#ao3 writing

[iridescentmemoria]

[night-owl-writes1]

[jedibinx]

'Name a better feeling than a job well done.'

Me:

[illicitlamb]

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈: 𝐏𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐃 | 𝟑𝟎-𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐄

SUMMARY | Wednesday and Enid have a "roomie" movie night.

The motion pictures of Edward Scissorhands flashed on the laptop screen, holding Wednesday’s attention as she laid propped against her bed’s headboard. With her left arm draped over her ribs, the right was bent to have her knuckles brushing her lips. The whole “roomie movie night” that Enid proposed was definitely not her cup of tea, but now she was involved with the movie and had no intention of pausing it to get some sleep.

It was the complete opposite for her werewolf girlfriend.

She was completely gung-ho about having a fun, relaxing night concerning only the two of them and was now heavily dozing off on the raven’s right.

Once Addams came up to the famous scene of Scissorhands sculpting an ice figure of his crush, Kim Boggs, she maintained a blank stare until Sinclair’s arm wrapped her waist in, what felt like, a subtle hug. Looking over at her captor, she found her crystal eyes closed and torso rising and falling with light breathing. Even if she was awake, the psychic probably still would have opted for letting the affectionate touch slide.

Returning her gaze, Wednesday shifted gently before relaxing once more against the mattress. A few moments later, the hold on her middle tightened followed by a soft, groggy voice.

“Wednesday…?”

She kept her orbs to the screen. “Hmm?”

“Can you cuddle with me?”

This had her glancing down at the blonde, brow hardening. “Cuddle?”

“Mm-hmm,” Enid sleepily replied.

“I don’t do cuddling,” Addams pushed back. Despite being in a relationship, it was still a complete turnoff when anything other than hugging and kissing was involved. As unusual as that was, she knew her limits and refused to fit into the stereotypical crowd of lovestruck couples. “You’re practically asking to be strangled.” But her waist was pulled on by the she-wolf.

“Please, Wednesday? Just this once?”

The young raven expressed a partially-annoyed sigh.

“For me?”

Several moments passed prior to a reluctant agreement falling from her lips. “Fine.” Shifting further down, she became pressed against her girlfriend’s body while a content sigh stung her ears. She did not engage much in return except for placing her hand on the other’s securing forearm.

On the right, the werewolf nestled close to her partner, taking in the mixed aroma of laundry detergent and the others soothing, natural scent. “For someone who doesn’t like to cuddle, you’re the perfect person to cuddle with,” she breathed.

Wednesday responded with nonchalance. “Why is that?”

“You’re warm…and easy to hug.”

“Flattering me is not going to make me like it anymore,” she muttered back. But Sinclair kept pulling at her.

“Can’t you just take the compliment?” Her weariness weighed more and more on her mind, making her rub her head against her pillow. “Instead of being so grumpy?”

“I’m not. You know affection is not my forte and neither is being possessed by hyperactive positivity.”

After exercising a yawn, a soft smile twisted the blonde’s lips. “We’ll work on that.” And with that word, she was bewitched by the sweet spell of slumber while her girlfriend was passing her a subtle glare.

Of course, Addams was opposed to such a proposal. She had made a promise to herself that she would never fall in that line – she would never fall in love and never fall out of her one-of-a-kind reputation. But every day she was with Enid, she was tested on keeping her vow more and more. She knew it, and sooner or later, her partner would know it too. She was pushing away while the other kept pulling at her nerves, her mind, and her heart. She would not dare to admit it, but the she-wolf was winning – she was being pulled into the suffocating clutches of love. Every word, every fight, every feeling, she was falling. It had to take someone of an extremely rare nature to get to her core, and she had finally crossed paths with her match.

Enid Sinclair was her match. It was shocking, but the blunt truth.

Resorting back to the movie as a distraction, the psychic stayed focused for a few more minutes. But before she could even realize, she was manipulatively beckoned to join the werewolf in a comfortable rest quicker than gasoline catching a burning flame. Caught in between the transition of asleep and awake, the last thing she did was move her hand to lay atop of her partners’.

How ironic it was that her move was made out of a natural force.

So maybe it was true – opposites do attract.

[oblisker]

reasons to write more fanfiction about fred jones (please)

- silly. very silly. extremely silly. this leaves a lot of room for silly prompts and situations!

- autistic. similarly to silliness, this gives many writing opportunities, ways to explore his character, a wholesome crackfic, hell, even heavy angst! the possibilities are endless!

- parental issues in some adaptations. we all know what that means…

- did i mention he’s EXTREMELY silly?? a little goofster. a bit of a rascal

- funny friends funny relationship with them funny adventures and just use that with everything above and you’ve got a great fic

- intelligence revolving around traps gives you the chance to utilize all the shenanigans.. hijinks… that that could lead to

- i love him we all love him

- autism

- great guy. very good guy. charming man.

- pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepplea

[captainblou]

It's done, it's over, it's not a WIP anymore!

Thank you for the thorns - 54K words, rated E

There's a few things you should know about Anthony: first, only his dad calls him that, you can call him Crowley. Second, he owns the Queen of Thorns, the best flower shop of Mayfair. And third: he doesn't date. The first two points are unlikely to change, but the third? Maybe we should stick around to see how it goes…

I poured my heart into this one guys, I feel weak now that it's over. I'm just going to go back to binging Season 2 and suffer a bit more.

[breannasfluff]

What’s your New Years writing resolution?

Mine is to cut story posting from twice to once a week. It’s less writing, but will be better for my mental health and well being 💜 And keeping up with comments!

[annab99awritersdream]

Currently reworking my whole Lady of Ithilien timeline.

I was initially firmly set on the idea of having Enna die at 37—she's born in FoA 1 and she was supposed to die in FoA 38—but since I've introduced a first husband for her and the idea of Eönwë having to get over his first love (and it will take him a while to do so), I might have her live A LITTLE longer. Mind you, she'll die young anyway but, in my mercy, I'll kill her off in her early forties. Based on this latest update, she'll probably die around FoA 42/43 so that she has a few more years with her children. That also means that the twins she was supposed to give birth to in FoA 38 will be born a few years later.

I kinda want to stick to my original plan which had Mírion being 16 at the time of his parents' death (Eönwë dies roughly six months after Enna's demise and that will never change) so he'll probably still be born around FoA 26 and the other children will follow as already planned minus the twins.

But who knows, really. I'm coming up with random characters and events I had never even thought of before and my fingers type whatever they want anyways. So I guess you'll just have to stay tuned and keep on reading.

[dahersgetontheclock]

Hello, we know we haven't uploaded in awhile but that's for good reason. Me and Carbon have moved in together and that's been eating into our free time for Dashers. While in the short term this has been murder on the Dashers output, long term this will only be a good thing. We plan on releasing a audio book for arc 1 and Arc 2.1 one will drop later this month and continue the story we have been working on for over year. Till then thank you for anyone whose kept up with Dashers so far.

[iridescentmemoria]

[dr-george-ordell]

"Don't linger in front of your own reflection, child, or it will steal your soul."

As a child, Aaron always had the silly little wish that someone would take him away. To be whisked away to a distant land of utopian desires fullfilled.

His father had always told him those desires were dangerous. Never directly, but Aaron had always heard the nagging warnings the paranoid man always gave him about superstitious, of old wives tales muttered only in the last dregs of sunset and fairytale-like stories that had seen war, life, death.

The decrepit old man had been especially obsessed with the Fair Folk. He had forbidden him to call it by their true name, the Sidhe. A few verbal lashings and slaps certainly delivered the message across permanently.

Another way his senior had drilled the lesson of how dangerous the Fair Folk were, was through precautionary children's tales. Constant lines from books hammered into him, alongside cryptic rants and long lectures lasting hours.

"Don't linger in front of your own reflection, child, or it will steal your soul,"

The older Siegel would warn, scowl, scold, all while pointing his finger accusingly. It was as if he could see through Aaron's carefully crafted mask around him, easily find the most minute cracks and flaws and glare deeply at them until he reached the innermost mechanical workings of Aaron's heart. In that heart made out of steel and copper, was the secret wish to belong. A painful childish longing for someone to take him away to a place that felt warmer, that embraced him softly like quilts on a winter day. He would've much preferred it to the icy frigidness of his father.

"Snowqueen," Aaron would silently mutter under his breath. He often thought of the story, reminicing over each line and repeating it until it burned into his mind. It was soothing repetition, one that comforted him during the freezing nights in which his father kept him out in the glistening snow.

One particular time Aaron was locked out, he remembered how numb and red his fingers were, his breath fogging as he struggled to breath in the dry, arid air.

His immune system had always been terrible, worsened by the fact his father seemed to enjoy locking him out the house. What he didn't know was asthma at the time severely plauged him, leaving his younger self wheezing with rattling lungs.

It was as if someone was dragging semi-molten glass shards through his chest even if he took the most shallow of breaths.

Aaron had to find somewhere to shelter. And fast before he became part of the crystalline frost.

Treking away from the woodland mansion, Aaron only looked back once he was at the edge of the forest.

The house was dark, as it usually were in winter, one dimmed, smothered light present in a window on the third floor. Frost-glazed windows shimmered in the dim glow of the moon, icicles having formed upon the many windows, giving the home a resemblance of a prison rather than a place that people raised family in.

During that moment where he stood, he hated, despised, felt like a savage beast being held back from snapping back at his father. He had always made excuses for the cruel man, desperately hoping one day that the older man could be one day be proud of what he did, declare that his previous actions were rough yet justified as he began to love Aaron like a parent would.

