#I am obsessed with this fic and I'm the one writing it

[bomberqueen17]

wildly unexpected fandom overlap

so i admit i'm working on a fic maybe, because i let myself hyperfixate while i was sad/tired about things, as one does, and at one point i was like

aha this timeline aligns (sidebar to laugh hysterically at the aubreyad timeline. five books occur in the repeating year of 1813. one can do what one wants forever. but since i am bad at linear time and in fact that's where i'm mildly hung up in the witcher stuff, i do like to try to impose some rigor onto things, and while actual dates may not work, they're a good starting place)

ahem the timeline aligns such that a character who is not "on-screen" in the books happens to be out of the picture for the entire run-up to , and event itself, of the Battle of Trafalgar, and I thought, oh! I can put him there!!!

So I went through the wikipedia pages of all the ships in that action (yes i am normal and no i am not having some sort of adhd event why do you ask) and I settled on the Bellerophon for various reasons I'll get into later probably. Not least that her crews universally could not pronounce her name (named for some warrior who rode Pegasus? something greek, they got it out of a dictionary) and so she was generally called Billy Ruffian. Which is fucking adorable.

Anyway. The Battle of Trafalgar is notable for many reasons, not least that Nelson fucking bit it. (I did find it odd that in a series where so many of the characters are obsessed with Nelson there is absolutely no attention given to the fact that he fucking cops it right in the middle of the third book. Like.... I can see how news wouldn't reach them at the time but at no point does anyone bring it up!) But another famous thing about this battle is that Nelson, a wordy and pretentious motherfucker, immediately preceded the battle with this incredibly long and complicated signal, and I immediately was like oh I need to devote at least a little screen time to the characters reacting to this "wait he's hoisting MORE shit?" developing situation.

I shit you not this shit was twelve hoists to convey exactly zero useful information, and it had to be repeated by the signal ships, and he had to do it quickly so there was time to actually relay the battle instructions immediately afterward. It took four minutes for the series of hoists. I love this. (I'm not saying Nelson didn't know what he was doing, it seems to have motivated people and has undeniably Passed Into Lore, but it's funny to imagine it in the heat of the moment. Nelson's second in command is on record as having reacted to the beginning of the signal with some impatience.)

Anyway so. I was like. I bet I can find out who the signal midshipman was on the Bellerophon because I bet that shit is recorded. And sure enough. he's right in the ship's Wikipedia page.

I clicked on his name and was like wait I know this motherfucker. why is his name familiar.

John Franklin. No fucking way. No fucking way!

It's that John Franklin. He was nineteen at the time.

Anyway I was inspired to write this up and post it by seeing this post which is largely incomprehensible to me because I have not watched The Terror but I get it and think this is amazing.

[tagidearte]

My internship has started and I'm overloaded with doing historical illustration + writing a whole ass roman history of the region book for children, so... No time for finished stuff any time soon (except one I've already started and will probs post within the next few days). Take this quick messy shippy little concept.

If they ever got separate bodies, I know they would be touchy. Trying to get as close as they once were.

[djappleblush]

It's so frustrating how you're so excited to read a very specific scene in a fanfic AND IT'S NOT JUST FVCKING WRITING ITSELF

[lunarharp]

qifrey's birthday and silly stuff

[cuubism]

Déjà vu, Déjà connu

Chapter 3/11. 20k. E, Sexual Content, Secret Identities, Romantic Tropes, Developing Relationship. The "what if Eleanor was actually Dream in disguise" fic.

Chapter 3 - Eleanor, Part II.

The story of this marriage can't last forever. But Dream will enjoy it while it does.

Read from the beginning on AO3

[ cover image: The Kiss by Edvard Munch ]

[flowercrowngods]

part 1 | ao3

shattered on the cliff’s edge, trapped by the tides

— a steddie ghost story —

part 2 / 7

Soaked through by the icy water and the howling winds, and weighted down by shock and fright, Steve’s legs may as well have been made of lead as he, slowly, with a racing heart, accepts his fate and enters the lighthouse. 

He flinches, hard, when the door falls shut behind him, as if pushed by an invisible force, and he flinches again when a wave crashes violently. It’s almost as if the lighthouse is shaking with the impact, but maybe that’s just him. 

“Okay,” he breathes, whispering because he doesn’t dare to speak any louder, lest the unending darkness might be disturbed — and something tells him that it wouldn’t take all that kindly to that. “Okay.” Once more, with feeling. 

Before he can move and find an oil lamp or even just a candle to bring some light into this place, something thumps from somewhere up the stairs he cannot see. 

