To submit a fanfiction request, please send them through my inbox!
A request should look something like this:
"Hi! I'd love to see a (Character) x Male (Or Gender-Neutral) Reader with the red string of fate AU. Thank you!"
Feel free to be more detailed with your prompt, or don't supply a prompt and let me have full creative freedom, it's your choice! Please note that I am not obligated to fulfill your request. I am a college student with a very busy life, and if I do not feel like writing for a specific character or fandom, I may not reply to your request.
I do NOT write: Female or fem-aligned reader, character x character
Ao3: CasuallyBeez, it's pretty empty there, but I'm planning on writing some NSFW for it right now :)
Hello! You may call me Cheese, although it should be noted Cheese is not my real name. (Yes, people have assumed my parents named me Cheese...)
This is an 18+ blog, but I don't post smut on Tumblr, so minors are free to interact!
My pronouns are he/him, and I am an INTJ-T and a Sagittarius
This blog is for fanfic, view my Masterlist and What I Write For by clicking the links in my bio! Sometimes I post my artwork. A lot of my posts are reposts and silly stuff with my Tumblr friends, sorry for clogging up your dashboard if you're only following me for fanfiction!
I figured it was time I actually did an introduction! So, here it is! Ta-da!
Current theme: I SPY!
What I'm Currently Working On:
Ominis Gaunt x GN Reader hurt/comfort
John Marston x Male Reader longfic: angst, fluff, smut (will be on ao3 exclusively!)
Art trade I got from L-T on art fight! I'm posting it here on Tumblr just so I can use the image address on my own art fight account, haha, hence no tags uhm hello followers <333
This is @bloodlineofbriars on main, I just gotta say that Valentino's design is SO cool and I'd love to know more about him đ
OMG thank you! I'll tag you in his introduction post give me a moment â¤ď¸â¤ď¸
He's actually my self insert so uhm yeah but he's my darling boy who gets into the worst romantic scenarios imaginable like I'm shipping him with everyone (male, though, he's homosexual as hell) and ohhhh it's so messy guh
What is this challenge?
The artist takes 7 OCs and, well, corrupts them in a way that corresponds to the assigned Horcrux. For example: A character corrupted by the diary might have ink dripping off of them or look like they're made out of paper. Interpret this how you want, go nuts.
What are my rules? (other artists are free to make their own!)
Follow me, first off! New followers are totally welcome :D
Only OCs that would reasonably be alive during Lightning (Harry Potter's) Era. They can be a student, teacher, general person who is present for all of the wizarding world happenings, etc.
I ask that you reblog the post with any references and notes you might have. If your OC doesn't have any pictures, a description is totally fine. I will block you if you use AI.
People will be selected at random in a week. Please keep in mind the potential for mild body horror (think a creepier version of the Date Everything designs) and that by agreeing to participate, you're leaving me with creative freedom.
This is so cute!! I love this idea oh my goodness... This is my oc Valentino Finch, he's a professor! He'd be 25ish in 1990, so definitely alive in the Lightning Era! If you do pick him, go absolutely wild, do not feel the need to restrain yourself!! Also, if his clothes are too complicated, 10000% feel free to simplify or change his clothes entirely.
Finally writing that Erik fic, and was wondering about your thoughts on an ending? I have two ideas in mind, but they're so similar that I can't justify just writing two different fics. I'm keeping it purposefully vague, but I'll probably look at this in like a couple of hours and decide what I'm doing then, haha.
Also!! It will be with a gender-neutral reader, since we're all starving for Erik content :D
Chapter Three: Purple Hyacinths for Forgiveness
Content Warnings: Eating brains, nerd language
Word Count: 3.1k
Taglist: @riffcrusader @theredvelvetbitch @afternoonfairy @queryingquerith @isaacnights @7775sblog @moonj0 @cannibalcoyote comment if you'd like to be added!
A/N: Y'all... I was going to update during winter break, but uhm, things did not turn out that way. Turns out, college takes a LOT of time and energy, especially as a STEM major with 19 credits this semester. I hope the wait was worth it!
