tagged by @two-hands-toward-the-sun. i have...more wips than i remember at any given time, and i just peck at whichever one when the spirit moves me (usually when i'm procrastinating actual work). currently there's eight active in the rotation, with another handful that are more conceptual/bits and pieces i want to come back to later.
Sandman
Lucienne takes the Corinthian for walkies: this is in response to a Valentines day prompt @two-hands-toward-the-sun sent me, "going on a platonic date and being mistaken for a couple." Dream weaponized his sad wet eyes at Luce to make her take some PTO and also provide some enrichment for his recreated masterpiece. they go to the MOMAT
As though attuned to her thoughts, the Corinthian hangs back at a respectable distance—not out of sight, but perhaps out of mind, if she wished. When Lucienne frowns at him, trying to discern whether this is some kind of trick, he makes a show of fiddling with the audio guide, head turned away as he hooks the piece over his ear.
does your husband know the way the sunlight gleams on your wedding ring: Corinthian/Calliope fic in the period between Orpheus and Calliope & Dream's divorce. once again, a woman takes Coco out for her idea of a good time and proves literally anyone else would be a better owner for the Corinthian than Dream.
He means to retreat. He doesn’t think she’s noticed him, and he wouldn’t impose on her privacy. Calliope was always nice to him. But grief smells like weakness, and a Muse’s grief smells different from that of the humans he stalks in dreams, wearing the faces of their long-departed. His mouths water at the scent, unfamiliar but delectable. For a fleeting moment, he wonders what her eyes might taste like, what he’d see if he took them in his own.
gay coworkers: words are HAPPENING in the next installment!
“Technically—"
“C’mon, a memory wipe is hardly better—"
“I’m not defending his actions, I’m simply pointing out—"
“Stop talking about me like I’m not here,” the Corinthian snaps. Matthew and Lucienne exchange guilty glances. “You could at least wait until you’re back at the palace. Doing it in my house, that’s just fucking rude.”
la guard dog literal: Morpheus recreated the Corinthian as a (sort of, semi-eldritch) dog because surely that will fix his behavioral issues. Daniel still rehomes him with Rose Walker.
Jed twists around in his seat. The Corinthian snuffles obligingly at the hand he offers, gives the fingertips a quick swipe with his tongue. Jed’s face splits into a smile. That smile makes something warm unfurl in the Corinthian’s belly, prompts him to worm closer with a thready whimper. No threat. Which is maybe the biggest lie he’s ever told and he didn’t even speak it in human words, but in the moment he desperately wants Jed to believe it, and not just so he can sink his teeth into that vulnerable neck still soft with baby fat.
what if we made those daddy issues literal: semi-period accurate 1920s fic where the Corinthian is Dream's troublesome ward and Matthew is the tutor Dream hires to bring him in line. is this because i'm obsessed with Assad Zaman's outfits in hotel portofino? yes.
“Dream’s not my father.”
“I thought—"
“He’s my guardian. Keeper. Master. Whatever.”
“He—"
“Of course he’s benevolent. Can afford to be, I suppose. So long as I perform well.”
“Does he—?”
“Not how you’re thinking.” Cori barks a short, humorless laugh. “That wouldn’t be conducive to his long-term plans, would it? Breaking his toy before it can be of any real use.”
“That’s—"
“Good? Yeah. Sure.” Something shutters in his expression. “After all, what would become of this poor orphan child without some generous benefactor to mold him into a productive member of society? Why, then he might just be a scoundrel or, worse—an inconvenient corpse rotting in the road.”
“I—"
“Well. No use speculating, right?” He flashes a grin that makes Matt think of a dog baring its teeth. “I’ll see you after lunch.”
Matt, dumbfounded, watches him walk away.
Logan/X-men
rehome that animal: sequel to the dog crate fic
Mendez isn’t sure what he expected to find in the Wolverine’s hideout.
It certainly wasn’t this.
