I welcome to this page anyone who supports unconventional love. The focus is romantic love between cousins, straight or gay, and lgbt topics. This blog is part research/educational/creative/personal .::About:: .::Just My Blogs::. .::Ask Me Anything:: ~Consanguinamory Fiction Forum~
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
My entry for the @julybreakbingo July Break Bingo 2026.
Fandom: Original Work
Author: Rainbowamory
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Cousin Incest (Consensual)
Ships: Cela/Syden
Additional Tags: Cousin Incest, Consensual Sex, Consensual Incest, Original Character(s), NSFW, Fantasy, BDSM, Dom/sub, Shibari, Stretching, Foreplay, Reunions, Established Relationship, Couple, Bruises, Hickeys, good girl/evil guy
Word count: 5,757
Summary:
Syden and Cela have been away from home for awhile, off on their separate duties in different parts of the world. Itâs been impossible to find a time and place to be together. Now that there is a break in their missions, they have been given leave from the military to go home for a short time. They look forward to seeing each other again at their shared sanctuary, and reconnecting in more ways than one.
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written for Flash Fiction Friday Prompt #366, event hosted by @flashfictionfridayofficial
Story: Original Work (Ao3 Link)
Rating: Teen and up
Word count: 989
The Quiet One
Alex sat at his work table, busying himself with arranging his tools, which consisted of clear flasks, a clay furnace, and various bottled herbs and liquids. He had left the balcony doors open as he had been advised to, so that there was always a breeze entering the room to carry away any toxic fumes that may rise up during his work. He had carefully put his alchemy books piled on a chair beside the table, so that they were away from the liquids but still within reach. Every now and then, he would take up a tome and peruse it for instructions, cross-referencing the texts to decode some of their hidden meanings.
Todayâs project was to be the creation of a healing potion.
He looked at the array of ingredients that lined the long, narrow slab of wood, among which were various roots, herbs, and minerals for experimenting with.
Some believed there was a special essence that could be extracted from certain combinations to heal the sick. He believed strongly in the powers of nature. He had been studying for years, and had made progress with creating some tinctures of his own which had proven to be effective, though he was still a long ways away from being a master.
He was heating up a container filled with a special mixture when it began to bubble. He watched the bubbles rise and pop from the deep purple liquid in the container before stepping away to give the concoction time to mature.
He went to a writing desk beside his bed to continue his reading, but found he was too distracted. Looking past the edge of the book, his attention was caught by his reflection in the little round mirror before him. His soft brown hair matched his eyes, much like his father, but with a subtle difference in shade. He looked well-rested. The wariness appeared to reside within.
His eyes wandered from the mirror to the image hanging on the wall just above.
It was a portrait of his family, framed in a beautiful, burnt-gold frame. He kept it as a bedside comfort, as it had everyone in one place: his parents, and all his siblings, including the one who died in infancy.
The people looking at their family from outside always seemed to think theyâve got it all; they probably couldnât imagine that they too had problems, just like any other familyâŚ
_
On this occasion, as on many others, he was alone, with the exception of a few maids coming just to do their duties and then head home. School was done for the day, and his two older siblings had gone to work, at the town library and the art shop respectively. Edna was also gone to town, having taken Sia with her.
He often felt as though his life was made up of a multitude of absences.
When you had prominent people in your family who belonged as much to the world as they did to you, it was difficult for life to run in a smooth, forward motion as with other families⌠You get used to seeing them only in certain times of the year, or for a limited stretch at a time. Thus, he was left with fragmented memories, and a lonely dream.
They had been raised largely by the governess, as his parents were busy with their careers. Charlotte and Kate were the two he got along the best with. But Charlotte was out of town almost as often as his parents, and Kate had her own things to attend to at home.
In the rare times Leighanna was home, Syden and her were like two knives constantly scraping against each other to see which one leaves the deepest scar, one too intent on breaking the other to notice anyone elseâs existence.
From a young age, he used to think of Syden as, âthe yellow-haired tyrant.â Of course, he never said it to his face. He was a good brother to Sia, but failed to be there for him in the same way.
Syden made Alex feel invisible, like he was some object in the background. He even gave the maids more acknowledgement than he ever gave him. Once, when they were children, Syden had tried very hard to get him interested in swordplay, but Alex was never one for that sport, and was not able to meet his demands in a way that satisfied him. Ever since then, things had been like this between them. He believed that Syden thought him weak, never to be seen as an equal.
Though Cela helped curb the worst of his oppressive behavior whenever she was around, Alex felt that there was a chasm between himself and all the rest that grew ever wider and wider with time.
He looked back at the page he was on in his alchemy book. He wondered if within all its maze of secrets, whether there were any instructions on how to make an elixir to fill in the time gaps in oneâs mind.
But he doubted that would fuse the fragments into a cohesive whole. The luxuries inherent to their class gave him the perpetual feeling of time standing still. They had no material cares, after all. He remembered his father telling him once, âFind something youâre passionate about, and dedicate yourself to it. Idleness will kill you faster than death itself.â
Iâm trying, father, he thought to himself. And he really has been, to stay positive and focus on his practice and his studies, despite being friendless.
He set the book down and got up to go check on his brew. The purple liquid was still gurgling, but it had turned a paler color, the other ingredients now almost fully dissolved inside of it.
Wonderful. Another perfect healing potion for the body. Now if he could only find how to make one for the soul as well.
written for Flash Fiction Friday Prompt #365, event hosted by @flashfictionfridayofficial
Story: Original Work (Ao3 Link)
Rating: Teen and up
tw: reference to execution
Word count: 909
Purifying The Land
Syden stretched his feet under the table, a motion aligned with the stretching of his arms, in his attempt to wake himself up from a mildly drowsy state. It was early morning, and he was still in his night clothes.
The morning sunlight poured into the room and accented them all in a soft yellow glow as they sat around the breakfast table.
There were seven of them altogether, with the absence of his parents.
The others were engaged in their own occupations, whether it was his brother lost in his tree-shaped silver dais, or his sister talking to their cousin in a hushed voice about a personal matter. He wondered if he was the only one who was still too sleepy to do much talking. Despite appearing more alert than him, the others seemed mostly quiet in their murmuring talk.
