writinglittlebeasts

[writinglittlebeasts]

oh my god you guys actually have a wordcount goal ? i thought it was a joke

[writinglittlebeasts]

PARAMOUR CHAPTER 1: WEDDING PREPARATIONS

WIP: the fall of galere book 1: PARAMOUR

SUMMARY: an hour before the ceremony that will wed hyacinthus shrapnel to The Keeper of Chateau aux Aisles D'or, he receives an unwanted, but unfortauntely necessary visitor.

tw(s): implied murder, mentions of character death/patricide, a lot of footnotes lmao.

There were many preparations that one must think about to host a proper Galerian wedding—arrangments thankfully made without the bride to be, Hyacinthus Shrapnel’s, input.

He hadn’t had to go through the priests and clergy to secure an auspicious Temple for the ceremony. No, the prominence of his bridegroom was a weight hefty enough that it was preemptively arranged to be lofted to the most grandiose of heights: The Sanctuarie D’Orage¹, in its main, intimate nef². He hadn’t had to gather or oversee the étoiles or poisson³ to rehearse, nor even send out the illustrious invitations to announce his union with the head of the chamber, and perhaps true lord over all Galarian society even above the reagent, The Keeper of Chateau Aux Aisles D’or. The only responsibility that Hyacinthus had, in fact, in the undertaking of this grand occasion, was the procurement of his wedding gown and making sure it was presentable to his personal liking. A truly arduous task, as red was never his favorite color. 

Thus, here he sat, on the precipice of his wedding march, staring down the gown he’d purchased on his elder sibling’s dime with the same glower of hate that a chained dog bore towards it’s master. He had been painstakingly pampered for this occasion: a long bath run, with milk, honey, and all the usual exfoliants; his long, luxurious black hair was steamed, straightened, freshly trimmed; his nails gilded with pure gold… the list goes on. And as a denizen of the chapel applied powder and lipstick to his handsome, dark, chiseled face—entrée was granted to one he wasn’t particularly looking forward to seeing. The one who was the mastermind behind this betrothal arrangement, and the one who’s money Hyacinthus had no qualms about spending like water: the eldest of the damned and wretched children of one long dead business vulture Clematis Gunn—Vermassen⁴ Tagetes Gunn de Beneaux.

Their own weaseled wedding to the fifth prince of Galeré had taken place only several years prior to this date, but the royal manner of their current state was definitely going to their overgrown head. Hyacinthus scowled when they pulled back the curtain to reveal themselves, even more, perhaps, when he noticed the two flutes of bubbling champagne ferried in their gloved hands. 

“Come now Cinthy, don’t look so delighted to see me.” 

Sarcasm dripped from their treacherous tongue, disguised by the visage of a sinister, mustache-laden smile. They strolled leisurely across the room, easily elbowing the church denizen out of their way without a single thought. The poor girl stumbled, but she said nothing; knowing to yield to her betters. Tagetes set the champagne down on the vanity before Hyacinthus. 

“Even after all the trouble I went to procure you some liquid courage.” 

“I should think it’s poisoned, knowing you.” Hyacinthus sneered, but Tagetes only chuckled, and caught their younger brother’s chin in their hand. 

“Careful little dog; do not fully sever the hand that feeds you with those golden teeth.” As if queued, Hyacinthus bared his teeth at Tagetes, the golden hue of his canines glinting in the dimmed light. “Were it not for my intervention you would be left to the streets. Some gratitude for my interference is in order, yes?”

Hyacinthus yanked his jaw away, glowering further still—yet wisely, perhaps, said nothing. Neither to thank them, nor deny the accusation; he instead let his gaze wander away to the gown awaiting his figure to wrap around. 

“This isn’t my style.” He said. Tagetes followed his eyes, laughing softly. 

“No, I suppose you’d prefer to wear a white ball gown enmeshed with gold. Shoulder pads too, of course? Not that you need any help accentuating your shoulders—they are quite broad enough as is.”

If Hyacinthus was one to do so, he’d have upturned his nose. But he simply said, “It’d look less tacky.” 

“I hardly think it looks tacky—it is tradition. Even I wore such a gown on my wedding day.” 

“The tackiness of your own gown was in mostly due to whom was wearing it.” 