This being his former boss, presumed dead after A-T’s last (as in latest, as in final) attempt to retcon its X-23 project several months ago. Mendez didn’t recognize him at first, but he thinks he’d be forgiven for the slight: the Donald Pierce before him looks a lot different from the Reaver commander who’d swanned around in a leather duster and tinted sunglasses, barking orders. Now he’s mostly naked and washed-out looking like maybe he hasn’t seen much sun. His once carefully groomed beard has been shaved to expose sharp cheekbones and a delicate chin. All his muscle and fat is gone, so the jut of his ribs and spine and pelvis show with every small twitch. There’s a lot of twitching, like his body can’t decide whether to prepare for fight or flight.
horse is a one-trick pony and the trick is Werewolves: if you didn't foresee me turning the Reavers into a (literal) wolf pack...well, that's on you at this point.
The pack leader is keeping an eye on him. Not quite staring: casual flickers of his attention between Donald and whatever is happening on the laptop. Mendez’s eyes shine almost green in the bluish screen light. His face looks sharper. His lip twitches and shows the barest glimpse of fang.
...tagging @evenmyhivemindisempty, @cosmictapestry, @aisalynn, @crimeronan, and @stellerssong. no pressure, i just like seeing what people are working on.
hannah, a kind and reasonable woman: it is may and i am sending you this prompt! maybe you would like to do a fic of it! in a reasonable time frame! but no pressure!
me, a goblin and a despicable freak: hahahaha oh my god prepare to be very disappointed
“So, good news bad news time.”
Wolfie pauses mid-phrase at the clavier and cranes over his shoulder at Stanzi, his snout pointing straight at the ceiling. Waggles his ears inquisitively.
“Awwrr?”
“The good news is, the serenade’s coming along nicely, I’ve been listening from the other room. I think the Countess will be really pleased with it when it’s done. You’re doing wonderful work, darling.”
Wolfie snorts and spins around on the bench to give Stanzi a look that reads clear as day, yes, thank you, but tell me something I don’t know, if you please. Stanzi sticks her tongue out at him—you absurd little genius—and he pulls a face that she can’t even begin to describe before cocking his head and letting out an impatient yap.
“The bad news is, we’re out of firewood.”
“Wrrawww?”
“You heard me,” Stanzi says, and Wolfie springs up off the bench and scurries over to the fireplace, snuffles at the hearth in a frenzy like there must have been some terrible mistake, and the cords of wood will magically appear in front of his twitching nose if he just wishes hard enough. When this fails to occur, he sits down with a bump on the hearth rug and makes a wordless sound more befitting a bereaved soprano in her death throes than a respected composer and musical prodigy and the toast of Vienna. Stanzi rolls her eyes.
“Look, I don’t know, I thought you were going to—”
“Wauh, wraooooww, ruuhh—”
“No, the man comes around every other day, Wolfie, and I told you I was going to be out, I had to buy—no, don’t you make that face at me.”
“Noooohh. I—buh-bhhad.”
“Self-flagellate all you want, that doesn’t put wood on the fire for me.”
“Suh. Suh-tan-tzee,” Wolfie wails. With a long mournful wheeze, he droops his ears and slumps his shoulders, the very image of a puppy left outside in the rain. All the better to bring the melodrama with. “Suh-tanzi c-cold.”
“Yes, and whose fault is that?” Wolfie gives another wounded whimper. “No, I’m joking, you big baby. I’ll survive one night. Just have to pile on the blankets, I suppose, and make sure we catch him tomorrow.”
“Mmm-mm.” He jumps up off the hearth rug and throws his arms around her, squeezes her tight, pokes his wet nose into her ear. “I k-keephhh. Wwrrarrrmmnn. Suh-tanzi wwwrrr—”
“All right, all right, I get it, Wolfgang!” she says, making a token struggle, but he locks his arms around her and licks at her cheek until she squeals and giggles and goes limp in his grasp. He shakes her back and forth a few times, like he’d do with a pilfered stocking on a boring full-moon afternoon. Calms a little. Lets Stanzi sway back and forth in the circle of his arms.
Sighs.
“That was your worried sigh. What is it?”
“Suhh. Owwrry. C-cold.” His clawed hand drifts down to her belly, starting to take on a little rounded curve under her dress and loosely-laced stays. “Phhuppy cold.”
“Oh, Wolfie, you know I’m not really angry. And the puppy—the baby—won’t be hurt by one little chill. We’ll be more careful about it in the future, though, right? Not all of us have fur coats to fall back on.”
“Mmn.”