Not so with Leighanna.
She talked loud enough for the kitchen maids to hear in the other room, had they been listening.
âDo you ever wonder what foreigners eat?â she asked no one in particular. âI do sometimes⌠but itâs probably a stupid question. Itâs difficult to imagine what goes through the minds of those savages, if they have the ability to think.â
Syden took a sip of his soup from a silver spoon. âMaybe they eat human flesh,â he ventured, looking at her evenly.
Leighanna made a face like she was disgusted.
âI am so glad we live here,â she said. âThere are finer pursuits in life for sophisticated people than dirtying their hands with other peopleâs blood, all in the name of⌠what, exactly? I see no reason to stoop so low unless you are lowborn to begin with.â
Syden looked into his soup bowl, stirring its contents silently.
âI understand killing beasts,â she went on. âBut for a man to kill another man, itâs a deplorable act. Yet, if they were to punish the killers properly, theyâd have to hang half the landâŚâ She sighed. âThey really are hopeless.â
âNot as hopeless as we are,â said Syden, finding his voice at last. Though he uttered it quietly, he could see that his sister was affected, by her disapproving and indignant glare.
âYou talk like one who has blood on their hands,â she said, staring piercingly into his eyes, arctic blue against witching green.
âMaybe I do,â he said, taking a sip of his fruit juice from its tall glass.
Leighanna laughed.
âAnd I am secretly a Princess of the realm,â she said, finally finding some humour in the room.
_
[Several years before, about a decade ago]
The King sat back in his throne, restless in his seat, feeling a discomfort he hadnât felt before.
The longer he sat, the more he felt the aches and pains in his body growing.
He dismissed it as merely a problem of needing to replace the worn cushions, and tried to focus his wandering attention back on the task before him.
There was the boy, in the center of the judgement hall, with a guard standing next to him, awaiting his decision. The boy was perhaps about fifteen, though from here, he looked rather small.
The King found himself staring long at his features. Pale skin, and raven-black hair that swept past his chin in wild streams. At first glance, the boy appeared to bear an uncanny resemblance to his lost son.
He had to stare hard to confirm that it was not, could not, be possible.
No. This boyâs eyes were a soft, chestnut brown.
âIs he one of the Order?â the King asked, addressing the guard, who held the boy up by the neck of his robe.
 âNo, Your Grace,â the man said in a rough-hewn tone devoid of feeling.
âPleaseâŚâ he heard from a far corner of the hall. It was the quavering voice of a woman, who stood shrouded in a dark robe, held back by another guard. âHave mercy on my son.â
The King took some time pouring over a scroll, reading the detailed written accounts of the conduct in question.
âI am sorry,â he said, at length, having made up his mind following his scrutiny. âBut the law is the law. As he is not an ordained Knight of the Order, his actions must be treated the same as any others of his kindâŚâ
âNo!â shouted the woman from the shadows.
âThe sentence for practicing witchcraft is death.â
At those words, the boyâs legs seemed to become weaker, and the guard had to pull him roughly back up to stand straight. There was a strangled shriek from the end of the hall.
âIs this how you intend to keep the realm clean? By washing it with the blood of the innocent??!â screamed the woman.
He did not make reply, as he had no answer to give. The dayâs work was long, and he had other matters to attend to, a large stack of complaints to go through. He could not sit here all day making idle conversation with those who could not accept their fate. Nor did he want to be remindedâŚ
He gestured for the guard to take her away, as the other guard left with the boy through another door.
There were some creatures in this world that were far more dangerous in a herd than they might be alone. That was why it was important to keep them from congregating, from forming a Covenâor worse yetâŚan army.
Still editing my piece for FFF. It's gonna be my 9th piece for Flash Fiction Friday ^_^ this has been really helping me do world building slowly, and explore characters a bit.
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written for Flash Fiction Friday Prompt #364, event hosted by @flashfictionfridayofficial
Story: Original Work (Ao3 Link)
Rating: Teen and up
Word count: 1,064
One of the Order
When oneâs lifeâs work was done in the middle of nowhere, one cannot expect anyone to know oneâs name.
That was one of the traits of his livelihood that he had accepted long ago, without knowing it.
His sword was still hot, having only just been used to impale an otherworldly beast. The mission had come to an end, and Hallon had withdrawn to a hill on which to rest. He sat by himself, awaiting his comrades to join him. They were still down in the lowlands, attending the carcass, perhaps collecting pieces of it to study or keep as tokens.
When he was a child, he had harboured the same wish as most other boys in the realm. He wanted to be a knight of the Kingdom, to gain glory and honor through victories in war. He had dreamt of coming to court after a long series of gruelling battles, helping to keep order in the realm, and being greeted with the cheers of multitudes, flower petals floating through the air.
This dayâs enemy had been a single entity, yet with the ability to destroy whole villages if it pleased. Swathed in layers of mist like a silk dress, it had been difficult to mark its features, but every once in a while, as he dodged its attacks and was brought up close during the battle, he glimpsed narrow, milky eyes and spidery black legs with shining talons at the ends. It resembled a giant, ghostly insect, its bluish-grey aura ever draping it in a nearly-impenetrable, smoky cloak. These were the most dangerous of foes, as you could not see clearly its body, nor its weapons, until it was upon you.
This one creature was capable of spreading its mist through villages, to do the job of a small army, killing most anything it touched before dawn.
From what he had been told by his Captain, the creature survived in the deep forests by spreading threads of mist like a poisoned ânetâ to incapacitate its prey so that they dropped dead or lay dying. It would then come and feed on the immobilized victim. The theory was it had once killed some humans that were camping near the woods by chance, and liked the taste, which eventually brought it into the villages in search of more of the same stock.
Its mist could creep through any crevice and crack, between the windows, and under the doors, so no amount of shuttering and barricading could stop it from affecting its victims. It had also been known for using its talons to pick locks, and its ability to effectively bore through woodâŚ
And now it was dead, thanks to them, and lay a lifeless mass under the moonlight, the blue-grey mist still clinging to its body.
Those of the Order had resistance to certain kinds of magic, but they were still mortal, and while there had been no casualties in this battle, it was not without injuries. Looking down into the valley, he could see one of his comrades wrapping anotherâs leg in bandages, and offering them a potion as they sat on the wet ground.
