“Her fingertips were still burning, but she had never felt so cold in her life.”
—An OC drabble by Undine
Sometimes I just want to write yearning.
This is a little drabble I wrote for For Queen and Country — an urban fantasy story. Specifically, this is about Callisto, an Unseelie Fae who is in love with Casimir, her dhampire roommate. This is a moment before they become star-crossed lovers, when it’s apparent that Casimir has no intention of reciprocating her advances (because he has a time limit on his life).
I love these two and their angsty romance so much. I’ve been obsessed with it ever since it stumbled into my lap, and I’m obsessed with it still.
If you’d like to learn more about this, please check out #callisto rowle and #fqac. If you would like to read more of my writing, please head over to my writing masterlist or check out my tag #undine writes stuff.
If you would like to be on my general tag list for notifications on all of my writing, please let me know or check out this post.
I also have a FQAC-specific tag list, so please let me know if you’d like to be put on that as well!
Drabble below the cut: 524 words.
There was something soft about him.
It was hidden underneath a layer of stubble, a square jaw, and the light purple haze of a bruise beginning to blossom under his cheekbone, but it was there. It wasn’t quite sharp edges dulled down to a rounded corner, but the opposite; something soft, crystallized.
Still, she was certain that there was a softness to Casimir.
Callisto could see it in the way his expression flickered and wavered for a fleeting moment before settling into his default, stoic look. She could feel it in how gentle his grip was when he took her hand to prevent her from stumbling. She could see it now in the soft curve of his lips, slightly chapped and parted in sleep.
Slowly, taking care not to disturb the quiet air, Callisto knelt down in front of him and rested her elbows against the couch.
He looked younger when he slept.
No less burdened really, even in sleep he carried the stress in his jaw and brows. Just younger.
“What are you doing, sleeping here?” Her voice was barely above a whisper — too soft for a human to pick up. “You weren’t waiting for me, were you?”
There was no answer. That was okay, it wasn’t a question.
He wasn’t waiting for her. At this point, surely he was used to Callisto disappearing for several days at a time, before coming back to their shared flat late into the witching hour. Would it make a difference if he had been?
That was a question she wasn’t willing to answer.
A hand abandoned its position of cupping her chin, and reached out to him almost on its own volition. Her hand hovered between them uncertainly as she stared at it — stared at him. When she gave into the pull, time stretched and stopped. An eternity came and went, and Callisto swept a stray lock of hair out of his face.
When she grazed his forehead, her fingertips burned.
She snatched her hand back with enough force to send some papers on the coffee table behind her drifting. Still as a statue, she held her breath even as her heart pounded so loudly that she was afraid that he’d hear it.
Casimir didn’t wake.
The peacefulness of the moment was shattered and gone. Unable to stay there for another moment without losing her sanity, Callisto stood up so frantically that she lifted herself up off of her feet, and into the air. The handful of moments it took for her to slowly lower a blanket over his shoulders was maddening, dizzying, and torturously slow.
Her wings carried her over the couch and straight into the room as she fled. Callisto wasn’t sure that she would’ve survived the extra seconds it would’ve taken her to walk around.
She sank to the floor when the door shut behind her, back in the safety of her own room. Moonlight spilled over everything, illuminating her room in a ghostly light. For the second time that night, she stared at her hand.
Her fingertips were still burning, but she had never felt so cold in her life.
YOUR OC’S BACKSTORY
WEEK I: FAMILY
@yourocsbackstory
Some romances would benefit from ending when the credits roll after the final kiss. The love story between Casimir's parents is one instance in which this is true. Isolated and lonely after her family's move to England, a teenage witch met a century-old vampire who was poorly adjusted to modern life. Courtship followed. It was far from the healthiest premise to a relationship (Lord knows that everyone around them disapproved) but they were stubbornly committed to each other and remain so thirty years down the line.
But for all they may have been deeply, passionately in love, their following desperation to start a family came with a price – poisoned fruit in their apple-pie life. That would be Casimir, the unfortunate progeny of life and death. He was planned in full knowledge of the fate that would befall him: thirty years, with no hope of a matching happy ending.
It makes it difficult to see his mother and father in a positive light on his darkest nights.
“Casimir? God, how am I supposed to see the screen? Cas, love, can you hear me?”
“Yes, Mum. I can see you as well – it’s a video chat,” Casimir replied dryly, watching the screen as a sudden rush of movement distorted the picture of sun and sand and a shaded parasol, settling on his mother’s smiling face instead of her ear. “What’s up?”