Housing a zombie is by no means an easy task. Several variables needed to be taken into account. Firstly, Isaacâs deceased status is inherently problematic. You forbade Isaac from leaving the shed. A zombie would definitely not be approved on campus. Hell, you barely approved of him as is. Having him in the shed itself was a risk, but having him wander is worse. Isaac agreed, on the condition that he was allowed to use your lab equipment. The thought curdled your blood, but you decided that Isaac messing with your microscope would ultimately be less annoying than dealing with Nevermoreâs professors interrogating you on how youâd come across a zombified Isaac Night.
The second biggest problem was feeding him. Zombies ate brains, right? Where would you even find brains? The cafeteria supplied fresh meat for the werewolves, but the likelihood of finding something more substantial than liver was low. You didnât want to ask Isaac directly about his diet, mostly because you had a hunch you wouldnât like the answer. At times, you wondered if you yourself would become his next meal. It wasnât impossible, or even improbable. Hence why you needed to find something for him before he got tired of waiting and sampled your flesh instead.
So, to Jericho you went.
The walk to Jericho only took a brisk forty minutes. People stared out their windshields at your distinctive Nevermore uniform. Stripes alternating in black and blue, the sign of an outcast. Most looked with disgust, but some seemed more curious. Though it was hard to gauge through the split second of eye contact a fleeting car could offer. Nevermore was the black stain on Jericho. Unable to be scrubbed out, forced to remain a part of Jericho for the rest of its legacy. Although some people would argue that Pilgram World is more influential. You are not some people.
Finally, the welcome sign to Jericho greeted you. Its residents, however, certainly did not. Main Street was always pretty in the academic sense. The perfect place to loiter around while drinking expensive coffee that didnât even taste good, all for the performative act of looking superior. Itâs also where you need to stop by. You brush past strangers along the sidewalk, disregarding the glares they give. The town perpetually looks like the morning after a storm. Moody, but pleasantly chilled.
Behind a pane of glass, you see cuts of meat and freshly stuffed sausages. The writing on the door named the building as Manciniâs Main Street Meats. An apt name, considering the location.
The bell chimes at the top of the door as you enter. Thereâs a lingering smell of iron that you can nearly taste. A man pokes his head out from the back, Mancini, you assume. He has a stern face and pronounced mutton chops that are silvery in some parts. He steps out, wiping his hands on his bloodied apron. âAnything I can help you with?â he asks. His voice is much softer than his eyes, which hold a disdainful sharpness. The Nevermore uniform almost always draws that look from normies. You scan around for a moment before replying, âDo you sell organ meats? Iâm specifically looking for brains, if you have them. Iâm conducting research on nervous tissue.â
Itâs a lie, blatantly so, but the butcher seems to buy it.
The man doesnât appear fazed in the slightest by your request. He pushes off the counter and retreats into the back, leaving you to observe the selection further. Fine deli meats, cured ham, ribeyes, and sirloins. Standard fare for a small town butcher, you suppose. The walls are painted a pale blue, and beside the main display stands a chainsaw-carved bear holding a welcome sign. The eyes are painted with a thick gloss finish.
Before youâre able to dwell on the subtle creepiness of the bearâs eyes, the butcher comes back with a bloodied bag. He sets it down on the counter, reaching into the bag with a gloved hand and pulling out a perfectly intact brain. âWill this do?â He extends the brain to you, letting you verify the quality. By the size, you guess itâs either sheep or pig brains. Youâre not an expert, but youâre sure itâll be fine to feed a zombie.
You nod curtly. âYeah, looks perfect.â The butcher nods back, weighing it before properly wrapping and bagging the brain. The price comes out to about $12. Clumsily, you unfold your worn leather wallet and set $15 on the counter. You donât bother to accept your change as your fingers slip into the plastic handles of the bag. Neither you nor the butcher says anything as you turn to leave. The bell chimes once more above your head.
Well, at least you know where to buy brains now.
