I'm keeping to an alias, to protect myself from the IRLs. Can anyone relate?
[*crickets*]
[*the room is entirely empty*]
Right! So...
Anyways, I have written a fanfic that has been graciously loved.
But I just can't write new chapters now because the fanfic is about a real person who has been kind of dumb in the media lately. Gag.
But yea.
I have faith that this will do ok.
But starting from identity scratch definitely sucks. :(
Also please I am not looking for beta readers or artists at this time, I wish to just wallow in solitary author psychosis for now. But thanks for any offers in advance.
Again I know that nobody is here yet. But the real posts and words need to start somewhere. So here it is.
Thranduil knew there was a possibility Bard would be there.
He had avoided parent pickup for weeks, just to not meet Bard there. He had invented late meetings, late work hours, so Legolas would get picked up by Elrond. But today, he was short with excuses.
The school day ended at the same hour every afternoon. Parents gathered in clusters near the gates, polite nods, idle conversations. Normally, Thranduil walked through them like a blade through silk — immaculate, distant, untouched.
Today, however, as he stepped out of his car and closed the door with measured calm, there was a tightness beneath his ribs he refused to name. He had not seen Bard in weeks. He told himself he did not care how Bard would react if they crossed paths. He told himself he would be perfectly composed. He told himself many things. His eyes still scanned the crowd. Just in case. And there he was. Not alone.
Bard stood a little to the side of the entrance, hands in his coat pockets, head tilted slightly as he listened. Elrond stood beside him — serene, composed as ever — saying something that made Bard laugh openly, unrestrainedly.
It did something unpleasant to Thranduil’s stomach. He slowed without meaning to. Bard looked lighter than he had in weeks. The guarded edge was gone. His shoulders weren’t tight. His mouth wasn’t pressed into that stubborn line. He looked… comfortable. Elrond touched his arm briefly while speaking — casual, warm. Bard didn’t recoil nor stiffen. He leaned in slightly, answering with that same soft amusement.
Thranduil stopped walking. Just for a fraction of a second. Of course Bard would get along with Elrond. Elrond was diplomatic, kind, measured. He made people feel heard. He made them feel safe.
Thranduil’s jaw tightened. Bard did not even notice him at first. Legolas emerged from the building, scanning for his father. His gaze landed on Thranduil immediately — then followed the direction of his stare. He saw. Legolas was perceptive enough not to comment.
Elrond was the first to register Thranduil’s presence. His expression did not change, but he inclined his head politely.
“Thranduil.”
That made Bard turn. For a moment — a brief, suspended moment — their eyes met. There was no smile yet no hostility and something tightly contained beneath it.
Bard straightened almost imperceptibly. The ease left his posture. Not entirely — but enough.
“Good evening,” he said, evenly.
Thranduil inclined his head in return.
“Bard.”
Even the sound of his name hurt him. Still, that was all.
Elrond, tactful as ever, stepped slightly aside, giving them space without appearing to do so. Legolas approached his father.
“Ready?” Thranduil asked, voice smooth, unshaken.
“Yes.”
He did not look at Bard again. He did not need to. He could feel his presence like heat at his back.
As he turned away with Legolas, he heard Bard laugh again — softer this time, quieter — at something Elrond said. And it stayed with him all the way home.
Hi, I’m having trouble finding a Sterek fic! It was set during the summer after season 2, and to save money/get rid of Stiles, the sheriff sends him to live with his aunt. I think the city is San Francisco or San Diego. Stiles gets a summer job and sends money back home to his dad. Derek is there but I can’t remember why - all I remember really is that Derek is sleeping with the manager of a clothing store and Stiles catches them in the act. And also the manager is a succubus or something.
Hi @dear-massacre! @hedwig221b found it. It's been deleted but they had a wayback link.
The Stag’s Smiling Turtle (Lyonel Baratheon x F!OC)
Summary:
Lord Lyonel Baratheon was a man who liked to party, drink and fight in equal measures. Prone to boredom, nothing else held his interest.
Until one night, when he meets a peculiar girl named Victa Estermont. She is wild, smiley and quick to speak; caring little for titles, rules and etiquette.
