You can call me Felix. Adult, trans man, he/him pronouns exclusively.
Currently on hiatus from this blog.
My sideblog for non-writing-related reblogging is @phantasmalfelix.
What I Write:
I write monsterfucking and horror-adjacent stuff I guess. Everything I write is character-focused without as much of a focus on plot. My writing features a lot of dark content, as well as sexual content. I try my best to tag everything appropriately/use content warnings and mature content labels to keep the NSFW content sequestered away, but I'd still prefer if you only follow me if you're 18+.
Below the cut are my currently posted works + info on my WIPs, which I shoved down there because this gets long otherwise. Please click on the read more if you're interested.
Currently Posted Writing:
Snakeskin:
Part one
Part two
Linos Tievis, a failing medical student who has an interest in monsters, finds an injured monster on the side of the road. Obviously he can't just leave her there, so he does what he can to nurse her back to health. However, she hates him, which is making things difficult.
Word count: 11,117 (on AO3. The word count on Tumblr is a little different due to edits.)
Genre: I have been told that it's horror. It's not supposed to be scary though, just... subtly disturbing. It's mostly meant to be a character study.
Content warnings: Blood and injury, misgendering, familial death, childhood trauma/child abuse, gender dysphoria, non-consensual kissing, past sexual assault, sexual thoughts, kind of cannibalism threats. Very brief and minor mentions of animal death and self-injury.
Notable features: villain origin story set 15 years before Faded Daisy, has a one-sided and very toxic monster/human "romance," has authentic evil insane trans man representation. Also there is a hot lizard lady.
There is also a separate NSFW monsterfucking bonus content story that I wrote for Snakeskin that you can find here. Please do not click on that link if you are a minor.
Other Posted Writing:
Favorite Animal
A prose poem thing about opossums and my father.
The Box
A short prose piece about a creature in a box.
Foxglove Dust erotica bonus content
Self-explanatory. Erotica that is connected to Foxglove Dust, but you don't need to read Foxglove Dust to read it. Please don't click on that link if you're a minor.
WIPS:
Faded Daisy:
A monster wakes up with no memories and no idea who or what they are, in a city that usually kills monsters on sight. However, they survive due to the help of the questionable Dr. Tievis, who names them Nameless and says he has never seen a monster like them. Grateful to him for saving their life, Nameless trusts him.
First draft word count: 38,656 words
Status: finished 8/10 of the second draft, taking a break from it at the moment.
Genre: Horror, probably
Notable features: Second person POV, a mad scientist, monsters, an extremely fucked up relationship.
Content warnings: Abuse, manipulation, injury and mutilation, blood and needles, borderline sexual assault, cannibalism, referenced self harm, referenced child abuse.
Foxglove Dust:
Linos Tievis has lost everything, his career, his clinic, his assistant– and worst of all, the monster who he had depended on to try to achieve his life goal. But he's come back from worse. He'll get it all back, one way or another.
Estimated final word count: Probably slightly longer than Faded Daisy.
Status: Writing the first draft.
Genre: Kind of horror, kind of... anti-romance?? I don't know I have no idea what genre this thing is.
Notable features: Human/monster sexual relationship and one-sided romance with an aromantic love interest. Mad scientist gets a redemption arc?? Maybe???
Content warnings: Suicidal ideation, self-harm, injury and mutilation, amputation, surgery, blood and needles, mention of past child rape, child violence, kind of body horror, on-page sex, mention of homophobia, mention of transphobia.
I'll tag @oh-no-another-idea, @space-writes, @melpomene-grey, and open tag as always!
Edwin's hand was shaking. Water sloshed around his glass. He told Jonathan everything.
Steampunk dragons taglist (let me know if you want to be added or removed!): @sarandipitywrites, @space-writes, @melpomene-grey, @finickyfelix, @bi-focal12, @leahpardo-pa-potato
I'll leave it open tag!
New words are: strain, kick, blow, and move!
Unreadable:
The Mechmaster's eyes were fixed upon him. Her natural brown eye was gentle; her mechanical green one was cold and unreadable.
Unwilling:
He ushered the Mechmaster backwards, unwilling to meet with the dragons in a confined space. The three glowing eyes rose higher, until it was clear that it was both of the larger dragons approaching. They stepped slowly out of the trees, their attention fixed upon the Mechmaster.
Ultimate final:
His final stop, once the cat was up and purring again, was the market, to pick up a carrot for Samara. He didn't like working her so hard—especially now that she was nearing twenty-six—and he wanted to make it up to her.
Under:
The boarding ramp hit the ground. Two guards descended first and stood at the end of the ramp, the pistols at their belts glinting under the airship's floodlights.
Steampunk dragons taglist (let me know if you want to be added or removed!): @sarandipitywrites, @space-writes, @melpomene-grey, @finickyfelix, @bi-focal12, @leahpardo-pa-potato
(Looks at Tievis) I am legally obligated to say villain protagonist.
Lies by omission or lies with a smile?
Lies with a smile!! I love smiling liars <3 <3
Your character gets caught, do they talk their way out or run?
For Tievis, it depends. Most often he runs, although occasionally he can talk his way out. He usually saves his manipulation skills for people/monsters he has power over though, not anyone he would actually be in danger of. That's when running comes in.
Nameless is most likely to just freeze and do neither.
Asen definitely talks his way out.
Morally grey love interest or morally grey best friend?
... Do I write love interests or best friends? I don't know what any of the relationships I write are. It's all a mess. I do like them morally grey though, whatever they are.
Your protagonist's fatal flaw: too much trust or not enough?
Not enough for everyone except Nameless, who is wayy too trusting.
Writing the betrayal scene or writing the aftermath?
Betrayal!! <3 <3
Crime of passion or crime of calculation?
Calculation! I love calculating villains who have planned everything out up to years in advance.
Redemption arc or "they were right all along" arc?
I guess redemption, no strong opinions. I attempted to write a redemption arc for Tievis but it didn't really work out, I chaged my mind about what to do with him, so I haven't really written either.
The confession scene happens in a courtroom, a rooftop, or a bed?
Bed. So many important scenes happen near or in beds in general now that I'm thinking about it.
Your character keeps one honest thing about themselves, is it their name, their past, or their feelings for one person?
I don't really understand this question, and I think if I am understanding it correctly my answer for my characters would be too nuanced for me to answer easily.
Leaving this open tag, if anyone wants to answer these questions please feel free to take advantage of it <3 Blank questions are below the cut.