Stanzi wriggles around in his embrace so she can kiss him on the snout. No hard feelings, see? Wolfie mutters to himself, unconvinced, but is distracted by the sound of the shutters banging against the window with a sudden draft. It stirs up the cold air in the room, and Stanzi tries and fails to conceal a shiver.
Wolfie notices. Of course he does. He makes another puppy-sound, high and anxious, and rocks her again, like he can shake the cold out of her. His breath tickles her ear, a soft tune hummed under his breath to the rhythm. Something with a little bounce to it. Stanzi frowns, trying to place the melody.
“Is that—? I don’t know that one. It’s one of yours, isn’t it, I can tell that much.”
“Mm-hmn. Wrrrote in—Phharis. For bhh, for, for b-bh-hh—”
“For the ballet?” Stanzi guesses. Wolfie nods, wrinkling his nose in distaste.
“S-stupid Fhhrench. Don’t knowwrr—mrrusic, if ith—ithhhh—urrghhh.” He hums a few more bars in lieu of forcing out more mangled words.
“Well, I think it’s nice, anyway. Even if those poncy French courtiers wouldn’t know a good ballet if it bit them in the ass.” She taps him on the nose. He lets out a yelp of laughter that he somehow contrives to place perfectly within the meter of the song, and then, with a sly smile, spins the little interruption into a lively variation. Breaking away from Stanzi, he skips around her, his paws sketching out the rough figures of what might have been a court dance in another life. Stanzi applauds mockingly.
“Such a talented monsieur. He composes, plays the clavier, and dances too! My goodness, I’ll bet the ladies are just battering down your door.”
“Urff.”
“What? What have I done now—? No, let go of me!”
Wolfie’s grabbed her by the hand and dragged her out into the middle of the floor, ignoring her giggling protests. “Stanzi wrrarm,” Wolfie insists. He shifts his hold on her hand to a more delicate dancer’s attitude and bounces from foot to foot. Looks at her with wide, expectant eyes. Now you.
“You’re ridiculous,” she snorts, but gamely copies his steps. Left, right, left, left again, right. Holds out her hand limp-wristed, pinky raised in the air. Wolfie lets out a loud bark of triumph and takes her by the waist, the better to whirl her around so quick her head spins.
She’s barely skidded to a stop before he’s frolicked away from her, humming a new tune, perhaps another movement of his ballet. The way he prances looks absolutely absurd, setting his tail bobbing up and down against the backs of his legs, but there’s no one watching them, after all. Stanzi launches into her own hopping, butchered court dance, swishing her skirts about behind her for lack of a tail to wave.
“Monsieur Mozart,” she purrs in a courtier’s plummy tones, “surely you’re not going to abandon me on the dance floor now? The gavotte’s my very favorite.”
Oh, no, mademoiselle, never, Wolfie all but says, and he whips his handkerchief out of his pocket and flutters it in front of his face like a fan as he promenades toward her. She approaches him as well, and they meet in the middle of the room, twirl around each other, kick up their heels.
“My, my! You dance better than the Dauphin. You must introduce me to your teacher.”
“Wowwrr rrrooww aruff urrff awwrrr.”
“Oh, la, sir, I’ll bet you say that to all the ladies.”
Wolfie hums a sweet little ending cadence and leans toward her. Stanzi presents her cheek for a chaste kiss.
“Yeeeeeeek! Wolfgang, you brute!”
Laughing like a mad thing, Wolfie leaps away, his tongue smeared with her rouge and face powder. Stanzi snatches a cushion off the settee and hefts it at him. “Oh, now you’re in for it—hold still and accept your punishment—” The pillow bounces off the wall as Wolfie dodges, squirms under the clavier, and sets off on a frantic lap around the room. Stanzi tries to follow, but she’s nowhere near as fast as Wolfie, or as maneuverable, not with her heavy skirts and pregnant belly. She ends up making little dashes back and forth, menacing him with a second cushion and laughing at his squeals of terror.
“Noooohh, nooo hhuh-hithhh!”
“Begging won’t do you any good, scoundrel! We can do this the easy way, or I can call the magistrates!”
Wolfie lets out a shrill bark, feinting left and right in a vain attempt to send Stanzi reeling in the wrong direction. She jumps towards him, hands outstretched to grab—and treads hard on the ruffled hem of her skirt. The seam tears with a loud ripping noise, and Stanzi squeals, overbalances, teeters forward…
“Nononononooooooo!”
