Bones, at your service 🫡

Because the plot bunny won't let me be and it's cool to have it all in one spot. This also includes the things I haven't posted on AO3 yet.

Défaire le Nœud

ᯓ★ No Fandom—Original Work. Rating: E. Status: Complete (the epilogue will come when my abandonment issues leave me in piece). Word Count: 80k and a few infused Everlastings, without the bonus chapters. Relationship: F/M, F/M/M.

ᯓ★ Summary: Mauve moves in her late Grandma's house, and everything is good. Nothing to hide, no missing family member, no crippling guilt, no magic suppressant, no impromptu crushes on two men, that's so not happening. The Ostrich Strategy still has bright days to come, and she definitely won't need any help to keep the past from resurfacing, and the stupid acrobatic number of her heart when she happens to get out of her house in check. Nothing to see here.

Or: How to take three pieces of yourself and make them meet, fall in love, heal, and find their way back to you in the process. One best attempt at trauma recovery through taking the broken pieces of your soul and putting them in the happiest setting of your life, cradle them, and again until nothing hurts anymore.

ᯓ★ ⚠︎ Tags: No Archive Warning Applies (it's good, we're good, everything is gonna be just fine), Romance, Polyamory, Magic, Self-Discovery, Enthusiastic Consent, Past Abuse, Drug Use, Healthy Relationships, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Strangers to Friends to Lovers.

You can find it here.

Unsevered Ties

ᯓ★ No Fandom—Original Work. Rating: E. Status: Complete. Word Count: 11k and a few colorful rocks. Relationship: M/M.

ᯓ★ Summary: It's quite hard being the new kid when you already have trouble speaking to your loved ones. A bit lonely, but especially terrifying when the sun itself descends from the sky to ask you if you could please, please come and play hide-and-seek. When you learn that his favorite color is orange, and that his mom makes awesome cakes, and that he has a slight pollen allergy and that's why he's crying, come on, he's not a baby. When he keeps you company although he's friends with everybody, unlike me. People in my class look at me weird because I'm hanging out with a little one, but they don't get it. They don't get home after the day to find a dim, utterly quiet home. They don't fear the weird smell that means one thing and one thing only: I will either eat whatever I can find in the fridge alone, or I am going to get screamed at so bad, I will regret even being born in the first place.

He only shines this brightly because everything else is slowly fading away.

He's all that's good in my life.

Or: The bonus chapters about what happened between Dorian and Camille before Mauve moved to Cobber'Thalade. How to take all you ever knew and all you wish you had, and let them blend until they finally merge.

ᯓ★ ⚠︎ Tags: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings (because it's slightly less okay, but it will be, pinky promise), Romance, Child Abuse, Family Fluff, Self-Harm, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers.

You can find it here.

Ayden's Sanctuary

ᯓ★ No Fandom—Original Work. Rating: E. Status: WIP. Word Count: 17k and a coughing cupboard. Relationships: F/M, M/?, F/M/?.

ᯓ★ Summary: You wake up confused, without any sensations, but you're not dead. A weight on your chest breathes like a pure black mass of compressed shadows, but the mass is you, and the Sanctuary is him, and nothing is where it's supposed to be. You should hate where you are. You should hate magic. You don't. The Thing seems to be sentient when you are not, and Aydenlin Gwenor is man, and bird, and everything you loathe—but also the very reason you're alive.

Or: Take the darkest parts of your soul and give them form, they're scary, but not really, even with their horns and pointy nails. Meet the bright ones that can't reach you yet, but they're also a Sanctuary, and also a man, and also a bird. In all of that, the scariest Thing is still you.

ᯓ★ No tags, it hasn't been posted yet. It takes place in the same world as Défaire le Nœud, but the vibe will be more Ennemies to Lovers, Allegory, Trauma Recovery, Self-Discovery, Upside Down Windows and Spiraling Rivers. And Angst. Of course.