He is intrigued, and he aims to follow her. To his surprise, this turtle seemed to be faster than the stag expected.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Pairing: Fem!OC x Lyonel Baratheon
Chapter Warning: None
Chapter II: LINK
Chapter I: First Encounter
Other Storm Lords of the mainland often looked down upon the Island of Estermont. Damp, windswept, and poor were among the more common words used to describe it.
But for its inhabitants, it was a silent paradise.
Away from the petty trifles of feuding neighbours, safe from Dornish invaders, and home to rather capable sailors, this little island offered something few places could…
A getaway.
The fish was good, the wine plentiful, and the local women possessed a unique, wilder beauty that made common prostitutes pale in comparison.
Lyonel Baratheon—the Laughing Storm—simply had to make sure those rumours were true. And what better place to party than a small island many had forgotten on the map?
Little did he know that this celebration would begin like all the others… and end far differently.
The Estermont town was alive that night.
Torches illuminated clustered houses, their flames bending with the sea wind, while music echoed above the constant crash of waves along the shore.
People cheered, laughed, and drank; few chose to remain indoors, unwilling to waste a night like this on rest when tomorrow’s labour would come regardless.
Among the lively crowd, a woman walked with the elegance of a flowing river.
Her steps were silent, her movements smooth and unhurried. Thick black hair fell in gentle curls against her cheek, stirred faintly by the breeze.
Her pale green dress was simple, unadorned, while a cloak of a darker shade rested over her shoulders, shielding her from the night’s chill.
She moved in time with the echoing beat of the music, smiling at the sight of women dancing outside pubs and inns.
She giggled softly alongside a few escorts as drunken men stumbled through open doors, hands far too eager to grab before paying.
Yet despite the celebration surrounding her, this quiet, smiley girl showed little interest in joining.
The full moon hung high above, pale and watchful, and her feet carried her away from the town—toward the marshes nearby.
There, a rare delight awaited her.
Moon flowers bloom only under the light of a full moon. She had waited an entire lunar cycle to see them again.
She halted abruptly as a man nearly fell into her.
Thin hands reached out at once, steadying him as brown eyes quickly assessed him for signs of injury.
“Are you okay, sir?” the girl asked, her head tilting to the side.
The man placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Oh, after tonight…” A hiccup interrupted him. “I am more than okay. I am perfect!”
She giggled at his enthusiasm. “And pray, good sir, what has brought you such joy tonight?”
He leaned closer, lips hovering inches from her ear. “Lyonel Baratheon is here.” He pulled back, his hand slipping from her shoulder. “And he throws the best feasts!”
With a cheer, the man staggered away, muttering to himself as he attempted to recall the location of his home.
“Lyonel Baratheon?” the young woman murmured, repeating the name once—then again.
The Laughing Storm was a legend, one that children grew up admiring.
The Baratheon heir: a dangerous force in combat, famed for his uncanny habit of laughing at his opponents. A menace, a danger… and a drunk.
But he was respected.
Small folk cheered for him.
She glanced back toward the town, the moon flowers temporarily forgotten. If a stag truly walked the island tonight, she had to catch a glimpse.
No Baratheon had set foot on Estermont in her lifetime. The house was too small to be remembered, the island too quiet to draw such attention.
If someone of such importance truly stood within their walls, she had to see him—if only briefly. Then she would return to her flowers and share the story with her brother come morning.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Music poured from the largest inn in the seafaring town, shouts and laughter blending seamlessly into the chaos within.
The woman slipped through the door, her steps nearly silent.
Brown eyes swept the room as a faint smile curved her lips.
Drinks were passed in every direction, and more than once she had to sidestep a hurried server.
Voices rose loudly—some arguing, others arm-wrestling? She couldn’t quite tell, but she found it intriguing all the same.
A few patrons had already succumbed to drink, slumped against scarred wooden tables in deep, careless sleep.
At the far end of the room stood Lyonel Baratheon, surrounded by trusted men. Each held a goblet of wine, some murmuring amongst themselves while others were thoroughly distracted by seductive women perched on their laps.
