#and like. if I was someone else I might be able to write it in a different medium in a satisfactory way

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Thank you for all this WORK. I so appreciate the time you are putting into this resource.

Was wondering if there are some good ways to keep information from the character without being knocked out, amnesia, or a drunk black out that would be cause for them to not remember. Thank you!

Writing Notes: Memory Lapses

Healthy people can experience memory loss or memory distortion at any age. Some of these memory flaws become more pronounced with age, but — unless they are extreme and persistent — they are not considered indicators of Alzheimer's or other memory-impairing illnesses.

Some Normal Memory Problems

Transience. This is the tendency to forget facts or events over time. You are most likely to forget information soon after you learn it. However, memory has a use-it-or-lose-it quality: memories that are called up and used frequently are least likely to be forgotten. Although transience might seem like a sign of memory weakness, brain scientists regard it as beneficial because it clears the brain of unused memories, making way for newer, more useful ones.

Absentmindedness. This type of forgetting occurs when you don't pay close enough attention. You forget where you just put your pen because you didn't focus on where you put it in the first place. You were thinking of something else (or, perhaps, nothing in particular), so your brain didn't encode the information securely. Absentmindedness also involves forgetting to do something at a prescribed time, like taking your medicine or keeping an appointment.

Blocking. Someone asks you a question and the answer is right on the tip of your tongue — you know that you know it, but you just can't think of it. This is perhaps the most familiar example of blocking, the temporary inability to retrieve a memory. In many cases, the barrier is a memory similar to the one you're looking for, and you retrieve the wrong one. This competing memory is so intrusive that you can't think of the memory you want. Scientists think that memory blocks become more common with age and that they account for the trouble older people have remembering other people's names. Research shows that people are able to retrieve about half of the blocked memories within just a minute.

Misattribution. This occurs when you remember something accurately in part, but misattribute some detail, like the time, place, or person involved. Another kind of misattribution occurs when you believe a thought you had was totally original when, in fact, it came from something you had previously read or heard but had forgotten about. This sort of misattribution explains cases of unintentional plagiarism, in which a writer passes off some information as original when he or she actually read it somewhere before. As with several other kinds of memory lapses, misattribution becomes more common with age. As you age, you absorb fewer details when acquiring information because you have somewhat more trouble concentrating and processing information rapidly. And as you grow older, your memories grow older as well. And old memories are especially prone to misattribution.

Suggestibility. This is the vulnerability of your memory to the power of suggestion — information that you learn about an occurrence after the fact becomes incorporated into your memory of the incident, even though you did not experience these details. Although little is known about exactly how suggestibility works in the brain, the suggestion fools your mind into thinking it's a real memory.

Bias. Even the sharpest memory isn't a flawless snapshot of reality. In your memory, your perceptions are filtered by your personal biases — experiences, beliefs, prior knowledge, and even your mood at the moment. Your biases affect your perceptions and experiences when they're being encoded in your brain. And when you retrieve a memory, your mood and other biases at that moment can influence what information you actually recall. Although everyone's attitudes and preconceived notions bias their memories, there's been virtually no research on the brain mechanisms behind memory bias or whether it becomes more common with age.

Persistence. Most people worry about forgetting things. But in some cases people are tormented by memories they wish they could forget, but can't. The persistence of memories of traumatic events, negative feelings, and ongoing fears is another form of memory problem. Some of these memories accurately reflect horrifying events, while others may be negative distortions of reality. People suffering from depression are particularly prone to having persistent, disturbing memories. So are people with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). PTSD can result from many different forms of traumatic exposure — for example, sexual abuse or wartime experiences. Flashbacks, which are persistent, intrusive memories of the traumatic event, are a core feature of PTSD.

An occasional memory slip is normal, says Johns Hopkins geriatrician Sevil Yasar, M.D., Ph.D. But as you age, these “senior moments” may leave you wondering whether you’re heading for dementia—the loss of memory and thinking skills severe enough to interfere with independent living, often due to Alzheimer’s disease or other brain changes.

“Stress, an extra-busy day, poor sleep and even some medications can interfere with making and recalling memories,” Yasar says. “And we all have moments when a name or the title of a movie is right on the tip of the tongue, but those events are different from the kinds of lapses that may be warning signs for dementia.”

Most of the time, memory lapses are nothing to worry about.

“But any time you’re concerned about yourself or a loved one, it’s worth talking with your doctor,” Yasar says.

So how can you tell the difference between simple slipups and something that may be more serious? The important thing to look for is persistent change in our ability to think and function. Below are 5 clues. 

