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#i am a writer i swear

writinglenny · 6 months

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Oooopsie...

That moment when you google stuff about weapons and how to hide bodies and just hope, that nobody thinks that you're a murderer or ever reads your browser history.

I was in university the other day and wanted to google something for the lecture and the guy behind me saw my search history and went like: WTF?

I turned around, blushing like hell, and told him, that I am a writer. So embarrassing.

#writing #writers on tumblr #writing problems #writeblr #creative writing #i am a writer i swear

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thenonbinarydetective · 4 months

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Things batfam stans need to leave behind in 2023:

Jason's Lazarus pit rage

Thinking Tim's parents were horribly abusive and hated him

Only caring about Stephanie in terms of her relationship to another person (ex: Tim's bestie/ex/gf or Cass' gf/bestie)

Treating Jason or Stephanie like they're stupid

Feral Demon Child Damian

Permanent sunshine boy Dick Grayson

Any "[blank] was the real violent Robin" discourse

Really just any reducing or sectioning of certain traits to certain batfam members and not allowing other characters to exhibit those same traits (ex: see sunshine Dick Grayson)

But also stealing traits from other characters and projecting them onto someone else (ex: Jason getting Dick's personality in fics. He is not the same type of big brother Dick is canonically)

Purposefully mischaracterizing characters for angst (ex: Dick sent Tim to Arkham, my beloathed. also again see Tim's parents)

Trying really hard to nuclearize the family. They are an unconventional family for many reasons, and that's why they're interesting.

"Alfred solos the batfam"

Making Duke "the normal one" and completely forgetting to give him an actual personality.

Cass using sign language because she can read body language (note: does not apply to YJ Cass who has damaged vocal chords)

Cass being used as a prop for her brothers

Tim being weak, woobified baby

Feel free to add on ~~

Don't send hate over these things because idgaf, they are harmful mischaracterizations, and many are built on total ignorance and often racism, classism, ableism, and sexism.

#I know there's 7 million other things that NEED TO DIE but honestly why am I still seeing that in 2024 #I'm so done with the constant mischaracterizations and made up au bullshit that people will argue is canon when they don't like any media #and I'm saying any because some of y'all won't even watch cartoons or play video games #and at least have the balls to admit it and not screech every time someone tells you something isn't real #or thinking that it's 'hate' and 'not letting people enjoy things' when you get basic information wrong about a character that you don't kn #and AGAIN THERE'S SO MUCH BIGOTRY THAT Y'ALL ARE BLIND TO BUT SWEAR YOU'RE BETTER THAN DC #Even some dc writers understand that portraying Damian as an uncontrolled feral child is rooted in racism #that boy is a PRINCE AND ACTS LIKE IT #I can go on forever #but yeah I'm just tired of this shit #batfam #batfamily #bat family #alfred pennyworth #nightwing #dc robin #dick grayson #jason todd #red hood #tim drake #I would add the coffee thing but that's too obvious #cassandra cain #cass cain #stephanie brown #batgirl #the spoiler #barbara gordon #oracle #duke thomas #the signal

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rainofthetwilight · 7 months

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okok this has been in my thoughts for a WHILE

so. the fsm had two kids. one's colour was purple n the other was gold/yellow

lloyd technically adopted two kids. one's colour is pink and the other is also gold/yellow

the pink/purple kids are more impatient and wouldnt trust people easily

the gold/yellow kids are more confident and are big firm believers

guys?????

#ninjago #ninjago dragons rising #ninjago fsm #ninjago lloyd #ninjago sora #ninjago arin #ninjago garmadon #ninjago wu #ninjago analysis #levi's ted talks #i swear if this was intentional i am grabbing the dr writers and shaking them REPEATEDLY #like holy shit #im not good with words and this is all i got im sorry #its just so symbolic and for what #ninjago spoilers

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stagefoureddiediaz · 1 month

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I’m still chuckling to myself over the fact that Buck handed the guy the air freshener from his car - while discussing his playboy past with Eddie and how he’s not a player any more - the car being completely torched and unsalvageable being a metaphor for bucks dating history - but he still comes up smelling of ‘roses’ and the whole idea that new grown can be found in the aftermath of a forest fire etc - all while Eddie sees buck - to the core!!

#they are going to send me to an early grave I swear #I am screaming but also giggling and twirling my hair #thank you 911 writers and props department #it’s peak day and I’m here for it #911 spoilers

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somesecretpie · 28 days

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Weather Woman (Short Story)

Forty-seven dead. Bodies near unrecognizable. An eyewitness, Ms. Self, said the weather was to blame but Susan knew it was anything but that. This was homicide. Divine intervention.

“My poor poor little pansies,” she said, peering over their wilted corpses. It had officially been a whole year since Susan’s county had any rainfall. Several months ago, the town began issuing fines to anyone who dared to water their lawn. Susan did not find this to be much of an issue—she continued to keep her garden green as suburbia withered and died around her, until she ran into a small problem.

Susan ran out of money.

From all the fines she was paying.

She reentered her home, morning paper in one hand, and her weekly subscription to “Martha Stewart Living” in the other. Her house was a wondrous temple of correct furniture and appropriate color palettes, bowls of plastic fruit at the center of each faux-mahogany table. Photographs of a happy family arranged in a symmetrical pattern (Not her own, though; they were stock images.) She would have absolute perfection, were it not for that scorched eyesore that marked her entryway garden.

Susan poured her morning coffee, popped a bagel in the toaster, and turned on the weather channel for her district. That was the only thing she watched now: The weather. Mr. John Sunday in front of his green screen, with his little yellow bowtie, and his eyes the color of the unchanging sky. He looked quite unremarkable for a man that disseminated such important information to the public, but looks can be deceiving. One does not look at a perfect egg and see themselves contracting salmonella.

“Please, John, some rain for my pansies,” Susan whispered into her morning coffee. She turned up the volume and his pleasant voice filled the living room.

