#cmhwrites

[callmehopeless]

Oh my god my Kylo fics are getting reblogged at an increasing rate since I started replying to mail, with increasingly more horny tags

Guys, I just want to--

Guys, please, remember that I was just--

LISTEN--

[callmehopeless]

I sometimes wonder, like, in the back ends of my mind: do people remember me? Have I been a transient passenger in the weird fandoms I've written unabashed smut for and then boarded the next train away from? Do my insane musings still have any merit on this hellsite, or on the weird world of Ao3?

I do think about it. Sometimes I'm like "I wonder if these fics are still percieved, somewhere, in the weird rivers of time"

I'd like to think so. I'd like to think at least one of you still enjoys my portfolio of Kylo Ren jacking it in HD. Sebastian Sallow cranking it in 4k. Or even - Quicksilver, if you've marinated forever

Hi guys! I'm alive! I'm writing again! I want to reactivate this blog as a writing blog once more! I miss you all! I hope life's been good to you. Still in your respective fandoms?

[callmehopeless]

Just realised I have THIRTY ONE finished fics in my drafts that I just never published for whatever fucking reason. THIRTY ONE. I have X-Men fics, I have Kylo fics. Ben Solo fics. I have a MIDNIGHT MASS FIC?!

Did I just never check any of these?! What the fuck?

[callmehopeless]

ENOUGH Nick Furcillo x Reader (but really I'm just going where the wind blows)

"Of course he is. Of course Nick Furcillo, of all of the boys at Hackett’s Quarry, would be sitting on some creaky steps and listening to a group of depressed English men writing some of the saddest pop songs she can feasibly imagine. (In which the reader has bad taste, Nick wears varsity jackets, and a summer of mutually terrible flirting abruptly stops via werewolf attack.)" > > AVAILABLE HERE ON AO3 < <

Yes, I'm back and writing for a teeny tiny fandom. Still planning all of my old projects, but this is what has gripped me currently in a chokehold. I honestly cannot help myself. I'm taking prompts! If you're in this corner of the fandom and looking for a new author to read, you're in luck. All pairings on the table - I'd love to write for you! UNTIL DAWN IS VERY MUCH INCLUDED IN THIS OFFER, GANG!

[callmehopeless]

Prompt

Idea: "True Love's Kiss Motif". In which a prince is cursed to live an immortal life. He enjoys life at first but grows bored easily. Begins his search to find true love's kiss by courting various women throughout his life. Playboy phase (multiple women)?

Grows old and has never found true love. And he tries to off himself more than once to many failures.

But one day, he somehow awakens right before he's brought back to life at the crossroads between worlds. He meets Death. He decides then and there that the only way to truly die is to obtain a kiss from Death. But while he courts Death and shows him/her/them how to live-- he finds himself falling for him/her/them.

(Can be any characters or pairings? Go wild with funny antics, angsty, Happy Ending or Bittersweet… I love everything you write <3)

Moo loaded a shotgun and pointed it right at my chest.

BETWEEN SPACES

Ominis Gaunt x Male!OC (very nonspecific)

Word Count: 1500ish

This is just incredibly painful angst with very small comfort, PLEASE ENJOY!

Ominis Gaunt met him, in the shadow and the night.

Long after life should have left him - after his bones ought to have been dust, and the world had turned without him. Long after his friends had passed into nothing, and on, and on: onward, until the world had changed irreparably.

Anne had gone first. Lovable, gentle Anne. Anne, who had survived so much: who had courted death and run from him. Anne had gone in quiet slip - somewhere in the middle of her life. Ominis had grieved her, so sudden and quick - and asked death to take him, too.

Death had not.

And so Ominis Gaunt had sought. Bony hands, pale fingers; undressing women with the talents of a gentleman. The efforts of a man of his station: the Prince of Slytherin, and the heir to all of its curses and wants. He had fallen into desperation, almost: feverish, to find meaning and purpose and something to explain it all.

Once, a handful of years ago - a boy had whispered something in his ear.

“Don’t you grow tired of all of this?”

 They had been sixteen, then, and he had not known kisses or love. He had known of stories, and music, and had liked to imagine them as things that were real, and proper, and meaningful as anything.

