#i write in bursts of inspiration

[questionable-idea]

on today's agenda: figuring out a plot to serve as background to the romance i'm writing so they're not being awkward and cutesy around each other for the entire fucking book or else i'll have an aneurysm

[libraryofgage]

Harlequin Prince (4)

Part of: Steve Deserves Good Parents, Actually

Debbie and Fester Addams One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six Rick and Evelyn O'Connell One | Two | Three Harley Quinn One | Two | Three | Four (you're here!) 10th Doctor and Rose One | Two Scooby Gang One Jedidiah and Octavius (from Night at the Museum) One | Two Queen Clarisse Renaldi One | Two | Three Leverage Crew One

This series was line jumped! If you'd like to learn more about line jumping, you can see this post

I meant to get this posted sooner but work genuinely became horrendously exhausting lmao

Anyway, here's some more Harley Quinn AU, now with three (3) memes at the end for your enjoyment

As always, if you see any typos, no you didn't ;)

------

"You're in my seat, squirt. Move."

The bar doesn't immediately go silent---this isn't some classic Western---but the chatter around them does die down. It still takes a few seconds and the man who spoke slamming his hand on the bar next to him for Steve to realize he's the squirt in question. He blinks, glances at Jason, receives absolutely nothing in return, and looks at the man standing next to him.

The work jumpsuit says dock worker, but the lift in his chin and puffed up chest scream newly-hired goon. If Steve had to guess, he'd say one of Penguin's. That's the only villain in Gotham who pays well and doesn't constantly fight Gotham's branch of the Union for the Rights of Henchmen and Goons (affectionately called Goonion by everyone in Gotham except the Joker).

"No, I'm not," Steve says, turning back to his drink.

"We gonna have a problem, kid?" the man asks. He leans in, towering over Steve. The sheer size of him would be intimidating if Steve hadn't grown up using King Shark and Killer Croc as his personal jungle gyms.

He sighs, knocks back his shot of tequila, and slams the glass on the counter. "We won't. You will."

The guy laughs, the sound echoing in the now-silent bar. Steve has never known his fellow drinkers to let something like conversation get in the way of watching a bar fight. Not that this is going to be much of one.

"Bring it on, little man."

"I'm bigger than you where it counts," Steve says, sliding off the stool. He only comes up to the man's shoulders, having to tilt his head back to see his face. "Did you know your mom's a size queen?"

He hears snickers from around them as the guy realizes the joke. The man's face twists into a scowl. He pulls his arm back and throws a punch. Steve snorts and ducks, looking up to watch Jason catch the guy's hand with his palm.

"My muscle's bigger, too," he says.

"Are you gonna make me fight all your battles?" Jason asks, looking down at Steve with a raised eyebrow. "You'll never learn this way."

Steve scoffs, popping up next to where Jason's hand is still gripping the guy's fist. Despite trying to pull away, he hasn't been able to loosen Jason's hold one bit. "I already know enough!"

"Prove it."

With a roll of his eyes, Steve gestures for Jason to let go. When he finally does, the guy turns on his heel and throws a punch at Steve. He ducks again, this time sweeping his leg out and up to jam his heel into the guy's knee. The crack echoes in the bar, followed by a pained grunt.

"You little shit," the guy growls, shifting to favor the injured leg as he reaches for Steve's shirt. Once he's got the material in hand, Steve grabs the guy's arm, turns, and throws the guy over his shoulder onto a table two feet away. The table buckles under the sudden weight, pint glasses shattering on the floor as it breaks in two.

"Aww, c'mon! I was still drinking those!" a woman at the table shouts, jamming her foot into the guy's side.

While he's busy with her, Steve turns around and smiles apologetically at the bar tender. "Sorry. We'll pay for the tables," he says, gesturing to Jason.

"B's gonna start getting on our asses if you keep busting tables every time we go out," Jason says as he pulls out his wallet and hands over a wad of cash to the bartender. "Let's go before you cause more damage I have to pay for."

"You're the one who likes drinking with me," Steve replies, grinning as he follows Jason out of the bar. "That guy kinda sucked at fighting, though."

"Of course he did. He's a goon. What'd you expect, a brawl with Cass?"

"More than two punches, at least!"