Twice as Much

ᯓ★ Fandom: Stardew Valley. Rating: E. Status: WIP. Word Count: 20k and some of Sam's stickers. Relationships: F/M, F/M/M. Characters: Sam/Sebastian/Female Player.

ᯓ★ Summary:

“So... yeah, that's it, I guess,” Sam says, scratching the back of his head and glancing at Sebastian, who's as still as a statue.

Willow doesn't care. Actually, those two are a godsend because after weeks of interviews, they are the first that fit the bill, and she doesn't have the kind of money it takes to rent this apartment alone anymore. She has come to like it—a lot. Put her little trinkets here and there, and... Yeah, those other things that disappeared when he left.

Too empty. Two more people won't be too many to fill that void—not that they can really do anything for the one inside of her chest.

Or: Take your living arrangement and collect all of its sweet memories, place them in the hands of characters you love and watch what happens.

ᯓ★ Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply (because it's mostly Slice of Life and Domestic Fluff), Idiots in Love, Getting Together, Canon Divergent – You All Live in Zuzu City, Aged-Up Character (around 30), Recreational Drug-Use, Polyamory (Throuple), Black Cat/Golden Retriever Character Dynamics.

You can find it here 🐸

Gravitational Decoherence

ᯓ★ Fandom: Love and Deepspace (Video Game). Rating: E. Status: Complete. Word Count: 82k and some of your panties he stole before going to the DAA (Gideon saw, and said nothing). Relationship: F/M. Characters: Xia Yizhou—Caleb/Reader!MC.

ᯓ★ Summary: Your heart cleaves open. Your body can't move, not while he's using his Evol, but you just know it would have been if given the chance. The only thing you can do is look, eyes wide in disbelief, as the Colonel plunges cold, nebulous eyes into yours. You know those eyes, even if you've never seen them so cunning. You know them in a million different ways: crinkling around the corners as you poke his waist, wide in worry right after you fall, fragmented behind a glass door as you scream, flashing before your eyes before you sleep while hot tears stream down your cheeks.

Caleb's eyes.

Caleb, who is standing right in front of you, taking you to an interrogation room.

Alive.

Alive.

Or: Get through another episode by falling in love with a fictional character, question why you find more emotional support through words in a page rather than in real life—oh right, trauma, and make those two go through hell to stitch themselves back up and you with it.

ᯓ★ ⚠︎ Tags: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings (because it's not gonna be okay, not yet, but you can trust in the happy ending), Romance, Codependency, Pseudo-Incest, Canon-Typical Violence, Torture (Both Physical and Psychological), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Trauma Recovery, Mutual Pining, No Use of Y/N for Reader Insert (because your name is Pips; of course it is).

You can find it here 🍎

All of my works contain smut. Some of them contain violence.

Be mindful of the tags, I have done my best not to forget any on AO3, and also added trigger warnings in the top notes.

Also, my native langage isn't English (I've obtained a C1+ proficiency but that doesn't mean I don't get confused sometimes). Thankfully I do have a beta now, so things should get better ✨️

A pretty gilded apple tree

After finishing Gravitational Decoherence, the obsession didn't die down enough and I had to make a little fanart of it. Look, it's glowing gold hehehe

A cover for the most wholesome triad ✨️

Camille's introduction:

“Hi there!”

The squeak that escapes her throat is quite embarrassing if she's honest, and when she turns around to see who's creeping up on her, she's greeted by two striking hazelnut eyes.

“You're the newcomer! Béryl told me. I'm Camille, her not-so-grumpy little brother. Mauve is that right?”

He extends his hand just like Béryl did, although in a much warmer way. He wears dark gloves that brush pleasantly on her skin, and a few tiny splashes of paint are splattered on the fine lines his easy grin draws. They don't have the same eyes at all but the dark blond, wispy strands curling all around the top part of his head sure look similar... and soft. Very, very soft. Mauve almost forgets herself before replying:

“Yes, that would be me. Nice to meet you.” She offers him a tentative smile, which is returned tenfold.

