Thank you to @rmd-writes, @alrightbuckaroo, and @reyestrandd for the tags!
Rules: Share what you wrote this year! It can be works you posted to Ao3, Wattpad, Tumblr, or anywhere else! You can share everything you wrote or just the ones you're most excited about.
**A quick note, because I've been asked: all my RWRB fics are based on the book. It's been... 5 months, and I still haven't seen the movie. Just so we're clear on these fronts.**
January
Singularity | RWRB | E | 8,925 words | Alex and Henry find inspiration in a hotel room armchair.
Toe the Line | RWRB | G | 5,681 words | Henry plays piano while Alex studies. Alex gets caught live-streaming. Henry has a response handy.
In the Stars | RWRB | E | 48,817 words | the Monuments Men WWII AU that will remain unfinished. Back-dated to Jan, 2023 for safety.
February
Moonlighting | RWRB | E | 11, 388 words | Edwardian AU stripper Henry and a very flustered Alex. Inspired by @clottedcreamfudge.
A Deeper Blue | RWRB | M | 13, 367 | the Selkie + Lighthouse Keeper AU that, quite literally, no one asked for.
March
Supplicant | RWRB | E | 1352 words | He asked. The club delivered. A private room. A blind fold. A bed. Permission given to anyone pre-approved.
Other Animals | RWRB | E | 1645 words | "Stretching his arms above his head, Henry’s skin sang with the need to put on a show." Sequel to Supplicant.
April
A Delicate Balance | RWRB | E | 87, 284 words | the actors AU that a lot of people like... for some reason incomprehensible to me.
Bake It Til You Make It | RWRB | T | 8, 428 words | Totally self-indulgent bullshit where Henry is basically a foil for B. Dylan Hollis and Alex is hopelessly in love with him.
May
Arts & Minds | RWRB | T | 11, 678 words | Art history professors go viral, then go to a conference... and there was only one bed.
June
Walkin' After Midnight | RWRB | M | 33, 924 words | A country western musicians/songwriters AU. Alex is an up-and-coming musician. Henry is a poet who happens to play piano.
Rogue's Gallery | RWRB | T | 21, 860 words | Episode 1 of the "White Collar" AU. Henry Fox is a famous art forger, and Alex is the FBI agent who caught him three years ago.
All Things Keep Getting Better | RWRB | M | 17, 009 words | 2023 Pride Month collection of shorts from a list of given prompts.
July
Trick Rider | RWRB | E | 2526 words | Henry a hang of "rodeo season." A gift for @14carrotghoul, written for @thebrownstone summer fic exchange.
Almost You | RWRB | M | 12, 496 words | In which Henry indulges his sister, downloads an app, puts himself out there, and finds out the person he needed was waiting right next to him all along.
August
Before This, After That | RWRB | M | 37, 661 words | the "PT AU"; Henry is a badly injured polo player and Alex is his physical therapist. My most kudos'd fic of 2023.
September
Under a Star Spell | 911 LS | T | 12, 592 words | In which Carlos practices folk magic and TK, needing to rekindle something, finds himself on his doorstep.
Steal Like an Artist | RWRB | M | 19, 292 words | Episode 2 of the "White Collar" AU. Forged Ming vases, trust issues, characters from Henry's past, and inside jobs, oh my.
The Calling | 911 LS | M | 10, 148 words | A TK character study inspired by an episode of This American Life. My favorite of the year, hands down.
Bind & Break | 911 LS | E | 2, 259 words | There was a subtle power in cords. An art inherent of beautiful knots in capable, strong hands.
Apótoma | RWRB | E | 32, 500 words | Απότομα (Greek; Apótoma): Abruptly, suddenly. After seven years with an island home to himself, Henry was used to hiding.
October
Spellwork | 911 LS | E | 10, 300 words | Sequel to Under a Star Spell. Carlos and TK explore their newfound relationship and magic's place in it.
November
Night Class | RWRB | E | 12, 617 words | Henry Fox — his smarmy, entitled, wealthy, bland, irritating neighbor — was a vampire. Alex knew it. He could prove it. My fic for @halloweenhuh fandom event.
A Wash of Color | 911 LS | E | 43, 951 words | 1700 miles out of his comfort zone, TK Strand is willing to do anything to get his journalism career back on track. The journalist TK/artist Carlos AU.
Something Blue | 911 LS | T | 10, 118 words | My birthday present to myself. Carlos needs a suit for his sister's wedding. TK Strand, owner of Strand & Co tailoring shop, is only too happy to help - provided Carlos indulge him a little bit first. Prompted by @bonheur-cafe.
Soft to the Touch | 911 LS | E | 7, 749 words | Does what it says on the tin. Carlos and TK try some new things together, and then Carlos does something special just for TK. Soft boys sex-capades by Orchid.
December
The Snow Prince | RWRB | M | 22, 938 words | A winter fairy tale AU. Alex and Henry meet twice, then fall in love in spite of a decades-old curse. Alex endeavors to break it. My last fic of the year, written as a gift for @cha-melodius and @tintagel-or-cockleshells who both sent me the "snow prince" prompt :)
tagging on a few people because this whole long thing is kind of making me uncomfortable to look at and I won't subject anyone else to it. Gonna hide and watch old episodes of Parts Unknown lol.
No pressure tagging: @indomitable-love @three-drink-amy @inexplicablymine @strandnreyes @heartstringsduet @carlos-in-glasses and @cha-melodius if y'all haven't done it yet or want to. I'm behind the 8-ball this week.
Fuck it, I’m just going to start posting my original stuff on here again. Because no one’s going to read it anyway, published or no, so what have I got to lose?