“Good morning, Marin County! It’s gonna be nothing but blue skies this week. Perfect weather for going on a nice long walk. And enjoying all that mother nature has to offer—“

Susan threw her bagel at the television in a fit of anger. Then promptly cleaned it off the floor and swept it into the wastebin.

What did she do to deserve these never-ending blue skies? I’m a nice woman, aren’t I? she lamented. Don’t I deserve purple pansies? Don’t I deserve a little rain?

There was something malicious and secret behind John’s blue eyes. Something he knew that she did not. She could not bear to look at them!

She shut off the TV.

Her heart beat madly in her chest. What ever would Susan do? Refill her bed of flowers with desert cacti and succulents? No, wrong color palette. Take out a loan to continue watering her plants? Now that would be ridiculous…

The weather was to blame—but Susan had a poor understanding of it. What went on up there in the sky? Who, exactly, could she send a strongly worded email to?

That same morning, Susan Kelvin decided she would take out a loan after all, but not to water her plants. Instead, she would go back to her local community college to study meteorology. She was quite sure that most of her coursework was merely propaganda from Big Weather, but she needed that associate's degree so she could learn that secret that lurked behind the eyes of Mr. John Sunday. So she could join his ranks. So she could become a Weather Woman.

Susan applied to the local television network with high hopes. The fate of her future rested on their acceptance. She snuggled into bed that same night of her application and dreamed of fresh purple pansies dotting the corners of her deep green lawn. But...something was terribly wrong!

Susan gasped for breath and opened her eyes. Strong hands grasped her arms, the fabric of a bag over her face—she was being kidnapped! Oh this is going to work horribly with my schedule! thought Susan. She began to protest but a harsh voice shushed her to silence. She was shoved into a car.

After an hour or so of stumbling around, the bag was lifted, and Susan blinked rapidly. She was in a musty room lit by candles. Deactivated cameras hung on racks against the wall, and a circle of sharply dressed bodies surrounded her, their shadows bending and stretching in the flickering light.

“Welcome,” someone said. “You have been called before our chapter because of your personal obsession with the weather. And from our understanding, your qualifications may permit that obsession to become...something more.”

Susan struggled to get her bearings. In front of her was, if she was not mistaken, sliced tofu arranged into an occult symbol.

“Your name is Susan Kelvin and you have a degree in meteorology from Marin County Community College, is this correct?”

“Yes,” Susan confirmed.

“You live alone, your parents are deceased, and you have no friends or loved ones. Is this also correct?”

“Who are you people?”

Susan then noticed that she recognized the woman sitting on her left—it was Ms. Rivers from channel eight. A proper weatherwoman, straightened and carefully sculpted black hair, with a stormy gray pantsuit that tastefully contrasted against her dark complexion. And to her right was that weatherman from channel seven what’s-his-face (his appearance was not noteworthy). And at the very front, at the head of the body of bodies, the man who had been speaking to her was none other than Mr. John Sunday in his yellow bow tie.

“What interest do you have in becoming a Weather Woman, Ms. Susan Kelvin?”

“I…um…”

They waited patiently for her answer. It suddenly occurred to Susan that this was probably a job interview. She straightened her back and folded her hands in front of her.

“I believe I could bring a lot of value and a unique perspective to the weather conversation,” Susan said. “It has affected me personally…My district hasn’t had any rain in over a month.”

“I’m sorry,” John said. “That must be terrible for you.”

“What are you apologizing for? You can’t control the weather.”

John Sunday leaned forward, and his blue eyes flashed a deep dark red. “Oh but we can.”

“Can what?”

“We control the weather, Susan.”

Susan narrowed her eyes. “That is completely absurd. You’re all a bunch of wierdo people who kidnapped me and I’m...I’m going to tell the authorities!”

“No one will believe you,” whispered Rivers.

Susan glared at everyone, but the weather people held still, not a trace of doubt of their ability. But surely the truth about the weather would not be so…uncomplicated. Surely the unseen forces that murdered her flowers would not have human faces.

“I don’t believe you,” Susan said plainly. “But I do need this job so that I can pay off my student loans–”

“The forecasters bear a burden.” John ignored her question. The speech was likely rehearsed. “To be a forecaster is self-sacrifice! To be a forecaster is to be a champion of the greater good! Does that describe you, Susan Kelvin?”

She hesitated.

Champion is rather vague. It can have multiple meanings.

She thought of her beautifully decorated house.

Oh, but I am certainly good.

She thought of her neighbors and their inferior sense of style.

And I am certainly greater!

Slowly, Susan nodded her head.

The weather people muttered amongst themselves enthusiastically, like children, until silenced by John.

“Excellent,” he said. “Very good. Then, on behalf of the California chapter of forecasters, the masters of the weather, we welcome you. Thank you, Great Mother.”

“Thank you, Great Mother.” the weatherpeople said in tandem.

Someone clapped twice, and the overhead lamps blasted light everywhere.

“You’ll be shadowing Rivers tomorrow at eight. Look sharp,” John said dramatically, but without the candlelight defining his cheekbones, it was quite hard to take him seriously.

The next day, Susan arrived at exactly eight o’ clock, wearing her best suit, and hair pulled back in a tight bun. She found Rivers, on set, eating conservatively from a bag of soynuts.

“Oh hey! It’s you,” the weatherwoman said. “Sorry about all that cult stuff. John can be so dramatic.”

Susan smiled in relief, but quickly hid it away. “That is an understatement,” she muttered. “Will there be any more kidnappings?”

“Only for your monthly status report,” she said, “But give me your number and I can text you before it happens.”

Susan did so hesitantly, and kept staring at her phone after the fact. She had one whole contact now. How quaint.

That day, Susan was supposed to examine the cue cards, inspect the camera crews, and stare intently at the weatherwoman, noting every minute thing she did. Rivers delivered her forecast with a smile. Blue skies again.

“That’s disappointing,” Susan said to her over lunch. “I was hoping for some rain in my district.”

“John already has the weather planned out for the next few weeks,” Rivers said stiffly. “So sorry.”