But at thirteen, he realised mirror shards of misery passed down from father to son for generations had embedded permanently within the elder Siegel's heart. He had only had been snapped out of one-sided delusion by walking past a frozen puddle, and staring wistfully into it, ignoring his father's lesson. On its reflective surface, Aaron saw the man he hated the most, his chiselled face and marred, red rimmed eyes glaring back at him with raw beastial hate.

It had hurt, and it still did, it caused a nauseous ache, it almost caused those mirror shards to root into his own heart. Even if he could finally let go of the guilt and shame of being a horrible, needy child. Aaron wept bitterly that cold, uncaring night. His innocent self grieving the fact his father didn't want to be saved, didn't want to change his ways.

His sobs reverberated broken and unrestrained, sounding more like a wounded, fearful animal than a human child. His face and eyelashes already being decorated by falling specks of white, lips burning in pain from the arid winter air. He was shaking, shivering as he hugged his knees, his toes stiff and numb in his boots. Aaron had curled himself into a fetal ball hiding within the oak hollow, attempting to shake the droplets of frozen water from his damp hair.

He was rocking back and forth almost violently, a desperate attempt for any peice of comfort he could have. Out here in the dead of night within the chittering forest, no one could hurt him if he was hiding away. But nature didn't coddle its subjects, nor was she soft or gentle.

Nature was just like the Fair Folk. Chaotic, yet symbiotic, predictable yet erratic.

Aaron wanted to laugh, but he found himself too weak to even move his lips. His father oh so desperately wanted to protect his child from the Fair Folk, from the monsters who lurked and lived on the edges of the wild. But the only thing Aaron was in danger of was succumbing to an awfully mundane death from the cold.

He hadn't remembered much from then on. It was a jumbled, blurred, a mess of glacial hands, warm hands, mumblings of children from a boyish voice, and a lyrical language spoken in a baritone voice foreign to Aaron's ears.

Someone had picked him up, a person with hair whiter than the snow, and porcelain-like skin. They appeared to be one with the snow, the resulting child of the unforgiving winter hail and blizzard. Icicles dangled like jewels off the edges of their thick winter cloak, adorning them beautifully like an ornament. What stood out the most was those amethyst eyes, boring into him as if they could penetrate through secrets most dearest through his heart.

That was all he recollected, until everything had became static.

-

[markeronacomputer]

One-Winged Angel - Chapter 1

Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category:

F/M

Fandom:

Hazbin Hotel (Cartoon)

Relationship:

Adam/Lute (Hazbin Hotel)

Characters:

Lute (Hazbin Hotel)

Charlie Magne | Morningstar

Vaggie (Hazbin Hotel)

Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)

Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)

Niffty (Hazbin Hotel)

Husk (Hazbin Hotel)

Lucifer Magne | Morningstar

Adam (Hazbin Hotel)

Additional Tags:

Body Horror

Angst

Comedy

Not Beta Read

Loss of Limbs

Redemption

not a final fantasy reference

Canon-Typical Violence

Canon-Typical Behavior

Language: English Series: ← Previous Work Part 2 of Enjoy Your Stay (Hazbin Hotel Fics) Stats: Published: 2024-02-10 Updated: 2024-02-10 Words: 1,217 Chapters: 1/? Hits: 0

—

One-Winged Angel (formerly known as A Downed Angel is a Dead Angel) is here! A fic about Lute losing her wing during the finale, never seeing Adam die, never escaping back into Heaven in time, becoming Fallen, and eventually ending up begrudgingly staying at the new and improved Hazbin Hotel! Go read it!

[productofaritual]

(Not based on any recent interactions I personally had just to clarify) I think some people need to realize that fanfic writers do what they do for free and just because they want to and they have every right to stop writing or take a break or disappear or get burnt out and not write for a year and then get back.

It might be sad for you. It might leave your fave fic unfinished. But we're all just people. If it bothers you that much make your own ending that's what I do, works great.

[ironaparrot]

I have an AO3 now for actual Shadowtale story writings and dribbles

[illicitlamb]

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐗: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑 | 𝟑𝟎-𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐄

SUMMARY | Wednesday finally allows Xavier to draw a portrait of her for himself. In return, he makes her time worthwhile.

“Easy enough?” Xavier quizzed as he pushed himself up from the chair, staring at Wednesday for her approval. He only received a sigh, which was interpreted as a “yes” as she seated herself. “Good.”

Making his way back to his desk, he waited for his wife to get into position, already picking up his pencil. “Turn your head a little more,” he corrected.

“Just draw,” growled Addams in return, but carried through with his order.

Thorpe smirked. “Aye-aye, Captain.” He knew she had been dreading this for whatever reason, but he was more than appreciative of her for actually allowing him to draw a portrait of her – a pose of his choice and on both of their times rather than any quick moment he had while she was not looking.