Antihero or villain protagonist?
Lies by omission or lies with a smile?
Your character gets caught, do they talk their way out or run?
Morally grey love interest or morally grey best friend?
Your protagonist's fatal flaw: too much trust or not enough?
Writing the betrayal scene or writing the aftermath?
Crime of passion or crime of calculation?
Redemption arc or "they were right all along" arc?
The confession scene happens in a courtroom, a rooftop, or a bed?
Your character keeps one honest thing about themselves, is it their name, their past, or their feelings for one person?
Both? Can both be an option? I love both. If I really really really gotta pick it has to be villain protag, though. Love me an unabashedly evil bastard.
Lies by omission or lies with a smile?
Lies by omission, I think. I love writing tricky things, and having to carefully word a character's voice makes it all the more enjoyable.
Your character gets caught, do they talk their way out or run?
Racer, true to her name, runs at every chance. She got that prey animal instinct in her. Castella is a talk-things-out, out of optimism and the love in her heart. Amelie does not know the meaning of either of those two words. She fights or she dies. 001 is also a talker, for exactly the same reason as Castella (holy shit this just made me realise they'd be buddies).
Morally grey love interest or morally grey best friend?
I don't write romance, so best friend wins by default LOL
Your protagonist's fatal flaw: too much trust or not enough?
Not enough for Racer & Amelie, too much for Stel and 001.
Writing the betrayal scene or writing the aftermath?
BETRAYAL BETRAYAL BETRAYAL. I LOVE FEELING THE CHARACTER'S HEARTBREAK LIKE IT'S MY OWN CHEST GIVING WAY, I LOVE THE GRIEF FILLED HORROR OF 'LOOK WHAT YOU HAVE DONE, LOOK WHAT YOU CANNOT TAKE BACK, LOOK WHAT WE HAVE BECOME' I LOVE BETRAYAL.
Hi yes I am very normal about this.
Crime of passion or crime of calculation?
See above: Crime of passion. I love characters who commit evil and then feel 10000000 things about it.
Redemption arc or "they were right all along" arc?
... neither? I guess if I had to choose, redemption arc. But I don't particularly like either trope.
The confession scene happens in a courtroom, a rooftop, or a bed?
Courtroom!! #drama
Your character keeps one honest thing about themselves, is it their name, their past, or their feelings for one person?
Racer keeps her love for her motorbike honest (does that count?). Amelie won't ever give up her name, even if she wants to forget her past. Castella, I think, will always cling to the good old days, before the zombie apocalypse happened. So her past. 001 is honest all the time! Yesyes.
Tagging @illarian-rambling, @finickyfelix, @mundanemoongirl, @write-with-will, @diabolical-blue and open tag!!
Blank copy under cut:
Antihero or villain protagonist?
Lies by omission or lies with a smile?
Your character gets caught, do they talk their way out or run?
Morally grey love interest or morally grey best friend?
Your protagonist's fatal flaw: too much trust or not enough?
Writing the betrayal scene or writing the aftermath?
Crime of passion or crime of calculation?
Redemption arc or "they were right all along" arc?
The confession scene happens in a courtroom, a rooftop, or a bed?
Your character keeps one honest thing about themselves, is it their name, their past, or their feelings for one person?
My words are fear, learn, home, and torn. All excerpts are from Unquenchable. The last one is a little spoilery, but the word doesn’t show up very many times in my WIP otherwise ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
— 🌊 —
Fear:
Here, he was always worried one of those heavy light panels was going to come loose and smash him flat into the ground. Apparently, Capital people didn’t have that fear. Or they just got used to it.
Learn:
Keeley could drive, and Bracken was learning, but Marlo still did most of it himself. He was good at it, and sometimes it was less nerve-wracking to be in the driver’s seat than the passenger’s anyway.
Home:
Marlo laughed. “I’m pretty sure I’m old enough to not need to be walked home.” Although, depending on what Dad wanted to talk with him about, Marlo supposed he might not mind the opportunity to pull him aside and talk to him about the Evie situation too.
Torn:
And then, just this week, that voice had found its way into his dreams again. “Remember what I told you,” she’d said, just as his body was torn apart in that horrifying flesh-splitting transformation. A warning of what could happen, literally or metaphorically, if he didn’t take the next opportunity to follow her instructions very seriously.
— 🌊 —
Tagging @leahnardo-da-veggie @petalsandspiderwebs @bodoramzap @queen-tashie @jay-avian and open tag! Your words are feel, strain, shade, and right.
Thanks for the tag @winterandwords (here)! My words are manage, finish, complete, and done. All the lines are from Foxglove Dust.
Content warning for hand amputation in the "done" line.
Manage:
Asen swayed on his feet a bit, then managed to right himself. Slowly, very slowly, Tievis led Asen away from the bloodied table and towards the bedroom.
Finish:
"…Food? I haven't needed to eat since…" He trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence.
Complete:
This would, of course, be the first time Asen saw him without a shirt; he'd kept it on during their extraprofessional activities the night before. Asen looked at him too intently, too curiously, waiting for him to completely slip his shirt off.
He did, despite his irrational nerves, folding it carefully aside, exposing his chest (all bones and scar tissue and papery skin) to the world. The world, in this instance, might consist entirely of Asen, but that didn't feel like too much of an exaggeration.
Done:
His hand fell to the table with a wet thump, and Tievis fell in on himself, no longer able to keep the pain locked away. It hurt. It hurt so much. But he wasn't done. He needed to get himself together.
As usual, I will leave this open tag, but if you want to do it, your words are fear, learn, home, and torn.
If any of this was legit, there would be an organ in transit label on the box.
Tagging @finickyfelix, @firesidefantasy, @gaslightwestern and @indecentpause if you'd like to do it, with an open tag for anyone else who wants to join in 💜
Reblogs, replies etc on my tag posts are always welcome, but if you're doing this tag yourself, please make your own post instead of using mine to start a reblog chain.
Want more of my writing than I post on Tumblr, with all my stories, blog posts, updates, and audio readings? Head on over to my Patreon! There's a free membership option and I'd love to welcome you to my cosy little queer fiction community 💞
TW: human slavery, cannibalism, err racism/bigotry, I guess? Idk Racer is a really strange story
Synopsis: In a world where some humans are pathologically incapable of hurting others, a young woman refuses to give up and let herself succumb to the victimisation that society tells her is her biological perogative. There's also man-eating angels, generational trauma, and grave desecration <3 Inspired by a dream I had!
