#psychopomp fic

[aiedraws]

psychopomp!au catra character sheet

[ghostbsuter]

Danny scoops up the slimy green soul of a civilian, cursing beneath his breath as Red Hood stops behind him, gun in hand.

"Dude, put that away." He isn't event looking, Danny is busy trying to get the green slime off the soul.

"Who the fuck are you?" Is the reply he receive, the voice module had a strange robot like accent that had Danny look up.

"Oh, you're hood!" Soul still clenched between his hands, the boy stands in hurry with a grin. "Good job man! You slayed and did not peak."

If the man is puzzled by his words, he doesn't show it.

"What are you doing on my turf?"

Still grinning, he shows off the slimy soul. "Soul collecting! Hermes and Thanatos shy away from Gotham cuz of the slimes effect, had to jump in."

His mind screeches to a stop and red hood pulls the gun down, still in hand however.

"What? You're a Psychopomp? What are you doing in Gotham of all places??"

"Again, Than and Herms didn't wanna so u jumped in." The psychopomp held the soul out to show off.

"Gotham is a special case, not many die here, and when they do, they have this supernatur slimy coat on that we have cleanse off per hand. They don't like it."

The RedHood regarded him for a minute before letting out a strangely mechanical sigh.

[psychologeek]

Whumptober #7: Psychopomp (pt. 2)

ONLY FOR EMERGENCIES | Magic with a Cost

pt 1

"It's okay," he says, mistaking her sorrow for pitty. "I... I always knew I'm gonna die young." 

He checks his phone. Still "no contact".

"Can you do something for me?" He asks. "Can you tell my fiancé I'm sorry? And maybe ask my brother to help her?"

"I'm sorry," she says. "I'm so, so sorry, Jay. But I can't do this. I can't let the living and the deceased talk."

In this form, her tears look like tiny candlelights, and they fade into nothing before they hit the ground.

"That's... that's not true," he struggles to say. "You were... I saw you. With Meg. You let her talk to me."

"Let her talk? Meg? I don't understan-"

Wait. Can it be...? But, he doesn't feel like that, but...?

"Jay," she asks. "Are you the Red Hood?"

Her ears are ringing in the tension. Because, if-

"I thought you knew?" His eyes are unfocused. "Isn't it why you got here?"

But, it doesn't make any sense -

"Jay," she says.

He doesn't reply.

"Jason!" She let out a short cry. 

He open his eye.

"Did you die, before?"

(And all of a sudden, they aren't in the library anymore. They aren't back in the collapsed building.

But there are ruins and fire and a constant laugh, like an old sitcom, a voice going

"Ha! Ha! Ha!"

And Jay, Jason, the brave and courageous man ahe knows, is cradled on the ground, tears in his eyes and his only his tongue moving, silently repeat mouthing:

"No, no, no, no" )

She pulls them out, but it's too late. They can't go back to safety now.

They are under the rabble, and her dying friend is crying, only whispering, "yes."

(Like it? I have more mini-fics Whumptober index | And full size fics on ao3. )

[bugwolfsstuff]

I find it funny how my version of Travis stoll is the most fucked up, angsty and complex character ever

And Connor is just: Gay, ace, hangs with Drew and Lacy and has no fucking clue about the state of Travis's mental state (it's not good)

[buoyantsaturn]

C.J. buoyantsaturn's 2024 fic year in review

JANUARY

whoopsie daisy! [T, 3,203]

Will almost missed the way Tartarus had dulled his senses, distracting him from his own pain and preventing him from knowing the full extent of Nico’s. 

FEBRUARY

hoping that this feeling stays [G, 2,002]

“Killer Quest,” Nico answered, something lighting up behind his eyes that Will wanted to see more of. “It’s a rock band.” 

MARCH

you're on my mind [G, 2,004]

As it was, Will had been gone for no more than forty-eight hours, and Nico was already back to spending eighteen hours a day on the studio floor.

APRIL

I called all night on a payphone (remember those, from another life?) [G, 4,121]

(a sequel to Remember nights we spent on hard wood floors) "Being here today, this place has had the same energy as the shows we used to play at the Big House when we were first getting started.” 