Quick as a wink, Wolfie leaps forward and shoots up onto his hind legs. Stanzi’s shout is muffled in satin and lace; she’s fallen face-first into his chest. He throws his arms around her, a bit unnecessarily, and makes a displeased whiny-growly noise, poking at her with his long muzzle.
“Wolfie—Wolfgang, I’m all right, I’m fine. Thank you for catching—eek, Wolfie, stop!”
“Nnn-noooo,” Wolfie scolds, getting her in a more secure grip and half-carrying her to the settee. Despite his goofiness and absurd, lanky build, he has the strength of all his kind in him, and Stanzi couldn’t squirm free even if she’d had the breath to do so. He deposits her on the cushions with a satisfied grunt and a final admonition of, “C-carefhhhul.”
“You’re the one who ran in the first place, if you’d just let me hit you with the pillow—” The rest of her sentence is lost in a sharp oof as Wolfie flops himself over her torso. He squirms in a self-satisfied manner.
“Stanzi wrrrarm.”
“Stanzi can’t breathe, you ass.” The snark comes without any particular sting to it. She has to admit to herself, she is a bit flushed from their shenanigans, and Wolfie’s coat is very soft and warm, like the finest of fur rugs. She snuggles into him a little, and he puts his head back, a smile stretching over his muzzle.
“Phhuhh—bh, bh-ay-bhhhy wrrarm?”
“He’d better be, because I’m not going to be doing any more dancing tonight.”
Also what's your wereverse? I keep seeing the tag on your posts so now I'm curious 👀
the sandman wereverse is a no-powers-but-still-magic au where Dream is a medieval esoterica scholar and Cori is his former best-friend/roommate/lab partner-turned-werewolf. shenanigans and pining ensue. it's the red moon series on ao3.
to @the-everqueen, on the occasion of your departure for the land of Jefferson: a ficlet that has nothing to do with any of that. hope this brings some cheer <3
Sulking is unladylike, Papa always says, you’re too old to act like a spoiled baby, Marianne. You ought to set a good example for your brother. And most of the time, Nannerl tries very hard to abide by his instructions. After God comes Papa, as Wolfie might say (when he has the voice for it). He knows best, and Nannerl isn’t trying to dispute that.
But this is a special occasion, she thinks. She can have a single coach ride to be self-indulgent. So Nannerl is Sulking, with a capital S.
She’d begged and begged for one, just one of the brightly-bound little novels she’d seen in the shop windows in Augsburg, with tempting titles promising tales of love and devotion. If she could have just one, she’d said, she was quite sure it would keep her properly occupied all the way to Mannheim, she’d bury her nose in it and not make a peep all the way into the next city, promise. But no, Papa had replied, scoffing, quite impossible, we haven’t the money for frivolities like that, and besides they’re bad for the mind, you can’t trust a printer you don’t know not to let rubbish go to press. And when Papa uses that tone, there’s no changing his mind, no matter how one protests that one is twelve years old, practically a grown-up, and can tell the difference between a silly story and reality, and wouldn’t have her mind rotted by one single book, anyway. He’d taken Nan by the arm and whisked her along with such speed that Mama hadn’t even had time to hurry in and grab a novel to sneak to her later, like she sometimes does with other little treats that Papa hasn’t time for.
And the worst part of it was, the concert they’d been on their way to ended up being delayed for nearly an hour, even though they’d pulled a sizable crowd. Papa had paced and paced, scanning the faces of the audience as though searching for someone, and only after folk had started to shuffle their feet and mutter had he shaken himself and allowed Nan and Wolfie to take to the keyboard. They’d’ve had time to buy a book. They’d’ve had time for Papa to look through all the ones on display and find the least offensive one, even, if he was really so worried.
So, yes, Nan is bitter. And the worst of it is, Papa’s not even awake to take note of her ire—he’s fast asleep, his head tipped back against the wall of the coach they’re riding in, Mama leaning on his shoulder. Nan scowls at them and scrawls a line in her travel diary with unnecessary force, half-hoping it’ll wake them up so they’ll see just how unhappy she is.
have left Agsberg to day by Coach. Mama hopes we will reach Ulm by Night but Papa says we Shant unless we drive the horses into the Ground.