This story uses characters from another story I started, Charlie and Ezra, but I think they feel better in this setting. If you read it, thank you. If not, no hard feelings.
Orchid
~*~*~*~
Ezra was gnawing his lip raw. The email had made sense the first time he had read it. The second, third, fourth, and fifth time too. Now, on his eight pass through, he finally felt the dread seep into his system.
Dear Mr. Southerns,
Thank you for reaching out to my client. Mr. Ruvenacht has declined your request for interview but thanks you for your interest in his work and wishes you the best of luck.
Sincerely, Heather Amaral
That was the pin in the balloon. Couldn’t exactly write a profile on someone when that someone wouldn’t agree to an interview. People had done it, sure, but how many of them were memorable?
Only one, as far as Ezra could remember from writing classes in college. Besides, he had pitched this whole thing as an interview-based piece. He’d thrown the very last dregs of his self-confidence into convincing his editor, then had been knocked off balance when she agreed to it, telling him to get after it. Now he was certain she’d just been humoring him.
Ezra leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and scrubbing his hands over his face. What was he kidding? Of course she was humoring him.
Charles Ruvenacht hadn’t given an interview to anyone in nearly a decade. No in-person or on camera, no questions answered by phone or email, not even a response for comment. When he had won the Grammy for Best Contemporary Classical Composition four years ago, he had taken the golden gramophone with a bright smile, said a perfectly polite thank you very much into the microphone, then walked off stage — a grand total of one-minute-six-seconds spent on stage.
A record, apparently.
Besides that brief moment, the man hadn’t said a word in public in nine years. Why Ezra thought he’d be the one lucky enough to crack the seal, he didn’t know.
Youth and hubris maybe?
He ran rough hands through his hair, then came back to stare at his computer screen. Heather Amaral’s email stared back. He couldn’t get comfortable against the back of his chair. His kneed bounced in an erratic four-count. He’d all but torn a whole through his lower lip.
He could get in front of this or he could let it run him over, he reasoned. The first option was distasteful, but he didn’t think he could stomach the shame of the second one.
A second later, Ezra was up and walking, notebook and pen in hand. By the time he reached his editor’s office — her door wide open, at once inviting and threatening — he was ready to jump out of his skin. He took a steadying breath, then knocked underneath the nameplate on the wall.
“Come in.”
Ezra put on his best everything’s fine smile and leaned around the door jamb. “Hey, India. Do you have a second?”
“I have a second,” she answered dryly, pen moving light and quick across proof pages. Her eyes slid up to where he stood, humor crossing her face. “Are you going to sit down or stand there pretending to be my door?”
“Oh. Sorry.” Ezra coughed light to cover as he quickly moved to one of the chairs in front of her desk. He sat at the very edge of the seat. A quick escape felt preferable. “So. I wanted to give you an update on—.”
“He turned you down, didn’t he?” India asked, a knowing smile on lips.
Ezra let out a breath like a popped balloon. So much for psyching himself up. “Yes.”
“I figured.” India pushed her pen away and sat back in her chair, folding her hands across her lap. “How do you want to do this?”
“I still want to write it,” Ezra answered slowly. Her too-calm demeanor and understanding gaze did nothing to ease his discomfort. Still, it was a far cry from the pure embarrassment that would have overtaken him if he’d shown up with nothing to show for his efforts. He’d been expected an immediate reassignment. She was giving him a chance. “I think I have a decent plan, but if you’d rather I moved on to something for this coming issue, I would understand.”
India nodded, then motioned for him to continue.
“I know Talese knock-offs are played, but I think I could do it. There has to be more to this guy than piano compositions and radio silence.” Ezra caught himself wiggling his pen in his fingers, dropping it to stop himself from fidgeting. He cleared his throat and remembered his notebook. He kept talking as he rifled through pages. “I’ve already made a list of all known associates, as it were, and I’m willing to bet at least one of them would be willing to talk to me. If five of them would, I think I could put together some sort of…” He thought a moment, picking his words carefully. “Respectful approximation.”
India smirked. “Respectful approximation?”
“The man’s a known recluse.” Ezra shrugged. “I don’t want him to talk to me only because he wants to sue me.”
“Well, if I thought that was a possibility, it wouldn’t go into Adobe.” She held out a hand. “Can I see your list?”
Ezra passed her the notebook without another word. He’d run out the length of his frantic, Hail Mary pitch. Now was the time for him to sit back and shut up. Knowing that didn’t help time pass any faster or keep him from wanted to crawl out of his own skin. Knowing that didn’t stop his editor from being as thorough and she ever was.
India poured over his notebook, his notes and lists, coffee stains and crumpled-edged Post Its written in his terrible scratch handwriting.
Ezra’s mind clung to that as he tried to ride out this latest wave of short-term panic — he was thirty-two years old and wrote like he had just learned his ABCs. Maybe his sister was right and he should dig out those printing practice notebooks she had given him for Christmas as a joke that wasn’t really a joke. Maybe all that stood between Ezra and India’s go ahead on this scheme was the woman’s ability to read his kindergarten chicken-scratch. That might have been giving him too much credit; there were likely kindergartners with far better handwriting than his.
“Ezra?” India had placed his notebook on her desk between him.
“Thoughts?” he asked, the brightness he mustered sounding false.
India didn’t react if she noticed. She balanced the point of her pen on one of the pages. “Tell me who all these people are?”
“Did I not put it in there?”
“No.”
“Damn. Sorry.” Ezra cleared his throat. His palms were sweaty all over again. “So, um. Mercedes Lane is his younger sister, Cosmia and August his parents. Hudson is the sister’s boyfriend or fiance — romantic live-in basically. Matthew Carlyle, Holly Avery, and Lucas Greenhow are friends. Daniel Roth is his former collaborator, album producer, and a college friend.”
