#quoth the raven; nevermore. ( in character )

[briarsraven]

  this is a 𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐒 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 roleplay & art blog, for 𝐖𝐔𝐘𝐀, a multiverse / multifandom original character. with verses in 𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃, 𝐁𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐎 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘 𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒, 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐓, and more. wuya's story and character is an exploration into abandonment, a need to belong to a people or a place, and the devotion of someone given what they wish for most. 

𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒: twisted wonderland , bungo stray dogs , stardew , genshin , honkai starrail , PTN , dislyte ( all WIPs i lost my docs... cries )

content may include 𝐀𝐃𝐔𝐋𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒, 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐔𝐌𝐀, 𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐄 & 𝐍𝐄𝐆𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐓, 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒, 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄, 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃, and more. if i miss a tag, please! don't ever be afraid to ask. ( i personally ask that folks tag spiders for me. )

𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 & 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐒 will be blocked immediately. i also will not tolerate those who write triggering content and media including p*dophilia, or inc*st. anyone who does will be blocked on sight.

pinned art & banner art by svmk88 on tumblr

my activity is a bit slow. i have a lot going on in my life, and i struggle a lot with my mental health and physical health. so i ask you be patient with me.

𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐋:

utsubotm ( leech twins. twst. main blog, fairly slow activity )

destisea ( canon & oc multimuse. temporary hiatus )

chenqizi ( wei wuxian. mdzs. semi hiatus... very slow )

misericordiah ( fyodor. bsd. private, selective & very low activity )

if i dont follow you right away, or at all please dont take it personally. i like to keep my dash clear and not too cluttered. i'm also very anxious about my ocs, and and just as anxious about opening up about them.

please, respect my canon and i will happily respect yours. if my original canon isn't for you, i do have verses and am more than happy to work with those instead. if only to explore other avenues and types of interactions.

 I  am  mutuals  only  in  regards  to  threads,  and  require  plotting  to  write  anything  at  length. This  is  for  my  own  comfort.  So  do  not  get  impatient  with  me  or  push  me.  I  will  block  you  the  moment  you  do.  I  have  a  life  outside  of  rp,  and  I  need  that  to  be  respected.

asks and threads do not always stick. i love writing with people, i love getting asks, and i love threads. but sometimes im genuinely not sure how to reply to it right away. it isn't a lack of interest, i promise. if i'm following you, then i do want to interact and write. again, just be patient, rp is an outlet for me, and a hobby. i don't force myself to write if it just wont come to me.

please, if you write or interact with saccharot ( kae ), do not follow me or block me or whatever. likewise, if you write with kiingsroar ( dia ) or any of their other blogs, i ask you do much the same. i'd be more than happy to explain what happened and why i'm uncomfortable with these users. but please, i don't want them on my dash.

[corvicides]

" bite me? " wuya leans closer, wings resting low but close to his body. flashing the other a fanged smile- singular eye narrowed. " fae blood is addictive you know. i'm not liable if nothing else ever tastes the same- hahaha... " / @bathrys

[sajucaart]

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." ✨

A gift for one of the winners of my DTIYS challenge @myra_paints (IG) 🥰! I loved painting her character Raven. Couldn't resist adding some birds to liven up the composition 🐦‍⬛

[spectrumed]

23. Daddy Dead

It has been a while... Not that I regret this blog, I am genuinely proud of most of my previous writing, though, if I were to compile it all into some book I'd probably spend days, weeks, if not months, rephrasing sentence after sentence. I am, after all, an anxious fuck. Whenever I publish some piece of content for the world to consume I immediately start thinking of all the ways I could have done it better. Do it better, do it better, do it better. Perfectionism is a human flaw, and despite my autism telling me that I am entitled to identify as something of an alien, or an android, I am still very much human.

