#writey writey writey

[fiercalicious]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/87806171

it's alive ! sort of. maybe.

[fiercalicious]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/86144906

another side fic. someday i will write a main thing again maybe

[fiercalicious]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/68202801/chapters/209417206

see you in another six months👍

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[fiercalicious]

passage from a wip fic i almost certainly wont finish

-

As soon as she stepped into the costuming room, Kori felt exceedingly out of place. Hormona and her apprentices worked in a focused hush. Half-finished pieces hung from just about wherever they could fit a coathanger, be it on actual racks, curtain rails, or the backs of chairs. Despite how low, and almost peaceful it was, the hum of sewing machines felt like it was carving into her brain.

Coughing to announce her presence, Kori braced her hands on the doorframe, leaning in. While Hormona didn't even look up from hand-stitching finishing touches on a cape, her assistants gazed up at her fast with wide, curious eyes. "Uh, I gotta pick up a costume for Suzie?"

Kori wasn't sure what she'd imagined when Suzie had warned her about the art school kids, but a pair of leather-clad goths... Was probably pretty close, yeah.

The first one, all sharp edges and clean lines, curled her lip up in a sarcastic grin. "Tell her her design outlines are ugly!" Her leather jacket was shiny, polished, almost like vinyl.

The second was scruffier, with smudged eyeliner and unfinished hems. "And tell her to thank me for stopping Arri from making edits to those design outlines." She said dryly. Her leather jacket was worn, cracked, probably vintage.

The sharp one - Goth Major, Kori dubbed her internally, more for the fact that the other one was so tiny - hit her friend with an innocent look that didn't match the devilish grin she was flashing. "C'mon, Brooksy, they were begging for it!"

Hormona sighed with all the weariness of someone that had sat through too many days of this kind of back and forth. "Arrietty, be a dear and grab it for this nice girl, will you?"

"You don't know if I'm nice yet." Kori jabbed, unable to help herself. "I could be an asshole."

Goth Major - or, Arrietty, as Hormona had let slip - rolled her eyes, dragging herself reluctantly to her feet to comply with Hormona's instruction. "She's a butthole, so you're in good company." She pointed at Goth Minor as she passed her on the way to the back, who laughed - a surprisingly light, airy sound.

It was then that the flowers in Kori's gut became restless.

Leaning back against the wall, she loose a small puff of air, trying to look casual, easy, like she wasn't moments away from spewing a whole garden centre all over Hormona's precious bolts of fabric. Thankfully, her and her remaining emo worker elf seemed much more focused on their work than Kori's quiet turmoil - in fact, the little goth was very pointedly focused on re-threading her bobbin, avoiding looking up altogether. Very shy weird kid stereotype, which worked for Kori's current purposes.

Arrietty emerged from the closet, mouthing off as soon as she was out the door. She carried Suzie's diabolical pink clown outfit at arm's length, as if proximity to it would seep the bad taste into her veins. "So when Tootsie said she was getting a stagehand, I didn't realise she was going full on, like, hired muscle." She looked Kori up and down, somewhere between impressed and mystified. "The heaviest thing you're gonna be carrying is one of Lucky's set pieces, the fuck?"

"Oh, down. Those arms..." Goth Minor finally chipped in, and finally, she let her eyes rove over Kori's body, from her biceps to her thighs to her calves, unabashed and unashamed. And fuck, Kori had spent too long staring at her eyes, a jarringly bright, crystalline blue that made her feel all too seen. But as she looked down to try and seem more normal, she caught sight of the little goth's tongue darting out to wet her lips. "You could probably pull me like taffy." She murmured, entranced.

Huh. Maybe she wasn't so shy, then. Kori couldn't help but break into a smug grin. "I mean, if you're asking." She gloated with a wink, flexing her arms a little.

A playful smirk pulled at the corners of the art kid's mouth. "Maybe I am."

The shared moment was broken by the sound of Arrietty making a gagging noise. "Stop flirting, it's gross." She complained, swatting her friend lightly on the shoulder.

"Weren't you just talkin' about you chatting up Lucky and Lana in one day?" Hormona didn't look up from her sewing as she spoke, but there was a sneaky little smile on her ducked face.

Arrietty made an affronted sound, and as she and Hormona began to bicker, Goth Minor turned to Kori, ignoring them entirely. She gazed at Kori with those big fucking blue eyes, smiling faintly. "What's your name, Suzie's friend?"

"Kori. What's yours, Hormona's pet goth?"

She laughed again, lighthearted and slightly wheezy. "Lydia." She jabbed a thumb to her friend. "That's Arrietty. She's gutted."

Arrietty turned fast, menace flashing in her eyes. "Excuse me, bitch. I'm a fucking angel." She protested, affronted. "You're the rotted one, you just act sweet to people's faces." Tutting, she turned to Kori. "Don't fall for it, biggums."

She foisted Suzie's garment onto Kori like it was burning her, shocking Kori into remembering why she was here. And now that she was holding it, she had no reason to linger. Still, it took her a moment to find the words, her mouth strangely dry. "I'll get this ugly piece of shit to Suze, then."

As she turned to leave, she heard Lydia's quiet, melodic voice murmur, "See you around, Kori," with an unmistakable mischief that sent vines coiling up her throat.

Kori had never left a room so fast.

[fiercalicious]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

i hope you like ALL STATS 10 ROULETTE FIC that i actually finished

my semifinal ship is aja/irene which i was plannign on writing eventually anyway so lets see if i finish that in a timely fashion

[fiercalicious]

Vivian could not breathe. But it wasn’t so bad.

The world was cozy, hearth-fired, and it warmed her to her very core. Every time she tried to inhale something caught in her throat, so she stopped bothering. She let the heat consume her, focused on the flickering light behind her eyelids.

