#starry writes stuff

[starrypawz]

AO3 What can I say I had an idea

On the shore of The Dreaming he senses something that ebbs and flows with the tide.

Whatever that something is very…

Small

Tired

With a broken heart… 

But the heart still beats strong. 

Curious. 

Gently he reaches out and

A crow? Most curious.

The crow, more than a little bedraggled, tilts their head as they stand.

“Caw?” (weakly) 

“Easy now,” 

Caw…. Caw?... Caw!  (Slightly panicked)

“No you are not, much longer though and you likely would have met my sister,”

Caw!! (Profanity) 

Caw (Apologetic) 

“That’s an… understandable reaction… although I will say she is actually… very nice.” 

Caw? 

“I am known by many names but… Often I am known as Dream,” 

“Caw!” (Introductory) Dream gives a faint smile, “I am aware,it is a  pleasure to meet you Monty the Crow” 

He regards the Crow who has just informed him that he is known as Monty (although he knew that already)  some more and then asks.

“What was your aim?” 

“Caw,” “London?” 

“Caw,” and then “Caw?”

“Unfortunately you didn’t get very far,” 

“Caw,” (Dejected) 

“Agreed, that was a rather foolish idea,” Dream tilts his head, “I must ask why did you undertake this fool’s errand?” 

“Caw?”

“I… can only sense fragments, you are rather weak right now,” 

“Caw,” (Panicked)

“Do not worry, you are safe here,” “Caw,” (Grateful) 

Dream pauses.

“So Monty the Crow what was the goal of your fool’s errand?”

“Caw?” 

“I only sensed fragments, you are… rather weak right now,”

“Caw,”

“You are safe here,”

“Caw,” (Grateful) 

Monty pauses and the way his feathers ruffle translates as a sigh before he takes a couple of hops that translate somehow as ‘pacing around whilst trying to get your thoughts together’

“Caw…” Another hop, “Caw… Caw…. Caw,”  Another hop, “Caw” (Dejected) 

“That… that is a rather noble cause,” Dream reaches out and then pauses, “May I?”

Monty nods. 

Dream lightly scratches him on the head, feather soft under his fingers and Dream feels a soft rush of affection run through him as Monty leans into his touch and ruffles his feathers and gives the faintest hint of a smile. 

“I… I sense you have not been treated kindly,” He offers his hand and Monty struggles to hop up. 

“Let me,” He soothes as he carefully guides him into his hand and lifts Monty closer to his face.

“I am sorry that has happened to you,” Dream stiffens, “Who… Who did this?” 

“Caw,” “A witch?” He pauses and… feels, “One named Esther Finch, I know of her and… I can sense she has met her long overdue fate,”

“Caw,”

“Maybe that offers you some comfort?” Monty moves his wings in a way that somehow reads as a shrug.

“I… I know what it is like, to be trapped,” Dream sighs, “Taken by someone who seeks power they do not deserve.. Let alone understand.” 

Monty tilts his head again.

“Tell me Monty, Tell me your story,”

“Caw-” 

“I am fond of long tales…” Dream smiles, “And we have all the time in the world whilst you are here,”

Monty ruffles his feathers and then 

“Caw-” 

And then after some time. 

“That is… quite the tale.” 

“Caw?” 

“Yes… now what,” Dream sighs, “I think I can aid you?”

“Caw?”

“Do not worry, I would not pull you into such a bargain, I would also not expect you to serve a new master so soon after gaining your freedom,” 

“Caw?”

“So…The Witch Esther Finch turned you into a human, tell me Monty do you wish to be back in that form?”

“Caw… Caw…” He pauses, “Caw?”

“I see… Understandable you do not want to be bound to one form… even if you found thumbs incredibly useful,” He gives an amused snort and gently scratches Monty on the head, “I believe… I believe I know someone who can aid you,” 

“Caw?”

“No he is not a witch… although I guess he is bewitching in his own way,” “Caw!” (Teasing) Dream swallows, “I am… incredibly fond of him.” Dream pauses, “You… you remind me of him, he is… an incredibly kind soul, eternally joyful,” He smiles, “Even if he is a little foolish at times, His name is Robert Gadling although he prefers to go by Hob, ” Dream pauses, “So Monty The Crow if you agree, once you awake you will find yourself in London,” 

“Very well them,” Dream pulls him against his chest, “Now rest,” 

Monty rests.

Hob awakes to early morning light through the window and realises he forgot to shut the curtains again as he winces  whilst in the background he can hear the ever present drone of the traffic of 21st century London. He finds his laptop in the bed and connects dots he was planning to grade just a couple of more papers last night, but judging from the Turnitin page that greets him when he wakes up the laptop that he’d fallen asleep about a quarter into grading the first one.