Tagetes tutted darkly. They gestured back towards the champagne that they bought. “Drink some.” 

“I told you—“

“And if I drank some first?” Tagetes gingerly plucked one of the flutes of champagne from the vanity and drew some of it from its glass prison—only until it was nearly half. Then, they set it back down again.

“The other as well.” Hyacinthus remarked. Tagetes shook their head. “You truly think I want you dead, Cinthy? With all the effort I have furnished in you? Truly, if I wanted you dead—you would be.” Still, Tagetes obliged and gingerly lifted the second champagne glass to their lips. As they sipped at it, Hyacinthus murmured, “Such as father, I presume.” 

He received no answer for that; though he needn’t one. Anyone who looked closely enough at the dynamics of the Gunn family knew that Hersieur⁵ Clematis’s death was no accident. Who was responsible for it… anyone’s guess. But if Hyacinthus had to bet money—and he was not of a gambling sort—he would put money on Tagetes. 

The saccharine smile he received for his accusation was sinister enough as it were.

Once Tagetes had leveled the second glass to equal fullness of the first, they set it back on the vanity before Hyacinthus. 

“Tell me, dearest brother, does this glass of champagne appear to you as ‘half empty’ or ‘half full’?” 

Hyacinthus scoffed and stood abruptly from his chair, sweeping towards the gown that he ought to have donned by now. Seeing as it was their cue, an assortment of servants scurried to his aid; first affixing the tight, red bodice that pushed his pectoral muscles up as a proper bosom, tying its laces tightly so it would not come undone. Next came the garter and stockings, then the first layer of skirts—a sighing orange color akin to the sun at dawn, growing increasingly deeper in color with each layer until the heaviest and most saturated top layer was laid over the underskirts. A beautiful vermillion in color, adorned with delicate golden beads like stars dotted across the entire body of the skirt, tapering off into golden flames that licked the bottom hem, to mirror the sun’s rays. 

As one servant affixed the veil, Tagetes saw it fit to continue; “If I were in your shoes, the glass I have presented to you is best viewed half full.” 

“I know you well enough to smell your schemes, Tagetes. I have no interest in being grateful for being a pawn.” Hyacinthus rolled his eyes, stooping gracefully in a near curtsey so a shorter servant could fuss with the laying of his bangs. “The streets.” Tagetes rebuttled with a sing song voice. “I could’ve easily married you off to an old, decaying lord, with old, dying money. You would struggle to find a richer husband than The Keeper. Nor one so well connected.” Tagetes’s dark eyes were practically gleaming when they said, softly, sinisterly, “The Keeper is more than your botched birthright should even afford you.”

“Shut your fucking mouth!” Hyacinthus snapped, but it was easy to see how the words gnawed at his skin. He shooed the servant attending him away roughly, casting them to the side like a wet rag. 

“Now, now.” Tagetes tutted. “Behave Cinthy. I can’t afford to have you mess this up.” 

“I should strangle you within an inch of your life.” Hyacinthus snarled. 

“But then you’d lose access to your pretty dowry. Think of the storeroom I’m sure your bridegroom has.” 

“Money is—”

“Worthless? Perhaps. But with your expensive tastes, I doubt you believe that.”

“You—” Hyacinthus was cut off by the loud chime of bells overhead; The Sanctuarie’s clock tower alerting all of those far and wide in La Castra that it was nearing the auspicious hour—the time of the wedding to be spoken of for years and years to come; another Union of The Keeper of Chateau aux Aisles D’or—head of The Chamber, who benevolently ruled all of Galeré, even above the reagent themself.

“It seems as though the curtain’s draw is upon us.” Tagetes astutely observed. When they turned their eyes back to Hyacinthus, the look within them made something with Hyacinthus wither. 

“I do mean it. Behave. At least until the curtain falls. Remember your glass.” 

As quickly as they’d come, they swept out of the room, leaving both flutes of champagne on the vanity, and with a final wave of adieu, they were gone. Perhaps out to the nef, or perhaps to mingle. 

Hopefully to hang themselves, Hyacinthus thought.

But there was no turning back now; within the hour he should become a wife—whether he wished it or not. He regarded the two champagne glasses before him. Then seeming to make a sudden decision, he grasped one in his hand and downed it, without much other preamble than that.

