Uhhh, what is bitter magic? What would you write on the back of the book to make someone read it?
[turns on appropriate elevator music for the Elevator Pitch]
bitter magic is about Raekel, a reclusive fairy changeling whose magic begins to malfunction after a routine ghost-banishing job goes wrong. when a new ghost called the Girl in White starts killing fairies to take their power, claiming that Rae is the reason she exists, Rae sets off to banish the Girl, followed by her talking cat Satu, a pushy noblewoman fairy aficionado named Luz, the crown prince, and the prince’s valet. but what Rae doesn’t know about the Girl in White - or what she’s forced herself to forget - may cost all five of them more than they thought.
i had an idea for a story collection where the universe gets destroyed and everyone is dead except for a handful of people in some super space bunker which is nice but really the only character thats introduced themself to me yet is a writer who has basically lost their entire audience so they just rewrite the books they hated back on earth so that they’re better aka more their style
“but writer, this was a children’s classic from the late 1800s, the main character couldn’t be a vampire” "the death of the author is literally true now get out of my space pod and let me write vampire secret garden”
Song Okent is a depressed (occasionally wistful) farm boy who lost his best friend to the last war.
Saba is an anxious (occasionally poetic) young law officer who ended up exactly where she never wanted to go - space.
Bats Mally is a driven (consistently terrifying) kid who's on quest to find... something.
Unfortunately, Bats's quest is 89% illegal, and he's dragging Song and Saba into it with him.
mythmouse’s nanowrimo ‘17
(i was poking around for vintage space art for the cover and i discovered that nasa/jpl released this collection of spacey travel posters. i frickin loved the one for kepler-186f and so here we are for my picket-fence space fantasy adventure)
i want to come up with one first chapter of a novel, send it to a set number of readers, and get their suggestions/predictions on it before i write each next chapter
i need to write/publish We're gonna be Legends soon and sell the movie rights because if lee pace doesnt play hermes then none of it will be worth it anyway
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Jason and Connie take him grocery shopping, which, despite everything that’s happened to him in the past handful of months, is absolutely the most ridiculous thing he’s heard for a long, long time.
guys. this is my first-ever fanfic. i just posted two drabbles about my One True Husband Richard Maxwell aka my very first time posting fanfic in my life. should i be this excited? probably not!! i am anyway!!
i was writing down some notes on the fourth book of my dark fantasy/fairytale series and since its a new book that sort of just accidentally came together last night i have no names for characters or anything so i had to give them placeholder names - so essentially there are two parts to it, notes on this band of law enforcement troops who just got in because of their rich parents and they handle all the easiest most basic cases and theyre kind of jokes but they have fun and theyre pals so w/e, and notes on this exiled/banished agender teenage ex-ruler who is now just a slightly bitter street rat roaming around and helping whoever feeds them
so until i find names/situations for them theyre called respectively Garbage Squad and Trash Chief
There’s one thing that Chance likes about D’Arville-era Earth, and that’s TV.
It’s different from watching casts on screens. TVs are bigger, they make more noise, they’re so bright they hurt Chance’s eyes. They come with ridiculously complicated screenless controls, which Chance struggles to adapt to longer than he wants to admit.
They give him hours of late-night advertising, programs that Judah calls “infomercials.” They’re nauseating, repetitive, and, on some nights, he watches them until four in the morning, until his eyes are sandy and heavy and aching and his body feels like it’s screaming for mercy. Only then can he safely drag himself to the small guest room that the D’Arvilles gave him.
He’s careful to stay awake on those nights. Wouldn’t be good if he crashed on the sofa, for everyone to see come morning.
On his third week in the D’Arville house, he decides against sleeping at a normal time, like he does so often. He sits up against the wall across from his twin bed - made neatly, as he always makes it in the mornings - drumming his fingers on his knees for at least an hour, until he’s sure that everyone is asleep.
His mind won’t stop going, moving, beating itself to death inside his skull. He tries to think about other things, like the culture he’s been tossed into - Starbucks, bookstores, skinny jeans, cellphones, public parks, policemen - to wrap his mind around those things.
Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. You fuckup. It’s your fault.
No, all he can see if Sevens’s face. Twisted in anger, eyes damp with furious tears. Lev just behind him, not even surprised. She’s not even surprised at this point, takes it in stride when he does what he does. And then—
He trembles and jumps to his feet, turning out the lights before easing his bedroom door open.
The D’Arville house is a big one, which is useful in some ways, less so in others. There’s space between the main TV room - they call it a ‘den’ - and almost all the bedrooms, on the second floor, which means he doesn’t have to be so quiet once he gets down there. But he does have a lot of rooms to pass without alerting the (hopefully) sleeping people inside. It’s not much of a problem for him. Still, it makes him nervous, especially when his body is already clumsy with exhaustion, jittery from anxiety or guilt or whatever it is that’s churning in his gut.
But all he knows is that he can’t go to sleep.
He makes it downstairs, creeps into the ‘den,’ and slips into his usual spot, in the overstuffed chair closer to the right corner of the screen. This angle makes the picture come a little more alive, somehow; it makes him pay attention. The room is completely dark; it’s on the inside of the house, sot here are no windows. He feels his way to his spot by memory. He made sure the control was in the chair before he went upstairs, and, thank goodness, it’s still there. He grabs it and turns the TV on, wincing at the white light that floods the room and washes everything out in a pale-blue contrast.
A few moments later, he’s curled up under a blanket, while an older woman tries to sell… whatever ‘watches’ are. She’s earnest, like she believes she could change someone’s life with the power of a ‘watch.’ Chance gazes at her, trying to figure out the level of her sincerity. It’s surprisingly difficult, even for him, who should be used to judging between truth and lies at this point.
Your fault.
He grits his teeth and turns the TV up.
He’s an hour into it - the woman is long gone, though her replacement is similar, selling porcelain figurines - when the flicker of movement catches his eye.
Chance almost swallows his own tongue and he has the control raised to hurl at the intruder before he realizes who it is, wrapped in a blanket, pale blond hair matted on one side and flat on the other.
“Loreleaf,” Chance whispers, staring at him. “You scared the hell out of me.”
Loreleaf has obviously been asleep, though how good that sleep has been, Chance wouldn’t try to guess. He peers at Chance through squinted eyes, balling the blanket closed tighter, closer to his throat. “What are you doing,” he asks, and his voice is tired enough that the inflection for a question just isn’t there.
Chance’s mind goes blank. How’s he supposed to answer that question?
“Thinking of investing in porcelain,” he says softly, gesturing at the TV. “In case I’m here a while.”
Loreleaf looks slowly between him and the TV. Chance has never seen him like this, not really. His legs are bare underneath the blanket, skinny and bleached of color in the TV light. He’s just sleepy right now - not a wide-awake tired, or exhausted from nightmares. Just… sleepy.
Chance feels his own face trying to smile at the sight.
“Okay,” Loreleaf says, and Chance finally notes how froggy Loreleaf’s normally soft voice is. And though it sounds like Loreleaf’s questions have been satisfied, he doesn’t move from the door, still staring at the TV through half-lidded eyes.
The porcelain woman sounds like she’s getting passionate about her subject - it’s always good when that happens, good and distracting - but Chance doesn’t look away from Loreleaf. It’s hard to, seeing him like this. Chance has woken him out of too many nightmares to be curious about this particular nighttime status. He knows how it feels to have both of Loreleaf’s thin hands wrapped around one of his own; he knows how it feels to have Loreleaf’s shaky breath against his neck.
He knows how it looks when Loreleaf wants to kiss him. It’s only happened the once. But Chance knows it happened. And when he remembers it - the shocked and bruised look on Loreleaf’s face as his eyes darted to Chance’s mouth - he just—
Chance pats the arm of his chair. “Come on,” he says softly. “It’s good for… sleeping. Or not sleeping, or whatever.”
