#Ping pong writing

[naturallyteal]

Writing Game: Decision Tree chapter 6 (final!)

>> Funny place for signposts, he thought. They looked very out of place, but these were no earthly objects. They each had lettering that glowed faintly. Past… Present… and, fallen and partially obscured, Future. << ~ (quote from chapter 6)

Aziraphale Falls.

But Hell is in serious disarray, and as he goes looking for answers, which is equivalent to looking for Crowley… help could come from an unexpected quarter.

~~~

This story was created by playing a Collaboration Game of Ping Pong Writing 🏓🏓, where two authors write chapters alternately, picking up the thread where the other left off. It’s a bit like improv theatre, and the story develops as we go.

~~~

For the details and rules of this game, Ping Pong Writing, see:


https://archiveofourown.org/works/51987664

~~~

chapter overview with word counts:

(~100): Abyss

(~200): Hell of a Day to Fall

(~300): Temple of a Thousand Doors

(~400): Entrance of the Angel

(~500): Hecat

(~600 ~2000): Crossroads

chapters 1,3,5 by NaturallyTeal, chapters 2,4,6 by Jean_kimberley

This match of our writing game is now final! Check out how it ends!

There will probably be other matches in the future, and maybe YOU can play one of them? Take a look at these three beginnings of new matches I’ve already prepared, maybe one of them makes you want to write the next chapter?

Tagging List under the cut

Let me know if you want on it for future posts of mine!

Let me know if you want off the list:

@echogracebeloved @oxribs @copperplatebeech @thescholarlystrumpet @simonezitrone79

@siriosa @captainblou @alphacentaurinebula @ineffablefool @ashfae

@fellshish @vidavalor @thindarkdukewrites @crowleys-bright-red-hair-streak @kimberleyjean

@dragonfire42 @lickthecowhappy @ineffablenlghtingales @turquoisedata @di-42

@dierama-mojo

[huginsmemory]

Like I get why human-Bill post canon redemption fics for Billford are common because it's fun to put Bill in that situation where he doesn't know whats going on and its a way to 'break' Bill into not being a huge asshole through learning empathy BUT I feel like also a big part of that is also people being COWARDS and not leaning into the monsterfuckery of Ford falling in love and getting it on freaky style with a triangle LIKE HE ALREADY DID.

[coffeeghoulie]

Mushy May Day 4: Wound Tending/First Aid

After Dew cuts his finger on stage, Aether takes care of him.

Content warnings for blood and mentions of injuries

Mushy May put together by the wonderful @forlorn-crows <3

Divider by @ghuleh-recs <3

Aether smells it before he sees it. He's unmuzzled, unlike some of his pack, so despite his human glamour dulling his ghoulish senses, he can almost taste the thick, cloying scent of blood. He keeps playing, just barely stumbling over a chord, his eyes darting across the stage at his Papa, scanning, searching.

Papa's fine. Still singing, commanding the attention of the screaming crowd with out a hitch. Aether redirects his gaze, looking for the source of the blood.

His eyes lock on it, smears of color against an otherwise pristine white Stratocaster, and his heart drops into his gut. His mate is bleeding. It takes everything Aether's got to keep his cool and not storm across the stage to the fire ghoul.

Dew, in his defense, has not faltered; his scent hasn't changed, still riding on the excitement and adrenaline of performance. Still, Aether keeps an eye on him, watches as that guitar gets redder and redder, dripping from the fingers of his picking hand.

He'd be more worried about the bleeding not stopping if Dew were human, but they're ghouls. If anything, the bleeding has only riled him up.

