#fen's wips

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THE SALTWATER THING

mermaid x reader

(warning, the mermaid is a total baddie)

"Some entries are unfinished, abandoned mid-sentence."

The boat leaves you at the shoreline with barely a word. The crew doesn’t want to stay here—no one ever does. You stand knee-deep in the surf, your research pack strapped tight against your back, the air thick with salt and a sweetness that feels… wrong. The island breathes around you, heavy with life.

You tell yourself it’s beautiful—lush jungle, flowers you’ve never catalogued, iridescent leaves flickering with colors no chlorophyll should ever hold. But you know it isn’t beauty. It’s distortion. Something in this place is bent, and everything else bends with it.

You step forward, feet sinking into the black sand. The tide froths pink where it breaks, staining the shore like diluted blood. Out at sea, you could have sworn something watched you—eyes glinting just beneath the surface—but when you blinked, it was gone.

Your hands linger on the strap of your satchel, on the journal inside. His journal. The last thing your husband left behind before he disappeared. His notes were scattered, frantic—drawings of bones that didn’t belong to any creature you’ve studied, half-written lines about “the song,” as if the word itself were dangerous to write in full.

The jungle looms ahead, vines swaying though no wind moves. You swallow, your throat dry despite the humidity. Somewhere inside that green shadow is your husband. The man who left you nothing but cryptic sketches and silence.

And yet, as you take your first step into the island’s heart, a shiver of anticipation brushes your spine—like something has been waiting for you.

____

You pitch your tent just beyond the tree line, where the jungle’s roots crawl into the sand like pale fingers. The air is alive with sounds—clicking insects, the strange thrum of unseen wings, a low hum that seems to vibrate through the earth itself. For a moment you wonder if the island is whispering, if you should be listening.

The camp feels too big without him. His side of the tent is empty, his tools absent, though his presence lingers in the most frustrating ways: the notes he left behind, smudged with seawater and sweat. You unfold his journal in the dim light of your lantern, and the pages crackle as though they resent being touched.

The sketches look hurried, desperate. A boar with tusks grown into spirals. A bird with a second beak sprouting where its throat should be. And in the margins, again and again, the same word: song.

Some entries are unfinished, abandoned mid-sentence.

You run your finger over the ink, the curve of each half-written thought. His words feel intimate, private, as though you’ve stumbled into a love letter never meant for you.

Outside, the jungle shifts. Something brushes against the canvas wall, slow and deliberate, before slipping away. You hold your breath. Then, faint and fragile, a sound rises beneath the chorus of the island: a voice, not quite human, carrying on the wind like a lullaby.

It pulls at something inside you—a chord strung tight in your chest. Your husband’s voice once had that power. But this is different. This is sharper, older, dangerously sweet.

You close the journal, but the sound doesn’t stop. It follows you into sleep, curling through your dreams.

____

Morning comes heavy, the air pressed close to your skin like a fever. You push deeper into the jungle, following the narrow impressions of boot prints—his prints, you hope—half-swallowed by moss. The canopy above bends the light into emerald shadows, every leaf too large, every vine too eager to coil.

The ground stinks of rot, sweet and metallic, and when you kneel you find bones tangled in the undergrowth. They look like pig bones at first, but the skull is wrong—elongated, tusks spiraling outward like corkscrews, eye sockets wider than they should be. Your stomach knots.

A branch cracks behind you.

You barely have time to turn before the creature lunges from the brush: a boar, but not. Its hide is stretched too tight, bristling with jagged quills where hair should be. The tusks shine wetly, twisted and split at the tips like prongs of a fork. Its eyes—milk-white, glowing faintly—fix on you as though you are already dead.

You stumble back, heart lurching, but the beast barrels forward. The ground shudders beneath its weight. You swing your pack, catching it across the snout; it squeals, high-pitched and furious, spittle spraying. You dash sideways, branches slashing your arms, breath tearing ragged from your lungs.

It charges again. Too fast.