Word Count: 2.4k (for this part)/6.8k
Read part 1 here and part 2 here!
I had an angel friend when I was a little girl. Dahlia, her name was. My private school was full of angels. It made sense, considering that most of their kind on this continent were rich expatriates. This was back when we were both too little to understand what it meant to be what we were, back when our biggest worry was dodging nap time and making mud cakes.
Everything went to hell when we turned ten. It was Dahlia's birthday, and she had a big party. Her mother was a kindly woman, and had carefully explained to all the children that they could not play rough with me. I also knew she had, in those same gentle tones, told her husband that Dahlia would soon outgrow me, and not to worry that my lesser ways would rub off on her.
Everything went well, at first. And then I won a game. You know, kids would be kids, and pacifists would be victims. I won a game, and one of the other children grew frustrated and threw a tantrum. That girl, four years younger than me, had enough strength and speed to fracture my arm. Angels were, after all, stronger than us humans. I won a game, and the adults were irritated enough by it that they let my beating happen.
While my parents were shouting, and a doctor was called over, Dahlia watched me with these wide, baffled eyes. She said to me, ‘Why didn't you fight back?’
Even then, I was not the sort of person to start screaming from pain. I remember that agony well and clearly. I remember that humiliation even more. I met her dark eyes with my watery pale ones, and said, ‘I couldn't.’
Dahlia's mother was right, in the end. We drifted after that. I wish I could believe it was just the passage of time. I wish I could say that there was not an edge to all our conversations after that, a knowledge that if I ever won something, if I did better than her, she could make me pay for it. I wish I could forget her hand on my wrist, gripping it hard, when I dared to show up wearing the limited edition sneakers she wanted. The only thing that stopped her from taking those sneakers was the faint thread of our friendship, sawed ever thinner by power and the lack-thereof.
There is a knocking on the car. It is Sakurai. Her eyes hold that wary edge I always saw in the mirror. I would feel bad, but I know that that edge is the only ledge I have to hold on to, and I must cling to it even if it cuts me. I give her a little wave, a cool smile, and a lowering of the window. “Hello, Sakurai. I hope you don't mind that I made myself comfortable here.”
She folds her arms. “When the hell did you get changed? I mean, I'm glad you did, I had no idea where I could find you some decent clothes. I was too busy playing dumb and hoping for the best. You've caused a massive fuss, you know. They caught you diving for the gate on live camera. We're lucky they didn't see us helping you out of the building. Now come on, move over and let me drive.”
I get up, and take my briefcase with me. A few curious eyes turn to look at my strange outfit, and my throat freezes up. For a moment, I am in the arena and any one of the people in the carpark could be my hunters. But then I am in the back of the car, and I say, “Your little friend isn't joining us? She isn't going to spill the beans, is she?”
Sakurai glances back as she starts the car. “Don't worry. She's meeting me at my place. I didn't want us to raise any suspicion by leaving together.” She pulls us out of the parking lot and speeds up. “So, how did the great Thea Goldman end up naked in a killing hunt?”
Hearing my former name gives me the shivers. The memory of a mocking voice, a face so cruel my brain had wiped it from memory, and agonising pain all swirl into a nasty chunk of ichorous hatred. “Do not call me that. They stripped me of the right to my name when my mother sold me to the slavers. No—my mother stripped herself of the right to call me her daughter when she sold me off. I have no wish to wear either of the names she gave me. Call me Racer. I earned that name, and it fits me far better.”
In the rear view mirror, Sakurai’s eyes narrow. “If you insist, Racer. Your mother sold you off, eh? Isn't she like, a politician or something? She wouldn't need the money, so why would she sell her own daughter off—” The wheels in Sakurai’s head finish turning, and she shuts her mouth. “Election day is in two months, right?”
A politician or something? It makes me want to laugh. My mother, the brilliant and heartless Carmella Goldman, is the shining star of her party, the one who represents a decent chance at winning them a majority in Parliament for the first time in three decades. But I do not tell her that.
“Yes,” I say placidly, “You know as well as I how shameful it is to have a pacifist for a daughter. Especially one she allowed to become a driver. She wants to wipe her slate clean. No daughter, no husband. She'll be free to move on to brighter pastures, while I rot in an unmarked grave and my father's tombstone grows moss.” I rub my hands up and down my thighs, feeling the hard bulges where packs of money lay. “I'm not going to let her.”
“You know what you're doing is illegal, right? You're supposed to lay down and die.” She paused. “You're not going to do that, though. You must have a plan. I mean, you made it this far.”
I crack my neck. I was never good at making friends and influencing people, but I have learned a thing or two from my mother. “How much is your yearly salary, Sakurai?”
“What?” The car jerks a little in shock, and my head twinges in fear of having distracted her and caused an accident. “Erm- thirty thousand or so? Why?”
Thirty thousand. I could afford to part with fifty, I thought. My mother had sold me for seventy, and I needed twice that to be sure the man she sold me to would let me go. “Is your friend being paid the same amount?”
She slows the car, thinking about the implications of my question. Money, my mother always said, made the world go round. “Less, I'd imagine. She's junior staff, after all. And a human.”
“Fifty thousand.”
“What?” She turns around sharply. “What do you mean, fifty thousand?”
“That is how much I will pay you two to help me out. Split it between the two of you, I don't care how you do it. But I hope it is enough to reward you for your aid.” I lick my lips, aware that the expression on Sakurai’s face has a distinct similarity to that of my hunters. It is the face of someone hungry and ready to pounce.
“Where the hell would you get that much? I mean, hell yeah, I'm all for getting paid for charity work, but I hope you know I'd do it for free,” Sakurai said. “Feels wrong to let someone I know die. I mean, I…” She shakes her head. “We need to eat, but it's such nonsense to waste a talent like yours. The law's about getting rid of useless people, not those like you. Killing hunts are supposed to rid us of the dregs of society.”
The dregs of society? Did she mean herds of scared little kids? Because that was who was dying out in the dust of the arena. I laugh, a shrill, hollow thing. “Do not worry about where I will get the money. Focus on getting me to your place. I shall tell you the details there.” And please, do not continue talking about killing hunts, I pray.
“Wow, you're confident. Even more so than I imagined you'd be.” Sakurai snorts. “I still have your autograph, you know. I only started working at that place because I wanted to see the races. It's not right that they're using the motor circuit as killing grounds. I don't think they should be doing killing hunts at all.”
