#lew writes

[liloinkoink]

last night i asked if people would be interested in me posting a backstory piece for Martyn from the hero/villain / yellow rose au i’ve posted a single oneshot for despite the fact the backstory piece doesn’t seem to outwardly relate to the posted oneshot. no one outright shot me down so. here you go

for some context, the powers in this world of yellow rose come from a catastrophic event that took place almost 20 years prior to the start of the story, which wiped out a lot of the world’s cities/towns and gave many of the survivors powers or mutations

backstory takes place when Martyn is 0-10 years old (he was born shortly before the aforementioned catastrophic event) and focuses on an OC parent character / martyn’s relationship to said parent

anyway. yellow rose is an au made w @cherrifire. time for you all to meet robot dad

It’s hot on the day the world ends. This is not the only thing it remembers, but it’s one that still stands out, even years down the line.

It’d been dealing with a patient with symptoms of heatstroke, the third it had seen in an hour. Heatstroke is an easy enough ailment to give to a nurse bot to treat, so it gets the job. It had stepped out of its patient’s room and run into a doctor, who had asked it to fetch something from the basement storage.

This is why it had survived, it thinks, looking back. It had been in the basement, and by some stroke of luck, the building had not collapsed so completely as to destroy it alongside the rest of the building.

It had not had a concept of luck before that moment, before the shaking had stopped and the dust had cleared, leaving it mostly in tact. Once it had forced its way up the stairs, it found it was not sure whether surviving the collapse was good or bad luck.

When the nurse bot tried to ring its network for help, it found the line inside its head had gone dead. When it looked to the surrounding street, it found hundreds of buildings similarly smoldering. When it called out, it found only its own voice returning to it.

The nurse bot had tried to comb through the wreckage of its practice, looking for survivors. It found nothing, heard nothing, but it still attempted to sift through the rubble, to search for the people it had been built to assist.

A nurse bot’s arms are not meant to move stone and iron, however. It was not used to the strange things that happened in its processing when it thought about what might be under the wreckage, and did not know how to handle them. It made a mistake, lifting things it could not, and when the wreckage in its grasp had buckled…

Well. It had thought itself lucky, distantly, that unlike humans, robots are not generally “handed” in one way or the other. Statistically, it would have preferred its right hand, and it would have been much worse off when the debris crushed its arm, taking its limb from the elbow down.

Ah, and pain, of course. It would have been quite bad if it had been able to feel pain, or bleed. It probably would have died, had this fallen on it, or had it lost a flesh and blood arm.

It… does not look in the wreckage any longer.

The nurse bot did not know what to do, with the practice it had spent its whole existence in destroyed. It had never been outside before—at least, not while activated. It had never left the walls of the hospital it was built for. It had not been intended to function without direction.

It knew its purpose, though, direction or not. The nurse bot had been built to heal. It knew, direction or not, how to do this, and that it must do this. And certainly, if it looks, it would fine someone out there who needed it.

When it comes to matters of health, time is of the essence. With its direction decided, the nurse bot begins to walk.

It finds people, rarely, stumbling and unharmed, or nursing small bruises or minor sprains. It helps these when it can, and gives advice when it cannot. It finds bodies, often, and it looks away, as it has never seen a funeral, and it does not know to help the dead except to assist the living.

It finds a woman soon to be a body, despite its best efforts to help her. It lacks supplies to stop the flow of blood from her wounds, and the woman lacks any hope without stitches or bandages.

It offers her sympathies, and it holds in its one hand both of hers. There is little it can say to her, but it tries, quiet promises of I am here and I will not leave you and you will be at peace soon.

She holds its hand with all the strength in her body, knuckles white as paper, a stark contrast against the dark blood staining the rest of her body. It feels as the strength fades. It watches as the light in her eyes fades with it. She lets it go, and it closes her eyes.

The nurse bot keeps walking, keeps looking, until it hears crying. The sound is loud, a desperate sob of a young child, and it seems to stem from a building sagging in three places, roof and door and floor all ready to give in.

If it were human, the nurse bot may have thought the place too risky to enter. But it is not, and so in it goes, pushing the door open with one hand.

It finds the boy lying in his crib, a round-faced infant wrapped in a patterned onesie and kicking away a thin blanket. He cannot be more than a year old—the nurse boy would guess him to be maybe six months. The fact the boy and his crib have survived the destruction of the city is a miracle, one not offered to the rest of the home.

It reaches down into the crib, brushing its hand over the boy’s face. His sobs stumble, a bit curious, but the baby ultimately doesn’t stop crying.

The nurse bot hadn’t worked with a pediatrician, but it knows about children, as any nurse bot would.

“Are you hungry?” it asks. He doesn’t answer except to cry more, which is understandable—this is what babies do, it knows, and besides, this has been the chosen course of action for most of the people it saw today.

It could not help those people, but it can help with this.

The nurse bot steps away from the crib to examine the boy’s room, though the boy cries louder when its face disappears from his view.

“I will return shortly,” it tells him. This assurance does not calm him down.

It finds what it can in the rest of the home—food for the baby, a warmer blanket, a box of diapers. It finds the living room, where living is not what his parents are doing, and gingerly shuts the door. It finds a photo album and flips through, searching for the information it needs: delicate handwriting next to an image of the boy, held in the arms of the woman on the floor a room over.

April 7th, 20XX: Welcome to the world, Martyn!

His name is Martyn. His birthday is April 7th. The nurse bot usually keeps these things on file about its patients, and so it files them away.

When it returns to the crib, the baby inside is no longer crying, having worn himself out. It reaches down again, face blank.

“Hello, Martyn,” it says, “I am going to be your caretaker for now. I hope we will get along well.”

— — —

They don’t stay in the house. It finds a baby carrier in a closet and a duffle bag in the bedroom, and it packs what Martyn will need and carries him out of the collapsing home.

Martyn laughs a lot. Once he’s been fed and changed and has slept, the nurse bot finds he laughs all the time.

He doesn’t know, it thinks. He must miss his parents, probably, but he doesn’t know. He isn’t old enough to understand any of this. He watches the broken and bloodied street with awe—has he ever been this far from home before? This is all a big adventure to him.

It doesn’t tell him.

— — —

It stops three times a day to change and feed him, and to let him crawl around in the cleanest and sturdiest places it can find.

“Movement is good for development,” it tells him, watching him play with a piece of rubble.

It doesn’t stop to rest at night—it doesn’t need to, and the rocking motion of his continued steps helps Martyn sleep. When that isn’t enough, it tries to replicate the songs it has heard playing in the clinic’s waiting room, or seen mothers and fathers sing in the clinic to calm their children. Martyn seems to like that.

He likes the nurse bot’s hair, too. He tugs on it all the time as the nurse bot walks, held close to its chest, close enough to its head to access it. It lets him—it doesn’t hurt, and besides, it has few other ways to entertain him.

— — —

Martyn grows. He starts to babble, and to toddle. He becomes too big for the bot to carry him, but by then it has become adept at finding places to hunker down for a while.

“Your name is Martyn,” the bot tells him, pointing to his nose.

“Ma,” he tries.

“Very close,” it says. He grabs its hand, tugging, and continues to babble.

“Da,” he says, and it knows that he doesn’t have a concept of fathers or parents or the English language, and he is only making sounds.

“That is me,” it says anyway, and Martyn continues to babble.

— — —

“Dad,” Martyn tugs on its arm, barely tall enough to reach its fingers. “Daaaad.”

“Hello, Martyn,” it says, “What is it?”

“I’m bored,” Martyn says, “And I’m hungry.”

“We still have some food left for you, though I should start a fire soon,” it says, “We will need to move soon. Children your age need a variety of foods to—”

“Grow up healthy, I know,” Martyn whines, “That’s boring. I’m bored.”

“What would you like to do?” it asks, and he lets go of its hand, running off. It stands to follow, but then he’s back, holding a battered old book—some kind of short novel, something with a torn cover that used to have a dragon on it. The title is gone, as is the dragon’s head.

“Read this,” he says. Martyn is learning to read, but he hasn’t quite got the grasp to read a real book on his own yet.

This hasn’t stopped Martyn from searching for them, though, nor from presenting them to his father to read. It had started reading one aloud to Martyn to entertain him when Martyn had come down with a fever last year, and he hasn’t stopped asking to hear them since.

“After you eat,” it says, and Martyn cheers.

—

There is a group of survivors picking their way through town. The bot sees them before they see it, watching the street from a window. It does not know their intentions, and it doesn’t plan to find out.

It crouches down in front of Martyn, putting its hand on his shoulder.

“Hello,” it says, “We’re going to play a game, okay?”

“Okay,” Martyn says, and it nods, once.

“It is called hide and seek,” it says, “There are some people who are looking around town, trying to play, and we are going to hide from them. We will win if we are not found.”

“That’s a dumb game. Why don’t we play something else?” Martyn asks.

“It is their favorite game. We are going to play because that is what they like to do. But we are going to be very good at it and hide very well,” it says, “You can hide with me, okay? If we win, there will be a special prize.”

That’s all it takes to convince Martyn, who smiles and nods and follows it as it ducks away into the closet. Its legs creak as it sits down, and then it opens its arm, letting him sit in its lap. It can’t be comfortable, all cold metal, but Martyn wraps his arms around its torso and settles right in, content with the hand on his back.

“Now we must be very quiet,” it tells him, “I will tell you when we can talk again.”

Martyn nods, and it puts its hand on the back of his head, and it waits.

When the strangers leave, it asks him what he would like for his prize.

“Hug me again!” He says, and it obliges for as long as he wants.

— — —

Halfway through its sentence, the bot’s voice cuts out.

That has not happened before. Martyn seems unfazed, especially when it begins to talk again, but it takes note of the error.

— — —

It happens more. Its voice cuts out, stutters, corrupts. Martyn really only complains when they’re reading, but it starts to fear the worst.

It sits Martyn down, crouching down to meet his eyes.

“Martyn, I have something very important to tell- to tell- to tell you,” it says, and if it could, it would wince.

“Yeah?” Martyn asks, “Are we moving again?”

“Soon,” it says, “But that is not what I want to tell you.”

“Oh,” Martyn says.

“I am… sick. Do you remember what being sick is?” it asks. Martyn nods, reaching up to put his hand on its forehead, the way it had for him when he had been feverish.

“You feel warm,” Martyn confirms, “It’s okay. I’ll read to you until you’re better.”

“Thank you, Martyn. You are very kind,” it says, “But that is not the kind of sick I am. There are many kinds of sick.”

