#aero writes

[aereona]

a oneshot i'm working on. commander shepard will be put through the wringer before she finds peace.

now up on ao3: Salvator Stellarum

[aereona]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Fandom: Half Man (TV 2026) Rating: Explicit  Words: 897 Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Niall Kennedy/Ruben Pallister  Additional Tags: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Anal Sex, Pseudo-Incest, Unhealthy Relationships, Toxic Relationship, Toxic Ruben, Toxic Niall, Blood and Violence, Codependency, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, One Shot, Ambiguous/Open Ending Summary:

Niall and Ruben had perfected their concentric dance, ever gliding further into the fusing and depraved depths of their coil. It was never one or the other; it had always been both, from the start. It wasn’t their fault that people were thick enough to fall for their act.

Snippet:

[aereona]

Rating: M Fandom: The Pitt Words: 1,706 Main pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Dennis Whitaker Tags: Hucklerobby, Established Relationship, Secret Relationship, Age Difference, Dennis Whitaker Needs a Hug, Dennis Whitaker-centric, Showering Together, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Child Death (patient), Oneshot

Maelstrom

Dr Whitaker is, as is his wont, covered in bodily fluids and bits. Dr Robby steers him to a shower and helps him.

“Time of death,” Dennis held his breath as he checked his watch, and then rushed out the time, “3:42 PM.” A collective breath released in the bright room, and he finally allowed himself an exhale.

After their minute of silence, Perlah gently shooed him off; he hadn’t released the small, slippery hand yet, he realised. Jesse patted his shoulder, and with a nod, Dennis placed the hand on the chest. He removed the gloves and was on his way.

Not even three steps out of Trauma 2, and he felt those hands on his shoulders, steering him away from prying eyes. Familiar from the gentle force of the grip, the weight. The comforting squeeze near the nape of his neck.

“Keep breathing,” Robby said, as calm as a port in a storm.

Dennis allowed it—the manoeuvring, the guiding. Trusted it more than anything in the world.

Cherished it.

Ached for the storm, merely to meet the calm.

“Still with me, Whitaker?” A thumb pressed into the upper section of his trapezius muscle, and he leaned into it. The rich chuckle it elicited in Robby was like a rumble in the sky. “Head straight up, Dennis,” a whisper followed. Not quite a command, nor a demand. Preserving their precious secret for as long as they could—prolonging the inevitable in their shared defiance.

He righted his head reluctantly, desiring to chase that pressing touch just as the thumb released pressure. Robby knew what he did, of course he did, as much an expert on the Dennis Whitaker subject as he was on emergency medicine.

They passed people, mere blurs of movement, and different coloured scrubs. His chin tilted down, and he sighed as he looked up again—blood, mud, and brain matter adorned his scrubs. Who the hell allowed their four-year-old kid to try out a quad bike unsupervised? Without a helmet. No parents rode along in the ambulance, either.

The lock clicked behind him before he realised where he was.

Continue reading on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77735211

[aereona]

Under Your Crimson Brush

Solas has been stuck as a painting since he created the Veil over three thousand years ago. Rook de Riva enjoys liberating objects from their current whereabouts (definitely not pretty paintings that catch his eye on his way to assassinate a target). Can one assist the other without unleashing something irreversible?

── ⚔︎ ──

Written for the Dragon Age Big Bang 2026 @dragonagebigbang and accompanied by marvellously detailed artwork from Psyche @seasnares 🔥💜

── ⚔︎ ──

A snippet of Rook and Solas' dynamic

Returning to the room as swiftly as possible, he walked inside with the dish in hand and a mabari-shaped, carved bone hairpin tucked snugly in his back pocket. With a delighted smile, he stopped in front of Solas.

“That was not soon.”

Rook shrugged, as if he would prepare this dish without taking the time to make it perfect. “It is very sad you cannot enjoy the taste nor the scent of these succulent, roasted tomatoes. Not to mention my mouthwatering tortelloni cacio e pepe,” Rook said before he held the dish out in front of the canvas, manually wafting the scent towards it. “Perfetto. Hmm. Yes, very sad for you,” he smirked and settled down to eat slowly, even turned the frame to the side so Solas could see every single mouthful.

“Fen'Harel ma halam.”

