#joshler prompts

[teeentyonepilots]

for your joshler prompts: how about some emotional hurt/comfort about settling into fast moving tour life (maybe + jim/how family plays into that, or tyler's "it's intense" comment in the new webseries episode)?

if that sparks any inspiration in you :) i hope you have a good birthday week!

(Thank you for sending!! Always love some emotional comfort)

The starting of a tour at the beginning of an era marked the transition between dreams and plans into actuality. Tyler spent the quiet times at home contemplating every idea and whim that crossed his brain to envision if it was possible. Josh would help him rein in his more elaborate proposals to create something doable.

Carrying it out was agonizing. So many moving parts and crew and crowd to wrangle. Tyler found he loved commanding attention and direction. He reveled in the challenge. Their shows have always been and will be epic.

But in the quiet times late at night after rehearsals or those first couple of shows, his brain raced through all the details. Everywhere that went wrong. He’d try to close his eyes and then his lids would project everything in fast forward. Not coherent to productively change or improve, just rattling doubts and criticism.

He wasn’t sleeping. Couldn’t sleep. Dark circles under his eyes growing each night and Tyler ignored it.

But Josh noticed. He was used to this routine every tour. Waiting to see if Tyler figured it out or he needed to step in. All it took was for Tyler to snap over something completely inconsequential, storming around alone in his dressing room, for Josh to spring into action.

“Hey,” was all Josh needed to say for Tyler to deflate and lose steam.

“Hey yourself,” though Tyler didn’t have any venom left.

“C’mere.” Josh opened his arms and Tyler walked in them, exhaling as if he’d been holding his breath for a month. Josh walked them backwards to the couch, Tyler letting himself be directed, giving up control. Words weren’t needed between them. It didn’t happen often, but it wasn’t the first time.

The couch was too small to fully stretch out, but it didn’t matter when Tyler could finally start to crash. His head finding a home in Josh’s lap, his fingers scratching and massaging his aching and exhausted skull.

“Don’t know why I can’t shake it this tour. It’s too… too much, too intense. I want it to be so good.”

Josh hummed and kept pace with his fingers. “You’re doing so good. You’ve put so much into everything. It’s okay to rest.”

Tyler’s brain was blissfully empty, finally. Only the rise and fall of his breath, Josh’s hand in his hair, and his warm thigh under his cheek. It was just going to be a short nap. That would give him enough energy for the show, and carry him through. Maybe he’d ask Josh to do this again later, helping him fall asleep for a full night. But for now, just a little nap.

[pennylunfersqueak]

is anyone going to make a twenty one pilots inspired inktober prompt list? I WANT IT

alternatively does anyone want to collab and make it together

[personamorph]

Joshler rp request.

Hello! First time poster here (kinda super nervous to post on this platform), but I’m DESPERATELY in the search of a Joshler RP partner. I normally main Tyler. I am semi literate - literate. I’ve been a fan for over a decade and I’ve role-played for 10+ years now. I request that you be 18+, and can write more than a few lines in response to my replies. I have really no triggers at all.

If you’re interested you can DM me on here I have a discord!

I do have a starter ready to go, I’ll include that as well. We can change whatever you see fit! We do not have to do that though I’m up for ANYTHING

(This starter is apart of a fanfic I am working on. If you want to read it it’s included) https://docs.google.com/document/d/12ToNvmuQEdAeKYgLaUt1fy3CXb-u0zc-XosxFFae3YI/edit?usp=drivesdk

Starter:

The air in Dema always smelled faintly of concrete dust and forgotten rain.

Each morning, the city stirred like a machine forced into motion grey towers casting long, oppressive shadows over narrow streets lined with identical buildings. The walls never crumbled, but they never breathed either. The sky above Dema had no color. Not blue, not black. Just... blank. As though even the sun was unwelcome.

No laughter echoed here, no music hummed from open windows. Only the static hum of the Intercom System, ever-present, ever-watchful.