All but Lyonel.
The Laughing Storm appeared bored, smiling only occasionally at an especially loud joke or clumsy stumble.
Upon his head sat a crown of carved branches, twisting into antlers that reached skyward—as though daring the Seven Gods themselves to object.
The woman stared, struck by his striking beauty, a trait long said to run through the Baratheon line.
Suddenly, a hand closed around her wrist.
She did not resist—nor was she quick enough to free herself.
In the next breath, she found herself pulled into the centre of the room.
Tables and benches were shoved aside, clearing space as bodies spun, danced, and laughed around her, driven by music and wine alike.
One step.
Two steps.
One step.
She quickly caught the rhythm and moved with it.
One step.
Two steps.
One step—turn!
She twirled, giggling as the hem of her dress lifted with the motion.
A young man approached, intrigued by the unfamiliar face. Without hesitation, they began to dance—spinning and weaving together, creating a rhythm entirely their own.
And amid the roar of music and laughter, her giggles grew louder… her smile wider.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Lyonel Baratheon extended his hand, his empty goblet filled at once by a passing servant. His head buzzed faintly from the wine, yet he showed no sign of slowing.
He had come for the rumours. For freedom. And he had enjoyed himself—briefly.
But boredom, that familiar and unwelcome companion, had already returned.
What once entertained him for an entire day now barely held his interest for a few hours, even with enough wine to dull his senses.
Not even the willing women draped across his companions could keep his attention for long.
That was when he heard it.
A giggle.
He blinked, uncertain whether the sound was authentic. Then he heard it again—clearer this time. Sweet, innocent, genuine. Like a young maiden laughing while playing in the shallows of the bay.
Lyonel scanned the room—and then he saw her.
She moved through the crowd as though she belonged there, yet stood apart as if the Seven themselves had marked her. Brown curls bounced with each step, her dress lifting every time she twirled.
Her laughter was effortless. Unforced.
He studied the young man dancing with her. Their movements were unlike any he had seen—less performance, more joy.
Her laughter was bright, contagious, reaching even the mighty stag watching from afar.
The chair screeched loudly as Lyonel rose, ignoring the curious glances of his companions. He ran a hand through his beard and strode toward her, a familiar smirk settling upon his face.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
The maiden stepped forward, narrowly missing her partner’s foot. She giggled, but as she attempted to step back, she collided with something solid.
A hard chest pressed against her back—a presence taller, broader.
“Apologies,” she said as she turned, another giggle escaping her lips.
Time slowed.
Before her stood Lyonel Baratheon, towering over her with ease.
Her dancing partner had long since vanished, unwilling to even breathe the same air as the Laughing Storm.
“My lord,” she greeted, dipping her head politely.
Lyonel tilted his head. “I could not help but notice this dance of yours.”
Her cheeks flushed instantly. “Oh, it’s not a dance. It’s a game—well, a dancing game my brother and I invented.” She giggled again. “Would you like to try it, my lord?”
His brow lifted, tongue clicking thoughtfully. “If it is as interesting as it looked.”
She smiled, fingers fiddling with the hem of her dress. “Okay, the game is simple.” She lifted her skirts slightly and stepped forward, pressing her right foot atop his polished black boot. “We try to step on each other’s feet. You dance to avoid. The quickest wins.”
She stepped back to demonstrate, waiting expectantly.
Intrigued, Lyonel stepped forward—slowly, carefully, unwilling to intimidate or harm her.
She was already gone.
Then forward again—her boot landing atop his with teasing precision. She giggled. “Got you again, my lord.”
His competitive nature flared, manners quickly forgotten. He moved faster this time.
One step forward.
She slipped to the side, twirling effortlessly. Another giggle, brown eyes sparkling with playful mischief.
Again and again the stag advanced, each attempt thwarted.
He moved with grace—hips leading, hands lifted—yet each time his feet struck the floor, she had already danced away like water slipping through fingers.
And yet—
Each escape brought her closer. A swift step atop his boot marked each victory before she darted away again.