MAY

cough drops [T, 7,434; jasico/valgrace/solangelo]

“You should think about getting a boyfriend,” Leo said one day while he was taking up residence on Nico’s couch, Jason out of town for the weekend at an away-game. Nico shot him a glare. “Maybe you should get your own boyfriend.” 

JUNE

i buried myself alive on the inside cowritten with @ethannku [T, 9,201]

Why did hearing a pretty voice coming out of an even prettier man have to turn Will’s brain completely to mush?

JULY

she smiles through her teeth so crookedly, so perfectly (it's like she went to school to do this shit commercially) [G, 1,070]

(from the no love au series) "I think I saw Will Solace talking to that guy beforehand, and then…it's like he was just gone. That's not nothing, right?”

AUGUST / SEPTEMBER

I would honestly love you now (but I would lovingly let you down) [T, 43,630, 11/11]

This legally binding document states that Party A, Nico di Angelo, and Party B, Will Solace, agree to be lawfully married under the following circumstances: Both parties find themselves unmarried by the time they have both reached the age of twenty-five.

OCTOBER

plant check [G, 4,739]

“I would kind of like to know how long you’ve been staring me down, if only so I can be sure I haven’t been ignoring my favorite patient for, like, an hour.” “Not an hour,” Nico told him, though his mind was suddenly circling around favorite patient.

NOVEMBER

Well-trained eyes find that things are not alright [T, 2,686]

(from the no love au series) “This is a whole new side for you, Neeks,” Percy said, smiling brightly in Nico’s direction. “I mean, not only are you talking to another person at a party, but flirting with your boyfriend where people can hear you? I don’t believe it.” 

DECEMBER

you say a lot of things when you get too drunk that you never really mean (can you please shut up?) [G, 2,993]

(from the no love au series) “I’m sorry your brother’s such a piece of shit,” Lou told her, then tugged Kayla into the elevator before the doors could close on them. 

[doyouknowhowtowaltz]

Hello, fellow pilgrim!! Two weeks ago I watched Over the Garden Wall for the first time, then went into the depths of the Internet for the content and accidentally flew straight into beastnoch! I swallowed a lot and am still digesting it; can u tell me where this came from? I am amazed and horrified at the same time!

Glad to welcome you into this lovely ship, though I would like to point out I am by no means the best source for the history of the ship since I've only been writing it for about 6 years, and the actual patron saints are right next door here on tumblr, but here's a breif history:

In december of 2014, @incurablenecromantic and @silkward are talking about potential ships in OTGW and Miss Inky jokingly suggests the Beast and Enoch, to which Mr. Silkward draws this. The endlessly creative @lacrimalis also makes a drawing, and in fact, has their own short-term history of the ship up to febuary 2015 that you can find here. Many of the tumblr links in this particular post are dead due to tumblr's horrible link system, though I could track down the images for you another day, as I think, even with very little context I can identify all but one of them just by the timeline. Shortly after Miss Inky writes Patient is the Night, and proceeds to cultivate this richly interesting ship over the next four years, and I could certainly talk about the early years of Beastnoch at great length, and the tropes, themes, and headcanons that were established during that time that have often worked their way into all subsequent works, and while I have a lot to say and I would love the excuse to talk about it some other time, the fact of the matter is that I was not there.

I found Beastnoch in late 2017, about two months after watching OTGW, and one month after the latest update to Grim Grinning Ghosts Come Out to Socialize. It was the last post to Ao3 for quite some time, and, not having a tumblr myself at the time, I didn't know that Beastnoch still had a community here on tumblr. I wrote my first Beastnoch fic roughly a year after under the assumption the ship's fans had passed on to greener fandoms. And the rest is rather easily traceable history.

If you're asking more in a broad sense "where did the idea to pair these two characters come from" Miss Inky would probably be the person to ask, though I could certainly speculate, the Beast and Enoch (and to a barely lesser extent the Queen of the Clouds) are these strangely explained psychopomps in their world, the Beast is closely assosiated with winter and Enoch with autumn, there's an interesting contrast and similarity in the fact that they both offer for Wirt (and greg) to stay with them, but in starkly different capacities, they've both got lovely singing voices, and there is the peculiar detail of the fact that the Beast's lantern is shown to be with Enoch at the end of OTGW.

Many a ship has been built on less and still been perfectly capable of floating on water, there's even another notable example in the otgw fandom itself, though admittedly, one can argue a precedent already existed for pinescone.