India hummed and made a few small marks with her pen. “How about teachers and mentors?”
“He went to Oberlin and graduated early. I can send a few emails, get some names.”
“Do that. What about his childhood teacher?”
“There isn’t one.”
India glanced up at him.
Ezra thought back, rattling through his memory. “According to an interview he gave after he was nominated for Best Contemporary Instrumental, when he was twenty-ish, he’s self-taught with some instruction from his grandmother, who passed away seven years ago. So, unless you want me to track down an elementary school band teacher, I’d call it a dead end.”
“Fair enough,” India conceded with a nod. “Who are…” She squinted at the page and Ezra’s stomach dropped. “Heather and… Parijatha? Those two. Why are they crossed out?”
“I saw them in a few older articles. He talked about them like friends.” Ezra took a breath, pretending this was going well. “Turns out Parijatha is his therapist, so that eliminates her completely. Heather could be a friend, but she’s also his agent-slash-assistant. That felt like crossing a line.”
“Heather sent the rejection email?”
“A new development, but yes. Helped support my thinking there.”
“Reasonable.”India pulled a notepad closer to her and began writing quickly. By the time she tore the page off and shoved it into his notebook, Ezra was beginning to taste copper on his teeth. “Like you said, Frank Sinatra Has a Cold has been ripped off eight ways from Sunday. The fact that Ruvenacht is also a musician doesn’t help the comparisons much. But, that being said, try to get somewhere with this. If it’s good enough to work with we’ll go from there.”
Ezra blinked, brain catching up. “You want me to keep working on it?”
“I want to you to actually write it,” India clarified. “Do what you usually do, give me a draft, and we’ll see. No promises.” She held his notebook back out to him.
“Thank you,” Ezra said, dazed as he took back his things with numb hands.
“Honestly, I have nothing else I could put you on until the July issue, so you’ve got the time.”
“Is that my deadline?”
India thought a moment. “I want to see progress by May’s to-print date.”
“Got it.” Ezra rushed to pull a pen from his pocket and scrawl April 24th across the top of a fresh page. “I’ll get started on this today, I’ll get somewhere-.”
India held up a hand to hush his rushed words. “Just show me what you can do with what you’ve got, and we’ll go from there.”
trying something new with no expectations. Comment, message, or reblog if you want to be added to a tag list (no pressure)
warnings | therapy scene, family angst, implied abusive relationship (past)
~*~
He sniffles and adjusts his body in his chair. Maybe it’ll come off as early spring allergies, maybe it won’t. Maybe he’ll care later, maybe he won’t. It’s all a coin toss. All a swirl of chance.
His hand is rough in his hair. The key is heavy against his sternum. The sleeves of his tee shirt itches his wrists.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he finally says, quietly. He tilts his head back against the chair, pinches the bridge of his nose. He purposefully stretches his legs out into the space between him and Despina, knowing she’ll take it as the discomfort it is.
Patiently, as always, she asks: “What was supposed to happen, Lyric?”
He’s said this all before. Recites it to himself in the shower, while cobbling together a half-assed breakfast, in the middle of the night when he’s wide awake listening to the settling timbers in his walls. He’ll say it even more to Despina, his conditionally loyal therapist, before they part company for the week. He doesn’t imagine how long it will take for them to part ways for good.
His gut tells him it’s going to be a long time.
A long time.
“I should have a real job, friends, money,” Lyric murmurs to the ceiling. “I should be normal. I should be okay with strangers. I should be happily ignoring my sister for another eight years.” He drops his hand from his face into his lap. “All I’m saying is. All I’m saying.” He opens his eyes, tilts his head up just enough to see Despina. Her sharp aquiline nose and equally as sharp eyes. “What am I saying?”
“What are you saying?” she asks with a hint of uncharacteristic humor.
Lyric sighs. “I shouldn’t be talking to you. That’s what I’m saying. I should have stayed the relatively normal, well adjusted person I was.”
“How would you have stayed that way?”
“He could have loved me better.” Lyric shrugs. His stomach twists suddenly. “I could have broken up with him. Could have never met him.”
Despina hums in understanding. “Are you wishing for a time machine again?”
“No,” Lyric huffs. He pushes himself back upright, like he had been taught to growing up. How he should reasonably sit as an adult in the world. But, really, he just wants to lay down and not get up. Seems like a nice bargain to make, in the back of his head. He meets her eyes for the first time since he arrived, jabbing a finger at the air. “No, I’m not. And I see the flaw in this line of thinking, you don’t have to ask that either. I’m just talking. That’s all we do here. We talk.”
“We do.” She nods. “Would you like to try something different?”
“I just want to know when it’ll start helping,” Lyric answers. “It’s been five months.”
She smiles in a way that is neither pitying nor sad, but still looks to Lyric that way. He likes her. They get on. He’s okay talking with her. But impatience set in about a week ago and he’s tired. He’d like this all to be over, behind him, a return to a kind of normal that didn’t exist even before Beckett sauntered his way into his life.
“It’ll take longer than that, Lyric. I know you understand that.”
“I guess, but is it worth missing a morning shift for?”
Despina makes a quick note, eyes not moving from him. “I thought you hated your job?”
“Most of the time,” Lyric agrees. “But I can tune it all out the longer I stand there. People are in there all the time, there’s never really a slow minute until we close.”
“So, you hate it but you admit it helps you?”
“I didn’t say help.”
“What word would you use then?”
Lyric presses his lips together. “Distracts. It distracts me.”
“Alright. Distracts from what?” Despina nudges lightly.