This was not a task that knights of the Kingâs realm would have been capable of performing, however brave they may be. It took a carefully coordinated effort of a team using both physical and magical powers to accomplish such a feat.
Those of the Order did not kill men. Perhaps that was what it took for them to know your name.
Killing monsters did not lead to glory or honors, did not grant lands or titles. Who in the wider realm would look to the trials of those at the edges of the world, when they had their own battles to fight at home?
What little recognition he had was limited to those within his military circle.
And yet, for all the blood he had on his hands, he was proud to say that none of it was human.
_
They arrived at the village late in the night.
There were no garlands, no rain of gold, no cheers pouring from balconies as they rode their horses through the dusky streets. The people were not even awake.
He looked around him, at the houses with their thatched roofs, separated by narrow alleys of dark, cobbled stones. Such a simple life these people lived, open to the elements, with not even a wall around their little civilization to separate them from the darkness that lay beyond.
An army of men would be able to cut right through it, with barely an effort. How much easier for a monster to cause devastation? To leave it all in tatters, bones littering the streets, and blood running down the cracks as on a rainy dayâŚ
Tired as they all were, he and his comrades kept erect on their horses, as their Captain led them through the winding paths towards their lodgings.
When Hallon was a child, he had heard the knightâs code. To protect the weak, to fight evil, to act with honor and courage.
He had heard of whole villages destroyed due to the quarrels of men. From the safety of his own home in the realm, he had watched the smoke go up in distant villages, flames swirling to the heavens from mountain-sized bonfires.
He thought back then that he wanted to use his powers to protect people. And that was what he had done every day since he had entered the field.
No one outside their circle might ever know his name, and he would get no favors from the King. What mattered was that these people would be waking up the next morning, and it would be because of him.
_
But he was wrong about them being asleep.
On the contrary, the villagers had been quite restless. They had heard of the deaths that had happened in neighbouring villages, and several of them were out on the streets, gathered in the village square, with torches and simple weapons. The men had been waiting for the creature in case it came there, while the women and children and the elderly stayed inside.
The village chief came forward to meet the Captain, who conveyed the news.
âTake heart, for it is dead.â
And the peopleâs collective countenances changed from one of tense watchfulness to breathless relief as they rejoiced.
for this week's @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt!
word count: 789
for context, this is all the way back when this pair of characters first met, at 7/8 years old (they're now 303/304 as of A Healing for the Birds, lmao!)
ao3 link
â
Rooks and ravens werenât known to mix.
Should they do, as they did on this fateful day, their flight paths may cross but never pass, bound for disparate destinations.
Upon the next sunrise, a raven perched on a branch overlooking a hole into the undergrowth. Gnarly roots masked the entrance to the local crow court, the rumoured home of the jackdawsâ Duke.
He watched as all manner of crows emerged from the hole. Rooks, jackdaws, magpies, a handful of hooded crows for good measure. Some cawed at him, others flying out without a word.
Another rook landed at the top of the gap, shifting into the maroon-haired girl he saw yesterday.
âWho are you?â She asked, just as he went into human form and fell backwards, raising his head to see her.
âHello!â The branch cracked, and fell, sending him to the ground with an âoof!â.
He heard her laughter as he stood up and rubbed the dirt off his legs, offering a dusty hand to her. âIâm Petrius.â
âOh, youâre the raven I saw yesterday!â She blinked in surprise, beaming. âYou may call me Claudia. Do you have time?â
âWhy wouldnât I?â He shrugged. Most days he would be under one of his brothersâ wings, off hunting with the wolves or making fabrics out of deerskin. Other times had them stealing other birdsâ eggs, despite their parentsâ orders not to do it for fear of the victim being a swan or one of those crows.
âCome along, then.â Claudia smiled, going into bird form as he did the same.
The pair flew over a litany of conifers. Mist from the morning faded upwards, settling as clouds blotting out the skyâs hues.
He wondered where they were going, as a ruin came into view. It lacked two of its four walls, the remainder forming a corner with a single slit window, an arch and a decent chunk of its middle floor hanging on.
A small stream flowed in front of it.
Claudia landed and shifted first, drifting her hand over the archway. âThis is my little alcove, I come here if I think it might rain.â
âSo you think itâs going to?â Petrius sat upon the grass, looking up at the sky and thinking it would be fine. The grass held no such droplets either.
âI donât think so.â She sat down near him. âItâs just a nice spot.â
âThen donât jinx it!â Laughter followed from the both of them, hers fading first, akin to a rookâs caws.
âSo what do ravens do?â He watched her trace her fingers into the water. Fish hopped and bounced upwards, one bouncing near enough she pulled her hand anyway.
âUh, we hunt I guess. Wander the woods, hope not to find any bad eyes.â
âBad eyes? Whatâs that about?â
âNo oneâs ever told you?â He tilted his head a slight, Claudia doing the same. She drooped the other way, and he followed, before telling her the story as his brothers told him.
âOh, how interesting, my dad never tells me such stories. He always speaks in lessons.â
âWould you like another one?â Petrius gave her a pearly white smile, as he reached his hand into the water and splashed it at her, a fish flopping onto the ground along the way.
She gasped for all the birds to hear, her arms raised out from her cloak, drenched with her hair. âI had my quills in here!â
Petrius descended into laughter, broken for a moment when he got soaked too.
Favours got exchanged and returned upon the stream, the pair splashing their afternoon away.
âHah, you missed!â He stuck his tongue out, going into raven form as to avoid another splash.
She kicked more water at him, and sat upon the grass to squeeze her hair out.
He shuddered at the clothes stuck to him. Drenched, soggy, the cold water weighing him down. Almost like the rain in a way.
âHow do we get back?â He asked, watching a mischievous grin appear on her face, tutting him.
âLike this.â She turned into a rook and shook water everywhere, spreading her wings out.
When she didnât revert just yet, he did the same, his feathers all the more lighter for it.
The flight back to the crow courtâs entrance went without remark. His heart spiked in dread and relief when they landed, though he went into human form to find he was still drenched.
âWill I get to see you again?â Petrius asked, wondering if it was a silly question.
A jackdawâs caw cut him from his thoughts.