Soon, Lyonel stopped trying so hard.
Was it the wine dulling his senses, or her laughter ringing like bells in his ears? He could not tell—and he did not wish to speak of it either.
His movements grew looser, less deliberate, yet a smile tugged at his lips. He laughed when she did, the two circling one another amid the swirling crowd.
A few onlookers paused to watch before drifting back into celebration.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
The music shifted, and Lyonel found himself breathless and thirsty.
The maiden before him appeared the same; her cheeks flushed red from exertion, her smile still unwavering as their bodies hovered mere inches apart.
In a final attempt to salvage his pride, Lyonel stepped forward and gently trapped her boot beneath his own.
“Point for me, my lady,” he said, his grin wide and unapologetic.
She giggled, a hand rising instinctively to her mouth. “It’s Victa, my lord,” she said. “And you did get a single point…” Another giggle followed. “I think I got many more.”
Lyonel Baratheon did not enjoy losing—not in battle, not in tourney, and certainly not in drink.
And yet, this loss did not sting as he expected.
His pride remained intact. Satisfaction still burned through his veins like wildfire, boredom utterly forgotten.
His enjoyment had returned.
He had to keep it.
Victa turned to leave, but her foot remained trapped beneath his boot. She glanced down, then up at him. “My lord. The game is over.”
As though waking from a trance, Lyonel stepped back. Before she could disappear into the crowd, he caught her wrist.
Thin. Delicate. Her skin was smooth beneath his calloused grip, worn rough by years of swordplay.
“Perhaps,” he said with a grin, “but the festivities are still going. How about a drink, Lady Victa? To celebrate the joy of victory.”
She nodded without hesitation, her grin bright and unmistakably feline.
He wasted no time leading her back toward his table, her wrist still loosely held in his grasp.
And as they moved through the chaos, she did nothing but giggle and smile, carefully stepping over fallen mugs and spilt wine—utterly unbothered by the storm she had just caught.
━─🐢────🐢───🐢─━─━
Time passed without Lyonel quite noticing.
The inn slowly thinned, the earlier chaos mellowing into something heavier and sluggish.
Men slumped over tables, goblets forgotten in lax hands. A few had already been dragged away by companions or servants, while others slept where they fell, unmoving save for the rise and fall of their chests.
The music dulled, shifting from lively reels to slower tunes, the sort meant to carry a night gently toward its end.
Victa sat beside Lyonel at his table.
Not upon his lap, nor pressed too close—just there, perched on a chair as though she had always belonged at his side.
Her legs swung faintly beneath the table as she spoke, hands moving as if she were illustrating thoughts only she could see. She giggled often, especially when she lost her own train of thought, cheeks still warm from dancing and drink alike.
“And then he tripped,” she said, stifling another laugh behind her hand. “Straight into the tide. Claimed later it was intentional, but everyone knew better.”
Lyonel chuckled, eyes fixed on her face rather than the half-empty goblet before him. He did not interrupt her. He found that he did not wish to.
She spoke easily, words tumbling out in quick succession—stories of island life, of sailors and songs, of odd little details most would dismiss as unimportant. And yet, each time she mentioned a name, a year, a place, she was precise. Unwavering.
“You remember all that?” he asked eventually, leaning back in his chair.
She blinked and then smiled. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
As though memory were the simplest thing in the world.
A servant passed, refilling goblets. Victa held the goblet with both hands, taking a small sip from one Lyonel offered, wrinkling her nose playfully before laughing again.
“Oh—did you know,” she began suddenly, eyes brightening as if struck by a thought, “that most people are wrong about Storm’s End?”
That caught his attention.
His smile sharpened. “That would surprise many.”
She nodded eagerly. “They all say it was built to keep storms out. To protect against them.” She dipped a finger into a small spill of wine on the table, tracing an idle circle. “But some of the older accounts say it was built to offend them.”
Lyonel laughed loudly. “To offend them?” he echoed.
“Yes.” She smiled, entirely unbothered by the weight of what she said. “As if daring the storm god to do worse. Thick walls, no windows, nothing for the wind to take hold of. Not a refuge—more like a challenge.”