Jason snorts as he leads Steve over to his motorcycle. He tosses one of the helmets to him, grinning when Steve nearly fumbles the catch. "How about we visit a meta-bar next time then," he suggests, pulling his own helmet on.

"Is that a promise?"

"Sure...squirt."

----------

"Don't suppose you've got a sidecar somewhere," Robin says. She's standing by the handlebars, a dubious expression pulling at her features as she looks over the bike.

"Nope, don't carry those," Steve tells her, shrugging as he tosses his helmet to her. Robin barely catches it, holding the helmet close to her chest like it might try jumping from her hands. "Figured you could sit in front."

"In front?" Eddie asks, looking up from where he was inspecting a Nightwing logo sticker on the body of the bike. "I don't think you want Buckley driving."

"Who said anything about driving?" Steve asks. He gestures to the handlebars and says, "Robin sits here, I drive, and you sit behind me."

Before Eddie can respond to that, Robin waves Steve closer. "Is this some kinda ploy?" she asks.

"No clue what you mean, Robbie," Steve says, flashing a grin that immediately contradicts his innocence.

Robin scrunches her nose, disgust shining through. "That's not even safe," she says.

"Sure it is. You've got the helmet," Steve tells her.

"How will you even see?"

"By looking around you."

"We'll crash."

"Nope. I only crash when it's funny."

"You crash on purpose?" Eddie asks, sporting a frown when Steve looks at him. He's standing now, arms crossed and fingers drumming against his biceps.

"Only when I have an audience. And its comedic timing is appropriate. Jester logic is strict, you know."

"Jester logic? So, what, you're a clown?" Robin asks, amusement seeping into her voice like she's discovered the perfect teasing material.

Steve can feel a tension in the air, the held breath of the universe waiting to see something funny. His mother would be proud of the way he grabs the chance. Steve pulls out his wallet and procures a card he's just thought up. "Clown-in-training, actually. We take our profession very seriously," he says.

He turns the card around, showing Robin an ID with his photo, a comedy mask logo, and the words "Gotham Clown College Provisional Tomfoolery License" printed along the top.

"You can't be serious," Robin says, snatching the card and turning it over in her hands. "Gotham? What, are you a Joker wannabe?"

"The Joker is a disgrace to the profession," Steve tells her, taking the card back and sliding it into his wallet. The moment he stops touching the card, it disappears. The tension fades, a faint sense of satisfaction lingering and buzzing in Steve's ears.

"Wow. Strong clown opinions," Robin mumbles, rolling her eyes.

"Being a clown requires dedication and skill, Robin," Steve says, suddenly getting a nostalgic sense of deja vu. He's definitely had this conversation before with the bats. "You've gotta have a killer sense of humor, precise comedic timing, and unmatched adaptability. Not anyone can be a clown. Now, put on the helmet and get on the handlebars."

Robin blinks, her shoulders rising some. "I'm not sitting on the handlebars! I'm gonna die!" she says, immediately forgetting the clown argument, which means Steve won it by default.

He loves winning by default.

"You won't! Just trust me."

"Those are famous last words, dingus. Why don't you sit on the handlebars if you're so sure?"

"Do you know how to drive a bike?"

"Uh, guys," Eddie says, cutting through the argument before it can continue. "I have a van."

Steve blinks and looks in the direction Eddie is pointing. A nice van is sitting a few parking spots away. "Thank fuck," Robin says, shoving the helmet back into Steve's hands before walking over to the van.

"That's not nearly as fun," Steve mutters, hanging the helmet off the handlebars and nudging the kickstand up so he can start walking his bike over.

Eddie walks on the other side of the bike, keeping pace even as Robin turns to look at them with an impatient expression. "I wouldn't mind riding around later," he says, glancing at Steve and then at the bike between them. "Never been on one before."

Steve blinks and grins. "Doing anything tonight?" he asks.

"Well, as long as we don't get killed at this dangerous lab, nope, no plans at all."

"Don't worry, we won't get killed," Steve promises.

"What, it wouldn't be funny?"

"Exactly," Steve says.

Eddie blinks and laughs, but Steve doesn't try to convince him. He knows how unreal jester logic sounds, but Eddie will believe him when he sees it in action. Hopefully he'll laugh just as loudly then, too.

------

Tag list (there's definitely still room, so please let me know if you'd like to be tagged!)