Oh god, I am going to have to listen to politics the whole drive. I sigh. “Really? I would have imagined most angels thought well of killing hunts. They are organised for your gain, after all.”
“It's bullshit!" She slams her hand on the dashboard. "They say it's to punish criminals, but the people in that pen weren't criminals, were they? I thought I saw a kid in there.”
“You saw right,” I reply simply.
“Yeah.” Sakurai’s face scrunches up. “We have to eat human meat. It's an unfortunate side part of reality. People like me, we make do with as little as we can. Just enough to provide us with the right nutrients and whatnot. But the rich—that’s who the killing hunts are for. And they don't care how much they eat and how much they waste. They don't care until their stomachs are full. It’s not right. It's not fair.”
I try to smile. “Yeah. It's not.” But nothing in life is fair. Does she think I am a child? Is she trying to pander to me? No. I look in her eyes through the mirror. She means it. That is somehow worse. “You really would save me for free, wouldn't you?”
“Yeah. I would.” She stops at a red light. “You know, a lot of people suspected. Even more when you suddenly retired. So many people said it was good that you stopped racing when you did, because it would have ended in tragedy. But I don't think so. You're a brilliant driver. I've never seen anyone like you. I…”
I know what I should say. Here is a fan of mine, supporting me in a bad time. I should play the role of the brave hero who is going to set things to rights. Sakurai is not the first to ask that of me. I think of the dead little boy, ripped to scraps for some rich kid’s pleasure. I could not comfort him then, either. I think of Dahlia, who kept wondering why I didn't fight back like a normal person. Was she in the audience? Did she enjoy playing in killing hunts? Would she spare me if I were the one she came face to face with in the arena?
I cannot respond. I look Sakurai in the eye with my cold, sad, dead-woman’s eyes, and eventually she pulls her gaze back onto the road. “Are you going to try going back to riding? After you fix what's going on, I mean.”
“Yes.” It slips out of my mouth. “I will get my Marigold back, somehow. I have to. And when I do, I'll go back to riding.”
Marigold. Even saying her name hurts. It hurts more than the beatings they gave me. It hurts more than that man pinning me down, groping me, intent on raping me until his supervisor called him away. It even hurts more than my own mother collaring me and handing me over to the killing hunt organised. My Marigold, my love of my life. My motorbike.
“Even if it is the last thing I do, I will get her back. She is the only thing in my life I cannot live without. My parents forced me to sell her away when the ban came into place, but I will find a way to return her to me. She is my everything,” I say. It is such a stupid, useless thing to say, full of idealism and hope and all the things a person like me cannot afford. But I do not care. I mean every word of it.
Sakurai eats it right up. “I remember you saying as much in your last interview. I can't believe they made you sell her away. It's ridiculous. Everything about what's happening to you is ridiculous.” She shakes her head at the injustice of it all. “We're almost at my place, by the way. I'll cook you dinner. You are hungry, right?”
At the sound of dinner, I am overcome with a hunger so deep it drives out all other thoughts. “Oh my god. Yes. Yes, I am hungry. Please,” I say, briefly forgetting my dignity. “I am so hungry.”
They starved me during that week. A few of my penmates passed me scraps, but it was hardly enough. They were trying to thin me down, weaken me so I would be easier prey. As it stood, I was in the peak of health and still possessed of my willpower. And so now I am underfed and still possessed of my willpower.
Sakurai nods as she stops the car. “Well, it's an honour to cook for you, Th- Racer. Come on. Why are you wearing your suit, by the way?”
I shrug, stomach grumbling very loudly. “Oh, it was the only thing I had access to. I will buy new clothes when I get the chance. I hope you do not mind my staying at your house for a few days to recover. I have a plan, but…”
The truth is I do not want to fight some more so soon. I am exhausted. I want to sleep. I want to be safe. My body is bruised and bashed and so, so hungry. I just want to rest. But I do not tell Sakurai this, and I do not let it show on my face.
“Oh, it's alright. Stay as long as you need, if you're cool with sleeping on the couch. My apartment’s not that big, I'm afraid.” The lift lobby of her apartment is shabby. It reminds me of when my mother had brought me with her on a campaign to speak to the needy in her jurisdiction. I wonder if she had already planned to get rid of me then, when she let all those druggies and unemployed people coo over me. I hope not. I hope at least some of our memories together were real.
TW: human slavery, cannibalism, err racism/bigotry, I guess? Idk Racer is a really strange story
Synopsis: In a world where some humans are pathologically incapable of hurting others, a young woman refuses to give up and let herself succumb to the victimisation that society tells her is her biological perogative. There's also man-eating angels, generational trauma, and grave desecration <3 Inspired by a dream I had!
Word Count: 1.8k (for this part)
Read part 1 here!
My destination is a small graveyard a half-hour’s drive from the circuit. As I pull the car into an extremely illegal breaking position, I thank my lucky stars that today is not a prayer day. There is not a soul in the graveyard as I set a loping pace towards my grandfather's grave.
Before my father died, he and I made preparations. It was unspoken between us: ‘Things will only get worse from here’. It was after my final race, when the law banning me from riding was passed. I had cried myself to sleep for weeks after we sold away my motorbike, but that money would go a long way towards protecting me now. One last gift from the love of my life. If only I could have done her the same justice she always did me.
I suppose I am, or was, one of the lucky ones. Born to rich, non-pacifist parents, one of whom loved me no matter what. Parents who insisted on letting me pursue my passion, even though pacifists were never meant to become riders. But even the lucky ones like me get hurt in the end. I get on my hands and knees. Time to desecrate my grandfather's grave.
Before I begin my frenzied digging, I carve out chunks of the grass with my blade. My father taught me the art of making sure nobody would notice me disturbing the ground. Where he learnt that, I could only guess. I wish he had the chance to tell me before he died. I wish for many things I will never get.
When I finish my careful work, I set the knife aside and start ripping at the ground. I can only imagine how any potential bystanders would react, seeing a buck-naked, filthy, starved and bruised creature clawing at dirt with overgrown fingernails.
Eventually my fingers hit a wooden crate. I unearth it, and breathe the smell of grave dirt and repurposed wine casket in deep. My knife is my lever to open it, and I wipe my dirty hands on my bare thighs as I look down at my treasure.
Two hundred thousand dollars. In cold, hard cash, kept in a leather briefcase. It brings a triumph so violent I could forget my pacifism for a moment, but even that pales in comparison to the sight of my racing suit. The last thing I have to remind me of my beloved. I would do anything, endure any amount of pain to get her back. But she is gone, and my father went through great pains to make sure I did not discover who took her from me.