“Your father and I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.” She laughed at what must have been visible confusion on his face. “I know, I know, we’re a week early and then some, but here’s the better news: we’re coming home to tell you that in person.”
“Mum–”
“Is there anything you want in particular for it? The big 3-0. It’s no small thing. A holiday? Ooh, what about a car?”
“My bike is fine,” Casimir hit back on instinct. The number of complaints he’d had about ‘death on two wheels’ and the ‘one-way ticket to organ donation’ that was his bike prepared him well for instantly shutting them down. Not that the doctors would ever want to use his organs. “And I can’t take time off work. Look, you don’t need to get me anything. You don’t even need to come back for it – stay in Ibiza. Enjoy your holiday.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s your big 3-0,” she repeated. “Your thirtieth. We don’t want to miss it. Besides, we only planned to be gone a few months. I bet the house is getting lonely.”
To swiftly avoid repeating a discussion of why he chose his own dingy, top-floor flat in Faraday Heights as opposed to living it up in his parents’ stately townhouse, Casimir let his head fall back against the back of the couch, and when he looked up again, asked, “Where’s dad? What does he think about you coming home?”
“He’s not one for the hot weather, and you know how he doesn’t like phone calls. It’s letters only, if it can’t be face-to-face.”
“We did tell him about Skype, right?”
“In one ear and out the other,” she confirmed. “Anyway, he said, ‘Call, and let him know we’re coming back. And give him my love.’“
“It’s not that important.”
“It’s a milestone. I think that he thinks that it’s his duty.” A pause. “It’s mine too.”
They brought you into this world. That vicious voice long-since drowned in drink and buried in self-help books reared its head again. And it’s their duty to see you out of it.
It wasn’t like he would drop dead on the day. Odds were good that he’d see his thirty-first and maybe even his thirty-second before that happened. So they intended to stay in Britain for a few years. To put their un-life on hold. For him.
“Fine. Whatever.” It was hard not to sound like a teenager again. “I’m not planning on doing much for it anyway, ‘cos it’s a weekday – I’ve got work and all. We could go to dinner?”
“I’ll make reservations,” his mother said, victorious. “Are you sure you don’t want a new car?”
I’m usually not a huge fan of moodboards, but considering that it’s finally starting to feel like fall and Laurel’s aesthetic has a heavy fall theme... I felt compelled to make this!
If people want to see more moodboards and other aesthetics from me, please let me know! I’ll post more if you guys like them — I’ve mostly have just been keeping them to myself so far.
I also have been in a huge slump and haven’t written anything in forever, but I really wanted to accompany this graphic with a drabble. It’s rough around the edges and certainly not my best work since I’m still a bit rusty, but I’m really excited that it got written fairly painlessly! Sorry it’s been so long since I’ve last posted my writing, I legitimately didn’t have anything new to show you guys.
Hopefully this will suffice for now!
If you’re looking for more context into Laurel and why this drabble is a bit of a downer, check out this post! You can also find my other original writing posts at #undine writes stuff. If you’re interested in Laurel specifically, you can find all my posts about him at #laurel binley.
Drabble underneath the cut, 457 words!
The wind was brisk as it breezed through, trailing torn leaves along with it. The chill that it left behind told Laurel that summer was long over, and that fall was upon him.
Fall meant pulling out his favorite jumpers and finding a scarf that matched in colour. Fall meant rosy cheeks as Emma and himself dashed through giant leaf piles as children. Fall meant bringing Simone her seasonal drink of choice as she worked at the bookshop, quickly stepping inside to beat the chill. Fall meant the school year starting, and walking to the Crypt Cafe afterwards with his two best friends in the world to order hot chocolate since he never quite graduated to drinking coffee, no matter how sweet.
Fall meant Laurel’s favourite season, the time of year he looked forward to the most.
Did fall always look so dismal and colourless, or is it just because there’s a thick layer of grey clouds overhead?
Everywhere he looked, he saw death — quite literally.
The crunchy, vibrant leaves that he used to love so much were like that because they were dead. The grass was withering away into shades of brown and grey. Things were fading away into nothingness, right before his eyes.
He read once in a poem that “Autumn is a season of changing, of dying,” when he was younger. At the time, all he thought was that it was a cynical way to look at things, even if it was technically true. Even though it’s been years and he barely remembered the poem, the words rang in his ears.
There was another gust of wind, and Laurel tucked his knees further against his chest, balling up even more tightly than before. Sitting underneath a bridge by a small river was probably not the smartest thing he’s ever done when it was cold, but he always found himself coming back here when things got lonely or hard to handle.
