send đź and i'll recommend a blog with beautiful writing
ALL. The blogs I follow all write wonderfully and fascinatingly in their own way, drive events forward (yes, and! rule), and even if I don't write to them yet, I sometimes really enjoy reading them.
send đš and i'll recommend a blog that makes me happy
@choserage
send 𪾠and i'll say a positive thing about my own blog
I like that my blog is a mixture of all kinds of things.
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apocalypse AU with @grcvityfclls, continued from here.
Stiles shouldâve known better. Why these revelations only ever came to him after heâd already landed himself in such catastrophic trouble would forever remain a mystery to him. Today heâd simply lost track of time altogether, wandering off further than he ever had before, landing him in a part of the city he hadnât explored yet. Equipped with nothing but his worn-out backpackânow heavier than when heâd left, weighed down by a handful of canned goods heâd picked up along the wayâand with his gun strapped to his right thigh, he had been woefully underprepared for what awaited him. And yet, heâd found himself unable to turn backâeach cautiously placed step led him closer to the danger lurking in the entrance of a nearby building.Â
Stiles sensed a flurry of movement from the corner of his eye, and a split second later, the rhythmic drum of footsteps picking up pace shook the dusty, weed-choked ground he had so carefully tread upon. All previous caution abandoned, adrenaline jolted through him, and Stiles took off running at a pace that nearly sent him tripping over his own feet, staggering on the unfamiliar ground. He knew that every glance he risked over his shoulder at his pursuer could put his life in jeopardy. But soon, the echo of footsteps behind him multiplied; it wasnât just one infected chasing him anymore, but twoâthen threeâand when a fourth joined, realization dawned on Stiles. Heâd come across enough FEDRA posters detailing the stages of infection of Cordyceps virus to recognize the Runners for what they were: As members of Infected stage 1, they couldnât have been bitten more than a few days ago, leaving most of their human characteristics intact, though distortedâespecially their eyes, which turned into horrific, hollow pits as the infection progressed. They typically traveled and attacked in hordes, and Stiles briefly recalled the warning scribbled across the posters beneath a sketch of a Runner in bold, red letters: DO NOT LET THEM SWARM YOU.Â
Not planning on it, he thought, running so fast that his feet barely touched the pavement as he wove through a line of abandoned cars, ducking between them to lead the runners on his heels through a course of obstacles in hopes of somewhat slowing them down in their pursuit. His gun remained tucked into its holster, rendered practically useless. Stiles estimated that his chances of landing a targeted shot while running full speed and aiming over his shoulder were smaller than zero. Stopping to shoot seemed an even worse idea. He kept running until his lungs were burning, ignoring their dire need for air. Rounding the next corner, the buildings that previously lined the streets suddenly disappeared, the city spitting Stiles out into the open space of what must have once been the ramp leading up to a highway. By now, Stilesâ vision swam with exhaustion, its edges blurring. His chest heaved with quick, shallow breaths that failed to provide his lungs with the much-needed oxygen. He knew he couldnât keep going much longer. Despite not hearing the echo of footsteps behind him for a while, Stiles refused to give in to a false sense of security, fearing it might betray him. If he stopped now, assuming he had outpaced the Runners, it could very well be the last mistake he ever made.Â
Thatâs when he spotted it: There, in the distance, a silhouette sat perched up on the roof of a truck, legs dangling over the edge with a carefreeness that Stiles himself hadnât felt in years. It was a split-second decision that prompted him to change course, gathering what little remained of his strength to force his legs to carry him further still, putting more distance between himself and the horde of Runners that he feared somewhere behind him still while simultaneously bridging the space between Stiles and the silhouette on the truck. But the closer he got, the more frantically the silhouetteâwhich, on closer inspection, turned out to be a young man with dark, tousled hairâseemed to be trying to get away from Stiles. He could hardly blame him; had the roles been reversed and Stiles had been the one faced with a complete stranger bolting towards him at full speed, his index finger wouldâve long lingered above the trigger of his trusted Glock, itching to release a round of bullets into the nearing figure. Yet, when the man suddenly spun around, dim light reflecting in the sharpened blade of the knife heâd drawn Stiles staggered to a halt, something akin to surprise flashing across his features. Heâd been so consumed with the thought of fleeing the Runners that he hadnât stopped to consider that in approaching a fellow human, he might be subjecting himself to an entirely different, arguably worse threat of danger.Â
Jagged, wheezing breaths billowed from his parted lips as Stiles panted, âJeez, dude, fuck! Put that thing down!â Hazel eyes dropping to the knife that still glistened threateningly between them, he slowly raised both hands in front of himself as if to demonstrate he posed no threat, remaining rooted in place despite his trembling legs threatening to give out underneath him from sheer exhaustion. A low, rumbling sound drew Stilesâ attention towards the dog by the manâs side, and despite the animalâs growl a brief flash of emotion struck Stilesâ face. Memories flooded his mind, images so distorted by pain, grief and loss that he dismissed them before they could take root and poison his mind with the ache of what once had been, but now no longer was. And never would be again. Never could be again. Focus. This wasnât the right moment to dwell on the past. âWe donât have to be friends,â He wheezed, still gulping for air. âIâd already settle for you not stabbing me.â