I grimace and put the suit on. It feels strange to have the suit touch bare skin, and that discomfort is magnified by my lack of underwear. If only we had the foresight to pack a set in that crate. My boots go on next, once again unfamiliar without the socks. And then the shades, with their reflective coat.
I eye myself in the reflection of a polished silver brooch. A sad woman with bloody lips, sunken features and beautifully pale eyes stares back. My hair is a bird's nest of matts and tangles, though, and there is nothing I can do about the bruises, unless I want to wear my helmet all the time.
My grandmother's ivory comb tames most of the tangles, and my knife handles the rest. I care for my long hair, and I refuse to allow anything to force me to chop it short. Not even being sold as chattel, not even it being uncombed for a week, not even certain death. I have my pride and I will die with it. Grandmother taught me that.
Grandmother did not ever forgive me for being born the way I am. She died telling my mother that surely, my eyes would darken as I grew older. I remember her cold, blaming eyes on mine, never saying it outright but always implying it. Surely, I would grow out of this. I was not truly her granddaughter otherwise. I have tainted her legacy in every way, and I suppose killing-hunt dirt on her heirloom would be the final nail in her coffin, so to speak.
Oh well. The comb went in the briefcase and the knife in my pocket. I do not bother with the jewelry, or my prom dress. I never got a chance to wear that dress, having bought it a week before I got kicked out of the school. ‘We cannot assure your daughter’s safety,’ they told my mother. She cursed them out, threatened to sue, but the principal held his ground. And so I had to take my finals at an external assessment center.
It is most fortunate that my diploma is laminated, considering the amount of filth on my hands. I put it in with the money too. My driver's license would fool nobody, being both expired and clearly depicting a person not allowed to drive. I tuck it in my pocket anyway.
For a moment, I consider leaving my racing helmet in the crate. It is unwieldy, unnecessary and unabandonable. It goes under my arm, fitting against me like a missing puzzle piece.
My gloves go in my pockets, for I would never filthy them with my dirt-ridden unwashed hands. I bury the rest again, and offer a brief apology to my grandfather's disturbed corpse. If he is anything like his son, he will forgive me. If not? Well, even the vindictive ghost of my grandfather cannot make my life worse.
With my shades, and lack of nakedness, I have nothing to fear. I rummage through Sakurai’s car in broad daylight. Though I have no use for the massive tweezers designed for wing preening, nor the spare, unpowered stun baton, I do take her first aid box from the trunk. Her glovebox is a treasure trove of wonders, too, with baby wipes that I immediately use on every part of me that I can reach. When I am done scrubbing there is a little mountain of scrunched up wipes covered in dried blood, dirt, and worse things. The semi-scabbed whip marks from the slavedrivers burn, and I do my best to apply antiseptic cream on them, trying to ignore the awkwardness of being topless in someone else's car.
I have no more open wounds, except for a few splinters from where the old arena gate dug into my shoulder. I pluck them out using the not-so-massive tweezers designed for things that are not wing plumage, and put little bandaids with superhero characters where blood oozes.
Angels, being somewhat higher beings than humans, do not sweat. Unfortunately for me, this means there is a dearth of deodorant in Sakurai’s car. Her perfume—a nameless drugstore canister—is a poor substitute, and I pray that nobody takes too deep a whiff of eau de Racer.
Finally, I zip my suit back up. Not before stuffing wads of cash against my thighs and chest, of course. I am no fool, to think that anyone who discovered my pool of money would hesitate to take it from me. About half of my money goes into my racing suit, little enough that the case is not conspicuously empty, large enough that my chest and stomach area appear visibly larger than someone of my measurements should be. I try not to think about how easy it would be for someone to rip the suit off me.
The crazed beast in the rear view mirror has turned into a somewhat dishevelled woman in a racing suit. Even so, no amount of Sakurai’s too-pale compact can hide the fact that I have been repeatedly punched in the face. I turn up the AC, down her spare bottle of water, and recline myself on the driver's seat.
It is pure bliss. I am safe. I am free. I am, for a brief moment, unburdened by worry. I close my eyes and breathe in the crisp, cold air, laced lavender freshener and rose perfume. There is a distinct edge to the realisation that you escaped certain death, an edge that slices through your defences and turns you into a scared child.
I do not weep. Do not picture me weeping. My eyes are not red, tears do not stream down my cheeks. I am not shaking from the aftereffects of adrenaline, from the realisation that a lifetime of safety and luxury did not protect me from being turned into an animal and hunted for sport, from the knowledge that my father is dead and my mother has abandoned me. I do not think about all the dead children, and I do not let out a muffled sob when I remember the little boy.
The last week is a blur. I insist it stays so, for my heart cannot take acknowledgement of what has been done to me. I do not curl up in a foetal ball, and I most certainly do not cry after my father. He is dead, and those such as I do not mourn dead people. I would never be able to stop mourning if that were so.
When I am done not-crying, I wipe my face and start the car. For the record, I do, technically, know how to drive a car. Do not picture me maneuvering around having never touched a wheel before. I took a few classes, as a teen, which is how I know, in theory, how to change gear.
When I scrape the paint coat against a fence, I wince and pray that money, the great equaliser, will be enough to appease Sakurai.
I make it back into the carpark with my dignity bruised and an hour to spare. The number of cars has dwindled, and the number of people risen. They stand in clumps, muttering amongst themselves. My hands shake violently and I have to grit my teeth as I honk at them to get out of the way. I drive as carefully as I can, sparing no expense in returning the car to precisely its original position in the staff zone.
Most of the crowd is angels. Killing hunts are an angelic activity, after all. They must have held multiple rounds here, or else there would not be such a massive crowd. I wonder if those people laughing and chatting get off on it, on the feeling of watching children beg for mercy and find none, on the knowledge that they are punching down and hurting those who cannot hurt back, on being playground bullies of a grand scale.
Within the comforting confines of the car, nobody looks at me. I make sure the autolock is enabled all the same. Are the windows shatterproof? I doubt it, but even so it makes me feel better to have a killing machine wrapped around me. I could almost imagine I were the killing machine, that way—a pathetic, childish, comforting thing to imagine.
✍🏼 Word find tag (forgive, forget, fracture, fingerprint)
Thanks to @oh-no-another-idea for the tag!
📝 Search for the given words in your story. If your story doesn't have a word, you can use a variation on it or a word with a similar meaning.