Are you losing things and just can’t figure out where they went? We all misplace things. And yes, on a busy morning we may even put the cornflakes box in the refrigerator if we’re moving too fast. It’s normal to put things in the wrong spot, and it’s normal to catch the mistake or retrace our steps to find the keys sitting on top of today’s stack of mail.What’s not: Being unable to figure out where lost belongings might be, putting things in more and more unusual places and starting to suspect—without evidence—that people have stolen your missing possessions.

Do you get lost in familiar places? Losing the way while driving, walking or taking public transportation to a new place is normal. So is getting so absorbed in your journey (or your thoughts) that you have to reorient yourself to figure out exactly where you are.What’s not: “Driving or walking for a long time without realizing you’re lost or completely forgetting where you are, and not asking for help in these situation could  be a sign of dementia,” Yasar says. You may also forget how you got to a new location, become easily disoriented in familiar places, or lose the ability to read a map or follow landmarks and traffic signs.

Do you lose track of the time, date or season? Once in a while, we all forget what day of the week it is, but we usually remember or figure it out quickly. More troubling: not knowing what day it is, the time of day or how much time is passing—and not realizing that you’ve forgotten. Additionally, unable to remember appointments or even missing them despite putting it on the calendar or having received numerous reminders by family. These may be signs of dementia, according to Johns Hopkins experts.

Are your conversations getting stalled? We all have to search for the right word from time to time. “And it’s normal for this to happen more often as we get older,” Yasar notes. What’s not: extreme difficulty remembering words, calling things and people by the wrong words or names and withdrawing socially as a result. Having more and more trouble following, joining or continuing a conversation (you may stop talking mid-thought and not know what you were going to say next) or even following plot on TV may also be a red flag for dementia risk.

Do memory slipups interfere with daily life? Forgetting the name of your neighbor’s dog is normal. What’s not: No longer being able to do everyday activities the way you used to, and you now need help of your family or professionals, “If you used to balance your bank accounts to the penny and now you’ve lost track of where your household money is going, bills have not been paid and as a result electricity or phone service has been turned off. Similarly, you feel lost and overwhelmed making, or even worse, being unable to make, Thanksgiving pumpkin pie with your favorite longtime recipe, it may be a sign of early brain changes,” Yasar says.

And one of the biggest concerns, from a doctor’s point of view, is the issue with medication management, such as forgetting to take medications or taking them incorrectly.

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Here are some possible causes your character may not remember things (apart from those you mentioned). Choose which would be most appropriate to incorporate in your story. Hope this helps and thank you for such kind words!

[thedissonantverses]

This is related to this post which is so on point it hurts. I wasn’t going to write this but yet another one of my mutuals had someone be super racist again directly to their asks so here we go.

I go super hard on the Veilguard positivity a lot not out of an urge to stan for BioWare but because parts of the fandom have gotten so unbelievably toxic I’m not even sure why they’re still playing the games. Legit if you’re actively in mourning about this franchise because of a, at worst, competent game you need to find something else to do. I have been told I don’t know how many times I just don’t like “critique” of Veilguard which is fecking hilarious and I should show you my dm’s. You’re not actually showing “love” for the DA franchise when you’re overly negative and reductionist.

We absolutely should be able to critique Veilguard and I do attempt to do this from time to time. But to be honest we can’t even discuss the actions of the antagonist in an honest way. It is actually laughable how far away from the source people have gone when analyzing this game and its characters. It might be my favorite game in the series but that in no way makes it perfect or flawless and I’m aware. Not gonna share the critiques here cause y’all can’t handle the base plot of the game without bullying other fans.

I keep seeing people complain about the lack of fan engagement and fanworks while directly being the reason artists and writers don’t want to be anywhere near the space. Again if you’re not commenting or reblogging or otherwise supporting other creators in the fandom you are the problem I’m talking about. If you’re being super vitriolic then yeah, no one wants to make stuff for you for free. They’re too afraid or exhausted and we are all culpable, myself included.

The media literacy problem, the bigotry, and the lack of engagement are all related issues and until the most vitriolic amongst us reckon with that nothing will get better. And yeah, if you’re going super hard against a game that stands this hard by its queer, disabled, and POC characters that’s a huge red flag. Unpack it. Offline. Away from the marginalized members of your fandom.

[1425fivefive]

wait, is the fic you're writing the abo norstappen or is it another project? can you share a little snippet or it's in a very early phase still? i'm really excited to read whatever you're writing :,)

it is for the norstappen omegaverse fic! it's in an "early" stage in that i have the entire plot planned out but only like 3k written (i think it'll probably clock in around 10k). but yes, you can have a snippet (below the cut) 💕

Two weeks after Brazil, Lando wakes up soaked in sweat, limbs tangled in wet sheets. 