The rest of the show, thankfully, goes off without a hitch. After bows, Dew steps off to stage left as Aether goes right, watching out of the corner of his eye as Dew hands his bloody guitar to his human tech, the man wide eyed at the state of his hand and the guitar. But Dew brushes right past him, and Aether quickly goes through the motions with his own tech, chasing after his mate backstage.

Dew's halfway to the dressing room when he intercepts him. "Darling," Aether says, his hand wrapping around his skinny wrist. The sleeve of his compression shirt is soaked through, with blood or sweat Aether can't quite tell.

"'M fine, Aether," Dew snaps, voice exhausted and tinging on a growl.

Aether doesn't flinch. "Listen to me, Dew," he says, not unkindly, straightening to his full height. Dew tenses, eyes locked onto Aether's. "You really think it's a good idea to walk right into a room with Rain and Sunshine while you're still bleeding?"

They're both still masked, but Aether knows Dew's rolling his eyes. His wrist is still locked in the circle of his grip. "I can deal with Rain and Sunny, Aeth. I'm fine, lemme go. I wanna get changed and get on the bus."

Aether's fingers twitch around Dew's wrist. The air, now that Dew's no less than a foot and a half away, the smell of blood is overpowering. "Dewdrop. I have been watching you bleed all night, unable to do anything about it. Ask for it and I will help you, love, but I don't want you to go in there without stopping the bleeding. I love Rain, and I love Sunny, but I love you."

Dew lets out a huff of breath from his nostrils, the steam catching in the low light. "I'm a grown ghoul, Aether," he snarls, but it's weak, and Aether knows him well enough to practically see the way he's clinging to that persona, the stoic shell that gets pulled up over his soft spots. Aether reaches up with his free hand and brushes his fingers over the side of Dew's helmet, as if tucking a long strand of hair behind a pointed ear.

"I know, darling," he hums, eyes tender. "I know. I just don't like seeing you hurt. Let me help you?"

Through the lenses of his own mask, Aether can see the way Dew's unglamoured, copper eyes soften, the fire ghoul leaning ever so slightly into his touch as he nods slowly, almost imperceptibly. Aether can feel the adrenaline starting to falter, even through the hard plastic of the mask. The crash is barreling towards Dew like a train, and Aether pulls them into one of the venue's unused dressing rooms, locking the door behind them.

Aether takes his mask off, and Dew follows suit, collapsing down onto an old threadbare couch as he pulls his balaclava down. Aether finds paper towel in the bathroom, and a first aid kit under the sink. He sits down next to Dew.

The fire ghoul's examining the cut on his finger, still bleeding, but sluggishly. He glances up as Aether sits down. "You gonna patch me up, Doctor Aether?" He asks, but the snark is fading, revealing sheer sincerity.

Aether's lip crooks up in a smile. "I am, darling. Gimme your hand?"

He does so without hesitation, trusting completely, and Aether meets his eye, kissing his knuckles before examining the cut himself. A string sliced into his pinkie on stage, and Aether hisses in sympathy.

"I barely felt it," Dew says, exhaustion seeping into his voice. "Think I got sweat in it. Fuckin' stings now."

"I bet," Aether says. He cleans the blood from his mate's hand with damp paper towel. "It looks nasty."

"Kept playing though," Dew shrugs with his other arm. Aether glances up at him, amethyst to copper. "The fans ate it up."

"If I couldn't smell it, I think I would have known when I heard it," Aether says as he reaches into the first aid kit for gauze and medical tape "Proud of you for sticking it through."

Dew makes a noise between a laugh and a scoff as Aether presses a wad of gauze to the cut. "What else was I supposed to do? Up and leave?"

"You've got me there," he hums. They're so close that Aether can feel the familiar, comforting heat radiating from Dew's body, the fire that burns at the very core of him. Dew shifts his weight, the springs of the couch squeaking in protest.