These are from Miles From Morning...
FORGIVE
And I will never forgive myself.
FORGET
It’ll be so long until I’m free that I’ll forget what freedom feels like. This place owns me even though there’s barely anything left of me to own.
FRACTURE BREAK
We both stare straight ahead in some twisted kind of reverential grief until I break the silence with, “I guess neither of us is going to be sleeping right for a while.”
FINGERPRINT FINGER
When I pull his head down and smash my knee into his face. When I wrap an arm around his neck. When I hold the gun against his temple, my finger on the trigger.
Tagging @finickyfelix, @firesidefantasy, @i-can-even-burn-salad and @gaslightwestern if you'd like to do it, with an open tag for anyone else who wants to join in.
The words to search your story for are manage, finish, complete and done 💜
Reblogs, replies etc on my tag posts are always welcome, but if you're doing this tag yourself, please make your own post instead of using mine to start a reblog chain.
Want more of my writing than I post on Tumblr, with all my stories, blog posts, updates, and audio readings? Head on over to my Patreon! There's a free membership option and I'd love to welcome you to my cosy little queer fiction community 💞
TW: human slavery, cannibalism, err racism/bigotry, I guess? Idk Racer is a really strange story
Synopsis: In a world where some humans are pathologically incapable of hurting others, a young woman refuses to give up and let herself succumb to the victimisation that society tells her is her biological perogative. There's also man-eating angels, generational trauma, and grave desecration <3 Inspired by a dream I had!
Word Count: 2.6k (the full story will probably be about 10k, though)
Some people in this world are blessed. Some people in this world were born with power, have power, will always have power. Some people are destined to greatness, to be heroes and kings, to live in a world where good things happen to them.
The rest of us are doomed to their playthings.
I know it from biology class, back in the days when our kind were still allowed in class. I cannot remember my teacher’s face, but I remember the condescension in his dark eyes when he told me that it was the way things were, that some people were born to be prey. What use is there, in this world of competition, for those who cannot fight?
He is wrong. I know that too. I know it from the race track, the wind in my hair, the revving of my engine. There I could fight, there I could win. The world does not like that story, though. People like me are not meant to win. People like me are meant to roll over and surrender. What use is there for skill, in this world of competition, where everyone believes the winners and losers are predetermined?
I own a knife. It is a pointless thing for a person like me to own. I am a jawless hound with a single loose tooth, a fly with vestigial wings. I cannot use it, though I have tried. People like me are not meant to fight. I know this from the walls of the holding pen, the smell of fear as us lambs are brought to slaughter. What use is there for a weapon, in this world of competition, when one cannot wield it?
The angels rattle the bars of our cage. I am the oldest one in here, practically full grown. The little ones cling to my skirts. I cannot save them. I cannot save myself.
We are all naked. Clothes would only get in the way when the angels snap our backs, rip out our throats, and feast on our innards. They let me keep my blade, though. I suppose they must have found it funny to see a girl like me naked and wielding a knife. Perhaps they expect the lucky angel who catches and mauls me to have a little joke out of it, use my own useless weapon to carve out a chunk of flesh. I feel the slightest pressure on my waist and butt, from a little boy clinging to me and weeping. His eyes are the palest grey, like the stormclouds on the day they found my father’s mangled corpse wrapped around me, shielding me from the death I deserved.
I stroke his hair. It is the only comfort I can offer. There are words stuck in my throat, words with shapes like ‘it will be alright’ and ‘i will protect you’. I cannot protect him, or myself, or anyone at all for that matter. I do not have the neurons for it. It is not in my biology. No matter how hard I, or anyone in this killing pen, try, we will never be able to use violence. And so it means violence will be used against us.
Pacifism is a physiological trait found in approximately one third of the human populace. It is a curse that appears at random. Happy families could be struck by misfortune, and forced to birth children with pale eyes and soft hands. In the darkest of cases, a regular, hearty child might suddenly grow sallow and tranquil, to the horror of his parents. We are the runts of the litter, designed to be killed first while our betters flee. They let us breed only because we are necessary fodder, servants to the worthy. Or so they say, at least.
I sway back and forth. They showed us a video of a killing hunt in biology class. I remembered the fear in those people’s eyes, their pathological helplessness that led to their demise. I remembered the real people, the angels and heroes and worthy ones, watching me with mocking smiles. They knew better than I that my place was as a rotting half-eaten corpse in a gutter, rather than as a hardworking student in a classroom.
I kiss my knife. Even now I do not know what to do with it. My mother gave it to me in despair, hoping against hope that when it entered my hand I would stop being prey. Life does not work that way. The only thing I ever used it to do was sharpen my pencils. All the same, it lends me an air of dignity. Or maybe it makes me look like a fool. I was never quite clear on the difference.
I hear a creak of metal. The roof of our cage lifts. All of our hearts, as one, speed up. We know our purpose. To run until we are caught, and then to die without a fight. There are victims and there are victors. There are the strong and there are the weak. There is us, and there is them.
The door to our cage swings open. The angels stand a respectful distance away, watching us. After all, it would be no fun if we were all immediately caught, right?
I do not want to die like prey, and so I stand firm as the crowd of human filth around me flows into the arena. There are whoops and cheers and laughter from the stands. For a moment I am wearing my racing jacket, crowing in victory before the crowds, standing on the podium and waving. I did not take off my helmet, then, even though it was proper to. I did not want the noise to die down when they saw my violet eyes, so soft and unviolent.
There is only one person left in the pen. Me. A naked, shivering, terrified piece of meat. The angels are too busy filling the air with blood and sounds of bones cracking to notice me. I turn around, and my back prickles with the knowledge that something could attack from behind at any moment. I know from experience that the south gate to the arena has a broken lock. The attendants apologised for it, back when I was a person worth apologising to, back when I was in a battle that did not ask for things as intrinsic as a penchant for harm. To think that they would use a biking circuit as a hunting ground.
One hand and one foot on the bars, knife clenched between my teeth, prepared to climb the pen and dash for freedom. I smell the gasoline of my bike from a lifetime ago. Ready, set, go.
My palms are so sweaty that I almost slip. I hear a sharp scream, quickly cut off. It belongs to a little boy. Perhaps the very same one that clung to me for comfort. Someone in the audience shouts and points, but I am over the pen and landing on the other side of the arena. There is a flapping of wings as an angel lands behind me. I kick up as much dust as I can. My fingers grasp the gates of freedom, and I slide inside. I slam the door shut as the angel lunges, and the wooden door thumps hard. My shoulder will be bruised tomorrow, if there is even a tomorrow for me.