Claudia glanced up at it too, her face alighted in alarm as she looked back to him and shrugged as if nothing happened. âSee you later.â
â
Tagging the General taglist for this: (ask/comment/reblog, etc if you'd like to be added or subtracted): @mr-orion @the-ellia-west @thereadingfoz @glassstardust22124 @honeybewrites @ashirisu @drowsy-quill @seastarblue @gioia-writes-and-others @rae-butter @corinneglass @rainbowsnowflake @fourwingedwriter @oddcryptidwrites @ark-inkweaving @bardic-tales @agirlandherquill @wyked-rebellion @oc-writing-corner @kingragnarok-writes @darkluminosity @the-narrator-plague @traderotales @lizardperson
Itâs time for extra flash fiction! We cherish these beautiful works you have written and shared with us over the past months. Please check out these amazing flash fiction pieces and show them some love! <3
If you have written an old prompt outside of its deadline and are missing from this list, please let us know and weâll add you!
The next masterlist will come October 1st!
philosophy of science by @lizardperson
Just sit and heal⌠by @1nconcievable
Send In Your Skeletons by @jack-of-crowns
The Brilliant Ones by @ark-inkweaving
Bring Her Home by @nyamadermont
Behind the Lights by @holmesianlove
how to win friends and influence people by @lizardperson
Connection by @starkraivennemad
First Battle/Mirror of Youth by @rainbowamory
early morning adoration by @lizardperson
The Best Grandma Could Give Her by @starlightswitch
fandom: original work (ocverse - sugarmommy au)
rating: m
cw: jealousy & a fight resulting from that, self-worth issues
wc: 1,017
prompt: #fff363 on thin ice for @flashfictionfridayofficial
note: the sugarmommy au continues, last seen at #fff360
---
Amir: Right, thanks. Whose terrible idea was that ungodly hour?
Fia: Yours, actually. Sorry đ
Amir: đŠ
"Who are you texting?"
I chuckle and look up from the couch, putting my phone aside. Addie leans in the door, arms crossed in front of her chest. "Amir. Just wanted to remind him of a very early appointment he has tomorrow," I answer. He's not much of a morning person.
She raises an eyebrow. "What, he has you working off the clock now?"
"Nah, it's no big deal."
Addie studies me for a moment. "You two get along well."
"Yeah," I shrug. "Definitely the best boss I ever had." Which isn't exactly a high bar, but still. I really like him as a person; we're on the same wavelength. I wouldn't call us friends, because he is my boss after all - but the lines are getting blurry, considering I'm dating his ex-wife, and they are still friends. So I guess work and private life are blending together a little by now.
She looks at me silently for another long moment, then she calmly asks, "Are you sleeping with him?"
I blink at her. "What?" That came so out of nowhere, she might as well have asked me if I can fly. That would be an equally random, ridiculous question.
"Are you?"
I stare at her, open-mouthed, still processing her words. "Am I sleeping with Amir?"
"Yes."
I'm attempting to make sense of what is happening here, and try to read her face. She doesn't look mad or anything; Addie never gets mad. It's a completely neutral facial expression - but there's this tiny line between her eyebrows she always gets when she's displeased.
I can feel the panic rise inside me, overwhelmed by this sudden mood shift. We were supposed to have a relaxed evening on the couch.
"Addie, what the hell?"
"Are you?" she repeats.
"No?! Of course not?! That's- how-," I stutter, at a loss for words. "What makes you even think that?"
She shrugs nonchalantly. "Well, you're apparently quite close, if you're texting after hours. And he is very handsome, so I can totally understand if you're attracted to him." She says this so casually, as if it wouldn't be a big deal if it were the case - which it isn't - but there's this subtle coldness swinging along in her voice that I've never heard from her before. It scares the hell out of me, and I swallow the lump in my throat. This is bad. I feel like I'm on thin ice, about to break, with no idea how to get off.
I take a deep breath, because I know freaking out will not help. "There's nothing going on between us."
"Are you sure?"
"Very."
"Because you're definitely his type, too," she continues, and by now, she sounds accusatory. "And maybe he fits better into your overall life plan. He'd be a great catch if you wanted to start a family."
Addie turns around, walking off toward the kitchen, and I scramble off the couch to follow. "Addie, what are you talking about, I don't-"
"And he's great in bed, too," she interrupts me. "Which you probably already know."
"I'm not sleeping with him!" I feel like I'm about to cry. This is so completely out of nowhere. I didn't even know she could be so jealous.
She rolls her eyes. "Oh, please."
"I'm not! Never have, never will!"
"Why not?" Addie snorts.
"Because I love you!" I blurt out, louder than I intended. We stare at each other in shock for a second, then I repeat, almost whispering, "I love you."
I didn't plan to say it, and certainly not like this. I never told her that before - I said how much I adore her, and how I'm falling for her, and how crazy I am about her. But not those words, because it seemed too early for it.
I mean it, though.
At least I managed to stop Addie's weird outburst with that, because she looks at me, equally baffled. Before I can stop myself, I quietly, desperately babble away. "I love you. I am already so madly, deeply, head-over-heels for you, and you're on my mind literally all the time, and I keep thinking how obvious and pathetic it must be, and that surely, you're going to get sick of this - of me - soon, because I basically sit there like a lovesick little puppy wagging my tail whenever I see you, and-" I take a deep breath and run a hand through my hair, trying not to cry. "I love you."
We look at each other silently for a long moment, then Addie takes a step toward me. "FiaâŚ" Her voice is so much gentler all of a sudden.
"I'm not sleeping with him," I state. How can she even think that?
She pulls me into a soft kiss, and we lean our foreheads together, eyes closed. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I don't know what has gotten into me." Another gentle kiss. "I'm sorry."
The tension inside me dissolves, and I doubt I've ever felt so relieved in my life. This sudden, out-of-nowhere fight really spooked me. I nuzzle my face into hers, inhaling her familiar scent for a second to ground myself.
"I love you too, by the way," Addie adds, stroking my cheek.
Stumped, I blink at her. "What?"
"Why do you think I'm so scared of you leaving me?"