You throw yourself behind the trunk of a massive tree, and the boar collides with it, tusks gouging deep into the bark. The impact dazes it just long enough for you to scramble up a slope of roots and lichen, blood pounding in your ears.

From somewhere beyond the trees, a melody rises—soft, lilting, almost tender. It threads into the panic, slowing your breathing even as the beast rips free and turns toward you again. For a moment, you wonder if the song is meant for you… or for the monster.

The boar freezes. Its ears twitch. Then, with a shuddering snort, it crashes back into the jungle, disappearing into shadow.

Silence drips in its wake, broken only by that voice. Sweet, alluring, impossibly sad.

And for the first time, you realize your husband might not be the only one the island has claimed.

____

The jungle presses too close, so you push back toward the ocean, stumbling through the trees until the sand opens beneath your boots. The tide is rolling in slow and heavy, carrying with it the faint shimmer of phosphorescence. Every wave seems to breathe, a living thing inhaling, exhaling.

And there it is again—the song.

It is not in your head. It drifts over the water like a ribbon of silver, haunting and tender. It weaves around your ribs until you forget the bruises on your body, the sting of scratches along your arms. It is the kind of sound that could make a person kneel in the surf and weep without knowing why.

You follow it down the shoreline, every step heavier, slower, as though the sand wants to hold you. The rocks ahead glisten, black and jagged, slick with salt. And there—half in shadow, half in light—she waits.

At first, you think she is only a woman bathing at dusk, her back bare, hair spilling in wet sheets over her shoulders. But then she turns.

Her beauty is like a knife. Skin that gleams with the sheen of pearl, eyes too large and too luminous, mouth curved in a smile both tender and cruel. Where her thighs meet the tide, you glimpse something else—scales, sleek and opalescent, shifting as though they too are listening.

The siren sings, and the air itself seems to lean toward her.

Your heart wrenches. For a single breath, you almost forget why you came here, who you are. The thought of your husband feels… distant, like a dream fading in morning light. You want only to step closer, to understand the terrible softness in her eyes.

But instinct drags your heels into the sand. You hold yourself still, trembling.

The siren tilts her head, studying you the way a predator studies prey, and her song lowers into a hush, almost a whisper. Your name seems to move in it, curled in the melody like a secret.

When you blink, she is closer, water rippling around her waist, hair drifting like seaweed. The scent of salt and sweetness fills your mouth, and you realize—she does not want to be admired. She wants you nearer.

She beckons you with a hand that gleams like wet ivory, the song still spilling from her lips in trembling ribbons. Every note presses against your chest, urging your body forward even as your mind claws backward.

The rocks are slick beneath your boots. You climb anyway, as though it would be a sin not to. When you pause, she laughs—soft, intimate, a sound meant for your ears alone.

“You came,” she says. Her voice is both a melody and a current, carrying you closer. “I knew you would.”

Her eyes catch the last of the sun, violet shadows pooling in the blue. For a terrible moment, you see yourself reflected in them—not the bruised, desperate biologist you are, but someone softer, someone beautiful enough to belong here, with her.

The tide laps higher, whispering against your calves. She leans forward, her face inches from yours, hair smelling of brine and something sweetly rotten. The song fades into words, hushed and trembling:

“You needn’t search for him. I will give you everything. The sea will give you everything.”

Her lips part as if to kiss you, but her teeth are faintly visible now—sharper than they should be. Something ancient glimmers in the line of her jaw, the edges of her scales. A predator dressed in longing.

You hold still. Your pulse hammers, your skin burns with the nearness of her. For a moment you almost want to let her—because she is beautiful, because she is here, because she fills the space your husband left.

But the part of you that is steel, the part that has dragged itself across the island despite blood and bruises, refuses.

You step back, breaking the spell like shattering glass. “I’m not what you want.”

Her expression flickers, first confusion, then rage disguised as sorrow. She reaches for you again, but this time her fingers curl like claws before she withdraws.

The siren slips into the waves without another sound, vanishing beneath the dark surface. But you hear her voice still—far below, echoing through the water like a promise.

She isn’t finished with you.