“Nice to meet you!” warmth. So much warmth it is unsettling. It reminds her of someone who's just a shadow of his former self, just like she is. It stings her heart and cradles it at the same time. There's a piercing on a dark eyebrow that quirks up when he adds:

“Are you settling in all right? This house hasn't seen the light of day for a long time. Sorry about your grandma by the way.”

It's all right; it really is. Mauve barely knew her thanks to the complicated relationship she had with her dad. She did send letters though, and visit her mom after they broke up... but not enough to really mourn her when she died although, maybe that part is on Mauve. Her father was grateful she asked to buy the house.

“Yeah the amount of dust in here was impressive. It's an old thing, I plan on doing some renovations to freshen it up a bit.”

“Damn, that's awesome! Do you need any help? I have a sense for these things. Comes with the whole messy-creative shebang I'm afraid.”

Camille winks, and Mauve is immediately at ease. He's an easy guy to talk to and the energy radiating from him is nothing but comforting. He seems like the artsy type indeed, his dark overalls showing bits of multicolored paint. A tote bag hangs from his shoulder, a sketchbook sticking out. She lets her gaze wander along the sun-kissed skin on his forearm, noting an arrangement of moles that almost looks like a star near his wrist and the thin tan line where his glove begins. She surely will need help someday; she never attempted a project like this before, as a van can't be compared to a whole house. Something dark and ugly is urging her to decline, because good things are not supposed to happen to people like her. He's too... solar, but rejecting him also feels wrong for some reason.

“Yeah, maybe I'll need the help someday. Thanks for offering.” She means it, even though needing the help doesn't include asking for it. A white lie. Another way of running away. She could almost be considered an expert escape artist at this point. His eyes narrow slightly before he says:

“I know where you live, you know. If I don't hear from you, I'll just come and check. You're one of us now! Oh, are you coming to the party?”

“The party?” She's too taken aback to even register that he just said he'll come if she plays dead.

“Yeah, for the Solstice! You know it's in... three days, right? There's never anything going on around here, this is the perfect opportunity for you to meet everyone. They'll all have stands, and there will be music, lots of food and alcohol, and just something else to do for once. I heard they'll have performers this year. So, you'll come?”

Oh no, this is hard. Camille is watching her with very expectant eyes, and saying no will definitely make that adorable smile disappear, she can sense it. Not having the willpower to face his disappointment, Mauve answers:

“Hm- yeah sure, sounds like... fun.” She's trying; she really is. That makes Camille snort, so her efforts weren't in vain at least. It shakes her bones in the best way.

“Oh come on! We don't bite. Here, I'll give you my number.” He grabs his sketchbook, tearing off a small piece of paper and shuffles through his bag to get a colored pencil out. The noise it makes leads Mauve to believe there are quite a lot of things in here, probably tossed at random. The colored pencil is pink, and his handwriting, very round. He adds:

“If you need anything. And I meant it, when I said I'll look for you. I'd be honored to be your first friend here.”

Friend. That sounds nice, and also very far away.

“Thank you. I'll send you a message then.” She probably won't. But she appreciates it nonetheless. His eyes crinkle, and the warmth envelops her again.

“See you around!”

Dorian's introduction:

There is no one behind the counter, just like last time. But she hears the spinning wheel stop, and a muffled “Just a sec.” Followed by a light cough and the sound of running water. Around her, Mauve finds all kinds of sculpted objects, all organized by type. There are plates, mugs, vases and even sculptures on polished, wooden shelves. The low ceiling is arched, following the way of Cobber'Thalade's houses. She does see a common theme in all of these creations, as they all seem to be inspired by the local flora. Like Everlastings were embedded in clay, alongside box tree leaves and a myriad of other plants she doesn't have the name for. The water stops, and Mauve turns her head to look at the black door leading to his workshop. Dorian is still drying his hands on an overstained, black apron and softly says:

“Sorry, hi. Can I help you?”