I get lost in her eyes for a moment, trying to process her words, because it feels so unreal. It's ridiculous. She's this beautiful, charming, smart, funny, successful, amazing woman, and I am⌠me. Painfully average, never amounting to much, always drifting along. A failure.
She deserves the world. She deserves someone by her side who is just as marvelous and breathtaking and exceptional.
I have no idea how I could ever be enough for her, not even remotely. How I could ever truly be worthy of that affection she gives me.
But I sure as hell intend to try. If it kills me.
---
lizardwriting pinglist [ask/comment/dm to get on it]: @voidthing @ark-inkweaving @aalinaaaaaa @tales-from-nocturnaliss
Martian steel, I hear, is worth a fortune on Earth. Not so on Mars, where I can scale a fence made of the stuff in half a minute and not even blink as my bolt cutters snap barbed wire. Little shards flake off, and I brush them away, to let them flutter down to the regolith belowâ dust they are, and to dust they shall return.
I hop down. My canvas shoes kick up a cloud of rusty silica, and I coughâ my breatherâs cheaper than I am, and even good-quality ones are only supposed to last half a Martian year. This was the first one I bought at the spaceport, an hour after I touched down, four years ago.
Still, silicosis and perchlorate poisoning are long-term problems for people with cash in their pockets. I swallow another cough and trudge through the dust to the foundry door. Steel again. I yank it open.
This place is a crime. Shouldnât have been built, when I get potato-and-algae slop for every meal and I have to buy my own oxygen masksâ but the only thing more expensive than forging Martian steel is getting it down to Earth. And since launches are a once-a-year splurge, it just piles up here. Our dirt is rust, but our factories and warehouses are pure steel. Itâs not like itâll corrode in our carbon dioxide air.
But building barbed-wire fences and industrial facilities out of the most expensive substance known to humanity isnât a crime. You know what is a crime? Breaking and entering. My indenture has a clause about that. Oh, they canât kill me, but they âreserve the right to bar company employees from company housing for any reason, including but not limited to failure to follow company, local, or planetary laws and restrictions.â But âhomelessnessâ isnât really a thing when your atmosphere is a light dusting of CO2. You either have housing or youâre dead.
The forge went out a while ago. I start up the bellows with a touch of a button, and the pure oxygen ignites. I turn it up until I can feel the heat even through my pressure suit. Then I get to work.
My gloves are scorched and sweaty by the time Iâm through, and even in my suit, Iâm flush with the thrill of these eighteen illegal, tiny, sharpened pen nibs. I shouldnât have done it. But, for the first time in four Martian years, I feel like I did something right.
My steelworking training, the scraps in the binâ I was just putting them to good use.
Leaving the foundry is trickier than getting in. Thereâs a guard who does his rounds, and I have to be smart about waiting for his buggy to get out of sight. Hoping he doesnât catch my IR signature with his goggles, I scale the fence the way I came in and hop down.
In the centre of town, thereâs a church, attached to a canteen and a mission school. Nice place. Good if your job kicks you out on your ass and you want a last meal before your O2 runs out. The missionary who runs it, Deneb, isnât an indenture; he came here of his own accord, on his churchâs dime. Nevertheless, heâs not sanctimonious about it. He understands the urges and ugliness of humanity.
I meet him in the alley behind the church, under the window of his little bedroom. From down here, I can see the lampâs still on. He hurried downstairs to meet me. I canât help but grin.
âHere,â I say, and before he can respond, I shove the box of pen nibs into his hands. His smile is dark and gleaming in the shadows under his visor.
âThank you,â he says in amazement, running his gloved hands over the box before opening it up. âThe kids will love these. Theyâve been begging me for more art supplies for weeks. How did you get them?â
âMade them myself,â I boast. âTheyâre Martian steel.â
âThatâs expensive,â Deneb marvels. âYou really bought the ore and everything? For this?â
âDidnât have to. The shop has piles of scrap.â
Denebâs adorable smile disappears. âSo you stole it.â
I scowl. âItâs not stealing if Iâm donating these to charity. Isnât it you whoâs always telling me to do whatâs right?â
âI canât accept them if theyâre stolen. You know that.â
This is where he draws the line? âLook,â I say, âMars has stolen my money and my lungs, and pretty soon itâll probably take my life too. Iâll take what I want from the foundry, damn it.â
Deneb flinches. âYou shouldnât have done it,â he says coldly, and he holds the box out to me.
âYeah,â I say, and itâs a hoarse, betrayed growl. âI shouldnât have. But I did.â I turn on my heel, leaving the box in his outstretched hands. âDonât bother telling the kids hello for me.â
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written for Flash Fiction Friday Prompt #363, event hosted by @flashfictionfridayofficial
Story: Original Work (Ao3 Link)
Rating: Teen and up
Word count: 728
Reserve Spawn
The girl held the bowl of water in her hands as carefully as cradling a pet. She knew she mustnât spill any of it, or her step mother would be upset. The lady of the house was never one to exhibit the nicest temperament, despite her well-bred manners which she generously displayed to all the minor lords and their ladies during gatherings.
There had not been many gatherings since the death of her Lord father. The Falcon family had barely cast off the black when another dark cloud descended on their household.
Recently, all life in the house had become concentrated around one wing of their spacious manor. It was the location of the room where her older brother lay in his sickbed.
âWhat are you lingering for? Bring the water,â said the woman sitting at the edge of the bed, spitting the order out like venom. She looked bedraggled and ill herself. She was dressed in a fine green dress that hugged her tall frame, which still held itself up with tree-like strength, though her bloodshot eyes and wrinkled forehead told a different story.
Mierra stepped out from the corner where she had been standing in the dim recess, lingering at the top of the steps to the bed chamber.
She walked over silently, and placed the wooden bowl of warm water on the bedside table, noticing the odd instruments laid out on top of it on a white cloth, including some blood-stained rags which she couldnât bear to look at.
Her brotherâs face was barely visible in the low lighting of the room, head sunken into the pillow in a deathlike slumber. Still, she could see he looked a clammy white beneath the curly, dark locks that partially obscured his face.   Â
A physician had been called. He was sitting on the other side of the room, keeping his tone low, and talking to her aunt, who sat on a seat beside him. It seemed he was preparing some leeches for an impending treatment. Her aunt looked to be better groomed than her step-mother. Yet there was nothing hopeful about their countenances.