But, hey, here's the news. My father died earlier this year. Y'know that line by Camus? Obviously, you've all read The Stranger, so you are aware of how that novella starts. "Aujourd'hui, Maman est morte." And of course, as all of life is a long debate, the best translation is disagreed upon. But I like to keep it simple and straightforward. Mother died today. What's important is that the story's main character doesn't want to dwell on the past, he doesn't like to get all emotional. No melodrama needed or appreciated. To him, it's just the naked reality that he's found himself in. Maman is no more. A simple and true statement. He is a son whose maternal parentage is now relegated to the world that was, the past. She is deceased. Mommy has kicked the bucket. Really, no matter how we express ourselves, we belong to the present here and now, and words can only describe our reality, they cannot alter it. Why waste time with more flowery speech? She's dead. That's that.

In January, my father died. I could say that my father has gone off waltzing to the other side, or that he's with St. Peter now, but I prefer to say that he's just dead. What's important is that the individual who is half-responsible for my genetic heritage is gone. I will never once again get the chance to speak to him, I will never once again get to hear his voice, I will never once again get to think of him in the present tense. He is simply gone. He is, quoth the raven, "nevermore."

Am I sad? Of course I am. Tom was my dad. I am named after him. I am Fredrik Erik Tom. And Erik was the name of my maternal grandfather. I am straddled with two middle-names that will now forever remind me of two father figures that I have lost. Not that I really feel much animosity over that, after all, isn't that the purpose of middle-names? To remind you of some person you were named after, when they were an adult and you were just a newborn? If you end up dying before the person you were named after, well, I'd consider that to be a tragedy. I guess I have to view it as my purpose, now, to carry on the memory of these two men. And one day, I'll have children of my own, and I'll name them Erik and Tom. Though, it's gonna get awkward if I only end up only with daughters...

But this hypothetical child of mine, this daughter named Hecate Erika Tom, she won't have the same impression of these names as I do. To her, the names would lack substance, the real icky stuff that life is made from. These deceased men are kin of hers, and she might enjoy being told about them, but they are family members that died long before she entered this world. To me, they played an instrumental part in my viscous adolesence and, at least one of them, stuck around for long enough to watch me solidify into an adult. My grandfather died when I was fairly young, and it took me some time to become aware of just how much of my artistic sensibility I owe to him. Yes, I can appreciate him, and my likeness to him, even after he's gone, but my mental picture of him is still influenced by having once known him as a living and breathing organism.

I wonder if my child could ever know their grandfather Tom as anything more than just this theorical ghost of history...

I mourn. Of course I do. It is hard to know just how you're supposed to lament the passing of those you've lost. Are you supposed to be strong, stoic, and protestant about it? Or are you supposed to wear all black, weep openly, and convert to Catholicism? My world hasn't changed much since my father died, in fact, what has occurred is likely to be thought of as being for the better. My father left behind a dear inheritance. My sister will be able to take over his winsome house, and I will be able to take over her comfy apartment. From the perspective of living-standards, we both seem to be benefitting from our father's death. And he had a life-insurance! I thought only murder victims killed by their spouses had those.

And I know my father wanted us to inherit something big from him. In his final years he'd every so often talk about the things he were looking to leave behind to the next generation. He was very happy when he finally paid of his mortgage, seemingly just because he was now able to continue saving up more money. He never spent any money, it was blatantly obvious that he never intended to spend it on anything special. Yes, once he talked about maybe going on a long cruise somewhere, but that never happened. He intended for the money to go to us. He was never an expressive person, but I know that this was one way he could show me and my sister that he cared for us. And that is admirable, I suppose. But he was a cold and unemotional dad. Money doesn't really change that.

Yeah, my daddy was a difficult man. I never disliked him, but I often felt sorry that I didn’t have more of a connection with him. And, as his son, I was often thought to have the closest relationship with him. At times it made me feel so uncomfortable hearing others talk about my father with animosity, knowing that I was the one who spent the most time with him. Though, I can't blame anyone for struggling to cope with him. I struggled, too. But even just sitting together in resolute silence, like two proper muted norsemen, I think I got to know the sort of person that he was.

