a.l. thorne, they/them, writer of queer fantasy and erotica, both fanfic and original-flavour. follows from @thespacelizard. tag & ask game friendly! this blog mostly runs on a queue. (banner art by @rukafais)
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
Forgotten Realms | E | Vizaeth/Zeth'rinn | Wordcount 1565
Tags: Hurt No Comfort, Transphobia, Bad Sex, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, not so much a hookup as a hatecrime, the transphobia is coming from inside the house, Grief, Angst, Coughing Up Blood, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
Summary:
Pharaun is dead, Vizaeth is miserable, and Zeth’rinn is a pretty, drunk distraction from grief and the taste of blood.
[ID - a decorative divider]
Memory, or perhaps instinct, guides Vizaeth’s exhausted steps as he stumbles into the tavern with the taste of Pharaun’s flesh on the back of his tongue. Lost months ago he was brought here as a gift, a thing of beauty and an object of pleasure, granted a public affection—now he’s alone with a stomach full of mangled innards and traces of the Demonwebs clinging to his skin.
Vizaeth finds the same seat he claimed when Pharaun led him here and collapses into it. Red mist coils faintly from his arms, full of ghostly spiders. His hair hangs lank and bloody around his face, and he tucks a tangle of strands behind his ear with a shaking hand. A clot of gore catches under his nails. He flicks it to the floor.
“You look like you’ve had a worse day than me,” a voice beside him slurs. “Fancy a drink?”
It’s a young male. Hair shaved into webs on the sides, dark makeup smeared over eyes and lips, an outfit that speaks of expense and taste gone spiralling down the drain over the course of the evening. He’s pretty. He’s paying.
A wild magic sorceress born to a house of wizards, unwanted and disdained, until her pain brings her into Lolth’s embrace.
[ID - a decorative divider]
The magic that blooms with her adolescence is unwelcome in the House of T’sonri. Untrained, unpredictable, unsightly—burnt hands, broken plates, shattered windows. Mother snaps out careless girl! and thoughtless child!; sisters sneer useless and talentless and disgrace behind Arcanum-trained hands.
And Zeerith—magicless, forgotten Zeerith—salves her burns and repairs the plates and sweeps up the glass without a word. He has nothing, what she has isn’t worth having, and so together they are less than any T’sonri should be.
If she’d been the eldest, maybe it wouldn’t have mattered.
She is not the eldest. She could have been, had fate twisted in her favour, but why would it? She’s never had any accommodations. T’sonris don’t need accommodations.
Tags: Trans-masc familiar/Cis woman witch, Magical Genital Alteration, Dom/sub, Dom Bottom/sub top, Femdom, Dirty Talk, Leash, Vaginal sex
Summary:
In which Thistle’s witch bestows a new set of equipment on him.
Written for Kinktober 2025, for the prompt ‘Dom Bottom/Sub Top’
[ID - a purple decorative divider]
To gain a magical core, Thistle had pledged himself in service for a year and a day to a witch called Amaranthe. In exchange for doing her bidding, she would, at the end of his term as her familiar—as such an arrangement made him—open his heart and place a sliver of her magic inside it. Such a gift would make him a witch in his own right—and quite a powerful one too, he hoped, since Amaranthe had a reputation best described as a natural disaster waiting to happen.
He’d expected his year and a day to be hard work. To be scrubbing floors and pulling weeds, hanging laundry and harvesting herbs; all the things he’d grown sick of doing at home, their mundanity given sparkling new purpose by the reward they promised.
So far, whilst his stint as a familiar had indeed involved those things, it had also involved a good deal more unusual services than he’d ever anticipated providing.
Thanks for the tag, @diphthongsfordays!! My word today is STRONG and I'll go hunting through Necromancer WIP as I'm moving some excerpts I wrote by hand into the document right now...
S. She looks rather nice too and would perhaps win some of Camille’s many admirers if she wouldn’t devote so many facial muscles to frowning.
T. They met on a battlefield, and indeed it sometimes seems they never left.
R. Rather than settle down, Nikolaos stays sitting beside Quintus silently. Miriam hesitates, unsure if she wants to leave them alone.
O. One’s trills reach a higher volume, and the prince’s mother flinches, her mouth tightening disapprovingly.
N. “None of this is Camille’s fault,” Andromeda hisses heatedly. “And punishing her isn’t going to bring Nikolaos back or make the two of you feel any better.”
G. “Good,” Quintus says, his eyes still shut tightly, his face pinched, as though his head hurts him. “That’s good.”
It feels like forever since I've done one of these, hooray!! :) Thanks for the tag, @memento-morri-writes. (and no, this is not the tag from yesterday, this one is much older and i'm sorry) I'm looking for knock, snow, control, and old, in my necromancer WIP <3
Knock:
Roslyn stretches across the table to reach the butter, and Nikolaos hands it to her without waiting for her to ask, or worse, knock something over. The little one tugs on his arm and whispers in his ear, and he pours more milk into her tin cup.
Snow:
Quintus smiles. He’s like a being of the landscape in the low, harsh light of the moon on the snow – hair black as the sky, smile as bright and gleaming as their icy surroundings.
“Of course, you’re taking his side,” he says.
“He’s already dead,” Nikolaos says, and thinks, lucky bastard. “Leave him alone.”
Control:
They are talking about it again. Miriam calculates her losses and her victories, and carefully says, “How badly does it hurt?”
Quintus says nothing, but his entire face screws up as though he can’t control it anymore. He looks miserable.
Miriam can’t help it. “Oh, Quintus,” she says under her breath.
He does not tell her to mind her own business. He does not tell her to keep her pity. He does not move.
Old:
“You are a curious woman.”
Miriam scrunches into a ball, slides her feet from the blanket. The morning air is cool to the touch, and her skin prickles. “And you are a subject of great mystery,” she replies. “Let’s cease with stating the obvious.”
“The mystery grows old after a while.” Nikolaos rolls to his feet, graceful even first thing in the morning.
Thanks so much for this tag, @diphthongsfordays!!! I went to a cafe this morning to write, which was so lovely after a long and busy week, and I was working on Bent Nails, so I'll pull some lines from there!
A line about dreams:
“I think [Nick] always intended to fill this place with a family,” Angela said sadly, putting the pan in the dish drain.
A line about hope:
“Out,” Michael settled on. Best defense was a strong bored attitude. At least, he hoped it was.
A line about cold:
There was no one to hold him, so he held himself, wrapping his arms tight around his legs. The wall dug into his spine but all he could truly feel was the cold, as though he were drowning himself.
A line about loyalty:
"That seems like an awful lot to go through because you love your brother," Michael said somberly.
Isaiah crossed his arms. "Yeah, well, tell that to my brother."
Please consider this tag OPEN! Come play with me :) Your lines are:
A line about fish A line about glaring A line mentioning an insect An angry line
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 💞
ALT
