#sparkstarted

[strebcrarchivess]

¶ + favorite season !

SEND ME ‘¶ + A SUBJECT’ AND I’LL POST A HEADCANON FOR MY CHARACTER ABOUT THAT TOPIC

Fall! His favorite season is fall!!! The weather is nice, great aesthetics all around, pumpkin flavored stuff, and Halloween/his birthday is in fall!!!

[oceanoecielo]

▸   @sparkstarted​   ⟶   ❛  well, i can do that. -Quentin !  ❜   ╱   (  before sunrise , accepting .  )

      “Yes, that’s why I like you,” Simon says, patting Quentin on the arm, “one of the most reliable men I know.”  Reliable men are in short supply these days, and Simon is part of that problem, on account of not being one of them himself.

      He takes hold of Quentin’s elbow and guides him down the street.  “If I need someone to help me out with anything, I know who I can turn to.  I really appreciate you agreeing to come with me—I couldn’t do this alone.”  Simon has been vague about his plans so far, just that he needs Quentin’s help, because he doesn’t think the man would accompany him to an Italian restaurant just for the sake of going.

      “Offering goods and services, aren’t you?”

[freeddead]

     @sparkstarted  〢  cont from here .

Gerry does not know how much he believes Lou about trying to right the wrongs he has committed.  It’s possible, of course—some of them are remorseful, but Lou’s attitude has been pretty flippant so far, and he strikes Gerry as more the remorseless type, a la Simon Fairchild.

“Really,” he says, folding his arms over his chest, his bright blue eyes narrowing to slits.  “You can’t conjure anything that you might have done recently up in your mind?” If they’re the type to not realize they’ve done something wrong, that would explain a lot about them.  “Okay, how about this, then—what was the last thing you went and made amends for?  So I can make sure you’re caught up.”

[freeddead]

▸   @sparkstarted​   ⟶   ❛  “Hey, Gerry, you got any candy down there? We’re high and hungry.” -Lou  ❜   ╱   (  fear street , accepting .  )

Gerry squints up at Lou, sitting in the rafters of the building.  How he got up there without a fae’s usual wings, who knows?  Gerry doesn’t bother asking him.

Instead, he ventures, “Who’s ‘we?’”  A reasonable inquiry, he thinks, if he is being asked to provide sustenance for a party of two or more.

But it’s not like he would, anyway, and he is sure to clarify that point as well.  “I don’t carry any candy on me, and even if I did, it’s not my job to feed you.  You and whoever can come down and visit the vending machine in the breakroom yourselves.”

[arletquin]

behave yourself, or i'm warning you... -Bianca !

          “   or what?   “          the harlequin,   now suited in formal attire     (a black and red dress,   paired with red latex gloves;     her hair pulled into a curled updo,   her make-up actually presentable),     grins wickedly but just contained enough to keep any prying eyes from objecting.     the two of them are surrounded by a crowd of elegantly dressed strangers;     the harlequin had never gone to a gala,   and had she not the brilliant idea to show up regardless…     she might’ve been upset she hadn’t been personally invited.

          she tilts her thin champagne flute     (oh so graciously offered to her earlier)     to the side,   letting a small amount of the drink spill onto the floor…     thankfully everyone is too busy talking about themselves to notice.     the harlequin brings the flute back to her lips and sips at the champagne,   her heavy red lipstick staining the glass.     a minute hardly passes before a man walking past them slips and falls,   to which the harlequin has to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing.     a handful of people rush over to him and pick him off the ground,   not a one of them suspecting it was a mean joke but rather his clumsiness.

          when the man and crew passes,   harley lets out a quiet giggle.     she slinks towards the batwoman,   now unmasked and pretending as   [bianca],     a warmly-buzzed look in her eyes and rouge painted on her cheeks.          “   you gonna punish me?   “

[ofteaandmagic]

Starter for Clifford @sparkstarted

Theming of rooms was something Mellie was big on, though this was for only for her personal use. Yet why not for The English Garden as well? For the past almost a month, she'd set about hitting various antique and home good stores to fit her theme, which was nautical in nature.

The final peace was put into place, an old compass that had been found in her latest hunt at an antique store that was quite the journey; however, that was what brooms were for.

Except a few hours after putting the compass on a shelf right adjacent to the toilet, she heard a strange noise, coming from the bathroom itself. "What in the world...? Was that my imagination?"

[troublcmakcrs]

     @sparkstarted  〢  cont from here .

“Seeing a ghost is not an everyday occurrence!” Tweek protests.  “Plus, the last time I saw a ghost, he tried to kidnap me.”  He also was not a real ghost, just masquerading as one, but that does little to ease Tweek’s suspicions that Clifford is also out to get him.

When Clifford mentions how freaky picture shows are, Tweek hesitates a bit and shuffles.  “You mean the… the movies?” he asks.  “Some of them can be scary, yeah, but I don’t watch those ones.  I only watch the nice ones—”

He cannot let himself be too distracted.  The second he lets his guard down around Clifford, that’s when something bad will happen, although what he doesn’t know.  “Hhh—why are you here?!” he cries suddenly, frustration mixing with his fear.  “What’s your unfinished business?  I’ll—”  He almost impulsively spits out that he will help with it just to get rid of Clifford, but he snaps his mouth shut just in time because there’s no way in hell he’s committing to something like that.

[troublcmakcrs]

▸   @sparkstarted​   ⟶   ❛  you're not crazy. you just need some sleep. -beppe @ tweek !  ❜   ╱   (  little darlings , accepting .  )

“Sleep?” Tweek says, looking at Beppe as if he has three heads.  “But I’m not tired!”  He has been kept awake for the past twenty-six hours by his parents’ coffee.  He shakes violently, and his eyes are bleary and bloodshot, but they won’t stay closed.  He has not yet gotten to the point in his school career where he learns about the effects of sleep-deprivation, nor have his parents told him.

“No, no, I am going crazy.”  His grip on his coffee cup tightens, his tremors coming dangerously close to sending liquid over the side.  “I’ve been seeing things that nobody else seems to, and—and my parents say I’ve done stuff I don’t remember doing!  So, what other explanation is there?  Gah!—they’re gonna lock me up,” he wails.