#shardechance

[shardechance]

Can you survive the freak week?

OCT 29: JAWBREAKER OCT 30: CORPSE UNTIL SUNRISE OCT 31: HELL IS A TEENAGE GIRL

by @shardminds and @damedechance

Info

[damedechance]

Every day I think to myself there is nothing AO3 user shardminds could do that would make my love for her any more profound. And every day, she just goes and proves me wrong. I'm forever grateful that we know each other, and that I'm so lucky to call you a friend. You're such a bright and positive light in this universe. THANK YOU for posting this on my?!? birthday 😭 I'm honored.

The colors, the layout, the haunting aesthetic of the images it all just takes my breath away. GWYN/RHYS????? FOR ME???? and this moodboard is so INCREDIBLY fitting for them I can tell this is going to wreck me on so many levels. Thank you a million times 🥹💕💖

nightmares of drowning

“Do you hear your name in the dark, Acolyte?”

Happy Birthday to THE @damedechance — bestie, beloved, and beyond!!! I hope you get spoilt rotten and have the BEST day! I've said before and I'll say it again: you're incredible, you're wonderful and the world is infinitely improved with you in it. Here's a moodboard for the incoming Gwyn/Rhysand gift fic that I could NOT keep a secret (literally... I caved after 14 hours). Coming soon to an AO3 near you!

[velidewrites]

I’m at a Halloween concert right now where a tall, masked man is playing the electric guitar and I thought you guys would like to know I am not doing okay

[shardechance]

𝖜𝖊 𝖈𝖆𝖓 𝖒𝖆𝖙𝖈𝖍, 𝖎𝖋 𝖞𝖔𝖚'𝖉 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊?

Teaser Tuesday for the critically acclaimed CORPSE UNTIL SUNRISE coming Oct. 30

[shardechance]

𝖆 𝖌𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖙 𝖗𝖊𝖒𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖘 𝖔𝖚𝖙𝖘𝖎𝖉𝖊

Teaser Tuesday for the anticipated debut JAWBREAKER coming Oct. 29

[shardechance]

𝖇𝖗𝖎𝖉𝖆𝖑 𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖜𝖊𝖗 - 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖞 𝖋𝖆𝖛𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖘

whoever gets a full house gets a kiss (don't tell the wife)

[shardechance]

𝖓𝖔 𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗 𝖍𝖚𝖗𝖙 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖆𝖌𝖆𝖎𝖓

Teaser Tuesday for the beloved HELL IS A TEENAGE GIRL coming Oct. 31

[shardechance]

is this a fandom event?

The family of the deceased have provided more information on where you may pay your respects here.

[shardechance]

well, mark me down as scared AND horny

[shardechance]

Just wanted to say this looks absolutely amazing and I cannot wait!!!

[shardechance]

combined wedding and funeral??? i’m so intrigued :)

[shardechance]

just want to say that you two are so hot for this and I can’t wait to see what you are cooking up 💋

[shardminds]

(quick second to fix the tags @the-lonelybarricade @jon-snows-man-bun @iftheshoef1tz!!)

She’s HERE 🍭

𝖏𝖆𝖜𝖇𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖐𝖊𝖗

ao3 link | playlist | detailed content warnings | masterlist

pairing: feysand rating: explicit wc: 23k warnings: non con

Feyre’s a big fan of scary movies. So much, in fact, that Halloween night spent curled up on the couch and watching Poltergeist while the kids she’s babysitting sleep upstairs doesn’t sound so bad, even if it means missing out on a party or two. It’s a relatively boring night, until a real ghost appears. Rhysand, in the shittiest costume she’s ever seen, picked the wrong house to trick or treat... but scary movies aren’t scary until they’re real.

[FREAK WEEK DAY 1]

read on ao3 or proceed below for small snippet.