At the heart of it all were the Nine Bishops, the silent architects of order. Clad in dark ceremonial robes, each bore a name whispered with reverence and fear: Andre, Lisden, Nills, Listo, Keons, Reisdro, Vetomo, Sacarver, and the most feared - Nico. Each oversaw a district. Each claimed devotion to stability, purity, obedience, and ruled a certain district within Dema.

But beneath the immaculate grid of Dema’s streets and the polished sermons of its rulers, something simmered. Quietly. Desperately.

It began with chalk.

On the outer edge of District Keons, near the border walls where the Watchers rarely passed, a child drew a yellow circle on the concrete. Then a line. Then another. A symbol.

The Bishop of Five would call it vandalism. But to the ones who remembered the legends—to the ones who still felt it was a signal.

Clancy woke up to the sound of the Intercom crackling to life, the voice of Bishop Nico bleeding through the static like oil on water.

"Rise in purpose. Wake in gratitude. The Glorious Gone watches with favor."

Clancy stared at the ceiling, unmoved.

The grey above him looked exactly the same as it had every morning of his nineteen years. He could trace every crack in the concrete from memory. But something about the cracks had always felt wrong. Too deliberate. Too symmetrical. Like they weren’t fractures at all just part of the design.

He sat up slowly, not out of reverence, but routine. He slid on his standard-issue jacket, the hem stitched with his district’s insignia Keons, under Bishop Keons. A pale symbol over his heart that had never meant anything to him. Not really.

They called it Vialism the path to purity through obedience and submission. They preached of The Glorious Gone, a promised state of elevation where the soul is released from burden, delivered by the Bishops through loyal servitude. But Clancy couldn’t help but notice that no one ever returned from being “delivered.” They just... disappeared.

He never questioned it aloud. Not here. Not with the Watchers on every street corner, with their emotionless masks and the faint yellow light that blinked from behind their visors.

But in his dreams, the world cracked open.

Vibrant colors bled through the grey. Fields that breathed, skies that moved, music that echoed through trees he’d never seen in real life. In those dreams, Clancy ran barefoot through soil instead of concrete. He heard voices strange and free and felt something he didn’t have a word for. Maybe hope.

Sometimes he woke up crying, but he didn’t know why.

Something inside him whispered that he wasn’t supposed to be here. That the city, with all its rigid symmetry and obedient silence, was a lie.

Last night’s dream lingered like smoke: a symbol drawn in yellow chalk, smeared by a rushing footstep. A voice real this time, he was certain had whispered two words:

"Don’t stop."

Clancy didn’t know where the words came from. But he knew he would follow them.

By day, Clancy worked as a Neon Grave Digger. It was a title that sounded more poetic than it was.

There were no songs in Dema.

Music was considered a relic of the Before, a dangerous indulgence that fed emotion, unruly thought, and disobedience. Vialism taught that melody was noise, and noise was chaos and chaos was the seed of rebellion.

But Clancy sang anyway.

Only in his room, and only when the Intercom had gone dead for the night when the walls of Dema fell into their uneasy hush, and the Watchers retreated to their black towers to recharge their yellow eyes.

That was when Clancy would sit on the floor beside his cot, press his back to the cold wall, and let the sound leave his throat like smoke from a smothered fire.

The songs had no name. He didn’t even remember where they came from, just scattered notes that wove themselves into lullabies of resistance, pieces of melody born in dreams, buried in his chest all day and exhaled in trembling whispers at night.

Sometimes they were sad. Sometimes they were angry. But they were his, and that alone was rebellion.

He never sang loud. The walls had ears. And the Bishops punished music with reeducation, a word that never meant what it sounded like. Clancy had seen what came back from those chambers, when something came back at all.

But still he sang. Because the silence hurt more.

District Keons specialized in reclamation. He spent hours in the field outside the southern wall—an old sector of Dema long since collapsed under time and neglect. A wasteland of twisted steel and cracked stone, where the ground pulsed faintly with embedded neon veins—remnants of the city’s ancient energy grid.

