#lessons wip

[viscerawrites]

viscerawrites

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alrighty gang, the quest for an up-to-date pinned post is always ongoing <3 i figured i'd put up a new (re)intro bc !! things change a lot lol

about.

My name is Cassian but I also accept Viscera as a nickname. My pronouns are he/him and I am rapidly approaching year 22 on this earth.

I have been writing since I was 8, so about 14 years now, but am still constantly evolving and learning and developing my skills - like any artist!

I've written primarily fanfiction for most of my life, but I have MANY ocs and original wips and I think 2025 is the year of finally focusing on them!

For original fiction, I write primarily fantasy, modern with magic, or hidden fantasy settings. I'm also discovering my love for writing erotica and filthy nasty sex, so that's ... what a lot of my wips feature or center around nowadays!

You can read my original work on AO3 here, and I am working to build a neocities site to cross-post on.

I still write a lot of fanfic, but the majority of it is rpf/band-based and not usually something I'm comfortable sharing here - though you're welcome to ask about it still if that strikes your fancy!

Always open to tags, ask games, & literally random asks about anything. I tend to be extremely slow in answering and responding tho, so my apologies for that!

I also love music and will probably be talking about it often in relation to my characters & wips .<3

My main blog is @autotheophagic , which is where all likes and follows will come from!

Again, I have Many wips, but I will be linking the main & ongoing ones on this post as I figure things out.

I also have a Ko-fi, where I am now offering writing commissions.

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current/main wips...

~~

eye splitter (intro)

-> genres include... fantasy, horror.

-> features... extremely dysfunctional found family; eye horror & trauma; religious themes, symbolism, & trauma; abuse & manipulation; wacky mental health; a lot of awful things.

-> status: preparing for 1st draft.

-> overarching tag: #eye splitter wip

~~

the coveting (intro/masterpost)

-> genres include... fantasy, erotica, dark romance.

-> features... a fallen angel/demon relationship; d/s master/pet dynamic; religious trauma, guilt, & themes; extremely dubious consent that gradually eases towards enthusiastic consent; dubious morality; soul selling, demon deals, & pacts; soul bonds; obsessive & possessive behavior; dehumanization; unhealthy relationships; unhealthy kink practices.

-> status? ongoing series, can be read here on ao3 (eventually neocities as well, once i get my site built!)

-> overarching tag: #the coveting by viscera

~~

lessons in letting go (intro/masterpost)

-> genres include... fantasy, erotica.

-> features... dom/sub dynamic; femdom; bad bdsm etiquette & unhealthy kink (in a world where kink is not well understood); enemies to kinksters to maybe sorta lovers; slow burn sorta romance; ostracization & disownment due to expression of sexuality; some action & violence.

-> status? ongoing series, to be posted soon; ao3 link will be added to this post then!

-> overarching tag: #lessons wip

~~

i love you and i'm sorry (intro/masterpost)

-> fantasy w/ action, whump, smut, & every emotion under the sun

-> features/themes... sibling dynamics; dysfunctional-but-trying family; queer characters; trauma; various mental health struggles; grieving the past (and getting to know the present); the trauma caused by parents who don't know how to parent; corrupt governments; magic-induced chronic illnesses; & more!

-> status? ongoing series in the newborn/early stages, can be read here on ao3.

-> overarching tag: #s: i love you and i'm sorry

[keymintt]

superbloom

[yeyinde]

stalker!Ghost who gets tired of these little games you keep playing with him (blocking his number, changing your locks), and decides to take matters into his own hands. after all, it says something that you went out of your way to get a restraining order against him—accompanied by a scathing, bratty little message about leaving you alone. boundaries. him being a creep. as if everything he does to protect you was an inconvenience. was for nothing. maybe his old man was right. maybe some brats need a good, hard lesson in respect.

one he feels obligated to give.  

so. he comes for you. presses the muzzle of his gun against your trembling lip, and tells you to stick that pretty tongue out for him, birdy. 

(since you want to be so lippy, he'll give you something to mouth off on.)

[budgie2budgie]

ok, so i spent x hours building a little apartment row for my growing sulani population AND THEN, when trying to convert it into a apt-build, it turns out you can't build apt by the sea...