He knows that, just like ancient manors, lighthouses have a life of their own, knows they’re prone to moving and moaning along with the tides, with the wind and the water — but that was not the settling of wood or metal. That was something else.

“Hello?” he calls with a trembling voice, closing his eyes at the echoes of his own voice travelling up and down the tower he is being made to call home for the foreseeable future. “Is— Is anyone there? I’m… Well, I’m Steve.” 

Images fill the space behind his eyes, horrible visions of the old keepers luring him here to murder him, out of sea madness or cannibalistic urges, or just to have a bit of entertainment out here, just for a while. Other images, then, of ghosts coming to haunt him, to drive him to the brink of madness, to the railing all the way up on the tower, and watch his descent into— 

Another thump. The sound of a door opening, the wood groaning, the hinges creaking, everything insists the lighthouse protesting its new inhabitant. 

And then, through the pitch black darkness, a whisper. Travelling down towards him, growing louder as it comes closer and closer and— 

Steve takes a step back, his breath coming in shallow rapidity as he reaches for the handle and finding it unmoving.

Run, the whisper says, sounding more like an inhale than anything else — and is the air getting thinner? Run. 

Another wave crashes into the lighthouse. 

Run. 

The whispering voice is in his head now, loud for all of its tonelessness. 

Run!

Steve stumbles backwards, his body too frozen with cold and fear to catch his fall. His body collides with the wall and he slides down, covering his ears with his hands to keep out the noise, to keep out the world as he tries in vain for the fear to subside. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, hiding behind his knees like a little boy, scared of his father’s raised hands and his brothers' gloating. “I’m sorry, I mean no harm, I’m just— I’m here to fix the light. I’m here to make sure it’s— everything’s, everything’s fine. I don’t mean to disturb, I’m sorry. I’m Steve. I’m sorry.” 

Everything stills then — or maybe it’s the cotton in his ears and the staccato of his heart that drown out everything else and remind him that he’s painfully, desperately alive. And mortal. 

But the whispering stops, and so does the groaning up ahead, and silence falls. An unnatural silence, not even broken by the ocean waves outside. 

It’s like the lighthouse has stilled to listen to him. 

It’s something Robin told him once (or rather, debated at him while he was letting her rant wash over him in a whiff of fondness for his best friend in the whole wide world): 

“Ghosts don’t know your intentions, right? So it’s only fair to communicate with them. It’s you breaking into their house, after all. Well, unless they’re haunting your house, but even then it’s fair to assume they have been there all along and you either deserve the haunting and had it coming, or you’re just the poor lad caught in the crossfires. Either way, worth a try, right? If even those still alive assume the worst, I would think an eternity spent in the aether is unlikely to be beneficial to your judgement of character.”

Steve had waved it off then — or, in his case, smile patiently and waited for her to answer his initial question from half an hour ago before she went on a tangent on aether and ghosts and the supernatural; she’d been spending too much time in the library. 

“You learn a thing or two about haunted houses, growing up in a family such as mine,” he’d said, and then, “Dinner?” 

A pang splits him down the middle, regret and uncertainty tearing at him concerning Robin’s wheareabouts and her safety. She must be safe. She must be! 

“They say you don’t like— you, uh, strangers. The locals said you don’t like when people come here, so I’m sorry, but… I’m sorry. I have to fix the light. I’m Steve.” 

It’s madness, it must be. Early onset, although his father would have a thing or two to say about that, would claim it had always lived in him, would claim the way he looks at men is proof of that and reason enough to have him hanging in the streets. 

It wasn’t madness back then, Steve knows, vehemently, desperately knows. But this? Talking to a lighthouse, speaking into the darkness like it’s sentient even just a minute after he first set foot into it? It must be. He’s never been superstitious, has never been prone to ghost stories or supernatural appearances like Robin. 

But something about this place, something about the way it has been haunting his dreams, something about Old John capsizing is enough to make even the calmest man lose his wits. 

Something tells Steve that talking with the darkness is the right thing to do, if only for his own comfort. 

He looks up, his head thumping against the brick wall behind him, as steps approach. They still, right in front of him, and he’s staring into nothingness, almost expecting to make out a shape. Expecting for the next breath to be his last. 

Expecting… something. 

But nothing happens, and the sound of the ocean returns. The darkness seems less impenetrable as a sliver of light falls in through a side light up above. 

“Thank you,” he says, as stupidly as it is soundless, his voice buried beneath fear and dread. 

Miraculously, the darkness seems to fade a little more. 