[ennas-aesthetic]

the creature still moving (that slowed in your arms)

rated T, ~2.9 k words

Fandom: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett

Relationships: Aziraphale & Jesus (Good Omens); Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)

Tags: Scene: Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions); Crucifixion of Jesus 33 AD (Good Omens); Emotional Hurt; Angst and Tragedy; Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens); Character Study; Aziraphale Needs a Hug (Good Omens); Protective Crowley (Good Omens); Crucifixion; mentions of flogging; Whump; She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens); Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens); 6000 Years of Love (Good Omens); Religious Guilt; Aziraphale Has Religious Trauma (Good Omens); Song: Abstract (Psychopomp) (Hozier); One Shot

Summary:

At a mountain ridge east of Jerusalem, by the Western foot of Mt. Olivet, there lies a garden.

༻❁༺

Or: The Agony in the Garden of Gethsemane Good Omensified.

___________________________

The Supreme Archangel Gabriel could not have lurked if he wanted to. Even his human corporation shines brighter than a dozen tiny suns; it illuminates the gloomy patch of clearing they were in. His Tyrian Purple robes match his eyes, which look unimpressed. "An olive garden, Aziraphale? Could we not have chosen a classier place to fulfill the Mystery?" He wrinkles his nose. "Reeks of cow manure in here."

Aziraphale tries not to wince; he almost succeeds. "It's actually Jesus' choice to come up here. He wanted to – talk to the Almighty, you know. Speak with Her, before the Hour arrives."

"Speak with Her?" Gabriel raises an immaculate eyebrow. "Why? Is he having doubts?"

"Hm?" Aziraphale glances distractedly at the grove of olives to his left. Twenty paces more and Gabriel would have his answer. "Oh, no. No, absolutely not. He knows what's about to happen – told us all about it since his miracle at Bethany. He's ready." Despite his mounting fear he cannot help but feel a rush of pride for his ward. "I know he is."

"Mm. Right. Well, just checking in." Gabriel claps Aziraphale none too lightly on the shoulder. "All according to schedule, I hope? I'd hate to report to Head Office that Salvation's going to be a few minutes late."

He laughs heartily at his own joke. Aziraphale joins in, and he desperately wishes that he cannot taste the ashes in his mouth. "Yes, yes. All – all according to plan."

Read On AO3

[ninadove]

I'm honestly shocked that since Emotion/Representation aired I've yet to see anyone do anything at all with Felix and Mary Shelley's Frankenstein??? I think about it every day it's literally THE Felix piece of media. It's his entire character thesis. What are we doing guys

I KNOW I WAS JUST THINKING ABOUT IT THE OTHER DAY

To be fair I have seen a few people headcanoning it as one of Felix’s favourite books (Which yes. Absolutely. 1,000,000%) but there hasn’t been any fics/art/edits/etc. about it yet to my knowledge. My copy is at my parents’ and in French but I am tempted to find an English PDF since it’s been public domain for a good while now. The web weave potential is insane.

I have many thoughts about Felix and literature in general… I have him quote Cyrano de Bergerac all the time in my fics, for example. I was thinking of starting a list of works of art and literature he’d enjoy, so I’ll take this as a sign to get writing! I can get my fandom friends to make some suggestions as well! 📝

Edit: @bittersweetresilience got us covered, our honour is safe 💜🦚

[tunastime]

Dog in the Nighttime

in which there is a moment of concern right before the end of the world. or, Martyn and Jimmy have a quiet night. Which doesn't often happen for brothers, does it? (2393 words) (read it on ao3!)

Jimmy takes a while to get home, one night. He doesn’t mean to. He gets side-tracked. It’s just easy to—it’s easy when people are chatting, and nobody thinks you're a threat, and nobody sees that your name is red and thinks that it means you’ll kill at any provocation. People still talk to you, and they still giggle, and sometimes, just sometimes, they tell you to be careful. They ask you how many hearts you have left. They get, for a brief moment, a look of pity, of shame. Something makes Jimmy wonder if they wished they could give out any extra hearts. Jimmy wonders if they even would. 