He wasn't a mean-spirited man, but he wasn't a considerate man. I think he could have done so much more to make others feel better, to make them feel more content and more happy, but I don’t think he ever meant any harm to anybody else. In many ways, I think he wasn’t equipped well-enough to deal with life. Mentally or emotionally. My father lacked that special “something” needed to make it easier to create deeper bonds with others. Possibly not aided by the fact that he had such an icy relationship with his mother, who once openly told him she never really wanted him, at all.

Was my father autistic? I don’t know. I want to say no. Because if my father was autistic, then the form of autism he had, it led to nothing good. I am autistic, and I like to think of myself as receiving just as many positive traits from my peculiar neurology as negative once. I think of autism as complex, and frankly wonderful, in its own way. It’s a smashing rainbow of diversity, with so many ways it can manifest itself, for better or for worse. My father just seemed so, monotonous. Especially late in life, when all he did was wake up and watch sports, then go to bed, rarely eating anything more than some bland porridge and a carrot. But I guess that sticking to one's routines is considered a hallmark of autism.

I don’t want that existence to be the one I have to look forward to. My father never really seemed to express any real enthusiasm for life in the end. I’ve heard that the seventies is when people are supposed to be at their happiest, but my dad died at the age of seventy-seven, and he seemed more depressed than ever. It's sad to think that your close family member died dissatisfied with life. A lot of it had to do with his busted knee. He could not walk, the way he used to. He used to go on these long walks, and he used to have friendly, if mostly shallow conversations with a wide range of people. Again, my father struggled with forming profound bonds with other people, but he wasn't a surly or misanthropic individual. He seem to have been positively well-liked by most of the people who casually knew him.

I grew up in one of those places that’s something of a bland mix between a suburb and a small town. It's the best of two worlds, and the worst of two worlds. I can't say I love the place I grew up, but I also can't say that I hate the place I grew up. Some of the folks that my father ended up casually connecting with were people that he had been roughly familiar with for a long time. They shared the same stomping grounds, they walked the same earth, they drank the same water. We’re never going to feel as interconnected as we once upon a time felt when our little village was all that we truly knew of the world. But, there is something to be said about being able to pass by some house you haven’t seen in a while and knowing who exactly lives there and how you are, even in the most esoteric and faint way, known to them.

“Oh, don’t you know that kid you once went to school with, that you once played football with for a summer back in the nineties? Well, it turns out I had a really good chat with that person’s grandparents.”

Yeah, dad, I am vaguely familiar with that kid, sure. He had really blond, almost white hair, and it was very curly. I remember playing football with him, though, I never liked him and I certainly never liked playing football. It is easy to regard your surroundings growing up as something of a prison, or the trial process you're over-eager to get done with. Most of the kids I remember growing up alongside I would never as an adult choose to spend any time with. They were dreadfully dull people. I am not sure any of them would appreciate me starting this blog post by referencing Camus.

My parents decided to move here. I did not make the decision to be born here. Now, I am not all that struck by wanderlust. I wish not to move to some other country or some other region far away from home. I'd be quite content one day owning a quaint little house, with a sizeable area for me to convert into an artistic workshop, somewhere north of Stockholm, in Roslagen, the part of the country that I am from. But ideally, it shouldn't be exactly where I am from. If I could move some slight difference away, say some neighbouring municipality, then I'd be most pleased. Like I think most people, I want more of the same, just also vaguely not quite the same.

It always felt like my father was fixed in place. Permanent. Actually, it felt as if my father was some damn heavy rock, some soul that would always stay where he was, in just that position, forever and forever. Stubborn. Inflexible. Unyielding. Like those glacial erratics, big giant boulders found around the northern hemisphere. Part of me is as shocked by the disappearance of my father as I would be if some ancient mountain where to simply vanish. Tom? Dead? How did the gods allow that to happen? Fathers can die, just like that?