They fall into a comfortable silence as Aether works, ripping a strip of medical tape to secure the gauze to his finger. Dew watches, narrow chest rising and falling as Aether shuts the first aid kit, examining his work.

"There we go," Aether hums, tipping his head back and taking a deep breath, all of the worry hitting him as his own adrenaline starts to crash. "Should be good to meet up with the pack, 'm sure Swiss is wo-"

He cuts himself off as spindly fingers wrap around his wrist, grip tight. "Think you're missing something, starshine."

Aether cocks his head, brows furrowing tight as he does another once over on his mate. His hands come up to cup his face, thumbing over sharp cheekbones. "Are you hurt somewhere else? What am I missing, darling?"

Dew sighs, but he's smiling, relaxing into Aether's touch. "Starshine, I'm okay." He raises his hand, waggling his fingers in front of Aether's nose. "Come on, gimme a little somethin' somethin'."

"Oh," Aether laughs, taking Dew's hand in his and kissing the back of it. A little spark of quintessence jumps between them, just enough to kickstart the healing process. "Let me kiss it better, darling."

Dew laughs, smiling fondly at his quintessence ghoul. "Alright, Doctor Aether, can we go change, or do you think Rain and Sunny will still jump me?"

Aether stands, taking Dew's hands to help him up. "Let's go get changed. I'm sure the others are worried about where we ran off to."

Dew snorts, tucking himself against Aether's side. "I think they think we found a dark closet and sucked face for half an hour."

Aether cackles as he puts his mask back on.

"Aether?" Dew asks as he does the same.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you, for taking care of me." The fire ghoul's eyes are soft and earnest, shining through the lenses.

"Any time."

[kiwibirbkat]

A Quick Break

They were supposed to be training. That went out the window about 30 minutes in, when they took a "break", devolving into just giving up on training and chatting.

They were sitting around the school bus when Aiden got bored and announced he was going for snacks. Taylor went along with him seeing as she was also kinda bored. Logan was going to stay in the bus, but Ashlyn gave him a pleading look and he went with them.

So now Tyler, Ben, and Ashlyn sat around the bus, Tyler and Ben discussing something random (Ben talking through notes app) while an obviously tense Ashlyn fiddled with her bracelet. That was until she spoke up.

"... can you guys promise not to freak out when- if I die?"

They stared at her in confusion before Tyler finally spoke. "Ashlyn what the hell? Of course we're going to freak out if you die? And that's such a random question? What the fuck even prompted that question?"

Ashlyn shook her hands to stop them from asking any more after seeing Ben start to type. "Let me explain- if I die, even if they won't necessarily care, the group is going to need a leader. If I die, I want you two to step up and lead the group. You two are some of the strongest in our little group, and I think your strength combined with the bonds you have with some of the others will make you the best candidates to lead if I die."

'Ok, SLOW DOWN' Ben's text to speech voice chimed in. '1, why are you so worried about dying? Sure, we're in a death realm every night, but none of us have croaked yet, and you're clearly strong, so why do you think you're going to die?' Tyler nods along, waiting for Ben to finish. 'And 2, what's this about the others not caring if you died?'

"Yeah, even if we didn't care about you, Taylor and Logan are both heart throbs and would definitely be upset if you died!" Tyler was uncharacteristically concerned for someone outside of his family.