Enough, eventually, for Steve to get up and dust off his trousers in an attempt to look presentable, or to shake off the residue of his fright — if only it was merely residue. 

Now that the darkness has lightened, he keeps his eyes fixed to the spot where he feels like he can make out a shape in the dust. Maybe it’s just his mind playing tricks on him, though, maybe it’s just the expectation of finding a spectre that makes one appear. 

Madness, he reiterates. But something about it doesn’t feel right. He doesn’t feel mad. And the steps never receded. If they were not an illusion, something created to steal the grounds from beneath his feet, playing with his senses to warp his perception of reality and the truth, then something — someone, quite possibly — is still standing right in front of him. 

He looks on even long past the point of impolite staring, searching the dust for a shape that only appears in his periphery when he moves his eyes. 

It feels rather undeniable, though, that someone is watching him. 

“Hello,” he says at last, having regained some of his voice and footing. His hands clench by his sides, though, his body revolting against speaking with an apparent ghost. 

The darkness doesn’t answer, and neither does the dust. But with the memory of urgent whispers still on the forefront of his mind, Steve is almost grateful for it as he carefully reaches for his bags and stars to move so slowly that it might almost be a mockery of the situation if his legs weren’t so shaky. 

The weight of an invisible gaze rests on his shoulders and settles in the bones of his neck. It takes everything in him not to rub at it — he has no idea what the darkness would take offence to, and he already feels incredibly lucky to have made it this far with his life still intact and only his sanity and his pride having taken a crack along the way. 

He thinks of Old John again, thinks of Good luck, kid. He almost asks the darkness about him, but he bites his tongue just in time. The stairs are steep and if he fell, given an invisible push, chances are he wouldn’t remain as alive as he is right now. 

So he swallows and feels his way along the wall up the stairs. When he finds an oil lamp, he reaches for the matches in his bags — blessedly dry — and lights it.

It’s almost blinding, the shine of the flame that sets to illuminate the way, but Steve feels his gaze drawn to the foot of the stairs where the spectre is still framed by the door. Still appearing to look at Steve. 

Stalemate is one thing to call it, maybe, this tension in the air, the weight of their gazes accompanied by the stumbling of Steve’s heart and the trembling of his hands. 

Steve swallows and continues with his ascent of the winding stairs, never once losing the feeling in his neck. He finds more lamps along the wall and lights them until they lead him to a set of chambers that in any other lighthouse would have been down at the bottom or even in another building altogether, leaving room in a large house or a tiny hut for the keepers to reside in. But none of that is possible out here, in the middle of the sea, towering on top of cliffs that already make it nary impossible to get here. 

The lighthouse is prone to flooding if the wind shifts or the ocean remains ruthless in a storm, so everything needs to be located above the threat of sea level. 

He finds two bedchambers, the beds unmade, a richly stocked pantry that will last him several months if he keeps it locked away from wet air, and an almost inviting kitchen. A burnt smell wafts from the oven, grown stale over time but a certain bite has never quite managed to air out, and when he takes a look, he finds what was supposed to be bread still in there. A coat hangs on a rack, another is hung over the back of the chair, and another stool has been thrown over. 

It looks for all intents and purposes like someone was just here. Like someone is still here. 

What happened to the old keepers? — That does not concern you. 

A shiver runs through him and he tries not to succumb to the terror that seems to lurk inside these walls as he starts a fire in the hearth. He is exhausted, adrenaline rushing from his body and leaving behind only apathetic tiredness and a longing for rest. He doesn’t even remember the light, his head filled with fog and exhaustion.

Once the fire is going and he is sure there is enough coal for it to last all night and keep him from freezing to an early death, Steve falls into bed without dinner. He only has enough strength not to retreat into a dead man’s unmade bed, instead finding new bedding and linen to make it his own. 

He doesn’t sleep on that first night, but he falls into a haze thick enough to be unable to move as the whispers return, knocking and hammering along the walls almost rhythmically, as if waiting for a signal. 

There is no time, they say, though he cannot be sure the next morning if he dreamed that or if he really heard it echoing along the walls. 

Run. Leave. There is no time. 

Tick. 

Tick. 

Tick.

And the night remains dark.

tagging: @klausinamarink @steviesummer @auroraplume @dragonmama76

[jonathanbyersphd]

nancy & mike or el & joyce?

