#lineage challenge

[euelios]

oh no auden, everyone screams. don’t put babyfic in the czech medieval life simulator!

i put my mirrored sunglasses on and do a kickflip into traffic. how bout i do anyway?

(wip wmonday. snippet smonday. i don’t want to write my thesis. let’s get it)

[simsdaughters]

FIRST GENERATION : PRE-HISTORY.

In the lone island of what would become Windenburg, a small society is slowly built out of her rocky hills. Our story begins with three people trying to build their own tribe. Their names: Ki, An and Gal-vus.

Next

[moonsstarsandscience]

Tag game!

Thanks for nominating me @stars-n-spice ! I actually worked on this a little earlier today and I’m far from 100% happy with it but…

I guess I’m introducing my silly little (currently 9k words and I’m only on chapter 5) fic series where Qui-Gon doesn’t die and his Padawan Caelum (because Obi-Wan still trains Anakin) is a non-binary wreck who ends up going on this whole discovery about what it means to be a Jedi and such, including an entire fic where the aforementioned dorks go on a mission with Shmi Skywalker because this is an indulgent fix-it fic and my brain wanted to write this. Also it becomes very gay :D

I’ve been brainrotting about this for an entire year help me

“‘Can’t we just get the drills over with?’

‘You can start them if you want to, but I have to do my physical therapy exercises first so I don’t mess up my knees even more,’ Caelum explained. ‘I normally do them before leaving my room, but that clearly didn’t happen today,’ ze added irritatedly.

Instead of replying, Anakin perched on his bunk and offered an unsolicited commentary on Caelum’s physical therapy routine until ze all but dragged him down to run drills.”

I’m slowly working on the rest of this but yeah! I think I’m being clever by writing this so maybe posting about it will make sure I actually publish it 😅

NPT: anyone who wants to join!

[merlyn-bane]

Last Line Challenge

Rules: in a new post, show the last line you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as there are words (or as many as you feel like).

Thank you for the tag @loverboy-havocboy 😘😘 alas, all I have for you all today is some more ouchies.

Dooku had not been able to stand against his master in the boy's—Qui-Gon's boy's—defense.

No pressure tags to @lttrsfrmlnrrgby, @ferretrade, @snowywinterevenings, @frostbitebakery, and @brokenphoenix99, with apologies if I've already tagged you recently. My brain is toast today.

[lunasilvis]

Norse chieftain and Viking leader Rollo leading his fleet over the Seine, France (885 A.D.) Wood engraving, 19th century prints

[basementlineage]

📉 The SMB Bank System

“You’re not playing with Simoleons. You’re playing with silence, structure, and scarcity.”

This is the heart of your financial infrastructure. The SMB Bank System governs how every Simoleon is split, sacrificed, and saved. You don’t just spend money in this challenge, you allocate weight.

There are three accounts. Each one carries a cost, a promise, or a consequence.

🧾 Deposit Distribution

Every time your Sim earns money, it is automatically distributed:

🔥 40% into the Sacrifice Account

🏛 30% into the College/House Fund

🪙 30% into the Main Account

You must use the SMB Bank mod to make this structure functional. Set up your auto-deposit rules once, and do not override them.

🔥 Sacrifice Account

This is the cost of survival.

Pays for unlock fees, ritual penalties, and forbidden actions

Examples:

Clearing needs without earned objects

Woohoo without a client

Early unlocks (when permitted)

This account is never used for regular gameplay purchases

🏛 College/House Fund

This is a future your founder may never touch.

Receives 30% of all income automatically

May only be used in one of two ways:

To build the final legacy house if the challenge ends after Phase 10

To support the future heir's gameplay in Phase 11

The founder may only access this account if Phase 11 will not be played

If Phase 11 is chosen, the fund is reserved entirely for the heir

🪙 Main Account

This is what your founder can use but still under restriction.

Receives 30% of all income

May be used for gameplay purchases within phase limits

No unlock? No access

Money alone does not open doors, you still have to earn the right to walk through them

[tox-tea]

Follytober Day 10: Pearl

[cloudofspacedust]

[colourvariation]

| << | >> |

[techs-dragons]

The B Generation for my Veilspuns hatched today :D Both hatchlings turned out really pretty I think. I'm keeping the one on the right. i love her. I love her green tips. I am keeping Azura and Aether I think. I love how these hatchlings turned out.