His skin’s burning, his head’s foggy, and his stomach won’t stop cramping. He wants nothing more than to stay in bed all day—lights off, blinds closed, covers up to his neck. 

But he feels fucking disgusting, clammy and overheated. The room stinks, sweet and overripe. Like a peach left out on a counter too long. Every bit of him feels sticky, his clothes clinging to his skin.

He feels a bit like he does before a rut, honestly. 

But his next rut isn’t scheduled until January and he’s been good about taking his suppressants. Even when he’s been shit at everything else, he’s been good at that at least. Nothing worse than losing a championship solely because an unexpected rut takes you out of a race. 

Lando tries not to think about the fact that he didn’t have a rut the last time he’d gone off his suppressants. That he hasn’t been able to form a knot in months.

After an hour of laying in his own sweat, he finally forces himself to roll out of bed. He stumbles to the shower, praying the spray of hot water will make him feel more like a person. 

The shower helps a bit. His body wash drowns out the weird smell, at least, and the water washes away the stickiness between his thighs. 

He tells himself whatever’s happening is just the thirty-six hours he spent awake after the race, reliving every stupid fucking mistake he made—every slide through a corner, every half-hearted attempt to defend, every shit strategy call he made from the cockpit—finally catching up with him. A delayed reaction to the weeks of stress he’s been putting his body through. Barely sleeping, forgetting to eat, spending every moment he’s not in the car on his phone, reading all the shit people say about him. About how he’s never been a real contender for the championship. How anyone who backed him was delusional for thinking he could take on Max. How it’s a joke, thinking someone with his shit mentality could ever win the championship. 

The horrible bit is, privately, Lando sometimes thinks they’re right.

After the shower, he climbs into the guest bed, too anxious to go back to his own bedroom, confront the wet sheets and too-sweet scent in the air, process what he knows they might mean.

[eastwindmlk]

hi! here for the writing prompts thing: 7 or 18 for jily

Thank you so much! This really, really sparked something it seemed! This also did not go as expected. So, prepare for some hurt/comfort and angst! (I might need to apologize for this one!

To top it all off, I combined your ask with a lovely anon that also had 18 and added 19 from the list!

Buckle up! 1.6k under the cut or read on AO3! And @jilymicro-oops tag!

The sitting room was cold and dark—the candle having flickered out long enough ago that the scent of wax and wick no longer lingered in the air—when Lily jolted awake. She wasn’t even supposed to sleep, she was supposed to wait up. That is why she’d angled the chair towards the door, why she’d foregone a blanket and why there was a cup of, now, stale coffee beside the left leg of her resting place. Evidently, something had still compelled her to sleep. 

It had been the sound of the door, not the front door with its sharp slam and rattling chains, but the bathroom door at the far end of their small kitchen with the telltale rattling of the dish rack. He must have come in and saw her slumped in her chair. Lily wasn’t sure why James wouldn’t just come and wake her. 

That was until she heard him through the thin walls, the sound was unmistakable and worrisome. His retching made her stomach turn in a way Lily wasn’t used to. She had always had a strong stomach, the one friend that could stay behind without joining in. Now? She wasn’t too sure. She would blame everything else that was now there. The dread, the overwhelming and crushing fear of losing even more people she cared about, guilt for the ones she should have been able to save. 

Lily willed her stiff limbs to move, to carry her closer. Her hand rubbed at her painful wrist, sour and sore from having held up hear head this entire time. “James?” she called once she stepped into their kitchen, the cold floor leeching what little warmed she’d had in her body, making Lily shiver. 

“Are you alright, love?” she asked through a tight jaw, her muscles locking up while she dragged her feet along the chilled, linoleum. From here she could hear something else, not just the loud sickness but also something softer, something more broken. 

The sound of James quietly sobbing carried Lily’s feet forward, her head reeling while she contemplated the why. Who did they lose? Who was hurt, disfigured, driven closer to madness this time? Was it someone they knew well? She couldn’t bare to bring herself to name them. 

“James?” she asked again, an edge of desperation in her voice as her fist connected to the cheap plywood door of their bathroom. Just as she was about to plea for entry, the door creaked on its hinges and the light from the moon behind her cast a long shadow into the small, tiled room. 

There, in the middle of the room, she could see the hunched figure of her fiancé, hunched over the porcelain bowl. His knuckles white while he gripped the rim. There couldn’t be much left in his stomach; He didn’t like to eat before a mission. 