Susan did not laugh. “This again? Tell me you do not believe this “controlling the weather” nonsense! You are not wizards!”

“Did you not see our occult symbols?”

Susan swatted at the air. “Meaningless shapes.”

“And what about John’s flashing red eyes?”

Susan’s voice lowered to a whisper, “Now, I don’t know about that…But he should see a medical professional.”

Rivers rolled her eyes and left to prepare for her evening forecast. When it was done and there were no more cue cards to read from, she very quickly told the audience, in a joking manner, that there would be isolated showers over their recording studio from exactly five fifty PM to five fifty one PM. She then strut off the stage with a smirk.

“Well, that’s an oddly specific forecast—“

The weather woman grabbed her by the wrist and led her all the way to the back-door exit with the recycling and the parking lot.

“Check your phone,” Rivers said.

Susan did not see why she should, there would be no messages. This was because she only had one contact, you see. But as she held her phone in her hand, a large raindrop splattered on the screen. Then another. And now rain was pouring from the sky, dripping down her hair and suit. Susan’s jaw dropped. She had not felt rain in so long. It was five-fifty. And by five fifty-one, the clouds departed as if swept away by a large broom. The sunlight stung her face.

Rivers smiled at her.

So they really did control the weather.

This revelation posed a great many questions. Like, why did the public not know about this? And why did the weathercasters have these powers? And why had Susan studied for two years to become a meteorologist when she could just pulled forecasts out of her asshole? Susan frowned. Now that she thought about it, it was rather odd that her meterology courses mostly consisted of specifications for ritual sacrifice and obedience lessons. Susan had simply thought it was “one of those things” about academia.

“Well, Rivers…”

“Yes, Susan?”

“I suppose this whole “forecasting” thing is...it’s fun, isn’t it?”

“Fun doesn’t do it justice!” Rivers said, through a handful of soynuts. “Just knowing how much power there is behind your every word. So long the camera is rolling, there is nothing stopping you from doing anything you damn well please!” Rivers laughed heartily, but kept her eyes trained on Susan. “Except your conscience, of course!”

“Oh, yes,” Susan said. “Ha ha!”

Fun doesn’t do it justice…It had been a while since Susan Kelvin had fun. She tried to remember when that was.

Oh, yes, of course!

It had been two weeks ago. Susan had just gotten home from work after a rough day, shoulders drooping, hair ruffled, when she looked down on her front porch and saw a beetle. The bug was turned on its back, legs flailing weakly in the air. There was nothing nearby for grasping, nothing but hot sunburned concrete. This bug had no way of righting itself yet it struggled still. Susan sat down and watched this bug. She watched it until it stopped moving. Until it returned to its natural state. Nonexistence. That had been fun, Susan remembered fondly. I am eager to have fun again.

After two days of shadowing Rivers, Susan was given her own partition of airtime over her district and a weekly forecast by her fellow weatherpeople. She delivered the forecast exactly as instructed. Blue skies.

“Pretty good for a first-time,” Rivers said. “Although, you were a bit stiff. Trying showing more emotion, more body language, you know?” She placed her fingers on her own cheekbones, pressing them upward. “Remember to smile.”

Susan didn’t know why she hadn’t. Perhaps she wasn’t having fun yet. She spent the rest of that evening practicing smiling in the mirror. She read Martha Stewart, baked a five-cheese lasagna exactly per the instructions, and smiled upon removing it from the oven like Martha Stewart did in the picture. She smiled until she did it without thinking, baring her teeth even in bed, as she dreamed of purple pansies.

The next day, she delivered her forecast so well that even John himself gave her a flamboyant “Well done!” And Susan smiled at them as they congratulated her—but still she was not having fun.

All this power and I never get to do anything worthwhile. Susan sighed. I could fix my front lawn if only John would let me.

Later at the meeting, Susan tried to articulate her feelings.

“We could be doing so much more, John. We could be helping the needy, like those poor people of Marin County who’s front lawns have been destroyed by the California heat!”

The weather people muttered undecidedly. Susan recognized her experiences were not universal, and acted accordingly, “Or what about people affected by hurricanes! Or wildfires, droughts, what about them, John! All those poor people we could help with our power—“

“Our power is a gift, you fool!” John snapped.

Susan raised an eyebrow. “A gift?”

“From Zietzebala,” said Rivers. “Our Great Mother Earth. She has gifted us with this forecasting power in exchange for our obedience as well as a few…sacrifices.”

“Ah.” Susan looked down. “And I suppose they have to be virgins too, don’t they. I’m still friends on facebook with a lot of men I went to highschool with who are probably–”

“No! Dammit, no! I meant, like, recycle. Plant a tree!” John looked exasperated. “Sometimes we sacrifice a tofurky, but we’ve never really gone farther than that.”

“Maybe we should,” muttered Rivers.

John turned sharply to look at her. “Don’t think I don’t know about that little stunt you pulled yesterday,” he said with a voice like acid. “Isolated showers? Over our studio? You know how important the schedule is–”

“I’m sorry.” Rivers said. She did not appear sorry. “It will not happen again.”

“It had better not.”

John left the room in a huff.

Once he was safely out of earshot, Susan asked “What did you mean by that?”

Rivers sighed. “I know what you mean about wanting to help. About all the good we could do. Climate change has already killed millions…and the death toll will continue to rise.”

Susan thought of her dead flowers and trembled.

“Don’t feel bad, Rivers,” she said. “It’s not your fault.”

“No but it is literally our fault we control the weather Susan.“

“Oh right.”

Susan had forgotten.

Rivers began crushing the snacks in her hand. “The horrible thing is–I could fix it all. I have an incredibly detailed plan to fix the environment that, when I placed it on the alter to Zietzebala, turned into a swarm of doves! So I know she approves!”

Rivers glared. “But her pact is with John. And John has a bad heart.”

Susan nodded. “Truly a wicked man.”

“No, he literally has a bad heart. Arrhythmia.” Rivers hit twice against her chest. “I’m next in line for leadership if ever something terrible happens to him, just so you know.” She looked askance, placing her hand on Susan’s. “Do with that information what you will, Susan.”