FOOTNOTES:

¹ = Sanctuaire D’Orage or Temple of the Storm is the largest temple in all of Galeré located in the center of religious leadership La Castra. It is a large, foreboding structure with a catacombs underneath and stretches high into the clouds as though it were trying to touch the sun. It features the largest statue of The Shepherd in the country.

² = nef — referring to the central most part of a church or temple; ie: a nave.

³ = the étoiles and the poisson are the bride and groom’s wedding precession. in a Galerian wedding, there is no such thing as a maid of honor or bridesmaids/male equivalent—the bride is to take the role of the Sunset and the groom the Ocean. in old Galarian folklore, the earth was made via the union of the Sunset and the Ocean, and so traditional wedding garb is reds for the bride and blues for the groom. the étoiles and the poisson represent the stars and fish present at this union, and in a wedding they dance before the bride and groom as they enter horizontally, then meet at the central altar. the bride is accompanied by The Moon who leads them to the altar, and the groom is accompanied by The Coral who leads them to the altar.

⁴ = a Galarian honorofic, referring explicitly to a married wife. Husbands and Wives are not gendered in Galere; for husbands simply are breadwinners and managers of the external household affairs and wives are the managers of finances and the internal household estate. Hyacinthus Shrapnel, once he is wed, will become a wife as well.

⁵ = a Galarian honorofic, referring explicitly to a married husband.

[writinglittlebeasts]

what do you mean my dad can't tell whether ramsey or hazel is the werewolf ? 😭😭😭

[writinglittlebeasts]

Where is your OC from?

[writinglittlebeasts]

writing is so funny because i could write nonstop for 9hrs and then hit a block where im like "how do i transition between this moment and the next?" and then i just dont touch it for 6 months

[writinglittlebeasts]

When in doubt write more erotica

[writinglittlebeasts]

Ramsey grits his teeth. He says, "I'm not nice," to which Hazel replies,

"I don't have to be right."

Ramsey's thumb cleaves between Hazel's lips. "I want you to be right."

Hazel's teeth scrape the pad. "Then be nice to me."

[writinglittlebeasts]

Affirmations:

There's no such thing as too many semicolons

No, having multiple sentences with semicolons in the same paragraph isn't too many

Anyone who tells you otherwise is crazy. Keep adding those semicolons 🩷

[writinglittlebeasts]

That Time a Published Author Told Me to Un-Queer My Novel

So, I don't think I ever shared this story on Tumblr before.

As you may know I've spent the past ten years turning my old Welcome to Night Vale fanfic into a stand alone novel called Echo of the Larkspur. Now, I haven't been working on it ten years straight. I'd pick it up, do a bunch of editing and rewriting, submit it to agents/publishers, get turned down, put the book away, wait 2-3 years, dust off the book, re-edit and rewrite, etc etc. A cycle that repeated itself far too many times that I would like.

Well, during one of these cycles when I was in the 'get rejected by every agent and publisher I submit to' stage I asked the writing group I was in what I was doing wrong. Because at this point I had reached a hundred total rejections and I was starting to suspect that the issue was with me.

One of the members of this writing group, a male author who was traditionally published, offered to read my first chapter and give his advice on how to fix it. This was, in retrospect, a mistake. But I was desperate. I sent him the first chapter and waited for his response.

Folks. The email he sent me changed my life.

First he said that agents wouldn't publish my novel because it was Sci-fi with hardcore gay erotica in it. This is curious because while the book certainly is queer, at no point in the conversation with this man did I say it was hardcore erotica. Nor did the first chapter feature any. It's almost as if he assumed that just because something was gay, it had to be hardcore erotica. Interesting.

He went on to say that a Human/Robot pairing was weird and that there was "No Way" my story could seriously address the issues of a relationship like that. Once again, he only read the first chapter. He just...assumed I wouldn't think of that? And that my book wouldn't cover it?

The author then said “I also felt that the LGBTQ inclusion really seems to cloud things.” Direct Quote.