At least she has something to do with herself, even if it isn’t nearly as interesting as reading a story. Papa says an ordered mind is a great virtue, and can even be persuaded into praising Nan for the tidy little chronicles she keeps of their travels, so write she will. I Hope there is some Whay we can get to Ulm quick without hurting the Horses as I am a bit Tired of travell, she scratches, before scribbling it out. Not necessary, that’s what Papa would say, just write down what happened, no need for all these little asides and interjections. Well, she’ll write down what’s happened in Augsburg and then go back over to edit. That’ll surely eat up a good bit of time.
She replaces the scribbled-out line with the beginnings of a passage about their performances these past few days, smiles in satisfaction. Much better. And while she writes, the coach is bouncing onward—they’ll be in Ulm before she knows it.
Unfortunately, not every member of their family is so easily occupied.
“Nan.”
Nan wrinkles up her nose and crosses out a misspelling. A-u-g, right. Good thing she caught that. Papa would scold if he’d spotted it.
“Naaaaaaaaan.”
Nan looks out the window, pretending to consider her next sentence.
“Nanny-Manny-Wanny-Fanny—”
“All right, all right, you’re going to wake Mama and Papa up!” Nannerl says irritably, turning about on the bench and glaring at her little brother. “What do you want, you pest?”
Wolfie gives her his best look of wounded innocence, widening his bright gold eyes and hanging his lip. With the frosting of silver fur appearing at his hairline and his nose just starting to lengthen into a muzzle, he gives one the impression of looking at a heartbroken little old man.
“I’m bored.”
“We’ve barely been on the road for an hour, Wolfie. We won’t be in Mannheim for a while yet.” Wolfie lets out a dismayed squeal like a dog being stepped on.
“It can’t’ve only been an hour, we’ve already been stuck in here forever and forever! I wanna get out!”
“Well, you can’t. You heard Papa, if we stop every five minutes like we’ve been doing we’ll never even make it to France before the year’s done, and we’ll have to turn around and go back home. Don’t you want to perform in Paris, Wolfie?”
“But we’re not going to Paris, we’re going to Mannheim, you just said it yourself.”
“We’re going to Paris after Mannheim, and Frankfurt, and—wherever. We’ll get there when we get there.”
“When?”
“I don’t know, Wolfie.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Obviously not, stupid.”
“The day after tomorrow?”
“No!”
“The day after the day after—”
“Will you quit it?” Nan snaps. Wolfie grins a fangy, delighted grin at having gotten a rise out of her, before slumping back down against the door on his side of the coach.
“Riding in coaches is boring,” he grumbles. “There’s nothing to do, and my head hurts from all the bouncing, and I’m getting a kink in my tail.”
“You don’t even have a tail right now.”
“Well, when it comes in, it’s gonna be crooked as an old branch, because I’ve been sitting on my ass for so long.” Wolfie grins a little again at the swear, darts a glance at Mama and Papa. Papa lets out a grunting snore and says nothing; even he can’t scold when he’s fast asleep.
“Whining about it isn’t going to do you any good,” says Nan, in her best impression of Papa’s severe lecturing tone. “You could work on one of the sonatas you started the other day.”
“But then I’ll get sick.” It’s true—Wolfie does have quite the tendency to get queasy when he reads or writes while they’re traveling by coach. He makes a sour face at Nan’s diary, the pages filling up with lines of her delicate, slanting handwriting. “It’s not fair. If I could write like you can in the coach, I’d have a whole symphony done by the time we got to Mannheim. Two symphonies, even. Three.”
“Look out the window? Watch the scenery?”
“That’s no fun if you can’t smell anything, dummy, and you can’t, because everything in here stinks of horse.” He cocks his head, considering. “Do you think, maybe, if I asked Papa really nicely—really really nicely—he’d let me get out and run alongside—”
“Never in a million years.”
Wolfie blows a loud raspberry of annoyance. Mama’s head bobs up at the sound before dropping back down onto Papa’s shoulder. “You know I could do it.”
“Could not.”
“Could so. Just because you run so slow—”
“Even you can’t run as fast as a team of horses. And you’d bang up your hands, and couldn’t play, and Papa would be furious.”