He shoots her a knowing look. He doesn’t like this repetition, the cycle of constantly voicing things they both know, have known since the beginning. He would appreciate a day where he didn’t have to be specific, where detail wasn’t required. He would appreciate not being turned into a broken record.
“Distracts everything that keeps me up when things go bump in the night,” Lyric offers with biting sarcasm. “How’s that for you?”
Despina says nothing. She clicks her pen and leaves it languishing on the arm of her chair. She crosses her legs at the ankles, then swings both her feet under the chair. There’s thirty-three minutes left in their session. Enough time for her to crack a seal he didn’t know was there when he walked in.
Hi there, thank you so so much! I'm so sorry my brain did a bad job and totally forgot that I had reblogged the list of questions!
So, case in point: thank you so much for asking! I'm really surprised I got any, so thank you thank you, dear :)
3. what order do you write in? front of book to back? chronological? favorite scenes first? something else?
I try to write as chronological as I can because otherwise I'll lose focus and forget how I wanted to connect all the bits. BUT, with every story I write, I usually have one or a few scenes I've built the story around. I usually write those first. And if that's right smack in the middle, it's right smack in the middle. If it's right at the end, its right at the end :)
13. your strengths as an author
Not the easiest question to answer because... well. Imposter syndrome is a bitch. And I don't want to sound like I'm full of myself. You can imagine how much I like job interviews lol!
I think my strengths are research and creating distinct characters. Once I get a character's voice in my head, it's easy for me to grab and pull again wheneverI write them. And I've always loved research; loved learning things while I write, getting to teach people new things through writing :)
25. copy/paste a few sentences or a short paragraph that you’re particularly proud of.
I'm giving this to y'all with absolutely no context at all :)
His sister had told him often enough that being maudlin wouldn’t help him any. It slowed him down, consumed his mind with a paralyzing sort of darkness. Doing something was his only defense against it.
So, he took a long last drag of his cigarette, then snuffed it out on the sole of his shoe. Time was ticking down fast and Henry couldn’t afford to be brought down so soon to the inevitable. He let the urgency in his blood lift him up, carry him forward to the easel, to pick up his brush again.
He had a set of stars over Egypt to finish.
An hour later, when Peter and Marcel quietly coasted the truck into its spot, Henry was ready. He flagged them down with a few clicks of his lighter out the window and left the door unlocked for them as they ascended the stairs. They kept the lights off when they entered, the street lights doing as much as they could to give them something to work by.
Peter whistled, low and appreciative, as he laid eyes on the canvases. He flashed Henry a wolfish smile. “You fool me every time.”
“That isn’t exactly the task it used to be,” Henry whispered, ignoring the shiver that ran down his spine. He pushed past it, siphoned that feeling off into somewhere he couldn’t reach it. There wouldn’t be time for it, and the danger it carried now was incentive enough. Instead, he pulled his eyes over to the silent Frenchman. “Got a guess, Marcel?”
“Left it real. Right is false,” he answered in a clipped rasp. He stared at Henry, looking for confirmation.
Henry shook his head. “Reversed. Left it mine. Right is the real one.”
I have goals to finish the whole second book of Henry’s story by, approximately, November. It’ll be available on Gumroad when the time comes, but so far I’ve got 50-ish chapters to write and only about 20 written. So, for another time. BUT I still want to post bits and pieces periodically. So, for today: the boys taking a moment as Aiden does a lot of thinking. Enjoy!
warnings | angst, memory loss, memory recovery, weird times in CT.
~*~*~
It was too cold for boats and docks and shore-side towns. The season had long since wound up, wrapped up, and closed down for the year. Only a scant few restaurants were open and, every time they darkened the door of one, it was clear they were the only non-locals around.
Not that anyone seemed to mind once Carter flashed them a smile, mentioned the two of them staying at his grandmother’s old cottage up the way for the weekend to clear their heads. Someone had asked Carter if he worked on a fishing boat. Carter had just laughed and answered with a good-natured something like that.
Less Manchester by the Sea and more Charles Darwin, fortunately for me.
Whatever that meant, Aiden couldn’t help thinking.
Late November and the leaf-peeping tourism had dried up just as surely as the summer lobster roll tourism. But here they were, sitting on plastic chairs in a warm dock house, eating things good and hot, and staring at the expanse of gray North Atlantic water just outside the windows.
Aiden’s view fogs whenever he lifts his still-steaming mug to his mouth. The tea is strong, over-brewed, and intensely sweet. Carter had watched him as he dumped two whole packets of honey into it, fascination quirking his eyebrows and turning the corner of his mouth up.
Apparently, Henry had a similarly reckless sweet tooth. He left rubber-banded bags of chocolate chunks in drawers around their house; was known to shove a palm-full into his mouth when he was bored, stressed, studying, reading, or too focused on the television to bother getting up for dessert.
Aiden smiled at the image, then added chocolate chips to his mental list of snacks.
The more Carter talked about Henry, the more Aiden liked him.
The more he seemed like an extension of himself, a named part of himself, rather than someone he was supposed to embody, become, pretend to be.
The longer Aiden sat with Henry Aiden Fitzgerald — twenty-five years old and four years sober the previous May; an obsessive reader, stress-eater, and chemistry nerd — the better he could feel himself filling out. The longer Carter talked about Henry in the third person, the more Aiden could see all of Henry’s edges just inside of his. Could better pull at the tender threads that connected them, slowly slowly drawing them closer together.
Aiden Iain James liked Henry Aiden Fitzgerald.