Clancy and the others were ordered to dig through it, extract the glowing cables like roots from a corpse, and feed them into the city’s refueling chambers. The Bishops said it was sacred work: reclaiming the past to sustain the Present.

But Clancy always felt like he was burying something instead of retrieving it.

The glow would sometimes stick to his skin, staining his gloves with a ghostly hue that reminded him of the yellow chalk from his dreams. He kept one coil, once a small, frayed strand of dying neon blue that hummed when he held it too long. It sat hidden beneath his floorboard, curled like a question mark.

Today, the sky over Dema was a deeper grey than usual. Ominous. Still.

As Clancy shoveled earth and twisted wires, his eyes caught something strange etched into the rusted side of a collapsed pylon. A smear of yellow chalk. A line, a curve, unfinished.

His heart stuttered.

It wasn’t just in his dreams.

Those masked wanderers outside the wall were real. And they were leaving messages.

“Don’t stop.” That same voice rang through his ears once more, seething with that word hope again, but where was it coming from?

Clancy wiped his gloves clean, glancing around. No Watchers. No vultures. Just the wind breathing secrets through broken concrete.

Tonight, he would sing again.

But tomorrow?

Tomorrow, he might start looking for the way out.

For the next three days, Clancy moved through Dema like a ghost.

He worked his hours, digging neon bones from the earth like nothing had changed. He answered questions with short nods. He avoided eye contact. But inside, his mind was burning.

Every moment off the clock, he ventured into the abandoned edges of District Keons past the decommissioned railways and crumbling walkways that once hummed with life before the Bishops declared them "unfit for Glorious Function." These places were too broken to be useful, and so, like everything deemed obsolete in Dema, they were simply forgotten.

But not empty.

In the shell of an old administrative building, behind a collapsed shelf of rusted data chips and mold-rotted uniforms, Clancy found the library.

It wasn't large, just a few shelves mostly warped by time and weather. But the books were still there. Real paper. Smelling like dust and fire. No catalog system. No Intercom surveillance. Just words. And those words opened something in Clancy that the Bishops never prepared him for.

One book detailed ancient cities with trees taller than buildings and skies that changed color blue, red, violet. Another spoke of "oceans", massive bodies of water so wide they swallowed the horizon. He found journals from people who questioned, who felt things beyond duty and silence. He read about music being a tool of resistance, a weapon against oppression. Songs were once used to unite, to remember, to fight.

The books weren't just archives.

They were instructions.

Almost like someone had left them behind on purpose. For someone like him.

On the fourth night, the voice returned.

Clancy had barely fallen asleep, his fingers still stained with dust from the pages he’d poured over. His room was silent, save for the soft hum of the city’s power grid vibrating in the floor below him.

Then the whisper came. Soft. Urgent. Just like before.

"Their compass lies..."

Clancy jolted upright, breath caught in his throat.

"East is up."

He sat frozen for a moment, the words echoing in his mind like a chorus. It made no sense. And yet something in his chest recognized it.

The next morning, he pulled out a stolen map of Dema, one he'd found tucked in the back of a book labeled Topography of Order. It was printed in grayscale, with the nine districts laid out in perfect symmetry. The compass rose was marked at the bottom corner: north, south, east, west.

But when he lined it up with the sun what little of it could be seen the map was wrong. Intentionally reversed.

The city had lied.

East wasn’t east.

But it was up.

Not just directionally. Elevation.

Clancy thought of the old watchtowers beyond the southern ruins—half-buried by time, but taller than anything else near the border. Forbidden zones, deemed “unstable” and sealed by orders of the Bishops.

They weren’t unstable.

They were a way out.

And someone—something—wanted him to find it.

Clancy stared at the glowing coil of blue neon beneath his floorboard, pulsing like a heartbeat.

Tomorrow, he would go back to the towers.

And maybe... he wouldn’t come back.

The city was silent when Clancy left.