I don't know if they're the type of aesthetic people are looking for though. The C Generation is going to have a bit more colors.

It was surprisingly hard to find a Veil with a B Name.

[penguinly]

Wanna see a waterfall? (I got nominated for the ice bucket challenge. @aaa-batteryy be honest how excited are you to dump the water)

Anakin: Do you want to see a butterfly Ahsoka: Yes Obi wan: No! Anakin: *throws the butter across the table* Ahsoka: Fucking majestic

[jellifiedsia]

🧬 Legacy in Bloom

It started beneath the floorboards. One heir. One room. One legacy twisted in isolation, struggle, and sacrifice.

That was The Basement Lineage — a challenge I created to explore survival, secrecy, and power passed down in the dark. But that was only the beginning.

Now, the heir from the basement — the one who clawed their way up — is stepping into something far more chaotic.

🌟 The Hundred Baby Challenge. Because why settle for one cursed line when you can make a whole swarm of descendants with questionable genetics and inherited emotional trauma?

From there? Oh, we’re not done.

The children from the Hundred Baby challenge will splinter into their own custom legacy arcs. Some will ascend. Some will rot. Some will rewrite everything their bloodline was meant to be.

Think of it as:

📚 Basement-born

👶 Baby-burdened

🧬 Legacy-fractured

🗺️ The Plan:

Phase 1: The Basement Lineage A survivalist legacy challenge built on secrets, sacrifice, and slow redemption. (Complete or ongoing depending on mood.)

Phase 2: The Hundred Baby Arc The heir is free — but fertility is a curse in itself. One matriarch. One mission. One hundred lives born from her.

Phase 3: The Fracture Each chosen child branches into a new challenge. ➤ New rules. New struggles. New legacies. ➤ Maybe one starts a cult. ➤ Maybe one builds an empire. ➤ Maybe one runs. Far.

🧶 Why?

Because I don’t just want to play Sims. I want to write it like it’s canon. I want to thread stories through saves. Tie arcs with ambition. Let them grow wild, like spores under glass. Let them bloom beneath the bellcap.

And also?

Because I’m a chaos gremlin and this is how I cope. One challenge at a time. One cursed baby at a time. One pixel at a time.

[a-drop-of-golden-sun]

oh lord it has been a hot minute since I've read a book this boring

[igniskat]

Lunar Lineage challenge update!

[sixeyesonathiel]

co-parenting? no. co-pettying.

pairing — single dad satoru x single mom reader

satoru is just trying to console his crying daughter over her tragic bangs—until he finds out the kid who roasted her is your son. petty parenting, unresolved feelings, and karmic bangs ensue.

a/n: in honor of me getting bangs again. pt 2 later ig

satoru gojo is seething.

not the explosive kind. no, this is a slow, bitter simmer—the kind only young single dads with too much pride, a permanently furrowed brow, and daughters crying over their butchered bangs can manage. he sits on the park bench like it personally offended him, ice cream in one hand, the other arm wrapped protectively around his daughter, who’s still sniffling beside him. the vanilla scoop is melting, forgotten, dripping onto his jeans. he doesn’t care. he’s glaring at the sandbox like it insulted his bloodline.

"and then he said i looked like a mushroom," she sobs again, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. her voice warbles. her eyes are red-rimmed and glassy. her bangs—god. they're a battlefield. uneven, jagged, more suggestion than style. like she challenged a pair of safety scissors to a duel and the scissors didn’t even try.

satoru bends forward, crouching beside her like he’s about to deliver a sacred truth. his long fingers gently cup her tear-streaked face, the scar on his knuckle catching the sunlight as he exhales dramatically. "you are beautiful," he says, like he means it, like he’s declaring something holy. "you look like a high-fashion mushroom. like... couture fungus. like the kind of mushroom anna wintour would cry over."

his daughter hiccups through a giggle. small win.

he pushes her hair behind her ears, lets out a sigh that feels older than he is. he’s only twenty-two, but the weight in his shoulders says thirty-five. he ruffles her hair. "who was it?" he asks, too calm. that special, terrifyingly pleasant calm dads get when they’re about to ruin some six-year-old’s entire lineage.