âHow is Dane today?â Mierra ventured to ask, timidly.
Lady Falcon appeared not to acknowledge her at first. She was looking at her hands, caressing the jeweled rings on her long, elegant fingers, freckled lightly with age.
âHeâll live another day,â said the older woman, in a bitter but pensive tone. âYou can save your black for another occasion.â
Mierra did not like the way she spoke to her, as though she would be disappointed if her brother lived. He was her brother, her last living blood-family. She cared for him as much as she had cared for all of her other half brothers and sisters who had passed away.
She was only 13 years old, but she had heard the talk in the Great Hall when the lords of the minor houses came to pay homage to their liege. They had held a council, and examined Lord Falconâs will, which stated that his estate is to go to his son, and in the event of his sonâs demise, Mierra was to become the heir.
She had stood before the mirror in her small room many a day since childhood, combing her soft brown curls and wondering what it would be like to be a Lady. What good was there in being a bastard, if it meant being only a few steps above a scullery maid?
But she loved her brothers and sisters, and wished them no harm. It hurt her more than she could express to see the last of them fading away like a strangled rose.
They were a sickly lot from the start. Watching them die was like watching rotten fruits drop from a tree one by one, leaving only a single (and barely ripe one at that) whole.
Her stepmother never loved her. There was no telling what she might do if her son lived to become the new Lord, now that her father was no longer there to defend her rights.
The lords wanted a male heir, to lead them as their ancestors had.
It seemed everyone was waiting on a verdict, which only the gods could bestow. If she had only one certainty, it was as she always believedâthat her fate would be decided in the sick chamber.
this is from the world of the infrequently-mentioned Ambition is a Lonely Tower. Q is one of those characters whose pronouns and identity i have struggled with for a while. i just found out that Q does not use pronouns, which makes a lot of sense in hindsight
cw: reference to animal carcasses/bones/teeth
The caret blinks, a violet eye peering through a slit in the black. Impatient. Expectant. Q blinks back. This was supposed to be normal by now. Instinctual. A thousand excuses at Q's disposal. No transportation; nothing to wear. Prior plans; out of budget. Q's seen them all, read them all. Sitcoms and harlequins, threads and blogs. Saying 'no' without having to actually say it. Telling her that Q can't give her what she wants, without accidentally telling her to leave. It's like she sees right through it, right through Q. Every excuse has a response, every problem a solution. She has a car; she can pick Q up, or they can meet halfway. She needs new clothes, too; they could go thrifting. She can be flexible; when is Q next free? They don't have to spend money; they could have a picnic, or go back to her apartment and have coffee and talk like people, like friends and Q wants it, wants it so badly it hurts, so badly that Q would fly screaming into the blazing heart of her horrid yellow sun just to make it stop. No. This shouldn't be wanted, shouldn't be done. What she's offeringâinteraction, association, connectionâcan only end badly. For Q. For her. The caret blinks. Q taps the edge of the keyboard with one fingertip, the tikka-tik-tak as thin and sharp as bone, as teeth. The ones with teeth are her favorites. The first piece of Qâs pieces that sheâd seen wasnât on Qâs blog, but on a strangerâs Substack. It was one of the early onesâbefore Q had learned to clean them up, before Q had learned that humans sometimes walk around in the woods for fun. Itâd featured a full set of opossum teeth, complete in number if not in type. The scene Q had made in the leaves and stones and twigs had not, of course, been an opossum. But the teethâthe way they studded the muddy sky and fell upon the thin-stretched body Q had patched together from leaves and broken glassâhad struck her. Sheâd never seen a piece of art like that before. Sheâd never seen art that felt lonely. These things don't end well, no. But she's different. She doesn't know that Q's throat and tongue refuse to form English phonemes, no matter how hard they try, but she does know that Q uses a tablet to speak. She knows about Qâs aversion to crowded places, to socialization. Maybe they could go straight to her place, like she suggested. Maybe Q could wear the long, baggy coat Q found in the clothing donation box by the gas station, find a way to cover Q's feet, obscure the shape of Q's legs. Beanies are normal, even if they mash Q's ears flat; masks are normal, even if they don't stay up on Q's nose. Maybe no one would notice. If Q could just move quickly, keep Q's arms tucked in, patagium folded, be smallâ But she would notice. Even if the rest of the world couldn't be bothered to notice Q, she would. She did. And if she sees Qâactually sees? No one's that different. The caret blinks. That familiar electricityâterror, frigid and rawârips down Q's spine. Q could lose her. Lose everything. Or. Or Q could see herâwithout the automatic touch-ups and the cat-ear filters. The woman who feels alone in a crowded room, who always seems to miss the cues everyone else knows by heart. Maybe they could learn the steps togetherâor at least be there to catch the other when they fall. As though Q's ever been able to catch someone. As though Q's ever been the one to protect something, rather than break it. The caret blinks. Q draws in a deep, slow breath, folds Q's wings, angles Q's wrists to the keyboard. This is selfish. Futile. Long overdue. Q begins to type.
written for Flash Fiction Friday Prompt #362, event hosted by @flashfictionfridayofficial
Story: Original Work (Ao3 Link)
Content warning: Reference to gore
Rating: Teen and up
Word count: 961
Just Talk
Weâre just performers, thought Crow. Why do we need military training? Weapons to them were only meant to be stage props, were they not?What was Isen thinking?
The young man was seated at the center of the stage, on a makeshift throne decorated with snakeskin cloth and animal skulls. There was also a human skull on the floor beside his dark boots. How he came by it, Crow wasnât quite sure. Like himself, the young man was dressed all in black. His coat front was sparsely covered with decorative badges. His long sleeves were shredded at the cuffs, and his pants ripped in some places, not due to wear, but in a manner of style. He wore a leather belt set with jagged spikes, and a necklace with a little silver skull hanging from it. His hair was long, sweeping past his slim shoulders; it kept falling forward in front of his eyes, obscuring his pale face, which made it difficult to tell his mood by his countenance, as any expression he made was largely hidden behind the black curtain. Â
As he looked around the theatre, Crow could see the lineup of people stretching to the back of the room. There werenât that many, but it was nonetheless a sizeable group.