The canal felt so cozy and cool when it was the three of them sitting under the bridge throwing popcorn at each other, or when his mother would let him play under the bridge with supervision. He was all alone today though, with only a cigarette for company. Their presence — or lack thereof — hung around like a gash in a tapestry.
Why did he bother coming here again?
The phone in his pocket buzzed twice. Laurel just reached in and tapped the volume button on the side to silence it without looking at it. He buried his face into his knees.
How did that poem end again? Something about fall sowing the seeds for new life in the spring?
Did any of that matter if he won’t live to see it?
It's a slow day at work so i guess im writing a FQAC-verse Vanessa prequel in my head today that I've been thinking about over my hiatus.
It's full of betrayal, mystery, vampire societies, witches, werewolves, ghosts, lots of spy-esque thief-esque action, daring escapades, thrilling scenes... all told from a new character's perspective: Someone who knows Vanessa better than anyone expects... but also doesn't know her at all.
Of course, there will be a heaping dose of Vanessa being a criminal mastermind and generally being a sexy badass.
I feel like I should remind everyone that I actually write sometimes too — shocking, I know. So here’s a thing I wrote a long time ago, just to pretend that I’m a real Writeblr for a bit.
If there ever was a reason to be grateful, it was that Blake lives in a time where coffee and other sources of caffeine are readily available. Although it was just before 9 o'clock in the morning, she was already half-way through her second mug and a small tower of used creamers were stacked unevenly at the corner of her desk. Damn those early morning meetings; was it really necessary to gather everyone under the age of twenty-five early in the morning to discuss the implications of retweets? The Capital was full of old, decrepit people who would still use fax machines if they could. At this point, Blake was sure she was spending more time teaching her superiors how to use computers instead of her actual job.
And they said that the life of a journalist wasn't glamourous.
Her desk was full of unfinished drafts, photographs, and other piles of papers stacked haphazardly over every inch of the surface. With a sigh, Blake just piled the existing piles on top of each other to create a precarious mountain of paper to clear out some space. It was organized chaos at its finest — her desk may be a mess, but she knew where everything was... Or at least she hoped.
With a heavy sigh and tapping fingers fueled by coffee jitters, Blake impatiently waited for her computer to load web pages. Fingers automatically typed up ‘twitter.com’ into the address bar, but she thought better of it and quickly hit backspace. After lecturing a sixty-year old crusty, balding man on how to navigate the 'tweeter-sphere', she really wasn't in the mood to revisit the social media site and its apparently impossible-to-use interface.
When she logged into her email account, it was no surprise that hundreds of unread emails were blinking on the browser. 317 emails to be exact, the red bubble notification on her phone had been mocking her for days now. Wearily, Blake started clicking and manually sorting through useful emails and trash that didn't even need to be read. Passive-aggressive work memos from loud coworkers (shut up Patricia, no one cares about your lunch), junk mail (there's a sale going on in a nearby department store apparently), and death threats (only 12 emails, significantly less than yesterday) were among the ones immediately deleted without even opening.
Several rapid clicks later, her inbox was emptied of all unnecessary emails, and she could focus on what actually mattered — once she sorted through all of the false leads, that is. Days ago, Blake had published a request for the Other to contact her if they wanted their stories heard. It was a good idea in theory to gather information and first-hand accounts, but she really, really should've seen the amount of humans pretending to be the Other coming. Internet anonymity was a bitch, and a lot of trolls, people that were obsessed with the Other and bored humans who had way too much time on their hands were claiming to be special.
Somehow, Blake sincerely doubted that a real vampire or werewolf would throw in blatant Twilight or Vampire Diaries references into these emails. Just a hunch. On the off chance that they were truly what they said they were, it wasn't the type of person (could they still be called a person?) she wanted to write about. Now that article would immediately become the laughing stock of the internet. Blake's mouse hovered over the trash can icon for a long second as she fought the urge to delete the lot of them. Duty won out, just in case she was deleting important information. The things she would do for a story...
There was one email in particular however, that seemed more genuine for whatever reason. Call it journalist's intuition, or just a lack of modern (if slightly outdated) pop culture references.
Dear B. Preston,
Apologies for the throwaway email address – I don’t like paper trails. I saw your call for stories from the Other in The Capital, and after serious deliberation, I have decided to express my own interest in the project. I am a vampire of not insignificant experience who would be willing to answer any questions you might have, from my condition in general to my personal history, so long as the result is anonymised.