He waited until the Intercom’s last nightly decree Bishop Andreus’s voice flat and cold, preaching stillness and surrender then counted out one hundred breaths, just like the books suggested. The streets of District Keons grew quiet afterward, as they always did, the Watchers slipping into dormancy mode unless movement was detected.

Clancy moved like a shadow between buildings. He had memorized the blind spots between surveillance nodes, watched for days from rooftops, and timed his path to the second. His boots made no sound on the cracked pavement. Only the wind seemed to follow him, curious.

The southern ruins were different at night. The glow from the neon veins cast strange shadows, pulsing like blood beneath the concrete skin of the earth. He slipped through a breach in the old containment fence and crossed into the Exclusion Zone.

No one was supposed to come here.

No one wanted to.

Except him.

The towers loomed in the distance like broken teeth, half-swallowed by time and covered in creeping vines that Dema refused to acknowledge even existed. Their jagged tops scraped the blank sky like accusations.

At first glance, there was no way in—no doors, no ladders, just rusted metal and sealed panels.

But Clancy had learned not to trust appearances.

He circled the base of the tallest tower, eyes scanning every crack, every discolored patch of stone.

Then he saw it.

A thin yellow chalk line, almost invisible under the layers of grime and age, curled along the wall like a serpent. It dipped beneath a pile of rubble near the foundation an unnatural curve in the otherwise perfect geometry of Dema.

Clancy crouched and pushed the debris aside. Beneath it: a seam.

A door.

Old and mechanical, it creaked open with a hiss, revealing a narrow shaft that dropped into the earth. He slipped through, heart pounding in his chest like war drums.

He descended a rusted ladder, every step taking him deeper under the city. The further he went, the less the hum of Dema reached him. Soon, there was only silence and the steady drip of water echoing off stone.

At the bottom, a tunnel opened before him. Not just a pipe or service crawlspace this was deliberate, engineered. Curved walls reinforced with metal, markings along the edges too faded to read. The tunnel was dark but dry, and just ahead, he saw it:

Another yellow chalk line.

A path.

Clancy followed it for what felt like hours. The air grew lighter. Warmer. He heard things he had no words for birds, maybe. Wind, real wind, not the filtered breeze of air filtration units. His steps quickened.

And then—

Light.

Real, golden light.

He reached the tunnel’s mouth and blinked into the sudden brilliance. The ceiling opened above him like a shattering dome, and the world spilled in.

Not concrete.

Not grey.

But green.

Rolling hills blanketed in grass, vibrant and wild. Trees, tall and swaying. The sky above was not blank, but endless, painted in warm hues of dawn. A bright and defiant sun rose from the horizon.

He stumbled forward, out of the tunnel and into the open, the grass soft beneath his boots. The scent of earth hit him like a memory he never had.

He dropped to his knees, overcome, and looked back one last time at the tunnel that led from Dema.

Then ahead.

A valley stretched before him. Still in awe he studied the map of Dema, once he pulled it free from his pocket. He was in Trench. A place he has dreamed of for so long without actually knowing it was real, almost like the very grass he was kneeling on, was calling out to him.

He had made it to Trench.

Clancy wandered through Trench like a man set loose in a dream—but dreams had no maps.

For nearly a week, he staggered through rolling green hills, slipping between rocky ridges and thick groves of wild trees. The air was warm and soft, but loneliness gnawed at his edges like frost. The songs he used to whisper in his room now echoed aloud across the open fields, unanswered.

He had no direction, only the desperate instinct to get as far from Dema as possible.

Food was scarce. He found rusted cans near an old firepit, ancient and hollow. Rain pooled in bent metal cups scattered near the remnants of what once looked like a Bandito outpost. He drank from them despite the rust, and once, he cut his lip on a jagged edge. The blood tasted real. It reminded him he was still here, still alive, though barely.

But on the fifth day, the wilderness changed.

The air grew tense. The wind quieted. Birds stopped singing.

Then came the sound of hooves.

Clancy turned too late.