After he spoke, he quickly took in his opponent with measured precision, sharpened gaze assessing his height that allowed him to tower slightly above Stiles but finding that other than that, they seemed about equal in terms of size, build, and strength. If things went south, Stiles felt confident enough that heâd be able to take him on. But for once he thought better of it than to escalate the situation. To say that diplomacy didnât come naturally to him would be an understatement. Stiles found himself entirely out of his depth. âThink you can do that?â He asked now, one eyebrow quirked up in question, almost daring the other man to answer. Can you? But Stiles being Stiles, instead of pausing long enough to allow for his counterpart to actually answer, raised his voice anew, breathlessly spilling words into the silence that unfolded between them. âItâs just that I saw you, and you looked human-ish enough from a distanceâyou are, right? Human, I mean. Not bitten?â He didnât see any obvious signs that the man in front of him had fallen victim to the virusâhis skin appeared free of the telltale lesions of early infection, and his full head of dark curls showed no evidence of thinning. But there was no way of telling what may lie hidden beneath his clothes. For all Stiles knew he might be concealing a fresh bite underneath the layers of fabric. Time had taught him to be cautious, always, and his already wary nature had started bordering on paranoia over the years.Â
But right now his best chance of surviving, and maybe even making it back home unharmed seemed to have materialized in the shape of the man in front of him who seemingly shared Stilesâ wariness of strangers, if the knife still drawn between them was anything to go by. âI ran into a horde of RunnersâI donât even know how many miles back,â Stiles explained, his chest aching with the effort of forming words as his lungs still screamed for air. âAnd Iâm pretty sure I managed to lose them but Iâve never been out this far and have no idea where I am. Or how to get back.â The logical result of his circumstances and the reason why heâd chosen to approach the stranger in the first place lingered unspoken in the air, with Stiles tongue-tied by stubborn pride: I need your help, is what he couldnât bring himself to say. Heâd never been one to ask for help, not before the world had fallen apart and certainly not since. Being indebted to the wrong people in a fallen society ruled by the survival of the fittest could get him killed long before a Runner had the chance to sink its teeth into Stilesâ pale skin. Just as the strangerâs lips parted as if to finally speak, passing his verdict on Stilesâ fate, a noise far too close for comfort had Stilesâ head whipping wound, widened eyes frantically darting across the vast open space behind them. His heartbeat spiked in his chest, the simmering spark of adrenaline reignited when Stilesâ gaze caught sight of a shadow in the distance, peeling out from inside the last building before the highway ramp.
âOn second thought,â His voice sounded strange to his own ears, eerily calm and hollowed out by the realization, âI might not have managed to lose them after all.â
4. which muse of yours is your all time favorite? if you stopped writing them: why?
QUESTIONS FOR MUNS.
Whenever I had a favorite, I ended up quitting because no one wanted to contact with me anymore. Because at some point, people lost interest in going online, and then I lost interest too. Because the reason why I am here is writing stories with other people. Connect with them, create some stories I won't forget.
Or there where some kind of drama - and people don't want to see it anymore. And drama is a mood killer.
When I create a character, he becomes my favorite. Elijah is my favorite at the moment. But unfortunately, there is such a heavy atmosphere here, such a bad mood, that it's getting to me too. (But i also love my muses at my multi. I can't get enough from writing in the world of warcraft or dragon age universum.)
Stiles:  If  you  spell  skeletons  backwards,  it  still  spells  skeletons.
Dipper,  deadpan:  Wow,  I  can't  wait  for  Halloween  to  see  some  snoteleks.
Stiles:  Are  you  busy?
Dipper: Â Yes.
Stiles:  Cool,  listen  to  thisâŚ
Stiles:  Have  I  ever  told  you  that  I  love  you  with  my  whole  heart?
Dipper:  For  the  love  of  all  that  is  holy,  I  am  not  taking  you  to  McDonalds.  Itâs  2am!
Stiles: Â Mean.
Dipper:  I'm  going  to  take  a  shower,  I'll  be  right  back.
Stiles:  Why  are  you  telling  me  this?  I  don't  care.
Stiles,  right  after  Dipper  leaves  the  room:  I  miss  him  already.
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send me đŽ and iâll make a fake horoscope for your muse.
Friday, October 17, 2025
Don't lose your patience especially at the time of crisis. Today, with the help of a close friend, some businessmen are likely to gain monetary benefits. This money can overcome many of your troubles. Don't waste the moment indulging in self-pity but try and know life lessons. Love and romance would keep you in a happy mood. Business partners behave supportive and you work together to complete pending jobs. A day for cautious moves- when your mind would be needed more than your heart. An old friend of yours might come and remind you the old beautiful memories with your spouse.
Lucky Number :- 7
Lucky Color :- Cream and White
Remedy :- Applying tilak of white sandalwood will help you to stay fit.
Today's Rating
Health: 1 out of 5
Wealth: 5 out of 5
Family: 3 out of 5
Love Matters: 4 out of 5
Occupation: 4 out of 5
Married Life: 2 out of 5
Elijah let out a quiet laugh when he saw Dipper appear behind him in the doorway in the mirror. He had heard the other man enter the apartment, but hadn't bothered to hurry up in the shower. Had the other man not heard him? Apparently not.
Not one of his proudest moments; thereâs a part of Gravity Falls eco-system that he tends to avoid, and itâs not for lack of experience. But itâs been a lapse in remembering something from thirty years ago, and then remembering the trauma that followed it. Heâs regretting everything nowâwhat had been a peaceful walk and idle observation soon turned into a plummet face-first into a lake. And not just any lake, one that isnât easily accessible. Theyâre notorious for stumbling upon these things. Old habits die hard.
â Flesh-eating stingrays, â spoken to the tone of âI regret everythingâ. Their eyes follow Mabel as she rushes for the medkitâhonestly, heâs kind of surprised it has anything in it with their track record. â They more than put up a fight. â
Everything hurts. Moving a hand to his temple, he looks down at his journalâthankful itâs a fresh copy because goodness is it waterlogged.
â Honestly, I forgot about that part of the woods. â