@nectandra, @y4r3luv, @just-a-tiny-void, @dotdot-wierdlife

@midwestharpy,

@twilitdragoneye, @disrespectedgoatman, @lawrencebshoggoth, @gunsknivesandplaid, @sadisticaltarts

and now, some memes

[leapdayowo]

I am learning that writing my own story is akin to unraveling a ball of yarn. I find one end, unravel it and it’s satisfying and fun, then BOOM massive clump of knots! But no worries! I’ll just- if I can get this loop over this bit- oh for the love of- how did that happen??? And then most of the knots are out of that section (ignoring the ones I just tighten so much I cannot get them out). And then more unraveling fun! Yippee! until the mother of all tangles and knots appears from the center somehow like a writhing king rat and there’s yarn everywhere :’) some piles are meticulously folded or laid out nice and neat on the floor while other parts are a Mess. And I’m sitting there, looking at this creation/project at 2am realizing, I can’t put it back. Maybe I could have at the first hiccup, but Oh No. I have to finish this now because look at how much progress I’ve made! And made if I. Just. Keep. Chipping. Away. At. It-

nope.

I’m sleepy

so I carefully scoop everything up and place it in a basket until six months later when I have more important things to do that I really don’t want to do, I find that basket and dump its contents back out and start retracing my steps and progress I made on the yarn. I ‘tsk’ at the tight knots beyond help and resolve to take it slower. There is no rush with this particular ball of yarn to unravel it and get it ready to be used. So this end goes over here, then over here, put this piece in my mouth to create tension over here, pull this through then under- AHA!

and so it goes :)

[ilasknives]

THE LONG WAY HOME | One

<- Previous

Hi, hello, it's been. A very long time. Well over a year, I think? I finally have the second part! I'm so sorry it took me so long, life and full time university have been kicking my ass. I haven't done writing in a long time, so it felt stiff and hard to get through, and only half of it is actual whump, but the rest sets up the story. I really missed writing it, though. I hope you enjoy!

CW: BBU/BBU Adjacent, pet whump, pet training, collaring.

1: Nine Hundred and Thirty-Three

After:

"Get on your knees.”

"What? No, please, I don't -"

"Knees."

He drops to the floor to avoid the baton that this man keeps touching the handle of, looking up at him from below with his hands in his lap, fingers twisting into the shitty thin fabric of his shirt. Maybe it will rip. He doesn't want it to. It's the same one he walked in with, and he's getting the feeling that he won't get it back again if it breaks. He digs his fingers in tighter, anyway, unwillingly.

"I need to - please," he tries again. He needs to go home. His voice is hoarse, rough from the night of pleading with the empty room, tucked into a corner, fighting waves of exhaustion with terror, trying and failing to keep his eyes open. He'd scrambled to his feet when the door opened, desperate for someone to talk to, to reason with, to see that he wasn't supposed to be here -

And now he's on the floor again.

He swallows, mouth dry. "This was a mistake."

The handler ignores him, looking over him like he's assessing him for something, then sighs, mostly to himself. "Okay. So, Domestic."

"I'm not meant to be anything-"

"You don’t need to speak unless you’re spoken to."

“Please,” he whispers, but the look the handler shoots him is enough to make him close his mouth. Something flashes, in the back of his mind. A hand through the air, a stinging across the side of his face. He flinches, but the handler hasn’t moved. Every part of him is screaming that he’s done something wrong, that he needs to hide away and wait until it dies down, until it’s safe again - but there isn’t anywhere to hide here. Just white walls and a heavy door. God, he hasn’t felt like this in years. It’s hard to breathe. Like a hand around his throat.

The handler lets a moment pass, and then two, and when he’s been sitting quietly for long enough, he speaks again. “My name is Handler Phillips, I’ll be your primary Handler for the duration of your training. You are WRU Trainee 297933.”

“I’m not.” It’s whispered, terrified, but he can’t just… give up. There has to be someone who will hear him out. There has to be some way to go home. “My name is-”

“You don’t have a name, you have an identification number.” The handler sighs, and crouches down so they’re face to face. ��Look. I don’t want to do this the hard way, and I don’t think you do, either. You’re gonna have to work with me.”

“I’m not meant to be here.”

"We're just doing intake today, alright? Do you know what that means?"