____

That night, the jungle feels alive in a way you can’t ignore. Every leaf breathes, every shadow leans toward you. You tell yourself it’s only your exhaustion—until you hear her.

The siren’s voice drifts between the trees, softer now, like a lullaby sung through water. It doesn’t command you to come, not yet. It lingers at the edge of your hearing, just enough to remind you she is near. Watching. Waiting.

When you return to your tent, something lies on the threshold: a gift. A seashell, unlike any you’ve seen, its spiral translucent, glowing faintly as though lit from within. It smells faintly of her—salt, and sweetness, and something you cannot name.

You don’t touch it. Not at first. But later, lying awake with the lantern dark, you reach for it anyway. Its edges are sharp enough to cut.

Sleep takes you unevenly. In your dreams, she kneels at your bedside, dripping seawater into the sand, her hair clinging to her face. She hums low and mournful, pressing her cheek against your chest as though she could listen to your heart forever. You do not move. You do not breathe.

When you wake, your shirt is damp.

The siren’s song follows you through the daylight, threading through bird calls, through the wind that sighs over the canopy. Once, when you stop to drink from a stream, her reflection appears beside yours in the water—eyes luminous, lips parted as though about to kiss you. The surface ripples, and she is gone.

You know now that rejecting her has not freed you. It has bound you tighter.

Somewhere on this island, your husband waits—or his bones do. And yet your thoughts drift, unbidden, not to him but to the sea. To the curve of her mouth when she smiled at you. To the promise that if you surrendered, you would never be alone again.

You shake yourself, force your legs to keep moving inland. But as you step beneath the shadowed canopy, you hear it again:

Her song.

Not calling. Not demanding.

Just whispering your name, with the devotion of a lover.

____

The jungle closes in the deeper you go. Roots coil above the soil like veins, branches twist into shapes that almost resemble hands. Every sound feels too near: the wet snap of something tearing flesh, the shriek of birds with throats that sound more human than animal.

You press on, clutching the journal against your chest, following what might be your husband’s trail—scuffs in the dirt, a torn scrap of fabric clinging to a thorn. Each sign pulls you further inland, but so does the song. Always at the edge of hearing, weaving through the horror like a silver thread.

The stench finds you first—coppery, raw. Then you see it.

A carcass sprawled across the clearing, its ribcage cracked open like a door. The thing that killed it is still there: a reptile of some kind, skin lacquered in scales that gleam oily blue, mouth split wider than it should be. Rows of teeth saw back and forth as it feeds.

It lifts its head when it hears you. The eyes are wrong—too many, and too bright.

You freeze. The song swells.

The creature lunges. You run.

Branches whip your arms, roots tear at your ankles. Its breath is hot behind you, each snap of its jaws loud enough to shake the air. You trip, fall hard, palms scraping open, and roll just as it strikes—the teeth sink into the earth inches from your ribs.

You scream, hurling a rock. Useless. The beast surges again.

And then—her voice rises. Louder now, sharp and thrumming, as if she sings only for you. The monster halts, confused, head twisting toward the sound that laces through the trees.

Your chest heaves, your lungs burn, but you feel it: her protection. Her possession. The song is not just meant to lure—it shields you, binds you, claims you.

The reptile snarls, but it does not advance. Instead, with a violent twitch, it turns and slithers back into the undergrowth, vanishing in a ripple of leaves.

The silence that follows is unbearable. You are shaking, not from the beast but from her. From the way you wanted to hear her voice, needed it, depended on it.

You stagger to your feet, clutching your chest. Somewhere ahead, your husband may still live. But it is the siren who keeps you alive.

____

The jungle finally gives way to the shore again, and you collapse into the sand, your body trembling from exhaustion and adrenaline. The salt air should clear your head, but it doesn’t. It carries her instead.

The song rises with the tide, slow and deliberate, curling around your body like a lover’s touch. Every note presses into you, into the marrow of your bones, as though she is beneath your skin now.

You clutch the journal, knuckles white, whispering your husband’s name aloud just to hear it. To remind yourself.