As this is uncharted territory for the both of us, and perhaps even both our kinds, I am an unsure as to whether the best medium would be in writing or an in-person interview. Whichever option you would feel more comfortable with. Obviously, dining with the stuff of nightmares isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.
Looking forward to your reply.
Sincerely,
Someone who would rather not sign his name in writing.
Blake leaned back into her office chair as she read and reread that email, thoughtfully chewing off the lipstick she had hastily smeared on so that she could claim that she cared about appearances. It was impossible to gleam whether this email rang true or not, but there was something different about this one that felt like it was worth following up on — at least the throwaway email wasn't something like totallyabloodsucker69 that she saw about three emails prior.
After quickly doing her carpal tunnel prevention hand stretches, Blake wrote out a long reply, then went back and deleted an entire unnecessary paragraph and several other snarky comments that had just slipped out. She was a professional, and should probably act as such. No need to scare off a potential vampire contact — as silly as that sounds.
Dear someone who would rather not sign their name in writing,
Thank you for your response, your willingness to share your story to the public is greatly appreciated. I can promise it will be put to good use.
An in-person interview probably would work best, if only to be able to say that I've confirmed that you're a vampire in person. It's far too easy for people to pretend to be something they're not online — there's simply not enough credibility over the internet. I conduct a lot of interviews over at The Daily Grind for the casual atmosphere, but I'm open to any alternatives you have in mind. I've attached my schedule to this email, let me know when you're available.
And finally as a formality — and I honestly have no idea what I'm looking for — is there any way you can send me proof of your claim? As mentioned before, there are far too many people pretending to be anything other than human.
Regards,
Blake Preston.
Perhaps only a split-second after she hit send, a roar of "Preston, turn the radio on now!" was shouted at her from behind. Blake spun around in her chair in alarm, staring at Jones who just barged through the door with wild, panicked eyes.
"What are you——"
"Do it! Now!"
Jones didn't even give Blake another moment to respond as he flew forward to fiddle the radio to the right broadcast, not bothering to wait for the shocked journalist to catch up to his intensity. Precious few seconds were evidently lost as Jones' fumbling fingers finally managed to push the right set of buttons. Blake actually listened to On the Edge radio quite often, but an unfamiliar voice flowed through the speakers.
Think of the teenagers lost during Nick Bloodfang’s rampage: three young girls, on their way home from a party on the wrong night of the lunar cycle, left for dead. That is only the tip of the iceberg...
Though she didn't quite understand what was going on yet, Blake turned on the recording function of her phone after seeing Jones frantically gesticulated to her. Blake's brows were knit in confusion as she listened to the broadcast. Something wasn't right, something didn't feel right.
Blake's jaw dropped along with her stomach as the 'segment' ended with a human call for action. It was pathos at its finest, playing up on the fear that she knew swept throughout the humans when the Other first came to light a month or so ago. Even though the current position of most people was uncertain, tension and fear grated roughly on most humans that she knew. Jones and Blake shared a slack-jawed stare of disbelief.
This was hate speech, inciting people to violent acts because they painted the Other as mere criminals with no other purpose besides murdering innocent people.
By the time Louise's voice came back on the air, Blake snapped out of her stupor to open a brand new word document on her computer. Although the highjack had ended only seconds before, she was already replaying it on her phone as her fingers flew over the keyboard, transcribing it to the best of her ability. "I can't believe I missed the bloody beginning. Colin, did you get——"
Blake's fingers kept moving as she glanced over to her partner's desk, suspiciously empty and untouched since yesterday.
Is there any scene in your current WIP that you have to forcibly restrain yourself from not writing at this moment? If not something that would fit in the plot, something that you could imagine happening in the world?
In For Queen and Country, there’s this moment that @decantae and I have literally been planning for over a year... When our characters, Callisto and Casimir finally admit feelings for each other in a very angsty way. It’s such an important moment in their relationship because it’s such a slow burn full of a lot of hurt and pining, so this reveal is going to be very loaded and intense for them.
And of course, they deserve to get some happiness before things go to shit.
I want to write it so badly... but this is something I think we have to earn it after writing all of the things that come before it and 🙃🙃🙃
In terms of things that wouldn’t fit in the plot, I tend to write it out in my drabbles anyways! It’s a writing exercise I do, and the majority of my posts on my writing masterlist are basically just random scenes I feel like writing outside of my WIP, that’s part of my WIP universe.
What's been your biggest WIP? Like, in terms of how long you've been working on it, how much goes into it
Hmmmmmm, I think For Queen and Country has got to be it!