Lily did not want to think too much about how he was likely expelling nothing but water and bile, the bitter, biting of the acid. She could feel an echo of it in her own mouth when she crouched down next to James. Her hand nearly withdrew when she felt him shake under her touch. Not violent and jerky, more like a constant hum under her fingertips. 

“I’m here,” she assured James in a hoarse voice, her throat still dry from sleep. “I’m here,” she croaked out once more after a thick swallow. “You are safe, you are home, and I won’t let anything happen to you,” she promised, her heart clenching painfully when a sob wrecked through him violently. 

There was one motion that shattered her, subtle at first and then when she noticed it she froze; James was moving away from her. His body strained and twisted to recoil from her touch. The sight of his bloodshot eyes behind a cracked lens, desperate and begging send Lily tumbling back to sit on the floor. 

“Don’t,” James cautioned when she tried one more time to reach for him. His words turned her arm to lead, and Lily dropped it limply in her lap. “You should go.” 

It took her a moment to collected herself, to recover from the shock that had been James’ rejection, before she pushed herself back into motion. “I’m not going anywhere, James,” Lily told him stubbornly and watched how he sat down, wiping his mouth on a slightly singed sleeve. 

His legs crossed under him, James sat there and attempted to drag in deep breaths, his entire being seeming to stutter and protest the idea. A choked wail echoed along the surrounding tiles when Lily lunged forward, her arms wrapping around him. “I’m not going anywhere,” she repeated quietly as she cradled him in her arms.

He did not try to struggle this time, he sagged, limply into her embrace and allowed her to pad him down; Search him for injuries which she did not find. “Lily,” James croaked out after a while, after his breaths had steadied and the sobs subsided. “You shouldn’t.” 

“Nonsense,” Lily bit ack immediately and her tone was a little harsher than she would have liked, but her last nerve had frayed several minutes ago. She was upset, distraught, panicked and impatient. “Of course I should be here, don’t be barmy,” she said with a tempered one. 

James pulled away from her embrace just enough to look at her, his eyes bloodshot and empty; Haunted by whatever he had seen tonight. “You won’t say that after you heard what I’ve done,” he argued back in a raspy voice, his face paling at the thought of confessing to her. “You won’t look at me the same way, you might not even love me any more.” 

The words came as a shock to Lily’s system, if her mind had been reeling before, it was in complete free fall now. "I don’t think I could stop loving you," she assured him and she meant it, every word. That did not stop the speed with which her heart attempted to break through her ribs. It did not keep the question from clawing its way up her throat, even if she really dd not want to know. 

“Don’t say that, not when you don’t know what I’ve done,” James said, now it was his turn to be hard-headed. “Lily I-” The words strangled him and nothing more came out. She watched as his features contorted in this mental agony. “I- Someone died,” he confessed. “And it was my fault.” 

And just like that the free fall jerked in a different direction. Who had been with James on his mission? Which one of their friends and colleagues had they lost? She was afraid to ask, she was afraid to admit that her mind went down a list and the further she got, the more relieved she was. The less it would hurt when his guilt would allow him to say the name.

“I didn’t mean to, it wasn’t- It was just… Just a stunner, how could I have known that- that he’d fall off the roof?” James said in a strained voice, his words were like a slowing charm and she stopped going down the list when she realized it. Her hand pushed his hair back from his forehead, to better look him in the eye. 

“Oh, James…” she sighed in relief, a small smile spread across her lips. “I could never love you less for that.” 

“But I killed someone, they’re dead because of me.” 

“And you are here because of it.” 

“I’m no better than them,” he said, his eyes dropped from her face as he confessed this and no coaxing Lily did he did not meet her eye.

Lily drew a deep breath, trying to be understanding when all she wanted to say was: ‘Good riddance.’ She’d seen too many funerals, raised too many wands to mourn the death of someone whose made their choice. “James, you didn’t go there to kill someone. You didn’t even cast that spell with the intention to. You are not the same as them.” 

She had to bite her tongue when James scoffed at that, clearly not believing a word she’d said. “What does it matter? I cannot do the greater good hippogryff shite. It doesn’t work, it doesn’t make sense,” he grits and Lily watched him bite down on his lip so hard she was surprised the skin didn’t break. “It doesn’t change the fact that I am a murder.” 

Lily wanted to do nothing but argue with him, tell James how wrong he was, but she knew it wouldn’t do anything. They would bud heads and both of them would end up hurt and upset. If only she could just smack some sense into him, if only she could make him see. 

If only James was not one of the few people on this planet with a head as hard as hers. It would be like quicksand, the more she fought, the further away he would slip. 