But in his youth, he wasn't so sedentary. My father used to entertain us with stories about his wayfaring youth. His adventures in France. The joys he felt going skiing. All the wine and cognac he drank. That time he got accidentally engaged with some farmer’s daughter. In all his tales, he seemed like such a different person, an individual so lush with life and with enthusiasm. I was enraptured hearing these tales from my dad, a person superficially so passionless. But it also hurt. To learn that a person so close to you used to have a daring and exciting life, then things changed just as you came into the picture.

I guess that this post is coming too late. I could have written this when he was still alive, I could have done something to express these thoughts to him when he was still capable of responding to my woes. But, at the same time, I don’t think I’d have the same perspective. The memories I have of my father are conflicted. Confusing, actually. But only now am I beginning to see some greater narrative emerging. We all need that. Some story to tell ourselves. It is important not to fall into the predictable traps, not to make reality seem more black and white than it really is, but... Just knowing where we belong, in the great chain that is our lineage, is instrumental to finding peace in grief.

And, even if he was still with us, I never would have learned if he too had autism. That man would ever have subjected himself to the kind of neuropsychiatric evaluation that I went through. It is really a pointless question to ask. The state of my father’s neurology was something that I was never going to learn about, and I am peace with that. Some people are more susceptible to these discussions than others. I am happy to occasionally hint to my mother that she may be “somewhere on the spectrum,” but I would never have felt at ease telling my dad he might have some significant neurological condition.

He could have been autistic, he could not have been autistic, I might as well pick up a flower and begin to pluck out the petals, that might just be the most reliable way for me to find out. He wasn't the sort of person inclined towards deep self-reflection. And it is true that my mother's family also exhibits traits of autism spectrum disorder. Especially my grandfather Erik, the other daddy I was named after.

I’ve written all of this late at night, after I've had some wine and some vodka. In so many ways, I am a chaotic person. I’ve always struggled to get to bed early, I’m always at my most productive those hours of the day I am supposed to be doing something else. I’ve always related to odd and weird people, those who seem to view the world from an outsider’s perspective. I am not good at behaving “normal.” One thing I could never comprehend was my father’s capacity to go to bed, every night, at a reasonable hour, and to awake early and before noon. I longed to see some dysfunction in my father, to see some evidence that I was truly his son, but all that he hid behind several walls of emotional sterility.

My father had a secular burial. It was quite a lovely little ceremony. We had a woman doing live performances of some of my father’s favourite bluesy songs from the 1970's. His family was there, some of his neighbours, also me and my sister, our mother and her sister (our aunt.) And I cried. A lot. My father’s older younger brother also cried a lot. He looked real tormented, actually. I felt acutely sorry for him. I have two uncles on my father's side, but one uncle is much younger than the other. My father and his brother closest in age grew up almost being twins, only one year separating them, they were really close. I have an older sister, no brother, so I can only imagine what it is like to have a fraternal relationship like that. I had my father for thirty-two years, he had him for seventy-six.

I am going to art school now. I am hoping that I will be able to keep going down this track, making "fine art," perhaps one day even receiving some recognition for my work. Working with these things physical, sculpting and painting, it gratifies me more than manipulating anything digital. No, I am not bitter. I am happy with where I am. But I am also paying for my current education with funds my father provided me with. Actually, the last conversation I had with him I called him to remind him to please send me some money so that I could pay the invoice I had just received. I could have regrets about that, wishing that our talk had been about something more profound and less tawdry, but I don't have any regrets. That's just life. And money is an integral part of it.

I am filled with heartache, and I am filled with confusion. I am not feeling the summertime bliss this year. It’s been months, yes, but grief is four-dimensional. Grief doesn't care about linear time, it comes and goes seemingly at random. At some times you may feel at peace, then suddenly, you remember that your dad is gone and a profound sadness overtakes you. The complexity of your relationship with him doesn’t really matter when you’re at that point just repeating in your head “my daddy is dead, my daddy is dead, my daddy is dead.”