“Oh,” Martyn says, “Then what kind of sick are you?”

“I am… robot sick. I am- I am- I am- I am- getting old,” it says, “And my voice is starting to… not work properly.”

“I know that,” Martyn says, “You talk funny now and you keep messing up reading.”

“Yes, that’s right. You’re very smart,” it confirms, “But it might get worse. I might not be able to talk anymore soon.”

“But you’ll get better, right? I got better,” Martyn says. It shakes its head.

“I might, but I might not. Robot sick is different,” it says, though it knows it is lying. “I just wanted you to know. If you talk to me and I do not respond, I am not ignoring you. I am still listening. I am just sick, and my voice- my voice- my voice- my voice—”

It shakes its head, the way humans sometimes do, to clear the sentence. When it looks at Martyn again, he seems thoughtful.

“Will you still read to me?” he asks.

“As long as I am able,” it promises. And, for good measure, “I love you, Martyn. Do not forget.”

“I won’t,” Martyn says, “I love you, too.”

— — —

It makes a point to show him how to read. He had already been learning it, but it doubles down when its voice begins to waver.

It picks up novels and reads them to him with Martyn in its lap. It holds its arm around Martyn’s waist, and Martyn holds the book for it to see, and it reads the words Martyn points to, so Martyn knows what they are.

It doesn’t want him to lose this. It doesn’t want him to lose his fun, his creativity, his imagination, just because it cannot read to him anymore.

— — —

It loses its voice for good while it is reading to Martyn.

— — —

Its voice is the first thing it loses, but it is not the last.

Control of its fingers becomes… tricky. Martyn has to help it, doing things that require finer movements.

“Is your hand sick?” he asks, and he sounds afraid. It nods, because it knows it shouldn’t lie to him, even if it wants to.

It loses what little control it had over its face next. Then its neck becomes stuck. It doesn’t seem able to walk as fast, though that might just be due to Martyn getting faster—he grows older still, full of energy, constantly wanting to run and jump and play on his longer legs. It tries its best, but it cannot keep pace like it used to. It used to sing and walk all night, and now it cannot do either.

Martyn is as patient as a six year old can be, which is not very. He gets frustrated and bored, and he complains often. It does not blame him for this. He is doing his best, too, and that is all it can ask.

— — —

There are people. It tries to hide—pulls Martyn into a closet, tucks him close to its chest, pets his hair with his hand—but Martyn doesn’t like to play hide and seek, and he doesn’t know he has to be quiet.

“My name is Martyn!” he tells them, once the closet door opens, “This is Dad. He’s sick.”

They’re nice enough, a woman and her teenage son. It—he, now?—releases Martyn to talk to them, and climbs out of the closet. He hovers at Martyn’s side when they climb out, a hand on his son’s head.

“Why were you two in the closet?” the mother asks.

“We were playing hide and seek. That’s what Dad said other people like to do, but I don’t like it very much,” Martyn explains. She nods.

“Most people do like to play that game,” she says, because, as a parent, she must understand his fear. “But we don’t, either. Do you want to travel together for a little while, Martyn?”

“I want to!” Martyn says, and he looks up at his father, and his father would sigh if he could.

He nods, because what else is he meant to do?

— — —

The teenager entertains Martyn, reading to him the book his father never did get to finish. The mother cooks, and she takes a look at his hands.

“I used to be an engineer,” she says, “You’re a bit above my pay grade, but I could take a look, if you want.”

He doesn’t let her crack him open or anything, but she inspects the pieces of his wiring she can see. He’s reminded of his old clinic, though he can’t tell her how ironic this is.

Her prognosis is… grim.

“You probably only have a few years left in you,” she admits, “Your model was supposed to go for regular updates, replacing parts and…”

He doesn’t listen as she explains the old process, his focus instead on Martyn.

Only a few years? What will happen to Martyn? Who will take care of him?

Humans need care until they are eighteen.

Martyn is six.

“I could try and make some minor repairs for some of the obvious damage, but I don’t have tools for anything more. I can also try and tell you some things you can do to try and stretch that time out,” she says. He nods, understanding, grateful, as she does what she can.

He had been in her place, once, years ago, and so he understands, too, when she offers sympathies, when she holds his hand.

— — —

They split off from each other eventually. The other two are traveling to a place they claim never fell. He does not believe in such a place, and so he does not go with them.

Martyn cries. The mother hugs him, as does her son, and they are gone.

As they walk away, he holds Martyn’s hand, and he does not let go.

— — —

He teaches Martyn how to do… anything he can. He is too young to understand how to hunt or set a trap or clean an animal or cook or treat a fever or start a fire or boil water, and it is very difficult to teach when he cannot speak. He’d wanted to wait until Martyn is older, he does not have the luxury of time anymore.

Martyn is clever, is bright. He takes to the skills as well as a six, eight, ten year old can, and it is only partly due to the fact he has no choice.

— — —

He knows he is dying.

Martyn does not.

He picks up a stick, waving Martyn over. There is a patch of dirt that is mostly clear, and he crouches in front of it.

I AM SICK he writes, and Martyn reads it, and he frowns.

“I know that,” Martyn says, and he shakes his head. The dirt is soft, and so he clears it, trying again.

I AM VERY SICK he writes. Martyn reads it, and he frowns deeper.

“What does that mean?” Martyn asks.

I WILL SLEEP SOON he writes. He wants to be delicate, but he can’t—the patch of dirt isn’t very big.

“Oh, well, that’s okay. I sleep all the time,” Martyn says, “That’s how you get healthy again. It makes you feel better. You told me that.”

He wants to nod, but he can’t. This is the bit he was dreading the most.

I WILL NOT WAKE UP he writes.

For a long moment, Martyn doesn’t say anything.

“What if we get you medicine?” Martyn asks, “When— when I was sick, you found medicine. It made me better. It would make you better.”

NOT FOR ROBOTS

“That… that isn’t fair, though,” Martyn says, “Are you sure? We could get some and try it!”

I AM SURE he writes, and then he erases it, I LOVE YOU

Again, Martyn says nothing. He isn’t sure what Martyn is thinking, and then Martyn charges him, hugging him around the stomach.

He has more he wants to say to Martyn—he wants to teach him so much, to tell him to be careful, to tell him he’ll be okay.

He drops the stick, wrapping his arm around Martyn as tight as his failing joints will let him.

— — —

His goal is to find somewhere safe. An old house, maybe, somewhere where Martyn will be able to survive on his own for a while.

He looks, and he does not find it. He’s been looking for ten years, after all—of course he wouldn’t find one now, just because he is dying.

Other than that, his life does not much change. He holds Martyn’s hand as they walk, and Martyn talks to him about birds and books and whatever else he can think of. Martyn has become very good at filling the air for them both. Neither of them let go of the other’s hand.

He doesn’t actually know when it is going to happen, just that it will be soon.

When the moment finally comes, he does not realize.

They stop to rest for a night. Martyn is tired, as he is a child, and his legs can only carry him so far. He is tired, too, but he does not have it in him to think about why, or how strange that is.

It’s nowhere special, where they stop. A random house that has kept its roof, somewhere safe from rain and sun. Martyn finds a place to roll out his sleeping bag, and when he lies down, his father lies with him.

He does not let go of Martyn’s hand.

[driflew]

im talking abt witch au in a server so im posting another scene from it. this time Ren fuckign dies.

Martyn hears the fuss before he sees it. He’s looking for Ren—the dog ran off, but the sun has broken through the trees, so Martyn figures it’s not the dog he’s looking for anymore. Ren’s probably sitting naked in the forest somewhere, and as treatable as it would be, Martyn plans to find him before he catches a cold. 

“Don’t let him up—you saw how big his claws were,” says a voice Martyn only sort of recognizes, though what he says is… 

“I’m not stupid. I’m not taking any risks with this thing—I’m not catching whatever he’s got,” another voice, even less familiar. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” this voice, Martyn cannot mistake—Ren. 

Martyn steps a bit closer. He’s just outside the edge of the clearing, ducking behind a tree. Not immediately obvious to anyone in the center, though Martyn can see Ren from his hiding place. He’s surrounded by a few men—Martyn doesn’t know their names, but he knows them to be some of Ren’s neighbors. Most of them steer clear of Ren, but one has his boot on the back of Ren’s neck. 

Ren’s hands are muddy. There’s dirt under his nails and across his stomach. Hair falls around his face, and blood stains his teeth and chin. He looks like an animal, and Martyn’s heart hurts looking at him. 

“Must be full from whatever you already ate, you piece of shit,” the first voice says, and Martyn hears Ren make a choked noise of pain—the man must be increasing the pressure. “Whose blood is that?!” 

“No one’s!” Ren’s wheezing, just a bit, “I caught a deer, that’s all.” 

“A deer never satisfies a thing like you.” 

Ren is caught and there’s no doubt about it, and that means there’s nothing left Martyn can do for him. His cloak is dark, and though the rising sun means it won’t help him hide as well, it’s still effective. If Martyn slips away now, he’ll… he can… 

“My cousin had a wolfman in his town. He said it didn’t stop hunting until it had found a man big enough to chew on until the sun rose again.” 

“I didn’t! I wouldn’t,” Ren insists, “You know me, I’ve lived here since I was born. I wouldn’t. You know that!” 

Martyn tugs his hood on, biting the inside of his mouth. He needs to leave, but leaving Ren is…

“Oh, sure,” scoffs someone else, “And I knew you were human, too. But you’ve turned, and you can't trust a wolf.” 

Ren actually whimpers, a sound Martyn has only ever heard him make as the dog. It hurts to hear, but it has Martyn taking an uncertain step to the side, unsure if he wants to run away. 

He threw Ren to the wolves the first time Ren came to him in order to protect himself—he could have cured Ren, but he didn’t, wanting to keep from the magic he’d have to use for a cure being discovered and reported. 

Ren wouldn’t have reported him. He knows that now. If he’d cured Ren, this wouldn’t be happening. 

…But it is. Ren is doomed, and what can Martyn even do? He’s not a hero. He’s barely—

“Hey!” someone calls. Martyn’s head snaps up, and he locks eyes with the owner of the voice. “There’s someone else there! Who are you?!” 

Martyn takes a step back, but the nearest man grabs him by the arm, yanking him into the light. Ren twists his head under the boot on his neck, and his face pales as Martyn is dragged into the light. 

“Christ, do you mind?! Jeez!” Martyn says, shaking the man’s hand off. He brushes his sleeve, annoyed—he’s doing his absolute best to play the part of a random passerby, “What on earth is going on here? I came out to collect some medicinal herbs, and you’ve got some guy under your… is that Ren?” 