Several things flashed through her mind at once. She saw Rivers dressed in the fanciful robes of climate cult leader. Rivers telling her how beautiful her lawn was. River’s soft, well-manicured hands holding hers, not just now, but over and over again in the future. Rivers could be more than her singular phone contact. Susan’s cheeks grew hot and she withdrew.

“Susan?”

She collected herself, pouring another class of ceremonial non-alcoholic wine. She raised it in a toast. “Here’s to hoping John drops dead!”

Rivers laughed, “Oh Susan, you’re so funny.”

Ms. Susan Kelvin squeezed her incredibly soft hand. “And when you’re head forecaster, you’ll give my district some water, won’t you? Because we are…coworkers?”

Ms. Rivers seemed confused for a half-second, then replied. “Of course! We will help everyone, which includes you!”

“But not me specifically?”

“Not you specifically, no.”

“Oh.”

Susan looked away.

Rivers offered her a soynut, but Susan refused it.

***

Next morning, Susan awoke with a start. She had a good feeling about today, that good feeling had apparently kicked her out of bed at an hour earlier than usual. What to do with the spare time?

She clapped her hands together. I know! I will go out for breakfast!

So Susan drove her little car down to her neighborhood Denny’s, avoiding all the dead beetles in the parking lot with her new high heels. She squeezed herself into a cozy booth. A nice table all to herself.

A waitress approached.

“Brown toast, and two eggs please.”

“Will that be sunny-side up, ma’am?”

“No no,” Susan turned from the window. Blue skies. With a twinge of bitterness she clarified, “I like my eggs over easy.”

“Sure thing!” The waitress jotted it down. “Sorry for assuming, most people like ‘em sunny—.”

“Well I like them over easy,” Susan said with a smile.

Susan tapped her heel as she waited, sipping some lemon water. A tingling feeling ran up her leg, like a bug was crawling. She quickly ran her hand up and down her smooth leg, but it was nothing. Nothing.

Moments later a steaming hot plate arrived. The toast was cut into triangles (the only adequate shape), but the eggs. Oh, the eggs. They were sunny. Side. UP.

Susan stormed out of the establishment without paying, and sped to her job, positively seething.

She did her broadcast as normal, except for one teensy addition as follows:

“Lastly, you’ll be seeing a horrific category five hurricane over in Marin county with wind speeds of about one hundred twenty miles an hour. It will be localized entirely within this area.” Susan pointed with her pointing stick to the map, on which she’d drawn a red circle around that one particular Denny’s.” Susan smiled. “That will be all!”

They cut to commercial break.

No one approached Susan for a full five minutes. Then John appeared, apparently having powerwalked from the adjoining broadcast room.

“Susan, what the hell–”

“It was a joke!”

John looked flabbergasted.

Susan made a silly face.

“A…joke?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “Susan…you need to be really fucking careful with “jokes” when you’re on camera…You’re not in training anymore. Everything you say will happen no matter how ridiculous.”

Susan smiled slightly. That was exactly what she hoped.

John put a firm hand on her shoulder. “Look here, when the commercial ends, you are going to tell everyone that was a “joke”. You are going to tell everyone that there will be no category five hurricane at that particular Denny’s. Okay?”

“Okay, John.”

He backed away as the camera man counted down. Susan straightened her collar.

“Good evening, Citizens of Marin county. I have something to tell you all about that Category Five hurricane I mentioned earlier.”

Susan thought about reversing her decision. But why should she? That Denny’s had tried to poison her. She was doing God’s work.

She cleared her throat. “That hurricane is going to have hail. So so much hail.” John was pulling at his hair.

“And that’s not all. Susan looked directly at the camera, “Mr. John Sunday is going to die at exactly six forty-seven PM, and nothing that anyone does, not any doctor, not any ambulance, not any priest will be able to stop it.”

John Sunday ran onto the set, jumping over the rolling chairs and camera crew, reaching for her microphone.

“And the power to this station will go off NOW.”

Darkness fell. Susan tried to run, but John tackled her to the ground. He pulled the microphone from her face and shouted into it, “No! No that will not happen, actually, that will not happen. Susan is wrong!”

But the cameras were not running.

“You’re too late, John.”

John clutched his face.

“What time is it?”

It was six forty-six.

There was terror in his eyes, “That wasn’t even weather related!” he stammered. “You will be fired for this!”

“Who is going to fire me, John?”

John took out his cellphone with a shaking hand and dialed 911. Susan heard it ringing, a steady pulse in his hand. But what John really needed was a steady pulse in his heart. He fell over in agony, and Susan bent over his writhing body. She watched until it stopped. Until it returned to it’s natural state. Nonexistence. Now she was having fun. Susan took his yellow bow tie (it was a clip-on.)

She ran through the crowd of concerned onlookers, off to her car to beat the rush-hour traffic. She heard sirens in the distance, a wailing chorus. Approaching. She clutched the wheel until her knuckles turned white.

Susan saw the siren was that of an ambulance and sighed. Pity that it wouldn’t help anything. What was done was done.

That night, Susan made tea before sleeping, listening to the soft rain against her window as it cooled, with one of Martha Stewart's Living magazines resting on her lap. It was all very calming. She tucked herself into bed at exactly nine-thirty, as she did every night, and slept as she had always slept.

But in her dreams, something was wrong.

Something was terribly wrong.

Susan always dreamed about being in her house, but now she was on a pedestal. On all sides of her, a dark abyss stretched down into infinity.

Instead of her carpet, the ground was teeming with worms.

Instead of the whistling of her teakettle, she heard an ominous wind, delivering muffled shrieks and cries.

Susan tapped her foot on the wormy ground. Well, this is boring! she thought.

But no sooner did her mind form that thought than the wind began to pick up.

Howling now.

And from the sky of inclement weather came a flash of blinding lightning. Susan opened her eyes and who should stand before her but...