The walk back to Nevermore feels impossibly long. Fatigued feet drag along the asphalt, feeling like theyâll fall off any moment. Your wrist is tired from the cutting weight of the bag. Every now and then, you switch which hand is holding the delicate cargo. Cars breeze past like before, flicks of red and white to color your view of the road. Some part of you even contemplated whether this was worth it. If he was worth this effort. Heâd probably be ungrateful, anyway. Your steps become more akin to a march as doubt seeds its way into your mind. No, you assure yourself, after all youâve done to keep Isaac alive, he would appreciate your efforts.
Isaac is your responsibility now, as much as the thought bothers you. Youâd reanimated him, stitched his wounds, and absolutely freaked out once you figured out who he was. But he is in your care.
You still felt guilty for lashing out.
Eventually, those curled iron gates come into view, and you let out a sigh. With a newfound bounce to your step, you practically sprint to the shed. Students briefly watched the spectacle before returning to their regular schedule. It wasnât completely unlike you to be in such a hurry, so they didnât think about it too deeply. Or, at least, thatâs what you hoped.
Once you are finally at the shed, you pull the key out of your pocket and fiddle with the chain on the outside. You slip into the shed, your attention landing on a familiar pale figure. Isaac is sitting on a lab stool, messing with the focus knobs of the microscope. The sight makes you frown, but you donât say anything. Instead, you ask, âWhat are you studying?â He stares at you with an eerie calmness, but his tense shoulders give a less composed impression. Isaac visibly relaxes when he sees youâre not going to get possessive over your lab equipment. It was part of the agreement. You had to deal with it, even if you didnât like it.
Isaac glances at the slide in place. âI collected a sample of my own tissue. I wanted to see if any of the cells were living,â he explains. You hum, setting the bag onto the counter. The plastic creases onto itself. Thoughtlessly, you question, âWhereâd you sample from?â In theory, Isaac wouldnât be able to collect living tissue unless he cut himself open to access it. Isaac shrugs, âI scraped a bit from one of my stitches.â Now that draws your full attention. You almost roll your eyes. Some genius, he is.
You place a hand on the counter, leaning into it as you gaze down at Isaac. âAnd all the cells were dead?â You already know the answer to your own question. Not just because Isaac is dead, but also because the location he is sampling from wouldâve been dead tissue even on a living person. âYes,â Isaac confirms, raising an eyebrow at your guess. With a small sigh, you continue, âDid you ever study histology to any degree? The top layer of your skin is all dead cells. I thought you wouldâve known this.â Itâs condescending. Rude, even. But the fact that Isaac doesnât know this fact is astounding.
Isaac sits up straight, huffing at your comment. âOf course, I studied tissue anatomy,â he defends. His lips tug into an irritated frown. Isaacâs defense isnât very convincing. To test him, you reply, âOh, yeah? In which layer of skin does keratinization start?â Isaac doesnât say anything. His brows furrow, and his frown deepens further as he sits speechless. Heâs visibly upset, as if the answer had slipped his mind and he could only remember now that he once knew.
All this time, you were convinced Isaac mustâve been the brightest student to ever grace Nevermoreâs hallowed grounds. Now, though, it feels like an insult to your own intellect to have been compared to the man.
The notion brings a strange excitement. That perhaps, only with Isaacâs apparent forgetfulness, youâve officially outranked him.
You laugh softly. Grabbing the bag, you toss it to Isaac. He nearly drops it, but clings to the plastic curiously. âAn apology for my poor mannersâ is the only thing you can think to say. Isaac digs into the bag, pulling out the carefully wrapped brain. The white paper has spots stained a light pink. A dumb grin adorns his face. âFor me?â he questions, as if not fully believing it. You raise your hands, palms facing up. âAs if Iâm planning on eating brains?â Itâs a good enough answer for him. The mention of brains makes Isaac perk up.
His fingers delicately undo the wrapping. Flesh peeks out from the paper, and Isaac cradles it reverently. Thereâs a twinkle in his eyes that makes you uncomfortable. He looks starved. A man possessed by a craving more than the necessity to remain polite.