"I want to go home." He doesn't want to do intake, he wants to go back to where he lives and curl up in his bed and never take another stupid fucking bet in his life. He's supposed to be walking back through the door and gloating about his victory right about now. Yesterday. The day before? How long has he been here? "Let me go home."

"I can't do that, mate. I have a job to do, and so do you." The Handler stands and unhooks something from his belt. "This is a collar. It will be yours. It's fitted with…"

The Handler's voice fades into the background behind the ringing of his ears and the bile that rises in his throat. A collar. Fuck, no. Fuck that.

"No," he interrupts. "No. No. You're not putting that on me. Let me go. I need to go home.”

Handler Phillips sighs again. “297933,” he says.

“That’s not my name.”

“It’s your WRU identification number. The collar is mandatory; it’s part of your training.”

“No.” The handler’s fingers touch, briefly, the handle of the baton. He draws back into himself, swallowing thickly, eyes on the floor. “Sorry,” he says quickly. The words taste sour. “I’m sorry.”

Another sigh from above him.

“You’re okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” The handler hesitates, like he isn’t meant to continue. “I know this is scary. Take a breath.”

He draws in a breath that burns the whole way down.

“Think you can sit still enough to let me put this on you?”

“I don’t want to,” he whispers.

It happens anyway. The fight just… leaves him. He sits and trembles on the floor while Phillips slides the thick collar around his throat and clips it into place with gentle hands.

*

Before:

They’re all at Nell’s house.

They’re always all at Nell’s house, because she’s the only one of them with dogs, and with a couch, and with more than one shitty, battered Wii controller like Benny has. Nell only has two, but that’s double Benny’s, and the rest of them have none, so Nell’s place is the place to be.

They’re playing Mario Kart while they wait for Benny. Rhys is sandwiched between Luca and the arm of the couch, and one of the dogs has its head resting on his foot, and he can’t even move, because it’s Luca, and he’s got his legs slung over Rhys’s lap and his head pillowed on his shoulder.

Luca jerks his arm, swerves, and runs his Yoshi off the side of the track right as Matteo wins the race. Rhys jabs him in the side. “My go.”

“What – that doesn’t count!”

“In what world does that not count?”  Rhys already knows he’s going to lose the argument, but he entertains it anyway. He rarely actually plays Mario with the group, even though they say they’ll swap controllers after every race. Matteo’s already clicked his controller into the wheel attachment and handed it to Owen. Rhys usually hands off his turn to Luca and watches as he comes dead last every single time.

Luca’s opening his mouth to start the usual ‘I’m going to get it next time’ spiel when Benny waltzes in through the front door with his arms full of Nell’s mail.

Rhys raises an eyebrow at him. “You know that’s illegal, right?”

Benny, mouth full of – something, what the fuck is he eating this time? – says, “Huh?”

“Opening someone else’s mail.”

Benny rolls his eyes and dumps the pile of envelopes – bar one – on Luca and Rhy’s laps. “Helenaaaa.”

Nell’s voice comes back from the kitchen, instantly dry, wary. “What do you want from me?”

“I have something for you.”

“I swear, if you’ve been going through my mail again - ”

Benny darts off, cackling like an idiot, and Nell – also like an idiot – chases after him. Rhys shoves the pile of mail off his lap, and it clatters to the floor, all over the dog.

“… Sorry, Benedict.”

“You’re so mean to her,” Owen says from the other side of the couch. “Come here, baby.”

Benedict heaves all god-knows-how-much of her entire great dane self off the floor and meanders over to Owen. He’s already got Chef curled up with his head shoved under his rollator, and Benedict slumps at his feet and goes back to sleep.

“Thief,” Rhys says. “You’re a dog thief.”

“You dropped mail on her head!”

“Weird mail,” Luca muttered, leaning down to snatch an envelope off the floor. “The hell is this?”

It’s a thick white envelope, decorated in gold trim, a wax seal on the back – and it’s snatched from Luca’s hand as soon as Benny swans his way back into the room.

“Whatcha got there, Luca?”

Luca snorts. “Ask Nell, it’s hers.”

Benny does not ask Nell. He never does, but Nell hates opening her own mail, so she shoots Rhys an exasperated look and slumps down on the couch with Matteo.

“We seem to have abandoned Mario,” Matteo muses as Benny tears open the envelope. He doesn’t even try to remove the seal. Absolute animal.