He liked that Henry had kept a part of his name before he knew it was his. He liked how Henry cut his hair and ran laps in the mornings. He liked Henry’s clothes and shoes, the precision neatness of his desk, his taste in books and book shops. He liked Henry’s worn-soft wool winter coat. It was a little tight in the shoulders but it did the trick. Carter said he’d had it since he was sixteen and couldn’t bear to part with it. Henry loved it enough to track down a tailor and have them stitch in new panels to fit his older body. Aiden could smell the remnants of Henry’s cologne on the collar.
Aiden liked reading Henry’s journals and diaries. He had paged through all fifteen of them since Carter had dropped off the collection. He liked the hesitation in the early pages — a therapy assignment frustrated by withdrawal and brain fog — that gave way first to brittle clarity, then disbelieving comfort, then brutal honesty and hesitant kindness.
Fifteen fully filled journals in five years.
Aiden couldn’t help but think it might be a record somewhere.
Carter had told him that Henry had taught himself how to write again. That he stayed up nights reading the most difficult books he could find to bolster his reading. Told him that Henry had struggled with every textbook he had ever opened and secretly recorded every lecture on his cell phone. That he rewrote all of his notes by hand in that now-familiar painstaking even printing; all to make the ridiculous formulas, vocabulary, and copied down diagrams easier to read later.
Carter said Henry was the bravest person he had ever known. He’d gotten himself away from Aldersky and Caldwell not once, but twice. He’d gotten a journalist to publish a carefully edited version of his story, knowing he could win a court case so long as everyone believed he had been adopted. That seeing the other boy in the same suit and tie on the nightly news, jaw stiff and blue eyes firm, made Carter love him for the first time. Carter said he’d cried when he saw Henry back in class several months later; that Henry had cried too. They’d skipped class to celebrate. Their first real date.
Between the escapes Henry wrote about, the court transcripts he had read, the pages of crisply penned self-flagellation, and the velvet bracelet box of sobriety chips, Aiden couldn’t help but agree.
Henry was brave. Henry was impressive. Henry was self-made in the most literal sense of the sentiment.
Henry was the reason Aiden was sitting in a locals-only restaurant on the Mystic side in the middle of a snow storm. Henry was the reason Aiden was holding Carter’s hand across the table as he drank tea and picked at french fries.
Aiden was Henry, even if he couldn’t remember him.
Suddenly, that knowledge wasn’t a weight anymore. It wasn’t daunting or infuriating. It didn’t make Aiden want to scream in the shower or pull out his hair. It didn’t make him sad, not like it once had. Henry was proof Aiden could be a stubborn son of a bitch.
Aiden liked knowing he had it in him. He liked knowing Henry had put it there.
He liked feeling the smooth ivory of the curled rabbit netsuke in his coat pocket and knowing the vicious persistence that made it his. Just as much as it was Henry’s.
~*~*~
Let me know if you’d like added or removed from the tag list, thank you!
Thank you for the tag @writingforevren! Since my actual last line is from a paper on IDEA legislation in the United States (and I don’t even want to read that), this is from something I was working on over the weekend!
“Sometimes people just don’t come home.”
Linnea glared at the woman in front of her at her simpering sweet expression, the mushy cadence of this stranger’s words. She huffed a cloud of cold breath. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”
This wasn’t the first time he’d been bundled off to that dumb mountain town Ezra liked so much. This wasn’t the first time someone well meaning had stuck their noses where they didn’t belong to deliver some stupid, wrong, unwanted platitude to her or her parents. They’d all done their best to be polite then brush the sadness off, but the pattern had long worn thin. After spring, summer, and another fall, Ezra was still missing and Linnea was through putting up with the bullshit.
The woman looked struck, mousy gray curls bouncing above blinking eyes. “Well, yes, of cour–.”
“Well, it’s not. If no one’s ever told you there are things you shouldn’t say to people when bad things happen and that’s one of them,” Linnea snapped, each syllable crisp and brittle. “I’ve been to funerals and watch the news. I know sometimes people just don’t come home, lady. I’m thirteen, not three.”
tagging: @whump-tr0pes @whumpopology @deluxewhump and @wildfaewhump; no pressure either!
Below are links to my full collection of writing -- from original fiction to fan works, and more. This also includes stunt links for pieces I am currently writing, but have not yet posted. Those will become “live” when those pieces go up. I’ve tried to include both a rating and small synopsis for each piece, but if you have questions on any collection or story, please don’t be afraid to ask. I am more than happy to help clarify!
Thank you so much and I sincerely hope you enjoy!
Please note: See each work’s master list and/or the Ao3 tags for story-specific tags, content warnings, triggers, et cetera. That being said, don’t be afraid to ask for particulars if you’re on the fence about something!
Arcadia | (PG-13) St. Acacius’ Preparatory had been a fixture of the Midatlantic Region since 1799. Founded to serve and shape the children of the local elite, the academy has developed generations of forward-thinkers guided by core values of integrity, equality, community, and stewardship. Beyond the brochure, St. Acacius has been the epicenter of local lore – rumors and strange happenings, hauntings and witchcraft, disputed sightings and unexplained disappearances. In Progress.
Long Shadows | (PG-13) Seren and Francis Rose return to their apartment from an unpleasant Thanksgiving break to discover a young man collapsed in their door. A speeding ticket and a hospital visit later, they discover what Colin had escaped and that he could be hiding more than he lets on. Francis is determined to ignore it while his sister wants to crack it wide open. In Progress.
The Runaway | (mature) Caleb and June Garcia take in a teenage runaway, Henry. An act of goodwill soon reveals itself to be more important – and more dangerous – than either of them anticipated. Complete.
