Thanks For The Tag!

Heyy!! Where do you get your motivation or the ideas for your fanfics lmao 😭😭

hi!! <333

ooh good question

to be honest, my motivation comes from the fact that I a) have no life and nothing better to do and b) that I actually have about sixteen wips in progress, so when I don't feel like working on one, I work on a different one

sometimes it makes updating unreliable or getting a certain storyline done slower, but in general, it works for me :)

and in terms of ideas.... to be honest I'm just hit with it at the most random times, normally when I have something else simple distracting the loud bits of my brain

For example, when I'm walking. When I'm on my school bus and looking out the window. When I'm sat in bed in the middle of the night and crocheting or listening to music and staring at my ceiling. It helps having a certain part of my brain stimulated for the ideas to flow

I also tend to ponder over a new idea for a day or two, refining it and figuring out which version of it I want to use. Sometimes I don't like the original idea I come up with but I do like what I made from it, so I switch the storyline around in my brain a lot before writing anything down.

And the ideas themselves can come from anything. A conversation I heard on the bus, this certain part of another book I've read that's given me a whole load of new ideas, a new topic I started learning in my history class, whatever. As long as I can pull a story from it, it works. And, honestly, sometimes I'm that out of ideas that I resort to OTP generators and the like. (Basic, I know, but it works :D )

So yeah, that's what works for me, but everyone formulates ideas differently. And as for the motivation... I only write if I want to. It shouldn't be a chore. It should be a passion :)

hope that helped! <333

Brothers

Lee, Michael, and Will. I always thought Michael was heavily into the emo scene as a teen, due to his anger issues and height. He pierced his own ear and lip, and tried to do his tongue but Lee stopped him. Will thinks his older bother is the coolest ever and wants him to pierce his ears.

I guess it's time to bawl on my kitchen floor y'all

-imagine Nico in the underworld yelling for Bianca "BIANCA! WHERE ARE YOU"

-imagine Lee's shock at finding Micheal in the Elysuim

-imagine Micheal perched up onto a tree shooting at the enemy only to look to the side to see his brother...dead

-imagine Will doing everything he can to revive Lee

-imagine the Stolls finding out their older brother betrayed them, only to blame themselves for his action

-imagine the Stolls watch in horror as Katie made assumptions that they were the traitor and Silena in the background watching the blame go to them

-imagine Harley asking Nyssa "where did Beckendonf go?" only for her to burst into tears and imagine Harley watching Jake start tearing up trying to explain he isn't coming back

-imagine Dionysus accidentally mistaking Pollux as Castor imagine

-Thalia constantly looking in the sky at Zoe

-imagine Alabaster walking alone on the street all of his siblings he knows are dead and all of his friends left him behind or were killed

-imagine Pollux begging his father to trade his places with Castor

-imagine everywhere Will goes, he sees his dead siblings and he reaches out only for them to disappear again

-imagine Luke going to Thalia's tree only to sob his heart out because his friend is dead

-imagine Percy going around on his b-day with apology letters because he blames himself for their death

-imagine Drew looking in the mirror only to see Silena

-imagine Percy in the middle of this watching every1 mourn, while he blames himself and wishes to comfort them. Only to figure his presence would cause them to mourn even more and this was because he was filling his debt of existing

laughing my ass off

Michael : When I was your age-

Kayla, mocking Michael : When I was your height.

Michael :

Michael : Listen here you little shit-

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jake Mason/Michael Yew, Apollo Cabin & Michael Yew, Lee Fletcher & Michael Yew, Michael Yew & Original Character(s) Characters: Michael Yew, Jake Mason, Luke Castellan, Lee Fletcher, Original Demigod Character(s) (Percy Jackson) Additional Tags: tags will be updated as we go, Minor Violence, Minor Injuries, Non-Graphic Violence, Demigods, Camp Half-Blood (Percy Jackson), Pre-Canon, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, gonna be a long ride folks, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Touched-Starved Main Character Series: Part 1 of ~ camp half blood before depression ~ Summary:

A fun little (BIG) fic about the life of my fav short archer Michael, with many ups and downs and all the normal angst and fluff that I normally throw in

aka, Michael's life from the age of 9 to when he's.... 23? (I haven't got there yet so don't hold me to it lol)

Very unfinished, updates will start fairly scheduled, but I will probably have a massive writers block and make updates sporadic at some point, so be warned!

i feel like we’re all little koi fish in the tumblr pond waiting for boops to be dropped in the water and when they are we all rise to the surface frantically

real patriots kill nazis -the graffiti on the side of my apartment building and also, what I think Michael would say.

he is a sleeping with sirens fan and sounds like vic fuentes. and i stand by that.