____

Thanks for reading ^^

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“MOUTHS BENEATH THE FLOORBOARDS”

→ monster x human reader

→ hot ghost boy

“You tell yourself you’re only going for a walk"

The road to your aunt’s farmhouse narrows the further you drive, until the trees knit overhead in a suffocating arch. By the time the mailbox appears — crooked, rust-flecked — you’ve been alone with the hum of the engine and your thoughts for too long. The house squats at the end of the gravel drive, its paint flaking like dried skin.

Your aunt greets you with the same brittle politeness she used at your parents’ funeral. She takes your bag, says she’s “made up the old sewing room,” and leaves you to find it yourself.

The room smells faintly of mothballs and something damp, like soil after rain. You unpack in silence, the wind hissing through warped window frames. At dinner, she doesn’t ask about the trip. She doesn’t ask much of anything.

That night, the farmhouse groans around you. Pipes clank in the walls; somewhere, a shutter bangs lazily. You pull the covers higher, trying to sink into the warmth, but then —

A sound rises through the floorboards.

It’s not the wind. Not the settling of an old house. It’s lower. Closer.

A voice.

Muffled, distorted, as though it’s speaking through a mouthful of earth. You freeze, breath caught in your throat, straining to hear the words. It’s not calling your name, exactly — but it’s meant for you. You feel it, bone-deep.

Your aunt’s footsteps creak in the hallway, slow and deliberate. The voice goes silent.

You lie awake until morning, trying not to think about the basement door you passed on your way in. The one with the heavy padlock.

____

The next morning, your aunt is already in the kitchen, back to you, slicing something on the counter. She doesn’t look up when you come in. The air smells faintly metallic — not like breakfast.

You glance at the basement door. The padlock is still there, but now you notice the faint drag marks on the floor, like something heavy was pulled across it recently.

Outside, the air is sharp and wet from last night’s rain. You wander the property, trying to get your bearings. The fields roll out into tangled woods, the grass high enough to brush your legs.

That’s when you see it.

A deer, standing perfectly still at the tree line. Its coat isn’t white so much as pale, almost translucent, like frost on glass. Its eyes don’t catch the light the way they should — they absorb it.

You take a step toward it. The deer tilts its head, and for a moment you swear you see a shape moving in the reflection of its eyes. Not your own.

Then it turns, gliding noiselessly into the woods. No crunch of leaves. No snap of twigs. Just gone.

That night, you lie in bed, listening. The voice doesn’t come immediately. You think maybe you imagined it.

But then, from under the floor — a whisper, soft as the rustle of dry grass:

Follow the deer.

____

You tell yourself you’re only going for a walk. That you’re not listening to the whisper in your head.

But when you see the deer again, pale as bone against the dark pines, your feet move before you can think. It’s watching you from the same place it was yesterday — the tree line — except now it waits, as if it knew you’d come.

It steps into the woods without a sound, and you follow.

The trees swallow you whole. The air feels heavier here, thicker, as if the forest has been holding its breath for centuries. The deer stays just ahead, gliding between the trunks, never hurrying, never looking back.

Your shoes are damp, your legs scratched by brambles, but you can’t stop. It feels wrong to stop.

Somewhere behind you, the world changes. The distant hum of the farmhouse generator fades; the breeze dies. The silence is so complete it rings in your ears.

You realize you don’t know how far you’ve come. The deer is gone.

A snap of twigs to your left — but when you turn, it’s only shadows. To your right, something moves between the trees, tall and thin, almost human in shape. It slips out of sight when you blink.

Panic prickles at your skin. You turn and run, shoving through branches, not caring which way is home.

By the time you stagger into the backyard, the sun is nearly down. Your aunt is waiting on the porch, her face pale and tight.

“You don’t go into those woods,” she says, voice flat. “Ever.”

She marches you inside and locks you in your room. You sit on the bed in the dim light, your heartbeat still a snare drum in your ears.

And then — from beneath the floorboards — the voice again.

You almost found me.

____

The voice doesn’t stop after that night.

