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a writer, perchance
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a writer, perchance
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An abstract teal crown shape on black, half photo-half painterly. Text overtop reads 'Space Writes' in a large, fantasy-style font. Underneath is smaller text reading 'a writeblr (re)intro' in an italic serif font.ALT

hello (again) writeblr! i decided to make a new intro that has all my current wips on it, since i have way more than when i first started out on here.

about me

  • I go by space, my pronouns are they/them, and I’m in my third decade of existence, which is absolutely wild. I’ve been writing for most of it, so I like to think I’m pretty decent
  • I write mostly fantasy and erotica (sometimes at the same time), both original and fanfiction, and all of it’s queer
  • You can find my work on my AO3 here, crossposted to my neocities here, and under my snippets tag
  • I’m open to tag and ask games, and my inbox is currently open to anything as well. I don’t always reply the fastest, but I’ll get to it eventually! (I don’t take part in chain asks, so please don’t send me them)
  • I use obsidian.md for all my writing, and it’s my favourite notes app ever, so I also talk about that occasionally. The tag for it is here.
  • my main goal is to actually finish some damn books and also to inflict my OC brainrot upon people. so far the second one is the only thing that’s actually happened, but i live in hope
  • My current wips are Chronicles of Valloroth (Crowned Prince being book one), Obedience, Obsession, and claws—summaries and links for all four are under the cut!
  • this is my writing sideblog, you can find my main @thespacelizard, and i follow/like from there
  • tag directory is here

Keep reading

Beta Call! The Tower of Briars. A gothic fairy tale novella.  The background of the post is a close-up of an oil painting or a pink rose and a butterfly. The paint is visibly old and cracked.ALT
The Tower of Briars  For years, Vetiver has watched over his sleeping twin sister, Vester, in the Tower of Briars. Her enchanted slumber can only be broken by true love’s kiss but, for all his trying, Vetiver’s affections aren’t enough.  Then true love arrives, and Vester wakes up—and everything falls apart.  Sleeping Beauty meets Crimson Peak  A queer gothic fairytale about overly intimate, cursed twins in a crumbling tower in the middle of the woods, and the unfortunate man drawn into their world. Contains strange magic, too many butterflies, and something decidedly rotten in the cellar...  The background of the post is a close up of an oil painting of a pink rose and a butterly. The paint is visibly cracked and old.ALT

Beta Call!

I have finished a decent draft of a new gothic novella, and I'm looking to get some fresh eyes on it before I lock in with detail editing.

The Tower of Briars is a gothic fairytale in the form of a 17.5k novella. I'm looking for general story feedback, though if you are knowledgeable about (very loosely) 1840s England, I would love any extra help improving those aspects.

I'm hoping to have the book out in October, so I'd like to get feedback in by mid-August, to give me time to fix and edit things.

Content warnings for standard gothic elements (death, narrative dooming, incest) apply. This is a work of Romantic Horror.

Anyway, if you're interested, leave a comment or DM me!

ID - Banner text reads: Day 5 - Unethical Experimentation. All in Parts & Pieces. space-writes unwholesome oc week 2026. Banner background is a macro shot of a pupil, black on red, thin veins fanning out of the iris in an unsettling manner.ALT

all in parts and pieces

Forgotten Realms | M | Wordcount 1637

Tags: Unethical Experimentation, Necromancy, Torture, Magical Surgery, Amputation, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Summary:

When the love of your life and greatest obsession is dead, what is there to do but try to rebuild him?

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The male strapped to the table is a pretty young thing with the wrong coloured eyes. They dart around the laboratory in fretful anguish, leaping from Vizaeth to the workbenches to the door, and if they were the right colour, Vizaeth would resent such excessive rolling, but they’re not, so it doesn’t matter. The arms and legs are what he wants from this one—the rest is so much offal.

On the workbenches—two great slabs repurposed from a grand zurkhwood dining table—his project lies beneath carefully crafted stasis fields, the complex spellwork a weaving of necromancy gleaned from the Thayan tomes lining the shelves he hauled up from the lower levels. The stalactite’s previous owners saw fit to keep their library at the narrow tip of their hanging estate; Vizaeth prefers to work nearer the top. As far from the city as he can get without leaving it.

“Please don’t please no let me go please please let me go—”

The male is babbling. Vizaeth tunes it out. It all gets to be the same after a while. The same words, the same rhythm. He’d savoured it at first, the luxury of being begged, instead of being the one begging. Now it’s just irritating.

“You’re pathetic,” he rasps over his shoulder as he lowers the stasis fields in preparation for today’s work. “You’ve hardly suffered at all, yet you’re whining like a child. You’re Menzoberranyr. Have some self-respect.”

Keep Reading: AO3 / Neocities / Dreamwidth

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“It's not fair.” The little ghost kicks impotently at the chalk lines around her feet. “I ain't done nothing.”

I nod, setting down my chalk and spellbook. “It does sound like there might have been a bit of a misunderstanding.”

“She took against me, that's what happened,” the dead girl says with a scowl. She looks about fourteen, round faced and spotty, with whisps of brown hair peaking out from under her mob-cap. Her face and her crossed arms have a tell-tale bluish tinge to them. A cholera death.

“I been here for don't know how long and never gave any trouble. Nobody ever complained about me 'till her.”

