hello lovelies this author is still alive and kicking ... not satisfied w the current overview of social media so i finally got around to finishing my own site serpentcycled on neocities... mostly all original work but might put up new and old rosewine writing idk it depends. anyway kiss your sister i love u goodnights
also unrelated but ive been going through to archive my old writing and i found my hs fanfiction i wrote in a journal from when i was like 13 . been on that
mom decides she should help with her daughters intrepid fantasies (after finding pages of pages scrawled in the notebook she keeps tucked under her mattress, that longing desire would be enough to convince anyone) and while maybe summoning the old gods is a bit much - getting a nice tank set up for a hefty cephalopod is truly not much of a hassle
mom decides she should help with her daughters intrepid fantasies (after finding pages of pages scrawled in the notebook she keeps tucked under her mattress, that longing desire would be enough to convince anyone) and while maybe summoning the old gods is a bit much - getting a nice tank set up for a hefty cephalopod is truly not much of a hassle
if the trolls were able to get pregnant (humanstuck au or whatever), who would be the most breedable in your opinion?
cop-out answer but also the only correct answer - its feferi. no matter the circumstance (for human expectation or humiliation ritual disguised as princess duties, sake of the people kind of way) shed be willing to take it on and promptly hate it. its an easy idea to romanticize, to convince, but that only leaves her unprepared. and when those ugly parts start to rear their head theyll hit her hard. either way shell look so cute <3
rosemary where rose is constantly calling kan “mom” or “mommy” during sex to the point where her name never leaves roses mouth outside of bed, but its completely normal because its just a cute common pet name humans use and its definitely not because rose is using kanaya to live out her erotic fantasies involving her dead mother
something something roxys riflekind, thematics dave-ways, kids shirt iconography embodying things to conquer + the trickle down ideals of english representing trophy hunters... all in all to say rose is a cat but roxy is aligned to something more of a hawk
my original (although very vague and half-thought lol) intention was just playing against the betas associated animals ! they are v set in stone - egbert and bunnies. dave and crows. jade and dogs. rose and cats - but the alphas were never as clear. roxy was the only one to lean heavy with the cats so i thought it would be interesting to pull her away from that association (for nefarious lalondecest purposes of course) and the simplest way was to bring her back with dave and the birds.
the hawk was mostly an arbitrary pull of the birds of prey since theyre often the first suspect for bird-related cat attacks! along with other associations: hawk-eyed. sharpshooter. fun inversed cat-bird relationship symbology to play with. (even more so when we bring jasprose - the forever-young but adult-bound cat - into the equation to unsettle some boundaries!)
but if we were going to talk about hunters - predators vs prey…heres my without context opinions:
prey:
aradia
nepeta
vriska
predator:
kanaya
feferi
terezi will shift between. crockerberts are prey and harley is a predator, of course. (id say this carries over for the alpha trolls but move aranea into predator.)
something something roxys riflekind, thematics dave-ways, kids shirt iconography embodying things to conquer + the trickle down ideals of english representing trophy hunters... all in all to say rose is a cat but roxy is aligned to something more of a hawk
you often fold in the face of mockery - when it comes that you, young and angry, are subject to a particular kind of scorn. it brings forth shaking voices, of slammed doors and adolescent willfulness to storm out into the storming. a funny type of dramatics. you rub your cheek, rain-wet. that season has started again - the cycle never ceased. rain turned snow turned rain yet again. snow melts to water. rain freezes to ice. and you end up in a tomb all the same.
its empty, hot - steaming in trapped air, in your huffing breath - with cold stone under your palms. the real kind (as it was your mothers insistence, of course) where you can rub that hot anger onto. siphoned until youre left cold as you should in the snow-rain night.
this time you barely get to prop up a leg before theres a rap on the door. you could lie and say your heart didnt skip, swallowed in your throat along with those lightning flashes and tree-scrape branches, or even perhaps consider it consequence, the kind in playing with the darker forces or desecrating a tomb, however empty you know it is. but between the guilt and the truth - it was neither of those things.
“rosie,” your mother calls, voice carried in the wind. “baby are you in there?”
you flinch, pull into yourself by smooth skirts and rubbed cheeks. why in the lords name would that woman follow you out here? not to enter, it seems, acting as if it had ever stopped her before. a false distinction of respect. the rain patters the roof.
“what do you want.”
your voice shakes, situated in uncertainty leaving you vulnerable and aware (the fight, the guilt, the rain or her follow - whichever to blame in cause) of the drench.
the response gets her to open the door. your mother peeks her head, turning and lighting when she sees you pressed in the back. theres barely thought to consider before she invites herself in - only allowed in places you were present.
“why are you out here,” you scorn. “its raining.”