“Used to be. Wolf’s curse has him now. Who knows how long ago he turned,” someone says, “Dunno if you’ve ever really met Ren, Doctor.” 

“You’re collecting herbs, you said?” another says, “Why don’t you have any in your basket?” 

Martyn looks down and bites back a swear. All he brought was food, water, and a cloak and some loose pants for Ren—obvious ties, and a clear contradiction to his alibi. 

“Yeah, just woke up and came out for them, though I haven’t found any,” Martyn says, “Easiest to look for by sunlight.” 

“You know, Doctor, I heard something weird about you,” says the one with a shoe on Ren’s neck. Ren lets out a choked noise, another pound of pressure on his spine. “I heard you were seen with the wolf a few months ago.” 

“What? Like, Ren?” Martyn asks, playing innocent, “Sure, Ren comes to my stand, but I thought he was sick…?” 

“Not at your stand. In the night,” the man says, “I heard you’re fraternizing with rabid animals. You’re a witch.” 

Martyn laughs, a touch nervous, “A witch? No. I’m a great doctor and all, but I’m not magic.” 

“You were commanding the wolf-thing, making it obey you. Only a witch could do that,” the man insists, “Joseph’s wife saw you. She looked out the window at the awful beast and saw it knock your hood down before it submitted to your command.” 

“That’s— your friend’s wife must have mistaken me for someone else,” Martyn says. 

“My wife knows what she saw!” says a man who must be Joseph, not that Martyn cares to turn around and check which one that is. 

“You’ve been spending time with him even when he’s not in the form of a monster,” someone says, and Martyn sweats. He should have kicked Ren out, he should have decided not to check on Ren that night, he should have— 

“Martyn’s helping me with the other symptoms,” Ren’s voice cuts through Martyn’s spiraling. Martyn’s head snaps down to watch as Ren attempts to look up at his captors. “I didn’t tell him about my— my curse. He didn’t know. I didn’t tell him.”

“Doesn’t make him not a witch.” 

“He’s not!” Ren insists, “He’s a friend I lied to. Nothing else.”

“The witch was commanding him,” says another man, taking a step closer to Martyn. There’s an axe in his hand, still clean. “He must be commanding Ren now. Why else would Ren defend him?” 

“He didn’t do anything!” Ren insists, “I swear. I swear, Martyn hasn’t used any magic. Please leave him alone, please.” 

Martyn looks down at Ren begging on the ground and his stomach turns with nausea. Ren isn’t prideful, exactly, but like this he seems to have no pride at all.

It shreds Martyn inside to see him like that. Even now, it’s not his own life he’s begging for—Ren wants to protect Martyn. Christ, and Martyn had been about to leave him. 

Martyn knows how it’ll make him look, but he pulls the cloak out of his basket and steps toward Ren. 

“I’m not going to do anything,” Martyn says, holding up the cloak to show the men, “But c’mon. He’s not an animal. Ren’s always been a good man. Let him have some semblance of his dignity before you kill him.” 

“Careful,” the man with a foot on Ren says, “This isn’t Ren anymore. If you’d seen the claws on him…” 

“I’ll be careful,” Martyn says, “Just let him up a second. He’s got no claws anymore.”

The man with a foot on Ren’s neck stares, then releases their hold on him. Martyn only hesitates a moment before kneeling in front of Ren, throwing the cloak over him like a blanket. 

“Sit up,” Martyn whispers, dropping his hand to Ren’s hair. He threads his fingers through for barely a moment before removing them, “Don’t die lying down in the dirt.” 

Ren does as he’s told, sitting up and pulling the cloak around his front. He doesn’t look much better—he’s still dirty, with a bloody chin and knotted hair—but at least he can claim some small piece of pride. 

The way he looks at Martyn is devastating. This close, Martyn can see the sad, guilty eyes, the defeated hang of his shoulders. Martyn may have known he was doomed when he saw him here, but it’s another thing to see defeat so obvious on the face of someone so stubborn and headstrong as Ren. 

Martyn actually gets up and takes a step back—he can’t be that close to Ren looking at him like that. 

The man who had been standing on Ren earlier drops his sword down, holding the edge below Ren’s neck. Ren doesn’t flinch—less an admirable display of courage, and more a simple acceptance of what’s to come. 

“So, Doctor, why did you have that with you?” the man asks, “You’re already wearing a cloak. You wouldn’t carry it unless you knew someone would need it.” 

Martyn looks at his basket. There’s still a pair of pants in there, making his alibi tricky. 

“I did know he’d need it,” Martyn admits, quiet. 

“I told him. I asked him to bring it. I didn’t tell him why,” Ren lies again, fingers tight on the edge of the cloak. 

“Like hell! He was with you, wasn’t he?!” the man says. 

“The wolf defending him is proof. He must be brainwashed by the witch’s magic,” another man says. 

“Monsters have to stick together. Just get rid of them both!” 

“No,” Martyn says, “Look, Ren, I appreciate you lying for me, but you don’t have to. I did know about Ren’s affliction, but we were treating it as just that—an illness. I’ve been trying to help him treat it for the past few months. I never commanded him, never spent a night with him, but we’ve tried a few medicines to lessen the effects of the moon on him and keep him in check. I knew, but not because I’m a witch. I’m a doctor, and Ren came to me as a patient looking for a cure. That’s all.”

“Why wouldn’t you just report him?!” 

“Like I said,” Martyn says, taking another step back, “Ren’s always been a good man.”

Someone grabs Martyn’s arm, stopping him from moving any further back. 

“Good enough to make yourself this damn suspicious for?” he asks, “Because the way I see it, you protected him ‘cuz you’re a witch, and he’s your bitch.”

Martyn resists the urge to cringe at the taunt, trying his best to maintain that aloof doctor facade he’s been wearing so effortlessly for years. He scoffs, folding his arms. 

“No one is good enough to make myself this suspicious over. Especially not some wolfman I just met,” Martyn says, “But could you imagine how much money I’d have made if I’d actually cured him? There’s no one else in the world who could do that. I could charge anything I wanted for it. I saw the chance and I took it, but clearly, it hasn’t paid off.”

Ren says nothing, face unreadable, and Martyn scrambles to make it clear he’s lying. 

“Hell,” Martyn adds, gesturing one arm at Ren, “I could charge Ren anything I wanted. He couldn’t not pay what I asked—at best, I would stop trying to cure him. At worst, I could report what he was to everyone. Shame it had to end this way, though.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you,” Ren whispers. There’s a venom to it Martyn has never seen from Ren before, far more convincing than Martyn expects. Ren’s head snaps up, and the pain in his eyes has a fire behind it now, “You were supposed to help me!” 

“I would’ve! But I don’t want to be a small town doctor forever,” Martyn says, “The city’s much nicer. I almost have enough to open my own practice, and a few more, er… we’ll say treatments for you would have helped a lot. Especially if any of them had actually worked.”

“Is that all you wanted from me? My money?” Ren asks. 

“I mean, sure. What’s a wolfman need with money, anyway?” Martyn asks, “Your lot never live long. Do you mind if I collect your estate after this? It’s not much anymore, but it’d be really nice to sell the rest.”

“Bastard,” Ren spits. 

“That doesn’t sound like a no,” Martyn says, and Ren bares his teeth into a snarl. Almost immediately, the sword at his neck cuts into his flesh, turning his growl into a sound of pain. 

“Stop riling him up,” the man says, “We don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“Right,” Martyn says, putting up his arms and taking another step back. If they knew Ren like he does, they’d know the answer is nothing. Ren wouldn’t hurt any of them. 

Not that Ren defends himself. He keeps glaring at Martyn, and though it hurts, it’s better than the despair. 

“We need him dead. We’ve stalled long enough already,” the man holding Martyn’s arm says. 

“Just run him through already!” says someone behind him. 

“Drown him, wolves can’t swim,” 

“Yes they can! You have to burn them.” 

“That’s witches, idiot!” 

Ren seems a bit paler as they argue. Martyn can only imagine how he feels—these are neighbors he’s known all his life, and now they’re debating his manner of death right in front of him. It’s the end of the line, and a gruesome one at that. 

“No! All of you are wrong. You have to cut its head off,” someone else yells, “Wolfmen are sturdy, they don’t die any other way.” 

“Hey, Doctor,” the man with the sword says. “Do you ever treat animals?”

“Occasionally,” Martyn says, unsure if he likes the question. 

“Have you ever put down a dog?”

“What?” Martyn asks. His callous costume slips for a moment, though he’s quick to put it back on. “Sure, once or twice. I don’t usually bother with treating dogs, though.” 

“You bothered with a wolf.” 

“A lucrative wolf. People don’t pay as much for dogs as they would themselves,” Martyn says, “Medicine doesn’t generalize that much, you know. I don’t know how to treat anything on an animal beyond stitching up a wound.”

“Sure, sure,” the man says, “But everything dies the same. Even wolfmen. Even witches.”

Martyn narrows his eyes. “I’m not a witch.”

“Prove it, then,” the man says. He pulls his sword away, offering it to Martyn. “Kill the wolfman. If he really means nothing to you, it should be easy. Otherwise, I’ll assume you’re a witch in league with him.”

“I don’t even know how to, to— what do you even want me to do?” Martyn asks. 

“You’ve chopped firewood, haven’t you?” the man asks, “It’s probably like that.”

Martyn stares at Ren a long time, but Ren isn’t looking at him. His knuckles are white, and at the hem, his hand shakes. 

If Martyn can do nothing else for Ren, he can at least make this quick. 

“If it’s like firewood,” Martyn says, “Give me an axe.”

— — —

They set Ren up on an old stump. It’s a bit too tall, and the position he takes the lean his neck against it is awkward, undignified. Most of what they do leading up to his death is—letting him keep the cloak is the only reprieve they afford him. No one lets him wipe the blood from his mouth or pull the twigs from his hair. He’s barely even let off the ground to move to his chopping block—it would be too easy to run on his own two feet, and so he’s made to crawl. 

Martyn is the final person willing to even to use Ren’s name. 

“Part your hair, Ren,” Martyn instructs, “I don’t want to miss.” 

Ren is allowed to do that, at least, pulling his hair away to clear up the skin there. Martyn tugs down the back of the cloak himself, letting his fingers linger at the base of Ren’s spine, looking at what, exactly, he’s about to do. 

His throat is pressed against old bark, putting him at an odd angle. Martyn says nothing, another of many decisions he’ll come to regret. 