Later… later. Deal with that later.  At least two cups of coffee later. 

He’s just about to pass through to the kitchen when he notices something at the living room window.

Matthew? 

No that’s not Matthew.

Wait… that’s not a raven anyway, the beak’s the wrong shape and they’re too small that’s a… 

Crow. 

Oh. 

There hadn’t been A Visit last night (It’s actually been a while but not quite long enough that Hob is worried) but Hob had in that point where reality is a little… loose between waking and sleeping had heard a whisper. It’d been somewhat cryptic (He didn’t expect anything less) but the pieces start to slot together. 

Hob shakes his head with an affectionate snort as he lifts the sash window. It’s thankfully a warm morning. 

The crow tilts their head at him. 

“Well… come on in?” 

Hob takes a step back and watches as the crow hops through the opened window, carefully he shuts it behind them. 

There’s a pause for a moment before they hop from the windowsill and then

Falll  to the ground. 

Hob is caught off guard for a second before there’s a ruffle of feathers and then. 

Ah

So that’s why there’d been something about ‘spare clothes’ that’d sounded rather out of place coming from Dream. 

Hob now looks at the dark haired teenager who had been a crow moments ago who sits on the sofa. The borrowed t-shirt and shorts hang loose on him in a way that looks more ‘Handmedowns from an older sibling’ than ‘fashionably baggy’ 

The teenager looks up at him through curtain bangs with dark eyes that are bright and… oddly captivating.

Just like someone else I know. 

“So… Monty, right?”

Monty nods. 

“Dream?” They say, voice still croaky, “Sent me to you… somehow? Said you could help me?” 

“Hopefully?” Hob clears his throat, “So… are you hungry?”

“I’m starving,” 

Breakfast. Right. That’s at least a problem he can fix. 

“Ok,” Hob smiles, and hopes it looks less nervous than he feels. “I’ll go make us something and you can tell me all about… whatever’s going on,”

“Sounds great!,” Monty’s voice is bright, almost a little too bright for this time in the morning and gives him probably the softest smile he’s ever seen before Hob turns into the kitchen. 

What the hell have you gotten me into this time?

[starry-bi-sky]

Blood Blossom Au: before the nightingale sings

---------

for my batdad blood blossom au, the one where Vlad poisoned Danny with blood blossom extract and Danny ran away from him and ended up tumbling into the care of one Pre-Robin Battinson Batman :). A quick oneshot telling the tale of the tragic deaths of the Fentons

TW: Major Character Death Warning

-------

Not all deaths are created equal.

That is a valuable lesson in life to learn. One that Danny learns when he is eleven years old, standing in the pit of his parents’ creation; the culmination of their life’s work. The portal to the other side, the realm of the dead. To the infinite. 

He learns that when he’s eleven years old, in a hazmat suit that sags on him, and boots that clunk when he walks because the only ones that fit are his mom’s, and even those are too big. In gloves that he has to clench his fists in because otherwise they fall off. In goggles that slide down his nose even when he’s tightened them the farthest they can go. 

He learns that when he’s eleven years old, choking on giggles that harmonize with the laughter of his friends’ who stand at the mouth of the tunnel. Sam’s holding a polaroid in her hand. They’re just being kids. 

They’re not laughing when Danny’s hand hits the safety lock — the one with faulty wiring, the only one in the tunnel. The only one he could possibly hit. They’re not laughing when the portal buzzes to life, and the lights inside switch on row by row as the generator begins to rumble and hum. 

They’re not laughing when Danny dies. They’re screaming. They’re not screaming when he comes back.

Not all deaths are created equal.  

Some are poetic, beautiful. The satisfying close of a book as it comes to an end, of the hardback thumping soft against the pages like the sound of a door closing. A train run its course.

Some are violent; unsatisfying; unfair. The unexpected shattering of an egg as it rolls off the countertop when nobody is looking, the unmistakable crack as it falls to the floor. It is abrupt and messy. 

But most are just… unremarkable. Unintentional. Clumsy. 

Danny’s family dies one night in late January. He is thirteen years old, barely a month away from fourteen. It is unforeseen. It is preventable. It happens. 

It happens like this: 

Their water heater breaks one Monday in January. It’s old, sitting in the garage, and has dealt with nearly sixteen years of Fenton-grade chaos and shenanigans. Of parents tossing scraps and junk into the garage as brief storage to come back to later. Of illegal tune-ups on their vehicles that result in something exploding. Of little children running around and knocking things over, playing with poles and sticks they find on the ground, on the shelves. Of being lived and used.  

Something had to give. 