Grief is primal, and sorrow is animal. It’d be much easier to deal with it all if we were just a bunch of logical aliens, some cold androids, but we’re messy human beings, no matter our diagnoses. It really doesn’t matter, in the end, if my father was autistic or not, all that matters is that he’s now no longer with us, so all we’ve got left is our memories of him. And one day I will figure out exactly what kind of narrative I wish to tell about his life, just how I wish to capture all the confusion I feel when I think about him. Maybe it wouldn't be all wrong if I chose to focus on the good things.

Rest in peace, Tom, my dad, and I hope that you may have thought of me, or my sister, the very last time you closed your eyes.

[vera-deville]

Vera's Hauntober 2023

Day 15 - Raven (Lucifer)

10/16/2023 - 10/20/2023

Pairing: Lucifer x Reader

Word Count: 779

Warnings: None that I can think of.

Gender: GN

Taglist: @animusicnerd, @leonistic, @pyroxeene, @savanaclaw1996, @thequeenoffishburrito, @ellssbellss, @reshi-galaxy, @hanafubukki, @hitoshislover, @purplecandything, @it-happened-one-fic

"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary..."

You look at the figure laying on your lap, staring at your eyes. In any other case, you'd find the act slightly unnerving, but for once, his garnet eyes were softened.

Reading glasses lay in the waves of his hair, and you gently plucked them from his crown, and placed them aside.

"Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--"

He hummed, the sound so quiet and low that the only clue of its existence was the gentle rumble that his body emitted from on top of you. You stop reading for a moment. A second passes. So does another. No mellow-toned words. Then you continue.

"Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;" you raise your voice accordingly to the words you read, "And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor." The poem continued steadily, and he closed his eyes as it progressed, still, but awake.

"But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping." You smile at this line, and he hears it in the way you recite the lines as though you had done so many times. In truth, you most probably had, if your detailed and amorous description of the poem was anything to go off of. "And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door."

There was a certain rhythmn to your voice. It bobbed at the end of each line - a pattern. At the moment, he couldn't tell where the story would go. The imagery created by the words, so descriptive as they were, painted a dreary scene. There hadn't necessarily been anything to point to a tragedy, yet it felt melancholic.

"Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before..."

Now that sounded familiar. It reminded him of the times of the past. The memories from ages long forgotten. He had never been able to quite put them into words before. However, it was at this moment that he realized, if he were to have in fact worded his misery, they would sound a little something like this.

"And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!""--

Another character? Perhaps the raven from which the title was (assumably) derived from finally makes an appearance? And from there, it was nothing but misery in that story.

"Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."" You sneak more and more glances at his face. That was the first nevermore. From this point onwards, there would be nothing for the narrator but grief, longing, and sadness. Your lover, though eyes still closed, had his brows scrunched, and if you didn't know any better (which you did know better), you'd think he was fully immersed in the story (which he was).

You read through the Raven's grim words. You read through the narrator's sorrow. You read through the disheartening story, all the way to the very end.

"And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted--nevermore!"

Your reading comes to an end. A second passes. So does another. But this time, a mellow-toned voice inquires, "Is that the end?"

You smile at his question. "Mm, it is." Setting the poem aside, not far from his glasses, you lean towards your lover. "What do you think?"

Your breath tickles his face. "It was a rather depressing story." He finally bears his sanguine eyes at you once more. "Truth be told, I expected witchcraft. Or something to do with Mammon. Not a lover's passing."

A giggle, obnoxious in nature, escapes your throat. He raises an eyebrow at this. "Aren't you glad I didn't tell you anything about the story until I started reading?"

"Honestly speaking, I would have still preferred at the very least, some sort of understanding of the nature of the story," He lightly glares at you, "But knowing you, there is some manner of enjoyment to be gained from this."