But the blood in Jimmy’s ears is much too strong to hear any mumblings, and so he treks his way back home slowly, and carefully, and makes sure he doesn’t slip and cut himself—since that won’t heal right, not even after he gets his lives back, and Martyn isn’t any good at dressing wounds, really. He takes a while to get home, so Martyn is waiting in the doorway with his arms folded when he gets back. He’s trying his best not to look like his mother, or maybe his older brother, or anything like that, when he stands there looking disapproving. It’s not working, though, because Jimmy feels the cold wave of disappointment and shame regardless, just like he used to when they were younger and Jimmy had done something really stupid, and Martyn had been there to tell him off for it. 

It wasn’t like that now, though, because Jimmy hadn’t done anything stupid. At least he thinks so, so Martyn’s just doing it because he can. And because as soon as that frown breaks, he knows Jimmy will laugh, and the mood will be so much better then. He sighs, stretching around as he night starts to get chilly around them, trying to get his back and arms to stop aching so much from the heavy diamond chestplate. Martyn’s mouth stays in a fine line until Jimmy raises his eyebrows at him. His expression falters. then, just a little.

“You’re standing there like you’re my mum,” Jimmy says, pausing for a moment before the paws of the dog settled over their house. “You got a problem with me comin’ in late, do ya?”

Martyn’s expression wavers. Jimmy grins at him, folding his arms, too.

“Maybe I do,” Martyn huffs. “You ever think about your teammate being all alone at home?”

“Of course not,” Jimmy says, voice on the verge of laughing. “You’re a big dog! Big man! You can handle it!”

Martyn rolls his eyes. He’s smiling now, though, which means his facade’s finally broke, which makes Jimmy actually laugh. Martyn drops his arms, ushering Jimmy inside, where it’s a bit warmer, where the stove is going, where there’s a warm glow and a bed with too many, rather than too few, blankets. 

Something about the space, as soon as he steps into it, makes his muscles relax. His body sags, wings first, then shoulders, and arms, and knees, and legs, as a comfortably warm wave passes over him. He feels safe here, as Martyn moves around him, pushing Jimmy over to their small, shitty crafting table that wobbles when he presses against it, to leave Jimmy to sit in an equally wobbly chair. He’s not sure how long it’s been since he felt this safe in a death game. A while, he thinks. Maybe the time before last. Maybe not at all. He takes off his chestplate. Ow.

“How are you, Tim?” Martyn asks as he lifts his still-hot pan from the stove and makes his way over to the table. 

“Doin’ alright,” Jimmy sighs, sinking back into his chair. “A bit nostalgic. A bit tired. You know how it is.”

“Do I,” Martyn agrees, sitting across from him. “Did’ya ever expect this would happen again?”

When he says this, he gestures to the two of them sitting together, to the plate of food, and the room around them. Jimmy knows what he means. He’s talking about Evo. It’s tickled the back of Jimmy’s mind for weeks, like deja-vu, like he’s repeating scenarios he thinks he should know but can’t really remember. It all feels very dreamy—Evo does, that is. Here feels very real, he promises. His legs are very much sore from walking so much, and his heart is a somewhat bleeding, heavy thing he has to carry. That’s all good and fine. But he doesn’t remember much of Evo anymore. Well—he remembers enough, now. Enough now so that this feels a little different than it always had. Like there’s something else there behind things in the shadow. But Martyn’s waiting on his answer and Jimmy feigns a smile and shakes his head.

“‘S nice, honestly,” Jimmy says, leaning forward to tear off a large chunk of bread and sitting back in his chair. “Feels good t’team up.”

Jimmy takes a bite. He lets his eyes shut for a moment, just chewing, just letting the room be quiet around him. He hears Martyn suck in a breath as he takes a large bite of too-hot steak. He laughs a little as Martyn’s exhale whistles, and feels him kick his shin under the table. 

“Ow!”

“Don’t be mean,” Martyn says through a mouthful. “We’re brothers.”

Jimmy pulls a face, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Grian’s mean to me all the time,” he huffs, stuffing another piece of bread into his mouth. “So…”

“Yeah, well that’s Grian,” Martyn says, swallowing with a touch of difficulty. “That’s different.”

“How’s it different?”

Martyn shrugs. He tears off another piece of steak, seemingly cooler this time. Jimmy follows suit. The meat is much tougher than he’s expecting, jaw working to chew. For a sudden, despite how well needed this meal is, he misses, achingly, the chance to cook. 