“Okay,” Martyn mutters, lifting the axe, “Any last words?”

Ren closes his eyes. “I’ll see you in Hell, Doctor.” 

It should sound like an insult, but Martyn knows it isn’t. It doesn’t make it any easier. 

Martyn swings. The angle is crooked, diagonal against Ren’s bent neck. Martyn knows he’s fucked it when he hears the sound Ren makes: a choked scream, loud enough to startle the birds and as pained as it is wet. 

Martyn rips the axe out of his flesh. Blood streams down the blade and onto the cloak, but Martyn ignores it. Ren begins to sag and Martyn panics, slamming it back down. This angle is worse, and Ren cries a second time. His body shudders, patches of hair appearing on his shoulders and down his arms. There’s shouting behind Martyn, but he doesn’t process the words.  

Ren is in pain. The wolf has only ever wanted to protect him, to soothe him. He’s scared and in pain and the wolf wants to help and it’s Martyn that’s causing it. 

Martyn slams the axe down a third time. Ren makes no noise, at least, or maybe it’s drowned out by the splatter of blood, or the axe hitting bone, or bark snapping under the grip of Ren’s claws. 

Martyn’s hands and chest and legs are covered in it. He’ll probably never feel clean again. 

Rip. Raise. Swing. Rip. Raise. Swing. 

It takes a total of five blows before Martyn hits wood, Ren’s head falling away onto the dirt. 

His body slumps against the wood, leaving blood smeared all down the bark. Like a spider’s legs curling in death, the claws and fur retract as the life leaves him. He looks smaller like that, crumpled against the ground. 

He’s dead. Ren is dead, and Martyn murdered him. 

Martyn processes very little about the next few moments. He’s only seen a few bodies in his life, but this is the worst yet. Ren had been kind beyond anyone Martyn had ever met, and Martyn had killed him. If Martyn had cured him, if Martyn had sedated him, if Martyn had stepped in and saved him, if—

“—tor, Doctor!” Martyn snaps back to attention. The man with the sword is in front of him, and he actually looks concerned. 

“He’s— I’m so, you—” Martyn doesn’t know what he’s saying. Ren is dead and he wants to apologize and he wants to curse this man’s entire bloodline to ends twice as gruesome and violent. He feels small, smaller than Ren against that stump. He feels like a kid again, trying not to sob as he’s carried away from Jay’s smoldering house. His vision is blurring already, and his hands are shaking so bad that he can barely hold the axe. 

“Jesus, you look like you’re going to be sick.”

“I am,” Martyn says, honest. He hears the axe fall to the ground, though he’s not aware of letting it go. 

“Haven’t you, like, done surgery?” the man asks. 

“That— it’s, not like that,” Martyn says, “They don’t— they don't bleed that much. They’re not— they don’t feel— they don’t make noise.”

He hears someone behind him say something like ‘can’t be a witch with such a weak stomach.’ Jay had a weak stomach, too. Was no good at hurting anyone, not even if he wanted to. Not even to defend himself. 

Just like Ren. Not like Martyn. 

Martyn had always thought, if he’d only had the power he has now, he’d have leapt to Jay’s defense. He’s always told himself he’d have saved the only person who ever loved him, comforted himself with versions of the world where he and Jay escaped. 

Ren didn’t love him, but Ren had made himself the only other person who’d gotten so far as to like him. And Martyn hadn’t just let him die, no—Martyn had killed Ren himself. 

What was the point of all this power if Martyn is still a coward? How did he let it happen again? When did he lose sight of what he’d gained it all for?

What can he do with it now? 

“Take a seat, man,” the man says, and Martyn shakes his head—if he sits now, he’ll never get the nerve to move again. 

What can he do with his magic? There must be some way to fix this. Martyn is a healer, better than any other. There must be some spell for sutures or blood or bone, something that could fix this, something that could bring Ren back to h— 

…Something that could bring Ren back. 

Martyn looks up, finally meeting the man’s eyes. He’s still shaking, but he gathers what determination he can. 

“Let— let me bury him,” Martyn says. 

“What?”

“Let me,” Martyn tries again, trying to keep his voice from trembling, “Let me bury him.”

“Why the hell would you bury a wolfman?”

“So he, his body,” Martyn’s determined, but the adrenaline in his body has him scrambled. It’s hard to think, to speak, “It’ll infect the, the wolves, if— if they eat it, the local wolves, they’ll, if we just—”

The man raises a hand, cutting him off.

“So we’ll burn it,” the man says. Martyn shakes his head. 

“I need to, to be the one to,” Martyn says, and when he can’t explain himself, he tacks on the one bit of magic even humans recognize: “Please.” 

“No graveyard will take a wolfman,” the man says. 

“I’ll bury him out here,” Martyn says, “Please.”

“Why does this matter so much to you?” the man asks, “Don’t tell me you feel guilty.”

“I’ve never— I’ve never lost a patient before,” Martyn says, almost a whisper. The man’s face actually softens. He believes Martyn to be a human doctor, after all, simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. He sets a hand on Martyn’s shoulder, sympathetic. 

“I know he looked human, but that thing wasn't human anymore,” he says, “You don’t have to feel bad. It was us or him.”

Martyn doesn’t want to be us with this man. Being safe with these people isn’t worth this. It wasn’t worth Jay. Martyn has paid so steeply for this safety and belonging, and it was never worth a goddamned thing. 

“Ren’s always— always been a good man,” Martyn says, “Just— I need to do this. Let me do this. Please.”

The man sighs, squeezing Martyn’s shoulder. “If this is what you need to sleep tonight.”

It isn’t. If only it were so simple as ever sleeping again. 

“Thank you,” Martyn says anyway. 

— — —

The first thing Martyn does is close Ren’s eyes. 

He doesn’t look at them. He has no idea what Ren’s expression looks like because he doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t check, instead focusing on picking him up. 

He picks Ren’s head up first, gentle, respectful as he can be. He doesn’t take Ren by his hair or hold him by the face, instead cupping Ren’s chin in his hands. Ren’s hair cascades down his arms unobstructed, wet strands and the drenched wound coating Martyn’s sleeves in even more blood. 

Next, Martyn empties the basket. That’s careless—Martyn dumps everything on the ground without even looking. The only thing he picks back up is the pants, which he lays down on the base of the basket, just to give Ren a bit of a cushion when he rests him inside. 

Martyn sets his head down gently, leaning on his cheek. Though he tries to put Ren’s hair inside the basket, plenty of it spills out over the edges. 

Once Ren is secure, he sets the basket in the crook of his arm, and he moves to the rest of him. 

Ren’s body is still curled against the stump. The bleeding has slowed, but it hasn’t stopped entirely.

First, Martyn lays Ren’s body on his back. He covers Ren as best he can with the cloak, wrapping him carefully in the dark fabric. It’s difficult to see blood on, at least, though his stained neck is impossible to miss. Martyn has to be careful as he bends down, hooking his arms under Ren’s knees and back without tipping Ren’s head out of his basket. 

Ren is light when Martyn finally stands. Martyn’s already exhausted—staying up all night hadn’t done him any favors, nor had his awful morning—but he notices that. Ren had been a lumberjack before he… got sick. He must’ve lost the muscle at some point, though Martyn hadn’t noticed. 

Martyn rubs his thumb against Ren’s shoulder through the fabric of his cloak. His body is still warm. 

“It’s going to be okay, Ren,” he whispers, unable to care about being overheard. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll fix this. I’ll fix everything. I promise.”

He doesn’t apologize—as much as he wants to, Martyn holds his tongue. Now isn’t the time for apologies. 

Martyn will save it until Ren can hear it.

[asexualzoro]

it's december 9th, meaning today is my 23rd birthday (which is my favorite number!), which means it's time for...

Lew Writes Wrapped 2023!!!

im including anything that happened after my last bday, so we have some works from december as well. this one's a bit of a weird one for the total word count, you'll see why

it's all treebark from my sideblog / alt ao3. i cannot change. i will not change. for these im just gonna specify the relationship that's the main focus bc thats easier than fandom bc all but like one are third life

dandelion wishing

(Dec, 2.4k, treebark, oneshot) (link)

op movie 6 au for dogwarts in which Martyn is the baron and Ren doesn't know he's dead

id actually plotted out a whole third life au for this movie like months prior and really wanted to write it, so i took it for treebark week and focused it just on these two. it's my fave movie of all time and i obvs had to give it to my fave completely dead team <3

i will admit tho. it did make me back search martyns twitter to see if hes ever posted abt watching this movie. bc i know he likes One Piece and i realized this would bring me into the danger zone (he hasnt ever posted abt it if hes seen it)

A Romance Route for the Doomed Villain?!?

(Dec, 5k, treebark, oneshot) (link)

treebark dating sim isekai parody that spiraled out of my control made in a day-long possession

im still baffled by this one. why was the response to this one so insane?? there was smth in the water the day i posted this bro. a 1:2 kudos to hits ratio for the entire first day is literally fucking unbelievable. 70 comments?? what hold did this fic have on you people. i got fic written about this one?? my friends goncharov'd me in front of my face

really fucking fun to write and the insane response was smth im always gonna remember. i appreciate you guys so much

treesekai also turns a year old in a few days!

Until the Angels Realize You're Not One of Them

(Feb, 7.2k, emerald duo, oneshot) (link)

a traitor phil au which was mostly just me talking about all the reasons i love technoblade

this one... wasnt actually written this year for the most part? i didnt want to not acknowledge it, since it's on my ao3 in this year, but i wont be able to count it toward the total

still. traitor phil au my beloved. hearing him say on his stream he and techno wanted to do a betrayal arc made me feel insane bc i already had this written at the time

missing or obstructed

(2022-present, 12.9k, Grian & Ren, ongoing) (link)

post 3L fic about Ren and Grian seeking out closure with a lot of funny little sleep metaphors

same deal as the last fic, i, uh dont think i actually wrote anything new for missing or obstructed this year either? just uploaded chapters i wrote last year,,, i didnt wanna now acknowledge it, but i wont count this in my total later

i miss her. one day ill actually sit down and write more missing or obstructed. in my doc im JUST at introducing Martyn and i havent written it yet

to reach my mangled debut

(Sept, 4.2k, treebark week, ongoing) (link)

it wouldnt be me if i didnt have an execution somewhere in here. another op au!