The movie is better than Feyre remembers it, which isn’t exactly a surprise. The first time she saw it, her sisters stole dresses from Mom’s room and dressed Feyre up as E.T. so they could stuff her in a closet. They’d instructed her to hide, and after too long spent in the dark, Feyre eventually wandered out on her own. She found her sisters downstairs, seemingly having forgotten their little sister, with the credits already rolling on the TV.

By contrast, the boys let her have her own blanket, and laugh along with her even when they don’t get the joke. They leave the last bit of popcorn for her, and even though it’s hard in the middle and the chocolate’s gone, it tastes good. There’s fifteen minutes left in the movie when Feyre’s phone buzzes in her pocket, and she’s more than a bit disappointed when she gets up to answer it.

“Be right back, boys,” Feyre sighs, flinging the blanket off her lap.

She stands in the foyer, where she can see into the living room to keep an eye on the boys and the movie, and brings the phone up to look at the screen. FaceTime Video. Lucien Vanserra.

“Hey, Lucien,” Feyre says, a bit distracted. What greets her in full and glorious outdated iPhone resolution, is half an opera mask, an open dress shirt, and the smug grin of her best friend.

“Sing, my angel of music!”

Her thumb hits the end call button before Lucien can embarrass himself further.

She doesn’t get the chance to roll her eyes, let alone head back to the boys and their movie. Before she’s even lifted her thumb from the red reject call button, his picture flashes across her screen again. Against her better judgment, her thumb slides across to green.

“Why are you such a bitch?” Lucien asks by way of greeting.

“Mind your manners, potty mouth. Tiny ears present,” she warns, turning her back to the living room as if to shield the kids from his bad language.

He snorts, shooting back something from a red solo cup. “Oh yeah? Fu—”

“Shut up!” She snaps. Her shitty phone speaker is no match for surround sound, so it’s unlikely the boys can hear from the other room, but Feyre doesn’t want to be the reason they learn their first swears. “You look like a loser.”

“What do you mean?” He lifts the mask, revealing his scarred cheek, and half a smirk. Usual golden prosthetic eye switched for a scarlet alternative. “I’m told it plays to my strengths.”

He’s gorgeous. Unfortunately, he is very much aware of that. Scars and all. Chicks dig it, she’s told. Feyre takes the last few steps to the kitchen, dropping a couple of stray candy wrappers in the garbage on her way past.

“What do you want?” she says. “I’m working.”

“Yeah, about that,” Lucien says, his tone dripping with the promise of trouble. “Ditch the kids! Come play!”

And lose the easiest hundred bucks of her life? No way. Yeah, seeing Lucien in his element, chasing the highs of what little nightlife there is to offer, flirting with boys, dancing with girls—

“Negative.” Feyre inspects her cuticles. “This is easy money.”

tag list: @velidewrites @melting-houses-of-gold @popjunkie42 @secret-third-thing @separatist-apologist @the-lonelybarricade @jon-snows-man-bun @iftheshoef1tz

[shardechance]

𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔩 𝔦𝔰 𝔞 𝔱𝔢𝔢𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔢 𝔤𝔦𝔯𝔩

ao3 link | playlist | detailed content warnings | masterlist

parts: 𝐈 𝐈𝐈 𝐈𝐈𝐈 𝐈𝐕 𝐕

pairing: feyre/mor

rating: explicit

wc: 7.9k (pt 1)

warnings: major character death, cannibalism

Self-proclaimed 'BFFs' and high school seniors Mor and Feyre have definitely had fights before, but none as bad as the night at the bar when Mor is forced to leave Feyre behind in the rather dubious hands of her distantly related cousin and wannabe rockstar. Mor fully expects to make it up to Feyre the next day, except her best friend doesn't show. Nearly one full week later, Mor is so overjoyed to see Feyre again that she is blind to all the strange new things about her crush--er, friend. Namely, that Feyre suddenly seems to have developed some rather peculiar tastes. That, and she's hot as hell.

[FREAK WEEK DAY 3 - PART 1]

read on ao3 or proceed below for small snippet.