I dig my feet in, pressing my full body weight against the gate. I am weaker than the angel, as all lesser beings are weaker than their superiors, but adrenaline fuels me. If I fail, I will die. And if I do not try, I will fail.
The angel snarls and bats at the door. “Guards!” He cries, infuriated by his prey fighting back. “Get this damn thing out of there!”
There is shuffling. They intend to intercept me from behind. My plan has failed, will fail, was always doomed to fail. People like me were born to lose. But still I press against the door. I refuse to die without dignity. I cannot fight, but I will struggle until the very end.
“Jordan, you’ll miss the good stuff if you don’t get back,” another angel cries. Jordan–how strange it is to know your would-be eater’s name–heaves a sigh and gives up on his quarry, not willing to miss the forest for a single stubborn tree.
I count to five before I let go. The sounds of pounding footsteps reach me, and I walk towards them. I almost laugh when I see who has come to drag me to my death. Of all the people to meet on this fine day, I think. Of all the places for them to release me onto. Did any children make it to the far side of the circuit? Were the same attendants that showered praise upon me ready to shove them to their deaths?
The securitywoman, an angel in gold and blue, stops in her tracks, baffled by my fearlessness. She holds an arm out to stop her coworker. How unusual to see an angel partnered with a human. They must be low on manpower. “The pacifist’s trapped,” she tells the other guard. “We don’t need to rush this, not like it’s gonna fight its way out.” There is no familiarity in her eyes, only mild curiosity. It is the look a bored, unhungry cat gives a mouse.
I fold my arms, more to cover my nipples than to affect any bravery. Hope was not made for people like me, but I feel it anyways, as malformed as a round peg in a square hole. Perhaps people like me were not doomed to lose after all. The thing that spreads across my lips might charitably be called a smile, but only by someone with very bad vision and no understanding of what a grimace was. “Hello, Sakurai. Long time no see. You got promoted, it seems. Or did you switch career tracks?”
It discomfits both the guards to hear me speak. I suspect it would suit them both to think me as deficient in intellect as I am in cruelty. “You know me?” The angelic guard asks, a touch of fright in her voice.
No one has ever been afraid of me before. It is intoxicating, even if she is more afraid of my peculiarity than my person. “You do not remember? It was a full moon. The night of the Open Maiden run. I won. You asked me why I refused to remove my helmet. I lowered my visor for you, Sakurai Blackwood. I do hope you have not forgotten that.” I tilt my head politely at the other guard, keenly aware of their stun batons, keenly aware of how easy it would be for them to beat me to a bloody pulp, keenly aware of how little I would be missed. My shoulders do not hunch. I make sure of that.
There is a silence for a moment. Or, there is as much silence as there can be when forty-nine children are being hunted for sport in the background. The screaming has died down, now that most are caught. The devouring has begun. Finally, Sakurai breathes in sharply. “Fuck. It's you. Y- you’re… Why are you here? Aren’t you, you know, someone…” She trails off, searching for a word that does not exist in our tongue, or any other tongue for that matter.
“Someone worthy of living? Someone who deserved to be spared? An exception to the rule?” I shake my head. “Get me out of here, and I will tell you the full story. You do wish to hear it, do you not?” What paltry offerings I have to bargain with. I am heartwrenchingly grateful for them.
The human guard taps Sakurai’s shoulder. “What’s going on?” she demands, in the tones of one who sees nothing more than angel food where I stand. “You know that thing? Why the hell does it have a knife?”
Sakurai bites her lip. “You remember a while back, all that fuss about the masked lady? Well. Not lady, I guess, she’s too young for that. But you know what I’m talking about. The one who showed up out of nowhere and started winning races. Look, let’s just get her out of here. She doesn’t belong here.” Her eyes flit to mine. “I’m sure nobody will miss one pacifist, right?”
And that is how I find myself using an oversized jacket as a toga, hiding behind an angel’s wings as we hurry through the passage beneath the stands. It leads to a parking lot. I realise I never thought I would see a carpark again. My knees buckle, and Sakurai barely catches me. “See the blue sedan? Hide in there,” she tells me, undoing my makeshift shift and returning it to her partner. “Here’s my car keys. Go and wait until I’m done with work. If anyone tries to grab you, use your knife-” She stops and considers her words. “Erm. Nevermind. Just try not to get spotted, I guess. My shift ends in three hours, once these guys are done mopping up. We can talk then.”
I take the keys, fondling them. I wonder if my nakedness bothers either of them. It bothers me greatly, though I dare not show it. I think of a queen sentenced to execution, a queen who practised laying her neck upon the gallows so it would be lopped off gracefully. I channel her dignity, and her pride in the face of death. “I appreciate the help,” I reply coolly, glancing around. It takes a great deal of effort to stride, rather than scamper, to the sedan.
The first thing I do when I enter it is lock all the doors. The second thing I do is watch the guards leave. The third thing I do is rev up the engine. Three hours is more than enough for me to drive to my cache and back again.
I did not prepare for this outcome per se. Nobody expects their own mother to sell them into slavery, even if their mother never wanted a pacifist for a child, even if their mother made it clear her husband was the only thing stopping her from abandoning said child and starting life anew, even if their mother had a killing hunt organiser’s number on speed dial. But I knew what the world thought of people like me, and I knew I needed something for when I inevitably became prey.
Cars are not motorbikes. This may seem obvious, but there is long line of people who have assumed that skill in the latter would lead to skill in the former. I join that line out of necessity as I haphazardly pull out of the carpark.
There is a a great deal of science that lies behind banning pacifists from driving vehicles of any kind. It begins with the innate fact that pacifists cannot cause harm. Our brains simply shut down if the possibility occurs. We were not built to hurt. And cars, along with airplanes, motorbikes, and trucks, are simply nothing more than mechanised killing machines people use to get around.
It was discovered that if put in a position where a vehicular collision was possible, a pacifist would simply shut down and lose control of themselves. The second their body realised it was going to hurt someone, it shut down. This tactic worked well when it came to a punch or swing of the sword. It did not go quite as splendidly when the damage was going to be caused by one and a half thousand kilograms of metal accelerating towards someone.
So I do my best not to think about anything at all as I drive.