“Oh. Huh. Right.” Wolfie examines his hands for a second, the neatly manicured claws and velvety-soft pads on the palms. “That’d be bad.”
His voice goes soft and wobbly all of a sudden, as though Papa really were awake and in a towering mood and ready to rain down fire on his disobedient pup. Nan feels her irritation melt away, and she caps her inkpot, lays her diary to the side, pats her lap. “Here, Wolfie—do you think you could nap? The trip’ll go faster if you sleep. And this should be more comfortable than trying to sleep sitting up. Can’t have you getting a kink in your tail and your neck.”
Ever eager for pets and cuddles, Wolfie scoots close and lays his head in Nan’s lap, curling himself on the narrow bench as best he can. Nan lets him settle down before scratching under his chin at that spot that makes him sigh and go quite limp no matter what shape he’s in. “Good,” he mumbles, and falls silent. Nan runs her fingers through his curls, watches a tree at the side of the road slip past. Some peace at last. And, if she’s being honest, the steady rhythm of petting and the soft hair and fur under her hands are nice. Wears away some of her irritation.
“Nan,” Wolfie says.
“Hmm?”
“I’m sorry about your book. That Papa wouldn’t let you get one, I mean.”
“Oh. Um.” Nan works that over for a moment. It all sounds horribly silly when said out loud, as touched as she is by Wolfie’s concern. You’re being absurd, murmurs a voice in her head that sounds a lot like Papa’s, you’re the big sister, to sit there and let Wolfgang of all people comfort you, it’s unbecoming. And over a book, of all things. “It’s fine, Wolfie. It didn’t matter. I didn’t care at all. Really.”
Wolfie makes one of his distrusting dog-grunts, but instead of arguing, simply says, “I could tell you a story, if you like. To make up for it.” He rolls over in her lap and fixes her with a golden stare, so solemn and sincere that Nan can’t help but smile.
“All right, then, fine. What’s your story?”
“Once upon a time, ummm—” Wolfie frowns in concentration, his ears twitching. “Once upon a time there was—a kingdom far far away where—everything went backward.”
Nan snorts. “Great story.”
“I’m not done! Everything went backwards—people walked backwards up and down the streets, and all the horses ran behind the carriages, and everyone talked backwards, so if you wanted to tell someone ‘good morning’, you’d have to say, um, um—” Wolfie’s mouth moves silently for a moment as he puzzles it out. “—you’d have to tip your hat and say, ‘gninrom doog.’” He giggles at the nonsense.
“And everyone got dressed in their finest suits and ball gowns before climbing into bed,” Nan adds, warming to the theme. “And ate dessert before dinner.”
Wolfie licks his lips longingly. “And all the birds swam in the river and the fish flew through the sky.”
“And everyone woke up when the sun went down and went to bed in the morning—”
“—And the sun rose in the west and set in the east!”
“And all the cats chased the dogs—”
“That’s stupid, no they didn’t,” Wolfie interrupts, sounding so offended that Nan laughs out loud and tweaks his nose.
“Fine, fine, no they didn’t. My mistake.”
“Hmph.” Wolfie pouts a bit before going on. “Anyway, and you were the Queen and I was the King. The King and Queen of—Back. The Kingdom of Back.”
“The Kingdom of…Back.”
“Because everything’s backwards, you see.”
“Really creative.”
“Be nice, I made you the queen, didn’t I?”
“Oh, forgive me, your Majesty. Um, I mean, ytsejam ruoy.” Nan flutters her eyelashes and inclines her head like she’d seen the Electress do when she and Wolfie had performed at court in Munich.
“Anyway—one day I was out for a walk in the palace gardens—there are still gardens in Back—and I ran into a little wolf pup crying because he’d lost his pack. Please, please, your Majesty, I’m so very lonely, can you help me? he said. I’ve lost my family and I’ve nowhere to go.
“Of course, I said to him, and then do you know what I did? I, I…” Wolfie trails off, with a furtive look on his face. He beckons her closer, and she leans down for him to whisper in her ear.
“Well?”
Wolfie lets out a shrill, nervous giggle, and then whispers sharply, “I—bit him!”