“Just is,” Martyn finishes.

“‘S not like I’m related to any of you,” Jimmy snorts, swallowing. “You’ve all just decided to make yourselves my siblings.”

“You love it!”

“You’re putting words in my mouth,” Jimmy says, scrunching his face up. Martyn takes another big bite, talking with his mouth full.

“You like Lizzie just fine,” he manages. Jimmy leans back in his chair, folding his arms. His appetite hasn’t been much lately, coming and going in waves. 

“Liz is different—it’s just different, it’s different!” Jimmy huffs, which turns into a little giggle, which he tries to stifle and fails. Martyn rolls his eyes.

“I hope she’s doin’ alright…” Jimmy adds after a beat. He sees Martyn nod, just a small bob of his head.

He couldn’t help it. There was something that nagged at him every time he noticed the red glint in her eye. Maybe it was guilt that still lingered. Maybe it was knowing she was alone enough to worry about. Joel wandered around. Scott, too. Himself. Grian. But nobody stayed. It was starting to worry him. But Martyn kicks his leg under the table again, and Jimmy jolts to, and stuffs the last bit of bread into his mouth before he scoots back from the table with a creak to the chair. Martyn seems to swallow with some difficulty as he watches Jimmy stand. Jimmy stretches, high over his head, to both sides, and then sighs. He drops his arms.

“Bedtime, I think,” Jimmy says, reaching up to scrub his face. Martyn nods, shutting his eyes for a moment.

“You’re tellin’ me,” he says. Jimmy watches his face for a moment, seeing tired lines and too much tension. He feels a little awkward, standing here, something fumbling around loosely in his chest. He coughs. Things seem to right themselves, then, enough for him to wander around and find another pair of socks, because his shoes are full of sand. And a sweater. He dumps sand from his shoes outside their door and shuts it against the chilly air. He hears Martyn at the sink and the stove, muttering to himself as he cleans up dinner. After a beat, as Jimmy weasels on a crudely made sweater with two, too-small holes in the back, he starts rearranging covers. He says:

“Thanks for dinner, Martyn,” and even though he tries to keep the tired from seeping into his voice, his words kind of slur together and Martyn laughs.

“You sound tired, mate,” he says. Jimmy watches him scrape at the pan with a knife, which can’t be good for the seasoning layer. Something actually hurts in Jimmy’s hands to see him do that. Whatever. Martyn can’t cook for shit anyways, so he doesn’t really care. But maybe he does. He crushes together another sentence, though.

“Well duh,” he garbles out. “Spent the whole day trying to snoop around and steal and hit people over the head like it’s whack-a-mole, ‘course I’m tired, Martyn.”

He flops into bed, face down. His wings splay out behind him like a cheap imitation of a blanket. He eventually manages to wiggle his way up his side of the bed and under the slightly-patchy quilt. He’s still lying face down, though, and his wing is very much in Martyn’s business. He’s expecting a poke or a whap on the back of his head when Martyn finally sits down next to him, but there’s a beat before he does. He peeks an eye open, frowning at the outline of Martyn in the half-dark. There’s still the furnace going, low and slow, keeping the room warm.

“What?” he asks. “You want me to move?”

Martyn blinks.

“Sorry,” he says, which is such a weird word to hear out of Martyn’s mouth, now that he thinks about it. “I was thinkin’ about something.”

“Anything important?” Jimmy asks, shifting over. He folds his wings in, making ample space for Martyn beside him. They’ll still end up crowded, shoulder to shoulder or back to back, holding heat between them. 

“That’s none of your business,” Martyn says, lifting his chin. “You snoop.”

Jimmy barks out a laugh, rolling his eyes. Whatever, he wants to say, but it doesn’t quite make it out of his mouth, not before Martyn lies down and rearranges his perfectly balanced blankets, and he has to gripe about it as loud as he can. Martyn laughs, something Jimmy feels, too, as Martyn weasels in next to him. His laugh peters out in the dark. It’s like a sleepover, actually. But with a lot more dying. But still—last time Jimmy had Grian and Joel, and that was kind of fun, except they both complained a lot, and Joel hogged the covers. And he also had Tango, which was really nice, because his soulmate was a cuddler, and he was kind of hoping maybe they’d end up being allies so he’d have that again, but it didn’t work out, and that was fine. Scott and him hadn’t slept in the same room, which was also fine, but it also wasn’t cold. Here it was cold, and he was glad Martyn didn’t mind sleeping so close, and also they only had one bed. Which was also fine. It made Jimmy feel like a little kid again, and that was always fun. Almost like they were little kids again, and nothing mattered. He sighs.