“Martha Stewart!” Susan struggled to speak. “I am your biggest fan, I’ve—I’ve read every issue of your magazine, I read your blog—I try so hard to be just like you!”

The woman answered in a booming voice that was far too deep, “But you are not like me, Susan. You are a hollow vessel. You are a parody of human being.”

“You’re not...really Martha Stewart, are you?”

The woman bared her teeth. “I’m afraid not. I am merely taking a form that you can understand.”

Susan had a feeling she knew who it was. “Are you... Great Mother?”

“The one and only!” Zietzebala winked.

Susan looked her up and down. That dress was actually quite unfashionable now that she really looked at it. In hindsight it was obvious this was not Martha Stewart. Susan sighed soberly. Yes, not even a literal goddess can replicate such perfection.

Susan spoke to her in her usual condescending manner. “Why have you come to me like this...in a dream?”

“Isn’t it obvious why I’m here?” Not-Martha-Stewart said softly. “John Sunday is dead.”

Susan began to sweat. She adjusted her bow tie—no that was John’s bow tie, now she had drawn attention to it!

With the intention of discreteness, and complete failure of that which was intended, Susan removed the article and hurled it into the abyss. Not even a full second later, the bow tie had reappeared.

Again, Susan tossed it.

Again, it reappeared.

Again, she tossed it.

Bow tie back again!

Again, she tossed it—

“This is who you are now, Susan!” shouted Zietzebala. Crackling thunder leapt from her perfect face-framing bob-cut of yellow hair. “This is your burden.”

But the yellow of the bow tie didn’t even go with the current color palette of her outfit! Susan stood helplessly, in her persistently unfashionable clothing, staring into the eyes of this unearthly creature. And for the first time in her perfect life, Susan feared for her immortal soul.

“Great Mother, I am so sorry,” she said tearfully, “But you must let me explain myself! He was preventing me from doing my job as a forecaster, so I had to kill him. I had to!”

Not-Martha-Stewart's eyes flashed red. “Don’t take all the credit, my child. I killed him. You merely allowed me to.”

Susan stopped pretending to look upset. “Oh. So we are on the same page?”

“Not exactly.”

The Great Mother began to circle her, her high heels striking the writhing ground. “John is dead because he thought he could worship two gods at once.”

“He cheated on you?”

“With money.” Zietzebala shook her head. “John was too soft, much like the tofu he insists on sending me…He was unwilling to make the sacrifices I demand. But are you?”

The goddess was getting too close for comfort.

“That…depends…what they are?”

“I want blood, Susan.”

She had figured.

“Rivers has a two hundred page plan on how to save the environment. You are instrumental to that plan, Susan Kelvin. Because you are unlike any human I have ever known.” Her eyes glimmered like starlight. “You are…completely empty.”

Susan frowned. She felt strange. She felt used.

“I must go now–”

“Wait,” Susan stopped her. “While you’re here, can I ask you some questions about the nature of the universe? I’ve had a sudden stroke of curiosity.”

Zietzebala sighed. “Ok. I’ll give you three.”

“Objectively speaking, is the “Farmhouse style” or “Riverside cottage” style superior for a home kitchen?”

“That depends on the context, Susan.”

“Why are all the flowers in the magazines prettier than mine?”

“Because of the drought, Susan.”

She paused. Her last question…What shall it be?

After putting some thought into it, Susan decided to ask, “Is there life after death?”

Zietzebala smirked playfully. “Oh, I think you already know the answer.”

“Do I?”

“Haven't you ever thought there was a bug on your leg, and upon looking, found there was no bug?”

Susan squinted. “What of it?”

The Goddess leaned in closely. “Ghost bugs.”

Susan shuddered, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. Susan grabbed onto the front of the goddess’s coat.

“Wait, I have one more question.”

“I said I’d give you three.”

“Please, just one more!” Susan demanded. “Are there other gods?”

“You already know the answer.”

Susan scoffed. “I’m…not sure that I do!”

Zietzebala turned from her, staring into the abyss. “It is time for you to wake up, Susan. Remember all that I have told you. Collaborate with Rivers. Eliminate everyone she tells you to.”

“What?”

“Be the good that Martha Stewart wants you to be–or there will be consequences!”

With that, she clapped twice and disappeared in a puff of smoke that smelled like cedar and pumpkin-scented candles.

Susan sat up from her bed abruptly and jerked her head to the side. Six o’ clock. I must get ready for work!

Susan hurriedly bread her hands, popped her soap in the toaster, ironed the carpet, and tore down Main Street. In her urgency, she went two miles above the speed limit.

Seeds of doubts sprouted worries in her mind. Do I really have what it takes to be an eco-terrorist? Susan fancied herself the very image of perfection. Was she not? She who kept her lawn so neatly trimmed? Who’s china was so neatly kept? Susan breathed rapidly. She who ravaged a Denny’s…

Destruction.

Peace.

Order.

Susan whirled into the parking lot of the recording studio, blew past everyone without a word, avoiding inquisitive eyes, avoiding accusatory fingers, planting her ass firmly in her little red rolling chair. She took a deep breath. Be the good…that Martha Stewart wants you to be.

Rivers ran up on stage, grabbed Susan’s face and kissed her passionately. Susan stumbled backwards, bracing herself against the desk. This was NOT an appropriate workplace activity. But Susan could not help herself. She returned the expression, kissing Rivers hungrily, barely noticing the notecards that had been pressed into her hand.

“We’re on in five!”

Rivers pulled away and Susan gasped for breath. “Read these exactly as they are written Susan,” Rivers said.

Susan dared not look down at the paper in her hand. What horrible dreadful things would be written on them?

Television static buzzed in her head. Someone was counting down.

The cameras trained on her.

“Now we will go live to Susan Kelvin with the weather!” The news reporter eyed Susan from her screen. “And I see you are wearing John Sunday’s signature yellow bow tie.”

Susan leaned forward slowly.

“That I am, Fiona. I have worn it to pay my respects—God rest his soul.”

“It’s kind of weird that you were able to forecast his death in such perfect detail.”

Susan paused.