THIS. I LOVE HER. when rev and i were plotting out the whole storyline for smop renchanting i was begging please give me this scene i need it and i had so much fun writing it. i rlly need to finish soon but i haven’t had time but please. please check out smop. she’s top of my priority list to update

Three-Dog Night

(Sept, 6.7k, treebark week, oneshot) (link)

BIG DOG. beauty and the beast au!

god im so fond of this au. there’s some rlly good scenes written for this and unposted bc i just need to link them together. honestly i think if i took a month and focused it on this fic alone i could fucking finish it but i don’t have the time ;-;

that said i’m so enamored w this au genuinely. o dunno what else to say i just think. puppy

Cover Me In Roses

(Sept, 3.3k, treebark week, oneshot) (link)

lamplight roleswap! put Martyn in a flower pot

i don’t feel as motivated to work on this one when i have lamplight unfinished so it’s lower on my priorities but know i have like an entire arc of this written and unposted. we just have a few paths for this one and i have to decide which one to use

it’s so wild to me lamplight has like. aus. like this isn’t even the only one? a roleswap. that’s insane? it’s wild that you all like lamplight enough i can even get away with this

First Sign of a House Fire

(Sept, 2k, treebark week, oneshot) (link)

i love superhero stories for two reasons: plots about secrets and adapting the characters to give them powers. this had smth fun for both of them

yellow rose isn’t super high on my list of priorities to update (i think the oneshot is interesting on its own) but one day,,,, it’s part of the many aus cherri and i have but it’s the longest for sure. the doc for just this au is like 100k words long on its own. at the time i draft this cherri and i are actively writing smth else for it in another tab. theres like 4 offshoots and im obsessed w all of them. we had to make ocs about this one. i’m excited to eventually add more to this series

actually that’s one of the scenes i’m most excited for and most dreading adding. we made a backstory oc and im SO attached to him and im excited to post a thing out there w him but. ough. whatever cringe is dead i’ll get there eventually and brute force my way into attaching you to our funky little robot guy

also love that this fic forced me to be decided on a docv characterization that i have to stick to. he may be a canon guy to martyn’s vtuber lore but he’s my oc now too

Blindsided

(Sept, 2k, treebark week, ongoing) (link)

pirate au and royal au based on a big secret and also stuffing a guy in a box and it's all stupid dramatic literally what else do you want or need in life

this is my wife. my favorite. my most beloved. blindsided gives me new illnesses and diseases. i have just one scene to write before i can update it and then i can continue unleashing her. god i love this fic the drama of it is SO fun.

the funny thing abt blindsided is i know all the plot chronologically but now how to Present it which is part of why i haven’t continued too much. eventually i will but until then know that one of the scenes im sitting on which has been fully written is one i think about constantly. hopefully when i post it cherri’ll let free the comic she did for it

i actually have the ending of this fic written i just need to get there lmfao. second on my priority list after smop i think

Cradle of the Leviathan

(Sept, 1.5k, treebark week, oneshot) (link)

i just love mer aus man. whats the point of it all if you cant have mer aus. just get a big ol fish

i have the ending of this au written as well and literally so little of the lead up. but this is pretty low on my priorities. i think this one stands just fine on its own. mer aus are nice like that

we actually have a few mer aus but for now i’ll be focusing on this one. i do have a few sweet post story things written for this one. maybe one day i’ll write enough to post em lmao

Lamplight AU

(2022-present, 47k, treebark, ongoing) (link)

renchanting dnd/fantasy au, martyn's a paladin and ren's a lamp

so i started this au last year. my wrapped last year said my total was 20k, so that means this year's total is.... 27k!

and… it was just lamplight’s birthday and i did all my appreciation for the fic and its readers then, but god. i love this fic so much and i love you all who have read it and been so kind about it. the amount of popularity it has makes it a bit nerve wracking to work on, but i still really want to see it finished. i hope to see the bulk of it done by this time next year!

Six Sentence Sunday

six sentence sunday is a challenge where i try to post six sentences i wrote that week every sunday, to keep me writing every week of the year! i do it over on my writing blog, @driflew

i did not keep up on my six sentences,,, i had a lot of sunday fencing tournaments. i did for ~33 weeks this year! thats a pretty good amount! i’ll have to be more on top of it next year tho

unpublished work

the last few years i havent included unpublished work, but with the extreme bulk of it, i wanted to note it down. cherri @/cherrifire and i have been writing a lot back and forth at each other in discord dms this year, and i wanted to include those in my count! bc holy fucking shit is there a lot of them

i didn’t include collab pieces, just pieces i wrote alone. i also only included the renchanting aus i share w cherri and scarian aus i share w flowey, nothing else—no unfinished lamplight or other independent pieces or oneshots, no original fiction for class, nothing. i also missed a few u haven’t moved to docs yet. so i’m lowballing by a few. thousands. of words

the total for those is...... 135k words! there is,,, something wrong with me

total and end notes

our total this year is...

187512 words!

that might be my highest word count yet! because i caught treebark disease. wild.

something really fun about this year to me is i really loved everything i wrote.

if you want to get me a gift or support me on my birthday… maybe try reading my work and reblogging it or leaving a comment! you can find my writing at driflew or skelew on ao3, follow my writing blog at @driflew, or even consider tipping my kofi!

thank you for sticking with me and supporting me this year! i really appreciate it! hopefully i can break 100k next year too!

[boatboysrowout]

please tell us more about the mall au, specifically etho and his pipe bomb, i need an entire thing of him running from the cops (i am your number one fan ignore that i only just found out about you that doesnt matter)

hey guys. wanna hear about white castle pipe bomb c plot?

this may come as a surprise to some, but etho is a natural at customer service. he’s always been a pretty chill guy- it takes a lot to faze him, probably a consequence of his proclivity towards explosives in his early years. that calm exterior translates well to working the front desk of a local electronics repair store (not that he had needed a summer job, really, but doc and beef both went home for the summer, and someone kept leaving him visa-friendly job applications in every nook and cranny of his dorm- he found one in his cereal a few weeks before finals, and even that one had nothing on the one he found folded up in his toothpaste).

that being said, being good at customer service doesn’t mean that he’s completely immune to the agonies of said customer service. being good at customer service just means that after the eighteenth laptop he has to factory reset while a teenaged boy swears up and down he had not in fact clicked on a link for sexy singles in his area, etho’s able to wait until the boy leaves before attempting to gouge out his other eye.

he’s searching for a screwdriver when his phone buzzes with a text, and after a longing look at his toolbox etho flips his sign to closed and heads over to the white castle. he makes a quick stop at the arcade tango mans to set a new high score on the pinball machine, effectively guaranteeing tango will be glued to the pinball machine until he regains the top leaderboard spot, and then continues on his way to the white castle, spirits high. 

etho’s good mood abruptly vanishes after stepping into the white castle, as bdubs has apparently deemed etho’s delay in arrival unforgivable and is now withholding the free fries etho had been promised.

etho slumps himself over the front counter, not unlike a wet cat, and starts causing a scene, whining about his awful day full of idiot teens and potential self mutilation that can only be staved off with free food. bdubs staunchly ignores him and cleo threatens to pour hot oil on his head.

eventually actual paying customers come in and etho’s continued presence becomes a problem, so bdubs heaves a sigh and offers the fries to etho as long as he pays full price for them, to which etho, an extreme couponer, reacts appropriately.

etho’s eye narrows as he peels himself off of the front counter, demanding the fries free of charge. bdubs refuses. cleo smacks bdubs on the back of the head and tells him to just give etho the fries so he'll go away.

etho gives bdubs one last chance to give him the fries for free, and by the time bdubs physically removes him from the premises etho is already plotting his revenge and heading straight back to the art store to collect a favor.

(you see, somewhere between the fifth and eighth laptop etho had to factory reset, tango texted him that he managed to jailbreak the pinball machine to accept a quarter for unlimited plays, and etho abandoned his job immediately to take advantage of the incredible deal.  

that was his intention, anyway. but what happened is this: etho had never really shaken off the hold explosives have over him. after he’d been put on a five different government watchlists by the time he was seventeen he’d taken a step back and started focusing more on computing and getting into college and other projects that were less likely to necessitate seizure by the canadian government. he’s clean. he left that life behind him.

however. 

when the sound of an explosion comes from the cute little art shop as etho walks past, there’s not a second of hesitation before he swung the front doors open and entered the shop.

it hadn’t taken him long to locate the source of the explosion, following a trail of smoke down a half hidden flight of stairs to a door with a hastily scrawled sign on it reading 'SUPER TALL AND HANDSOME EMPLOYEES ONLY.’

etho opened the door, walking into what has to be the world’s most pathetic meth lab. in the corner there was a stack of cardboard boxes labeled NOT DRUGS/DEFINITELY LEGAL SUBSTANCES. beakers filled with unidentifiable substances were bubbling over onto the table. a laptop near etho’s foot displayed results for a google search of ‘how to tell if a cut needs stitches and also how long can you set yourself on fire without going to hospital.’

“THIS ISN’T WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE.” a man who etho vaguely recognized from grian's beginning of summer introductions had shouted, throwing his body over the contents of the table in a desperate attempt to hide the beakers from view. a few shattered under his weight and etho heard him stifle a whimper. “everything here is perfectly normal and also legal.”

breaking bad played quietly from a tv somewhere in the background.

etho raised an eyebrow.)

in the end, they manage to work out a deal: etho would not call the cops or tell anyone about joel's secret little operation and in return, joel owed etho a favor.

and now etho will cash that favor in.

(“so let me get this straight. you’re pissed your friend wouldn’t give you chips for free and your first instinct is to go to a meth lab and steal my meth supplies to get back at him.”

“failed meth lab. and yup.”

“there’s something wrong with you.”

“at least i know how to make meth.”

“wait, you what.”)

they start small. prank calls, anonymous yelp reviews calling the really loud cashier short, launching fireworks through the drive-thru window. it doesn’t take long for them to get bored with that though, which leads to bdubs walking into the white castle one morning to discover a horse standing in the middle of the lobby. 

the horse seems very at peace with the situation, wandering over to chew on bdub’s hair as he sputters and cleo ignores the situation entirely. bdubs is left with the task of removing the horse from the store, except the horse seems to be taller than the doorway and not particularly interested in leaving, so eventually bdubs is forced to give up. There’s just a horse in their lobby now. 

it doesn’t take bdubs very long to become attached to the horse, much to the detriment of cleo. she’s running the white castle single handedly by the end of the second day, serving customers and manning the kitchen while bdubs whispers sweet nothings to the horse in the makeshift horse stall he made in the women’s restroom. 

it’s pointless to try and reason with bdubs, so cleo makes her way over to the art store basement where joel and etho have set up their base of operations. ignoring the now functioning meth lab, she demands the horse be removed from the premises in exchange for a reasonable one free small fry per week. 

reasonable to cleo, and least. both jeol and etho scoff at her offer and demand at least one large fry per day each, to which cleo laughs in their faces. she doesn’t bother making a counter offer, simply turning on her heel and walking out of the basement. she pauses for a moment at the front of the shop to make sure she hadn’t been followed before grabbing her lighter from her pocket, casually flicking it on and taking a step towards the tissue paper.

by the time joel and etho notice something is amiss the fire department has arrived, and they’re barely able to hide the evidence of their operation before firefighters are breaking down the door, carrying them out through the art shop, entirely engulfed in flames. 