From the rise of a nearby hill came a blur of blinding white a tall figure astride a pale horse, its mane braided in silver thread. The rider wore ceremonial red robe, polished and cruel, his face hidden beneath a hood, his face pale down to his nose which was black:

Nico

One of the Nine Bishops.

Clancy turned to run, but the horse moved too fast gliding over grass like a shadow unbound by weight. Nico reached him within seconds, Clancy couldn’t help but let fear lock him in place. His mind was screaming, no pleading for him to move.. Run.. but all he could do was look Nico in the eyes as the bishop walked to him, reached out and touched his neck.

It burned like shame, like silence, like Dema.

Nicos eyes glistened as a black ink crawled —alive—as if the ink had a will of its own. It curled around his skin like a collar. Clancy gasped, clawing at his throat, but the mark didn’t move.

“You don’t belong here,” Nico whispered, his voice like stone grinding against steel. “None of you do.”

Almost in a trance Clancy followed closely behind Nico and his horse, each step he took the smear of black on his neck darkened, slowly losing hope. He had been captured.

Then the sky shifted.

From atop a distant mountain in Trench, a figure appeared—cloaked in green and yellow, face hidden by a tattered bandanna. They stood motionless for a breathless second, then raised a hand.

And tossed something into the wind.

Yellow petals.

Dozens. Hundreds. They caught the breeze and spiraled down like golden rain. Nico was confused as to why the white horse screamed a shrill, unnatural sound, and bucked violently, forcing Nico to grip the reins.

A fire, that is what Clancy felt swell from within him as he saw the figures, hope began to form again causing the smear and Nico control to fade.

Clancy didn’t wait.

He ran.

Down the cavern, through thorns and tangled roots, away from the screeching bishop and the cursed ink burning on his skin.

Behind him, Nico cursed in a tongue Clancy didn’t know.

But above him—above him—the yellow petals danced on the wind, leading him deeper into Trench, deeper into freedom.

And somewhere in his mind, a voice returned, softer now, but clear:

"Keep going. You're not alone."

You cannot outrun salvation, Nico’s voice whispered in his skull, a psychic remnant of the vile communion that all citizens of Dema endured. But Clancy didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Not now not when the words had finally meant something.

He could still remember them, etched in red across the stolen scraps of parchment he had hoarded under his cot:

“The torches will guide you. Follow the flicker. Look to the fire.”

Subliminal at first. A lyric on repeat. A symbol drawn in ash on his wall. And then a name whispered through Morse code by a rebel radio frequency Torchbearer.

Clancy stumbled through the last of the forest, and the world exploded into amber: a camp nestled in the valley below, scattered tents and old war-painted freight cars surrounding a massive bonfire. Figures moved like shadows with purpose, their faces obscured but not hidden Banditos. Free souls…

[tylerssblurry]

imma go to bee feel free to send me asks abt anything:3

[oldiesstationlover11607]

Spookyface - Tyler Joseph x Reader

Warnings: Crazy fan art

Word Count: 1110

A/N: Bandito battle prompt 3! Not gonna lie, this one was so much harder than prompt 2 bc I don't really write Joshler so it took me a while to figure out what I was gonna do. But I think I pulled through – despite it being shorter. Enjoy!!

Every morning when I woke up I scrolled through my social media. Instagram, Tik Tok, and Twitter (because no one ever calls it X), no matter what platform I loved being tagged in things the fans made and posted. Except this morning I’d been tagged in a particular piece of fan art that caught my eye.

“Uh Tyler what is this?” I pushed my phone into his face. We’d decided to sleep in that morning, wrapped in between the soft sheets of our bed. The late night out we’d enjoyed had completely drained us. Unsurprisingly I’d woken up entangled between Tyler and the wall of pillows I’d built in the middle of the night. 