“Dear resident, we hope this letter finds you well,” Benny reads, pacing in front of them like some grandiose loser. Rhys considers tripping him. “We have recently started a movement to bring clinics to smaller cities, and we’re searching for partici- oh my god, this is that – Pet shit, right?”

Nell makes a face. “Yeah, they’re building some new complex for it, or something, right? I read the first one, some initiative to ‘bring business and economy flow into rural areas’ or whatever.”

“We’re not even rural,” says Matteo.

“I know. God, I thought I unsubscribed from their mailing list. Just tear it up, Benny.”

But Benny’s eyes have gone wide. “Holy shit, have you seen how much money they offer you?”

Rhys snatches it from Benny’s grip. Holy shit was right. The number is in the high ten thousands – more money than any of them have seen in one place in their lives.

“I want it,” says Benny. It’s always Benny who starts this shit. Rhys can practically feel his brain turning.

Luca laughs. “You want to be someone’s house pet, Benny?”

A grin, a shrug. Benny’s never been the type to admit that he’s wrong. “Why not? Cozy up on the couch, no job, no bills.”

“Dumbasses,” says Nell, taking the envelope off Rhys and ripping it in half.

“You can’t tell me you don’t want that kind of money, Nell.”

“What am I gonna do with the money if I’m signing up to their program, Benjamin?”

There’s a lull. It should be the end of it. It should. But Benny is Benny is Benny, and Benny doesn’t know when to stop.

“... I reckon I could get the money, anyway.”

“You’re a coward,” Rhys says, because he’s just as bad as Benny, “and a liar.”

Luca jabs him in the side.

Benny’s eyes narrow, and he squares his shoulders like he always does when he thinks that he’s been challenged.

“Wanna bet?”

Taglist (please ask to be added or removed!): @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @whumpinthepot @whumpcereal @whumpsday @whumpworld @littlespacecastle @anonintrovert @honey-is-mesi @warm-my-whumpee-heart @whumping-seven-days-a-week @alexmundaythrufriday

[lynzishell]

🌸Hello Friends!!!

I'm back and I've missed you all so fkin much!! I'm fully caffeinated and ready to catch up on what I've missed. 🤸🏻‍♀️💖 Life is still life-ing, but I think I'm in a good enough place to start working on story posts again. I'll probably start with updates 3x/week as I get back in the groove, but I'm hoping I'll be back to 5x/week soon! That being said - my story will resume on Monday! ✨YAY!✨

[cleminthewriter]

This time Dad says it's my turn on the writing

A/N: ok so context, I have a little theory that Alex and Winfrey are related, and this is me turning it into an au. It might be a bit cringe but I hope y'all enjoy.

TW for some ableist language after “Dad, please, Alex really liked the pair when we went to the eye doctor today-” and "And the only response they’d get to defending themself was:", it's nothing too bad I think, but just wanna mention that as a just in case

-------------

Winfrey knew. Of course they knew. Everything about them gave it away.

The dark green eyes that reminded them of oak trees.

“Daddy! Daddy! Can we go to the park today? I really wanna try and get to the top of the big oak today!”

“Sure Al, just let Daddy finish writing this lesson real quick, alright? You can get your shoes on in the meantime.” 

“Yay, Thank you Thank you Thank you!”

“Woah, haha, Careful- and they're already gone.” a sigh “Tell Your Grandparents We’re Leaving!”

“OK!”

The long brown hair that went all the way to their shoulders.

“Alex, I am so sorry. I thought your hair would have been fine.”

“It’s Not Fair! Why’d They Cut It!”

“The dress codes says-”

“Says Baloney!”

A stifled laugh.

“I should get to have my hair how I want it! Daddy, you're an adult, they’ll listen to you. Tell Them!”

“... oh honey, they… won’t.”

“Why Not?!?”

“... same reason I missed Christmas last year.”

Those round glasses with the green frame that made their eyes look slightly bigger.

“Winfrey, why the hell would you need 55 dollars for a pair of glasses.”

“Dad, please, Alex really liked the pair when we went to the eye doctor today-”

“Tell ‘em no! Your already in enough debt from your little freakout-”

“And You Want Me To Explain That To A FUCKING Six Year Old!?!” Silence, while breathing.