Rook tilted his head at the melodic words. The sweetest of tones, but something rude, judging by the harsh glare that accompanied it. He ate a large bite of his stuffed pasta before he responded. “Adorable.”

Read it on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85336956

[aereona]

WIP thursday because it is no longer wednesday and i actually have something to share for once

so ME2, Lazarus Project, and Shepard coming back wrong. it's probably been done to death, but the plot bunny doesn't care and hops in anyway

Jolts and jolts—electricity? Negative. It had another term. The jolts in the grey? Only grey when it’s dead. The squishy bits in the skull. It wasn’t electricity. Not exactly. Neurons roasting? Negative. No. Still. Neurons firing. That’s it. “—ard!” Voices? That—no. Can’t hear in space. And why was there cotton in her ears and in her mouth and in her throat? “—mander Shepard!” Mander, Mander, Salamander. Who and why? Shepard? Her throat burned and itched. Why was it scratching on the inside? Why did her inside feel outside and why did it not feel hers? Why did it feel—she’d always wanted to try a roasted salamander, though. Desert. Was she on Earth? Negative. The air was too crisp. Too lemony. No. Acid. No. Annoying, like an itch she couldn’t reach. What’s the word? What’s the—salamander? Who? Wasn’t she a Shepard? Positive. Yes. She was. Had been. Was. Is. Is. Is. Is? Hadn’t she… but she had, and she had, she knew she had; her throat had burned on the inside as she gasped for sky, sky, sky, stars—air, and her lungs were empty. It was painful. She knew it would be like that before it had begun to hurt. Sterile. The air was too sterile, producing that distinct dry taste at the back of the tongue that only happens when you breathe in recycled air.

also, salamander is going to stick in her mind. suck it, cerberus 😂

Commander Shepard: Hey, I’m Salamander Shepard, you’re coming with... uh... group? Yes. Group. Uh.. Come? Miranda (PANIK): Hah, *the* commander Shepard is in a jokester mood today; what she means to say is that you have to come with us. Now. What the fuck, Jacob?! Jacob (PANIK): Yeah! Uh, or else! Start moving! What the fuck, Miri?!

[aereona]

hucklerobby busted down my door and demanded headspace

[WIP whenever]

[aereona]

further bullshutting, on the Shepard came back wrong thing [previous]

Dossier - Archangel

Garrus: Shep—Jane, wha-h-h-how? Shepard: Guh—Gaus—GUSSER ... 5 mins later ... Shepard: I’m shouting you, Gusser, they bug-fuck-bring me back right. Garrus: Wrong? Shepard: Uhu, that. Uh... know. I feel. Garrus: Bastards. Who do I kill? Shepard (reaching up to stroke his mandible): Me. Garrus: Very funny. Shepard (groans and points at Miranda and Jacob): Me. Kill. Cerbies. Garrus: Indeed, and so you will. I’ve got your six. Just say when.

words are really fucking hard with brain trauma, yeah?

it's based on my own aphasia and paraphasia, which i got after a seizure with oxygen deprivation over a decade ago. it's not as bad now, but words are still difficult most days, and they don't always come out of my mouth the way they are in my head. quite fun to write, though.

(psa: don't put stuff in someone's mouth when they have a seizure because they will. fucking. choke. and probably end up hating you if they survive😉)

[aereona]

last line you wrote or drew

Got tagged by @dreaminghour (link to her line), thank you!

Rules: in a new post, show the last line you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as there are words (or however many you like).

So this is something I've got no clue about who it is, what fandom, or what the hell's going on. All I know is that it's body horror (he's scooping some substance from inside an alive subject's body, and the others of his team are becoming subjects as well - he's the last one). 🤷‍♀️

“It’s not too late,” the subject said, his voice as soft as—the substance wasn’t soft, though; it was slippery, and yet it clung to his gloves all the same as if it wanted to pull him with it into the earth. “It burrows, it does, and then it is you. Am I still me?” It was bothersome, the talking, so he dipped his hand into where a heart should be, grabbing a handful instead of just a dollop this time. “Can you kill me?”

Tagging @otpcutie @westernlarch @mab-speaks @totally-not-zierde @pirate-of-the-southern-isles @herakleschild @theaceofdragons @belljarbrews @73chn1c0l0rr3v3l @xslytherclawx-writes @muggle-writes @lemniskath @bowlingforgerbils @sylphidine @kogoeru