His voice is hoarse, low and soft-spoken, as if not used enough. He's pale, with dark eyes and even darker hair, the latter coarse and straight. It goes down on his shoulders, save for one side, which underside is shaved. She can see the fluff peeking beneath the strands behind his pierced ear. There's an elegance to him, all height and long limbs, his slim fingers still stained by clay somehow. Beautiful wouldn't do him any justice, and Mauve finds herself at a loss in front of his interrogative stare. Can he see into her soul? Unsure. Can she get a grip? That would be most appreciated, although, he's the one who speaks first:

“Are you the new girl? Mauve.”

If her name felt like sunshine soaking through her clothes with Camille, this time, it's like a silken, weighted blanket on her skin. She shivers. She is so grateful for the tonic right now, because not being able to feel as much is definitely sparing her from any further embarrassment.

“Yes, that's me. Nice to meet you.” Or was it: “I've always been looking for you my whole life?” Oh come on, focus. His smile appears only in his eyes, and he leans slightly on the doorway while crossing his arms, stating:

“Dorian Sens. Welcome to Cobber. Were you looking for something?”

Right. She's not sure anymore, of what exactly she was searching for. It definitely feels like she found way more than that without even intending to. She sits with this uncanny feeling for a bit, wondering what exactly in this man, is provoking such an intense reaction.

“Pots. I was looking for pots.” She exhales, trying to gather some shreds of dignity. How much worse would her reactions be without the Everlastings? She feels like a joke, and not the funny kind. Dark and straight eyebrows lift, and he hums before saying:

“Well, you found the right place. The painted ones are outside, the ones inside are more neutral-colored. All of them are either carved, or I've used plants to make the patterns. Do you know what size you want?”

“I actually have no idea which plant they are. I'll start with something small?” He nods, gesturing vaguely to the shelves in a silent invitation for her to take her pick.

Mauve doesn't take long. First, because which pot she chooses is irrelevant, they all look gorgeous. Second, because Dorian watching her every move is making her queasy, but not as much as when she returns in front of him, meeting two very dark blue, and somewhat sorrowed eyes.

“Fitting.” is all he says when she puts the mallow-embedded, deep purple pot on the counter. There are golden stars drawn on the upper part, and an equally golden line drips from the edge to a few millimeters down its side. Fitting, indeed. His gaze stays on the part just below her bottom lip, where her tattoo ends and she almost squirms. Suddenly, he asks:

“Didn't Ember have pots lying around?”

“She did. But none of them were this pretty.” Is she flirting over a pot? Because her tone sounds like she's not speaking about the Well-damned plant-holder. That makes the palest, pink hue creep up his cheeks, and his eyes widen ever so slightly. She wants out. Out of his stare, of this shop, of her own mind that is questioning why he would be that surprised about something he clearly knows how to do, brilliantly at that, and why it feels like she knows exactly why. Mauve puts down the money she owes, and mutters her goodbye and thanks before quickly exiting the shop.

My brother made a hard copy of this book for my birthday, and a friend made a 3D printed figurine of the main character 🥹

Feeling more than blessed right now. The story is a bit wonky and I'm sure there are still a lot of mistakes in it, but touching it for real made my very un-touchable thoughts into a very tangible object, and for that, I'll never thank them enough. The figurine was based on this very cover 😌

For Sebastian:

Seb, I'm sorry. Seb, I know you think you're not doing much, but actually, the quiet moments we spend together lift more weight off my chest than any amount of therapy. Seb, I see you. I see the way you care, I see the way you love, and the more time passes, the more I fall in love with you. Seb, this wasn't just because of Sam; I want you. I think about it at night when I know you're just a door away, I think about your hands above my heart and your sweat on my tongue, Seb, sometimes your beauty strikes me so hard that I can't breathe, Seb, I need help. I need you to hold me whole because the amount of things I feel is so heavy that I don't know what to do, but you always do.

Seb, I really wish we could have done more that night. Seb, I want to hear my name on your lips again; I need it as surely as I need to breathe.