“James, this might make me a terrible person, but I don’t care. All I care about is that you are here and you will never not be perfect to me,” she said firmly, her lips pressing firm kisses to wherever she could reach; His hair, his forehead, his temple, the rims of his glasses. “I don’t ever get enough of you. Frankly, I am obsessed with you. Not in a creepy way. You are my everything.” 

There was a long silence as she just held him, rocking back and forth in a soothing motion ad hoped that it would bring James back to his senses. Back from the near hysterics he’d been in before. 

So, it was a good sign when his voice, however small, spoke up. “So, you’re obsessed with me?” The semblance of humour that permeated his words made her heart feel lighter.

[jcollinswrites]

Im just popping in to say that I found this story only yesterday but am already soo deep into it. I really love the different origins and how it influences the story. Also you write it in such a funny way while not taking away from things that are more serious and I find your writing style generally very comfortable to read.

I also really like that there is an age-restriction for two characters. It is very uncommon in IF (which is fine) but I really, really like that we can flirt/romance them and they will let us down gently. I am a fan of age gap relationships but, personally, 18-20 is too young for a real age gap relationship in my opinion and I am just soo happy that here are adults who arent interested in such young people and will reject them. It also makes the story more realistic.

I am bad with words (especially in english) but I hope my meaning comes across.

Anyway, I hope you have a great new year and are healthy and happy :)

Thank you for the very nice message! I'm happy you like the game and that I could offer something you find unique and interesting ❤️

I was wondering a lot about how to do the age restrictions, but in the end, I was very much in favor of organic storytelling, so that's why I let you flirt with them in the beginning.

Like this, the characters will still acknowledge that you might be interested in them. They will have that conversation with your character in the game, in real time, instead of just suddenly being locked out completely without anyone ever mentioning it again.

That's why I don't give you specific warnings either during the age choice, because I wanted players to be able to figure out for themselves what happens later. For me, it feels a lot more natural this way, and you will still have plenty of time to start pursuing someone else.

Btw, don't worry about your English, it's really good. I'm not a native English speaker either, but you only get better by practicing :)))

Happy New Year, and have a good day! ✨

[smytherines]

I've been so fully invested in this spies are forever x severance au that I just had to write something for it. I'm not sure if I'll post it on ao3, all four people who are into spyverance are already beloved mutuals, but here's a little drabble based on this conversation between @szollibisz and @missholloween that I haven't been able to stop thinking about

"Curt... what are you doing?"

Shit. Curt glanced up at the mirror, but he didn't need to see Owen lingering in the doorway to know it was him. That strange lilting accent had been rattling around in Curt's head ever since he'd first heard it crackling over the intercom.

Curt scrambled to figure out something else-- anything else-- to tell him, but he had a dull pair of office scissors in one hand and half his beard was in the bathroom sink, so he figured he was already busted.

"I just-- uhhh--" And what could he say? That three days ago the new hire, fresh off another failed escape attempt, had mockingly told Curt that he'd be handsome if it wasn't for the beard? That he'd spent three days just thinking the word shave over and over again, hoping his outie would somehow get the message? That for some fucking reason he cared about the opinion of a man who had been nothing but trouble ever since he arrived on Chimera's severed floor?

He couldn't say that. So instead Curt silently watched in the mirror as Owen removed his dark brown suit jacket and folded it carefully over the top of a bathroom stall, unbuttoning the sleeves of his crisp white shirt to roll them up to just below his elbows.

"Alright, let's see it then."

Curt sighed and finally turned to face him. 

Owen's brow furrowed. His lips made a tight line, one finger pressed up against them like he thought it might be enough to hide that smirk on his face.

"We don't have any razors here..." Curt heard the whine in his voice as he trailed off, staring at a spot on Owen's collar to avoid meeting his eyes.

"Mm." Owen nodded, stepping in toward him until Curt was practically leaning up against the sink. "May I?"

God, he was close. Close enough that Curt could smell his aftershave, or cologne, or whatever he wore that smelled so good.

Curt managed to look up at him, and the bathroom felt smaller somehow.

Owen's eyes traveled down to Curt's hand, his palm outstretched, those long, slender fingers wiggling expectantly until Curt finally figured out what he wanted.

"Y'know, last time I gave you something you almost split my head open with it," Curt said, placing the handle of the scissors in Owen's hand, "So if you could do me a favor and--"

Owen held his free hand up in front of him, "I will try my level best not to break the skin this time."

"You get one," Curt warned, only half-joking. He still had a scar on his forehead from the mug Owen had launched at him. "Next time I hit back."

"Noted." 

Suddenly Owen's fingers were tipping Curt's jaw up, his thumb pinching onto Curt's chin to tilt his head.