She tilted her head, curls brushing her cheek.
“They say the storms didn’t stop because they were defeated. They stopped because they grew bored.”
For a moment, Lyonel did not laugh.
The inn seemed distant suddenly—the music, the murmurs, the scrape of chairs fading into something dull and indistinct. He stared at Victa, seeing her anew: the careless giggles, the easy smile, the sharpness beneath it all.
A girl who laughed lightly…and remembered things others forgot.
Eventually, she shifted in her seat and glanced around, as though noticing the hour for the first time.
“Oh.” She slid off the chair, smoothing her dress. “It’s late.”
He frowned faintly. “The night is still young.”
She smiled at him, soft and knowing. “For you, perhaps.”
He reached for her wrist out of instinct, the reminder of her warmth grounding him. “Stay,” he said, half-teasing, half-earnest. “Another drink.”
She hesitated—then gently freed herself. “I should go.”
And then, for the first time that night, she curtsied.
Not deeply.
Not stiffly.
Just enough.
“My lord.”
She turned away before he could answer, casting him one last look over her shoulder—eyes bright, lips curved in that familiar, mischievous smile. A giggle followed her as she disappeared into the thinning crowd, the door closing softly behind her.
Lyonel Baratheon remained where he sat.
Too drunk to follow.
Too enchanted to forget.
Sleep, he told himself dimly, would fix it. Once the wine left his system, once morning came, she would fade like all the others.
This was written based on a strange whimsical dream I had months back. It is based on Mystic Knights of Oingo Boingo and you, an amateur actor finding stomach butterflies better than getting on stage. (A legendary rockstar who’s passed makes a cameo.) Danny is in his late teens-early twenties, coming into his own having had some experiences with relationships. You are in your late teens-early twenties, too, but have no idea that the man you’d be rehearsing with is the man of your dreams.
Blueberry Trail
“I told you, I’m fine! I’m just nervous.”
The faint smell of formaldehyde fills the old hospital room. Flaking powder blue paint fills 19th century stucco walls in diamond patterns.
You sit there on the hospital bed fumbling a clear bag of fresh blueberry trail mix. In your obsessive, ruminating state, you regret saying yes to this new gig, afraid you might mess up. Eyes cross incessantly, dread fills your brain.
You’ve involved yourself in a gig where the character has a crazy birthday party. You are the main character, there’s a bouncy castle, and a band gets to play. What kind of band is the mystery.
Amid your nervous rumination, a theater troupe and a young rock artist enter the room, laughing and carrying on with their inside jokes. You lower your head, searching nervously for a fresh handful of blueberries. It is then that a theater troupe member plops himself on the hospital bed next to you. He’s ethereal, god-like.
A huge blush creeps across your face as you notice his black lipstick grin. “He’s not looking directly at me... ummm... oh my gosh..." He’s gorgeous. His hair all big, red and curly, his round-rimmed glasses crooked, and a big joker-like grin plastered across his clown makeup-caked face. He wears a sleeveless white shirt with small elephants in a pattern, his black theater pants with a red stripe down each pants' leg. You can’t help but keep looking out of your peripheral view. He’s just so handsome. That chiseled jawline through the caked make up gives you even more butterflies. Finally, you manage to look up, locking eyes.
“OY DANNY! LET’S GET A MOVE ON!” That rock artist looks so familiar. Couldn’t be Ozzy Osbourne... “Oh, sorry mate, I see you’re busy. This must be who performs with us.”
This Danny fellow shoots Osbourne a flustered, yet devious look. He looks back at you with his previous expression of alluring admiration.
“You here too for the gig?” His voice sounds like an angel. Good angel or fallen angel? Either way, he just doesn’t stop smiling.
“Ha, little Danny’s falling for a fellow cast member!” snorts another troupe member with similar big red hair and a longer pointy face. His face contorts into a big toothy grin that you find a bit unnerving, yet curious. They look like they could be brothers, somewhat at least.
“Shut up, Rick, can’t you see I’m busy!”