Jack Fenton notices it immediately when he comes upstairs that very afternoon — his children at school, his wife downstairs — to grab something from the garage. The very same scrap and used material they store like squirrels to use later. 

He stops what he’s doing to fix it.  

It wasn’t supposed to be permanent. 

Despite what many believe, Jack Fenton is not the idiot people make him out to be. He knows what he’s good at, he knows what he’s not. He knows he can be passionate and obsessive and single-minded about things. He knows that he is a scientist, an inventor; an engineer. 

He knows that he is not a plumber. That fixing water heaters is not something he knows how to do, not safely. And he loves his family. What he does is only meant to be temporary — a fix meant to only last a few days until they can call someone in who can fix it for them. 

So Jack Fenton futzes with the water heater, gives it a temporary stitch to last a short while, and reminds himself to call a plumber later that day to come in and fix it. He turns and leaves the garage with the part he came for —  a sheet of metal for his wife to melt down — and disappears back downstairs. 

He does not make that call; it slips from his mind. 

It is not his fault. 

One day passes, then two, then suddenly it is Thursday. The water heater has still not been fixed, the water heater has been forgotten. It is nobody’s fault.  

Danny asks his parents at breakfast if he can stay over at Tucker’s house for the night. Just one night. They’re going to study for their math test and then play video games until midnight, but he only tells his parents that first half. 

He’s been doing well in school. Really well — better than he has in a while. There’s been a delightful lull in ghost appearances for the last few weeks. The living don’t know why, but Danny does. The Winter Truce always calms the dead down for a while, something about how the Zone cleanses itself twice a mortal year and that fresh wave of ecto clears out the old and brings in the new. 

This year Danny got to participate. He’s feeling the effects of it too, and he’s been sleeping consistently well for the first time since the accident. 

It’ll never happen again. 

His parents agree under the condition that he doesn’t stay up late, and Danny harmlessly lies through his teeth and agrees. He goes and throws overnight clothes into his school backpack, and when he leaves for school with Jazz his parents are already departed into the lab. 

The last conversation he has with his sister is in her car on the drive to school. Inane, mindless conversation to fill the air and pass the time. Jazz comments on how relaxed he’s been lately; Danny tells her about the Winter Truce. She listens in rapt attention. 

She tells him that she’s glad to see him so well-rested. She thinks her little brother’s been growing up too fast these days. She thinks he’s been too tense. Too caught up with the spinning of the world around him that he forgets about himself sometimes. 

When they reach school, before Danny can get out of the car, Jazz looks to her little brother and says; “I love you.” 

Her little brother’s cheeks turn an embarrassed shade of red. He makes a scrunched up, grossed-out face, but can’t hide the smile pulling across it. “Don’t be a sap, Jazz. I’ll see you later.” He tells her, yanking his hood up over his head. She hears the bashful, ‘love you too’ before he walks away. 

That is the last conversation she ever has with her brother. 

Thursday is unremarkable, passing by in its normality as it always does. There’s one, maybe two ghost sightings; shades lurking around in curious infancy that are easily spooked away by the presence of a greater being. Danny doesn’t even have to go ghost. 

Thursday evening is even less so. Danny goes to Tucker’s house — Sam has a prior arrangement with her slam poetry club — and the two of them study for an hour before they toss their textbooks aside and reach for the game console. 

Danny sleeps in Tucker’s room with one of the extra blankets on his bed, curled across the room in one of the bean bag chairs. It shouldn’t be comfortable, but to Danny it is. He sleeps throughout the night, the portal shut down by his parents before they’d gone to bed. 

Early Friday morning, before the sun has even risen yet, before it’s even so much as a concept to grace the horizon, the water heater breaks again. It was supposed to be fixed. 

Carbon monoxide is a silent killer. Odorless and scentless, it kills within minutes. It fills the house like a shadow casting over the ground, creeping into the rooms. 

Danny’s family die in their sleep; painless and unaware. 

It’s not Jack Fenton’s fault. He didn’t mean to.  

Nobody wakes up with their alarms. 

Danny wakes up to Tucker Foley’s alarm on Friday morning, and he turns his head intangible and shoves it into the beanbag chair like an ostrich hiding its head in the sand. Tucker gets up before him, and throws a pillow at him as he reaches for the alarm. 

There’s laughter, messing around. The both of them get dressed, and Danny has breakfast with the Foleys that morning. He takes the bus to school with Tucker, and they meet Sam by their lockers. 

To him, everything is as normal as it should be. There are no ghosts for him to fight right now, school is as school does, and he’s on top of all his schoolwork. 

He does not see Jazz at all that morning, he doesn’t notice. Their schedules are so different, their routes on different paths, that it’s not uncommon for Danny to not see Jazz until he gets home some days. That’s if there’s no ghost attacks. 