“Yes well…he had a heart condition. So it was only a matter of time really.

“Of course.”

Susan exhaled deeply, and looked down.

Written on the notecards were not the names of oil barons to kill. Not golf courses to destroy. Not death, not destruction. Written on the card was simply the words “rain for everyone”

The television static grew purple.

Rain for everyone.

It was insulting.

“...Susan?”

Her eyes met Rivers. She was grinning ear to ear.

Rain for everyone.

Susan’s whole body shook as she began to deliver her forecast, “A cloud… will appear.”

The room melted away, only Rivers remained.

“Right over my house. A cloud will appear and it will rain. And it will never stop raining.”

Rivers smile twisted into a look of abject horror.

“And my pansies will respond to the rain. They will be the brightest purple. They will be the envy of all you disgusting animals.” Susan hadn’t noticed but she was screaming every word.

The ground beneath the recording studio quaked from thunder. The contract had been broken, wrath was eminent.

“I AM NOT EMPTY! I AM FULL OF PANSIES! I AM FULL OF RAIN.”

Flowers began sprouting from Susan’s ears, nose and eyes. Water poured from her mouth onto the floor. Choking on rain, Susan finished her forecast.

“And that…just about…wraps it up. Ba–ck…to you!”

A bolt of lightning shot down from the heavens, miraculously cutting through the walls of the recording studio, striking Susan. She fell from the stage. Shortly after, more bolts came and the recording studio violently burst into flames.

Forty-seven dead. Bodies near unrecognizable. Eyewitnesses said that the weather was to blame but Ms. Rivers knew that it was anything but that. Homicide. Divine intervention.

Rivers stood alone in the parking lot, charred bow tie in one hand, and in the other, a flash drive full of files full of lies for the goddess of earth. The only god. “Damn you.” Her fingers closed around the yellow cloth.

Rain fell in sheets from the sky above Susan Kelvin's house, with no sign of stopping. Her pansy grew taller than cornstalks, stretching upwards, garishly purple. But Susan would never see them. Susan Kelvin was gone.

Though, some say that on hot summer days when the sky is endless blue, at the back of your neighborhood Denny’s, you can feel her.

Crawling on your leg.

#This is my first short story I've posted to Tumblr!#It's like that one episode of the Fairly Oddparents but if it was more gay and political #It has lesbians and Denny's in it but I swear that was an accident I am not pandering #hope you like it #short story #short fiction #writers on tumblr #writeblr #writing #weather woman

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starslite · 4 months

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Ok so Ricks canon age when Diane died: 27

Kid beth: Probably like 5-8?

Ricks "hero phase" / Flesh Curtains era: mid-30s according to both Rick and Beth (so Beth would be about 13-16?)

Beth's canon age in present time: 34 (had Summer when she was 17; Summer is currently 17)

??????? How the FUCK is he 70. He has to be at least 53 or 54

#rick and morty #am i NOT in love with a senior citizen???? am i.... am i NORMAL???#these fuxking writers dont know how to write timelines i SWEAR to god

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musette22 · 5 months

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Ok but that feeling when you're reading a fic and something is just so unbearably cute that your chest kind of contracts and your hands and fingers go all warm and tingly? And you just have to stop reading for a bit and stare into space, whispering "oh my god, that is so fucking adorable" while you process the overwhelming cuteness? 🥺✨️💘 Unparalleled.

#it's the best feeling fight me #better even than the really good smut #to me anyway #i am such a sucker for that soft pining fluffiness i swear 💕#also i am already feeling exceedingly christmassy and i'm sick and both things tend to make me extra super sappy #i kind of love it though #bless fic writers so hard 🫶🏼#fanfiction #minnie talks

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obey-me-headquarters · 1 year

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So, I haven't gotten too far into Nightbringer to write any specific smut for it. (Literally only just started lesson 6). But I do have some ideas!!

A lot of my ideas revolve around being the demon's "first" in something. Like, you know your demons inside and out at this point. You know all their kinks, fantasies, and where to touch them to make them squirm. So you can introduce them to all sorts of things that make them scream in the future but they have no experience with now.

For example, showing Lucifer how much of a masochist he is. I don't think Lucifer is a complete virgin in Nightbringer as I think he fooled around as an angel at least a few times. I mean, he's still a few thousand years old, he was bound to get curious and try getting frisky with a few angels. But him trying out BDSM? I seriously doubt it.

So once you and him finally fall into bed together, you show him all the ways he didn't know he loved to be touched. Having such an inexperienced Lucifer is a bit of a novelty and a bit of an annoyance. Present day Lucifer knew what he wanted and he wasn't ashamed of asking for it. The Lucifer you're currently bedding? Doesn't know what he wants.

It's actually really cute how shy Lucifer is. How he tries so hard to stifle his moans when you heard much louder, much needier ones from your present Lucifer.

And you don't want to push him. It's entirely possible that past Lucifer has no interest in BDSM. That his particular taste for masochism and being owned evolved after many centuries.

But you still want to try, to possibly open his eyes to a new world of domination and submission.

So one evening, one careful evening you've been planning for. One evening in which you make sure that his brothers haven't wreaked havoc, one evening where Diavolo doesn't up to distract Lucifer cause him stress. One perfect, relaxing evening, you spring the question onto him.

"Lucifer, have you heard about BDSM?" You ask in your most light, most casual tone to not raise any alarm bells and spook the demon.

Lucifer pauses his undressing, his hands suspended in the air as his tie hangs loosely around his neck. He turns to you in slow motion, looking so bewildered and confused that it makes you want to laugh. Surely your demon couldn't be that pure right? You know he's only been a demon for a little more than a year now, but, come on.

"I'm sorry, have I heard about what?"

"BDSM! Like, Bondage, Domination, Submissive, Masochism. Have you heard of people doing that sort of thing in bed?"

Lucifer's face turns a bright scarlet and he turns away from you. Like, actually physically turning his full back to you, turning away from you. You can see his ears still burning though, and elect not to tease him about it in worry that if you do, Lucifer might become so embarrassed he'll stop being the Avatar of Pride.

