It’s been a while, but...
Hey y'all, I’m hungrylikewolf on Twitter and hungrylikethewolfie on both Dreamwidth and Pillowfort. I’m mostly migrating over to DW at the moment, at least, so come say hey if you’re in the neighborhood!

izzy's playlists!
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@wolfieswords
It’s been a while, but...
Hey y'all, I’m hungrylikewolf on Twitter and hungrylikethewolfie on both Dreamwidth and Pillowfort. I’m mostly migrating over to DW at the moment, at least, so come say hey if you’re in the neighborhood!
It’s been a while, but...
Hey y'all, I’m hungrylikewolf on Twitter and hungrylikethewolfie on both Dreamwidth and Pillowfort. I’m mostly migrating over to DW at the moment, at least, so come say hey if you’re in the neighborhood!
a witch and a werewolf (and a witch’s familiar)
boop [x]
I tell you, it is a Suffering, to have a sea - no care how Blue - between your Soul, and you.
Emily Dickinson, from a letter to Samuel Bowles featured in The Letters of Emily Dickinson (Roberts Brothers, 1894)
The Salt King
“I have been loved,” she said, “by something strange, and it has forgotten me.” –Djuna Barnes, Nightwood
Sidney jerks awake, bleary and disoriented, with his mouth open on words already forgotten and a tightness in his chest that he knows is loss and longing.
Sidney dreams, memories of a past life intruding on the one he’s living now. But there’s no such thing as selkies, and no such thing as a love that lasts across two lifetimes. Until, of course, there is. (AKA the selkie!Geno fic.)
Fandom: Hockey RPF Pairing: Sid/Geno Rating: E Words: 112,506 Soundtrack: on 8tracks (track listing)
How in the everloving FUCK. AM I ONLY HALFWAY THROUGH. WHAT MORE HEARTBREAK IS THERE TO BE HAD. *falls at your feet and expires*
I mean, the good news is that if you’re halfway through THE WORST IS PROBABLY BEHIND YOU? Probably. Depends on where exactly you are.
The Salt King
“I have been loved,” she said, “by something strange, and it has forgotten me.” –Djuna Barnes, Nightwood
Sidney jerks awake, bleary and disoriented, with his mouth open on words already forgotten and a tightness in his chest that he knows is loss and longing.
Sidney dreams, memories of a past life intruding on the one he’s living now. But there’s no such thing as selkies, and no such thing as a love that lasts across two lifetimes. Until, of course, there is. (AKA the selkie!Geno fic.)
Fandom: Hockey RPF Pairing: Sid/Geno Rating: E Words: 112,506 Soundtrack: on 8tracks (track listing)
!!!! Can't wait to read The Salt King!!!! It might not show up for some people on ao3 though because it's dated Nov 22 even though you published it Nov 23. Is there a way you can update the date?
Huh. O_o I’ll see what can do, though I’m slightly limited right now by mobile and by only maybe possibly remembering my password without autofill anyway. :lol: SO! HEADS UP FOLKS! If you can’t access it for some reason, check back again this evening (eightish hours from now) and hopefully I’ll have fixed it by then.
ETA: So apparently the issue is that it's just not showing up at the top of the new fic list because of the date difference. I've gone in and checked, and the date is showing as today for me, so for now I'll just assume that if people are meant to see it, they will. :lol: In the meantime, though, reblogs help spread the love AND the fic, so don't be shy about hitting that button, guys!
The Salt King
“I have been loved,” she said, “by something strange, and it has forgotten me.” --Djuna Barnes, Nightwood
Sidney jerks awake, bleary and disoriented, with his mouth open on words already forgotten and a tightness in his chest that he knows is loss and longing.
Sidney dreams, memories of a past life intruding on the one he's living now. But there's no such thing as selkies, and no such thing as a love that lasts across two lifetimes. Until, of course, there is. (AKA the selkie!Geno fic.)
Fandom: Hockey RPF Pairing: Sid/Geno Rating: E Words: 112,506 Soundtrack: on 8tracks (track listing)
The Salt King - coming Nov. 23
The wind off the water is sharp and cold, slipping like a blade over his exposed skin. He doesn’t move beyond tugging his thick wool scarf more securely around his neck, despite the weakness in his legs and the deep, persistent ache in his lungs from the chill and the damp and his careful clamber over the rocks. He’s sick, the sea is choppy with the changing weather, and Maire’s boys will have things to say about him coming out here, when one of them just so happens to make their way out to him today.
There’s an ache that runs deeper than the weakness in his chest, though—that’s fed by it, in fact, growing stronger and more desperate with every labored breath he draws. It’s the feeling of time slipping away too fast, despite how hard he’s trying to hold on. That’s what keeps him rooted to the spot, pain building in his feet and knees and hips from his stance on the uneven ground, in boots with too-thin soles, pressure building tight and sore in his knuckles where he’s gripping the cane that Paddy made him. He stands still, staring at the whitecaps building on the waves, the crash of spray down below, and knows that it’s too soon to hope.