"hiro," she says, almost sulking now. "he laughed and said i looked like a button mushroom. his mom picked him up after school. she gave me a candy and told me boys are dumb. she was really pretty."

hiro.

satoru blinks. that's your kid. he stares ahead, almost offended by the realization. the same hiro who offered his daughter a capri sun last week like he was proposing marriage. the same hiro who now, apparently, inherited your pettiness like it’s a family heirloom.

he remembers it all too well.

the way you stormed down the hallway in high school, bangs equally doomed, fire in your eyes, shouting at him for the fourth time that month. you always looked cutest when you were mad. he’d called you mushroom head and dodged a flying highlighter.

in his defense, he was sixteen and stupid and thought the way your face twisted in outrage was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. he was in love. tragically, stupidly in love. he just expressed it by emotionally terrorizing you every fourth period chemistry class.

now your six-year-old is carrying the baton like a prodigy. divine retribution, with extra glitter.

he sees you a few days later.

the playground buzzes with kids and shrieks and parents scrolling phones with mild exhaustion. you’re sitting on a low stone wall near the swings, sunglasses pushed into your hair, drink in hand, scrolling your phone with one finger and the smuggest smirk he’s ever seen. your earrings catch the late afternoon sun. your nails are fresh. you’re the picture of composed pettiness.

"gojo satoru," you say sweetly, like you’re greeting a man you’d happily watch trip over a lego.

the way your mouth curves around his name is criminal. he hates how much he notices that. hates how fast his ears burn. he adjusts the collar of his hoodie, trying to look unaffected.

he gives you a dry look. "heard your kid's been practicing stand-up comedy. at my daughter's expense."

you hum, tilting your head. "is that what we’re calling emotional resilience these days? because if he gets it from anyone, it’s me."

satoru eyes you. his hoodie’s stained with dried syrup, there’s a faint bruise on his temple—cabinet incident. his posture’s a little slumped, like sleep is a distant fantasy. he scratches the back of his neck. his fingers tap a silent beat against his thigh.

"he called her a mushroom."

"a cute mushroom," you counter, not missing a beat. "like, toad from mario. he’s a legend."

you sip your iced latte without breaking eye contact. he scowls.

"you taught him that."

"you say that like i wouldn’t weaponize shared trauma."

the corner of his mouth twitches. your words are sweet and soaked in petty, and it’s driving him insane. you’re too calm about it. too good at this.

"you’re enjoying this."

"oh, i’m thriving," you say, leaning back slightly, letting the breeze catch your shirt. "do you know how many years i waited for the universe to do this? it’s like my karmic investment finally matured."

his jaw ticks. "i was a kid. you were cute when you were homicidal."

you laugh, but there’s a bite to it. "i was feral, satoru. you made me snap a pencil with my bare hands."

"still the hottest thing i’ve seen."

the words slip. he bites the inside of his cheek too late. his eyes flick up, reading your face, then quickly dart away.

you blink, slowly. your lips part, but nothing comes out at first. then you scoff, shaking your head with a little smirk, like you’re filing that away for later.

hiro runs past then, thrusting a friendship bracelet toward satoru’s daughter. it’s neon pink, too tight, barely holding together. she takes it like it’s the crown jewels. behind them, someone’s kid faceplants into the mulch. a mom sighs deeply without looking up from her kindle.

"see?" you say, lifting your brows, voice light but smug. "my kid has more emotional intelligence than you did at seventeen."

"okay, that’s—"

"—true," you interrupt, standing. you stretch lazily, fingers laced above your head. your shirt rides up slightly, revealing a hint of skin. he notices. his eyes snap away too fast.

you glance down, lips curling with practiced sweetness. "how’s it feel? to be on the receiving end of the mushroom prophecy?"

"is this revenge?"