Hallford | (mature) Kieran Cochran is a college senior who stumbles into his first love, Elisheva Garcia. He has a significant amount of baggage, which he has tried to keep down and well controlled for years, but it all comes to the surface in front of Elisheva and his adoptive brother, Felix. The novel concerns his getting help, picking up the pieces of his relationship with Eli, trying to undo the rift between him and his brother, and figuring out who he needs to move forward. Retired.
Better Days: (pg-13) Hallford series; Starting with Harry’s unfortunate, accidental coming out to his parents, it follows him as he picks up the pieces and figures out how to build a life with Felix and his sisters, Celeste and Angela. Takes place just after the end of Hallford, and several years before Anila. Retired.
Anila: (pg-13) Hallford series; Felix Cochran, now 24, as he works to uncover who his birth parents were, who he would have been had they lived. It features his continued relationship with Harry, Kieran and Eli’s small family, as well as his personal reactions to all of these revelations. Complete.
Passing Notes | (mature) Oliver Tannatt takes in Emmett, abuse and stifled under the woman posing as his significant other. Escape and recovery proves difficult and slow going as he remembers who he was, heals who he is, and decides who he is going to become. Hiatus.
(You can find my entire Ao3 library here and in my blog description.)
Shades of Magic by V.E. Schwab:
Amid the Ruin | (explicit) Great War/World War I AU; It is December 1919 and Arnes is still reeling from five years of war. It's country, capital city, monarchy and people are left in pieces. In the midst of a struggling recovery, Kell struggles to work through his own memories, nightmares, and injuries. Complete.
No Miracles Here | (mature/explicit) Prohibition/1920s AU; Seven years of prohibition has made hypocrites and scofflaws out of everyone. The Dane twins got in on the ground floor and have carved out a pretty piece for themselves, becoming equally wealthy and infamous in the process. Young and seemingly untouchable, the Maresh brothers have decided to get in on the action by tapping into their family's name and their father's bootlegger connections. Kell soon finds himself in too deep with no easy way out.
Ars Morte (series) | (pg-13 thru mature) Victorian AU; characters and world.This reinterpretation features antari magicians as powerful mediums, conducting seances, spirit guides, dream healing, and all the little details of 19th century spiritualism that have fascinated people since their conception. This series will be mostly made of collected one-shots with limited exception, and there's no telling how large or small the body of work will end up being. In Progress.
pieces: Arcana Mortis / Spirutus Vitae / Semper Ardens / Mens et Manus
August Writer’s Month Prompts | (mature) A collection of short fics, featuring a modern AU, a 1940s AU, a Victorian AU where Antari are spirit mediums, plus a few odds and ends. This collection has everything: fluff, drama, angst, romance, some darkness at the edges to keep it interesting. Complete.
A Sweet Far Thing | (mature) Edwardian AU; Hiatus
The Brightener | (mature) Modern AU; Hiatus
Prophet, Prince, Antari, Spy (series) | Cold War AU;
The Black Stone War: (mature) first installment of the Cold War spies AU series. In progress. 28 chapters planned. In Progress
The Grandmaster
Our Man in Makt
The Queen’s Gambit (Netflix Series):
Volneniye | (mature) "If Marya said nothing else, she would have said they fit well. Sitting well at the waist, properly fit without being indecent or too Californian, in deep indigo blue. They cut off fashionably just above the ankle. A white zig-zag was top stitched over the back pockets. A proper fitting garment, darkly colored enough to be demure. Fashionable, young, deeply American. Fascinating enough to distract her from her cup of tea, the delicate European pastries accompanying it." Complete.
Chestnost’ | (mature)“That isn’t what I meant,” Vasily stumbled over his words. He shifted in his seat, casting a quick eye around the room. Handsome, serious, never wavering from his usual expression, deepening flush aside. “We’ve gotten closer, yes, but dinners and competition leave only so much time. I’d like more time, if you’ll allow it.” Hiatus
An Affair of Quality (series):
pieces: En Prise / Sofia Rules / Caïssa / It Won’t Cool Off
It took a while for this chapter to finally come together, so I hope it was worth the wait. Thank you so much for the kind reception this project has gotten. I appreciate it so much and I hope you continue to enjoy it. This installment: more about our mysterious lady and Thomas remembers to be scared of the dark. Enjoy!
Paper Trails Masterlist
tag list: **tag list is open; let me know if you would like added.**
cw: implied kidnapping; fear response; magical thinking.
~*~*~*~*~*~
The house could not be seen from the road. The front drive that belonged to it was hidden as well.
When the woman -- because Thomas could not let “Miss” invade his thoughts too -- gave him the instruction to turn in, Thomas briefly wondered if she was tired of him already; had decided running the car into a tree was the easiest way out of this cohabitation. She was telling him to turn into nothing. The headlights caught nothing but a narrow path between overgrown holly bushes and two deep wheel ruts in sparse gravel. He slowed down, hesitating just a second longer than she liked.
She let out a hard breath. “Just turn, Ford.”
“But--.”
“Turn.”
Thomas grit his teeth together, as if it could keep the words behind his teeth. Her latest order was becoming familiar in his mouth after only hours in the car -- shamefully so. “Yes, Miss.”
He braced as he turned the wheel, waiting for her hand to once again connect with some part of him; for her fingers to twist it from his grasp. He knew she could detect the acid in his tone. He kept waiting as gravel crunched under the tires and the headlights’ illuminations scattered into the dark. Trees rose up, black and spindly, along the makeshift road. Eyes appeared, glowing brightly in the corner of his vision before vanishing again. He bit his tongue and prayed it was just the odd rabbit, squirrel, possum, maybe a deer or a raccoon.