"You'd be very right about that dear~"

"I believe you understand that coming from a demon, this holds significance, but you're downright evil-"

He didn't even need to look at you to know you wear a smug grin on your face with every ounce of pride you could muster. No, he could feel it. He would never understand just why you enjoyed such dark stories, much less how you could bring yourself to laugh at the endings of said stories, but he didn't care. It wasn't meant for him to understand. Simply to experience.

Author's Note: I am falling behind with this event, so basically, I'm speedrunning my writing fics right now-

Rest assured, things will be back onto track soon enough (hopefully sooner rather than later).

See you in the next fic!

Masterlist Hauntober 2023 Masterlist

[meemee-dot-com]

The most out of character moment EVER imo is when edgar allan poe wrote "quoth the raven, nevermore". Like he did NOT FUCKING SAY THAT. all the raven knows how to say is aaa aaa aaa!!!

[celestiall0tus]

Separate Worlds AU (Couffaine Twins)

Note: this is a first draft. All content here is subject to change.

Leave it to anonymous to light certain creative fires in me. And here we are yet again.

This will be a true test of my strengths, interpersonal relationships, trauma, drama, and the whole slice of life. There will be no villain like Papillon or others. This will be a story contained to the Couffaine twins.

Plot: the story will follow Luka and Juleka. Luka is a quiet, reserved young man with a slight chip on his shoulder from being raised by Jagged and always being on the road living Jagged's rockstar life.

Juleka is a quiet, yet dangerously bold girl that is an outcast. She is a closet witch and aspiring model. Raised by Anarka, she doesn't take anyone's shit and lives life with all the freedom she can.

Their worlds are brought closer when Jagged Stone stays in Paris between tours, and allows Luka to roam the city freely. Luka lives his rockstar life while Juleka prepares for a music festival with her closest friends at the end of the summer.

Characters:

I intend to keep this small enough, but may expand in time. It will all depend on who all crosses Luka's path.

As of right now, this will feature:

Juleka, Luka, Jagged Stone, Anarka, Rose, Mylene, Adrien, Marinette, Alix, and Alya.

On top of them, this AU will feature Gabriel and Emilie with Nathalie being the PA, but a piece of Nathalie's past will have had an effect on the family, unbeknownst to them.

Miraculous:

Despite no villain, the jewels will be active with a fun twist. The kwamis and concepts follow my AUs, but the tools/weapons. The tools can change based on what the holder wants (say like Juleka's peacock fan becoming a peacock themed guitar)

I'm still in the process of deciding who may or may not get jewels, but here's the line up rn:

Juleka - peacock

Luka - raven

Adrien - butterfly

Mylene - snake

Rose - dragon

Alix - wolf

Marinette - ladybug

Alya - mouse

Nathalie - fox

Extra:

Juleka will be in a band with Rose, Mylene, and Adrien.

Juleka's stage name will be Ghoul (going full in on the Hex Girl inspiration)

Luka's stage name will be Nevermore (quoth the raven plus reminds me of Paramore)

That is all for now.

[snowflake-of-destruction]

Send me a title and a pairing and I will give you the summary of a fic I will never write—

“Quoth the Raven, Nevermore” with EndHawks

The war is over. Rei and the rest of the Todorokis have moved back into the estate with Enji, Hawks has moved out, and it’s exactly what Hawks expected. That last point is a lie, but one he tells himself convincingly. He can add some platitudes too: those who don’t hope are never disappointed, better to have loved and lost, you win some and you lose some. Whatever. It’s a dick move for Enji not to even talk to him anymore outside of team-ups and only the joint missions he is forced into–which aren’t many since Endeavor is still number one and one with a flaming bullet now, and he’s supposedly still recovering to boot.

 Hawks runs into Fuyumi and she invites him to Todoroki dinner. Enji finds out, intercepts him, and tells him not to come. That, Hawks takes to heart. He wasn’t planning on intruding on Enji playing happy families. He knows how hard the big guy had worked for it, how much he wanted it. He’d never endanger that happiness, even if a part of him mourns that there’s no room for him in the picture.  But Enji’s lack of faith hurts enough that Hawks decides to see if Enji can still sweat when he’s not on fire. 