Dru: Kit Herondale.

Dru: the ladies want him, the men want him, my brother wants him, the Clave wants him-

Mark: for nEmoCRacY-

Blood, the Blood of Grapes

Fandom: Percy Jackson Rating: Teen Characters: Pollux; Caz (Castor); OC daughter of Dionysus; Lee Fletcher; Will Solace

Summary: The maenads, the raving-ones, the noise-makers. They had always loved the Children of Dionysus. Sometimes his children loved them back. (The youngest member of Cabin 12 is called like a fey to the revels in the wood)

CW: minor threat of cannibalism; blood imagery

A/N: Agatha is 11 here. Caz and Pollux are Scottish

Theo had been at camp three months before she dared to ask about the music. 

It was faint at first, lone notes snatched on the winds gone the moment she stood still to listen. 

She went to bed with it in her ears, rose with it on her tongue. It papered her skin with gooseflesh.

Then came cymbals. In the rustle of leaves, the salt-brine waves, the knives and forks at dinner. 

At night she heard laughter. The other cabins perhaps. But when she pressed her nose against the cold glass of her window it was only dark. The stars above swilled wine-drunk and gold. 

It grew louder. Like feet under the hills, like the thud of swords against leather, like the thump-beat-thump of her own heart.  

She rose early, one morning, mouth metallic, jaw aching for the taste of strawberries and found the satyr cross-hoofed cradling Pan’s reeds to his lips. He winked, a wild eye, and she swallowed his tune down her gullet.  

After that it never left her; sweet and strange, it poured through camp thick like syrup. She found it on her plate curled round her cup, felt it in the soil and the worm-dark dirt, heard it in the amphitheatre in the argument of voices, saw it in the long twigged hands of the tree-people as they waved to her, the pipes the cymbals the drums. 

The question fell like baby teeth as she climbed into bed. 

Pollux grinned lopsidedly as he tucked Bunny into her blankets. ‘What music?’ 

‘The pipes. The drums.’ She shook her head, ‘They chant, why do they always chant?’ 

The twins exchanged a look, one of their silent conversations she cannot read. 

‘Faun-song,’ said Caz softly, ‘Da’s followers. Don’t worry’ 

They double checked the latches on the windows that night, tested the lock on the door.

She didn’t tell them that she wasn’t afraid. 

The chanting swelled louder, the pipes never stopped. It was not enough. The pipes were not enough, the drums were not enough. The cymbals of the sea and the bearded bleats of goats were not enough. She started humming it, needed to feel it inside her, in her mouth, in the glut of her stomach, greedy, greedy, she hummed. 

It was not enough. Her fingers hurt, her chest hurt, her ears hurt. Like it was a noise that could not be contained, condemned, to be still. She wanted to dance. Wanted to stomp her feet like the music halls of her childhood when she was young enough to twirl her skirts and spin. 

At the firepit she grew restless. The flames were high, Phoebus’ children bright, summer was coming and everyone crowed and still it was not enough. Sedate. Quiet. 

She wanted to dance. Wanted to move, wanted to tear her hair and shout MORE MORE MORE. 

May’s nights were long and warm. She dreamt of bull horns and absinthe and grinning green masks. She woke with the smell of fennel. 

It surprised her, in the end, how long it took her to go to the Forest. But Caz and Pollux had said it was out-of-bounds, told of monsters. She had promised never to go in. 

But that was before the music. 