He could fall in love. He could.

His face had been a mysterious thing - only felt a handful of times, and only in the throes of the moment. He had been alive, in the creases of those cheekbones. When the pad of his thumb had run over those lips.

And then - that boy had vanished, too. And he had forgotten entirely that life could be vast, and music could be good. Stories could have meanings, and not simply morals.

But that was long ago. And the days turned to months, and the months into years.

Sebastian was next. His brother, and his life. War. Muggles have always liked war, and Sebastian had always been fit to raise one. When he received the letter, and his wand traced the paper of it: he had not cried. Not properly.

He had drank, and drank, and tried to forget. He had lain in the grass and tried to picture the colours of the sky. He had wondered what he should feel - whether someone who had lived half as long would feel twice as much. Whether the curse that had been laid at his feet meant, in the end: he would slowly feel himself seeping through the cracks of the pavement, worn away by the bombs dropped from afar.

The Great War came, and ended. Another. Another.

He had fucked his way through it. Women - always women. Always the curves of them against him: and never too much of anything else. Anything else would hurt, too much, too quickly: too many things lost along the way. And he had kissed, and fucked, and touched, and lit matches under himself that burned out. The fifties had come, and he had looked much the same. Not that he had known that, of course - but he had kept himself well, and groomed.

Smoked? He had smoked most in the sixties. He had wondered if it was yellowing his teeth, or making him smell acrid - but he stopped caring by the seventies, and he yearned for the old smoking bars. The comfort of the continual rise of it. The coughs, and the jackets. Christ, but he missed the dinner jackets.

The time passed in a haze. Everyone was gone, by then, and he was frozen. A piece of time, long antiquated. Most of his days spent in vague states of removal from reality. He missed Anne for most of it, and Sebastian for half of it (though that half, he thinks, was an agonising half). He found he missed the gargoyles in the classes, and Professor Binns’ innocuous droning. He missed everything.

Wizarding War. He had a brief, painful realisation of the truth of it. His own flesh and blood. That inclination would have inspired something in him, if his life hadn’t been so bloody long.

But then it was done. And then the eighties. And then the nineties, and he only briefly measured that a boy came to stop what would try to pass.

The millennium came over the Thames, and Ominis Gaunt would sit and listen to the cars, and the water, and the traffic as it moved over Tower Bridge. His heart would barely oscillate - he would go home, some nights, and lay on his bed.

Once, a handful of years ago - a boy had whispered something in his ear. He forgot. He forgets the words.

It is a night in November, and the first frost is skating over London.

He has always preferred the cold. Ominis thinks, like him: it touches everything, and then melts away. Leaves it no better nor worse for the privilege. Entirely the same as it has always been, and that is quite alright. His felt coat wrapped tight, and he walks to the bridge. Breath clouding in the air.

His wand is barely needed, now. But he holds it in his sleeve, as he has for a hundred years. A presence, on the bridge: a man. Tall, and imposing. The rest left to the air and the sky.

“How many years has it been?”

The man asks him, and the voice is strange. The elocution is beautiful; sharp, and from another time entirely. The moment Ominis hears it, something within him balks. Hairs stand on end. The planet, in its wisdom, feels as though it slows.

“I’m sorry–?”

He has missed feeling confused. The world has become full of certainties.

Snow falls, soft and cool. Kisses on skin. The touch of cold fingers.

“You have run for so long. Don’t you grow tired of all of this?”

Oh.

Tired. Dear God, but he is tired.

He used to sleep in the Transfiguration Courtyard. His head on a thigh, and his heart in his throat. Someone was there; someone warm, and loving. Someone who kissed him, quietly. A boy who loved him before he could love himself - and perhaps long after he stopped.

A step forward. Another. A third, and he reaches out with his hand.

A robe meets his fingers, and he tugs on it. Soft, smooth; draped. He has not aged much since he was sixteen, and neither has Ominis Gaunt. Somewhere, in the madness - a curse had fallen on him, and all things had stopped.

Everything has its time.

“Where did you go? I–”

Ominis’ voice cracks. Something in him wrenches. His eyes burn, and it is the first time in so long that it feels like lead.

“--it wasn’t a mercy. It wasn’t. I would’ve gone with you years ago. I loved you–I’ve loved you all my life.”