“Huh?” He rolled over to face me, taking the glowing phone from my hand and bringing it closer to his tired face. “What the–” 

The drawing flashed into his eyes. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the ridiculousness of Tyler’s Blurryface character, his signature red beanie perched on his head, locking lips with Josh’s alter ego, Spooky Jim, who was sporting his unnerving red eye makeup. Tyler’s finger guns added a layer of ridiculousness that made the whole thing more bizarre and funny. My initial shock was quickly replaced by laughter, though, as I processed what I was actually seeing. 

“Wait, I've seen this before,” he passed the phone back to me, laughing to himself. 

“Sorry what?” My brows furrowed as I chuckled, almost in denial. 

“Yeah the fans were super into this ship between Blurryface and Spooky Jim back in the day. This piece of fan art was really popular so we saw it all over social media, I guess it’s trending again.”

It wasn’t the first time fan art had left me speechless, but this one was a whole new level of absurdity. 

“Fans shipped Blurryface and Spooky Jim? Seriously?!” I couldn’t stop the giggle that bubbled up.

Tyler shrugged, still chuckling as he stretched his arms, yawning lazily. “Yeah, you’d be surprised what they come up with. It’s been happening since we started.”

I sat up in bed, crossing my legs beneath me, still holding the phone and staring at the image. It wasn’t the art itself that was unsettling—actually, the quality of it was impressive. The lines were clean, and the shading gave a certain depth to the figures. It was more the concept. 

“Okay, but finger guns? Really?” I snorted, shaking my head. “You’re not that bold.”

Tyler propped himself up on one elbow, grinning as he rubbed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I rolled my eyes. “Come on, there’s no way you would ever be doing finger guns while making out with someone.”

“Absolutely I would,” he said with mock seriousness, giving me a playful smile.

We both dissolved into laughter, and I fell back onto the pillows. It was so absurd, but it was also kind of sweet in a strange way. The fans had always been imaginative, but this took it to a new level.

“Do you remember the first time you saw something like this?” I asked as I wiped a tear from my eye, still giggling.

Tyler raised his eyebrows, thinking for a moment. “Oh yeah, it was ages ago. One of the first pieces of fanart we ever saw was of me as Blurryface, like, in the Stressed Out video and Josh was playing drums in the background. It was crazy good. But hey, the fans love it. They’re super creative.”

I nodded, remembering the countless times we had come across these little gems online. It was flattering in a way. The fans cared enough about Tyler and Josh's creations to build entire narratives around them. Still, seeing them depicted as romantic interests was a curveball I hadn't expected this morning.

“Should we… post about this?” I asked, holding the phone up. “Maybe the artist would love that.”

Tyler shrugged again, a smirk playing on his lips. “If you want to fuel the fire, sure. People love it when we acknowledge this stuff, especially the weird ones.”

I grinned, mischievous thoughts swirling. “Oh, I’m definitely fueling the fire.”

I opened Twitter, found the tweet where I’d been tagged, and hit repost.

“Oh no, what are you doing?” Tyler said, watching me over my shoulder.

“Reposting it,” I laughed, typing in a caption. ‘According to Tyler he hasn’t seen this in a while 😂’

Within minutes, the notifications started pouring in. The tweet was being liked, shared, and commented on at lightning speed. The fan base was having a collective meltdown, and I couldn’t help but smile at how excited they were. The artist themselves replied, clearly thrilled that we’d noticed their work, even if we were poking fun at it.

Tyler glanced at the chaos unfolding on my screen and chuckled. “Oh, they’re gonna be talking about this for weeks.”

“Good,” I said, grinning. “It’s fun to interact with them like this. Plus, it’s harmless.”

Tyler nodded in agreement, though I could see the gears turning in his head. He was always thinking about how to connect with the fans in unique ways. We spent the rest of the morning scrolling through the responses, occasionally reading some of the funnier comments out loud to each other.

“Okay, look at this one,” I said, stifling a laugh. “‘Blurryface and Spooky Jim confirmed endgame.” Tyler grinned. 