Curt tried to remember the last time another person had touched him. There had been a handshake with Cynthia a few weeks earlier. But Curt had to formally request it, and it had been every bit as uncomfortable as he expected. 

Tatiana hugged him once, not long before her unexpected departure. And thinking back on it, that was the only other time Curt could remember someone touching him on purpose.

With his chin tilted up, and Owen hovering over him with pursed lips and those dull scissors, it was hard to avoid looking directly at Owen's face. 

And that wasn't a problem for him, really. Because Curt found that he liked looking at Owen's face. The crooked grin that peeked through on the rare occasion where he wasn't scowling. Large, deep-set amber eyes that always seemed to be looking for an exit. Eyebrows that twisted and wriggled almost as much as Owen's hands did when he spoke. 

Owen made him feel... something. Which was unnerving, because most of the time Curt couldn't feel anything but numb. Numb and nauseous, sweating and shaking more and more as the hours ticked by. His mouth was dry and his head was sore, and every day was the same boring bullshit in the same boring place.

And when Owen moved his hand away to begin cutting, Curt desperately wanted to pull it back down and press it against his skin. To feel that churning in his gut, that pressure in his chest. Feel the way his heart raced and he could hardly catch his breath. Feel something.

Owen's eyes narrowed, and he wasn't looking at Curt's jaw anymore, and just for a second Curt wondered if Owen felt something too. 

But it was just a flicker, so brief that it might have been a trick of the light. 

"We could--" Curt jolted out of his thoughts as Owen spoke again, "Do try and stay still, love," he tutted.

"Sorry, I was..." Curt didn't know what he was doing anymore. "What were you going to say?"

Owen glanced up, scanning Curt's face quickly and uncertainly before getting back to work. 

"I was going to say that if you're really that desperate for a change, we could always botch this. Give him--" Owen flicked his eyes toward the ceiling, "no choice but to shave it all off."

"Does it really look that bad? I thought it looked kinda... cool?" Curt said hopefully. His hands were shaking, but he tried to keep his voice even.

Owen's head bent down, tilted low enough that Curt couldn't see his eyes. His skin prickled as he braced himself for Owen to laugh at him or insult him. But instead Owen's voice came out unexpectedly soft and quiet.

"I think it would be an awful shame for you to hide yourself away."

That felt like something too. But before Curt could comment on it (not that he could think of anything to say), Owen had resumed cutting. 

"So that was a 'no,' on the sabotage idea, I take it?" Owen said lightly, like nothing had happened. So maybe nothing had happened, at least not for him. 

Curt took a breath, louder and more ragged than he intended. "Nah. He grew this beard, so he's probably already lost the will to live--" Owen chuckled at that, "I don't want to push him over the edge."

"You're far more merciful than I."

"Clearly." Curt laughed. Owen had threatened to chop his own fingers off as a threat to his outie, so the bar was admittedly pretty low.

"Well, if you won't allow me to take chunks out of it, I suppose my work is done here." Owen smiled, just slightly. His hand returned to Curt's face, brushing off the hair he had just trimmed. 

Owen's hand lingered on Curt's chin, two fingertips barely touching Curt's cheek, and Curt's heart was beating so loudly that he could hardly hear himself think. They were only a couple of inches apart now, and he wondered if Owen could hear it too.

Owen swallowed thickly. There was something in his eyes. Something more than a flicker. Something definite.

That was when Curt realized that his hand was on Owen's hip. 

He quickly snatched his hand away, his mouth already trying to form an apology that his mind hadn't come up with yet. He tried to put space between them, but Owen had backed him up into the sink and there was no place left to go.

Owen stumbled backwards. His face contorted painfully as his back connected with the far wall of the bathroom. 

"Owen, I--"

But he was out the door before Curt could finish. 

And there he was, alone again, shaking, with nothing but the blue tile walls and the blue tile floors, and one dark brown jacket.

[kettlefire]

A Panic in Time (DP x DC)

This is all thanks to the awesome @tkiesai for basically being the foundation of this idea! This is probably going to be long, and probably won't delve that deep into my ideas about this idea. Largely so it's not insanely long. But here I go!

°•°•°•°

Bruce's head felt like it had been shoved through a straw and spit out on the other side. The throbbing was annoying, but it wasn't anything the man couldn't handle.

His mind was muddled, memories of what happened prior to him awaking was blurry and unsure. Bruce knew it wasn't something good.

He vaguely remembered a league meeting, a threat, something looming. It wasn't world ending, or at least that's what Bruce remembered. It should have been something they could handle.

But now, here was Bruce. Waking up in the grass of some random park. He was dressed in casual attire, something he'd wear in public as Bruce. Although last he remembered he was in the Batsuit.