“Dad I promise to tell Alex you paid for them and I promise to pay you back, just… please. Alex needs glasses and I want to make sure they get a good pair. I won’t ask you for anything else after this. Just do it for your grandkid.”

“...fine. But I expect the money to be spent ON the glasses.” 

“They will be, Dad, I promise.”

The way their hand trembled while holding that… strange device with the flashing light.

Loud, Intense crying.

“Al, look, there’s no monster outside. It was just some trees. It’s ok.”

“But- but- It was scary! It was prob-prob-bably gonna eat me!”

“Alex, look at me, just for a moment. … that's it, look at you, you brave little guy. Now, listen to me: Monsters aren’t real. Just little images us creatives come with from time to time. Nobody’s out there planning to eat you up. Just the pines right there.”

“You- You promise Dad-Daddy?”

“Yeah I promise Alex.” A hug. “... I will say one monster exists. It's called THE TICKLE MONSTER!”

“Ahhahahahahhaha DAAAAADDYYYY!”

Oh… how so much had changed in the last twenty or so years, yet so much was the same. It was still their (or well the human who they had consumed but they were mostly the same person now) little one. Who they had spent the last six years of their human life caring for. Who they only thought of as they spent quite a bit of those six years here in this damned asylum. Who had been the only person they left the maternity ward with before they inevitably had to plan the funeral of their first love. 

Their Alex.

(who notably carried some scent of their partner. Not intense enough to have been Clyde wearing their skin, but enough to tell Alex had been around it frequently. They internally prayed to Six their child had not taken Clyde as well as them.)

It was a moment where they had seemed to have lost the voice of that first human victim, substituting it with a “Help me” from a patient they had consumed some memories with Alex from sometime ago. Alex had always been one to help others in need.

However, before Alex could say anything, that Dreaded man grabbed their attention.

“Daddy, when will you be back?”

“Just another week Al, just another week. Once I’m out, we’ll do all sorts of fun things together. I’ll play you the violin, I’ll get us ice cream with three scoops, i’ll even see about getting you that cat you’ve been wanting.”

“Black with yellow eyes?”

“Yes black with yellow-”

“Mr. Williams, your time is up. Best to get back to your… therapy.”

“Just a bit more time, we just need to-”

“No Mr. Williams, your child must leave now.”

“Just A Bit-”

Winfrey watched as the Doctor sent Alex away again, this time not even allowing for a conversation at all. And as he shut those doors, as he turned his head back to them with that horrid smile, Winfrey knew another thing:

Lankmann knew as well.

—

Alex slammed their bedroom door shut. So What! They bleached a section of their hair blonde, not a huge deal! Unlike Stacy, they didn’t make their hair fall out. So why the hell was Grandpa so annoyed by it?!? They were sixteen, they could do whatever the hell they wanted!

Alex fell onto their bed and screamed into their pillow. Ever since Grandma died back in August, he’s been on their back over everything! No matter what they said or asked, it was always the wrong thing! And the only response they’d get to defending themself was:

“Careful Alexander, you're becoming your father.”

Which would make Alex completely annoyed. Without Grandma there to smack him on the head and cry “Benedict!”, he could say it as much as he wanted. Elementary and Middle School were bad enough with the fear and bullying over their father’s mental health and disappearance, but at least by High School it had frizzled out and Alex could finally make some real friends. With Grandpa, he could never let it go! It pissed them off so bad. Maybe their dad wasn’t the most healthy mentally, but they were good to them and grandpa should stop acting like they weren’t!

Alex let out a final groan as they looked at their clock and- oh it was already 8:30. Alex had plans to go to a party at Sean’s, and Rick confirmed that the cute girl from chem was gonna be there. Sure, Gramps may have “Grounded” them, but they had made it to the top of the oak tree with and without dad’s help. Leaving out the window and climbing down a two story house was easy.

Alex got up from the bed and went to their closet. 

But… something outside the window caught their eye.

Memories of their dad comforting them from some trees blowing a bit too hard outside flooded their brain. “Little images us creatives come with from time to time”, they could hear their dad whispering to their crying six year old self. It had been years since then, and by now Alex knows monsters aren’t real (Until this would later be proven false when they’d come home from college for a bit to plan Grandpa’s funeral in Fall ‘86. What started as a fun get together with some old high school buddies on halloween ended with being interviewed by the local news about six missing kids and later on getting a job offer as an archivist for The Lankmann Foundation as protection from the “Veldigun”. Well, that benefit of the job would be thrown away as they’d proceed to feed the veldigun that ate said six kids), but yet Alex couldn’t help but wonder…

Were the eyes always in those trees?