At lunch, he gets approached by her friends. Worried creases between their brows, they ask him if he’s seen Jazz. She hasn’t shown up to any of her classes. She’s not answering their texts. It’s unprecedented of her; unheard of. 

Danny doesn’t admit to the concern that swells in his gut when they tell him this. He shrugs at them, and says he hasn’t seen her either. But it was probably nothing to worry about; she might just be sick and sleeping it off. 

He offers to text her and let them know if he gets a response, and that seems to ease her friends enough that they shuffle away in uncertainty. He keeps his word, and does exactly that. He pulls out his phone and opens her contact, and shoots her a message.

‘Where are you?’ 

He doesn’t get a response back, Danny is left on sent. He puts his phone in his pocket, and with a sense of unease creeping in the back of his mind, goes on with his day. He gets no response by the time the final bell rings; and he tries not to be worried. 

The house is quiet when he opens the door. Unusually quiet. He drops his backpack to the floor, it lands with a hearty thunk, and begins to take off his jacket. “Mom! Dad!” He yells. He hangs it up, and slips his shoes from his feet. “Jazz skipped school today!”

A laughable untruth that would get his sister all riled up normally; she should be able to hear him from the front door if she was in her room. The house just stays dead silent. 

He can’t even hear the usual banging and crashing from the lab. His unease returns. He reaches for the intercom that leads directly down to the basement, and presses the button to turn it on. A burst of static, and then he speaks;

“Mom? Dad?” 

Danny lets go, and waits for a response. He gets none back. That never happens, not when the house is this quiet. Not when he knows they should’ve heard him. 

Something sickly and fearful borns in the pit of his stomach, and begins to snake upward. He heads for the lab. The cool metal of the door is familiar in the grooves of his hand, and he doesn’t even need to think about the code as he punches it in;  he simply lets muscle memory guide him. It’s been the same since he was little. 

The door hisses as the pressure is released, and he swings the door open. He takes the stairs down two at a time. Something is wrong. His parents aren’t answering him. His feet pound against the metal. 

“Mom? Dad?” He calls again, more worried, more frantic. More scared. His voice echoes down the stairwell, and he reaches the bottom before it’s fully faded. The lab is empty. The portal is still shut down. 

It was four in the afternoon, they should still be down here. 

Danny races back upstairs, fear-raised nausea coiling in his throat. “This isn’t funny you guys!” He yells when he reaches the top, shoving open the door with more force than necessary. His head swims, his voice cracked. 

He checks the garage, the car is still there. 

“Mom!? Dad!” His voice bellows out throughout the first floor, loud enough that it bounces back at him and rings against his ears. He’s never raised his voice this much — mom would scold him if she heard him. But she doesn’t show up. “Jazmine!” 

Finally, he goes upstairs, and he can’t tell if what he’s feeling is anger or terror. Something is very, very wrong. 

He swings the door of his parents’ rooms open first, and there they are, with the lights still off and the curtains still drawn. As if they hadn’t left their bed all day. Some of Danny’s fear lifts from his shoulders just by the sight of them, but he’s still trembling. Something is still wrong — the room smells… off. Not good, not bad. Just… off. 

He swallows dryly, his throat still thick, and steps into the room. “Mom, dad?” They do not stir. “Didn’t you guys hear me yelling?” 

There is only room static. Danny’s heart shrivels in his chest with a tenfold return of terror, he feels ill. He remembers, just now, that they’re not heavy sleepers, and his dad should be snoring like a freight house. 

Danny reaches their bedside in seconds, hand outstretching for the covers, “Momma? Dad?”

Not all deaths are created equal. 

But many of them are accidental. Unmeditated. Shocking.

Danny Fenton finds his family dead in his childhood home. He runs to his neighbors in hysterics, inconsolable, in tears. Nine-one-one is called, but there is nothing that can be done. They were dead for hours by the time Daniel Fenton returned home. 

He sits on the front steps of the neighbor’s house beside FentonWorks, his jeans slowly becoming wet from the snow that was unable to be scraped off, and watches the paramedics cart out his family beneath white sheets. There are police cars blocking off the street, yellow tape blocking off his house, red-blue lights lighting up the block, an ambulance on the scene. He is wrapped in a shock blanket, and he is missing his jacket and his shoes. His tears are freezing onto his face, he can’t feel the chill. 

Not all deaths are created equal

But all of them are unforgettable. 