Isaacâs brown eyes meet yours for a moment before he gazes back down at the brain in his grasp. A continuous bundle of nervous tissue. Axons upon glial cells, long dead, but still so tenderly soft. Isaac can practically taste the synapses sparking in his tongue like a battery.
You watch as Isaac sinks his teeth into the gray matter. A resonant hum rumbles in his throat. Itâs a sickening sight, and the sound makes you nauseous as you stare at Isaac greedily eating the gift youâd brought back. That could be you next.
In only seconds, Isaac has managed to shovel every ounce of that $12 youâd spent down his throat. He cleans the tips of his fingers with quick licks, lapping up all that he can. Hesitantly, you reach for the paper towels and hand him a couple. Although just as quickly, you avert your eyes. You donât have to be looking at Isaac to just know heâs entirely amused by your revulsion. You swallow down a gag as you immediately turn around to fetch a glass of water. No mugs. Fuck, thatâs right, this is your lab. Thereâs a cupboard overhead that has all your glassware. You grab a beaker, seeing as thatâs the next best thing, and pour distilled water in until your queasy stomach says to stop.
The cool water feels like heaven against your lips. Every time your eyelids flutter closed, though, all you see is Isaac tearing away chunks of flesh. The bob of his Adamâs apple with every swallow. How his tongue darts out and wipes the corners of his grin of plasma.
You reach into the cabinet once more, pulling out a grow mix and generously sprinkling some into the beaker. The hinges creak as you shut the wooden door with the press of your hand.
Isaac watches with great intent. His eyebrow quirks. âWhat are you, a plant?â he teases, staring at the yellow and green packaging of the bottled fertilizer youâd unsparingly poured into the beaker. After gulping down half the glass, you reply huskily, âSomewhat.â
The color returns to your flesh, not looking quite so grey anymore. Like calathea leaves, you unfurl into a brighter hue. Healthier looking, you like to think. Nevermore is home to all sorts of outcasts, and yet, you are the only Sun Seeker in attendance. It wouldnât surprise you if Isaac had never met one before.
You set the beaker down, glass clicking against the table. Bluntly, you explain, âIâm a Sun Seeker. Half plant, I guess you could say.â Subconsciously, your fingers make their way toward the grow lamp perched on the table to turn it on. Isaacâs eyes widen, muttering, âSo, thatâs what thatâs for.â He seemed to have been snooping while you were gone. The purple glow feels incredibly nice. An all-encompassing embrace from an artificial sun that you keep to maintain yourself while working. Strangely enough, the presence of the grow lamp appears more interesting to Isaac than the revelation of your outcast type.
Throughout history, Sun Seekers have been perceived as almost ethereal creatures. Coveted and respected, with numbers dwindling in recent times. Many outcasts were seen as just that, outcasts. Sun Seekers, however, managed to win the admiration of the general public. A representation of rebirth and fragrance. Naturally, normies found them appealing.
This attraction meant that several Sun Seekers wed normies, directly leading to the small population that remained.
The lack of Sun Seekers in the modern world led to them being seen as mythical, or, as some have speculated, extinct. You were living proof of a legacy. A pariah among outcasts purely based on your unusual nature.
Nitrogen and phosphorus settle in your stomach, easing the nauseous sensation that reverberates throughout your core. Itâs a small miracle. Your hand reaches for the beaker once more, as if on instinct, and you bring the fertilizer-infused water up to your lips for another helping.
âSo, do Sun Seekers have special traits?â Isaac pipes up, leaning casually against the wooden table. The blood-stained wrapper is still resting in his lap, but Isaac makes no move to throw it away. You chuckle humorlessly into the glass. With a shake of the head, you deny any such claims. âNo, not really,â the words are spoken against the beaker, further muffling them.
With a raised finger, you correct yourself, âWell, actually...â You trail off, turning to look at the calendar nailed on the wall. This monthâs butterfly image is of the eastern tiger swallowtail, Papilio glaucus, you recall. Several days have events scrawled onto them, including the estimated time of the next spring bloom. Your eyes meet Isaacâs, speaking offhandedly, âIâll be in full bloom in about three weeks.â Isaac leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The action causes the paper in his lap to crinkle, and you nearly wince as your gaze flicks to the physical evidence of the disturbing imagery youâd witnessed earlier.