[lightyagamifan]

Stationed near the closed doors of the building were the two of you, in which you are a Fatui rookie, and another fellow Fatuus, who was also nice enough to befriend you. Your small conversations brought up the question of which Harbinger was leading the mission tonight, and he could only chuckle nervously.

“I just hope it’s not Lord Scaramouche.”

Suddenly, your colleague nearly yelps as you both hear the door practically bang open. The perpetrator takes in the sweet sound of deafening silence before he draws in, the familiar jingles of his hat ornaments echoing across the room. At the same time the doors swung open, you didn’t dare to see the authority figure who was stepping into the hallway. His two unfortunate subordinates know better than to test him with a look.

The whole world stops spinning once the Harbinger halts at your feet. You inwardly fight with your curiosity to not raise your head, boring your eyes at his feet instead.

Your newfound friend beside you starts, “Lord Harbinger, we are-“

The said figure strikes his face in one swift motion with a slap, wasting no time in shutting his subordinate up.

You couldn’t help but jump, staring and cowering at the sight of your unquestionable leader in front of you donning an expression of fury, his hand high in the air as if he was preparing to start beating up the poor guy senseless in the next few minutes. Yet, Scaramouche lowers his arm, smirking at the shaking underling beneath him.

After he hisses orders at the figure (who basically ran off to the next room immediately), he quickly turns, prowling towards you, the adornments of his hat sounding an alarm as you freeze at the anticipation of whatever else he was going to do.

However, the same smugness, that was once directed at your coworker, falls at the prolonged sight of you. Your Lord Harbinger simply huffs in annoyance, not sparing any apology as he bumps into your shoulders, trudging past you.

You could only thank the Archons that he spared you instead.

[bvckbiter]

i cant believe that in order to write fic i have to sit down and actually write it. why cant i just beam my thoughts onto a document

[redo-rewind-if]

Hi everyone! Hope you've had a good week and that the weather's been treating you well. It's been one hell of a hot summer for me. 😅

Next Update (Chapter 3? Quite Possibly!):

Intro Scene (if not on music fest route): 100%

Music Fest Routes (Solo, V, and Amara): 100%

Club Pyre Path: 100%

Editing: 40%

Coding: 55?% (Possibly even more!)

Bug Testing: 0%

Gotten a solid chuck of editing done this last week! At the rate things are going, I'm (tentatively) estimating the next demo update may be ready by the end of August to beginning of September. 🤞

As for the coding, I've started porting some of what I've already edited into Twine, hence actually having a percentage this week. I've also axed a small scene that I decided was unnecessary for the plot which has speed things up a tad. All in all, things are going good!

[immortallylightbird]

Prompt #12

(SPOILERS FOR AVENGERS: ENDGAME)

Three different pairs of eyes snap open in tandem, each during different points in time. But all equally confused on what was going on.

————

Danny Fenton awoke with a gasp, phantom pains shooting up his arm. The halfa looked around frantically before sighing in relief at the sight of his room. He grabbed his phone to see what ungodly hour he woke up at, only to stare in bewilderment at the date that was displayed on the screen.

'That couldn't be right.' He thought to himself, frowning. Last he checked it was not 20XX. Nor was it two months before the portal accident. After a bit of contemplating he groaned, getting out of bed and starting to get ready for the day while internally cursing Clockwork. He couldn't even visit the time ghost to yell at him! Danny then spluttered as a bright green sticky note was slapped onto his face.

'Have fun living.'

————

Jason Todd didn't immediately open his eyes, that'd be stupid and would against any and all training he got from Bruce. He could just tell that something was *off* though. He felt different, he couldn't place exactly what was different but it was definitely something. He carefully listened to his surroundings, trying to see what kinda place he was being kept in. After assessing the room for any potential threats he slowly opened his eyes. His brow furrowed as he looked around what seemed to be his room as a teen when he was living in the manor. Jason slowly sat up and got off the bed. He quickly gauged that his height was immensely different as he walked over to a mirror, he immediately stared in shock. A good description of his reaction would be 'what the actual fuck'. He was a teen again. Like, around the age he stole the batmobile tires. How the hell was that possible? Did Flash fuck up the timeline again?? His gaze drifted to a bright green sticky note.