For a long time, Loreleaf doesn’t move. Then his gaze slides back to Chance, and slowly, he nods. Shuffles closer, sniffing sleepily. Stands between the chair and the nearest sofa for a moment, considering. Then sits abruptly on the floor before Chance’s chair, back against the corner, his shoulder almost touching Chance’s left shin.
Chance shakes his head. “Hey, dumbass,” he says gently. “I meant… you know, up here.”
Loreleaf glances over his shoulder. His eyes are liquid amber, even in this freezing light, even when he’s already half-asleep. “Not enough room,” he mumbles.
“Yeah, there is.” Chance scoots to the side. “See?”
Loreleaf blearily eyes the scant inches of open cushion. “You’re n’idiot.”
“Well, yes, but not about this.”
Loreleaf just turns away to watch the TV.
That’s how it is for a while. Chance settles back where he was, taking up the whole chair again; he shifts his legs up into it, leaving his foot to dangle over the edge and occasionally - accidentally, of course - nudge Loreleaf’s shoulder. Loreleaf ignores it.
And it’s nice. It’s distracting. The woman’s voice, the flickering pale TV glow, the slight shift of Loreleaf’s hair every time his head moves. It’s nice.
There’s a part of Chance that doesn’t want this. That wants him to focus on Sevens’s anger, Lev’s disappointment. That’s what he deserves.
But this—
This is—
Loreleaf’s shoulders are shaking. Just a little, barely noticeable under the blanket, but they are.
Chance sits up a little, tearing himself out of his conflicted thoughts. “Hey… Loreleaf? What’s up? Are you cold? There’s another blanket—“
There’s a quick intake of breath, a watery sniff. It’s not that Chance couldn’t guess, but knowing - for sure - makes his stomach knot itself.
Loreleaf releases the breath shakily, and doesn’t turn around. “I’m fine,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t - shouldn’t have… come down here. I’m sorry, I’ll—”
He makes to get up, but Chance straightens and grabs his shoulder. He winces when Loreleaf flinches but he doesn’t let go.
“Stop,” he says, and Loreleaf freezes, his back still turned to Chance, his head low. “What’s going on?”
The woman - the third one tonight - yells something at the TV screen, something about a cashmere sweater. Loreleaf shivers and raises one hand to wipe his face.
“I… my… I had…” He shudders again. “Chance, I can’t. I’m sorry. I have to—“
He stands quickly but Chance lets his grip fall down to Loreleaf’s wrist, gripping tight. “Stop it,” he says again. “You can tell me. Is something wrong?”
“No…” Loreleaf’s fingers, just underneath Chance’s hand, work agitatedly. “No, it’s… it’s just—“ He’s still sleepy but now he’s frustrated, too, almost angry. “My… my damn nightmares, it’s just… the same story again and again and again and again and—“
Chance squeezes his wrist tighter. Loreleaf stops talking, seems to hold his breath. When he releases it, it’s in the smallest whisper, so faint Chance almost loses it in the infomercial noise: “It was you this time.”
Wasn’t expecting that.
Chance almost lets go, but he remembers to keep his grip, so Loreleaf can’t run away. “I’m… flattered?”
“Don’t, Chance, it’s not funny.” There are strangled tears in Loreleaf’s voice again, and he tilts his head back, sucking in another shaky breath. “I… you were… I don’t even like you that much but—“
“Oh, thank you.”
“—but you left,” Loreleaf goes on, “you left and it was my fault, I hurt you, I hurt you—“
“You can’t throw a punch, Loreleaf. You can’t hurt me.”
“I hurt you,” Loreleaf repeats, jerking around to face Chance, “and you left m— you left.”
He’s in front of the TV and Chance can barely see his face, now that it’s in shadow. But he can see the light flicker on the tear marks on his face.
What do I say to that?
“Well,” he says carefully, rubbing his temple with his free hand. “Glad I left an impression, I guess.”
Loreleaf snorts - a defensive sound, and turns his head to the side. He gives a weak tug at his wrist, but not like he actually wanted to be let go.