As the morning passed, it became clear that this little interaction had made the fans' day. More fan art started popping up—some of it equally ridiculous, some of it beautifully serious. There were drawings of Blurryface and Spooky Jim doing everything from solving crimes to baking cakes. Each one was more absurd than the last, and it was hilarious. At one point, I looked over at Tyler, who was lying beside me, scrolling through his own feed now. His smile was soft, almost nostalgic. I could tell he was thinking about how far they'd come—from playing tiny venues to this global fandom that cared enough to create entire worlds around their music.

“You ever think about how weird it is?” I asked quietly.

He glanced at me, raising an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“That all these people feel so connected to you guys that they create stuff like this? Like, it's not just about the music anymore. It's about the stories they build around it.”

Tyler thought for a moment, then nodded. “It’s also kinda beautiful, you know? It means we’ve created something that resonates with them on a deeper level. And if that means Blurryface and Spooky Jim making out, then... I guess that’s just part of the deal.”

I laughed, nodding. “Yeah, I guess so.”

//

REQUESTS OPEN

Tags for bandito battle:

@banditobattlemotherfuckers @the-paladin-gay

[denwenai]

i had the longest art block so i asked for prompts on twitter. the first one i got was rab!joshler holding hands. aaand this is actually my first clique art (and i hope it's not the last)

[togethertogethersoulmates]

Hello, there! I saw that you were taking Joshler holiday prompts, so if I could, may I please submit:

Tyler and Josh both buy engagement rings for each other for Christmas, without knowing that the other was planning on proposing too...

I'd really appreciate it!

Here were are! Day one is done!

I really hope I did your prompt justice and that you like it!

My asks are open for more Joshler Christmas prompts!

Pictured below are the rings I had in mind. The first one being the ring for Ty and the second being the one for Josh.

[optionalblue]

omg okay for joshler prompts i am an absolute sucker for a classic emo josh x basketball player tyler highschool au like those fics are my guilty pleasure I swearr😭😭

there’s a shortage of non 2016 highschool aus so seeing a revival would be sooo cool

omg so here’s the thing. With this one I want to be absolutely determined, I want to make a whole thing out of their AU selves and everything, so this one might take longer, but I’m keeping you in mind!!

[joshler-trash21]

hiii do u take joshler asks/prompts? :3c - kiitchensiink

yes!!! send em my way!! i love building off of ideas with other people, it’s so much fun :3

[laneboyheathens]

whoever just anon sent me joshler prompts I am kissing you on the mouth btw

[teeentyonepilots]

It’s my birthday week and I have free time to write. I want to get a new chapter of my trenchler fic but as a warmup, I am opening up the inbox for some prompts. Please send me some joshler prompts, and I’ll work on them over my special birthday brunch

[faithinthefuture25]

Hi! :) I'm looking for a Tyler for a Joshler rp.

I prefer to write Josh as a bottom/sub, so a top/dom Tyler would be awesome, just please be 18 or older!

I don't have any prompts, but I'm sure that we can find something together. Otherwise I'm open for taking a look at your prompts should you have any!

Telegram: AzureHuesLou

Discord: moni2505

[tylerssblurry]

If it wouldn't be too late to send you a fluffy Joshler (well, Trenchler in this case) prompt: May I please request Clancy and Torchbearer cuddling by the campfire, and just generally having a happy, peaceful moment together? I'd really appreciate it!

ITS NEVER TOO LATE!! always send me stuff i need to write more :) ill get on it and reblog this with the link when i post it

[bbluejoseph]

.

[w-riter-u-nknown]

Person A is a gang leader. 

Person B is part of the gang, but not really important.

A looks very casual - scuffed up boots, a shirt that hasn’t been washed in forever, a jacket that hasn’t ever seen anything but age and skinny jeans. If anything, you’d think he was the low ranking one.

B looks very much like a leader of a gang. Intimidating, wears dark colors, a sucker for aesthetic and a posture of a soldier. B is very awkward, however, and completely the opposite of their looks.

[togethertogethersoulmates]

I want to do a "25 days of Joshler" thing for the Christmas season.

Please leave me some sappy holiday prompts so I can write them!