Thanks for the tag @the-inkwell-variable :) So. It's not what I normally post. But! I did manage to translate my brand new synopsis of Castella Cake into Norwegian!! Here you go (I made it seven sentences just to post it here LOL):
Castella er en høyskolestudent på atten år. Hun er veldig nysgjerrig og liker å utforske. For seks måneder siden døde foreldrene hennes i apokalypsen, sammen med vennene hennes. Da oppdaget hun de magiske kreftene sine: Hun kan snakke med spøkelser og tappe dem for krefter. Når hun finner vennen sin, Kyliene, setter hun i gang en kjedereaksjon som forandrer livet hennes for alltid. Med sine trofaste hjelpere, Norris og Wei Ling, kommer vel ingenting til å gå galt, ikke sant? (Spoiler: det går galt)
And in English, because I don't think anyone here knows Norwegian:
Castella is an eighteen year old high school student with an inquisitive mind and a penchant for getting herself into trouble. Six months ago, her parents, friends, and life were wiped out in the zombie apocalypse. That was how she discovered she had magic powers: She could speak to shades—and drain them for powers. When, against all odds, she finds her friend, Kyliene, alive and well, it sets off a chain of events that may well change her live forever. But with the help of her ghostly sidekicks, Norris and Wei Ling, surely nothing bad will happen? Right? (Spoilers: bad things happen)
Tagging @finickyfelix, @traderotales, @write-with-will, @whatwewrotepodcast, @projectkarya, @illarian-rambling, @somethingclevermahogony and open tag!!
Thank you for the tag from @inadequatecowboy! Still working on Castella rn (and I've been hella busy studying Norwegian!) so here's a snippet from that :)
I looked up at the grand beast and its myriad beady eyes. "So... you're not going to eat me, right?"
"Little medium, you are a but mere morsel mourning the monsters made from the men you most loved. My threads will involute you, and your fluids will ooze from my palps. Fear not Evermore, for she will bring forth peace to your paltry being."
"Ah. I'm gonna take that as my cue to run away," I said, giving the giant man-eating spider a big smile. "Bye!"
And then I fled, sneaker sole flapping against the tiles of the mall. Fuck that shit, man.
Tagging @savvyminnow, @pluppsauthor, @sodaliteskull, @minamaybe, @the-inkwell-variable and as always, open tag!!!!
Target Audience: PG-13 YA and up (more mature themes and content than book 1)
Tags: Still using #unfathomable wip as a general tag for the whole series in progress.
Progress: As of April 2026, I have six chapters drafted and the rest of the story fully outlined!
Synopsis, setting, themes & tropes, and more below the cut. Synopsis contains minor spoilers for Unfathomable.
— 🌊 —
Synopsis
One year after the conclusion of their first deep sea adventure, Marlo and his friends are happily settled in to their new routines operating the independent courier business they all started together. But that routine is abruptly shattered when one day, while docked back home in Brightvein for a quick visit, they stumble across a mysterious dead body…in their own sub.
Accusations and speculation abound. Marlo’s family is under threat. And it looks like he won’t be going on any more peaceful trade runs anytime soon, because it’s up to him to solve the mystery and save his family before time runs out.
Thankfully, he has the support of his friends by his side, not to mention a few new faces lending aid along the way. But Marlo and his crew will need all the help they can get, because this journey will take them further than they’ve ever gone before…and put them directly in the path of old secrets and diabolical schemes they’ve never been more unprepared to face.
Setting
Like Unfathomable before it, this sequel takes place in an exclusively underwater deep-sea environment inspired heavily by the Subnautica video game series and the Ethersea season of the Adventure Zone podcast, combining fantasy elements, sci-fi elements, and a little bit of inspired-by-real-life ocean stuff.
Themes, Tropes & More
Underwater murder mystery!
Ace/aroace leading characters
More focus on friendship and platonic love than romance
An overall darker tone and different type of resolution than the first book
Spooky laboratories and unethical experiments
Family drama
Recurring characters
New characters
Deep-sea cults
More leviathans…
Cast of Characters
You can read about the original cast of characters and see my character lineup art in my intro post for the first book, Unfathomable, linked here! Unquenchable is the second book in this series.
— 🌊 —
I’ve never done a taglist before, but if you’d like to be tagged in update posts related to this project, let me know and I’ll go from there! I am hoping to share this book with beta readers like I did for the first book, so I will tag anyone interested in the project once the time comes.
Since this is a new WIP announcement, I’ll tag a bunch of Writeblr friends just to get the word out. If you see this post, please take this as an opportunity to introduce your own WIP and/or share a WIP update! (And tag me so I can see it.)
I haven't posted an actual extended excerpt of my writing in a very long time, so hopefully I won't delete this one out of nervousness. I am very prone to deleting things. Anyway, these lines are from Foxglove Dust.
Asen was backing up, barely in the doorway now, his hand on the doorknob and his eyes very wide. "…Doctor?"
Tievis couldn't summon a correct emotional reaction to this. He couldn't summon any emotional reaction at all. The fact that Asen might return of his own volition had not at all occurred to him, and he hadn't let himself think about what he would do if it happened.
All he knew was that he could never, ever let him leave again. But if he lunged for Asen, dragged him back in, he would run. He had the open door at his back, and Tievis was several feet away. It would be impossible to reach him in time. He would have to be calm, calm and reasonable, and do nothing that might scare him even more.
I will have to leave this open tag out of fear of tagging people, but if you see this and want to share nine lines of your writing, please do, I'd be happy to see it!
Thanks for tagging me @oh-no-another-idea! Been a while, but I'm trying to get back into the habit before work picks up and knocks me out again 👍
I'll tag @talesofsorrowandofruin, @owlsandwich, @finickyfelix, and open tag as always!
George soon began to shiver, and a fresh lance of guilt stabbed through Jack's chest. He hardly felt the cold, but George had come after him in his shirtsleeves; his vest was woollen and warm, but it wouldn't offer nearly enough protection from the chill of winter.
With a snap of his fingers, Jack lit a small fire in the air and let it drift in front of George. George threw him a grateful look and held out his hands to its warmth. With a few more intricate twists, Jack carefully summoned a gentle warmth into George's clothes, watching his face crease with relief and his shoulders begin to relax.
'You're a wonder,' George sighed, and something in Jack's chest twinged.
'If not for me, you wouldn't be out here at all.'
George offered a smile Jack couldn't return. 'After all you've done for me over the years, I can suffer a little cold.'
ASM taglist (let me know if you want to be added or removed!): @inkspellangel, @oh-no-another-idea, @cee-grice, @owlsandwich, @bodoramzap, @space-writes