[icewindandboringhorror]

I made a few new wax seal stamps out of clay (like the ones I did for my worldbuilding stuff forever ago), this time just of random symbols that I thought might look good done in the style of painting over the raised part of the wax or etc. :0c Some of them aren't carved deep enough to really show up that well, but overall they worked okay for being clay lol

[last-starry-sky]

kinktober day 1 - dirty talk

gaz x f!reader

[MDNI - NSFW - MIND THE WARNINGS: 1k, dirty talk, piv sex, doggy-style, fingering, nipple-play, a wee bit of scratching by reader, clothed sex.]

tag list (lmk if you'd like to be added!): @slut-lmao, @mishaglass

It started simple enough. 

“Like that, don’t you?” he whispers, tucked into the crook of your neck one night as he rolls his hips smooth and precise, dick nailing exactly the spot you need. It sends you wailing back against the sheets. You lay there, taking it, so close to your peak, that you’re unable even to grab up at your boyfriend’s shoulders. Babbling, begging yes yes kyle yes as you clench around him, falling over that blissfully high peak. 

“So pretty like this,” he tells you the next night as he takes you from behind. You’ve already fallen forward, unable to withstand the power of his thrusts. You moan into the sheets, brain gone. You’re rocking back and forth with the bed as you take everything the solid unit of a man behind you can give. His hands glide down your sweat-slicked back until he’s draped over you while still pistoning his cock in and out of your sore, slicked hole. His cock thuds into you at the new, shallower angle as he says to himself, “Good little pussy. Made for me,” right in your ear. 

“Get this wet just thinkin’ of me?” he says the next day, smooth as silk, hands dipped down the front of your leggings the moment he walked in the door. You relax back into him with a whine as he works swiftly, one hand pulling your panties to the side, the other diving straight to your leaking core. He lets out a huff of that nicotine laced breath that drives you wild, pumping his fingers in and out while you twine around him. Your leg spreads to give him all the room he needs, hooking your foot around his calf. You reach your arm back, blindly grasping until you feel your fingers trail up the side of his neck. His jaw clenches under your hand as you pull his face forward and down, aching, begging for a kiss. He twirls his thumb around your clit as your lips press the barest of kisses to his, forcing a whimpering moan followed by a please kyle please.

You don’t mind it. Hell, how could you? You love your boyfriend and the sex is amazing regardless. I just feels like I came out of left-field. Kyle having been more than content with the usual grunts and groans, maybe a quick, cut off instruction if needed. That’s what you’d grown used to. Nothing more than what was needed. He communicated, just wasn’t vocal. 

Eventually, curiosity got the better of you.

“So,” you asked one dark, quiet night, laying in his lap while the end of some boring war movie he had picked out played out in front of you, “mind if I ask why you’ve gotten so-”

He cuts you off with one warm hand, snaking suddenly up to grasp your cold breast under your thin shirt. You gasp as he massages his large fingers in the soft flesh. It only takes a brush of the pad of his thumb, skin worn rough from work, over your nipple to have you writhing. His other hand holds your hips to his, touch gentle by comparison.

“Wha’s that, love?” he has the audacity to huff cooly in your ear while bucking ever so slowly against the plush of your ass as his erection becomes more and more evident.

“Kyle!” you cry, the crack of simulated gunfire from the TV burying your voice.

The hand on your hip is rucking down your shorts before you can say anything else. You do the rest of the work, kicking them down your legs while Kyle zeros in on his goal. Two thick fingers swirl around your clit while his hand on your chest pulls up your shirt as he reaches for your other breast. He leaves your first nipple, aching and red, exposed to the cool air as he twists the second between his forefinger and thumb. 

You arch back as much as you can while trapped in his embrace, pleading and crying as he plays with you. His fingers press and swirl on your clit, agonizingly slow but in just the right place. Your pussy throbs and pulses, making a sloppy wet mess over his hand as he draws you closer and closer to orgasm. 

“Please Kyle!” you cry out, begging for mercy as he tweaks your nipple especially hard. 

“Love seeing you like this,” he mumbles into your temple with a kiss, absolutely lost in playing your body like the shrieking, weeping instrument it is. The ending theme of the movie is playing. A slow, sad instrumental as the credits roll. If it wasn’t for the cock rocking against your thigh, you’d believe he wasn’t affected at all by what he was doing, solely focused on your pleasure.

Your hands are clawing at whatever they can reach. His arms. His hands. They never stop. You can dent his skin with your nails, scratch and leave bloody welts, but he only presses his head to yours, cooing and shushing you as you wail and writhe.  

“Got so wet when I started talking dirty,” he finally answers you, threading his fingers to either side of your clit to hold it tight, palming it in the curl of that strong hand of his. The motion makes you bite your lip until you taste blood. “Can feel it. Feel you clench ‘n squirm, just like now,” he breaths out, bringing the hand on your chest down to your pussy. 

