time and space,” or, “I have a headache because I’ve had my nose buried in some dense legal document from 1898 for so long that I’ve lost all sense of time and space.” And Claire was almost, but not quite, certain that that one particular smile of Ariadne’s, where her lips barely moved but her eyes went all soft around the edges, meant, “I adore you. I don’t know when that happened, I don't even know exactly why, but I would give the world to you if you asked.” Claire’s answering smile always meant that, anyway.

#not expecting this to get many notes bc i already posted this exact thing to my main but i figured it should be here #what else is this blog for #(and if anyone's curious why i didn't just reblog it it's bc i'm trying to keep this blog semi-professional and i don't want too many links #to my main blog which is. not professional.) #my writing #character art #oc tag #ariadne #claire #clairiadne #ariadne-verse #untitled peregrine sarka project #araidne underwood #claire pajak #ps - sorry lee for tagging you in ANOTHER post for the same art please don't feel obligated to reblog

[bigassbowlingballhead]

WIP Wednesday 4/10/2024

whoa buddy this is coming late today, words have been coming very slow lately. Something's noodling with the untitled brunch project and Buck's recent discovery.

Buck crosses his arms and leans across the table “hey, can I ask you something?,” he asks. His head is slightly cocked and the sun catches his blue eyes and makes them sparkle, Alex can’t help but play along. He leans across the table and looks directly into Buck’s sparkling blue eyes. “Shoot, sweetheart,” Alex says with a wink, Buck’s cheeks flush and his eyes dart away from his gaze.  Buck lowers his voice almost to a whisper, “you’re bisexual, right?”  “It ain’t a bad word, you don’t gotta whisper it,” Alex sits up and leans back in his seat. “So, what about it?” Buck picks up his fork and pushes some unfinished eggs around his plate before looking back at Alex, “how–” he pauses, “how did you know?” “I guess, things didn’t really click for me until Henry kissed me on New Year’s Eve. It took awhile, but things just started to make sense. Like I finally felt–” “Free?” his voice cracks.

sooo many lovely tags today @duchessdepolignaca03 @firenati0n (roop my love this is doubling as your last line tag) @onthewaytosomewhere @getmehighonmagic @nocoastposts @eusuntgratie @wordsofhoneydew @captainjunglegym @sunnysideprince @cha-melodius @violetbaudelaire-quagmire @heysweetheart-writes @anincompletelist @sheepywritesfics @oxfordslutphase @taste-thewaste @sparklepocalypse

seeing as wednesday is damn near over i'll leave this tag open for anyone who's still yet to post.

#wip wednesday #jon writes now? #the untitled brunch project #shout out amber for throwing a little brain worm in my ear for something else in this