When he crashes the party though, he sees why Enji really didn’t want him around. The Todorokis have a house guest staying with them until she gets back on her feet, a fellow refugee Rei befriended during the evacuation, someone she had a lot in common with, another woman with a lot of regrets about both the man she thought she loved and the child she knew she failed. Tomie Takami, Hawks’ mother.

He would have said Enji didn’t need to protect him. He’d been thinking a lot about what he would say if he got this reunion. The Todorokis are to thank for that.

Tomie’s been doing a lot of thinking too, and they find that neither of them are as ready as they may have thought.

Hawks finds out what it’s like to be a part of one of those famous dramatic family confrontations instead of just witnessing them. 

After that and finding that Rei believes she's onlly staying with Enji temporarily too, Hawks and Enji sorting themselves out...Well that's hard too, but blah blah path to true love never did run smooth is a cliche enough quote to fit into the platitude category too.

[Come to think of it. This doesn't sound very Endhawks, but it is in my mind. Give me another and I'll try for a proper Endhawks]

GIVE ME A TITLE AND A SHIP/SOME CHARACTERS AND I'LL WRITE A SUMMARY FOR A FIC I'LL NEVER (NEVER SAY NEVER) WRITE

[thdramas2]

(Don’t publish if off anon) Had a trade set up 7 months ago and I’ve been waiting on the artwork — for a single chibi in exchange for one of my characters, mind you.

I’ve been extremely understanding and patient with them because I understand that life gets busy and it’s not always easy for people to create art, I TOTALLY get that. However, they keep telling me that they haven’t been able to find time to draw etc etc etc and so yesterday I decided to just check their TH page to see what their art style looked like again (I had honestly forgotten so wanted to remind myself).

They’ve been posting art left and right around the same times that they’ve been telling me they have no time to draw. Like get out my face rn 😭

I also have to reach out to them for status on the art as well, because they just don’t contact me. But keep saying they want the character still like I’m sorry but 7 months for a chibi is a bit absurd in my opinion :/

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

[gwen-lycaon]

NEVERMORE BAR AND GRILL

“Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before... Quoth the Raven ‘Nevermore.’” 

Nevermore Bar and Grill was established in 2003 by the youngest of the Lycaon lineage, Gwendolyn Lycaon, to combine her love of culinary arts and the macabre. Making her name in the culinary scene for her frightfully, fanatical style, Gwen wanted to bring her fame and feasts to the city that ignited her creepy creations. Inspired by her idol Edgar Allan Poe and best selling cookbook “Deathly Delights in Dining” all things dark and disturbed can be found within the walls of Nevermore, including a sinfully crafted menu to satisfy any insatiable appetite. The bar is located in Garond and is open to both human and supernatural alike. Word on the street is there might be talks of a second location coming soon to Droitwich

“Quaintest thoughts, queerest fancies- Come to life and fade away. What care I how time advances; I am drinking ale today.”

Some jobs in Nevermore Bar and Grill include:

Manager of Nevermore: (0/1)

Nevermore Servers/Kitchen Staff: (1/4)

Gwen | Head Chef ( @gwen-lycaon )

Nevermore Bartender: (0/2)

Nevermore Entertainment/Dancers:

Nevermore Finance Manager: (1/1)

Augustine| @augustine-lycaon​

(OOC: If your character would like a job here, please contact @gwen-lycaon​ for plots)

[derpinathebrave]

for the writer questions - 13, 25, 32 as well :D, and 36!

Hehe yay questions

13. What do I find difficult to write about. Well, aside from horror, I find it really difficult to do slow-burn past a certain point and soul-mate AUs. I also find it really difficult to write dark no happy ending angst, it feels a little "what's the point" to me.