Mustering up the courage, you answer with a bit of hesitation. “I... um... well... you could say that... I guess.” You have no idea if any blueberry juice stains your mouth, or worse, your teeth. The butterflies keep building.
Suddenly, Danny stands up from his bed and makes his way to yours. He doesn’t practically sit in your lap, but he’s inches from your comfort zone, and this time the butterflies start doing somersaults. Oh, this can’t be good.
“Here, let me get that for you.” He takes a rag from his pocket and wipes some of the juice off your face. Ugh, so it WAS there. This Danny doesn’t seem to mind. He’s too busy being smitten by your big eyes and curly eyelashes.
“Ummm... oh... thanks?”
“No problem, darlin’. I’m Danny. And you are?”
As you say your name, a taller more brooding man with hulking features and a saxophone approaches. His menacing look never manages to leave his face. There does seem to be kindness to his eyes.
“Danny, we’re going on in an hour. You need to rehearse your lines!” His voice was monotone, but with an air of concern. He knows Danny to have a short attention span, especially with someone he’s fallen for.
“Sluggo, you know I don’t have many lines, maybe one or two.” He shifts his eyes back to you. “Lord knows I’m not much of an actor. But maybe we can help each other out.”
Having rehearsed your lines even through your nervousness an hour earlier, you find yourself encouraged by Danny and decide to give him assistance. Everyone else leaves to rehearse War Pigs and their Mystic Knight intro music.
-------------
Half an hour to 45 minutes passes. He’s still staring with his green-flecked brown bedroom eyes but you manage to get his one-liner nearly straight.
“When you said you liked jazz music, did you... wait... what was it again? I’m sorry I’ve been distracted.”
You giggle; your stomach has settled since the first moment your eyes met. “Danny, remember. ‘We know you like jazz music during your party. But what about metal and dancing clowns?’ And I reply...” You repeat your lines fluidly.
“You know, (Y/N), I can really tell of your passion for the stage. You’ll make it big. I, on the other hand, find myself wondering if I should go back to busking...”
He has no idea how talented he is. You can tell by the way his musical troupe sounds in the hospital waiting room that he’s part of some raw talent. He can go far.
“Tell me, Danny. I saw your trombone there. Have you other talents?”
Danny suddenly finds himself shy, his black lipstick grin turning slightly frowned. “Violin… percussion and… *ahem* I can sing somewhat. I mean, I do try. But percussion tops everything else. Especially marimbas and gamelan. I’m not afraid of doing it. I’m just afraid I’ll be terrible.”
You decide, after a half hour of assisting him with his few lines, to be bolder. Your hand finds itself reached out, and resting on his. “Where you believe you fail in one area, you can succeed in another.”
His slight frown returns to a wide grin, and through the caked make-up you can tell he’s blushing in return. He tilts his head and looks up and down your button-nosed face, reaches out his other hand, and gently caresses it. “You really are something. I want you to know that.” He leans in and kisses your left cheek.
You feel an even deeper blush of red creep over your face than before. The small space between you no longer exists. You turn your face, and press foreheads. At your boldest, you lift your head, clutch his chin gently, and press your lips to his. He smiles his biggest through the kiss. Touching tongues, you inhale one another.
Ozzy pops his head in, dressed as the “Clown Prince” of Darkness, clearing his throat. “Alright Danny, (Y/N), War Pigs Birthday Bash and Mystic Knights are a go. Let’s get the show on.” At last, rehearsal time.
The butterflies return ever so slightly. “Danny, while I’m feeling a bit better… I know it’s time and I'm getting a little scared again.”
Danny takes your hand in his and kisses it lovingly. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The wrong place at the wrong time that causes the most unlikely of social circles to merge and daily High School life a distant memory but there's no harm in still trying to blend in, after all there's nothing going on, not really.
Adding to the transformation corner! An attempt at a South Park fanfic!
I re-read this lately and thought it was pretty good, so I've been tidying it up a bit and thought I'd try sharing it out there.
This is a Style/Bunny/Creek fanfic in the long run.
Currently at 13 chapters!
(Weird how the link disappeared upon posting o.O?)