"Calm down, calm down, let me explain. I'm not worried about dying, we just live in a death realm as you said, and if I die, the group will need a leader." Ashlyn rubs her forehead, this interaction not going as smoothly as she expected.

Ben and Tyler were staring at her. 'You've been thinking about death and the only thing you're worried about is the group needing a leader?'

"That's not the only thing- whatever this isn't what's important right now! Promise me that if I die, no matter how gruesome my death is, you won't freak out! The others will need a leader, and I need you two to be those leaders! Promise me!"

Ben and Tyler were once again staring at her, but for a different reason than before, seeing as this was one of the only bursts of emotions she's had around them.

After a few seconds, the robotic voice was activated. 'If it's that important to you, I promise to lead the others if you die.'

"Me too, I guess…"

Ashlyn sighed, nodding, when Tyler spoke up again. "But seriously, what was that about the others not caring if you died?"

Ashlyn glared at him. "That's not important right now."

'and the when in your first ask?'

Ashlyn groaned. "It was just a slip up!"

"You aren't planning anything stupid, are you?"

Ashlyn's head snapped up. "Wha- no! Why would I plan my death when I need to lead the others? As much as I trust you two to lead the group, I'm not dying just yet."

Tyler and Ben were about to argue when Taylor, Aiden, and Logan walked back in, carrying bags of snacks. "What's this about death?" Aiden asked with a curious grin, tilting his head.

Ashlyn sighed. "Nothing. And why did you guys bring so many snacks? We're just taking a break!"

Logan piped up. "Sorry Ashlyn, I tried to control them, but they couldn't make a decision on what they wanted, so they just grabbed everything…"

Ben and Tyler finally stopped staring at Ashlyn, and it wasn't brought up again, but they did glance at Ashlyn throughout the rest of the "break."

They never finished that training.

[mortysmith]

In theory i like the idea that rick is growing and developing as a person. In practice it ends up falling short though, because no one balances him out. rick is getting better while no one else is getting worse, and it causes the whole thing to end up feeling a bit stale. The biggest draw, at least for me, has always been rick and morty's shitty dynamic, but it barely exists anymore because rick has been so watered down.

The ideal solution is literally just to make morty into a bigger asshole. Essentially flipping the main characters' personalities would offer a wide variety of conflict into the show, and would also help keep it "fresh".

Instead it feels the writers are pretending that they can't possibly do anything with morty's character, that they have to keep him the same anxious idiot he was in season one. I've said this before, but it's incredibly frustrating to watch the show have no problem with expanding rick's character while struggling with keeping morty's heavily stagnated characterization consistent. Where rick has space to develop between multiple seasons, morty is constantly forced into one of two boxes (smart/stupid) depending on the episode.

[padmestrilogy]

qimir discourse is great bc neither haters nor lovers seem to understand that he’s the villain

[kinnbig]

[get-hamilton-on-your-side]

Letterkenny is an insane show to me because the writing is like Canadian hick poetry

[gaylienz]

the creator gives the best fanfic ideas to their sleepiest warriors

[disformer]

Swindle is a fantastic character archetype who’s engaging in just about every continuity. A low-down dirty no-good rotten cheating stealing worm is fun to read, write and watch, which makes it all the more baffling when people get him so, so wrong in fics

[naturallyteal]

Writing Game: Decision Tree chapter 5

>> “But doesn’t a gathering of witches need at least three? We don’t have time! Where do we get a third witch in a hurry?” << ~ (quote from chapter 5)