He only gets two fingers in before he’s lost completely, moaning and babbling in your ear. “God, you’re so wet. Make me a fuckin’ lucky man, you know that? Lovely fuckin’ thing. Always ready for me. Wet n’ waitin’,” all while rutting against you in time to his fingers. 

Your clit throbs under his grip. You roll your hips in rhythm with his, chasing that ache, willing that dull throb to finally finally spill over. If he won’t do it for you, you’ll have to do it yourself. 

“Yeah?” he asks, noticing your actions, “That’s it, love. Get it. Get it. Cum f’ me. Cum- God, fuck!” He lets his forehead thump against your temple, whining as he brings the remainder of his brain power together on the task of holding your body to his as he bucks his clothed dick against your slick skin.  

“Make me nut in my good joggers,” he says with a giggle, tweaking your clit as he rolls you against him.

[starry-night-author]

June of Doom Day #18

"I'm fine." | Self-Defense | Allergies | Headache |

June Of Doom Prompt List @juneofdoom

cw: attempted murder

Hero soundlessly slipped into the room, softly closing the door behind them. It was nearly pitch-black, the door blocking out all of the warm, yellow light, leaving them in nothing but the dark blue shadows.

"Villain?"

The lump on the messy bed across from them shifted, curling further in on itself. "Go away."

"Oh, Villain, I'm so sorry." Hero moved to them, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I had no idea Superhero would try to pull something like that, I'm-"

"Go. Away." Villain growled. "I don't want to talk about it."

Hero let out a slow breath. "I don't want to leave you like this."

"I'm fine."

"You're not. You had your trust violated and your life put in danger, and it's- it's my fault. I'm so, so sorry, Villain." Hero reached out, resting a hand on the lump of blankets. "That was sick of Superhero, I will be talking to the agency about it-"

"They tried to kill me!" Villain sat up in a flurry of blankets. "You realize that, right?! They knew exactly what they were doing putting onions in there, that way they could've passed it off as an accident if I did die!"

"I know. I know Villain, I know." Hero reached for their hand, and Villain quickly pulled it away. "That's what's going to be hard moving forward, is they're going to deny they knew you were allergic. They can pass it off as an accident."

"Because they don't want the city to know they tried to kill me at a peace meeting." Villain pointed out.

"I know. But hey," they put a hand on Villain's shoulder, and this time they weren't pushed away. "I'm not going to let them get away with it."

[tankgotstuckinthecircusgate]

girl's honest desire to give moretti funeral business

[horatiocomehome]

ISAT is perfect for fandom activities, like it's got worldbuilding! It's got angst! It's got awesome characters and found family and banter! It's got ANGST! It has TIMELOOP! Did I mention the ANGST!

[starriegalaxy]

yanno when you've written too far and don't quite remember much of your fic's content cuz your mind auto deletes everything after completing a chap?

Welp, I might just make time to reread it this week so that I know what in the world I've written so far 🫡💥

[the-starry-raven]

@forestshadow-wolf @queermentaldisaster I need some backup stuff to help with writing Soap for my comfort fic- do either of ya (or anyone else reading this) have anythings- I wanna make this goodddd-

Also gimme lovey nicknames/unique complements if you got them, this one's gonna be good (or at least I'mma try to make it good)

[creature-of-the-stars]

Weeds Among Stones: Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Wedding Bells & Warning Lights -> read here

Chapter summary: Letant and Edith spend quality time in close quarters, and Vreenak and Jo get troubling news.

No warnings for this chapter.

Tag List (please, let me know if you want on/off this list): @wafflingchemist, @starrynightgardens, @bigblissandlove1 @deepspacedukat @horta-in-charge @romulanhorsegirl @darkmattervibes , @indignantlemur

I forgot about how posting an announcement to tumblr was a thing, so sorry for the spam if any of you have already seen this come though via email (@starrynightgardens specifically, because I saw your review pop up in my inbox 🥺).

EDIT - Gif credit for Letant and Vreenak goes to: @deepspacedukat

[starrypawz]

AO3 So this has actually been something I've had the idea for for a good while and so here's a rare dip into angst adjacent territory. CWs for this include panic attacks, smoking and references to Mary Keay's death and blood.

“I don’t know what to do with it,” “With what?”

“Pinhole,” The sighed word is a bitter pill and he wishes he had something stronger than a can of coke to wash the aftertaste out. 

“Oh,” Nemo replies. 

Pinhole Books has sat empty for months now. Largely forgotten, a benefit of London’s panache for anonymity probably. Although the occasional whisper carries the ‘tragic’ events even if the spectres of police tape, white clad forensic officers and news reporters have long gone. 