For Sam:

Sam, let me be your home for the rest of our lives. Sam, I'd really like for you to tell me the exact note I moan your name when I come. Sam, I'd do anything for you to feel safe and wanted, even when you become old and grumpy, even if you fall terminally ill, even if you don't want me; Sam, I think your best friend is in love with you, and I've been preparing for the fact that you will both leave because you're so pretty together, so pretty it hurts my soul, and I cry myself to sleep thinking about it. Sam, you're the most talented musician I've ever heard, and you deserve to be heard, and seen, and recognized, and worshiped until the sun rises. Sam, your arrival in my life changed me on a cellular level, and now I'm in too deep; Sam, Sam I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.

The answer is 66, plus some unhealthy amount of self-loathing and the deafening thrums of the three drummer's number in the pit of her stomach.

(It's butterflies, but in music form.)

"The answer was always within.

If it can replicate frequencies, that means it probably also can replicate yours. Surely, that's what it was supposed to be at first: a way to replicate your power. It must've failed, given they're hiding you. If it can trick you, it can maybe trick... other parts of you.

Oh, you'll never agree to this."

Am I right to think "this" is a foreshadowing of something bigger and maybe devastating or was it just talking about the general situation? Maybe I'm reading into it too much or catching onto things that aren't intentional but either way I'm seated and at attention 🥺 I'm curious what "other parts" of you means and it's probably a spoiler you don't have to share but it's something on my mind a lot when I read new updates that made a big impression.

Oh and I just want to say that your English is quite lovely in your fic writing! I don't remember a lot of (or any?) mistakes (at least, no deal breakers that stuck with me or they were infrequent if there at all), but if you're looking for a beta ever, I love early access and tend to be a good proofreader... 👀

Hey! Thank you so much for all of this. I'm super happy that you like this story, and their dynamic (and the imagery, but really, Infold did all the work on this one haha). I can't really answer your question in details because yes, that would be a pretty big spoiler, but also yes, it is foreshadowing and not something randomly placed here :) if you really want more details we can discuss it in private, maybe (I'm new to tumblr but I think what I'm writing here is public?).

He's looking side-eyed at your cunt, where he can see how soppy it is with the mess you both made. He absentmindedly opens his mouth, still looking at it, sucking on your inner thigh and the slick that traveled all the way here, a loud sigh going through his nose. You squirm.

It's lewd. It's you, and him, and it's perfect, and he really wants to‐

“Go-od—I'm sensitive-” you moan, but he won't take long, promise; he'll just clean you up a bit. He kneels on the floor, bringing your hips closer to the edge of the bed, and pushes them upwards, digits sinking in. Opens his mouth wide and darts his tongue, licking you all the way up to your clit and closing. Swallowing. And whimpering at the same time because this scent—it's even better than just yours. It's instantaneous, the way it makes him rock hard again, your hips jerking under him as he hears a strangled “Oh‐”, your puffed lips giving way so easily with how slippery they are; he did that.

More, more, more—until I die, until I can't anymore.

“It's dirty.” You whisper, while still chasing his mouth when he parts. Deranged, yes, bent, and spent, and wrapped in a barely coherent form, right around your little finger. He knows. But not you, never you.

“What are you talking about. I never want to eat anything else in my entire life.”

It's true; he feels it burning his cheeks, in the way he can't help but spread his fingers wide to keep you close. In the way each time his tongue lays flat on your clit, he presses on it harder, as if he could imprint its taste and save it for later. The way it makes shivers run from the point where you meet all the way down to the tip of his toes, and how he can't breathe properly—too eager to bury his face back in, mouth open and drool pooling out, his eyes flutter close as he moans again. The things you're doing to him, it's so much-

“I think I could come like that.” He mumbles, lost to himself, right before inserting his tongue inside of you, feeling you clench—he squeezes you harder, breathing way too little through how mind-bogglingly aroused he feels.

“You're the one who's gonna make me c-come again if you keep this up.”

“Mmh—yes, please do.” He sinks one, long finger inside and curls it so that he can bring more out, never leaving your clit, working you out in steady thrusts. He's leaking again; it falls along his shaft, neglected—so engorged it aches. He swears it would take him only two strokes, maybe less, because he tastes himself on you after removing his finger, and hot, white bars melt directly between his legs, only making more precum bead, sticky against his stomach.