~~~

Aziraphale Falls.

But Hell is in serious disarray, and as he goes looking for answers, which is equivalent to looking for Crowley… help could come from an unexpected quarter.

~~~

This story is being created by playing a Collaboration Game of Ping Pong Writing 🏓🏓, where two authors write chapters alternately, picking up the thread where the other left off. It’s a bit like improv theatre, and the story develops as we go. If you’re curious what will happen next, as are we: stay tuned!

~~~

For the details and rules of this game, Ping Pong Writing, see:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/51987664

~~~

chapter overview with word counts:

(~100): Abyss

(~200): Hell of a Day to Fall

(~300): Temple of a Thousand Doors

(~400): Entrance of the Angel

(~500): Hecat

(~600)

chapters 1,3,5 by NaturallyTeal, chapters 2,4,6 by Jean_kimberley

Tagging List under the cut

Let me know if you want on it for future posts of mine!

Let me know if you want off the list:

@echogracebeloved @oxribs @copperplatebeech @thescholarlystrumpet @simonezitrone79

@siriosa @captainblou @alphacentaurinebula @ineffablefool @ashfae

@fellshish @vidavalor @thindarkdukewrites @crowleys-bright-red-hair-streak @kimberleyjean

@dragonfire42 @lickthecowhappy @ineffablenlghtingales @turquoisedata @di-42

@dierama-mojo

[suguwu]

people who can concentrate on one wip at a time you are so fascinating to me and i am so jealous

[stephofromcabin12]

On one hand its great that I now have the ability to somehow juggle hyperfixations

Unfortunately I am really bad at juggling it turns out

[narrators-journal]

Ya girl is kinda between strong fandom interests. Which, apparently means I start simping for any smooth-talking, pretty-eyed villain with good vibes.

That being said, uhhhhhh Kurt? From Dread weight? 😳😳😳 The baba yaga from dread weight??

[painless-innit-colourful]

Prophets

(1.4k words, no tws, read it here or on my ao3)

But other than the maths of the situation, there’s another nagging thought that tugs at Tubbo's attention, even as Tommy stumbles over the door jam, cursing up a storm, looking far too bouncy for his last day.

He’s seen this before.

With twenty-one hours and counting down until Tubbo sends his best friend to his death, Tubbo reflects on the choice he's going to make and the nagging feeling that he couldn't have prevented it. Meanwhile, Tommy is thinking eerily of the same thing. It's been a year since this stream broke my heart, and I'm going to make it everyone else's problem.

---

Seven hundred and fifty-eight. Twenty-one. Approximately thirty, but who really knows. Two.

Tubbo runs the numbers over in his head. Numbers are good. They make sense, they’re reliable: when everything else is going to shit, when he’s living in a nightmare, numbers can be relied upon to always provide the truth. So, making the last bed Tommy will ever sleep in, Tubbo runs over the numbers again.

Seven hundred and fifty-eight fitful nights since the Manberg Festival. Twenty-one hours (though creeping uncomfortably close to twenty) until Tommy dies. Approximately thirty people they’re going to save.

And two. Two people left he cares about.

His son, with his rosy cheeks and eyes so bright - as if they’ve never seen the scarring flash of a firework or been kept warm by the heat of a burning nation. His innocent, undamaged, toddler son, currently tucked away with Techno & Phil in the tundra, where he’ll be safe in the case that anything goes very wrong tomorrow. Which it won’t, because the numbers make sense.

And Tommy.

He weighs two against thirty, twenty-one against seven hundred and fifty-eight. Mathematically, the answer is simple. Save the server. 

Lose Tommy.

But it’s not so simple, is it? Tubbo is dimly aware as he checks on a stew bubbling on the stove, toes and heart numb, that he’s facing an imitation of the trolley problem. Leave the train running, and Dream and Punz kill everyone on the server. Flip the switch, and their enemies (and Tubbo’s best friend) roll right into a waiting nuclear bomb. 

Save the server. Kill your best friend.

Again.

But other than the maths of the situation, there’s another nagging thought that tugs at his attention, even as Tommy stumbles over the door jam, cursing up a storm, looking far too bouncy for his last day. Or perhaps appropriately bouncy. Tubbo wouldn’t know, but Tommy would.

He’s seen this before.

I’m going to spend the rest of my life waiting for you, he wants to say, because that’s another undeniable truth. Let not third time be the charm: even though he’ll know it can’t be true, Tubbo knows there will always be a part of him that just expects Tommy to… turn up someday. Walk ‘round a corner in the new town he might build. Come stumbling across him somewhere out there in the bright, big world.

It’s not fair: truth three. It’s not fair. None of this is fair, nothing has ever been fair to them. The steam curling off the crockpot on the stove brushes against his scar.

Right. Seven-hundred and fifty-eight.

He can’t remember when it started. Somewhere in the mess of definitely-not-painless-and-colourful sparks, wither screams and the trembling of the earth, there was a single speck of blackness in all that light. After dreaming of his second death a hundred times, he started to look into the blazing light, and found it to be masking darkness. So he reached for it. He followed it. He built weapons of mass destruction, made impenetrable fortresses, dug into the earth following the promise of oblivion. Of nothing.