The narrow stairs to the attic bedroom that had been both have not sung their creaking song to greet Gerry’s boots for a long while. Not since that one cautious visit to collect what remained of his belongings and he dared not even think about even risking one glance into the gutted corpse of the bookshop, and he swears that wretched copper smell still lingers.

“It’s just… sitting there… festering… rotting,” 

Gerry sighs, looks out over the cemetery, the days are starting to get shorter, the air cooler. Entering what he will admit as cliche as it is his favourite time of year. (But then what’s the point of being Goth if you don’t engage in a good cliche now and then… like sitting in a cemetery on a cool early autumn evening) And this… this is probably too perfect of an evening for this but even as Nemo places a hand on his back and he closes his eyes for a second as he tries to focus on that he can’t stop. 

“Maybe,” He chews his lip, “Maybe I should leave it to rot right? Leave it there, pretend it never existed,” He tenses up and Nemo leans into his shoulder and he sighs. 

“But… But fuck I can’t… I can’t pretend it doesn’t exist, that is… was…” He sighs and shakes head and swallows down the words stuck in his throat and takes another swig of coke to try and help them go down but the bubbles catch in the back of his throat. 

He tips his head back, “You know what… when I went to get my stuff I saw someone,”

“Someone?” “Yeah,” He sighs.

“It... wasn’t the police right?” 

“Nah,” He sighs, “Unless they were Special Branch?” He closes his eyes for a moment as he thinks back, “No… I don’t think so, the shoes?”

“Shoes?” “Yeah… low heels but not the sort you can run in,” He pauses, “Office wear, looked… very polished, green shirt… guess she was trying to look like she had a personality,”

Nemo snorts.

“She was taking photos, sent a text to someone,” “Council?” 

He thinks, “No… actually she was an… estate agent.”

“An estate agent?”

“Yeah… I saw… a logo on something the back of her car,” “Huh… I mean could be the Special Branch undercover as an estate agent?” 

Gerry snorts.

 “I guess it’s a hot property right?” He sighs, “For sale detached Victorian style house with attached shop, two bedroom, period features and a foreboding sense of doom to anyone who crosses the threshold, sight of one really fucked up occult murder don’t worry we cleaned the blood stains up as best we could,” He grips the edge of the stone under his hand and the texture bites into his palms, “Could probably get a decent amount of money from it right?”

Nemo’s quiet. But by this point he knows that quiet is the sort that exists to let his thoughts flow as he listens. 

“Yeah… sell it to some poor bastard, let them deal with whatever the fuck is lurking in there… they’d have to replace those floorboards that’d be so expensive… and then I’ll take the blood money and… fuck I don’t know,” 

“It wouldn’t feel right would it?”

“No,” Gerry sighs,

“No,” Gerry sighs, “Can’t leave it, can’t palm it off to someone else…” He swallows and mutters, “Instead of the cross, the albatross around my neck was hung,” 

Silence falls between them, this isn’t one of Nemo’s helpful silences to quietly unspool his tangled thoughts, it’s one of those tense ones where neither of them quite know what to do and maybe he should stop here, have this conversation another night, or maybe never again. 

Yeah, It’s getting late, they should go home, just go home, go home, go home, have Nemo put their sweet lips on his lips before they go to bed like they did most nights now. 

But instead. 

“I could burn it,” “What?”

“Burn it,” He grins and turns to them, “Plenty of books in there, they go up easy enough, turn it all to ash,” He laughs.

(This isn’t his normal laugh) 

“Gerry,” Nemo shakes their head, “That… that has got to be the stupidest fucking idea I’ve ever heard,” 

“Is it?” He sighs, “Is it really? Seems the best fucking idea I’ve had for a while actually,”  

He laughs again, “Just burn it down… burn the fucking albatross,” 

He laughs again

He laughs again

He laughs again

“Gerry?” He just about registers Nemo’s concerned face. 

His eyes are wide, his hands shake, breaths fast and shallow. 

Shit.

Can’tbreathe

Nemo swallows, and once again he witnesses them slip into instincts from a past life. They urge him to look at them, place his hand on the arm, see how soft the fabric of this hoodie is, ok take a breath in, hold it, hold it, now out, easy slow… now again… again… see you’re ok you’re ok again, it’s just us here, nothing can hurt you, you’re safe, you’re safe. 

“Fuck,” Gerry sighs, and lightly presses his forehead to theirs, “Thanks,” 

Nemo rubs his back and he groans softly as he realises just how tense he is. And oh here comes that tension in his jaw again, ow fuck. 

He reaches in his pocket for a cigarette and a lighter, 

“Shit… still shaky need-”

Nemo steps in, and takes a drag on the cigarette once they’ve lit it. 