Chance tugs back. “Loreleaf,” he says softly, “you… you know I’m going to leave at some point, right? Or you will. You’re on a clock, more than I am.”
Loreleaf closes his eyes tight.
“Your nightmare’s being a little unfair to both of us,” Chance continues, rubbing his thumb over the edge of Loreleaf’s hand, feeling the bone under the rough skin. “Giving you a little too much power over me, giving me a little too much power over you. See? It’s… it’s a bullshit nightmare, Lory. More so than usual. It shouldn’t bother you.”
Loreleaf shakes his head a tiny bit, eyes still closed, but his fingers relax. Chance shifts his grip, interlocking their fingers. Loreleaf doesn’t object or try to move.
“Though I guess,” Chance goes on, more to himself than Loreleaf as he studies their hands, “we’re both going to hurt each other in the end.”
“Chance,” Loreleaf says tightly, his voice still small, but Chance gives him one last little tug.
“You can’t hurt me,” he whispers, as the TV keeps going behind Loreleaf’s back, “any more than I deserve to be hurt.”
Loreleaf opens his eyes - tears roll down his cheeks - but finally he looks at Chance, his eyebrows knitted together, his lips white. Chance tries to smile; he wonders how hideous his scars look.
Very carefully, Loreleaf raises one hand and reaches out. His fingertips barely brush Chance’s skin, just over the scars to the corners of his mouth. Chance tries not to move but—
No one’s ever. No one has ever.
“I still don’t like you that much,” Loreleaf manages to say as he takes his hand back and eases into Chance’s lap. His weight - scant as it is - is welcome, jerking Chance back to himself after getting lost in the velvet touch to his scars. Loreleaf is careful, uncertain, his body language tense and almost frightened even as it’s needy, too. When he curls his legs, his bare right knee presses into Chance’s ribcage, and it would be uncomfortable if it weren’t so… Loreleaf. And that’s all Chance can see suddenly, Loreleaf’s thin frame settling itself into the chair with him, their bodies sliding into place, Loreleaf’s blanket draped across both of their laps—
Chance wraps one arm around him as Loreleaf presses closer, his cheek resting on Chance’s shoulder. And he looks at Chance from there - it can’t be a wonderful view, but he doesn’t take his gaze away, his eyes still red and puffy from tears and sleeplessness. Chance smiles a little at him. Then Loreleaf’s hand is on his cheek again, starting near the scar but drifting up to his cheekbone and towards his ear and if Chance is waiting for an invitation then he doesn’t think he’ll get a better one than this.
It doesn’t last long. A quick press of lips and then Loreleaf pulls away, his mouth a little open still, looking into Chance’s face with fresh tears in his eyes.
“That bad?” Chance asks, surprised that he can find his breath.
Loreleaf doesn’t respond, his expression inscrutable. When he leans forward again, almost resigned, Chance meets him halfway, twisting a lock of Loreleaf’s hair around two fingers.
“I hate this,” Loreleaf whispers, breaking away again.
So do I. Chance says nothing, stroking Loreleaf’s hair once before lowering his hand. So do I.
Loreleaf falls asleep there, his head resting on Chance’s shoulder, one hand hooked into the neckline of his sleep shirt. And Chance, eventually, drifts off, too, because even by four in the morning, Loreleaf is hard asleep, and Chance can’t find it in him to move, because when the TV light is off and it’s just the two of them, their breathing so close in the darkness while the fridge hums in the next room—
I don’t care if it hurts is what he’s thinking when he falls asleep.
+
Judah finds them in the morning, around seven, draped in leftover light from the next room’s window.
She helps Loreleaf to bed, though he’s reluctant to let go of Chance in his half-asleep daze. She brushes the tear marks on his face, helps him under his own covers, and when he mumbles, “Don’t wanna hurt him,” she smiles.
“You can’t help that, darling,” she says. “He’s already on his way down.”
Chance follows them quietly, overhears their words, sees Loreleaf’s earnest face and Judah’s smile.