And then this is when he said my favorite quote of them all:

The idea of a book being a sci-fi with romance AND a mystery is a Modern Art Marzipan Owl. It's just too confusing! No one can handle a story that is a mystery in a sci-fi enviroment AND has a romantic subplot! THEIR BRAINS WOULD LITERALLY EXPLODE!

Thankfully he had a solution to my book problem. His answer? Turn the book into an Action Spy Thriller and turn S.A.G.E., a robot that identies as a gay man, into a sexy lady robot who needs a MAN to teach her what it means to be human.

(I assume the male lead will teach the 'confused' female robot how to be human via his penis.)

Now my favorite part about this advice is that at no point did he outright say "Remove the gay part". No, instead he sneakily changed the robot love interest into a female robot as if I wouldn't notice. Just sort of swept away the gay bits as something totally unneeded and just mucking up the narrative. Also that's not the plot of my story, I have no idea where this virus thing came from.

(Also note that the female robot can't be robotic-like at all. Must preserve the average straight-man sex drive at all costs I guess)

He then finished his email basically saying that I should remove everything that 'traditional publishers' don't like (aka the queer parts) and make it easier for 'your average reader' to digest and my book will be good as published!

When I said this email changed my life I meant it. Because it made me realize I'd rather be self published and unknown than traditionally publish milquetoast trash like he suggested. Like holy fuck. If I removed all of the "Difficult" to digest stories out of Echo of the Larkspur then there wouldn't be a book left!

So here I am. Self publishing my Marzipan Modern Art Owl of a book. I know it'll never see the inside of a bookstore or top the charts on Goodreads but hey, I'd rather it speak to one person than have a thousand people get excited for the part where the male lead teaches the lady robot how to be human (via his penis).

If a Queer Sci-fi/Romance/Mystery novel sounds like your jam then consider preordering it!

Looking for something to read now? Can't afford the book? Willing to read in exchange for an honest review? You can join my ARC book readers here!

[writinglittlebeasts]

[writinglittlebeasts]

don’t make me tap the sign

[writinglittlebeasts]

Best things for a ship to have or be:

Horny

Insane

Religious/spiritual themes

Obsession

Age gap

Doomed

[writinglittlebeasts]

chapter 17 !!!!!

And he's angry. He very rarely has that in him; he can't remember the last time that he was angry. Now he feels it firing off of him-- flames from the very top of his head --directed at the stairs, the walls, the floor, his stiff jeans and his foot. He seethes at the bottom of the stairs like a monster out of a horror story, teeth bared in a snarl, his eyes straining through the black for even the impression of a door. God help whoever should walk through it.

☆

Hazel bends low over his lap and the final few steps. He speaks quietly, with as much trepidation as Ramsey has ever heard from him. "Ramsey, did you really try to kill yourself?" "No, of course not," Ramsey says quickly. Not that he expects to find peace in the afterlife by the side of the Father, but there is a particular, hard shame in suicide; his parents didn't raise him to be so arrogant. Not even he could be so stupid. "Don't say that again." Hazel sags not with relief but with reliance; he needs to believe that Ramsey is telling the truth, even if by force. Ramsey watches the yellow light play across the bony landmarks of his face and pays particular attention to the corners of his mouth, which is pursed tightly while Ramsey imagines Hazel is lying to himself. "Okay, Ramsey. Okay." Ramsey leans forward, too, into his space. "Thank you." Hazel meets his eyes and they shine. "Don't thank me for this." The seed of Ramsey's anger lurches up his arteries. "Why not? Thank you, Hazel."

☆

"How deep? How wide?" he asks. Mavis sinks into her wild hair, still glaring. "How deep is a grave?" "There aren't eight feet of him left in there." Much of Deacon's meat-- his fat, his muscle --had been discarded as it was cut away. The coolers hold only specimens that Creed had planned to sell. "But he deserves it," she says. And graves are for people, but Ramsey relents, his question answered.

☆

Curiosity finds him, anyway. What could something like a werewolf gain from a funeral? On a greater scale, what benefit could a werewolf gain from a relationship with God? What greater intelligence moves these creatures to perform in the absence of an audience? On a smaller scale, one more personal, what kind of monster was Deacon? What did Ramsey kill, and what did he take out of the world when he did?