“Hey… no that’s fair,” He chuckles weakly before Nemo slips it into his mouth. 

Nemo leans into his shoulder and he watches as the too perfect of an evening for something like this takes hold. 

“Fuck,” He sighs, cigarette between his fingers, “This is becoming a really big fucking problem,” 

[creatively-cosmic]

im twenty four pages deep into a slideshow of trying to document the full timeline of where every pokemon game falls in missing numbers and i havent even started writing notes yet

[astrxealis]

sorry to ffxivlovepost always anyway Man the way the devs & game did so good in making an mc that is Basically a blank-slate for the players, and there's so many opportunities to make your oc However you like but. the game itself adds so much story and character to that blank-slate guy. amazing

[asteria-argo]

I’m one more day of writers block away from using dark arcane magic to finish this fucking wip

[keeps-ache]

standing here in my star-patterned bathrobe holding a stylus while inscribing something onto my computer. it's wizard time baby

[shining-gem34]

6. What is your favorite thing about writing your current muse? (Any of them!)

Munday Questions || Accepted @etherealguard

Dan Heng/ Imbibitor Lunae

I personally like writing their monologues (actually I like writing all of my muses monologues). I do imagine during their downtime, they tend to think a lot, and they tend to overthink it when it comes to their emotions.

Dan Heng, when not focused on his archive duties, tries to process his emotions as rationally as he can. This is very noticeable whenever he's overwhelmed and needs time to sort out what he's feeling. Though, whatever conclusion he came up with tends to be logical and in the correct path that is best for everyone including himself.

Others might say he is running away.

In the case of Imbibitor Lunae...

It's a bit more complicated, because he was reborn every few centuries to lead his people and strive to uphold the Xianzhou ideology by eliminating the Plague Author remnants. He has to put the needs of others before his own; raised to become the perfect High Elder just like his predecessors were.

Yes, IL has his rebellious moments of spurning the Preceptors away and does as he wishes out of spite.

So what does IL think about?

He thinks about the world outside of the four walls of his office, of his room, and of his garden fences. A world so vast that IL longs to see it once instead of reading stories about it.

But he is an High Elder, his duty is to the Luofu and not some wild adventurer.

Yet it all changes when he meets his friends and later they became known as the High Cloud Quintet.

A constant conflict between his own needs and the needs of his people. Whatever his own desire is, even by the inquiry of his friends (and lovers), he tends to answer what is best for everyone and not himself.

But the one time he was selfish, not as the High Elder, but as an individual, it nearly destroyed his homeworld.

IL has no regrets though.

Scaramouche/Wanderer

Ah yes, the brat.

My favorite part of writing Scaramouche/Wanderer in general is that they are a menace to everyone he knows. Next after that, I just like writing scenarios wherever he's traveling, he's completely chill with it. But whenever he meets someone, or is running an errand, he will be the bitchest person in the room. Like absolutely moody af, but he still does the job.

Next after that, I do love writing the complications of Wanderer character where he's struggling to come to terms with his past. The truth he discovered will never erase his crimes, he accepted that after attempting to erase himself from history. He's not sure if he wants to face Ei, Yae Miko, or any other of the Inazumans especially the descendants that are closely entwined with his past.

But, Wanderer is aware and accepted the fact that eventually he'll have to face them even if they don't know the true history. After all, he is not looking to redeem himself, but he wants to accept retribution when it comes to him.

After he kills Dottore of course.

For Scaramouche specifically, not currently writing but hopefully in the future, I want to explore his role as the Sixth Fatui Harbinger (seen as the least favorite commander amongst the Fatui Harbingers) but also!!! I am interested in exploring how Scaramouche explores the Abyss for the Tsaritsa and his daily visits to Dottore just to be experimented on.

And that leaves him in a bad mood later on that he does take it out on his subordinates if they test his patience. Huhuhu.

Rook/Mallory (My OCs')

They are not my first OC's, but they are my favorite up to now!

Rook (who has a multiverse)- I just love writing how he doesn't give a damn about anything, but he definitely cares ALOT and he's willing to go so far for his friends! Also his horrible fashion sense like ew who wears that bright ass green jacket or that a magenta sweater that is blinding someone eye just by looking at it.

Mallory- Angst where the God of Misfortune can never be with anyone and he brings nothing but disasters to everyone and everything around him. But also I like writing myths/superstitions that came to be cause of Mallory intervention or people started making shit up. :DDD He does have some funny moments but he's usually doom and gloom and wants to be alone despite longing for company. Yet he knows it cannot happen no matter what (if he does fall in love with you, you're kind of screwed. You got a 50/50 chance that he learns not to be possessive/jealous/suffocating, or he does all three.)