“You think he’s bald?” 

The paper straw flattens between the press of Feyre’s lips, half soggy from how she keeps worrying it between her teeth. That, or the fact that it's been soaking up the same offensively flat Diet Coke for the last half hour since the band finished their set. They tried for something stronger, but the black crosses emblazoned on the backs of their hands were unfortunately doing their job of signaling to Jurian not to slip them any vodka, this time.

They’ve been watching the band pack away their instruments and file into the lounge behind the bar, a pitcher of beer and three pint glasses set out for them in a corner booth. A folded sheet of paper reading RESERVED in blocky script, sitting limply on the table.

Mor looks up from her phone, Instagram promptly forgotten in favor of whatever the hell caused Feyre to ask that question. “What?”

Rolling her eyes, Feyre nudges her chin towards the bar. The delicate twitch of one eyebrow has Mor turning, more bodily than she might like. There’s no such thing as subtlety in places like these. The guy in question looks even bigger up close—broad as he is tall, with arms thick as tree trunks and swirled with tribal tats. Mor struggles for his name, despite having just sat through their entire discography in a room with worse acoustics than their high school bathroom and blown-out speakers. 

“Under that beanie,” Feyre says, by way of explanation. The straw bypasses her lips entirely, and she irritatedly flings the limp wet thing from her glass to discard it on the sticky table. Probably not the worst thing that’s ever been placed on it. The nachos here have food poisoning written all over them. “He looks like he could be bald. Seems the type, you know? Like, did too many steroids on the high school wrestling team and now he’s paying the price?”

A reminder suddenly pings from her phone on the tabletop, interrupting a reel of someone from their year showing all the Homecoming dresses she decided not to buy. They’re all ugly, the dresses. Not that Mor’s is any better—the only one her dad had allowed her to buy. 

Ten minutes. Fuck.

“Feyre, for one second, can you be serious? My curfew is at eleven.” She doesn’t mean to snap, but Feyre knows how her dad gets. How strict he can be about grades and curfews. How little fucks he gives about everything else. 

“I don’t want to go just yet,” she whines, eyes following the unfathomably buff drummer back to his table and the two other guys sitting there. Mor watches as the big dude lines a shot in front of each of them, layered liquors starting to merge into a brown mush. They knock them back without so much as a wince. Mor is suddenly very grateful for her soda, even if it’s lost all the carbonation.

The only guy she recognises, Rhysand Sterling, catches them staring and waves. That quick flick of his wrist turns into a come over type gesture. Two fingers beckoning them forward. 

“You know him, right?” Feyre poses the question as if she doesn’t already know the answer. As if she hasn’t seen the one picture her father has of her in the living room. Taken at one of his firm’s Christmas parties, of course. Rhysand, a couple years her senior, had gone by Rhys back then. 

“Feyre, we have to go,” Mor reminds her, grabbing onto her wrist. She stares dejectedly at the side of Feyre’s face, deflating when she notes the way she seems to have perked up, eyes constantly flitting to the guy sitting at the table. Mor’s cousin. Twice removed, or something.

“It’s fine! We should just say hi!” She stands, neatly pushing in her stool but still well within Mor’s reach. She slips her hand into Mors, using it as leverage to tug Mor behind her, and crosses towards the booth. Maybe she notices how reluctant Mor is by the way she drags her feet, and Feyre offers the incentive, “Besides, it’ll drive Eris crazy.”