🤡

[monaetheworldsdestroyer]

a cherik fanfic where the whole xmfc squad goes ice skating but Erik never did that before so Charles teaches him while he's being dramatic about it (Charles no wait WAIT don't let go i will fall type of thing) and everyone else is making fun of them behind their backs because they're in love and it shows

it could be set during xmfc or it could be a modern au idk

[toyastales]

Random Details #2

I lost myself trying to please everyone else. Now I'm losing everyone while I'm trying to find myself.

https://toyastales.blogspot.com/2024/11/random-details-2.html

[edsbacktattoo]

I bet there’s some insane foliage.

[balrogballs]

My scheduling button is broken and my WIP Wednesday post didn’t go out, but enjoy it anyway. Short snippet of the Prayers spinoff oneshot focusing more the relationship between Maedhros and Fingon, which I’m writing through Finnu’s Gaze™️ because frankly he’s as unwell and obsessive as the rest of them, it just comes out in a more, er, Catholic way than the Shia Fëanorians. Enjoy the first few paragraphs, aka their first meeting as children!

Sultan of Sultans (snippet)

Before the CH Overpass scraped an arc out of its sky and the CSI Complex turned it into a boxing ring for a dozen mutually-indistinguishable bakeries, Mananchira Square was most known for its enormous freshwater pond with a salt-crusted shore. The pond was initially built in the fourteenth century to serve as a bathing pool for the feudal ruler of Kozhikode, the Zamorin. Zamorin was not the name of a single person or family, but rather a title taken by the ruler, much like Sultan, or Shah, and beginning in the thirteenth century they consolidated Kozhikode into a small kingdom and introduced it to the world.

Conveniently located right upon a wide, straight section of coast without crags or rocky shallows, our Kozhikode swiftly became a globally renowned trading port ruled jointly by the Zamorin Hindu feudal lords and their admirals, the Mappila Marakkar, a Muslim seafaring dynasty. It was referred to as the City of Spices in the literature of the time—with the cloth calico said to be named after Kozhikode’s Anglicised name, Calicut—and it was the most prominent city in Kerala until the seventeenth century, after which it fell into middling irrelevance in the grand scheme of things.

That was where Russo and I first met in 1915, by a pondside alcove where Thomas-uncle’s very-unofficial sweetshop used to stand. We were around four or five years old, and from that day on we crept quietly through the rest of our lives together like halves of a single breath. He was very beautiful, then and always. His mother used to say he was carved from the cloth of the Sultans of yore—Kujanli Marrakar the admiral, or perhaps even the Zamorin himself, a displaced resurrection in a family of Muslim artisans. I was much older when I realised such a comment had not been simply an ode to his beauty. Russo’s every footstep was a verdict, every laugh of his was a blade, even then. Unfortunately of course, the flip side of resembling the Sultans of yore, was that it would be very easy for certain labels like, say, terrorist, to stick.

“You know,” he told me that first day, pinching me instead of saying hello like a normal child. “You know the Zamorin was thirty feet tall and just as wide? And that he ate people? Oh, and do you know this pond has a massive crocodile who lives in the middle?”

“You shouldn’t pinch people,” I let him know. In hindsight, it was probably saying such things that made me such a pinchable child. “It’s not a good habit.”

Obviously, he pinched me again. He was very fair, I remember, because he was too young then to have spent much time running about in the sun as he does these days. He pinched people for no reason except that he could, had oddly light eyes (the colloquial term for them was poocha-kannu, cat-eyes, possibly because the general light-eyed population in Kozhikode at the time were an introduced species who seemed to have the ability to see their best only in darkness) and a vaguely commanding air to him that I didn’t at the time realise was the result of being a first-and-doted-upon son.

And so, initially I assumed he was one of the British sahib children with an extraordinary grasp of the local dialect, and just stood there silently, not wanting to even cry in case his father strode out and shouted at mine. Then his mother called out, telling him she’d eat him alive next time she caught him pinching people he’d only just met (as if it was fine for him to pinch people he knew well), and realised he was, unfortunately, one of our own. He pinched me a third time, irritated that his mother had caught him at it, and I cried then, because it was safe to and also because being pinched thrice for existing in this horrible little boy’s vicinity was too much for my five year old self to bear.

“Don’t you want to know why the Zamorin was so tall and wide?” he asked, as I followed him across to the pond because I didn’t want to play with my baby sister, though I was still crying because he had pinched me. He started out explaining about the Zamorin but midway through switched to an equally untrue story about a crocodile that bit off his little brother Maglor’s leg, recounted with such vicious delight I feared it was less an overactive imagination and more just wishful thinking. And at some point he must have gotten tired of my hysterics however, because he shoved a whirling palm-frond toy into my hand, watched me wave it about and told me I could keep it if I got a grip on my whining.