The sun felt too bright in the sky. The sound of families filled the air and children's laughter. No one seemed to blink twice at Bruce as he pulled himself together.

It took a moment to steel himself, to gain composer again. It took a few sweet lines, and a charming smile for a nice mother to slide him a few painkillers. The lies rolling off his tongue like second nature.

To his luck there was a newspaper at the top of the trashcan. He was in some town called Amity Park, and the year... the year was the problem.

It was 1996. Whatever had happened had sent Bruce back in time. There was a few suspects Bruce can think were the cause of this. But something in his gut kept drawing his train of thought to the Flash.

It seemed like each time the League had any time related problems, Barry was in the center of it. Which also leaves Bruce with the question if he was the only one sent back in time.

God, he could only imagine the nightmare if the others were sent back in time. Yes, they can be professional. They understand the risk of changing things in the past.

But Bruce also understands that his team can be less than... intelligent at times.

Despite that, Bruce needed to find a way to get back to Gotham. He might not know for sure where everyone was right now, but he knew Alfred was the safest bet.

A plan laid out in Bruce's mind, a list of people he knew wouldn't be a risk to approach. He just needed to find a way to get to them. He had barely made it to the gates of the park before a shrill cry pierced the air.

There was just one loud outcry, before it quieted down. Bruce glance around the space, spotting a young boy curled on the ground. Tears streamed down the boy's chubby cheeks.

And no one even moved to the boy's aid. Not a single mother spared more than one glance in the kid's directions. No parents came rushing over to the boy's side.

Bruce almost walked away, he really did. This wasn't his time, anything he does can cause immense damage to the timeline. But when Bruce caught sight of blood bubbling from a scrape on the boy's knee, Bruce couldn't ignore him.

Maybe it's just the father in him, but Bruce barely even notices when he's crossing the small distance. His mind zeroing in on a hurt child that needed help. Kneeling before the small boy with a gentle smile, and pulling his handkerchief free from his pocket.

"You're alright there, buddy. It looks like you took a bit of a tumble there." Bruce slipped into the same tone he used to use when his kids were young. Gentle and understanding, as he pressed the handkerchief to the small scrape.

The boy sniffled, tears slipping from his eyes. Bruce was more focused on the way the kid was looking at him. Like he couldn't fathom someone coming to his aid.

That look had Bruce's heart breaking slightly. He's seen a similar look before. The few times he's come to the aid of a hurt child that wasn't used to getting help.

Something no child should ever feel or experience.

"Where's your parents, kiddo?" Bruce asked after a moment of silence from the boy. He had waited until the kid's breathing settled down when the boy's chest stopped pumping so quickly.

Except his question only seemed to bring a new wave of tears to the boy's eyes. The small child just seemed to curl into himself further, ducking his gaze away from Bruce.

And as much as Bruce didn't want it to be true, it was clear the kid didn't have the support he needed. It might not as be as far as some of Bruce's kids have had in the past.

But it was clearly not good.

"That's okay, it's alright. What's your name?" Bruce tried again. The boy's silence was leaving an uncomfortable pit in Bruce's stomach.

"D-Danny..." The boy spoke out his name between sniffles, and Bruce felt a wave of relief hearing the boy speak.

In hindsight, Bruce can see how strange the scene might look. A slightly disheveled man comforting a lone young boy in a park. It wasn't exactly perfect.

But with the lack of reactions from the parents around, Bruce had a feeling the town had an idea who this boy was. The whole situation just didn't feel that right for him.

It took a few more comments before Bruce managed to get the boy to crack a smile. A laugh had felt like breaking a massive wall.

Before long, Bruce had Danny actually like any other boy he's known. Carefree and happy, just like a child should be.

"You didn't tell me your name, mister." Danny had suddenly cut down the relaxed moment they were in. A pout laced the boy's lips as he looked up at Bruce, almost accusatory.

"I'm Bruce. Bruce Wayne." Bruce responded without missing a beat. He knew this might cause problems in the future. He wasn't supposed to be here.

But when his gut is telling him something, he can't just ignore it. He checked his pockets, finding no business cards anywhere. So, Bruce fell back in plan B.

"No matter how long it's been from now, you can come to me for help. Just look for Bruce Wayne in Gotham City, and when you find me... just say Fairbanks sent you."

Bruce wasn't sure if he'll ever see Danny again when he goes back to his own time. Wasn't even sure if this was the same universe as his own. But he couldn't walk away without at least offering the boy help in some way.

When Danny's eyes filled up with tears again, Bruce thought he said something wrong at first. That was until the boy was suddenly clinging to his shoulders in a tight embrace, muttering 'thank you' over and over again.