The road continued unimpeded in front of them. Nighttime swallowed it up after only a few feet. It felt endless -- creeping slowly forward, scanning the edges of the headlights, gripping the steering wheel hard to keep down that self-same old fear. The hair on Thomas’ arms stood on end in anticipation of anything. In anticipation of nothing. The woman sitting next to him inspired a fresh fear, separate from the other manifestations he had felt in her presence. This one was sharp, icy, unplaceable.
Thomas kept his eyes away from her dark hair and slight shape in the passenger’s sleep.
Thomas kept his eyes on the road ahead of them.
Seemingly endless, gravel and dirt stretch onward.
He had seen a sign for Mammoth Caves sometime earlier -- before the woman had told him to take an off ramp, but far enough back as to feel imprecise. His heart had sunk, continued to sink as he steered the old car down twisting sideroads that blurred and appeared to double back on one another. Thomas had quickly lost track of where they were, despite having not known until then. It had not occurred to him that they would be so far out of New England, that he would be so far away from what was home.
Two days ago, he had been in Cambridge, taking his friend’s advice to “get back out there” after his latest relationship imploding. Now he was closer to Kentucky than he had ever been in his entire life, with a perfect stranger. A perfect stranger who had kidnapped him.
Thomas was starting to forget that.
His heart sunk into his stomach.
He remembered a middle school math teacher who had latched onto the story of a missing girl. The man had become obsessed with the case, devoting more time than healthy to each twist and turn, even after she was found. The year Thomas had been meant to learn algebra 1 equations was overtaken by daily updates on the search, interviews of the family, photos of the house, the street, the school, the girl herself and her bedroom. Thomas could still see her bright eyes, striped shirt, and school picture day smile. He had looked at her then and discarded the warning. It would never happen to him and, if it did, he would definitely be a fighter. He would be the one to escape, to put up a fight, to get skin and hair under his nails before running for the nearest road. He had always relied on himself and his good instincts; trusted the twist in his gut.
Thomas was realizing he had always imagined himself wrong. He wasn’t going to save himself because he didn’t have the willpower. It had left him completely. Sure, going with the flow would probably be safer in the long run. Yes, plenty of people understood how keeping a captor happy could keep you alive. Thomas knew this, had heard this, understood this, but it didn’t make him feel any better.
Going along with whatever her whims were seemed like a very dangerous thing. Not just to himself, but for whoever she was hell bent on finding. The person he had been kidnapped to help locate. Thomas knew nothing about that person or why she was so determined to locate them. Thomas couldn’t help but wonder if he would be asked to commit murder or bury a body deep in these same woods. He was garbage at digging holes at the beach with his sister’s children.
That same sister would have told him he was spiralling. That he was letting his anxiety take root and get the better of him. He tried to comfort himself, saying she would be the one to notice his absence and report it. He ignored the small voice reminding him that they hadn’t spoke since Christmas.
“Stop here,” Miss murmured, pulling off her seatbelt. She pushed open the door before the breaks began to work.
Thomas complied, putting the car in park. She stepped out and slammed the door behind her. The headlights went out as he shut off the engine and his eyes adjusted to the wintertime dark just outside the car. They were parked out front of a picket fence, old-fashioned with bubbling, peeling white paint. Beyond it was an equally old and peeling cottage. It’s white form blurred into shadows at its edges. Dark arched windows gave it the appearance of large, staring eyes. A porch cut a wife swatch as it wrapped around the front and onto the sides. It was tumble-down, crumbling, abandoned. Thomas imagined it had once been quaint and charming, struggling to pick out the front door.
He watched, still and silent as he leaned onto the steering wheel. He watched the woman step in front of the car and lifted the latch to a gate set into the fence. She crossed through, then turned and motioned for him to follow. Thomas caught himself staring at her again. The sharp fear abated, but it didn’t feel like a choice exactly. Every time he glanced away from her face -- to the door handle, to the dark pine trees, to the almost full moon hanging in the sky -- something would catch him, stop him, guide his chin back to face her. An invisible tether catching his back teeth, pulled him forward, stumbling.
He was exhausted, disoriented, lost. It was only his mind gravitating to the one somewhat-familiar thing.
Familiar and pretty, if terrifying.
Thomas was forgetting again. He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to recenter his scattered, drifting thoughts.
“Did no one tell you not to dawdle?” she said, her voice floating under the sound of soft wind through the trees, the rustle and fragrance of dry pine needles.
“Not since I was a kid, Miss,” Thomas replied with far too much ease for his liking. Frosty grass crunched underneath the soles of his shoes. Wet dirt and gravel reached his nose. He never broke contact with her eyes -- dark, dark, centerless eyes, holding tight to his throat. “Where are we?”
“Home,” she answered and turned on her heel.
“Your home?” Thomas called, following her through the overgrown yard in the direction of the front porch. She appeared unbothered by the twisted roots that tripped him up and briars that caught his socks and pant legs.
“Sometimes.” Reaching for a hand rail covered over by vines, she pulled herself up onto the porch. One fluid motion and she was standing above him. “I thought someone in your line of work wouldn’t ask so many dumb questions.”
“What would that be?” Thomas paused, deciding how to negotiate the falling-apart handrail and squeaking boards. No part of it looked safe. He pressed his lips together, betting he would drop straight through as soon as he was up there. “My line of work, I mean.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Scholar.”
“Ah. I’m going to have to correct you.” He put one foot up on a splintering support, balancing on the other as he reached for an uncracked area of railing and the base of a post. The strained noise he made hoisting himself onto the splintering, spongy wood earned him a pitying half smile from the woman. Where she stood, the moonlight just reached her head and shoulders. It made her brighter, softer. Thomas felt himself leaning in as he answered. “I’m an archivist only. I help scholars more than do that work myself. I’ve found asking dumb questions is the easiest way to get a usable answer when everyone wants to talk over your head. Without me, they couldn’t find the one thing they need for their work.”
