Welcome! This is a highly selective multimuse featuring OCs and a few select canon characters. Many of the OCs are fandomless and flexible enough to be arranged into other fictional worlds, but a few are fandom-specific. all loved & created by Spark
Hello! My name is Spark, Iβm 30+, and this is an RP and ask blog for a variety of fantasy, scifi, and historical OCs and a small handful of canon characters.
Many of my OCs are fandomless, but a few were inspired by or created specifically for fandoms such as Doctor Who, The Borrowers, and Dungeons & Dragons. I am frequently lurking, but pretty slow when it comes to responding to threads and asks, so please be patient! Below are the abridged guidelines for this blog. You can find them in full here.
- This blog is anti-callout and anti-censorship. I'm too old for this drama, man. Write whatever you wanna write. I will block anyone who engages in callouts, especially over fiction. I don't appreciate the vitriolic environment they foster.
- Please do not follow or interact if you are under 18.
- This blog is NSFW and contains triggering content including but not limited to: torture, murder, sexual assault, self-harm, sexism, addiction, drug abuse, descriptions of gore, and death. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, depiction does not equal endorsement.
- My tagging convention for sensitive and triggering content will be #___ for ts.
- I have no triggers and no notable squicks, but please let me know if thereβs something I should be mindful of in our threads for your own comfort.
- All art of my OCs is drawn by me. Please do not steal, alter, or use any of my work.
Please give this post a β₯ if youβve read it! Thank you, and if you have any questions or concerns, let me know. π»
Connor can still taste the cigarette smoke some days. He wakes up with it stinging his eyes and choking the back of his throat, mixed with bile. He's cold all over in the way he'd be if he were drenched in sweat and stepping into a freezer, a sort of plummeting-cold where the temperature does not bottom out at all, just falls and keeps falling. He fucking hates it feels like falling sometimes. The freefall of it all, the waiting-to-hit-the-ground, waiting for the sudden lurching stop where all the damage comes at once.
It's worse with people in the room. He always has these dreams when there are other people in the room. Not Alexei - Alexei's somehow escaped it - but strangers, people he does not trust the way he trusts Alexei (not with his life - he's aware that's not on the table - but at least with his health). If they're there he dreams like this without fail. He always jerks awake, a gasp in, silent in everything except maybe the very final edge of the gasp where he tries to swallow his own distress.
"Fuck," is always the first word, breathy and upset. He wants it to be annoyed. The -ck on the end sharpens in the space of the word, tries to approach it as he digs the heels of his palms into his eyes and drags in air and tolerates the hot feeling crawling up his throat and into his eyes (he does not cry, and never has).
He tasted that stupid smoke every day for a fucking year after and he can still taste it now, on nights like these.
He hates this. It's a pattern. He knows how it goes. He wakes up, he says fuck, he doesn't do anything, he waits for his heart to stop hammering, he takes a drink, he maybe - if he's lucky - goes for a walk and throws a rock as hard as he can at a lake. And he does not feel better. Connor swallows the taste of vomit rising in his throat.
This is pathetic, and he doesn't want it any more than he wanted it on the night.
"How's the storm?"
@lovedbyspark @ofyorkshire @copadjacent i do not know who this is for but this is connor. here he is.
Harry isn't asleep. He hasn't been the entire night, though he sits cross-legged in a chair opposite the bed with his eyes closed. For better or worse, he trusts Connor, and that is perhaps one of the few but primary reasons his men aren't braving a hurricane to find him. Just 'cause Connor won't gut him in his sleep doesn't mean he'll make a habit of risking it.
Still, Connor lurching from the bed startles him. Harry jumps to sit up straighter. Were he more green, he might have also reached for his gun. Instead, he reaches for the wastebin and flicks the cherry of his fragrant cigar inside. He'd not asked Connor if he minded if he smoked. The smoke detector sits on the dresser with its batteries spilled out. Aside from the hard crease in his brow, Harry seems unaffected.
"Not done blowin' yet. Just the calm before the storm, kid."
Harry doesn't know Connor well. Personally, at least, outside of their bizarre work arrangements. He's always thought the guy was a real classic detective; a little grumpy, a little broody... Hard-boiled you might say, in the most professional sense. Seeing him look the opposite was strange.
"You get bad dreams a lot?" He figures that he must, seeing the gory shit he does. "Could sing ya a lullaby."
"Truly, Doctor, you are the most wondrous man I have ever encountered, and perhaps the most well-adventured." Eira bent slightly at the hips to watch over the peculiar wizard's shoulder. "Yet oftentimes I scarcely comprehend the things you say. Pray tell, what did you say the name of this device was again? A... 'corn popper'?"
The name made little sense to her, but then neither did the grains he was pouring into the device. They were nothing like the wheat or barley she was used to, and she couldn't imagine how or why one would want to 'pop' them. Fascinating, though. Most of the things he said (nonsense as it may well be) was.
sorry for [remembering a tumblr post about expressing gratitude instead of apologising to make the interaction more positive for the other person] i mean thank you for having a boyfriend who was so easy to run over withmy car and reverse over three times maybe four
shoeprint bruises. shoeprint bruises. s h o e p r i n t bruises. bruises patterned like the underside of a shoe because someone did their best to keep them down, bruises that look ugly and describe exactly what happened there, that canβt be blamed on accidents or βoh i trippedβ, shoeprint bruises. shoeprint bruises.
Β Β Β Β Β "βHey. 'R you listenin' t' me?" Birdie leaned over to catch their eye. Usually quiet, borderline stoic, she was in full Teacher Mode this morning, yammerin' a mile a minute. She'd all but forgotten her breakfastβa generous helping of scrambled eggs, two slices of toast, and a bowl of buttery gritsβthough she'd complained of being hungry thirty minutes ago. "Hey, earth t' space ranger."