Nan gasps in horror, shoots a frightened glance at Papa, still dozing in his seat. “Wolfgang!”
“No, no, no, you see, what happened was this, he, it, it was all fine,” Wolfie babbles, sitting up quick as a flash, his ears trying to fold down in submission. “Didn’t I say everything was backward in Back? So it’s not bad if I—did that—it’s good, even, because do you know what happened? The wolf pup said oh and sat up and made a face, like this—” He bugs his eyes out, gapes his mouth, showing off his sharp white puppy teeth. “And then poof! He turned into a little boy!”
He cocks his head and smiles desperately, squirming in his seat like the tail he doesn’t have is trying to wriggle its way between his legs. Look, look, I’m not a threat, I’m just a silly pup, you see what a harmless little thing I am?
Nan’s not taken in by the act. “It isn’t funny, Papa would be so angry if he heard you talking about b-biting people—”
“But I didn’t mean, you know I didn’t mean it like that!”
“Even if you didn’t, you shouldn’t joke about a thing like that, Wolfie, you could get in trouble!”
“It’s not a joke, it’s not me being horrible, it’s just the story!” Wolfie’s voice has risen to an outraged wail. “And it’s a happy ending anyway, the little boy learns to play clavier and then he goes on a journey all over Europe to perform and everyone loves him, and we get to go home to our castle with Mama and Papa, and it’s big and beautiful, and all of our friends are there, and you have all the time in the world to play clavier and write in your diary, and I have time to write, and we’re home, really and truly, and, and…and that’s the end.” There are tears sparkling in Wolfie’s eyes by the end of this. He snuffles, and wipes his face on his sleeve. “We go home. That’s all. You know I’d never do that to someone, really. It was just a story.”
“And what do I say about telling nonsense tales without thinking first?” says a dry voice, and both Nan and Wolfie jump.
Papa blinks at them from across the coach, clearly awake, lines of displeasure etched across his forehead. He raises an eyebrow, waiting. “Well, Wolfgang?”
“…That you’ll never know the harm they’ll do until it’s done.” Wolfie sits up straight in his seat and looks down at his knees. “Sorry, Papa. I’m sorry.”
Papa makes a little displeased noise, like maybe so, but I’ll deal with you later. “And Nannerl, I’m surprised at you, encouraging him to make a fuss like that. You ought to know better.”
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, Papa.”
“Hmm.” Papa adjusts his position in his seat, tucking his arm around Mama gently so as not to disturb her. “Do try and behave yourselves, please. We’ve a long way to go until Mannheim, and I should prefer to stay on our schedule.”
Nan and Wolfie both flinch involuntarily. Going off-schedule—they know what that means. Late rehearsal nights, where nothing they play pleases Papa, meager dinners in cheap inns to save money, scoldings and lectures and, worst of all, the stony silences that say very clearly, if it were not my God-given duty to give you both your start in the world, I should be off home to Salzburg in an instant. No, Nan doesn’t want that, and she’s sure Wolfie doesn’t either. She twists her fingers in her lap, bites her tongue, prays Wolfie has the good sense to do so as well.
Sometimes the meek and contrite act is enough to head Papa off. Maybe it will work this time, and they can continue on their merry way to Ulm, conflict forgotten. As long as Wolfie doesn’t whimper. Papa never likes that. Nan waits, very aware of the catch in Wolfie’s breath. Don’t let it break, don’t let it break.
“…You both ought to rest, if you can,” Papa says at last, in a gentler tone, and a knot untwists in Nan’s chest. He settles back down next to Mama. “Can’t have either of you taking sick on the road. You’ll be playing for the Elector Palatine in Mannheim, won’t that be something? Have to keep your strength up until then. So. If you can sleep for a bit, and not wake your poor Mama…”
“Yes, Papa,” Nan and Wolfie chorus. They both sit there, perfectly quiet and still, watching Papa from under their eyelashes, until he’s made himself comfortable and his breathing has evened out. They wait a minute more, to be safe.
Papa’s brows knit, relax, then—home free—he sighs and starts to snore. Next to Nan, Wolfie goes quite limp and flops down onto the bench with a thump. Nan looks at him pityingly. Can’t even really be upset that he’s the one who woke Papa in the first place, when he’s making that face like he’s been kicked and thrown in a gutter.