Bruce felt himself almost close to tears just from that alone. His heart was aching for the small boy. Even if Bruce couldn't help Danny anymore than this, he was hoping the boy would have a better life.

One where he wasn't clinging to a stranger for comfort that family should be providing him.

THWAMP

It didn't hurt, but it did cut their hug short as Bruce suddenly pulled away. Turning his head to see a young girl wielding a wiffle bat, and another young boy standing behind her.

Her purple eyes glared at Bruce like he had done the worst thing in the world. Her grip on the bat was threatening and ready to swing again. Her knuckles white from the tight grip alone.

Maybe leaving this time era might not be as easy as Bruce thought as the young girl probbed him with angry and scolding questions. Not that Bruce could blame her.

He just hoped this hiccup didn't get back to the league. They'd have a field day hearing about how Batman got scolded by a child with a wiffle bat.

°•°•°•°•°•°

Danny wasn't sure if this was the best idea. It's been years since he met Bruce Wayne. So many years. Danny had just been a kid, not even ten, when Bruce had introduced himself.

When he had an adult, actually check in on him. Yet, it was a memory Danny couldn't forget. Maybe it was just the kindness that Bruce radiated.

Or maybe it was when Sam came to his "rescue" near the end. Regardless, it was cemented in his mind. A core memory that Danny cared with him through the years.

Now, here he was, roughly seven years later. Standing in front of a manor that put even Sam's place to shame.

It took a lot of courage for Danny to knock. Barely a second later, an old man answered the door, an accent Danny was certain Bruce hadn't had.

A stuttered explaination of being here to see Bruce Wayne, that the man knew him, barely left Danny's mouth before the old man ushered him inside.

The man, Alfred, told Danny to wait by the door before vanishing further into the manor. It took a lot for Danny to not just vanish.

Being half ghost nowadays had its quirks, Danny could just vanish, and no one but Alfred would know. But he couldn't.

It had taken a lot for Danny to make the journey to Gotham City. He hadn't even thought to look up a current picture of Bruce either. Which was probably a big mistake on his end.

Danny didn't even know if Bruce was offering this kind of help. But Danny didn't have many allies to turn to. He needed help.

Not just for himself but for his family. For Amity Park. He couldn't be afforded the ability to run away. Not now.

Danny felt all the air leave his lungs when Bruce entered the area. The man didn't look a day older than what Danny remembered. Bruce looked a bit more put together, not like he had just jumped out of a moving car, but it was Bruce.

"Uhm... I don't know if you remember me. But my name's Danny... we met when I was a kid." Danny started trying to explain himself before Bruce could speak. He recognized that confused look anywhere, and Danny didn't have the guts to go through with this if Bruce asked any questions.

"You told me if I ever needed help, to come find you. Bruce Wayne in Gotham City... you, uh, told me to tell you Fairbanks sent me?"

That came out more like a question than Danny would have liked. But it did ease his nerves a bit as he watched Bruce's slightly confused expression turn to alarm and surprise.

Danny wasn't sure what this would do. If Bruce could truly help him. But he was out of options. Just seeing Bruce recognize something he said was enough to calm the teen's anxiety slightly.

"I'm sorry, Danny... I don't remember you. But I believe you and I want to help you. Come inside, have a seat, and tell me what's going on."

That response was enough to have Danny's eyes fill with tears. His chest filling with a sense of hope he hadn't felt in weeks now.

Maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

[sophsicle]

it is not merely a question of whether or not we have learned to analyze in particular kinds of ways, or whether people are able to intellectualize about a variety of experiences. It is also about coming to believe in the possibility of a variety of experiences, a variety of ways of understanding the world, a variety of frameworks of operation, without imposing consciously or unconsciously a notion of norm - Elsa Barkley Brown

[adore-gregor]

i did okay i guess

[blueheartedmayor]

OOC:

[jonathanbyersphd]

I need all 3 of u that are invested to know I've spent the rest of the day thinking about that Jancy Emma AU and how I would formulate it

[cornelianlute]

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[umanta]

i am possibly selling out by attempting to write things on linkedin for money

[amplexadversary]

I wonder if a really dedicated collection of book nerds could get those Elaine Duillo style cover illustrations a foothold in the publishing industry again. There are certainly enough artists who can achieve that level of intricacy that a really really popular Trend might be able to do it.

Perhaps any of those bookbinding hobbyists might want to try to go pro and pair up with an artist to refurbish something well enough to hook the really rich art snobs into buying unique, custom pieces for a fuckton of money.

[chickenbyday]

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[theirloveisgross]

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