I find it easy to write fluff. And i usually find it easy to write snappy flirty stuff.

25. A weird hyperspecific detail about a character that's irrelevant to the rest of the story.... in Finders Keepers, Sundown participates in street races in his free time ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

32. I really love Edgar Allan Poe and the line that always lingers with me is "Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door! Quoth the Raven, Nevermore"

Its silly but that one tree house of horror episode introduced me to that poem. And then I fell into a whole rabbit whole of Gothic literature.

That line stays with me because it's so desperate. The whole poem is about grief and the way he yells to take the sharp, pricking, stabbing thing out of his heart, that's just the perfect description of grief to me. Desperation to have it stop and leave you alone. But it never really will.

36. What do I Know.... I know that milk for a cappuccino should ideally be steamed to 60 degrees c. I know that fluffy warm things are incredibly important and worth treating yourself to. I know that people who love you won't ask you to sacrifice parts of yourself to love them. I know that even when you're sure your heart is breaking and irreparable, one day you'll see a sunset and realise you fucking love life, and your heart is actually still working and able to love.

[thenightling]

Quoth The Raven

In The Sandman: Season of Mists Matthew says "Nevermore" in Peter Lorre's voice as a reference to The Raven (1963 movie). The funny thing is Lucien has a valid reason to not recognize the quote as being a movie quote and not just the Edgar Allan Poe quote (besides the fact that he wasn't likely going to Roger Corman movies in the 1960s).     Peter Lorre's character never actually says "Nevermore" in the movie.  When asked about the lost love, Lenore, Peter Lorre ad-libed the response "How the Hell should I know?" The only time he ever said "nevermore" was with two other stars of the movie for the original trailer. 

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PvngX_-K-NI

[corvicides]

" maude, you know how i operate. " he frowns. " if you want me to get you these things i am going to need something in return. " wuya only says this to be a brat, she already knows the ins and outs of dealing with fae. either through her own studies, or things he's been content to provide her with. " tell me again, what you need, and when you need it. no haggling this time. "

@fractise / sc

[doctor-roman]

If you could add anybody to FATE in general, who would you add, what's their class, and what's the NP? (Bonus points for going beyond this)

Okay, so there are actually a couple characters I’d like to see;

Sun Wukong

5* Lancer or Berserker

AoE Buster NP

The only effect I’m really coming up with for one of his skills would be to copy his buffs on a targeted ally, based off Wukong’s ability to share knowledge with someone by touching wrists.

That said, I think to keep it from being busted, it would snapshot cooldown times as well (so if Wukong only has two turns left on a buff, the shared buff also only has two turns).

Edgar Allen Poe

5* Foreigner

Quick Support NP: Quoth the Raven

“And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor-

Shall be lifted—nevermore!”

A support unit that doubles as a debuffer/star generator/Crit buffer. Think Douman, but isn’t constrained by only affecting Chaotic/Evil allies at the cost of less powerful buffs.

I don’t know what gimmick I would give to make him standout from Douman (maybe targeted charge over Douman’s massive personal battery?)

Anyway, I think if he’s going to be a debuffer, he should be geared toward assisting in single target fights. Maybe some buff blocking, attack down, defense down, etc.

[ghstlygrm]

𝖌𝖍𝖘𝖙𝖑𝖞𝖌𝖗𝖒 ::: art sure no craven, ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore— tell me what thy lordly name is on the night’s plutonian shore! — quoth the raven — nevermore . retrato de lord archibald howard st. john em @hearthstonehallhq .

introduction . portrayal notes . character study . visage . interactions

[revenaent]

#REVENAENT.    omen of death / corvid shifter original character : jeanny torres , ind , sel , mutuals only . inspo: death ,   the   final   girl dies , coming back wrong , corvids , you've been cursed , this poem , resurrection , fluidity in identity , edgar allen poe's the raven , doctor who: face the raven , the space between worlds , russian doll ,   

gdoc.  pinterest.  tracklist.