Too soon, but still too late.
Sidney jerks awake, bleary and disoriented, with his mouth open on words already forgotten and a tightness in his chest that he knows is loss and longing.
He’s not sure at first why he’s even awake—the windows are just barely light and he doesn’t have anything to do until noon, certainly nothing to justify the flood of adrenaline that’s shouting, late, late, overslept—but another shout from downstairs and the clatter of footsteps on the stairs answers that question in short order. It’s Wednesday morning, and the kids are getting ready for school in their characteristically loud yet mournful fashion.
It’s Wednesday morning, he’s in the attic of the Lemieux house in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and this afternoon he’s flying home.
He eases the covers back and steps gingerly out of bed, still moving in deference to the phantom pains that haven’t quite faded yet, the certainty that his legs are too weak to support him if he tries to move too fast.
They’re not, though; battered and bruised he may be, post-playoffs, but he’s still as strong and more or less whole as he is at the end of any season. He’s walking normally by the time he makes it to the bathroom to relieve the pressure in his bladder, and he chases the last of the lingering dream-stiffness away with a few quick shoulder rolls as he loads up his toothbrush.
None of which explains the wave of shock that slams into him when he catches sight of his face in the mirror, gone again in the space of a breath and leaving him shaky with a bolt of unexpected adrenaline.
There’s nothing surprising about the image staring back at him. Still, he stands for a moment with his toothbrush hanging loosely out of the corner of his mouth and foam flecked over his lips before he shakes himself out of it. He glances down at his hands, and they’re the same as they’ve always been, instead of—
thin skin, patchy and spotted with age, stretched over bones gone knobby and crooked, the arthritis is always worst this time of year—
—his breath stalls in his chest for a moment before he blinks, the image fading. He shakes his head and grabs his toothbrush again, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his reflection—his solid, steady, absolutely normal reflection—until he bends to spit into the sink and rinse the last of the toothpaste foam out of his mouth. By the time he straightens again, the last dregs of the dream have faded away—all but the gnawing emptiness behind his ribs, the longing for something he knows is just too far out of reach.
It’s not the first time he’s had this dream, or at least ones similar enough he can’t tell the difference. The sea, the cold, the aching yearning that takes most of the day to fade away. He isn’t sure that it will, this time around.
It’s mid-May, and the Penguins are already knocked out of the playoffs. Sidney’s sure that’s what brought this particular dream back to him again: a predictable response to an increase in stress, according to everything he’s read, and the familiarity of the sense of loss still swamping him seems to bear that out. It’s the same thing he’s been feeling for days, since the final moments of game seven when there was no more denying exactly how things were going to end.
The Pens are out of the playoffs, and Sidney’s flying home before summer even starts. It sucks, but that’s the way it is.
Keep reading
Just wanted to tell you I am SO excited for The Salt King to come out. Things are a bit crazy on a personal level and I am just... so looking forward to reading your fic and getting an escape and safe space to be comforted by an epic fic. So basically, thank you and I am just so excited. :)
Thank you so much!! I'm so glad to hear you're looking forward to it, and I hope it does bring you at least a little bit of comfort in these trying personal times (boy do I hear you on that, too). ^_^You may have noticed by now that the first part is up as one final teaser, and the soundtrack is available as well. Everyone please feel free to reblog to share the emotions with your friends! I kind of can't believe it's really finished, but here I am, getting ready to post the entire fic tomorrow! If I give in to weakness, I might post at midnight, and failing that, if I have time to manage all the chapters I'll have it up before work; otherwise, look for it a bit before 5 CST!
The Salt King - coming Nov. 23
The wind off the water is sharp and cold, slipping like a blade over his exposed skin. He doesn’t move beyond tugging his thick wool scarf more securely around his neck, despite the weakness in his legs and the deep, persistent ache in his lungs from the chill and the damp and his careful clamber over the rocks. He's sick, the sea is choppy with the changing weather, and Maire’s boys will have things to say about him coming out here, when one of them just so happens to make their way out to him today.
There's an ache that runs deeper than the weakness in his chest, though—that's fed by it, in fact, growing stronger and more desperate with every labored breath he draws. It’s the feeling of time slipping away too fast, despite how hard he's trying to hold on. That’s what keeps him rooted to the spot, pain building in his feet and knees and hips from his stance on the uneven ground, in boots with too-thin soles, pressure building tight and sore in his knuckles where he's gripping the cane that Paddy made him. He stands still, staring at the whitecaps building on the waves, the crash of spray down below, and knows that it's too soon to hope.
Too soon, but still too late.
Sidney jerks awake, bleary and disoriented, with his mouth open on words already forgotten and a tightness in his chest that he knows is loss and longing.