Through loving Anne, and Sebastian, and Noctua. And the wars, and the moments between them: there has been blood, and sex, and pain, and knowledge, and a sadness that goes on and on.

Death is cold. Death is so terribly cold.

He would have loved Death all his life, if he could have.

He has always loved the cold.

Death reaches out to him, and the hands are not so cold as he remembers. Not really. They feel like Anne, in her soft whispers at the end. Like Sebastian: the steadfast drive of him. The way he would never depart from what he needed. Death came for them both, and loved them just as much.

“I’ve loved you all these years,” Death tells him, with a gentle movement of his voice. The snow is softer, then, and Death reaches out with both hands.

Ominis does not take them.

Instead, he leans forward. His own fingers - cold and dry as they are, and full of youth - reach up, and they touch the boy’s face.

Hard lines, and soft skin. He isn’t cold; he is warm, and kind, and good. Death did not snatch - Death carried. Death held, and Death let everything be where it ought. In its time, in its way: everything to its nature.

To gentleness; Death brought kindness. To fight; Death brought war.

But to love–

A swallow. Ominis’ glassy eyes move about, unseeing, and he traces his thumb over the pad of a lip. Over the curve of the flesh, there, and he wishes for a taste of it. It is all he has wished for. He cannot think of anything else he has wanted more.

The snow falls on the Thames, like smattered, pressed kisses in the dark.

“Kiss me,” Ominis pleads. He pleads, and remembers.

And Death does not hesitate for a moment. Death does not judge him the years; nor spend another second without him. Death does not think on promises that were not made, nor things lost.

Death has waited so long,

And Death has loved him so much.

I'm not crying, fuck you, you're crying.

(Much love, Totomoo! Thank you so much for your support <3)

Feel free to send requests!

[callmehopeless]

Only just realised I write most of my works in the (deeply more unpopular) present tense.

Huh.

I honestly have so rarely analysed this that I didn't notice. Most fictional works are in past tense, but I always just sort of feel that using present tense makes it sound more like I'm currently destroying someone's psyche, and not like I did it a while ago.

Gourd blown. I simply tappy-tapped what felt like it made sense. Now, I'm evaluating all of that with new eyes.

[callmehopeless]

hi can you do touch starved amit smut where mc is playfully teasing and trying to get a rise outta him but he’s struggling to restrain himself (aka trying his best to keep up the model student persona BUT IT’S IMPOSSIBLE TO WHEN MC IS HOLDING HIS HAND)

This is my first ever attempt at Amit in any context, and we're going fluffy with a dash of fluster. I hope you like it (or at least it doesn't completely suck)

"You're rather good at this, you know."

She is. Amit thinks he'd tell her she was even if she wasn't - he thinks he'd tell her a lie and hope it encourages something in her for the love of the thing. But she really does have the knack for it; she licks her lips and angles the telescope, and there's something breathless that hitches in his chest.

"Am I? I feel like I'm botching it," she scowls, one eye closed. She seems to squint down the lens like it's mocking her, a bit; she angles it to the side, twisting the focus in a way that makes Amit's fingers twitch to help her, just so.

"You just need to twist it a bit," he licks his lips; a shiver running down his spine. He's compelled to touch her hand - something inside him is pulled towards it intrinsically. Something wonderful and brilliant and...strange, somehow.

A complex sort of gravity.

So when she reaches for his instead; oh. Oh.

That's...

"Help me out?" she murmurs with a gentle smile, her fingers locking to pull his towards the telescope. Amit feels like he's being guided - dragged - and his heart pulses at speeds unknown. A force too bright to be controlled.

"Oh--oh! Of course. Calibration is...it's an art, after all."

She's careful when she guides his hand to the eyepiece; angles it just so. Her fingers are softer than he imagined. Not that he's imagined them, of course.

He isn't some--

He just--

Oh dear.

She very well might kill him.

(He isn't sure he minds.)

[callmehopeless]

Thank you everyone for the many messages about my take on a/b/o. I'd like to inform you all that the committee has gathered and we have decided my crimes cannot go unpunished

I will be executed at dawn

RIP to the horrors,

Hoppo x