“Wolfie,” she mutters, patting her lap again. Wolfie makes tragic eyes at her and turns his head away, scoots over to the far edge of the bench to sit up and press his face against the door of the coach. Poor little thing. Nan’s still smarting from the edge of the scolding she caught herself, but it hurts just as badly to see Wolfie in such a state.
If they weren’t on the road, Wolfie could pull himself out of his funk with practice or composing or one of his silly puppy games, but there’s nothing to take his mind off things here in this coach. Nothing but…
An idea sparks to life in Nan’s brain, and she seizes her diary, flips to the first blank page, uncaps her inkpot and dips her quill. A drop of ink splatters on her skirt—Mama and Papa will surely scold her for her untidiness later, but for the moment she can’t care about that. Her tongue creeps between her teeth as she squints down at the page in concentration, her quill scratching on the paper.
Yes, perfect—and now—she frowns, jabbing with the tip of her quill at the page. Have to get this just right. B-a-c-k—that makes k-c-a-b, only the b is a capital—
Several minutes go by. Nan blows on the ink to help it set, nods at her work, then turns and reaches across the coach to tug on Wolfie’s sleeve. It takes several tries, but finally he turns his baleful stare on her, now looking very like their neighbors’ elderly dog back in Salzburg disturbed mid-nap. She makes a furtive gesture at the diary on her lap. Come, come see.
Wolfie scoots across the bench to look. Nan’s sketched a blobby castle with a flag flying from the tallest tower, flowers growing at the bottoms of the walls. Two little figures in front of it: a girl in long skirts, and a boy with pointed ears poking out from under his crown. And a carefully-penned legend at the top: kcaB ot emocleW.
Wolfie’s eyes widen, and he looks up at Nan, a hopeful smile playing about the corners of his mouth. Nan grins and waggles the quill.
“Finish your story, please?” she whispers. “Properly, this time. I’ll write it all down. That way we’ll have it forever and always. Our very own book.”
Wolfie beams, his shoulders heaving with a suppressed bark of joy.
“Once upon a time,” he recites under his breath, “in the Kingdom of Back…”
scannerwhatscanner.jpg a.k.a. Alex catches a mouse
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i would just like you all to know the following:
a) i have been longing since the very first day of wereham au being a thing for someone to draw my ugly dog son at the worst phase of his transformation (“which is the worst phase, swan” all of the phase is worst they are all uniquely Bad and i love them all)
b) Shaina @philly-osopher loves me very much and wants me to be happy
tagged by @two-hands-toward-the-sun. sharing the latest lines from the postdoc werewolf fic because i am Excited for people to read it:
They do the ritual on new moon.
According to Dream’s notes, it’s crucial that the “excision” happen on the cusp of the change. Dream clears out a wide area in the living room and draws an intricate circle of runes for the process. Cori asks, “shouldn’t we do this in a sterile lab?” and gets a flat glare for the trouble. Fuck him for not wanting sepsis, apparently. Then again, most of their research indicates werewolves benefit from a rapid healing factor. Dream, oddly enough, has been hesitant to test those claims, although he is putting them to the ultimate test with his hypothesis that Cori will regenerate an eye.
Just looking at the rune circle makes Cori’s head hurt. Danger, trap, howls the wolf, and he can’t even muster the yeah, for you retort that should be ready on his tongue. He catches himself sneaking quick glances at the chalked symbols, the reflexive impulse to keep a predator in your line of sight. In the days leading up to new moon, his heart races with alternate hope and apprehension. What he wouldn’t give for some benzos to tamp down the constant stutter pulse in his throat, but his taste in recreational drugs tends toward uppers and he’s out of weed.
tagging @violetoftheendless, @rriavian, and @honeyteacakes. no pressure! also anyone else who follows me and wants to share what they're working on should feel free to play.
think it's important to note in #5 that while one of the werewolves area woman is smuggling out of her workplace on her boss's behalf is her boss's ex, the other werewolf is. her boss. so.
excellent point. Dream can hold multiple positionalities at once. even when he's not containing the entire collective unconscious. and oh boy. the positions we are making him occupy...
(i still haven't gotten to the part where Lucienne takes off Cori's muzzle and frankly that's unfair to me.)