"It's fine if you haven't. If you would rather I never bring it up again say the word and I wouldn't." You tell him, concern starting to creep in.

"No. No, it's fine. I just. Why did you choose to bring that topic up?" He asks stiffly, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. A classical Lucifer "I'm nervous about this topic because it inflicts Feelings in me" move.

"I was just wondering. I have been in dom/sub relationships in the, um, past, and was wondering if that was something you'll be into," you say gently, so extremely gently. "It's fine if that's not something you're into." You add.

"You have?" He asks in surprise, and because you know him so well, with a hint of excitement. "What... what role did you fall into?"

Relief crashes into you like a tidal wave. He's into it. He's really into it from what you can tell. He hasn't had any experience with subbing, you know because your Lucifer didn't when you meet him, but he was so desperate to finally try he practically threw himself at your feet.

Not this Lucifer though. This Lucifer most likely knows of the idea, maybe he picked up some porn featuring a dom/sub relationship and knows on some level that he's interested in subbing, but hasn't had the time to stew in that knowledge like your Lucifer did.

"Dominate." You say with confidence, a grin painting your face. "I like control in the bedroom."

And judging by the shiver that shoots up Lucifer's spine at your words, so does he.

Grinning, you stand and begin stalking towards your prey.

"I like taking control of my partner. Make them beg for relief. And if they misbehave, I like to punish them."

"Do. Do you?" Lucifer asks breathlessly.

You're standing behind him and you know he knows you're there. His demon sense picking up on it, and by the way he almost leans backward as if to meet your touch, you know he wants you.

"I do." You state confidently, mere inches away from Lucifer.

"But," your hand grasps Lucifer's shoulder and he flinches. "If my partner didn't want that...." You give him a light pull and he complies, turning to face you.

And oh, what a sight that is.

You missed your subby little Luci. You missed his cute moans, his tears as you edged him, and his screams when you overstimulated him. And you missed his flushed face when you lowered him into subspace.

And this? This perfectly mimics that face.

"Oh, baby." You breathe out, fighting the urge to pepper his face in kisses and pull him into your chest.

"And what if I do? Would you do those things to me?" Lucifer asks, and you're so, so proud of him for asking.

"Darling, I would do all that and more." You say as you kiss him.

Like your Lucifer did in the past, like he will do in the future, he lets you take control.

#obey me #obey me nb #obey me nightbringer #obey me lucifer #obey me nb Lucifer #my post #obey me dom!reader #ok so i know i said i was busy #and i AM #i should have NOT written this. this just got away from me #as yall can probably tell because this did NOT contain you showing Luci that hes a masochist lol #aw. oh well. i have a pretty clean idea of what i want that to look like #ill write that later #i SWEAR i will finish that one day... one day...#i noticed that i got quite a bit of notes from my Nb posts. and uh.#yeah sorry folks who are not in the know. im a smut writter.#a dom!reader smit writer in fact. sorry.#best to leave now if you're not into that

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allthecastlesonclouds · 9 months

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Chapters: 2/3 Fandom: Dimension 20 (Web Series) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

so i made a multichaptered fic. um. started out as lamenting about the lack of neurodivergent help in schools and turned into a full kidnapping/assassination plot. stuff is happening.

would love it if you checked it out!!

#riz gukgak #fabian aramais seacaster #fabian seacaster #fig faeth #adaine abernant #kristen applebees #gorgug thistlespring #the bad kids #dimension 20 #fantasy high #fhsy #d20 fanart #listen. i love them. they are so blorbo to me.#castles art #writing!#i am a writer i swear

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jojo-schmo · 5 months

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Hello ms bubble wizard mage maam', I was just wondering what are your thoughts on magolor regarding how he's apparently **highly aware** of all characters to ever exist in the kirbyverse

Also its become a trend where god is replaced with NOVA in the expressions... Do they know?

Ello ello!

I like Magolor a lot, but he is omniscient? That's news to me. Is there a source for that? :O Unless you're talking about that Magoverse trend I saw floating around a while back- I didn't see much but what I did encounter reminded me of all the different Sans Undertale AUs out there. Hehehe Magolor is quite versatile! What fun.

And I know people use Nova as an expletive when writing Kirby characters! It's cool!

I use profanity in real life but I personally try to not associate Kirby characters with it in the works I make. I want to diversify the vernacular of the citizens of Popstar so I made a small list of expletives I thought of, lol. They should have a variety of things to yell out when they stub their feet or an apple falls on their head! So I get randomly inspired out in the world and I make sure to write them down!

I remember seeing someone have the characters use expletives based on food, like for example, "For the love of shortcake!" or things like that. That idea's fun!! (If you are the person who had this headcanon and are reading this please tell me so I can credit you for it!)

Does anyone else have expletives/exclamations they write for Kirby characters? Please share them if you do heehee. It makes the world building feel more fleshed out and creative >:3

#ask #headcanon #magolor #also if you use profanity in your Kirby works that is totally fine!! Everyone writes differently and has preferences #as long as a writer isn't going into like... problematic territory? But that's a pretty extreme boundary to cross #I don't think the average Kirby creator/enjoyer crosses into extreme or inappropriate territory. (at least I hope)#and I do sometimes find it funny to see a Kirby character say a bad word lmao!#But I personally would not make Kirby say f--- haha. I've seen enough of that in the real world ;P #and I try to keep the audience of a series like Kirby in mind #I think the most severe word I'd use for a Kirby character myself is “damned” in the context of condemning something to punishment #It's just my personal opinion and style right now!#if I wrote fan stories for like GTA or something then that would be different :P #I'm also trying to swear less in real life too lol #I am making..... some progress on that. xD #anyway thanks for riding the train of my stream of consciousness #take a complementary high five on your way off the train #:P

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p3ski · 11 days

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I cannot change. I am bound to my programme.

Artwork loosely inspired by my Reed900 fic 'More Than Our Parts', but more closely linked to the Nines POV retelling I am currently working on 'Unbound.'