More.

He knew it, somehow. That once he'd get to start, he'd never stop again. That the way he loves you can't allow separation—he's feeding off of you, and all of the times he just got to imagine what you would feel like, taste like, moan like; they all gather in a lump in his chest and crash right on the tip of his tongue.

He's never letting you go. He's never stopping.

Even when you come again, twitching on his tongue, and all he can do is drink, and drink, and drink some more. It's even wetter now, even more slippery, warm, and clenching, and—ah, smells so good.

He's sniffing you until the end of time, that much is clear (and eating you out until you pass out) (ꈍᴗꈍ)

“I dunno. I kind of want to stay inside? It's been a long time since we spent the day just... lounging. Playing games. Watching a movie. You're not working today, are you?”

He didn't bring any chopsticks for you. You don't need them. He will bring them if you ask him to, but you just stare at him knowingly. 

Indulgence. For him to live vicariously through the wooden sticks around which you close your mouth when he levels a bite your way. 

Sometimes, he wonders if you know. A deranged wish, whispering that you're doing it on purpose. That you feel the same way.

“Sounds good to me.” He says, watching you lick your lips, humming low in your throat.

He's hot all over.

It hasn't been this strong at first. Because at first, you were just a little kid and you just wanted to play with him. The relief he felt when he took you in his arms, your sweet smell washing over his nostrils—it felt like the home he never had. And at first, he even refused to let Josephine help. He was the one linked; he knew best how to handle you. How you liked your hair brushed, how long you wanted to play, and which stories you wanted him to read. But one day, you grew. Long gone was the adventurous little girl climbing on his lap every time she wanted something really bad, to coax him into giving it to her (which he did every time; of course he did). You were becoming a woman.

And a brand-new flavor of curse settled in his bones. 

Because as usual, you're the start of it all. The start of his sense of purpose. The start of the link. The start of his love, in every sense of the term. And the start of the absurd craving that imposed itself as the only logical consequence of your bond.

He wanted you. In every way a person can want another, and more, still. 

It became incredibly harder to entertain the lack of boundaries, just because his body tends to betray him, fast, the sheer intensity of it dizzying sometimes. 

But you never had any regard for that and continued to climb on his lap. To wrap yourself around him, to barge into his room, to seize what you own—just like you're doing now, the soft parts of you pressing on the inside of his thighs while you click on the controller. In between his legs, like when you were younger. 

“So, ready to give up yet?” He teases, doing a full combo that has you sigh in discontent. He takes the opportunity to angle his hips back, further away from you. Thinks of planes, their different parts, mentally dismantling them to hopefully not react too much at the fact that him backing up only prompts you to come right back where you were.

“Cocky. I'll have you know this is not over, you'll see-” You bend forward in concentration, his eyes flickering where your bodies meet.

Pathetic. Ill. 

He blinks—planes.

“Ha!” You exclaim, your back abruptly landing on his chest, and oh, sweet, sweet torture. With the arch of your back, you're millimeters away from understanding why he releases that long of a breath. You won, your expression ecstatic as you turn around to face him, your arm pressing on his chest for support.

“Do you yield?” You ask, and his heart makes a dangerous tumble, one he barely stops from crossing his lips.

“I yield.” Too breathy. He has to get a grip, because you're looking at him with such an intensity that it feels like the whole world is collapsing around him. And to further his suffering, a pink blush appears on your cheeks. 

He has to get out.

“I need to take a shower.” He says, but you press your arm harder on his chest, still looking.

“Are you feeling okay? You look like you have a fever.” You immediately let go of the controller, sliding your hands on his cheeks. He's entranced. He'd like for you to bring his head closer still, so that he can taste the air right off your tongue, and slide his hand under his shirt, and see if you feel as soft as you look. He's getting further and further away from planes.

The answer is a ridiculous lot.