Earlier that month, he had been out on the town putting out notices and posters, which Isen had filled with words and phrases targeted at attracting a certain kind of individual. They were largely designed by hand, with the help of a few friends, and were decorated with ghoulish images of ghosts and skeletons, dismembered limbs, and other dreary things which were sure to offend the delicate sensibilities of their wider community. Crow had even gone so far as to put some of them up on the outer walls of some temples, uncomfortably aware that this was a thing many people would consider to be crossing a line.
Glancing around at the people assembled there that day, he could see that their campaigning had succeeded in bringing together misfits and rebels of all kinds. The question was, which of them were suitable to join their band?
He glanced over at Isen, watching him assessing them, with his elbows propped on the arm rests, hands on his chin, head in an alert position, and eyes likely staring intensely at each applicant in turn, sizing them up, assessing their worthiness.
One man had come forward, dressed in a mossy-green cloak clasped by a crimson flower brooch, his gristly brown hair flowing down over his wide shoulders. He stood confidently before the macabre throne, looking upwards as his host examined him.
âYouâve told me what you can bring to the stage,â said Isen, âNow tell me, how would you define the traits of knighthood? What kind of knight would you be?â
The others stood far enough away that they were not able to eavesdrop. Only Crow was close enough in proximity to hear the conversation.
The man in the green coat cleared his throat and spoke, in a smooth, confident tone.
âThe traits of knighthood are high valor, and the desire to do good for the people. As a knight, I would provide a light in the darkness, and be a savior to those who are powerless. I would fight against evil, and live my life in accordance with the will of the gods⌠I wouldââ
âThat enough,â Isen interrupted. He tossed his hair out of the way, and Crow could see one side of his smiling face, as he shook his head. âI believe you misunderstood our appeal. Did you think we were recruiting for the kingâs guard? Over here, weâre more likely to serve the devil than to serve god. Actually, we donât serve anyone, but we do the devilâs work nonetheless. In our band, the mask you wear on stage cannot be vastly different from who you are at heart.â
He scoffed, ignoring the other manâs incredulous face drop, and waved his hand before him. âDismissed.â
Crow couldnât help but wonder too, as the man finally got the message and walked off towards an exit, his gait dazed and bewildered.
Why was he asking about knighthood, and weapons? Crow himself loved to collect them as much as any of the other boys, but they were performers, not warriors. The weapons they kept were more for show and decoration, and were sometimes used as stage props, not meant for actual combat.
This was not what Crow had expected when he helped him set up an audience chamber. They were looking for a new lineup for a theatre act. Since when did it begin proceeding like a call to arms?
It was one thing to boast of breaking boundaries. It helped the image, gave them character, and that was vital to stand out among other, similar acts. But there were times such as this that Crow wasnât sure if it was all just talk.
If his friend wanted to make it real, it meant crossing a line, using their magic in a way that would go far beyond enticing and repelling the sheep of the world through an infernal illusion.
One time, another friend had asked Isen if he was looking to make an army, or a troupe of traveling entertainers. And Isen had replied, with a curious smile, âWhy not a little bit of both?â
Watching him and listening to him make one rejection after another with casual confidence, one could not help but wonder whether one was worthy enough to be accepted, and if so, how on earth had he, Crow, passed that assessment which others could not seem to comprehend? Had standards remained unchanged since their beginning, or was Isen looking for something even darker this time? Â
written for Flash Fiction Friday Prompt #361, event hosted by @flashfictionfridayofficial
Story: Original Work (Ao3 Link)
Tags: LGBT, Transgender, Trans Male Character, Queer Themes
Rating: Teen and up
Word count: 998
Flowers in the Countryside
Trigg stood before the mirror altogether longer than he was ever in the habit of doing. He had taken extra care in his grooming on that day, having scrubbed his body of any dirt and grime from the morningâs fieldwork, and washed his hair until the dense, black curls were soft as a lambâs coat.
His outfit was a simple shirt with brown vest, and matching pants and belt. The shirt was a little off-white, but it was the best he had, and as spotless as he could make it on that day.
In their recent meeting, Sherice had expressed such enthusiasm for the countryside that he was persuaded to offer her a tour. As he didnât have many other entertainments available, this was one way to repay her for her kindness in providing him wood at an affordable cost, as well as a brand-new axe free of charge.
He didnât know why he felt so flustered at the thought of spending an afternoon with a girl who was little more than an acquaintance. He did not often have guests over.
The barking of the dog in the yard let him know that she was here, and Trigg tore himself away from his wandering thoughts, rushing to put on his boots so he could meet her outside.
His mother was asleep in one of the rooms. He didnât think it was necessary to bother her, so he stepped out quietly.
_
Sherice looked lovely in her canary-colored dress and wavy blond locks. Yellow seemed to be her color.
He met her at the wooden gate, where they began their walk on foot.
They passed pastures where sheep and cows could be seen grazing, heads bowed to their task, and taking no notice of them as they passed by, eventually making it to some rolling grasslands, dotted by clumps of trees. The air was filled with the smells of damp earth, late-blooming flowers, and autumn.
It had been raining all the week before, and the ground was still full of mud puddles. Trigg offered his hand to help Sherice navigate the wet spots, so that she would not get the hem of her dress dirty, or strike her delicate shoes on a hard stone.
As he touched her hand, Trigg paused to observe how their different skin colors contrasted: rich brown on creamy, lily-white.
When Sherice asked about his family, he was compelled to break his silence. He told her that his father and older brother had both died in battle, and it was just him and his mother now, who he was taking care of as she was ill. He talked briefly about their bad-tempered neighbour, who had plans to make an alliance through offer of marriage which Trigg had rejected years ago, and which the old man still held a grudge about.
Sherice listened with gentle sympathy, and shared about her own life, in such a carefree manner that it surprised Trigg.
It turned out that she was an orphan in her own way. Her mother had passed long ago, and her father more recently, after an illness, leaving only her and her older brother to manage their estate. They werenât poor, but they were not so wealthy as to afford not to work. She mentioned that the woodblocks were actually prepared by her older brother, while the design and craft of the âspecialâ wooden appendages were credited to herself, in addition to managing the shop and making it a pleasant place for people to come.