[writinglittlebeasts]

oh-no-another-idea’s WIPs

Placeholder Title: The Invisible Girl

Genre: Historical Fantasy, Urban Fantasy

Current Status: Second draft

POV: Third person

Themes: Found Family, Heists, Magic versus Machines, Self Discovery, Adventure, Loneliness

Synopsis: When Velia Greene accepts her newest job, she thinks nothing of it. A three day train ride, a secret piece of cargo–simple enough for a thief who can slip right past any security. After all, Velia’s never been caught. How could she be, when nobody can see her?

It’s lonely, being invisible to everyone until they care for you. But it does give you an excellent advantage at sneaking.

But on the train, everything starts to go wrong. Four passengers overhear her and discover her presence. A strange man somehow sees her immediately. The cargo is more precious than she could’ve imagined, and there’s someone aboard who will stop at nothing to get it before the train arrives…

Taglist: @a-sunflower-at-night @blind-the-winds @drippingmoon @elgringo300 @thats-my-type-writer @sleepy-night-child @writing-is-a-martial-art @viskafrer @croctears @talesfromaurea @necros-writings @ashen-crest @conundruminprogress @teaflint @princeofthecactus @imaginationxlost @fiercely-raging-writer @memento-morri-writes​ @josephinegerardywriter @jellybeanswriting @stuffaboutwriting @outpost51 @reneesbooks @charlesjosephwrites @yejidoesthings @sparrow-orion-writes @somealienquill @ember-writer @theunboundwriter​ @lady-grace-pens​ @thescatteredscribbles​ @karkkidoeswriting​​ (ask to be added or removed!)

Links: Tag | Character Intros

Placeholder Title: Stars and Ships

Genre: Sci fi

Current Status: Zero draft, plotting

POV: Third person, multiple narrators

Themes: Found Family, Heists, Adventure, Treasure hunt, Maybe the real treasure was the friends we found along the way, Criminals on the run

Synopsis: Jax Castle is the best junker this side of the Milky Way. That’s probably cause the junker business is just a front for his real skills: smuggling. Together with his team Aaliyah the mercenary and little brother Quin the pilot, there isn’t any job they can’t do!

It’s a dangerous life, always hiding from the authorities, always staying below the radar, but like previously stated, there isn’t anything they can’t do.

Unfortunately, once they meet Sepia Windsor along with his crazy scheme, the authorities start cropping up everywhere. The crew didn’t even agree to help the kid, but before they know it, they’re recruiting other dubious help, landing themselves in the biggest prison in the galaxy, and becoming the top wanted criminals in the whole universe. And the so called treasure may not even be real. They are NOT getting paid enough for this; if they survive, Jax is going to kill that Sepia kid. Or maybe himself. He’s not particular.

Taglist: @indecentpause @memento-morri-writes @jellybeanswriting @blind-the-winds @outpost51​ @yejidoesthings​ @cilly-the-writer @charlesjosephwrites​ @thescatteredscribbles (ask to be added or removed!)

Links: Tag 🏵

[writinglittlebeasts]

Last line tag

Thank you so much for the very old tag, @artdecosupernova-writing! Here's the latest Invisible Girl bit:

“Maybe I did.” Paris bit his lip; a move that fascinated Velia. She tried it herself, teeth dragging indents in her bottom lip, the feeling of that plush flesh stuck there where it could be punctured, shredded.

@flowerprose @writinglittlebeasts @nopoodles @thewriteflame @writeouswriter @aether-wasteland-s @drchenquill and anyone who sees this -- no pressure but share a line if you feel like it!

[writinglittlebeasts]

had an idea for like a short story or something kicking around for ages, about like, The person who buys most of creed's stock even at his ridiculous prices and their terrible construction, like his arts patron or something, just a really horrific woman living in some gothic manor full of macabre werewolf oddities. and like a living werewolf that she acquires. but it's all been vibes it's entirely vibes. but now i'm like What If... the werewolf is some kind of archeologist and she like works at a history museum or some shit and the horrible rich woman either hires or kidnaps (not picky) her so that she can confirm or deny that what she's just acquired are the remains of the beast of gevaudan . to what end? not sure. but it's more than i had which was, again, Only vibes

[writinglittlebeasts]

extremely specific writing tips #1: never shy away from the suicidal ideation of your protagonist