(“so in retrospect, ripping all the smoke detectors out of the ceiling probably wasn’t a great idea on your part.”

“how was i to know i was gonna get into a war with an arsonist, all i wanted to do was mind my own business and make meth!”

“fail at making meth.”

“shut up.”)

now relocated behind the counter at etho’s repair shop, joel and etho prepare their final attack.

the plan is simple: using supplies salvaged from the meth lab, etho will construct a smoke bomb and throw it through the white castle drive through window while joel takes advantage of the distraction and steals all the fries the white castle possesses.

making the smoke bomb is a piece of cake, and when joel isn't looking etho sneaks a few of his own more... volatile substances into his backpack. just in case.

joel enters the white castle and cleo immediately clocks him due to joel being the most suspicious person alive always, but she cannot be arsed to investigate. it’s been a long fucking week. joel knows what will happen if he messes with her.

bdubs, however, feels an impending sense of doom through his Etho Senses and rushes over to the drive-thru window and whips it open, immediately screaming at the sight of etho across the road winding up his arm with a smoke bomb in his hand.

and that’s when things really start to go wrong.

because here’s the thing: etho’s been missing an eye for most of his life. he knows his depth perception is shit. but he’s so caught up in the adrenaline of the moment, and bdubs screaming isn’t exactly helping him focus, and listen the baseball scene in canada isn’t exactly thriving-

all of this is to say that etho activates the smoke bomb, winds up, and promptly chucks it five feet to the left of the drive through window. it bounces off the side of the building and rolls to a stop against the tire of the car that had been pulling up to order.

several things happen in very quick succession:

1. the smoke bomb begins pouring out smoke, completely obscuring etho from view and flooding into the white castle

2. bdubs attempts to continue screaming but immediately regrets it as copious amounts of smoke invade his lungs

3. the car which had previously been pulling up to the drive through attempts to exit the scene as quickly as possible, but due to the aforementioned copious amounts of smoke misjudges where the road turns and makes a hard left directly into the wall of the white castle

the very same wall where bdubs had leashed his horse mere minutes before, and the very same wall joel had been creeping along.

the horse and joel are immediately flattened, and upon seeing this bdubs’ impassioned screaming reaches pitches previously unknown to man, and all hell breaks loose.

cleo starts cackling and arms herself with a makeshift flamethrower thrown together with hairspray and a personalized lighter. bdubs attempts to leap out of the drive-thu window but his foot gets stuck and he falls out of the building, crumpling to the ground in a still screaming heap before scrambling back up through the drive-thru window and into the fray. joel manages to claw his way out of the rubble, finds himself face to face with cleo and her flamethrower, and has half a second to regret the his and hers shrek mugs that trapped him in this stupid country before he’s running for his life. 

etho himself ends up sitting peacefully on the bench outside the white castle entrance, his mask helpfully filtering out most of the smoke. it’s lucky he grabbed some extra materials from joel’s lab really, he knew bdubs wouldn’t hand over the fries without a fight. 

he’s in the middle of assembling a device that’ll definitely get him put on the american government’s watchlist and ignoring the screams coming from inside when two men rush past him into the white castle, shouting something about justice and burgers. etho waits for a second, and almost immediately they come rushing back out. he waves at their retreating figures, one of whom he’s pretty sure is the theater kid that tried to put on a one man show of macbeth during welcome week.

etho wraps the fuse around his pipe bomb and stands up, brushing the debris off of his pants and strolling into the fray.

he finds bdubs almost immediately, the man standing on the counter and clearly audible even over the fire alarms and incessant swearing from joel and cleo, who now both have improvised flamethrowers and are duking it out in the kids play area. despite the smoke bduds and etho lock eyes instantly, bdubs paling a few shades when he sees what etho has in his hand.

bdubs jumps off the counter and attempts to run to etho, but is cut off by an entirely engulfed in flames joel. it seems that bdubs did not learn a single lesson about the flammability of his hair product from his run in with grian at the beginning of the summer, because his hair bursts into flames after the slightest brush from joel, and this time cleo isn’t standing nearby with a fire extinguisher.

it should be noted that most of the white castle is entirely engulfed in flames at this point. etho’s at the center of it all, cradling his pipe bomb like a baby and searching furiously for his promised free french fries. 

he’s stopped by cleo who meets his eyes, smiles wide, and lights the pipe bomb fuse. 

-

etho and cleo stare at the wreckage of the white castle. look at each other. look back at the rubble.

the sirens in the distance are distinctly closer now, and both etho and cleo abruptly realize how much evidence is contained on their person. 

“joel’s probably fine.” cleo says. “i saw him run into the walk in freezer after i burnt away the last of his clothes and hair.”

etho nods. “bdubs is too short to get crushed by rubble.”

cleo hums agreement. they stand side by side for a moment longer before cleo turns to etho.

“well, i won’t tell if you won’t.”

with that she turns on her heel and walks away. etho sticks around for a few more minutes, watching the flames die down and the last of the white castle crumble. he digs around in his pocket for a moment and pulls out a blackened handful of fries, yanking his mask down to shove them in his mouth as emergency services skid into the parking lot. 

sticking around turns out to be a mistake, etho quickly realizes, as his white hair reflects the light from the police cars and catches the attention of every officer there. he takes off at a sprint, pulling his mask back up and booking it straight into moving traffic, dodging cars and leaving the yells of the police officers and the rubble behind him.

and that’s the last anyone sees of etho that summer.

(og link here!)

[klykcielewe]

ALERT LCB

UWAGA! Dziś (24.02) pełnia księżyca! Przygotuj się na ewentualne zniszczenia spowodowane aktywnością wilkołaków. Zabezpiecz zwierzęta domowe i gospodarcze. Zostań w domu, jeśli możesz. O ile nie jesteś jedną z lokalnych czarownic, pod żadnym pozorem nie zbliżaj się do szczytu Łysej Pały na Nieszczerym Polu. Jeżeli jesteś jedną z czarownic, zabierz ze sobą na sabat kożuszek, bo bez słońca nadal jest zimno. I najlepiej też czarno kurę, jeśli dasz radę, bo Halina nie zdążyła załatwić w tym miesiącu.

[hopepetal]

bitch just because no one wants you doesnt mean im unfuckable. im sure this is hard to imagine because youve got no friends and have never known love but maybe get a fucking hobby and feel some joy someday and someday someone might want your shriveled ass. fuck off

[coatree]

So I do some writing on the side and recently a couple friends of mine started making this DND style AU about their WL/SOL/CTM maps, I’ve, accidentally, become obsessed with this AU and figured I’d put some writing on here for fun

These were made with a one time pass through as a fan of the AU, if you want to learn more about it, most of the content of this AU and its basics are here, and spread through out Lew’s blog. it’s creators are Lew (Ellery), CJ (Syyrin). Smurg (Flint), Chris (Iscariot), and Maruu (Mar).

Please check it out. They have made me insane about this. There is so much art and things I will post because of them.

Card Games

“You ever play cards before?” Iscariot blinked out of his half-asleep state and glanced over to Flint, who was waving around a small box in his hands. Iscariot looked to the box, noticing the similarities to something he had seen some of the other people in the cult hold onto whenever it was a particularly long day. He blinked back to reality when he remembered Flint was waiting for an answer.

“Uh, no.” Iscariot said bluntly, recalling that no one ever really offered to teach him cards. It made sense to him, he wasn’t supposed to show weakness, and play was a form of weakness. It may have been a good way to pass time, but it was never, well, in the cards.

“Really??” Flint said, sitting up straighter with his face shifting to confusion. “Not even Crazy Eights? Go Fish? Poker??” Flint pushed, only getting closer to Iscariot as the man shook his head and leaned back in response. Flint huffed and sat back, opening the box and pulling out a stack of cards.

Flint shuffled the cards in front of Iscariot, confusing the hell out of him, before the deck was placed on the grass in between the two, and cards were being given to him. He held the cards gently, not trying to put a hole in them, as Flint held his own row of cards, looking up at him with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“So first, I’m going to teach you the easy basic card game, Go Fish. You can play this anywhere at any time basically, no matter what cards you have, as long as you have a full deck.” Flint started. Iscariot listened closely, not wanting to mess up what Flint deemed the “easy basic card game”. While every inch in his body told him that he shouldn’t be playing games, the other parts of him said that he should at least give it a shot, and he shouldn't back down from a challenge.

So, he started playing Go Fish. He slowly got the hand of it, sometimes fumbling his cards, or messing up the names of the suits, but overall he wasn’t terrible. He had even won a couple of times. After the fifth game, Syyrin came over and joined in, wanting to play as well after she saw the two “having fun”, which Iscariot wanted to protest. but he bit his tongue.

Eventually, Mar also came over, deciding to join the game. She made it her life mission to target Iscariot, obviously, with her one goal being to make Iscariot lose at any opportunity. And yet, despite all that, Iscariot felt… something weird. It wasn’t what he usually knew, it felt new, fresh, it was similar to a feeling he got when Ellery…

Whatever. Regardless, it was peaceful, calming, and-

“Can I join too?”

Iscariot’s breath caught in his throat, he turned to look at Ellery who was looking at them all playing cards with an expression Iscariot couldn’t place. He didn’t get a chance to say anything before Flint lit up

“Yeah! Of course! Here, after this game we’ll get you some cards.” Flint spoke excitedly, the group watching as Ellery sat between Mar and Iscariot. He watched the rest of the game, Syyrin won, and held the cards that Flint handed to him

Iscariot was fine. He could be fine. Being so close to Ellery was perfectly fine. It was just, a normal, card game. There was no reason for the pit of guilt to-

“How do I play?” Ellery asked. It was a seemingly normal question, something that anyone would possibly ask, but the way Flint and Syyrin’s faces dropped at Ellery’s question, only made the pit inside Iscariot grow.