…well, that's not strictly true.

Number 12, Barclay Street has been attracting rumours of haunting since the mid nineteenth century.

Sounds of faint singing and crying in the corridors at night. Cold spots. Doors that open and close by themselves. Animals acting strangely. Harmless, mid to low-level stuff, typical for a bored teenage poltergeist.

Still, pointing that out isn't likely to achieve much, and certainly the most recent complaints of blood running down the walls, screams in the dark and paralysing night terrors seem distinctly out of character.

The ghost toes the chalk again, more tentatively this time. It stays resolutely unbroken.

She could get out if she wanted to. I'm not one of those assholes who brings out their full arsenal of wards and sigils for a first meeting with a level 2 spectre. The summoning circle will keep her in one place for as long as I need her to talk, but it wouldn't hold for a moment if she really fought against it.

I take it as a good sign that she's still here. Pouting or not, she's clearly willing to work with me.

“None of the others could do this,” she says. “None of 'em even saw me.” She looks up. “Are you here to exise me?”

“Exorcise,” I say instinctively, and curse myself when she flinches. “Sorry, no, no! I don't exorcise people from their homes without good reason, not if they're happy where they are.”

“I was happy. Till she started calling in all them ghost hunters.”

Mrs Delaney had been quite persistent in her attempts to 'fix' her haunted house. Most of the people she found were charlatans, of course, but I'd still arranged an appointment as fast as I could once word reached me. It wouldn't have been long before she happened upon somebody with Talent, and unfortunately not everybody in this field knows how to behave like a professional.

“I think we might be able to help each other,” I say, careful to keep my voice calm and level.

“Don't see how. Not unless you can exorcise Her.”

“Not quite what I had in mind.” I pull out my phone and scroll through my photos. “You say that you're not the cause of the most recent incidents of paranormal activity?”

A pause. The ghost gnaws on her lip. I wait, patiently, keeping my body language open and nonthreatening. “I… I knocked her coffee cup over,” she admits at last. “She was being mean and talking on her telephone, saying I done all these things when I never did! So I decided to show her what I could do if I wanted.”

“Hmm.” The ghost eyes me nervously, as if expecting me to pull out a book, bell and candle and banish her on the spot.

“I only tipped it,” she adds. “I didn't break it or nothing!”

“You shouldn't have touched it at all,” I say sternly. “But… I can appreciate that you were frustrated, so let's say no more about it.”

The ghost looks relieved.

“My point is,” I continue, “if you weren't the one making blood rain from the ceiling or tormenting people in their sleep, then what was? There's no other ghosts on the property.” I find the picture I was looking for. “You can get anywhere around the house, right? Including behind the furniture and in the backs of cupboards?”

“Yes'm.”

I hold the phone up so that she can see the picture on the screen. “I'm going to let you go free in a moment, and I need you to see if you can find anything that looks like this.”

The ghost wrinkles her forehead. “What's that when it's at home?”

“Black mould,” I say, reaching out a foot to break the binding circle. “And I'm pretty sure it's the cause of this haunting.”

Last line tag

Thanks for this one, @writingrosesonneptune!! Here's the last line I wrote last night...

“The Lord understands,” Bridget said drolly. “We’re not getting paid to staff His place of residence.”

I'll pass on the tag to @talesofsorrowandofruin @writingamongther0ses @reneesbooks @revenantlore @indecentpause @writeouswriter and anyone else who'd like to share something recent!

✍🏼 Heads up seven(ish) up

Thanks to @thegreatobsesso for the tag!

📝 Share seven lines from your story

These are from Miles From Morning...

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“Hey, man, are you home? I’d been trying to get hold of you, then someone in your section said you were in solitary but they didn’t know how long for. I didn’t want to keep trying to call and leave you with a million messages when you got out, but holy shit. Are you doing OK?”

No. I’m falling apart and I’m dying inside. I’m ten different people at once and they all hate each other. “Yeah, I’m home. I’m all right.”

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Tagging @sakugraphia, @savvyminnow, @sergeantnarwhalwrites and @shay-the-maker if you'd like to do it, with an open tag for anyone else who wants to share seven lines from their story 💜

Reblogs, replies etc on my tag posts are always welcome, but if you're doing this tag yourself, please make your own post instead of using mine to start a reblog chain.

Want more of my writing than I post on Tumblr, with all my stories, blog posts, updates, and audio readings? Head on over to my Patreon! There's a free membership option and I'd love to welcome you to my cosy little queer fiction community 💞

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Elven ambassador Kitarai Starflower has come to the orcish town of Kudri to finish negotiating a trade agreement with their leader, Maazen Vyal. The discussion gets exactly as messy and intimate as she hoped it would.

This story contains the following elements: Gangbang, Size Difference, Size Queen/Size Kink, Vaginal Sex, Oral Sex, Deepthroating, Creampie, Belly Bulge

3.7k of tiny elf x big, fat, sexy orcs. F/M & F/F (some of the women have cocks some of the men have cunts)

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I liked my elf/orc story so much i decided to make it a Proper Book! (mostly because i wanted to make a fun cover: and this was one of the most fun covers i've made so far)

Free/PWYW version (itch.io) | $1 version (payhip)

Want to read it first? AO3 | Author Site

Ask me anything

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