She spoke of the types of customers they served, and how her brother was supportive of her preferences. She had been engaged to a young man who had perished in a sailing accident, the engagement being an arrangement made by her father. Following their fatherâs death, her brother never forced her to accept any other suitor that came her way.
Then her expression changed to something of gloom, if it were possible on such an angelic face.
On hinting of the types of people that had frequented her shop in the past, she mentioned the Kingâs court, and rumours she had heard of people being put in dungeons and tortured for loving others of the same sex out in the open. Trigg wasnât sure how to respond, so he continued listening in silence.
All this talk of dark things could not tarnish the girlâs spirit. She carried on with the same spring in her step, then stopped suddenly and pointed at a cluster of light-purple flowers growing between some trees at the edges of the field. As they approached close, she explained how those were usually torn from the ground, being a different color from the usual rose shade that was typical for that flower, and therefore interpreted as bringing bad luck. She said she prefers that color, and seemed to stare at it in a lingering way as they passed it by.
_
They worked their way through the craggy fields, to an area that was muddier than usual. Trigg was about to turn around from here, when he noticed something in the ground.
âWatch your step,â he told Sherice, stopping her just in time as she was about to step over some stones. He bent down in front of her feet and scooped up what looked like a rock covered in mud.
They found a nearby stream, where Trigg washed it clean, revealing it to be a little turtle.
Sherice was delighted to see the creature wigging around in its speckled shell. Trigg offered it to her as a present, which she accepted happily.
The event marked the end of their journey, as Trigg felt it was a good time to head back.
As they parted ways by the wooden gate, Sherice holding the turtle wrapped in her handkerchief, expressing gratitude for the walk, her face slightly flushed with an emotion Trigg couldnât quite place, he just knew this wouldnât be the last time he would be seeing her.
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written for Flash Fiction Friday Prompt #360, event hosted by @flashfictionfridayofficial
Story: Original Work (Ao3 Link)
Content Warnings: Context is a larger original story that contains consensual incest between cousins. The below piece is a SFW character study of one of them.
Rating: Teen and up
Word count: 815
Not of This World
Syden set aside the charcoal piece he had been drawing with, and took a moment to shake out his parchment paper, watching the loose, ashen flakes fall to the ground, before setting it back on the desk and continuing. He was sitting at his desk facing the windows, the dark curtains open to the storm. Despite the raging weather outside, inside his room it was strangely calm.
Charcoal sticks and ink pens were his two favourite tools to work with.
Making sketches was his regular hobby, and, on a rainy, downcast day such as this, it was often his activity of choice to pass the time.
Back at the art shop, where he worked a few days a week, he had been advised to watch what he drew in order to avoid offending the refined sensibilities of ânormalâ people. Sometimes he wondered why he tolerated the censorship (it was not as if he needed the money that badly).
Perhaps it was because it gave him a break between other, more physically strenuous activities. He needed something to do in the lazy evenings between school days, lest he die of boredom in their quiet woodland home, and their suffocatingly decorous small town.
Whatever was the reason, it was when he was alone that he created his best work. It was when he was alone that he could truly express his ideas without restraint, really let go, and take a deep dive into his true heart and soul.
Evil winged spirits, horned black wolves, skulls and black demons were some of the beings that emerged from his pen as through the gates of hell. He loved the dark things. He was every bit as guilty of drawing violence, and gore, as the concerned mothers at the art shop accused him of. He liked to tell little stories sometimes, through drawings, and write dark lyrics to accompany the visuals.
_
He had always been different. But somewhere along the way, it so happened that he had experienced something that changed the way he saw himself and the world.
He didnât know what else to call it but a kind of⌠âawakeningâ.
It didnât come all at once. It snuck up on him in little ways.
First it was the visions that he saw through the glass, that no one else could see. Then it happened on its own, without contact with external objects.
And when the powers were unlocked, other veils opened too. He saw glimpses of visions, indistinguishable in their vividness from real memories. And he knew, as instinctively as one knew how to breathe, that these werenât just dreams.
It opened his mind to the idea that their world was not the only one, that there existed other dimensions beyond what the eye could see, and with them, other ways of being.
_
The few people he had told had listened like as to any other person recounting strange dreams. Most did not believe they could be more than that.
He heard thunder outside his window, and looked up to see a rain-splattered pane. The color of the outer world reflected the gloomy mood of his inky outlines. In the near distance, the wind tossed the dark masses of the tall forest trees like it was shaking whole masses of people.
He began lightly shading his sketch. He didnât like to overdo it. Though he was capable of producing more refined lines, when he drew for himself, the rough look was his preference. The black lines were of an elegant and simple beauty, made up of flourishes of jagged vines, or strokes of serrated shadows.
These drawings had sharp teeth and claws, that would sink into the souls that beheld them, leaving marks on their minds. Just how he would have it.
_
He always thought, that if he could find others like him, he wouldnât feel so alone.
But of all those he associated with thus far in life, he did not yet feel he had found that level of understanding. They just couldnât see what he saw. It was beyond their grasp, and existed outside their range of sight entirely.
He had no choice but to accept his isolation in this matter. And that meant he spent a lot of time in his head, thinking, and dreaming.
He used to believe he was human, like anyone else, but after all that, when once heâd had that glimpse beyond the veil, he saw that was an illusion. He felt he was a spirit from another place, a being not of this world, believed it wholeheartedly, despite any argument imposed by skeptics.
Yes, he needed his private time, for he wasnât always present in spirit, though he was physically present for all to see. Yes, he spent a lot of time in his head. How else could one reconcile the reality of living in two worlds?
Fandom: Original Work
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
CW: Cousin Incest (Consensual), (this piece does not contain sexual content), Established Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Use, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comship
Word count: 6,259
Summary:
This piece was written for SpringCest 2026 event by @macrocest. I chose the Blue horror Bingo Card, Middle Row: Itâs all in your head | Haunted by their victims | Holy water.
This piece is heavily inspired by the music video and song â âUnder the Graveyardâ by Ozzy Osbourne. I was deeply moved by it when I first saw it because it had a âgood girl/evil guyâ vibe and showed unconditional love, which is what Iâm into. I always wanted to write a scene that followed the structure of that music video but adapted to an event that may happen in my story.