He's not sure at first why he's even awake—the windows are just barely light and he doesn't have anything to do until noon, certainly nothing to justify the flood of adrenaline that's shouting, late, late, overslept—but another shout from downstairs and the clatter of footsteps on the stairs answers that question in short order. It's Wednesday morning, and the kids are getting ready for school in their characteristically loud yet mournful fashion.
It's Wednesday morning, he's in the attic of the Lemieux house in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and this afternoon he's flying home.
He eases the covers back and steps gingerly out of bed, still moving in deference to the phantom pains that haven't quite faded yet, the certainty that his legs are too weak to support him if he tries to move too fast.
They're not, though; battered and bruised he may be, post-playoffs, but he's still as strong and more or less whole as he is at the end of any season. He’s walking normally by the time he makes it to the bathroom to relieve the pressure in his bladder, and he chases the last of the lingering dream-stiffness away with a few quick shoulder rolls as he loads up his toothbrush.
None of which explains the wave of shock that slams into him when he catches sight of his face in the mirror, gone again in the space of a breath and leaving him shaky with a bolt of unexpected adrenaline.
There's nothing surprising about the image staring back at him. Still, he stands for a moment with his toothbrush hanging loosely out of the corner of his mouth and foam flecked over his lips before he shakes himself out of it. He glances down at his hands, and they’re the same as they've always been, instead of—
thin skin, patchy and spotted with age, stretched over bones gone knobby and crooked, the arthritis is always worst this time of year—
—his breath stalls in his chest for a moment before he blinks, the image fading. He shakes his head and grabs his toothbrush again, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his reflection—his solid, steady, absolutely normal reflection—until he bends to spit into the sink and rinse the last of the toothpaste foam out of his mouth. By the time he straightens again, the last dregs of the dream have faded away—all but the gnawing emptiness behind his ribs, the longing for something he knows is just too far out of reach.
It's not the first time he's had this dream, or at least ones similar enough he can't tell the difference. The sea, the cold, the aching yearning that takes most of the day to fade away. He isn't sure that it will, this time around.
It's mid-May, and the Penguins are already knocked out of the playoffs. Sidney's sure that's what brought this particular dream back to him again: a predictable response to an increase in stress, according to everything he's read, and the familiarity of the sense of loss still swamping him seems to bear that out. It's the same thing he's been feeling for days, since the final moments of game seven when there was no more denying exactly how things were going to end.
The Pens are out of the playoffs, and Sidney's flying home before summer even starts. It sucks, but that's the way it is.
The Salt King (full playlist)
1. An aimsir bhaint an fhéir Connie Dover // 2. The Ocean Dar Williams // 3. The Only Exception Paramore // 4. Ocean Sized Love Leigh Nash // 5. You Picked Me A Fine Frenzy // 6. Our Town Iris DeMent // 7. Brother’s Keeper Jay Ungar // 8. And the World Turned Gabe Dixon Band // 9. Little House Amanda Seyfried // 10. The Parting Glass The High Kings // 11. The Call Regina Spektor // 12. One Sweet Love Sara Bareilles // 13. I Won’t Give Up Jason Mraz // 14. Little Do You Know Alex & Sierra // 15. Fight Song Rachel Platten // 16. Cold Water Major Lazer (feat Justin Bieber and MØ) // 17. Little Talks Of Monsters and Men // 18. When I Lay Beside You K’s Choice // 19. I Choose You Sara Bareilles // 20. Afterlife Ingrid Michaelson // 21. This Love Taylor Swift
The Salt King (full playlist)
1. An aimsir bhaint an fhéir Connie Dover // 2. The Ocean Dar Williams // 3. The Only Exception Paramore // 4. Ocean Sized Love Leigh Nash // 5. You Picked Me A Fine Frenzy // 6. Our Town Iris DeMent // 7. Brother’s Keeper Jay Ungar // 8. And the World Turned Gabe Dixon Band // 9. Little House Amanda Seyfried // 10. The Parting Glass The High Kings // 11. The Call Regina Spektor // 12. One Sweet Love Sara Bareilles // 13. I Won’t Give Up Jason Mraz // 14. Little Do You Know Alex & Sierra // 15. Fight Song Rachel Platten // 16. Cold Water Major Lazer (feat Justin Bieber and MØ) // 17. Little Talks Of Monsters and Men // 18. When I Lay Beside You K’s Choice // 19. I Choose You Sara Bareilles // 20. Afterlife Ingrid Michaelson // 21. This Love Taylor Swift
Soon.
Get ready.
“A.K.A. the high school haunted house AU literally nobody asked for."
HAPPY HALLOWEEN, GUYS! :D For those who might’ve missed it, please enjoy this silly little 3 part Halloween-themed high school AU. Links at the bottom of each bit will lead you to the next! I hope y’all eat lots of candy and have lots of spoopy fun tonight.