mosswolf
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Impulsive, easy-going journalist from the East End of Victorian London, Gilbert Morris, is having the worst year of his life. After losing his closest friend to a mysterious watery demise, he is surrounded by people who refuse to admit that anything occult is going on. In desperation, he turns to cold, remote Edward Alcott, whose business cards simply say seeing the unseen. It's the start of a lifelong partnership.
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- Part 1 of Alcott and Morris: Occult Detectives
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They'd fallen together in Paris, the first time, the four of them dizzy with dancing and dusk and each other. Nothing like romance, but much, much more than a passing fancy. Maisie didn’t have a word for it. They didn’t need one, between them, like this.
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Kim bares his teeth in what is nominally a smile, rather than a snarl. “Thank you, Mr Darling,” he says crisply, into the stunned silence.
Will crosses his arms, and glares out at the table. Shoulder to shoulder, not touching, not needing to. “You’re welcome, Mr Secretan.”
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“Corvin,” Philip said at once. “Have you seen Corvin?”
“I– what? Not since last night, no?”
“He didn’t bid us goodnight last night,” John said.
“Is that… unusual?” Guy asked, trying desperately to be tactful.
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- Part 2 of band sinister meets think of england
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It was only the reputation and the quick tongue of the Devil’s Lord that had let them get away. “What, all four of you?” the servant with the gun had said incredulously, and Corvin had grinned his wicked, wicked grin and replied “Oh, dear. I see someone hasn’t heard the tales. Why, four is positively conservative of me. Once, I–”
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- Part 1 of band sinister meets think of england
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Jack was still not quite sure how Darling had managed to swing them a shared staircase with no one else on it for their final year. "Interlopers, my dear Jonathan," Darling had said, "are not to be borne in this, our collegiate idyll."
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Bookmarked by mosswolf
10 Jun 2026
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gifts from a nameless wood by evilmageclub for silberkuste
Fandoms: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
31 Jan 2022
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Samothes invents the silvered mirror and Samot rewrites a cautionary tale.
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The story behind Neoscum is like something out of a movie. (Or, a day in the life of a rock band.)
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Tryst was like if you took all of Leenik’s worst impulses and made them hot. Only in Tryst they didn’t feel—dangerous. Or they did, but the good kind of dangerous, not the unbalanced, fragile kind. In Tryst they were the kind of dangerous that made you fun at parties, rather than the kind that got you psychiatric screenings. Tryst took the spikes out of Leenik’s free-falling self-destruction and made him think—infectious and certain—that he was going to land safely before before he leapt.
He was usually wrong. Which was how they ended up back at the Bluebird, at 8 am, two hours into Leenik’s shift, slumped into a booth. Leenik was tipped forward with his head on the table. Bacta’s head was on his knee, the rest of him splayed across the bench. He felt kind of weird about that—not Bacta in his space, he’d had that for five years easy as breathing. It was the six months that he hadn’t that was making it weird.
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“What’s the final countdown?” Tryst snorts. “Geez, kid, it’s like it’s your first national tour or something.” (A Campaign rock band AU.)