“It’s a little important,” Martyn says, lowering his voice. Jimmy hums. His eyes are too tired to open. He feels a bit like soup, right now, so he lets Martyn do all the talking.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jimmy manages. He feels Martyn shake his head. 

“It’s alright, Timmy—just go to sleep, yeah?”

Jimmy hums. Yeah. Yeah. His body is a tired, heavy thing, even on their tiny mattress that isn’t all that comfortable (and Jimmy pretends like he isn’t thinking about his mattress back home on what he could call his home server and how nice and soft that one is. Definitely not longing for more pillows and maybe a bit more space). Martyn sighs, shuffling a bit to get comfortable. They stay shoulder to shoulder, and the warmth of being red and being human seeps into Jimmy’s shoulder and his sweater sleeve and Martyn mumbles out a good night.

The worst part about this interaction is its finality. Jimmy knows things end. He’s really, really used to things ending, and being red, and having things slip through his fingers too fast, too soon. He tries to savor the moment as he slips into dreamless sleep. He tries to screw up his face and keep awake for a second longer, like Martyn might tell him off again for not sleeping, or throw around that threat about leaving him to the phantoms. Jimmy swallows down the bad taste of that thought—the one about endings. He wishes it tasted a little better. It mostly tastes like burnt steak and toothpaste. Gross.

He mumbles a good night back.

Tomorrow Martyn sleeps in a cold bed alone. Because Jimmy’s right about endings, and he can usually taste them right before they happen, except he can never do anything about it, because why would he be able to? He’s not a superhero. He’s a psychopomp. Whatever.

Somewhere in that blank space, he makes a little place for Lizze and Mumbo to sit next to him. It won’t be for long—never, it never is, and the ache of being half dead with no real tether kind of gets old after a while—but it’s long enough for Lizzie to sigh out tiredly and rest her head against his shoulder, despite how hate bubbled up in her voice when she spat at him. He pats Mumbo’s shoulder. Mumbo laughs. They watch the games below them from a place very safe, and wait for someone else to join them. The world feels a little less heavy, then. His wings weigh a little more. The shape of him lingers in everything, even on Grian’s shoulder, even after Mumbo and Lizzie have left. His belongings linger in chests Martyn doesn’t empty. His name lingers in minds and mouths and his sweater ends up tied around someone’s waist. Lizzie lingers with him, crowding in that same space, and Jimmy welcomes sitting shoulder to shoulder again. He says to find him after they leave. Lizzie brightens, then. Like a sleepover, of course.

Yeah. That warm feeling lingers, even as Jimmy returns home, covered in feathers. Sure. Like a sleepover.

[cynicalmusings]

I would love to hear about the other lines you loved from your fic!! Were there lines that gave you a lot of trouble to write too? How did you conquer those?

thanks for the interest! :,)

alright… there are actually quite a few sections i’m happy with (the style of prose for this has been really fun to play with, heh), so that’s where all the following excerpts are from:

You know it; feel it as a tug in your bones which leads you towards the sacred site as it has your whole life, and as you are certain it shall on your last day, and as it too shall when the last human, crawling from whichever lonely corner of the world they hide in, returns, like a moth drawn to a flame, to their silver cradle and lays down beneath it for their final rest; and then it will be over, and you will all be forgotten, and that will be that. 

You feel exposed and empty, as though the blizzard has whittled you down; stripped away your skin and your muscles and your nerve endings layer by layer until all that remains of you now is a husk; a heart, frozen solid, trapped within a cage of clean white bones. 

It is your duty to impart them lest they be forgotten—and now, an opportunity: an outsider inquires of your history; you give him as faithful a depiction as you can, and in doing so pass on the narrative of your nation from the forsaken past into an era still able to breathe, receive, to grow; you shake the cobwebs of time from their foundations and take your solitary chronicles into the present. 