His tone is evidently tinged with curiosity, âFull bloom? So, what, youâll have flowers sprouting from your head?â You stare back at him blankly. A slow blink, and several seconds later, Isaac thinks he understands. The silence is enough to confirm Isaacâs ill-informed guess. âAh,â is all he says.
Yes, spring is fast approaching. Not long before the flowers on campus begin forming buds, along with you.
There are other details to this as well, though. Blooming is one thing, but the types of flowers are another discussion entirely. It feels a little strange explaining the intricacies of your outcast type, but it appears as though Isaac is entirely clueless as to what you are. Or, maybe in his zombified state, heâd forgotten. Heâs clearly interested, gazing at you like youâre the next best specimen to inspect, and perhaps right now, you are.
âThe flowers vary based on the emotional state of the Sun Seeker,â your voice is pointed, like youâre giving a lecture. Isaac hums. Itâs a peculiar thought that you donât stick to one variety of florals. Any kind of bloom was possible, so long as you were in the right mindset associated with it. âThe Victorian flower language is actually based on a diary written by Lady Mary Montagu. She wrote about every bloom she had since she was a teenager, and categorized flowers based on how sheâd felt in the weeks leading up to her bloom.â It is a fun fact you are quite fond of.
The language of flowers is often romanticized; red roses for love, and daisies symbolize innocence. Gifting flowers is intrinsically a tender act. Both for their appearance and pleasant fragrance, floral offerings have been normalized between lovers and worshippers for centuries. The list can, and does, go on. But these personal entries and records of Mary Montaguâs also documented flowers that held more bitter emotions. You suspect that youâd likely find a few orange lilies or tansies in your arrangement this spring.
Isaacâs arrival in your life feels like a cruel joke from the universe. A wild twist of fate. Never before had jealousy held such power over you. It bothers you that youâre forced to share space with a person youâd associated with some high and mighty intellect, only to find that Isaacâs genius seems to have deteriorated in the past thirty years. In a way, it soothes your ego. Sure, you do feel bad that you enjoy knowing that Isaac has forgotten some aspects of science, but not bad enough that it truly impacts you. If anything, a smug satisfaction settles internally. You passively wonder what he was like before he died. More articulate, you imagined, and brazen enough to think himself above death. Ironically, his reanimation proves that insolence is correct.
Youâd chosen forgiveness, you remind yourself. Holding a grudge would only lead to conflict, which was completely unnecessary at this point. Now you were committed to the idea of keeping Isaac like some macabre pet in your lab. Plus, it wasnât Isaacâs fault that he, like Icarus, flew too close to the sun.
Since youâve considered it, perhaps among various flowers representing bitterness and scorn, youâll find purple hyacinths.
Isaacâs smooth voice snaps you from your thoughts. âIs that so?â he inquires, tilting his head ever so slightly. His loose curls fall with the motion. Dark strands brush against his forehead, though he makes no effort to sweep them back. âIt is,â you reply, âLady Mary Montagu is likely the best documented Sun Seeker in history.â The woman was an avid poet, and many of her works reflected her aristocratic life experience. A true, unabashed view into the Sun Seekerâs mind. She wrote extensively, and it is thanks to her contributions that the greater world sought to better understand the significance of blossoms.
That delighted grin has yet to leave Isaacâs face. His gaze seeks yours, and he murmurs, âIt seems Iâll have to read up on the language of flowers.â
Chapter 3 of ISAV is coming along nicely... HOPEFULLY, if all goes well, it'll be up this week oh my god y'all I'm taking 19 credits so my free time has been, uhm, non-existent
I have been having the worst brain rot for this werewolf ohhhh my goodness uhm y'all I've never read ATYD (it's on my to-do list) this is just how I imagine a young Remus Lupin, and I think he looks so cute!!