Em, I invite you to my home for a nice sleepover and this is how you repay me??? (It's Nancy & Mike full stop. So sorry to mother-daughter of all time)

[moonrecalled]

WHY DO I WANNA ADD A BUNCH OF TERITARY MUSES SOLELY SO I CAN HAVE THEM INTERACT WITH OTHER RYOJIS

[isekyaaa]

I'm going to say again like I know it is really dumb to feel this way, but I finally put into words why I get so annoyed when people ask me for a part 2 to one of my works. Like I explained once to people that writing is a very slow and arduous task for me, but it's more than that?

Picture you are an artist working on a painting. You spend months on it to get everything just right. You pour time and energy into getting the perfect composition, the perfect lighting, the perfect shades etc. And then finally, you finish it. After a year, you finally finished your masterpiece. And your work is a hit. People really like it. But then.... Someone comes up to you and says, "Gosh, I really love this painting! But you know what? I love it so much that I think the painting is much too small. You know what? You should add on two extra feet of canvas onto the right side of your painting. That way, you can add on more to your painting and it'll be even bigger and more enjoyable!"

To me, that's what it feels like when someone asks for a part two. Like this last fic honest to God I started on more than a year ago. Granted, I'd pick it up and put it back down, but I put a lot of work into making sure everything was as perfect as possible. It's not an amazing fic, mind you, but it still gave me a lot of trouble. But eventually I finished it into a COMPLETE work. It's a finished painting. That's the story I wanted to tell in its entirety.

I get why people want a part two. I get that the story ends to leave you wanting to know what happens next. But that's the point. That's the story I wanted to tell. It's complete. This isn't supposed to be pure romance. It's supposed to be more on the comedic side. But when people ask for a part two, it's like they're telling me that they're not satisfied with my artwork, that it's not perfect and needs more work for it to become perfect. It's like they're ignoring all the year's worth of effort I put into making sure the composition, wording, humor, etc was just right. Not only that. I should put another year's worth of work into making it truly perfect. It's insulting and exhausting.

Granted, like I said, I do understand people completely do not intend to make me feel this way. I'm not irritated with these people directly. I know it's supposed to be a compliment. But like.... Maybe it's because I'm prideful but I really can't help but be insulted. It's telling me that I didn't do a good job as a writer.

[girlscience]

I hate getting into something that has a canon(ish) sapphic couple, but I only end up caring about one of the two women 😭😭😭

[sga-owns-my-soul]

ronan/woolsey for ship bingo because you're insane

i am insane and i appreciate this so much bc i always want more reasons to scream about them bc i'm SO insane about this ship

[neversetyoufree]

I think The Case Study of Vanitas is similar to The Great Gatsby but with a vampire doctor instead of a wealthy rich man in the 1920’s. And Noé is Nick Caraway, Jeanne is Daisy, Domi is Jordan…..it all makes sense!!! Do you get what I’m speculating?

No literally anon you're so right. I'm less sold on Jeanne as Daisy, but I've been mentally comparing Noé and Vanitas to Nick and Gatsby for fucking ages.

It's like. A somewhat naive young man moves to the big city for the first time. He unexpectedly falls in with an eccentric stranger that forcibly pulls him into his schemes. Gatsby is after Daisy and Vanitas is after his "revenge." Nick and Noé end up along for the ride. Eventually the eccentric stranger is revealed to be a constructed identity, more act than man (and on a meta level, his character is revealed as largely a symbol for a specific idea. the American Dream and the inevitability of death). Then that man dies, and the main character writes a book about their time together in his wake.

They're wildly different stories in a lot of ways, and I don't think you can fit Jeanne and Domi into the Daisy and Jordan roles quite so well, but still. There's definitely a parallel worth talking about in there.

[souenkun]

I am currently Going Through It trying to write a sexy times fic for a certain ship knowing full well that I'm just that rusty and not well-versed in writing those kind of stuff

[mushroomsie224]

Paused writing because it is taking too long and I need to sleep, and instead just scribbling down ideas. I forgot how fun this was actually. All this writing and planning stuff.

Wait what? Nox, you're PLANNING?!

Why yes I am. A little. My "planning" is just a little notes file where I jot down ideas not exactly linked to the current plot but to the backstory I guess? because that is very important to the story. Character motivations and whatnot. Actual current events are sort of a mess right now. Slowly figuring them out. But hey, I just started yesterday, I've got time! Rome wasn't built in a day after all.

[chiropteracupola]

got my heart right pierced by a pin!

[flintlock fortress is, as always, a collaboration with @dxppercxdxver]

[theresthesnitch]

I've been writing Jily for the past 24 hours or so, and it feels like slipping back into a comfortable pair of pants. they've got such a lovely dynamic, and they're just so easy to write together.