That is your life, wrapped in a parcel of charcoal and paper. So bleak does it seem, looking upon it now.

Yet fickle dignity, when faced with necessity, must shed her capricious mask.

it’s a style which you can get really descriptive and poetic with… and it’s fun!

regarding the second part of your ask… there aren’t exactly specific lines which give me trouble, as opposed to specific words or specific sections: e.g. you’ve got the synonym on the top of your tongue but you can’t find it, or you know what happens in the next scene but you can’t quite put it into words. usually these click given some time, and then i can keep writing.

for example, one word i was struggling to find was the term for the wooden structures of fire torches (i.e. the ones on dragonspine)—i was struggling with it for around a month—and then it came to me around 20 minutes ago when i clutched my head and said ‘BRAZIERS’. so that’s kind of how it goes.

[aiedraws]

Catrina The Prophet

psychopomp! Catra fanart

read on ao3

[yonemurishiroku]

I would like to present to you a headcannon of:

Psychopomp Connor Stoll your opinion?

wdym opinion there's a whole fic about that.

Guidance by MaximillianDelirium 

It's locked so you'd need an AO3 account to read it. But like. it's 17kw of brilliantly constructed plot, and this is only a third of a trilogy. It's worth it. I swear.

And if you're really looking for my insights then ofc it's brilliant. Hermes is an Olympian yet he has a close relationship with the Underworld thanks to his messager career of course Nico and Connor (or Travis, for that matter) should be a thing. No i don't care what Rick has to say.

People often forget that Hermes can be considered a chthonic god. Shame. Imagine how people, those who always more often than not shy away from the Underworld creatures, would react upon realizing Connor shares some of Nico's spies of expertise.

[psychologeek]

Whumptober #24: Psychopomp (pt. 1)

RADIATION POISONING | Collapsed Building | Equipment Failure | “I never knew daylight could be so violent.” (Florence + The Machine, No Light, No Light)

Psychopomp is standing by a collapsing building, and watching.

(There are few Livings inside– she won't touch them. They won't be able to notice her anyway. Not like that.)

No one died here. Well, not yet. There is a certain feeling of dying around, but that's life. Everybody is dying. Some just take longer.

Yet, something is attracting her to the inside.

She closes her eyes, letting herself follow that feeling.

She opens her eyes and sees a man under a table. 

(He's bleeding. And there's this feeling she already knows. One  which marks a nearby death. She isn't one to stop it, but she can reduce the suffering.)

She touches his arm, the closest body part she can reach, and connects.

~

They are in a library.

There's a man sitting on a rocking chair, basking in the sunlight. It smells like old books and cookies.

She can only see him from behind– black hair and wide back.

“Hello,” she says quietly, trying to gain the person's attention.

(It can be hard, she knows. It can be scary, and painful, and agonizing. It can also be a blessing, sometimes. A relief, a quiet goodbye and a happy reunion.)

In this in-between state, this liminal space, there is no pain. 

Sometimes they remember.

Others don't. 

Both are fine.

(Death is inevitable, unstoppable, the final outcome.

It isn't a bad thing.)

“Hello,” she tries again, and this time the man turns towards her.

“How did you get here?” he asks in confusion.

(She looks at the scar on his forehead, the burn on his cheek, the familiar birthmark spreading up from his shoulders, halfway through his neck.)

“I'm sorry, dear,” she says. “I'm afraid you are about to die.”

(Psychopomp is an abstract concept. A gestalt of multiple thoughts and ideas and prayers. A reply to the oldest cry: Please, I don't want to be alone.)

Pt. 2

Psychopomp is an essence.

(But Jazz is, yet, only human).

(Like it? I have more mini-fics Whumptober index | And full size fics on ao3. )

[size-two-shrimp]

Thinking about... Mirage.

[buoyantsaturn]

i think of your camp counselor au so much. The archery scene.. so perfect. The banter is amazing and you just do it all so well. I've read it four times this year alone.

Merry Christmas, thank you for all the fic gifts you keep giving us.

omg thank you <3333 every time i think about that fic i remember how insane i was. imagine writing 70k in about a month. who does that. also if i could turn one of my fics into a tv series it would be this one <3 mockumentary style sitcom i think <3

[doyouknowhowtowaltz]

always remember you are one weird day away from being a totally different person half a decade later.