'Enjoy your time living.'

————

As Peter Parker woke up sitting upright while gasping for air, his first thought was: 'I should be dead.'

But no, he was in his and May's apartment, very much not dust floating through space. He looked around at the many Star Wars Legos and other very distinct things that made up his room. Nothing was changed, and his spidey-sense wasn't going off, but there was definitely something wrong here. Peter looked down at himself, trying to find any evidence that was dusted away before grabbing his phone off his nightstand and looking at the date, 3 months before the snap. How was that possible? He should be dead- no, he WAS dead. He got up and walked around his room slowly, trying to look for anything that signaled that he was dreaming. There was nothing. It wasn't a hallucination either. Just as he turned around to walk out the door, he spotted a strange bright green sticky note stuck to the door.

'Use your time wisely.'

————

In another realm during a different moment in time, a deity smiled, shifting between forms. He would probably be getting in trouble for this later, but it would be worth it in the end. Afterall, he knew these kids would make the best of the time they had now that they knew of future events.

Well, hopefully. Nothing ever goes according to plan with time.

[amethysts-prompts]

Prompt #229

“Well?”

“Well, I can see the exhaustion on your face and I’m deciding this fight isn’t worth my time. I would win, and I want to feel as though I earned it. This”- Villain gestured at the baggy-eyed hero- “is not a win.”

[questionable-idea]

Writing the middle of a romance story without a beginning yet. They're cute together but I got no fucking clue how they met

[trentcrimminallybeautiful]

in which trent and roy make up earlier in a slightly less public setting and then make the completely hinged decision to use this opportunity to fuck with everyone

[coffeebanana]

mtl fic vibes…that’s all I have to say 👀

[swordheld]

how did u choose your username?

oh, this is a fun one!! i think i considered being swordtold at first, for that very ancient myth vibe of the sword being this narrative tool for adventure and structure and physical time, the parable being passed down through the centuries until it meddles into modern day rhetoric and ideology – a kind of fantastical tool, a spark of magic, of possibility.

i like the arc of the story of a place being physical / having it be held by time and hand alike, wearing with the years and having it become something different to each holder, each reader, each experience fantastical and individual.

having that kind of physicality to it; swordheld is the action of taking up and holding the sword yourself, choosing your own narrative, leading your own story. self-identity has always been something i struggle with (a novel concept i know, i know), so it felt right for this blog, since most of my older blogs before this one have been just me silently reblogging and never really posting anything myself, and i wanted this to be the change to that.

i've always had trouble wranging my social anxiety, esp. on the internet, and previously thought that keeping my words to myself helped keep the timeline cleaner, in a way, no messy thoughts for others to sort through, especially ones i believed no one would want to read anyway? but it never felt right, keeping myself apart from it all, esp. not in the way i so avidly enjoyed reading others' posts and additions, keeping their words close to my heart.

i wanted it to reflect that this was a space i was holding for myself? and i'm a little slow on the uptake sometimes, but this - this i think i got right. i love being here, on this blog, and the joy that it brings me. everyone else enjoying it too has been a wild ride that i never expected, and still surprises me, one that brings a little extra thrill to my heart whenever i think about it.

i had other urls that i liked, but i didn't want this blog to be tied directly to any of my fandom/story interests, since i wanted it to really just be a sort of archive of artistic inspiration and resource, like a little library or museum. i use them now as lil sideblogs of more niche interests now, which is rather lovely.

it hasn't always felt like it fit perfectly, the way that i'd like, but for some reason i can't think of really wanting to change it anytime soon. it feels mythic yet modern in a way that feels like puzzle pieces finally slotting into their place, something my own and inspirational to me, like a lantern i'm holding to make my way by. my own kind of light, if that makes sense – a star i know by name.

[insertmeaningfulusername]

Obi-Wan helps a few of his former 212th troopers move into a shared flat and stays the night. He wakes up to the Coruscant morning sun tickling his cheek – and a sleeping commander in his arms.

My fill for the @codywanfirstkissbingo square "butterfly kiss" 🦋