I have a couple of WIPs that predate FQAC (Wanderlust, specifically), but in terms of how long me and my partners have been working on it and how much goes into it, I feel like more work overall has been put into FQAC possibly?
FQAC has been an idea to die for, but it’s been a really bumpy ride. @decantae came up with it I want to say... 3 or 4 years ago? It was originally run as a group roleplay on a play-by-post forum where it was too popular of an idea — too much was going on, and it was unsustainable for us, the people running it. The burnout was really intense. The best thing that came out of it was meeting @inconsistentlyontime though!
We’ve tried running it for a group of people a few times, but honestly that sucked the life out of me, which is probably why I’d say I put the most into it? It was really draining, and at times really devastating, to the point where all of that outweighed the joy and the good parts.
I think FQAC is currently on... it’s fifth iteration? Instead of a large group thing, it’s just me, @decantae and @inconsistentlyontime doing whatever we want for it, and I gotta say, it feels amazing. Because it’s just the three of us — two people I adore and have been writing with for years — and because in its fifth iteration, we’ve really had the opportunity to fine-tune, focus and hone-in on certain plots and characters to where we’ve trimmed all the excess, it finally feels fully realized to me.
I’m really excited for where it’s going to go in its fifth version! We have!!! So many cool things going on for it!
3, 11, and 17 for Blake and Laurel? (I have characters with those names too lol I wonder if yours are anything like mine)
Thank you so much for asking! I’d love to hear about your Blake and Laurel sometimes too haha what a coincidence.
03. What would be their favorite physical trait about themselves?
Blake likes her eyes. They’re a very striking blue, and they make her look intense.
Laurel has very nice hands and he likes them. They’re soft, he has long fingers, and he takes very good care of his finger nails.
11. What is something that would make your character fly into a rage?
Lots of things make Blake angry, she’s very passionate and emotional and prone to fits of rage. Blake can’t stand injustice, and it’s her life goal to do everything she can to stomp it out. But this isn’t a perfect world obviously, and injustice is everywhere, whether it be war, racism, sexism, bad people getting away with things, bullies, etc. She gets mad a lot, and she fuels that into her work of journalism in an attempt to create a more just world.
Laurel is not really the type to get angry. He’s a very softspoken, polite, really chill boy who never really raises his voice, and no one has ever seen him get angry. Not only is he a ‘water off a duck’s back’ kind of dude, his childhood friend is the hotheaded type who would get angry for him so that he never really had to.
Of course, this changes when it’s revealed to him that he’s actually a dhampire, not a human. In For Queen and Countrylore, dhampires have incredibly short lifespans that is characterized with frequent fits of unbearable pain, and as a result Laurel completely shuts down. He’s pissed that he was born as a dhampire, and he’s even more angry at his father who made him. Dhampires were often manipulated as pawns by vampires so most dhampires had them — Laurel included.I wouldn’t say he flies into a rage about it necessarily, it’s more like frustration that doesn’t have an outlet. The frustration and despair about his existence just grows and grows and grows... Until eventually something snaps.
17. Does your character have dreams of getting married and/or having children?
Blake never did! In Post-Script, she always said that she’s married to her job and that she doesn’t have time for romance — even as a teenager because she was already doing journalism things. I’m fairly sure she accepted her fate of being forever alone and she was fine with it. Until her mysterious, anonymous pen-pal slash informant sweeps her completely off her feet. It’s a very unexpected twist for her. She does eventually get pregnant, and at that point she freaks out because having children is something she’s utterly unprepared for — it’s not that she doesn’t want kids, it was just never something she considered for her future.
In For Queen and Country though, she definitely dreamed of getting married, though never about having kids. To a vampire specifically, because she had a vampire phase when she was in school before she eventually moved on to daydreaming about marrying cool bassists in cool bands, and edgy mysterious characters in shows and movies. So imagine how excited she was when it was revealed that vampires did indeed, exist.
Laurel did. He always assumed that he would get married, settle down with a nice lady and have a family. Two problems with that original scenario. One, Laurel realizes that he’s gay, and that obviously contradicts a future based upon his previously assumed heterosexuality. He’s not going to get married to a nice lady, but he would like to get married to a nice man. Two, he’s a dhampire. He doesn’t even know if he can have kids biologically because he’s half-human and half-vampire. And even if he could have kids biologically, or even if he could adopt... He probably won’t live long enough to see his kids grow up. Getting into a serious relationship as a dhampire is also difficult — but not unheard of! — just because their lifespans are so short. You can’t be in a relationship for the long-haul if there is no long to speak of.
