#I wish I could write more

[andishouldfeel]

It's been years since the end of the world...

Humans finally managed to end it all and Nolan Holloway exists purely out of his parent's spite and years of foreseeing.

But now, winter is gone, so is his mother, and now he is alone.

Turns out that plant's aren't great conversationalists and he can't bring himself to kill his chicks anymore..., but yet there are more and more missing everyday.

And there is howling every night.

Fuck, doesn't do wolves know how hard it is to grow nice coffee?

---

Or the one where Nolan just wants a good night sleep and also he feels kinda lonely 'cause there ain't a single soul around but these fucking wolves just want to party every single night (aka happy 'cause they found easy access to food.... sorry Nolan's chicks :'( )

[youchangedmedestiel]

There's people all over the world, far away from me, that I will never meet, reading my silly little fics about those two idiots in love.

That's just crazy!

[statisticallymorelikely]

00Q au edit for @ironpe: demon!Q

"Hello, demon." "Hello, James. I suppose you've called me here to take me up on my offer." "Yes." "Are you sure? You do understand what you're giving up, right? All the good you've done or will ever do, all the lives you saved, the wrongs you've righted, it will be for naught." "I understand." "You will have power and my protection, but there will be no redemption. When you die, a good man will go to hell." "I said I understand, demon. Now, help me save her."

Q remembers quite well the day James Bond signed his contract. He had done it to save the love of his life, quite noble as intentions go. Pity she died anyway, and practically by her own hand. Despite what humans think and how Q likes to present himself, demons aren't all knowing. He couldn't have told James his sacrifice wasn't worth it even if he wanted to.

And why would he want to? James' soul is Q's ticket to a promotion. While his fellow mid-level demons are all running around tempting addicts and bribing politicians, Q was thinking outside the box. He has secured for hell the soul of a hero. James Bond, tainted as he is, was meant to go to heaven, but no longer.

Now, all Q has to do is hold up his end of the bargain and protect his investment. And if he had known what a headache it was going to be, maybe he wouldn't have done it in the first place, promotion be damned.

Protecting James Bond is a nightmare. The amount of shit James willingly gets into is astronomical and it takes much of Q's considerable power to keep him alive. James seems to have looked at the hellish eternity stretching out in his future and said fuck it. Q has had to become quartermaster at MI6 just to make sure James didn't prematurely pop, after all, the more people he saves, the more valuable Q's investment becomes. To say he doesn't enjoy it, though, would be a lie.

Q has met and tempted and damned countless human souls before but none as interesting as James. The hottest of hot messes, as Eve often refers to him. And yet, loathe he is to admit it, Q has grown fond of him, and his indiscriminate charm, his knack for destruction, his unshakeable loyalty, and above all, the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs. He brings a thrill to Q's existence that he's never known before.

It seems like a terrible idea to be smitten with the soul you're ripening for harvest, but demons have never been known for sharp decision-making. Demons also aren't known for falling in love, and yet Q defies that too. And as each mission pulls James inevitably closer and closer to the clutches of hell, Q no longer knows whether he's still protecting his investment or whatever's left of his heart.

[ironhoshi]

Protip: telling a fic writer their story is abandoned does not make them want to write more.

Also protip: calling it stopped doesn't help either.

[cyberfreaky]

if i had the talent n attention span to write fics longer than 1k words, it’d be over for y’all fr

[holyguardian]

I finally finished those promised impulse asks for Ifalna, it took a surprising amount of time because I wasn't at all casual or chill about it like I half-planned haha. I have a feeling I'll be treating them as an icebreaker kind of starter for some short threads, depending on how open they are answered. <3

[marigoldwriter]

Brain: Are you okay?

Me: *Writing a story and developing three others in the background, in the middle of a week of exams* yea...

[moonchildjelly]

Sometimes I just think in bake with Barbatos and Luke while we try that the others don't eat everything before we finish (because when u smell finished to bake pastries u just wanna eat them no matter if they are to hot or not)

[autumnbell32]

I’ve said it a few times, but watching your mental health deteriorate really does feel like microdosing death. I feel like a shell. It might be a necessary step to getting better- getting worse first. But it feels like tumbling in a whirlwind. Nothing is predictable and everything is painful.

[maximura]

Have you even sat down and thought about space and evolution and existence? I love writing stories set in the future and I especially love the idea that humans will one day create the ultimate Apex Predators: artificially intelligent sentient beings. People are doing this now and it’s kind of terrifying. 

[thevoidisscreamingbackatyou]

y'know what, ao3 appreciation post cause these people out there doing amazing work for no monetary compensation

literally so many of us love ao3, please show support for these guys <3

[andishouldfeel]

Necromancer Nolan Holloway AU

"How many deaths have you died to be so strong?

How many times have you screamed to be so silent?"

Trigger Warning: angts, death, seizure, blood

in order to become a "master of death", you must get a taste of if before...

The nightmares got worse, and the lack of sleep was definitely affecting his performance at school, he survived purely on caffeine lately.

Nolan was just leaving chemistry class when it happened.

There was a lot of people on the hallway, a lot of dead people.

Edgar, Tiang, Janney, Brett... Gabe.

These were the few he knew.

They were all just standing, looking bloody and maimed.

Gabe had all his bullet's holes oozing blood and Brett was drooling a black goo.

It was like a horror movie.

Nolan's heart hammered in his chest, he was stuck on his feet, just staring at them.

Then, it all happened really fast, a blinding pain in his head, aching like it was about to blow, the nauseous feeling in his stomach, the rapid fluttering of heart in his chest, his lungs burned, the sudden taste of blood on his mouth...