There was a moment, on his arrival to the crater of the original nuke test, when he’d seen a figure at the edge of the crater. The shadow was counting.

Counting down.

After the nuke test, his nightmares changed. They’d always been full of explosions - fireworks, countries, withers - but with the advent of Project Dreamcatcher’s success, they became pseudo-apocalyptic. Tubbo had always chalked it up to obvious anxieties (he stole his own nuke for a reason, y’know) but in the past few hours, a chilling thought occurred to him that won’t leave him alone.

In some of his more recent dreams, he stands at the edge of the world, looking out over a crater that stretches farther than the horizon. There is not a speck of a living thing around, and without a doubt he is alone. Those were the nicer ones. Some of the nightmares were just loud bangs, bright flashes and a cloud of debris and poison a hundred miles high.

He’d imagined the moment of a crucial launch so many times. A triumphant, even victorious feeling. Check-fucking-mate.

Looking at Tommy, falling onto the sofa with a contented grunt, he can’t imagine he’ll feel that tomorrow. The ticking of the clock yanks him away from his old visions. He moves to sit beside Tommy.

Twenty hours to go.

—

Tommy remembers how it felt, last time. The weightlessness, the empty mind grasping for something tangible to hold onto and finding nothing, the feeling of being ripped apart and reassembled like a wayward toddler’s least favourite toy. 

Tommy won’t admit it, would rather march off to the prison right now than admit it, but he’s scared. This time, Wilbur won’t be there. Bastard, he thinks, grimacing, couldn’t even stay dead for me.

He remembers the last time he saw Wil; on that fucking beach with the boat and the book. He’ll never forget the look on Wilbur’s face when he started crying, that uncomfortable halfway between resolute to go without looking back and almost staying for him. Maybe if he’d started crying sooner, he would’ve stayed. Or maybe that would’ve made him leave faster.

At any rate, he doesn’t have to worry about forgetting any of it. Not while alive, at the very least. Since the revive book will be out of commission, he’s staying in limbo for a while longer than thirteen years. A thought occurs: a horrible impression that sends a shiver down his spine. He won’t have Wilbur to talk to this time, but he might well have Dream and Punz. He shuffles closer to Tubbo instinctively, pushing the thought away.

The book. The other thing he can never forget. It’s gone now, ash on the prison floor likely, but the words within will never leave him. It almost makes him laugh to remember. The last words he’ll ever get from Wilbur, and they were that.

“Tommy,” the book read. 

“Do you remember when we were dead together? I told you I knew how far away the end of the known universe was. I may have been being a little dramatic (so unlike me, I know), but my point kinda still stands. I said it was 186,000 or so days away. That’s not that many, really, already, but I was thinking about it a little while ago and I realised I had been counting in limbo days. 620 days. 

Tommy, on November 13th, something really bad is going to happen. It’s part of the reason I knew it was time for me to go home. Hopefully this is enough warning for you. Gather up the things that matter to you - your discs, your pictures, Tubbo - and get as far away as possible. Please trust me on this. Whatever’s coming - it was fuzzy even in limbo, but it’s big and it’s powerful and it’s not good and it’s going to destroy everything you know. It scares the shit out of me, a little bit, if I’m honest.

I’m sorry for leaving. I hope you understand. Stay safe, yeah?

Wilbur.”

Tommy gazes at his best friend’s face, less than a foot from his own, eyes lightly lidded as he dozes. The hand clutched in his built the rocket that’s shortly going to end his life. The boy beside him will be the harbinger of this world’s ultimate destruction.

Tommy’s proud of him, in a weird way.

Yes, Wilbur, I do remember you saying that in limbo, he wants to reply. I thought you were just trying to scare the shit out of me. Anyway, I can’t leave. I have people I have to save. Be the hero everyone always told me I was going to be. Are you proud of me? This is the only way we win. Tubbo gets to grow old with his son this way. Your father and your baby nephew get to live this way. And I don’t have to deal with any more grey hairs or aching limbs this way. I think I’m the lucky one.

Tears prick his eyes and he blinks them away as he presses his face into Tubbo’s hair - which smells very, very faintly floral - listening to his best friend breathing, pulling him back to earth for just a few more hours.

I think I saw it coming too. I think we all did. I’m sorry. I hope you understand.

Tommy closes his eyes, snuggles down into Tubbo’s arms and draws in a long, deep breath. Selfishly, on the plus side, he’ll never have to live without his best friend.

---

Taglist: @fruitpilled @zrenia @spaceheatertrash @quixoticfellows @kinda-late-but-here-though @icyisweird @boomybelovd @thatfriendlyanon @rozugold @ilexdiapason (please ask to be added if you wish :)

[angelsdean]

when i wanna be reading my own fic that i can't write bc my adhd brain hates me