Starting with the outline of his piece, his strokes were painted as soft lines before being filled in by more defined, darker scrapes against the sketch paper. Now having a reference rather than relying on his visions’ sole memories, he would glance up often, flicking his bangs from his view for his hazel eyes to admire the gothic beauty before him. In the midst of it all, he was doing two of his favorite things: draw and take in the view of his spouse.

The outfit he had chosen for her to wear was still in her taste of color palette but out of her comfort zone with style. A 2-in-1 mini dress complemented with a black tie – a white collared shirt overlayed with a strapped black corset stretching down into a relaxed slim-fit skirt. Instead of matching heels, he finished the selective look with black thigh-high stockings.

Of course, this whole thing was not something she would agree to easily, but it would all come with a favor in return. Just a little while longer.

Seated on the prop for 20 minutes now, Wednesday’s neck began to ache with a creeping cramp that threatened to strangle her into defeat. “How much longer?” she grumbled. A soft, amused scoff teased her hearing.

“Almost done.”

She expressed a nasal sigh and opted for playing the part of a model for several more minutes before being relieved of her statue-like role. Pacing over to her husband, she came up on his left to see his finished work. Of course, it was bold and striking, but his artistic ability seemed to dive into a deeper level of detail. His strokes, his shading, his effort – everything looked intensified with a sense of emotional influence. Maybe it was because this would be one of the only times that she would let him draw her by her will. Or maybe it was because she was finally his – his love, his mate, his wife… even if it was the other way around.

“What do you think?” questioned Xavier while looking from his drawing to her face, searching for a responsive look.

The other’s mocha orbs reviewed the page with an observing gleam. “It’s not bad.”

Thorpe smirked. “But it could be better, huh?” As she looked at him, he sat back. “Everything could be better when it comes to you.”

Giving him an unamused huff, she glanced back at the portrait and leaned forward to show her efforts of seeing his talent. This time she complimented him with phrasing containing a little more positivity. “It’s a very impressive drawing.”

“I think I’ve gotten better at drawing you.”

“You should have,” Wednesday pressed. “Considering your countless sketches of me, I assume you would have me memorized by now.” She glared at him. “It’s a wonder why you were so adamant to have me take time out of my day to do nothing but serve as a reference.”

“Well, I guess that just proves that I can’t get enough of you,” the artist played. Pushing himself up from his desk, he pulled her into him, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Did you ever assume that?”

But this did not phase her as her dark eyes locked to his light ones. “Actually, I did. I just thought you were a little more creative than that.”

Pearlized teeth were sided with raised eyebrows. “Creative?” He then leaned close to her ear with a beckoning voice saying, “I can do that,” prior to pecking her cheekbone and then magenta lips as she turned her head his way.

When they broke, the raven challenged him. “Show me.”

Joining once more in a mutual kiss, things escalated. With his wife moving in time with him, Xavier hoisted her up to have her legs secure around his hips and carried her over to the guest room’s bed. He felt her slender fingers get a feel around his neck and in his hair as he eased her onto the mattress, now granting his own hands more freedom to roam about her petite yet heavenly body.

They kept each other occupied with passionate kisses and occasional, soft moans for several more moments before the heat between them manifested into a burning flame. Thorpe’s shirt was stripped of him and thrown to the floor. Addams’ skirt had been pushed up to reveal black-lace undergarments. Her inner thighs were nudged apart by his knees in time with her handle on him traveling down to massage the contracting muscles of his bare back. Black nails pricked the smooth skin, tracing steady lines before she broke from his lips to catch her breath.

Meanwhile, the other psychic turned his head to plant sucking kisses along her jawline and down her neck. Her luring scent drove him wild, giving way for him to tease her with subtle nibbles here and there which had him smirking in between when he hit a sensitive spot every now and then. Rewarding her gentle cringes with a nuzzle, his roaming hands moved to undo her tie.

Another nip to her neck broke Wednesday’s barrier. “Xavier,” she moaned with a hitch in her voice thanks to her sensitivity.

He only spoke between pecks while freeing the cloth. “What?” Then, he met her gaze. She was calm, which he did not expect judging by her call out to him. “I didn’t think you were the needy type. Guess I assumed wrong.” Holding the tie in his mouth, he took her wrists up and above her head. He transferred his hold to one hand while the other pulled the accessory from his teeth. “You ready?”

Her tempting lips curled slightly at the corners, eyes flashing with an intrigued spark. “Now, this is getting interesting.” After her wrists became locked together by the bind, she was seduced by physical touches – with one hand gliding down her raised arm to hold her tricep, the other slipped down further to press against the side of her chest. Xavier lowered his face closer to hers once more and spoke with a husky whisper.

“We’re just getting started.” He then subtly nuzzled her nose with his, “Can you handle that, Mrs. Addams-Thorpe?”