"no," you say, brushing invisible lint from your jeans. "this is me being a good mom. and maybe also petty. definitely petty."

and then—god—you wink. like this is your sitcom and he’s still the fool in love.

satoru groans, slumping on the bench, hands dragging down his face. beside him, his daughter is giggling, her butchered bangs fluttering as she tugs hiro toward the slides.

across from him, your laughter rings out—soft, wicked, triumphant. it curls through the air like the ghost of a grudge with perfect eyeliner, like the echo of a high school hallway where a boy once said "mushroom head" and a girl nearly committed homicide with a highlighter.

god. he’s losing a custody battle against karma. and karma’s wearing lip gloss.

he watches you walk away, heart pounding, throat tight. he never said it. maybe he never will. but god—you still do something to him.

and maybe that's the real punishment.

not the bangs. not the karma.

just the ache of wanting you, after all this time.

[redrrem]

Till Kingdom Come

cw: fluff, angst, royalty au, war, blood, violence, character death, grief/loss, whipped gojo, love at first sight, he fell first and harder, bros obssessed, politics blegh /j, power imbalance?, all characters are 18+, SFW

a/n: dropped a lil fic while I’m on break. also ignore any minor changes, I’m indecisive lol.. see you all soon! art credits to @/loquatini on tiktok <3

So this is what your life has come to?

Perched upon the throne, in a kingdom that had long lost hope in its monarchy, you remain as its sole heir. The royal family lineage had long been dead, with no prospect of future heirs due to your husband’s poor, sickly condition, which—bless his soul—sent him to an early grave.

You were a widowed queen, in a land that did not belong to you, but was still your home.

So, like the dutiful wife and queen you were, you took your place on the dusty throne, not once batting an eye at the objections of the King’s council nor the high court.

You became a beacon of hope to your kingdom, which, although small in size, was great in strength. You became what the kingdom needed in a time of despair and crisis, in a time of famine and fear. You carved your place into the very stone walls of the kingdom, and the nation rejoiced, welcoming your rule with open arms.

Your people loved you, and under your rule, Veralia thrived.

The nation stood strong and prosperous beneath your iron will until one day, the gates of your kingdom were breached. An emperor from beyond the oceans and seas, who dared to weasel his way into your high walls.

Emperor Gojo Satoru.

A man feared across kingdoms and lands, a man who dared to threaten your rule.

Though you had taken your place on the throne, soon you would take your place on the battlefield, charging through the hordes of horses and knights with your blade held up high, aiming straight at Gojo Satoru.

And Satoru, nonetheless, felt the true meaning of love at first sight in that very moment.

All it took was one look at you—hair disheveled, clothes bloodied and in tatters, chest rising with every breath—as you stood before him, blade pressed to his throat, eyes sharper than a knife, piercing straight into his soul.

Just one look in your eyes, and he was done for. The only thought left in his mind was, "God, I have to marry her."

Amidst the chaos of war, surrounded by clashing fleets and the sound of an ongoing battle, Gojo Satoru knelt before you, smiling like a madman with that charming, boyish grin.

Your hand trembled in his as he brought your knuckles to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your delicate skin as he dared to speak those four forbidden words.

“Will you marry me?”

Your blade fell to the ground, a sound so loud, so final, that the battle itself seemed to halt. Soldiers from both kingdoms remained frozen, awaiting the command of their ruler as they bore witness to this spectacle.

"You want to marry me?" You scoffed, sneering at the audacity of this man, and yet, your heart couldn't help but race. Whether it was from the rush of battle or the shiver that ran down your spine from a mere kiss, you’d rather not say. “Then leave your throne.”

Your eyes blazed like a warm fire, stirring his insides with butterflies as you stared at him, unyielding and challenging.

"You must leave your throne then," you said in a tone so final, "recall your troops and betray your kingdom for me. Forsake everything you know, and live the rest of your life beside me, in my kingdom, under my rule."

And Gojo, being the lovesick idiot he was, merely grinned.

"So," he said, rising to his full height, towering over you with fingers tangled in yours, "when do I start packing?"

Then, softer, almost inaudible, he spoke. Words meant only for you, whispered amid the quietness of the battlefield.

“I'd rather kneel before your throne—to your every whim, to bow down at your very feet, and kiss the ground you walk on, Your Majesty—than sit alone on mine."

After all, Gojo Satoru was a fool in love.

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐏𝐒 — do not copy, translate, repost or modify my works on any platform.