“You- you don’t know how to play?” Syyrin asked, to which Ellery shook his head.

“Did I?” Ellery asked again, confused as he stared at Syyrin and Flint.

The space went silent, the cracking of the fire and the rush of wind being the only noise heard. Iscariot, however, could only hear his heartbeat, the loud, drumming sensation of his heartbeat as Flint and Syyrin looked devastated, and Ellery realized why. The new feeling he felt earlier vanished without a trace, falling into the deep pit of guilt that took its regular place in his gut.

He stood, dropping his cards on the grass before stepping back, causing the others to look at him.

“I will… check around the area. Play without me.” Iscariot mumbled, heading over to his weapon and grabbing it before vanishing into the woods, leaving behind the stares of the other four as Flint once again taught someone how to play Go Fish.

[bradshawsbitch]

happy 30th birthday lewis james pullman !!

[wendigoruble]

YES PLZ PLZ PLZ DO DOM FRANCO HCS OMG PLZ

I absolutely lllove baby franco but..i like dominant franco a lil more and i NEED hcs of dom franco pretty plz

🔞 Dom Franco HCs! 🔞

[these will include both male and female partners]

Dominance is his default and he tops like a jack rabbit

He will refer to any male partner as "daddy" in a very, very demeaning way because he's usually taking out a lot of frustration on them.

When he tops any male partner, he's excessively rough. He will run them into the mattress until they're both sore and exhausted. He will also insult and sometimes scream if things get particularly intense.

He loves to make his partners beg for it. It gives him a sense of being wanted, and it gets him up quicker than most things do (with the exception of some big ol booba)

Body worship, Franco wants it. He wants every single part of his form to be appreciated and complimented, and if it's not, then p u n i s h m e nt. He has a particular fondness for his dick being worshipped because that just makes him feel better on a personal level

Women partners can call him daddy but not male partners. He never explains why.

He still mixes his need to be cared for into being dominant but will frame it in the way of asking favors.

This boy bites and he bites hard. He leaves his partner covered in hickies and teeth marks. Sometimes he bites so hard he nearly draws blood

Though his nails may be blunt he'll still try to claw and scratch what he can. His partners WILL be marked

Big big big into gun play. Lupara is often part of his dominant theatrics and he'll have his partner suck on the barrel while promising there's nothing in the chamber

[danopdf]

winnix

[lewmagoo]

going to a new coffee shop so i can drown my sorrows in an iced latte and a bagel

[liloinkoink]

Half Heart

another dnd au oneshot. i actually wrote this one first bc im deeply compelled by executions and revivals

which. revival scene :D

He rolls over and coughs into the cold stone. What comes from his mouth is black and flaky at best, white and writhing at worst. His throat burns as he coughs it all up, choking on pain he doesn’t understand.

What happened to him? He doesn’t understand where he is or how he got here. He hears the sounds of battle, but he doesn’t know where they’re coming from. Was he fighting? What for?

His hair seems to be white. It strikes him as odd, but he doesn’t know what other color it would be. It’s stained with old blood and cave dirt, sticking in places to his back and his face. It pools around the pile of gore as he coughs, but he can’t be bothered to move it off the ground. His eyesight feels off, too—limited, maybe?—though he isn’t quite sure what’s wrong with it. His limbs feel numb, tingly, as if they’ve been asleep a long time.

His chest stings. Pain shocks through him with every choking cough, and the cavity of his ribs itself feels achingly empty, as though his heart is gone from it. He can feel it in the distance, only growing further away.

He’s cold. Freezing cold. If it weren’t for the mess of blood and spit on the stone below him, he’d assume he frozen to death.

A hand claps his shoulder. He makes some half-strangled noise of shock and the touch eases off, moving down toward his back.

“You’re alright, just breathe,” says the voice above him, assumably that belonging to the owner of the hand. It occurs to him only now that he hasn’t breathed even once since waking—making a concentrated effort to do so sends him coughing up dried blood again. The hand returns, smoothing up and down his back.

“I know you’re struggling, but we can’t stay here,” the voice says. He makes some noise of acknowledgement, chokes up one last maggot, and rolls back onto his back.

The man leaning over him is.. he’s a hobgoblin, though, with red skin, short hair, and a strap of black fabric tied around his head. He’s dressed in heavy army, and he rests one hand on his shoulder.

He doesn’t recognize the man kneeling above him, nor does he know how to read his expression. Worry, maybe…? He’ll go with that.

The skeletal armor the man wears, though, he does know—a symbol of Myrkul, god of death. His god, some dusty piece of knowledge tells him, the first fact he manages to retain about himself.

Looking down at himself, he finds he wears the same armor, though his own shirt is stained with blood around the chest. The man’s armor is stained, too, dark with blood at his hands and wrists.

The sign of a warrior, the mark of the slain. Perhaps he had to fight to reach him? He isn’t sure. They can’t be enemies, at least—they’re dressed the same.

He props himself onto his elbows. Seeing him struggle, the man wraps his arm around his shoulders. It’s a little less bloody when it passes through his hair, though he can’t find it in him to worry about it.

With his other hand, the man takes one of his hands. Both touches are warm, even with the layer of armor—warmer than the stone, at least, and the ice in his veins.

He looks at the hand clasped in the man’s and flexes it, stretching his fingers, just to see if he can. Their movements are jerky, pins and needles in every one, but they move all the same.

The man snickers in his ear, watching the rest of muscles.

“Surprised to be alive, huh?” the man asks. He frowns.

“Was I not supposed to be?”

The man doesn’t answer that, which he supposes is answer enough.

“Can you stand?” the man asks. He doesn’t know, but he nods anyway. The man removes his hand from his shoulders, then pulls him to his feet. They’re unstable, as expected, but the man hasn’t pulled away his hand.

He ducks down, speaking low. For the first time, his tone sounds urgent.

“Alright, Ellery. We need to run before they notice you’re up. Where are we going?”

When Ellery meets the man’s eye, he sees… faith. He believe Ellery knows where they’re going, and he’ll follow whatever direction Ellery points in.

Ellery knows his name because the man says it. He knows this place not at all, though some distant piece of his muddy brain tells him this place hosts the temple of Myrkul. Why would they run from here? Is this not their home?

The sounds of battle still rage, the clashing of metal and the screaming of strangers ringing down the tunnels and caves. Ellery still has no clue why they fight, nor does he know what side he should be on. He doesn’t know the man at his side, nor does he understand what left him in this state. He doesn’t know where he is or why he’s here, let alone where they should go—his skull feels like it’s simply been tipped over and emptied, stuffed with cobwebs in his sleep.

Ellery swats at the dusty old web in his brain, chasing out the useless fluff. Okay, so he remembers nothing from before. It’s no use focusing on things he doesn’t understand. What does he know?

His name is Ellery. Myrkul is his god. He can’t stay here. The man beside him is looking for his guidance.

Ellery looks up, at the stranger. He’s tall and stocky and dressed like a warrior, adorned with heavy armor made to look like intimidating bone. At his waist is a sword still dripping with fresh blood, across his back is a heavy two-handed axe.

This man is… safe, Ellery thinks. Ellery trusts him. He’ll protect Ellery, even if their path out becomes dangerous.

Ellery feels… empty. Unfinished. Cold.

He’s aware, distantly, that a piece of him is missing, and he can feel it as it travels further and further away.

His heart is moving, and he won’t feel complete until he finds it. He looks down a dark tunnel, at the path he’s sure his heart has followed.

“This way,” he says, “We go this way.”

So they do, stumbling off into the dark.

[driflew]

dare i say treesekai

ilex you've seen this one already but it's basically all i have. one of the unfinished/unposted treesekai 2 scenes i started and never finished. even opens w the last two lines of the end of actual treesekai bc thats how webcomics are—opening w the last two panels of the previous episode

Ren glances down to the fabric of his glove—still in tact—and then covers the kiss with his other hand. 

The knight may have been right. His engagement may be in danger, after all. 

—

Ren is… distracted. 

It’s not entirely his fault. A lot goes into planning a wedding, especially one on the royal scale. Of course he’d end up a little overwhelmed, a little more scattered than normal. Bdubs has no interest in helping him—Hell, Ren had hardly been able to find proof of the man’s existence since the engagement party three days ago. 

It doesn’t bother him. Really, it doesn’t. Not when he’s got more pressing matters, like the wedding. Or their dealings with their neighboring kingdoms. Or the knight. 

…Especially the knight. 

Really, Ren can’t be faulted for taking a walk to clear his head. Breaks and days of rest are healthy for the mind, too. And it looks good on the King to pay attention to the affairs of his castle. There are a lot of perfectly valid reasons for Ren to stop by the royal guard’s training grounds for a while. And honestly, it can’t hurt to step out into the yard and chat with a few of his knights—learn some names, get a better look at some faces, see if he recognizes any voices. 

After nearly two dozen awkward, stilted conversations with hesitant, unfamiliar knights, Ren leaves. 

Even though he’s aware no one realizes he was looking for someone, he’s embarrassed. He feels… stood up, almost, though he might be projecting. The wound of the engagement party is still fresh in his mind, after all—waiting for nearly an hour in the hall for his fiancé, only to find the man already inside, surrounded in happy, touchy guests. 

Ren still stings. 

Dwelling on the memory is probably why Ren isn’t looking where he’s going, which is why he walks right into someone. The man stumbles back, off balance, and Ren doesn’t think twice about grabbing his waist to catch him. 

“Uh,” the man says. He’s blond, with a black headband tied around his forehead. His hair is damp, as is the front of his shirt, and he smells like he’s been exercising. Ren doesn’t think he saw the man outside, though his features seem somehow familiar. Ren stares a moment, trying to figure out where he’s seen the man, only to watch as his face grows steadily redder and redder. 

“Your majesty?” the man almost squeaks, and Ren remembers himself. He drops the man’s waist, letting him fall entirely to the floor. 

“Sorry! I thought you’d caught yourself!” Ren says, holding his hand out to help the man to his feet. 

Only when the man’s fingers are held in Ren’s own does Ren recognize him. How could he not, after all, recognize the same hand seared so clearly into his memory?

“You’re the knight from the engagement party,” Ren gasps, and the man Ren has spent the last few nights lying awake thinking about blanches. 

“I, uh,” he fumbles, “There were a lot of knights at the engagement party.”

“But only one who spoke to me in the hall,” Ren says, pulling the man to his feet, “Only one who told me he’d give me a hand.” Ren clasps the man’s hand in both of his own, staring into his eyes, “Only one whose name I’d like to know.”