Theo was supposed to be doing chores. A Saturday, no classes. Just polishing her leather breast-plate before Greek with Caz. She was not even supposed to be there but she’d tried for a half-remembered shortcut, misremembered, twice-remembered. She did not remember. Because here at the greenwood edge, the music came. 

Her head tilted, as if she might see into the leafgloom better. Her armour trailed on the ground. There was laughter, spilling like a drink, frothed and loud and merry. It reminded her of the after-show parties back home. Sequined girls still in their costumes, men handsome and moustached. 

It took her a while to see the woman. Greenskinned and tall, taller than Pollux even. Ivy trailed from her hair, her wrists, her dress was fawn skin. 

‘My child.’ Her voice is the best of honey. It stuck Theo’s tongue to her mouth. She swallowed, drily. 

‘The music...’

‘Ah.’ The lady smiled, a heady thing, ‘You like to dance?’ 

Theo nodded. 

She held out her hands, a coy tilt of the chin. ‘Come. Join us.’

‘I - I can’t.’  Theo had made a promise to the twins. The forest was dangerous. (But the music, how could it be with the music?) The pipes the cymbals the drums were loud.

She had taken a step before she realised it. 

‘Come,’ the lady lulled, ‘come ye child. Taste and see. We will not harm you.’ Her voice was the voice of many. The voice of pipes.

Theo took her hand. They ran. 

A whoop. A holler. A cheer. The woods raised up, loud and braying, the sound of a crowd. 

‘Evohé. Evohé’

It was a prayer, a hymn. The clap of hands, the stomp of feet. A hundred figures ran, a hundred figures writhed. Tree-men and women of holly and fir, satyrs with rolling eyes and naked legs, red berry creatures with horns and tails, leopard folk and boys with the heads of panthers that lapped the milk from the wet dew grass. 

The trees poured wine, the flowers dripped with honey. The air smelled of tanned hide and incense, sounded of cymbals and drums and flutes.

They kicked their heels, they keened their throats. And when they saw her, when a hundred eyes looked and saw, they cheered. 

A garland was summoned, ivy and vine leaves, wound in a crown, pressed to her head. her hands were taken, pulled into the crowd, she span, she twirled. She danced like she had not danced for years, back when her mother was alive, when the brass bands played what she asked, when life was smoke and powder and brandy.

‘Sister.’ They cried. ‘Priestess.’ 

Theo’s grin was wicked. ‘We dance.’ She said. She compelled. And they did.

The pipes the cymbals the drums the feet the cheer of a crowd that loved her. They laid flowers at her feet, tossed ivy to the ground, and when she threw back her head and howled they howled with her. 

She wanted more. Needed more.

‘Evohé,’ they cried, ‘daughter of Ours, where do we go?’ 

To the mountains, the mountains. Called the chorus. To the woods. 

Theo pointed, there was a staff in her hand, pinecone tipped and sharp. Onwards, deeper, deeper. They followed, the crowd of frenzy, the men and women who raved.

Their song was the rage of animals, the tears of sap, the blood of grapes.

Blessed are the dancers of the dance of god

A goblet was pushed to her lips, blazed gold and gleaming, and she drank deep and long. Rubbed a hand from her mouth, speared liquid across her cheeks. They cheered. Theo flushed, hot and thirsty and threw the cup to the ground. Where it struck, the earth bled wine.

‘Sister. Daughter of the god of joy.’ 

Daughter of the god of noise

She howled, they howled, the woods howled. They were hers now. Tree and stone and root. 

That was why she noticed the fault. The crack, the break, the wrong-quiet note in the good-loud noise.

A spy upon god’s possessed

‘Stranger! Spy! Watcher in the Woods!’

For doom for deed. Smite til the throat shall bleed

‘Feast’ Someone called. ‘Beast. Lion. Spy.’  

Their lips foamed, their eyes leapt like fire. Their hands tore at roots, at flesh.

‘Bring them. Find them. Rip them. Lionspy.’

Theo’s head spun, her stomach ached.

‘Eat it drink it suck the marrow dry. Yes. Yes. Feast until they die.’ A shout. A whoop. A holler.

A Scream.

Part two --

(Part of a larger story universe)