Distantly, she heard a shout. She couldn’t make it out properly over the crackling sound, though. Didn’t matter. It was soothing.

“Vivian!”

Was that her name? She couldn’t quite remember. Things were starting to get quite uncomfortably hot now, her body covering in a sticky sheen of sweat in a futile attempt to cool down.

“Vivi! C’mon, get up—“

Strong arms wrapped around her waist, their clothes smooth and cool, and she forced her eyes open, taking her first, gasping breath. Her senses were struck with the pungent smell of ash and petrol.

“Irmie?” She couldn’t hold herself up, the heat worming into her every muscle and bone, sapping her energy. But Irma was more than glad to take her weight, as they pat her down, checking for injury. She liked their touch. It was far more comforting than the blistering heat.

As their careful fingers brushed over her hand, she let out a soft cry. The skin was raw and painful, and she hadn’t even noticed.

Then she was being pulled closer, Irma swamping her with their arms, bringing her into a tight hug. She buried herself in their chest, home.

“No more playing with fire, Viv. You scared the fuck out of me.” They sighed breathlessly into her hair.

Vivian blinked fuzzily, trying to clear the blurriness from her vision, and then finally brought her gaze to something other than Irma. They were stood in a house - or, what remained of a house. The entire place was an inferno, fire licking up wooden beams that she’d meticulously treated with gasoline she’d pilfered from the gas station hours before. Her deft hands were now covered in burns, her quick brain numbed by the heat. The light of the flames danced in her eyes.

She reached out a red, shiny hand to the nearest flame, entranced by the colour, the rhythm, the life, but Irma took her gently by the wrist and pulled it away. They then took her by the chin, with a gloved hand, turning her to focus on them.

“We’re going home, okay?” Their tone was stern, decisive. Vivian couldn’t help but nod. Anything to make them happy; they had a crease in their brow from worrying so much, and she wanted to kiss it away.

They hoisted her up into a bridal carry, and their protective boots thunked against the burned wood as they left the burning house behind.

[fiercalicious]

this one’s weird and morbid . funky 2am concept ramble. tw for murderrr

It wasn’t long until Vivian noticed the way Irma eyed the chemicals on the counter with anxious eyes. Their hands were balled to their chest, recoiled, afraid of what was laid before them.

“Oh, my dearest, you don’t have to be so complex.” She promised. She pressed herself to Irma’s back, and reached a slender hand over their shoulder. “It’s good to start simple. It doesn’t take much to kill a man.” She giggled gleefully, breath ticking their ear, sending a wash of goosebumps down their neck. “Not physically, anyway. Psychologically? Well, that’s a little more up for debate.”

She pulled back, took them by the hands, and twirled them around to face her. Her manic grin softened when she saw the worry on Irma’s face. “Don’t be scared, darling.” She cooed, so soft, so sweet. She cupped their cheek with a warm hand, and they leant instinctively into the touch, intoxicated. “It isn’t so hard. Just a little rat poison, in his evening scotch. Run upstairs and lock the doors.“ As she whispered the instructions so tender, she continued to caress their cheek. “Remember to cover your ears to block out the screaming, okay?”

For the rest of the evening, Irma remained slumped against Vivian’s shoulder. They watched through half-lidded eyes as she continued delicately stirring together the bottles of cleaning liquid she had laid out on the kitchen counter, until she proudly held up a beaker of a thin, green solutions. She winked conspiratorially at Irma, before dunking it into a bottle of beer.

Patting them on the back, Vivian led Irma out of the back door of the house once they heard clumping footsteps coming down the staircase. And as they hopped the garden fence, Irma could hear choked screams behind.

[fiercalicious]

tw gore

-

He coughs.


And chokes.


And starts to collapse to the floor.

Irma can’t look away. He’s trying to take breaths, to cling to his final lifelines - to no avail. Every breath is cut short before it can begin, and he just ends up making these pathetic, choked sounds. With every breath, something hoarse starts to form in the back of his throat. And with a few more, blood begins to spurt feebly out of his mouth.

The colour is hypnotising. It’s a stark crimson against the ghostly white hue his face has turned. They take a few, tentative steps closer, feeling Vivian’s dark gaze on their back, appraising. As they near him, he slumps onto his hands and knees, and hacks a thick glob of blood onto the hardwood floor.

Far away, Vivian tuts disapprovingly. “I’m going to have to scrub that off later, you know.” Her voice fills every inch of Irma’s skull, enveloping their entire world. “You’re a guest in this house.”

Irma continues to stare down at him. He raises his head, staring at them with bulging eyes. They’re raw and red from lack of oxygen, and specks of blood fleck in the corners. Blood trickles from his mouth to his chin in a neat little line. He gasps, tries to gasp, his chest heaving with the movement.

From here, Irma could snap his neck. Make things quick. But they don’t. He doesn’t deserve an easy departure.

He’s turning blue, now, and his eyes are starting to go glassy. He glares past Irma, to some light at the end of the tunnel, maybe. Or maybe his eyes can’t focus anymore. One of the two.

And, before they know it, he drops. His arms give out, unable to sustain his weight anymore. He hits the ground with a rather anticlimactic thwack!

The sound makes Irma chuckle. It’s soft at first, but it makes Vivian laugh too. Vivian’s laughter is always infectious, so it makes Irma laugh more.

And then they can’t remember why they’re laughing.


And then they start crying.

Somewhere along the way, in the haze of gasping tears and hysterical cackling, Vivian loops her arms around their waist, cuddles up to them on the floor - when did they end up on the floor? - and laughs along with them.

On the bloodstained hardwood, body rotting by their sides, they laugh together until they collapse in each others’ arms, hoarse and exhausted.