“But don’t play with it too much,” he informed me kindly, patting my shoulder. “I found it near the public toilets. You could get sick and die. You know cholera?”

As if cholera was his close personal friend.

[childrenofcain-if]

just realised how C 100% drew MC’s side profile during their classes in high school. it’s even worse cause they’d somehow subconsciously draw hearts around them as well. romanced C route is a whole new direction.

[penguinsblues]

Getting somewhere...

[cain-e-brookman]

Hey y'all, @creatingblackcharacters has created a challenge for Black History Month and I thought I'd share my entry. I'd like to tag @topazadine @illarian-rambling @mx-ryder and @spideronthesun for the challenge as well!

Uthyr is the main character of my current WIP: The Name, Witch. His is a story of healing, of putting down shame, and of being true to the spirit of what created you, no matter how the world wants you to bend. This is a scene that takes place about 10 years before we meet him in this same garden. Uthyr's greatest victory is always against despair. Uthyr's strength is in his conviction to himself, the culture and virtues that were passed onto him, and his love for the world around him. In my writing, I want my Black audience to see their own resilience in Uthyr. I want to highlight Black men in roles that are softer, but no less strong.

I also sincerely hope that this book can be a long shout out to my Black autistic sibs who are also obsessed with bugs, amphibians, and/or reptiles. I gave my hyperfixation to Uthyr, and I hope you feel seen with it as well. As I said in the comments to a very needed check, joy is just as important as resiliency, and I hope you find as much happiness as Uthyr does in with cold little buddies!

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perhaps on the crest of each stiff blade of grass hangs the eternal name of someone who was once loved but is now vanished and just another name in an endless field of names that is newly remembered with each return trip of the eager nose...

-Hanif Abdurraqib from "The Crown Ain't Worth Much

The hydrangea bush to the north of his house was the first thing Uthyr put into the soil in his soon-to-be garden. An old witch tradition. The color of the flowers changed with the humors of the soil. Uthyr didn’t know which color he hoped for, just that it grew to be strong. He hoped the plant would grant him the same blessing.

The last thirty-some years of Uthyr’s life had left behind the cooled pyres of his family, and the last two since the death of his mother had left him adrift. The first, a long year where he’d traveled to nowhere in particular, stayed where he found place to stay, and searched desperately for a purpose. At the end of that long year, he realized, exuberantly, there was none. No end to rush to, no greater deed to be done. He would not be rewarded for suffering, would not reach some peak where it became all worth it. He would not find a purpose, nor would he make his own. He would, instead, simply live. Live brightly, now. Live fearlessly, now. He didn't know where he would go, but he knew where he would start.

He practiced his healing for the first time since his father died. A young girl had taken a fall in the small town in which he was staying. He'd gone to her without a thought, placed his hands around the break, and reached out where he knew the magic still laid. The feel of bone knitting beneath his fingers nearly had him in tears. He could hear his father’s warm, heavy voice as he worked:

Bone remembers its home, just not the way back. Remind it gently, and its journey will be painless.

The little girl hadn’t even cried. He’d pulled a dandelion seed that had stuck itself on his cloak and grew it into a miniature sun before placing it behind her ear for bravery. The Sun Goddess rarely answered his beckons for fire, and his stubbornness never won out over the Stone’s, but neither skill brought about the smiles of gratitude he’d seen in all his time healing. He wished it hadn’t taken him so long to appreciate that part of himself, that part of his father’s influence.

Then, after a long while of fighting with his own head, he finally chose himself. Two weeks in a temple to the God of the Golden Moon saw him leaving behind the word “daughter,” to be replaced with a name that held responsibility to no one but himself. Uthyr of the Asphodels, First of His Name. His mother’s now held nothing a burden of failure on his shoulders. He could have been better for her. Should have been better. But he could not make the dead proud, so he cast off the guilt. It no longer served either of them. 

He changed his hair. Spent a long day removing neat rows of braids from his head, combing and washing then rolling his hair like he’d seen his uncle do so many times. At the end of it all, he had sore arms and a deep satisfaction. The start of those locs still stuck oddly from his head in their awkward stage.