#i forgot his led will fix that later #there is literally one chapter out for unbound but i swear this will become relevant #i am more a writer than an artist but we trying our best #my art #dbh #dbh nines #dbh rk900 #reed900 #dbh fanfiction #dbh fanfic #dbh art #dbh fanart #detroit become human fanart #detroit become human

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ghostclowning · 1 year

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OK BUT WHAT ABOUT THE OBLIGATORY "my big gay demon boyfriend turned into a child :0" ARC FOR MOSHANG like come on. Hua Cheng did it. Lo Binghe did it. Every self-respecting demon must go through it. *snaps fingers* Let's fucking go

Of course Mobei wasn't too happy about becoming weak and unable to defend Qinghua. He even feared that if this continues for too long, Qinghua will just leave him as he becomes useless. And so, he tried to hide in his room, but sneaky Qinghua found out anyway.

Shang Qinghua would probably not even recognize Mobei at once bc he became so cute and squishable and tiny and holdable. First Mobei would try to tell Qinghua to get out and leave him alone but Qinghua wouldn't be able to not give smallbei a headpat once and that's it. Mobei-jun can't resist anymore. He needs to be with Qinghua, even if it exposes his weakness now. Screw the pride or the chance that Qinghua will leave...the childish part of Mobei has reawakened in this body, and it demanded to be close with Qinghua as if it was vital. Meanwhile the way smallbei leans in for Qinghua's hand would just break his heart. He literally gave Mobei a childhood trauma and now the said child stood before him, making him realize what a terrible person he is. He can't help but hug his king, who doesn't seem to really object that much, but frowns in a funny way. "Qinghua, let go!" He tries to sound intimidating, but with this childish voice, really? Qinghua only laughs. "My king, I'm afraid there's nothing you can do now to stop me."

Mobei wouldn't stop following him around, even though it probably would be safer if he stayed in his room until he becomes normal. Which is why Qinghua has to stay in his room too.

"My king, no one should find out you're vulnerable now. And I have things to do."

"...Say that again."

"My king..."

"That's it."

Although Shang Qinghua wants to laugh at the sight of these puffed up cheeks, he can't argue. Well, if the king says he has a day off, who is he to disobey?

He wonders why smallbei clings to him so much, but finds it cute. Mobei knows that Shang Qinghua probably won't be of big help in case of attack, but he just feels the safest with him.

Shang Qinghua was dead sure he'll have to pay for this when his king returns to normal state, but he can't refrain from squishing and cuddling with smallbei bc he's just too cute. He knows it's the same Mobei, just that his body changed a little ("a little"), but that only makes him want to cuddle more. He even falls asleep still hugging his king.

When he wakes up, he sees normal Mobei sit near him.

"Qinghua."

"My king...glad to see you in proper state and good health, hehe," Qinghua chuckles nervously. "I hope you're not holding a grudge on me for my...excessive affection?"

"You will pay."

With that being said, Mobei locks him in a tight hug and doesn't let go. Qinghua almost gets scared at first, but then bursts out laughing once he realizes what's happening.

"My king, let go!"

"There's nothing you can do now to make me."

"...I thought you will leave. You didn't."

"My king, I would never. Especially when you're like that! How could I leave you?"

"I was weak."

"My king, compared to your normal state, I'm weak all the time."

"You don't need to be strong. I am. But back then, I wasn't."

"And I'm not a princess who needs a saviour. My king, I'm here now not because of your strength. And I am more than ready to be the strong one when you can't be."

Mobei says nothing and tucks his face in Qinghua's shoulder.

#svsss #moshang #mobei jun #shang qinghua #scum villain more like scum writer(me)#i am normal about them i swear

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bonefall · 10 months

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How do you know about glass children?!? It's like you go out of your way to incorporate and see disabled people and it's so nice to be seen!

I actually didn't until someone asked me if that's what I was doing with Bumblestripe and Blossomfall! I just. perfectly wrote the dynamics and feelings associated with Glass Children for B&B and learned there was a name for it LMAO

I'm interested in types of abuse and dynamics within families, how pain passes down between generations. I write a lot about it and like to listen to people's experiences. It's complex and nuanced, but somehow, it's all similar. Pain isn't that different between people-- how they react to it is.

People say, "Listen to disabled people/abusive victims/marginalized persons" and I think some folks don't know what that means. What that means is; seek out people's individual experiences and learn how they describe their own lives, in their own terms. How they interact with their family, what annoys them, the language they wished people used, day to day tricks that make their lives easier.

For Jayfeather I just did a lot of that. Took people's input on how to do the warrior training arc, what they wish was more common in these stories, and what to avoid.

And for how his relationship is to Brambleclaw... well, honestly, Brambleclaw is my special boodle boy and no one understands him like I do✨✨ This man is a terrible father and a toxic mate✨✨✨He never should have had power over kits or Clans and Bad Bramble Dad is actually incredibly interesting as a continuation of the TNP characterization and segways nicely into the sorts of bad choices he makes as a leader✨✨✨✨✨

That man plays favorites with his children just like his own dad did, lathering affection on whoever pleases him most, he is incapable of doing an accurate self-reflection because the idea that he might actually, truly be like his own father is so painful that he can't confront the idea and becomes defensive at the very thought ✨✨✨

#Jokes aside I really don't mean shade to the majority of the fandom that would have preferred Bramble be unproblematic #In fact I agree he's absolutely unrecognizable from his TPB characterization #but also. Bramble's abuse is actually profoundly interesting. The way he's petty and can't handle the idea of losing control #And GOOD GODS it's so rare to see people hit the sweet spot #People either make him an inhuman monster or remove the abuse entirely and like... I get people wanting to rehab their comfort character #Or create a huge villain to be cathartically torn down #but i am a fucking Obelisk. Alone. crying that he's actually fascinating the way he is #and his biggest problem is that the writers don't realize that he IS abusive #It's just framing I swear that's the problem. please god why does no one else see how interesting he is #bone babble #tw abuse

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