It’s patient, curling through the floorboards when your aunt is asleep, coaxing you with words that are never quite commands but always feel like them.

I’m so close.

You’re so lonely.

Come see me.

On the third night, you give in.

The farmhouse is quiet, the only sound the rhythmic tick of the hall clock. You slip from your bed, careful not to wake the old boards under your feet. The basement door at the end of the hall looks darker than the rest of the house, like it doesn’t belong.

The padlock is gone.

You descend the stairs, the air growing colder with each creak. The scent of damp earth rises to meet you, thick enough to taste. At the bottom, a single bare bulb swings overhead, its light catching on dust motes that drift like ash.

He’s there.

A boy, no older than you, leaning against the far wall. His skin is pale in a way that isn’t quite natural — like milk left out too long — and his hair hangs in damp, dark strands across his forehead. His eyes find yours instantly, and it feels like they’ve been looking for you longer than you’ve been alive.

“You finally came,” he says, smiling as though it’s a secret just between you.

Your breath catches. “Who are you?”

“I could ask you the same.” His voice is exactly the one from the floorboards — warm, intimate, like it’s curling around your ear from the inside.

The bulb sways again, and for a split second you see the truth in the shifting shadows: his feet don’t touch the ground.

But he steps closer anyway. Close enough that you can smell the cold on him.

“I’ve been alone here for a long time,” he murmurs. “I think you’re the only one who can understand me.”

You should run. You don’t.

____

You meet him again the next night. This time, you don’t wait for the whisper. You slip into the basement on your own, heart thudding, breath held.

He’s already there, sitting cross-legged on the cracked concrete, like he’s been expecting you. He smiles — slow, knowing — and pats the space beside him.

You sit. The cold of the floor seeps through your clothes, but when your knee brushes his, it’s colder still.

“You’ve seen it,” he says, not a question.

“The deer,” you answer. “It’s not normal.”

He laughs — sharp, but not unkind. “It’s not a deer.”

He tells you about the night he died: following the pale creature into the woods, thinking it was beautiful, thinking it was leading him somewhere important. How the air grew thick, how the shadows bent, how he heard someone — something — speaking in a voice he almost recognized.

“And then?” you ask.

“And then I woke up here,” he says, gaze dropping to his pale hands. “In the dark. Waiting.”

You want to ask what it wanted from him, but you’re not sure you want the answer.

The air between you feels charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. He shifts closer, and when his shoulder brushes yours, your skin tingles. It should be wrong — he’s dead, he’s not supposed to be warm at all — but somehow his cold feels like heat in reverse.

“You shouldn’t trust me,” he says softly. His eyes catch the swinging bulb light, and for an instant, you think you see antlers shadowing the wall behind him.

“Why?”

His smile widens, almost hungry. “Because I’m starting to remember what it felt like to be alive.”

____

You don’t remember falling asleep, but when you wake, the air in your room is colder than ice. He’s sitting at the end of your bed, pale hands folded in his lap, watching you with an intensity that feels like pressure on your chest.

“You left me,” he says.

Your throat goes dry. “What?”

His smile is brittle this time, sharp around the edges. “That night in the woods. You were there. You saw the deer first. If you hadn’t looked at it, I wouldn’t have followed. If you had warned me—”

“I didn’t even know you,” you protest. “I didn’t even live here then.”

He tilts his head. “Don’t you see? Time doesn’t work here the way it should. You’re tangled up in this, same as me.”

You shake your head, but the words crawl under your skin, burrow deep. He moves closer, until he’s kneeling beside you, close enough that you can see the faint blue veins beneath the surface of his skin.

“I think,” he whispers, brushing his icy fingers just shy of your wrist, “you wanted me here. You wanted someone waiting under the floor. Didn’t you?”

The room feels smaller, shrinking around you, the silence too loud.

“Stop,” you breathe, but it doesn’t sound like you mean it.

He leans in, lips almost brushing your ear. “I could forgive you, you know. If you let me.”