The knight stares at him, seemingly unaware of his mouth hanging open. Ren would feel guilty, but if he didn’t want to be left in shock, then maybe he shouldn’t have done it to Ren first. 

“Martyn!” calls another voice. The man’s head snaps over, and Ren knows his name—Martyn, the knight from the engagement party; Martyn, the stranger bold enough to call out the king’s foolish optimism to his face; Martyn, the only man in the world who wants Ren to be happy. 

“There you are! When you ran off like that—” another man runs through, skidding down the hall, “Your majesty?!”

This knight, Ren does know—his name is Skizzleman, though most people call him Skizz. Martyn drops Ren’s hand as Skizz stops beside them, looking anywhere but Ren’s face. 

“Hello, Sir Skizzleman,” Ren greets.

“Hello, your majesty!” Skizz bows in greeting. When Martyn doesn’t copy the motion, Skizz not-so-subtly elbows him in the side. 

“Sorry, your majesty, don’t mind him,” Skizz explains. He stands up, then smacks Martyn’s head down into a bow, “He has a head injury.”

“A head injury? How did you sustain that?” Ren asks, concerned. 

“I… don’t remember?”

“It was a very bad injury,” Skizz adds, with a sage nod. He releases Martyn, who rubs at the back of his head as he straightens up again. 

“Are you alright now?” Ren asks. 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Martyn glances to Skizz, “Mostly. It’s nothing you need to worry yourself with, King Ren.”

[asexualzoro]

it’s my 22nd birthday today, and you know what that means... 

Lew Writes Wrapped 2022!

its virtually all third life this time, most of which have not been posted on main before. woe, the full weight of my third life obsession be upon ye

blood god, mortal red

(Jan, 1.2k, DSMP, oneshot) (link)

one of the Many minecraft execution fics i have written in my life, technoblade anvil edition

not to start this post off with making myself sad, but man, i miss him. 

i remember writing this one all in one sitting at work in january. i think i did a pretty good job with it from an artistic standpoint, and as an analytical piece, i think i hit the mark perfectly. that said, i don’t think i could reread it now. i do think it was fun as a writing exercise to force like, 5 seconds irl to stretch out into a thousand words

yes, the only way out is down

(April, 1.2k, 3L, oneshot) (link)

another minecraft execution fic, third life rendog edition! 

IM SO PROUD OF THIS ONE. im so fond of it it’s probably my favorite third life oneshot. ren’s execution makes me fucking rabid and this is just the most direct expression of that.

what’s funny is i actually remember being pretty dissatisfied with this fic when i finished it--there was a lot of stuff i wanted to hit on that i just couldnt swing around to--but when i stepped away from what i wanted it to be and looked at what it was, i realized i liked it a lot

the rhythm of cold fists

(May, 2.6k, 3L, onehsot) (link)

sometimes you get so worked up about the idea scar threw the finale of third life that you have to write a bunch of frenzied words on it

this one is funny bc i think its got the second most hits of any of my third life fic, but the comment number is really low comparatively. i mostly just had fun making the transcript of this scene and then fleshing that out into a full ‘novelization,’ it was a neat writing exercise! i don’t think anything in particular stands out about this one, but i’m happy with it overall

Wooden Mausoleum

(May, 3.8k, 3L, oneshot) (link)

Sometimes you get so worked up about the idea of the unactualized betrayal plotline of the most loyal man in the series that you have to write a bunch of frenzied words about it

okay this is going to sound bad but i keep forgetting i wrote this. i dont know why. i like this fic! one of my favorite paragraphs i wrote all year is in it! and yet??? i dunno.

id love to write a different martyn wins au where the betrayal isnt the sort of ‘mercy kill’ suggested in this fic, bc i still have not recovered from the unrealized betrayal plot. someday i’ll write a martyn wins au where he Means to win

i... still feel something is sort of off with the way this fic ends, but i think ive felt that about a lot of the fic/scene endings ive written of late. i think that ending scenes/fics is just ill have to work on this upcoming year! 

might be best to not look back

(Oct, 2.7k, 3L, oneshot) (link)

i’m starting to think all my oneshots are just me getting possessed by different parts of the third life. anyway i had a point to prove about scar throwing, and what might happen were he not being wildly unsubtle about throwing

i can write essays on this fic it makes me feel insane. i HAVE written an essay on it already just recently. tbh, this fic itself IS an essay written for the purpose of analyzing the penultimate third life scene. i have and could and will write more essays on the penultimate third life. this is all i have to say to avoid making this a 1k word post

i think i did what i wanted to pretty well? it was sort of confusing, by virtue of trying to talk about a point your viewpoint character won’t acknowledge, but it was a fun piece over all

missing or obstructed

(Oct-present, 6.3k, 3L, ongoing) (link) 

post third life fic but only grian and ren remember, featuring so many sleep/dreaming metaphors, because i lucid dream and have insomnia and it does a lot to me as a person

missing or obstructed has 14.7k words written but i havent fuckin posted most of it bc i got derailed by lamplight. missing i am so sorry i miss you so much but youve been obstructed. i am really excited for how the rest of this goes but i think i have to finish and completely exorcize lamplight from my head before i can go back to it in earnest. i DID post another chapter at 10pm yesterday so i had more of it to include in this wordcount tho,

missing or obstructed has been a lot of fun to write bc i lvoe stupid metaphors. it has sucked to write because it’s forced me to come up with worldbuilding shit for the watchers which has been so much more difficult than i thought. it’s been fun again cuz i love worldbuilding. it’ll be super fun when i finish the current scene i’m sitting and get to introduce martyn pov. i lvoe writing Martyn pov

Lamplight AU

(Nov-present, 20k, 3L/LL, series) (link)

renchanting dnd au. i put ren in a lantern. what else do you need

wadda hell. 

i cannot even begin to like--lamplight was literally supposed to be just 20 Questions and thats it, i wasn’t going to write more, but people liked it so much that i was like “sure, i’ll write a bit more” and you guys have been??? so kind. the amount of enthusiasm this fic has received thru kind tags/comments, asks and interest, and even art??? is equal parts deeply humbling and also incredibly likely to give me a god complex. this fic has been so much fun to write and my readers are the whole reason, i cant wait to show you what i have in store for the rest of it

six sentence sunday challenge

i also started a challenge back at the end of march of this year over on @driflew called Six Sentence Sunday. the rules are simple: every sunday, post six sentences you wrote that week.

i didn’t make it every week, but i made it a great deal of them. on occasion, i even posted 12 sentences the week after missing my six, meaning some weeks counted for two.

my six sentence sunday tag on that blog has 28 posts from the year! considering there’s only 52 weeks in a year, i started three months late, and a few of those weeks are actually two, i feel pretty good about the amount of weeks i made. not every week, but basically any week i didn’t have a good excuse not to complete my six sentences. it kept me writing all year, if only a little bit at a time, and i’ll be keeping up with it for sure!

to finish out,

i passed my writing amount from last year (25k) by over 10k words! my total number for this year doesnt even count the 7k or so from missing or obstructed i havent posted, plus an uncounted few hundred words of unposted snippets for lamplight. i’m really happy with everything i’ve done this year! 

which… this year i wrote and posted 37,800+ words! 

thank you to everyone who has supported my writing all year, as always, it means the world to me. happy birthday to me, and thank you to you for reading! 

(birthday wishes and/or reblogs appreciated!)

[boatboysrowout]

my dear friend is distressed about the lack of martyn fics so although i am not clever enough to write martyn inthelittlewood i can offer you some situations i propose he be put in:

- overworked volunteer at an animal shelter. his favorite animal is a giant german shepherd named ren who never leaves him alone. his least favorite animal is a bird named grian who does nothing but imitate human screams and bite.

- amateur comedian. he does stand up every tuesday night and the instant he gets heckled he gets super defensive and starts saying shit like ‘you people don’t understand true comedy’ and ‘you’re just jealous you’re not on my level’ and ‘ren said i’m hilarious screw all of you’

- firefighter. he spends 90% of his shifts chasing down and extinguishing a very handsome man who has the unfortunate habit of setting himself on fire to prove his passion. no one asks him to do this. martyn is very distressed by this. etho and bdubs think it is hysterical that martyn hasnt noticed this only ever happens while he’s on duty.

- renaissance fair employee. i think its obvious where im going with this so instead of the obvious he gets way too into the roleplay and almost commits first degree murder bc someone cut in front of ren in line to get a funnel cake ill talk instead about how there’s a pirate themed booth for some reason at the renaissance fair and martyn hates it bc of the historical inaccuracy and also bc he is convinced joel and etho set his and ren’s tent on fire on purpose.

- burger king employee. there is a mcdonalds across the street and they hate each other’s guts. one day grian breaks in while scar is distracting ren and martyn and smashes their ice cream machine with a baseball bat bc martyn made one too many jokes about their ice cream machine always being broken. martyn’s manager ren takes this personally, dubs himself the burger king, puts on the shitty cardboard crown and declares war on the mcdonalds. by the end of the week every single employee of the burger king and the mcdonalds have been fired and their story is featured on national news.

update: that last one is now written. you’re welcome/i’m so sorry

[klykcielewe]

Podsumowanie dziadów

Patrycja Łuczak, 04.11.2024

Jak co roku, 31.10, w kaplicy na cmentarzu im. św. Judasza Iskarioty odbyła się ogólnowiejska celebracja dziadów. W tym roku, po raz pierwszy w swojej karierze, rolę guślarza pełnił 6 letni Eryk Sójka, dla którego obrzęd miał stanowić egzamin zawodowy.

Niestety tegoroczna celebracja nie przebiegła zgodnie z planem, ponieważ zamiast nieszkodliwych duchów, guślarz przez przypadek przywołał niezidentyfikowanego jeszcze demona. Choć obyło się bez ofiar śmiertelnych, wszystkie złożone w ofierze hot wheelsy zostały skonsumowane, a ponadto demon zdołał uciec i prawdopodobnie ukrywa się gdzieś w Kłykciach Lewych lub okolicy. 

Znachorka Angela zapewnia, że nie ma się czym przejmować, ponieważ gdyby demon chciał nas wszystkich pozabijać, to już dawno by to zrobił. Mimo to, niestety, młody guślarz oblał swój egzamin i będzie musiał spróbować ponownie, w przyszłym roku.

W imieniu znachorki, serdecznie prosimy o zgłaszanie wszelkich potencjalnych przejawów demonicznej aktywności.