Oh, Mor doubts that very highly.

tag list: @shardminds @damedechance @velidewrites @melting-houses-of-gold @popjunkie42 @secret-third-thing @separatist-apologist @the-lonelybarricade @jon-snows-man-bun @iftheshoef1tz

[shardechance]

𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔭𝔰𝔢 𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔩 𝔰𝔲𝔫𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔢

ao3 link | playlist | detailed content warnings | masterlist

pairing: gwynriel

rating: explicit

wc: 19k

warnings: major character death, cannibalism, dubious consent

A casket is delivered to the cemetery to be buried, left in the care of Azriel, its lonely custodian. Against his better judgment, he opens it only to find the face of his long unrequited infatuation. Outside, a ghoul prowls the grounds, watching, and waiting for the moment to make him hers. The girl in the box serves as the perfect distraction, her cries a siren song to lure him out into the night. It’s a wonder that Azriel has managed to escape her thus far, but it comes as no surprise that he sinks so readily into her claws, now.

[FREAK WEEK DAY 2]

read on ao3 or proceed below for brief snippet.

“Brain hemorrhage,” Greg says finally, after an uncomfortably long pause. He steps back from the casket, staring down at the surface. Azriel’s fingers twitch, and he allows his arms to fall back down to his sides instead of reaching for it.

Greg catches the movement out of his periphery, turning his head to study Azriel. Without any further question, or warning, he leans over and flips open the lid to the casket. Hands curved around the edge, peering in at the figure draped in white. Azriel reels, taking half a step back at the sight of brilliant, copper red—her hair—and he closes his eyes, just for a moment. 

When he opens them again, there’s Gwyneth Berdara lying cold in the box before him. Autumn honey curls left loose around her shoulders, shorter than the last time he’d seen her. She’d worn a yellow dress then, warm mustard yellow like the tail end of summer. Now, they’ve wrapped her in the same lace dress they give all the women whose families never provided specific requests. Sizes 0 through 30, and bought in bulk. When her body rots, the ill-fitting polyester will remain.

A silver chain, twisted slightly and just off center, lies against her chest. Next to one of the buttons of her dress, there’s a simple cross charm. Scratched and worn, as if from constant wear.

“Damn shame, isn’t it?”

Azriel lifts his chin without taking his eyes off that cross. “Depends,” he says.

Greg furrows his brows in a look all too familiar. Concern, but only at the superficial level, and not enough to say a word about it. His yellowed fingers scratch at unkempt stubble, sniffing sharply and the way he so casually does so, especially in the presence of the body atop the altar, sparks abject revulsion in Azriel. Everything about this man lends to discomfort, but catering to the sensibilities of others is not Azriel’s job, and therefore not his problem.

He looks back to Gwyn, or the body that used to be her, and allows his gaze to fall to the soft curve of her cheek, makeup separating. To the silver studs in her ears, the lipstick painted on her dry bottom lip. Small details, now that he’s able to stomach the entire image. Details imperceptible to those disquieted by the dead, but not to someone like Azriel who doesn’t mind paying careful attention.

“Right,” Greg says. He adjusts the clipboard in his hands unnecessarily, and pointedly steps back from the altar, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Look, I have another delivery to make tonight.”

“Okay,” Azriel says.

“The, uh…” Greg pauses, as if waiting for Azriel to look at him. He doesn’t. “The chaplain will be by later. Far as I know, he’s gonna meet the family here.”

“How long?”

Greg deflates. “How long what?”

“How long until they arrive?” Azriel asks. Finally he looks up, at the far less appealing and noticeably twitchy face of the funeral assistant.

Greg scrubs his hand over his face, likely an attempt to hide the eye roll Azriel has no trouble noticing. It doesn’t bother him nearly as much as the sight of Greg using the casket as something to lean on.

“Look, I don’t know,” Greg says, and finally a bit of his frustration leaks out into his tone. He gestures vaguely to the casket, eyes already set on the door. “Just sit tight. She’s not gonna get up and walk away.”

tag list: @velidewrites @melting-houses-of-gold @popjunkie42 @secret-third-thing @separatist-apologist @the-lonelybarricade @jon-snows-man-bun @iftheshoef1tz @shardminds @damedechance

[shardechance]

𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖘𝖔𝖔𝖓

project reveal - october 1st love, @shardminds and @damedechance

RSVP to the combined wedding and funeral of our illustrious authors here.