"Dude, are you okay?" Mason asked.

Nolan collapsed.

----

Corey and Mason watched as Nolan fell to the ground fast, as if someone had cut his strings, there wasn't even time for them to react, he was already at the ground.

It took Mason a few seconds, but Corey already was at Nolan's side.

"Nolan, what... What the hell?!"

Nolan's chest jerked away from the ground, his mouth open in a silent scream and his eyes open, fogged, like a cloud was stuck inside his eyes.

Just as fast as it started, he went completely still.

"Someone call an ambulance!" Mason screamed at the students gathering along the scene.

"Mason, he has no heartbeat." Corey said almost in a whisper. "I can hear nothing!"

"Oh my God, okay, okay..." Mason prepared his hands, trying to remember everything from his heath class, he was about to start a very clumsy CPR, when Nolan took a big breath, chest jerking away from the floor again, almost instantly his body started convulsing.

"We need to start counting!" A girl said in the growing crowd.

"On it!" Another boy said, looking nervous from the clock to Nolan's form, seizuring on the floor.

Corey and Mason did their best through the first minute that the seizure lasted, holding Nolan on his side, covering him with a coat donated by someone when he lost control of his bladder.

He just stopped, breathing heavily, then another seizure followed.

The bell rang, and there were and even more people joining the crowd.

"What happened?"

"Have you all called an ambulance already?"

"Oh my God, there's blood coming out of his mouth!"

"Is he dying?"

"Is he possessed?"

"OKAY EVERYONE, GET OUT, FOLLOW TO YOUR NEXT CLASSES, I DON'T WANT TO SEE A SOUL AROUND!" Coach screamed, and people instantly started vanishing.

"Oh, shit!" Liam joined them quickly "He smells awful."

Nolan had just calmed, laying lifeless on the floor, blood coming out from the corner of his mouth.

"He must've bit this tongue... But at least his heart is beating." Corey said, relieved. "Do you think we can move him?"

"No, keep him there." Coach instructed. "Ambulance in on it's way."

[xochimillilili]

Hey come here puppy, come here and sit on my lap honey, let me hold you~ That's my puppy, just lay on my chest, yes just like that my love, rest your pretty little puppy head and let all those thoughts fall out~

You've had quite a long day haven't you pup? Look at you, your eyes are all sleepy and pretty, your cute lil tired smile n frown, your hair all fluffed up from being so busy all day... it's alright my sweetheart, I've got you, I'm staying here with you all night

Let me help put your collar on baby, you're just a little puppy after all, you just focus on getting yourself comfy love~

We can do anything you like my precious pup, we can cuddle here in bed or I'll sit next to you while you're snug in your little doggie bed. I can run you a nice bath and try to rub and scrub all your worries away, even just for a bit honey. We can watch something you like, or I can tell you a story, we can nap or do some nice coloring while I brush your hair all soft

You're my precious darling little puppy love, my good puppy who I'm so sooo very proud of, I'll always want to hold and care for you after a long day, you're the one I love~

[confessedlyfannish]

Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"

[markscherz]

Bad Newts: Amphibians are in Serious Trouble

My colleagues and I have just had a paper published in Nature, based on our efforts to assess almost all amphibian species for the IUCN Red Lists. The major takeaway messages:

It is a bad time to be an amphibian

Two fifths of all amphibians are threatened with extinction.

Salamanders are the most threatened group; three fifths of all salamanders are threatened with extinction!

Climate change is a major driver of amphibian declines globally

Habitat loss, especially due to agriculture, is a problem for the vast majority of amphibians

Chytrid pandemics have caused and continue to cause catastrophic declines of both salamanders and frogs

Protected areas and careful management are working as strategies! They are actively improving the outlook of some species

As many as 222 amphibian species may have gone extinct in recent times; of those, 185 are suspected extinct but not yet confirmed.

Our paper is Open Access, you can read it here!

Photo of Atelopus hoogmoedi by Jaime Culebras, used with permission

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

As if I wasn't already exhausted enough this morning...

It's been brought to my attention that people are taking my fanfics, editing them, and sharing them around. I don't have the words to describe how not okay this is. If you don't like something about my fanfic, then I'm sorry to hear that, but there are a lot of other fics out there you can read instead.

I put time and effort and care into my writing, as does every writer. To take my work without permission and change it feels like someone just punched me in the gut. Frankly it makes me not want to share my work at all and to take down all the writing I do have up, because why should I share anything with people if all they're going to do is decide it's not good enough and they're going to do what they want with it and make it "better"?

And before anyone comes at me, this is not what a transformative work does. This is not the same as fanfiction. I'm fucking exhausted from working two eleven hour shifts over the weekend so my brain is not working so someone smarter and more articulate than I am can explain why. I'm tired.

This genuinely makes me want to take down all my works and not share anything new. It's very simple, kiddos: Don't like it? Don't read it. You will miss out on some fanfics that way, just like you'll miss out on some films, or books, or TV shows. I've missed out on really good fic, novels, films, etc, for the same reason. We all do. It's a part of life. Stuff will sometimes have things in it that you don't like. Skim those parts, fast-forward those scenes, grin and bear it, or just go and read/watch something else.

Normally I would make this post unrebloggable but I worry other writers in this fandom might experience the same thing and not realize it. So people are welcome to reblog this. Anyone who's an ass on it will be blocked, no second chances.

Just. Don't do this guys. Holy shit don't do this. What the actual fuck.