“Force of habit then?”
“I prefer occupational hazard.”
“That may remain true here,” she sniffed, the half smile reappearing. That was good, he thought; she was pleased with him, perhaps would be easier on him. Perhaps would keep him alive because of it. “Come inside, won’t you?”
“Yes, Miss.” Thomas kicked himself again as he followed her. The word was so easy, too easy, painfully easy. Miss, miss, miss. It was his first flirting technique, had been since he was in college. She was twisting it, and he was sure she knew it too. He had flirted with her.
The woman walked up to what Thomas had thought was a window from the car. A tall, arching expanse of dark, warped glass set into metal frames. Two handles curl out, nearly hidden in the dark. Thomas half expects the whole thing to loose from its moorings and shatter in front of them. The wooden walls around it looked rotten, the paint flaking to reveal lichen and mold happily growing underneath. How the place had not collapsed into itself, Thomas didn’t know. How anyone could live inside, he didn’t know.
She rested her hands on the scrolled handles, smiling to herself, and the doors creaked open. Her hands remained suspended in the air, as if they hadn’t moved at all. Thomas blinked, trying to confirm whether he had seen them move or not. As she disappeared over the threshold, he didn’t believe they had.
“Come along, Ford. I wait for no man, and certainly not you.”
Thoma poke his head in the door, inspecting the wooden boards for gaping holes, forest critters, or other traps, and found none.
The inside was nothing like the outside.
Beyond the doors, the decay had vanished. Polished wooden floors stained a gleaming gunstock brown ran from front to back through a large entry hall. The walls were whole and solid, covered in a printed emerald fabric. As he stepped inside, Thomas ran his fingers gently over the surface. Silky, the weave smooth and fine, painted with delicate flowers, curling vines, and ruby-throated hummingbirds. Thomas felt his mouth drop open. He bounces on the balls of his feet, waiting for creaks and groans that never sounded.
“What on earth…” He whispered to himself. He blinked out of his reverie as the doors behind him slammed shut. Glancing around the large room, he found the woman standing behind him, further into the home. Startled, he tried an off-kilter grin. “Wind, huh?”
“Yes, just the wind.” She smiled, cat-like and alluring
He felt drawn to her again, the sensation stronger and more stomach-churning than it had been at any time prior. It knotted in his stomach and around his chest, yanking him forward. He found himself moving towards her unconsciously, as if on a string. She practically glowed, her face round and gentle. Her eyes were soft, dark lashes fanning out over her cheek with every measured blink. When she turned away, leading him deeper into the house, the spell broke. It left him off balance, unsettled, his knees weak and rubbery.
“It’s late. I’ll show you to your room. We can talk tomorrow, Mr. Ford.”
“Thomas.”
“Mr. Ford.”
“Yes, Miss.”
The solid wood and fabric walls continued, decorated here and there with framed trinkets, framed maps, framed photos, framed portraits. There are more portraits on the stairs. Men and women both, from all centuries and worlds. A man with blonde waves, looking vaguely revolutionary, sat in an oval frame. A woman with smooth dark skin and hawk-like eyes painted on wood, sporting a delicate lace ruff, gold-set jewels, and a deep red gown. Painted figures and small silhouette cuts, tin-types, daguerreotypes, hand tinted photographs, and soldier’s portraits. Each one bore a small metal label -- a description, a name, a place, a time. Thomas couldn’t read many of them. He was too focused on following the woman in front of him, on not getting lost in this strange house.
At the very top sat another portrait in a round frame adorned with mother of pearl. It was simpler than the rest, holding Thomas’ attention as tightly as Miss had. Set in a black background was the vision of a young woman, soft and pale. Her brown hair blends into the plain background. Her eyes are seductive, imploring. The rest of her shines for the contrast -- something Thomas knows cannot be just the hand of a talented artist.
It was her.
Thomas let himself be pulled to it, absorbed by the art more than the real woman. Let his eyes run over her face, her neck and bare shoulders; over the delicate trail of her earrings, the soft pink set of her lips, the softly shadowed eyes and how they glitter invitingly. His eyes trail to a small label, secured to the lowest curve of the frame.
“Ford.”
“Elisabeth Bonaventura Coranine, Countess, Salzburg…” Thomas murmurs, the name flowing easily from his lips. He turns to her in amazement. “Your name is Elisabeth.”
Her expression sobers, falling back into the seriousness he had known so well there. “Yes.”
“You’re a royal.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Thomas’ mouth falls open. “You’re Austrian?”
“No.” She shakes her head and offers no more. “I’d like to get to bed, Mr. Ford, if you would be so kind--.”
“I have so many questions,” Thomas breathed. “So many fucking questions… This place, this… all of this.” He exhales harshly, turning fully to her. “You’re going to kill me in my sleep aren’t you.”
Elisabeth shakes her head. The name suits her, he thinks. “No. I haven’t the energy tonight, and I prefer to be more creative in my murders. Now, your room is here.”
“Wait… your murders?”
“Another time, Mr. Ford,” She replied sharply. Her eyes flashed dangerously, and she pointed into a room. “If you please. I am tired and my patience is wearing thin.”
Thomas pressed his lips shut and follows the line of her fingers into a spartan room. Small, with a four-poster bed and empty pale blue walls.
“Thank you,” she huffs. “Good night, Mr. Ford.”
Thomas let out a slow breath, hearing the door swing shut behind him. “Good night, Elisabeth.”
The door shut, the locked clicked into place, then all the light was extinguished from the room.