“oh dont give me that,” she says, pulling mockery like teeth. your weak knees finally buckle, unable to bare the added weight, staring at the vision-dotted shadows playing across her face.
she goes to her scarf, tugging wet wool away from her neck and you have to turn away. a rustle of fabric and the heavy beat in your chest. when your mother sits, she sits next to you - pulling from where you slipped down. not enough space to move, barely enough to fit.
“youre so cold,” she says. her hand is on your cheek previously alight in heated flush, but doused before you could succumb. in contrast shes uncomfortably warm - unaffected with the alcohol she trades for water.
you say nothing to this. better to be cold and still by the grave then warm and writhing.
shes taken off her jacket - the only thing thats kept her from the wet - to stay in dry dress but here with your head rested on her chest, the fabric quickly soaks. maybe it was childish but you turn and press into her. arms around the waist and shuffled space until youre halfway in the lap.
wet now. the both of you.
theres a tension that you have to bite back a grin at. a small victory in this action - comfort she cant reject lest she portray a visage of a bad mother, all the while her perfectly maintained clothing, having thought to be escaped from the rain, is ruined.
until she melts. her arms scooping you up, pressed hard against her body.
“oh, my baby,” she sighs, rubbing up and down your spine. “im so sorry. you know i dont mean to upset you.”
the words catch you. as sickly as she was, the bile had eroded the bite - your confusion slips into the horror of misunderstanding. your mother thinks you are searching for her, that you had wriggled your way into her arms in wanting, therefore undermining your vindication. it was nothing like as she thought, you werent upset you were-
you werent truly looking for comfort.
having slipped from the house to satiate your need within jaspers false tomb was nothing but an action. you would steal away after a particularly harsh battle, working through the heat it left you - work through what you could - raining or otherwise. youd always been left wet.
the fire rises once more, sparks feeding flame. what were you doing here? why were you being cradled in your mothers lap? why would you want this?
you push away, arms shaking.
through your wet bangs you see her face - soft, gentle, the turning of the lips. pitying. like were made from the womb to be pitied. in the dark pits of her eyes - you see yourself.
rain-soaked. fever-flushed. a little girl having forgone your bra - that acting out in rebellion to her gifts now leaves you exposed in the soak. paining. and if you moved to cover it could only bring forward that aching guilt. you shake, breathing from your mouth.
“mother, im fine.” a calling whine.
she leans in to kiss your red cheek. then turn to the corner of the lips. “look at you, rosie. all grown up now.”
“im really-”
“youre okay.” her hands rested on your lower back, to be held. she kisses you, proper, like she did when you were smaller. a firm push, drawn out as if she has no reason to rush. it burns. the taste is sweet, craving. your mouth is gasped open. swallowing.
your mother kisses you and for the first time as she pulls back youre aware of your panting, of the glistened string of saliva spit. of how youre straddled in her lap, cunt rocked babe on her thigh.
“youre okay,” she says this, quieter, leaning in once more.
(when you leave that tomb together she will say nothing of the wetness, of the warmth.)
roxy has no qualms in fucking animals. growing up as she did its only a fact of survival - a hole presented is a hole to be used. it was trial and error to learn that the warmth of pumping blood elevates her pleasure, not that there were many options to pick through. another dead cat for the pile. the cold interior of a gutted fish. the carapacians who skittered from her view.
but rose on the other hand is willing if only to the extreme - shell gladly throw her body for use by the higher horrors, but the idea of submitting (or practicing for pleasure as roxy insists) to something like a dog, god forbid a pony, is frankly ridiculous. that doesnt mean roxy cant be incredibly convincing.
when roxy approaches youre almost remiss to say that she looks guilty. tongue swallowed. a reflection of a hard conversation neither one of you wanted to bring up. and it was at that moment you might have turned her away - the sun was dawning in the sky, you were basked in the after-glow of her love and she was all mess-kept. a robe pulled over her familiar naked body.
“so,” she starts, leaning against the counter then deciding to pull the seat. then glancing up. down. before settling to take it. you sip your coffee. “so, like, rose. what are we.”
its a bitter flavor. nothing youve ever favored but everything youve taught yourself to take.
you dont give her that answer straight away since its something to put consideration upon. something big, unnameable, the grotesque rippling under waves - a shadow that screams you will never truly understand how far this beast spans. their love was perfectly unnatural. you fit together like a broken clock, right twice a day. in a book told as if some pages had been torn.
but it seems your consideration fell a bit too long - and roxy leans into it first. “like when people ask, do we just say were sisters? cause i know youre my mom and all but were kind of both mom so does that, like, cancel out. i mean dave says it does, but what does he know.”
you blink, slow, then raise your cup to your lips. liquid barely able to pass through the pulled-too-thin grit of teeth. “id say something like that.”
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