“Ugly stage,” his mother used to tease Uncle Callum when they recounted stories of their youth. His uncle would always raise an eyebrow and inform her in no uncertain terms that he’d never been ugly a day in his life. Uthyr planted snapdragons by his window for them both; their favorites. Yellow for his mom. Purple for his uncle. The seeds had been expensive for the paltry savings he’d kept from his brief stint of odd-job healing around the surrounding towns, but the memory of the two exchanging plants on their shared birthday had Uthyr lightening his coin purse without a second thought.

He continued with a few more plots around his house. A smattering of pansies for color, some herbs for healing, then some more for cooking… 

A single row of daffodils by his doorway. For his father. His birthday would be soon. Uthyr would cut one and light a candle. Pray the Death God pass on his love.

I’m alright, he’d tell his father. It’s hard and I’m tired, but it’s alright. I’ve got good soil under my feet and good hands to dig.

The anemones he planted on the shaded side of his house were for himself, though. They were delicate things, but right now so was his heart and that needed just as much care. He’d stay strong for them and they’d do the same for him. Water and sunlight. The start, his uncle would say, to any life worth living. 

And hope, Uthyr thought. Half of it was always hope.

When Uthyr finished for the day the sun was drawing long shadows across the forest floor. All but his pansies would not see color or flower for a long while, but as Uthyr dusted soil off the dark skin of his hands and forearms, he could already see the future it held. He would get some roses. Maybe not this year. He needed to plant his vegetable garden first. Maybe splurge on a fruit sapling. Tonight he would sit in his mostly empty home, cook a small pot of soup with ingredients from a garden that wasn’t his, and plan recipes for when his own produce grew. But as for now, he felt the waking breath of spring on his face, the softness of the grass under his legs as he dug his toes into the cool earth below him. 

A tentative peace was forming in his chest, walking haltingly like a newly born fawn. He’d found a creek not far from where he sat. He wondered if the tadpoles had yet grown legs.

---

And now, my excited rambling: the title of the poem before the cut is Notes On Waiting for the Dog to Find the Perfect Place to Take a Shit While Morning Cuts Through the Sky, Fresh From Another Darkness, which is quite possibly one of Abdurraqib's best titles and also a wonderful poem. I saw When I Say Loving Me Is Like Being a Chicago Bulls Fan posted on facebook at one point and I've been in love with his poetry since. The way he weaves pain and hope with his anger and his love in a way that criticizes a society that doesn't value himself or people like him, while celebrating his identity is both masterful and cutting. Listen to the man and buy his books! His essay collection, A Little Devil in America: In Praise of Black Performance is going to be my read for my essay collection square for the 2025 book bingo, and I'm really excited to finally get to it!

[skyward-floored]

Since link is only half dragon, is he stuck as a hylian or could he fully transform like volga?

Good question! In lieu of directly answering, I’ll share this wip from a fic I’m halfway done with:

“It’s like flipping a switch,” Volga explains, putting a hand over his heart. “You are both your forms, and they are both you. The only difference for you is that your human shape is more instinctive than your dragon, much more so then it would normally be for our kind. You’ll have to learn to overcome that.”

“Wow, you make it sound easy,” Link says dryly, and Volga smirks.

“Words don’t describe it well. It’s easier done than said.”

“If you say so,” Link sighs, and Proxi settles herself on his shoulder. She gives him an encouraging chime, and he smiles briefly at her. “How do I begin?”

[14106]

not gonna finnish this probably but this one goes to all the ppl like me who's Harry doesn't even know wtf a car is and would probably need to remember how to drive... this one also goes out to all the sexy biches out there who dont know how to drive babeeey (just like me)!!!! <3 keep on keepin on girlies!!! (girlies as in gender neutral)

[mrsjellymunson]

THANK YOU to everyone who voted and otherwise interacted with my recent WIP poll. Thanks to you guys I feel like I have a direction now! 🙏🙏💖💖

I had a suspicion this one might come out on top, but what I didn’t anticipate was the love I received for all the others - I’m so thrilled that you remember them, and/or seem to be as excited about them as I am 💖 I promise to get cracking on them soon! 😍✍️📝

[takaraphoenix]

Laying on my floor with my hands folded over my stomach staring up at the ceiling listening to Little Wolf from Epic: The Musical overwhelmed with Luktavercy energy.

Percy has such little wolf energy, but the particular of using that term had me immediately go Roman and damn if Octavian doesn't have the taunting angle of this song covered, but not the fighting angle and the song, on the fight part, gives me such Luke-Percy PJO-saga enemies stage energy and now I'm just rotating some scenario where Percy faces off against Luke and Octavian, as a united front.

[emilycastlevania]