The words sink into you like a hook, sharp and sweet at the same time. You know he’s wrong. You know this isn’t your fault.

So why does it feel like it is?

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tips from Lara

(yes I know I'm bad at art)

source

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Wolverine Frogs characters as vines (I had too much fun making this)

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master list ^^

The Thicket Bride

Plot:

Every generation, the forest takes one villager to keep the beast inside sated. This year, it chooses her—and she finds herself torn between fear and fascination as the creature who emerges from the brambles treats her like a queen… and a feast.

Mouths Beneath the Floorboards

Plot:

She moves into her dead aunt’s creaky farmhouse and discovers the floorboards whisper in the night—until something beneath them opens wide and invites. What crawls out is not entirely corporeal… but it hungers in ways she didn't know she craved.

The Saltwater Thing

Plot:

A marine biologist studying a dying coastal reef encounters a humanoid creature who drags her into underwater grottos filled with bioluminescence, decay—and bliss. It speaks no words, but it knows exactly where to touch.

Rot of Eden

Plot:

A reclusive gardener wakes a long-buried god of decay in her overgrown orchard. Flowers bloom in her footprints. Fungus grows between her legs. The god’s body is made of bark and moss and ruin, and his love is fertile and foul.

We Devour in the Dark

Plot:

When the town’s power goes out, she starts seeing shadow figures watching her from the edges of her room. One night, one climbs into bed. She doesn't scream. Not once. She's always wanted to be taken apart, slowly, worshipfully, by something with too many hands.

Hunger

Plot:

Trapped in a snowstorm, a hiker finds shelter in an abandoned cabin. She’s not alone. The thing that shares her fire is all antlers and ice—and it only stays warm by feeding. But this time, it wants more than meat.

Wet Velvet

Plot:

A traveling performer gets lost after a show and ends up in a velvet-curtained burlesque club that doesn’t exist on any map. The dancers are inhumanly beautiful, and backstage, something watches her through the mirrors. It follows her home. She lets it.

Thirteen Teeth

Plot:

An archaeologist unearths an ancient idol that bites his daughter. That night, something with too many teeth shows up to claim her as its chosen one. Every time she tries to resist, it gives her more of what she shouldn’t want—and she aches for the next bite.

Nothing Human Was Ever This Gentle

Plot:

After surviving an assault, a woman isolates herself—until a being from the woods begins to leave her gifts. One night, she invites it in. It's horned, massive, half-bone—and it never takes without asking. It’s the first time she feels safe enough to say yes.

His Hollow Crown [coming soon]

Plot:

When she’s sacrificed to the demon king beneath the catacombs, she expects pain. Instead, he offers her his crown—and his bed. But wearing it comes with a price: she becomes part of him, and his hunger is infinite.

[rennm]

Exciting news everyone! For those of you who like free books, you can be an ARC reader for Wolverine Frogs.

Ethan is a cop. And on a night like any other, he befriends Lara, a seemingly normal girl—except for the fact that she has no memories of her childhood, suffers horrifying hallucinations, and is desperately searching for her missing sister, Polly. Fueled by the hope of Polly’s potential whereabouts, Lara and Ethan embark on a perilous journey into the vast emptiness of a ravaged Australia.

If you're interested in becoming an ARC reader, just comment on this post or shoot me a message!

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so. I did it. I finished writing a novel. I wrote and completed a whole ass book.

Now, I know my work is far from done. I now have to go through all the drama of trying to get it published (big oof major l). But it's been a wild ride. I've wanted to light my manuscript and whole laptop on fire more times than I'd care to admit. But it's done. I don't think I've ever felt so proud of myself in my entire life. I will be proud of myself no matter what happens.

And the rest of you should be proud of yourselves, too.

It doesn't matter whether you write fanfics or original stories. Whether you want to be self published or be traditionally published. Whether you want to be published at all, or to just leave it as a personal project that bought you joy or helped you through a tough time. Whether you finish it or abandon it half way through because it's not the right project and it's not the right time.

You should all be proud, too.

Because you're writers. We're writers.

Okay. Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk.