#keystone wips

[maxfaiden]

WIP... I thought I was going to be able to finish this by this afternoon, but I forgot my HVAC was getting serviced this morning, then I decided to get an easy trap installed, which extended the visit, then I had to make lunch, and then, and then, and then...

the exterior is not finished, but I'm working on the first floor; I like to jump around when I build because it helps me maintain the feeling throughout and keeps things interesting. the living room layout was pretty much set, then I felt like this house would definitely have a fireplace and the house it's replacing had one as well. fortunately, I didn't have to do much to accommodate it.

we're just going to pretend those are family photos on the mantle and console tables for now...

[kalinjdra]

11, 17, 19 for the Ask Game : )

AAAA THANK YOU

11. Do you have specific playlists for writing fics?

Hm, not in particular? I have some playlists I like to listen to while writing, especially Blue Turtle's Inspiring Rainy Day Piano for Creatives. I listen to Eight by Sleeping At Last to get in the mood for Reflection and it does influence that fic a lot. 17. What’s something you’ve learned about while doing research for a fic?

That's so hard to choose! I think my favorite knowledge is the one I got reading a nonfiction book about Victorian life for Keystone. So some fun facts (not really) are: 75% of the British population were lower class, classes were not so much about money but about different cultures and etiquette, working conditions were absolutely horrible and diseases were common and brutal. Take that hint for Keystone as you will ;)

19. Give us a small teaser from one of your WIPs.

Weasley's eyes spark and he yells but no words come out.  He pushes against him but Hari holds firm, wiry muscles locked up like jaws closed around bone; there is no give or yield in his grip, just luminous eyes that cast a green glow across his face. Hari potter looks feral, teeth exposed in a harsh smile, nose wrinkled like the maw of a growling dog, knuckles turned white in his iron grip. It scares Ron. He is not a child who grew up too quickly into a shadow with rough, calloused hands, with ribs that revealed themselves every time he took a breath, with a heart shattered into shards and never put back together.  Ron has had a good childhood, a father who loves and takes care of his children, a mother who cooks meals and gives them loving hugs. He has cheerful siblings who tease him good-naturedly. Sure, he's had some trials, he's seen discrimination at work but it's never been the chains that held him down, dragging him down under the water, a constant struggle just to keep treading water. Hari Potter had none of that. He is a Gothamite through and through. He is smog and concrete and stone gargoyles. He is steel iron ribs and barbed wire knuckles. He has gravestones for parents and slammed doors for family. He has lonely nights and hungry stomachs as constant companions. To survive, he had to bend metal bones into different shapes for some acceptance, for some love. Hari Potter is forged steel, put through the burning fires of crisis and cruelty, with the mettle to survive above all else. Ron is standing in front of a feral creature that lashes out in fear and on instinct. Was there really any doubt on who would win? A boy who has never thrown a punch or a street rat that would murder to stay alive? Hari leans in close and whispers, "Stay out of my way or else."

A snippet from Reflections, a DC/Harry Potter crossover I'm posting this Saturday for the WIP Bang!

[suzukiblu]

Parasite WIP is so good and I desperately want more of it! I voted for it in the poll and I’m so sad it didn’t win

Friend, I appreciate you asking after it because it really is one of my fucked-up faves that I really need to work on more, so uh . . . have all 4500 words of the prose so far all together, hahaha. Yes, yes I DID reformat this whole thing into Tumblr-friendliness all for you. THAT IS HOW MUCH I APPRECIATE YOUR APPRECIATION, FRIEND. ( so definitely we are gonna need that read-more down there, lol. )

Clark wakes up. 

Clark didn't even know he wasn't awake. 

"Superman," Bruce says with absolute neutrality. He's wearing the cowl. Standing in rubble. Clark is . . . not standing in rubble. 

Laying in rubble. That's what Clark is doing. 

Bruce is looking down at him very, very carefully, and seems . . . reserved. 

Reserved for Bruce, even. 

"What happened?" Clark asks, trying not to concentrate on the little seed of dread that the sight of that reservation invokes in him. He can hear the heartbeats of other League members, here and there in the wreckage of the street around them. Hear civilians and city noise. Hear Lois and Jon, distantly, and Ma and Pa, even more distant. And . . . Kara–both of her–and . . . 

"We'll go with 'electrocution', but I think we can safely say just about anyone else would've been virtually incinerated," Bruce informs him, distracting Clark from his mental rundown of people he's currently worried about. "Or just exploded."

"Ah," Clark says with a grimace. Well, that explains why his head hurts so damn bad, he guesses.

At least it was him, then, and not any "anyone else"s. 

He pushes himself up. Looks around. He . . . isn't sure where they are, exactly, except that it's probably somewhere on Earth and within the continental United States, judging by the architecture and signs he's seeing and the accents and languages he's hearing. 

He has absolutely no idea how they got here, though. The last thing he remembers is . . . 

. . . he's not actually sure what the last thing he remembers is. 

Not a great sign, that.  

Bruce is watching him. Like he's . . . expecting something, almost. Clark would ask, but there's an odd feeling distracting him. Something's . . . off, somehow. 

Missing. 

Bruce's utility belt is a new design, he notes absently. J'onn is down the street a bit and his costume looks a little different too. And Diana . . . 

Diana is over across the way, and her hair is a couple inches longer than he remembers it being. 

Clark would assume he was mistaken, except for the eidetic memory and all. 

"Hm," Clark says. 

"Hm?" Bruce says. He still sounds faultlessly neutral. 

"Trying to figure out if I'm in the right reality. Things look a little off," Clark replies, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes in concentration. No unexpected sounds or scents. No particular feeling of disorientation that can't be accounted for by being apparently electrocuted. No additional pains past the dull pressure in his head or any immediately obvious peculiarities beyond the minor little scattered differences here and there in his teammates. 

But something is–

"I can't hear Kon," Clark realizes abruptly. He doesn't usually especially keep an ear out for the kid, at least not deliberately, but . . . 

Bruce . . . pauses. 

"You can't," he says, very carefully. It doesn't sound like a question. 

It sounds like something, though. 

"I can't," Clark confirms anyway, glancing around again. He still doesn't know where this is. "Where are we, exactly?" 

"What's the date, Kal?" Bruce asks, and Clark's heart sinks. 

He answers the question. 

Bruce's mouth thins. 

Hell, Clark thinks. 

"We're currently in Keystone City," Bruce says, very carefully expressionless. "We've been here for three days. The date you just provided me was a full fourteen months ago. And Kon-El has been MIA for roughly thirteen and a half of those months." 

Hell, Clark thinks, and doesn't let himself process anything past that. 

"We need to get a scan of your brain," Bruce says. "For starters." 

"For starters," Clark agrees tightly. 

Bruce tells Diana they're leaving, then abandons the rubble and takes Clark up to the Watchtower. Clark goes. He doesn't ask what electrocuted him or who's died in the past fourteen months or if there's anything immediately urgent that he should know. Bruce would've already told him, if there was. 

And he thinks he'd choke on the question if he tried, anyway. 

They go to the med bay. There's a total stranger standing in it who smiles at them when they step through the door. 

"Haven't seen you in here in quite a while, Superman," the stranger observes in amusement, tapping a pen against the clipboard in their hands. "You still haven't been in for that checkup I owe you, you know." 

"He doesn't know you," Bruce informs them evenly. The stranger blinks. 

"Sorry?" they say. 

"He was electrocuted," Bruce says. "Now he thinks it's fourteen months ago. We need a brain scan. Immediately." 

"Hell," the stranger says, their eyes widening in alarm. 

Clark gets the brain scan. 

He and Bruce wait in a convenient exam room for the results, which seem to be taking a while. Bruce seems a bit more guarded than usual, which means Clark is standing next to goddamn Fort Knox right now. He sighs to himself. 

"Suppose at this rate I should call and tell Lois and Jon I'll be late for dinner," he jokes wryly as he folds his arms, no real humor in the comment, and Bruce goes very, very still beside him. 

. . . hell. 

They're not dead. He knows they're not dead, he heard their heartbeats before they left for the watchtower, Bruce would've already told him if either of them were–

"They aren't expecting you," Bruce says with absolutely no intonation whatsoever in his voice. "You moved out eight months ago. The divorce is already finalized." 

"Ah," Clark says, very slowly. He doesn't let himself process, again. Not–just, not yet. "What happened?" 

"You left them," Bruce says, and Clark . . . blinks. 

"I left them?!" he demands incredulously. Leaving Lois is one thing, horrible and impossible a thought as it is, but– "Not just–I left them both?!"

"As you explained it to me, you were no longer interested in maintaining the . . . 'persona' of Clark Kent," Bruce replies carefully, looking just past him. "You said you couldn't stand the screaming anymore. That you appreciated us . . . humoring you for so long, but you couldn't just keep walking around making excuses and lying to everyone while people were suffering and dying just because you had to pretend to be human for a while. So yes. You left them. Haven't visited since Lois finally signed the divorce papers. Haven't spoken to your parents either. You've been . . . erratic. Since Kon-El's disappearance. When we couldn't find him . . . when we couldn't even find out what happened to him . . ." 

"Oh," Clark says, and his heart sinks again. 

He doesn't understand, though. Kon is–he cares about the kid, obviously. Cares very deeply about him. He's pretty sure he even loves him, at this point. But he's not . . . 

It feels terrible to think it, but Clark doesn't understand why Kon disappearing like that would affect him enough to stop being Clark. It's awful, and he still hasn't let himself actually think about it happening at all because he really can't process it right now, but that awful? Really? Awful enough to abandon being any semblance of a normal person? Abandon Lois and his parents entirely? 

Abandon Jon entirely? 

Apparently, yes. 

"Technically you're on unpaid sabbatical from the Planet," Bruce tells him. "We thought you might . . . reconsider, once you'd grieved properly, so Lois pulled some strings with Perry White. He thinks you're having an early mid-life crisis and your co-workers think you're off finding yourself in South America with a bad cell phone plan." 

"I guess I don't believe in satellite phones?" Clark says, trying for wry again. It doesn't work, but he tries all the same. 

"This is unfair of me, but I'm going to take advantage of your current mental state," Bruce says. He's looking at the wall, though there's nothing there to actually be looking at. Not even anything on the other side, at least not according to X-ray vision. "Try to remember how you feel right now, when your memories of the past year return. Try to remember who you are right now, when those memories return."

"Why?" Clark asks, watching him carefully as he does. The corners of Bruce's mouth tighten. Just barely, but undeniably. 

"You've been . . . gone, Clark," Bruce says slowly. "You won't even answer to 'Clark' anymore. You aren't the same man that I . . . that we all . . ." 

The stranger comes back before Bruce has to admit to too many personal feelings or Clark can figure out what to say to any of that, which might be a mercy but might also be–

The stranger looks . . . strange, Clark notices. Nauseated, almost. And definitely distressed. 

"I haven't done brain scans on Superman before," they say, their grip on their clipboard concerningly close to white-knuckled. "And my predecessor apparently hadn't done any in a while either. Last ones in the system are over two years old." 

"What's wrong?" Bruce says, narrowing his eyes. Honestly at this point Clark figures a kryptonite brain tumor would really just be the icing on the cake, and frankly would probably explain some of his apparent behavioral changes and current memory loss. That genuinely makes more sense than anything else, really, even with grief and guilt to contend with.

More sense than abandoning his own damn kid does, at least. 

Although a tumor's the worst-case scenario, obviously. And it can't be any worse than that, really, or any worse than anything he's apparently done to his family this past year, so at least he's braced for–

"There's an . . . organism," the stranger says, swallowing uncomfortably. "In your brain." 

"What?" Clark says. 

"A dead organism, now," the stranger clarifies. "But it looks like it's been there for a while. There are . . . roots. And . . . lesions, too." 

"An organism," Bruce repeats very, very slowly. "In Superman's brain." 

"Yes," the stranger says. 

"I don't . . ." Clark trails off. 

"We need more scans," Bruce says. 

"I ran it four times on two different machines," the stranger says. "It's organic. It's not giving off any recognizable life signs. It seems like it might've been . . . you mentioned electrocution, before?" 

"You think the electricity killed it," Bruce realizes. "And then Superman forgot fourteen months?" 

"I'm not sure Superman ever experienced those fourteen months to begin with," the stranger says tightly, gripping their clipboard even harder. 

Clark was in no way whatsoever braced for this. 

"Fuck," Bruce says. 

More scans happen after all. A lot more scans, a lot of specialists, and a lot of arguing. Everything's a bit of a blur, in a sense. Clark absorbs very little of it, and mostly leaves things to Bruce unless he's asked a direct question about his medical history. His judgment might be compromised right now, after all, whether the . . . organism is dead or not. 

The emergency OR gets prepped. The red sun lamps get set up inside it. 

"Should we contact Lois?" Bruce asks as Clark's shrugging into an ill-fitting hospital gown and preparing himself to possibly die in pursuit of getting a dead who-knows-what out of his brain before it can start to rot there and potentially kill him that way. "Or your parents?" 

"No," Clark says. "Just get this damn thing out of my head." 

If he doesn't survive the removal process . . . 

They don't know what's been going on. What he let happen to himself, somehow.

He isn't going to tell them he's back just to immediately take himself away again. 

He records something for Jon, just in case. It's not enough, but it's–something, he tells himself. It's something. 

It's all he can bring himself to do. 

He leaves the disk with the recording on it with Bruce and asks him to have Dick deliver it, if it's necessary. 

Things proceed from there, and Clark wakes up again a week later in a private room in the med bay, connected to half a dozen machines and needles and tubes and directly facing the sun. Diana is dozing in the chair next to his bed. Bruce is pacing at the foot of it. They're both in costume. Clark feels weak and groggy, but he can hear half a dozen other heartbeats lingering in the hall, so presumably they were expecting him to wake up around now. 

"Mm," he says. Diana snaps awake. Bruce stops mid-step. 

They both look at him. 

"The operation was a success," Bruce informs him. "Textbook. Or as textbook as removing a mind-controlling parasite of unknown origins from a Kryptonian brain can get for mostly-human surgeons, anyway." 

"Do you need anything?" Diana asks. "Would you like us to call your family yet?" 

Clark shakes his head, then closes his eyes and sleeps for another week. 

"Sleep", he supposes, counts as something that he needs right now. 

The next time he wakes up, he's alone in his room and disconnected from the machines and just feels . . . normal, really. Like nothing was ever wrong at all and he didn't just have major surgery that was, essentially, the equivalent of multiple traumatic brain injuries. His hair is already starting to grow back from where it was buzzed down for the surgery, and there's not even any bandages on his head. 

There's no noticeable scarring, Clark observes when he makes it to the little ensuite bathroom to take a look in the mirror. The surgeons told him there probably wouldn't be, given both the methods they'd been intending to use and the nature of his own physiology, but seeing the total lack of proof of what happened to him is just . . . strange, somehow. 

It feels almost like a cheat. Like it should be obvious, in some way. 

There was a parasite in his head. Something controlling him. Pretending to be him. Passing for him. It could've done anything it wanted. 

It did do things that Clark still has no idea about. 

So many things. 

He couldn't even fight it. Wasn't conscious or aware enough to, or just not strong enough to, or just . . . 

He couldn't even fight it. 

And he doesn't know what it did. 

The door opens. Diana walks in. 

"Would you like us to call your family now?" she asks. 

"Yes," Clark says roughly, curling his fingers around the sides of the sink in front of him. "Please." 

"Of course," Diana says with a terrible and merciless gentleness. 

Clark sits down on the lid of the toilet and just . . . cries. Just for a minute. 

Or twenty. 

Diana kneels in front of him and holds his hands in her own. 

Fourteen months, Clark thinks, all twisted up with grief and pain and so, so much regret. He missed so much. He wasn't there for Jon or Lois or his parents. He wasn't there for Bruce or Diana or the League, for either of Kara, for . . . 

For Kon. He wasn't there for Kon. 

Wasn't there for Kon when the kid needed him. 

Kon completely vanished, and who knows if the damn parasite even pretended to help look for him? If it did anything at all for him? Who knows if Clark could've found him, could've saved him, if he'd still been himself at the time? 

. . . who knows if the parasite isn't what made Kon disappear to begin with? 

It took fourteen months of Clark's life, and Kon . . . Kon disappeared two weeks into those fourteen months. 

If nothing else, the timing is a screaming red flag. 

Clark abandoned his son and might've murdered a kid who only ever looked up to him, a kid who he was never really able to fully understand but literally named, and he can't do anything to bring Kon back or to make up for the year that he wasn't there for the rest of his family. 

Their family. 

God, what has he done? What has Clark done, and did Kon die feeling afraid or shocked or terrified? Did he die feeling betrayed? Did he think it was Clark doing it, however it happened? 

Did he die thinking Clark wanted him to die? 

Clark doesn't even know what happened to his body. 

There won't be another resurrection.  

Clark chokes. Diana squeezes his hands. He grips hers like a lifeline and shudders through it. The grief is a terrible, ugly thing. It's one of the worst things Clark's ever felt. 

The guilt is worse. 

"Lois," he murmurs finally, feeling like the weakest man alive. "Could you call . . . Lois, please, and just . . . ask if she'll come. I'll explain it all to her, just–could you call her, please." 

"Yes," Diana says, squeezing his hands again. "Of course." 

"Thank you," Clark says. 

He pulls himself together, more or less, and Diana goes to make the call. She comes back a few minutes later and tells him Lois agreed, but needs to find a babysitter first. Clark in no way blames her for not bringing Jon along and frankly is surprised she's willing to come at all. 

He's not sure what he could even say to Jon right now. 

What can he? 

Diana makes sure he eats something, then leaves for monitor duty. Clark tries not to overthink things. Tries not to think too much at all. 

He spent fourteen months not thinking at all, though, all of it lost in one oblivious blink, so that doesn't work out all that well for him. 

An hour later, he hears the Zeta platform activate on the opposite side of the base, and hears Lois's heartbeat appear inside the watchtower. 

Clark exhales, very slowly. 

He waits. 

Lois comes to the med bay. She doesn't stop to talk to anyone on the way. Doesn't talk to anyone except that stranger Clark still doesn't actually know the name of, who tells her where to find him. 

And then a minute or a millennium later she's standing in the open doorway of his room, and Clark is looking at her. Her expression is neutral, and her hair is shorter than it was the last time he remembers seeing her–the last time he was the one actually seeing her. An inverse bob, not shoulder-length anymore. He recognizes the blazer and heels that she's wearing, but not the blouse or the pants. Not the earrings or the necklace, either. 

And there's no wedding ring to recognize either way. 

Clark wonders what happened to his. 

God, but she's still the most amazing woman he's ever seen, and he's still never once deserved a single part of her. Not even a fraction of a part. 

Especially not now. 

"Kal," she greets, tone just as neutral as her expression, and Clark aches. 

"Clark," he says, just a little too abrupt, and Lois–pauses. 

"Clark," she amends casually as she tucks her hands into the pockets of her blazer, and if he didn't know her quite so well he wouldn't have even heard the crack in her voice around his name, super-hearing or not. "Never seen your hair this short. I kinda miss the curl, not gonna lie. It has charm, you know? Very boy scout next door." 

"I had emergency brain surgery," Clark says. Lois pauses again. Tilts her head. He keeps talking. "Two weeks ago, now. Just woke up again fully today." 

"What?" she says, just staring at him. "You–what happened?" 

"It's . . . unclear, still," Clark replies slowly. "But as far as we can tell, roughly fourteen months back an unidentified alien parasite moved into my brain and . . . took me over, essentially. I don't actually–I don't remember any of that time. At all. Then two weeks ago I got electrocuted in Keystone and the parasite died. The surgery was to remove its body so my brain could heal from the damage it did without it rotting in there." 

Lois keeps staring at him. 

"Fourteen months," she echoes very, very carefully. 

"I'm so sorry," Clark says tightly. "Bruce told me I left you. Left you and Jon. That I stopped being . . . myself. I can't imagine how difficult that was, or how it must've felt." 

"I can't imagine how waking up and hearing that none of us even noticed you were gone felt," Lois says. 

"You never do pull a punch, do you," Clark says with a weak attempt at a smile. 

"I'm sorry," Lois says evenly. "I should've known." 

"No one did," Clark says, then . . . hesitates. "Or . . . we think no one did." 

"You think that's what happened to Kon," Lois says, because of course she's already done the math, and of course she's already had the thought herself. Obviously she would've. 

"The timing is . . . likely, at least," Clark says. "And really, if anyone was going to see my face and notice that a different person was wearing it . . ."

"You have a point," Lois murmurs. She steps into the room. Clark wants to hold her. He also wants to bury himself in the coldest, darkest place that he can find and never, ever let himself see the sun again. 

He doesn't deserve it anymore. 

"I'm so angry that I want to cry," Lois says, her voice very distant and her eyes locked on his. Clark can see her hands fisting in her pockets. "I'm so . . . god. I should've known. You never would've left Jon. Not like that." 

"Bruce made it sound like the parasite was . . . very convincing," Clark says. It convinced Bruce, who may just be the most paranoid mind on the planet, so . . .

"It was," Lois agrees, still without taking her eyes off his. "But I still should've known." 

Clark blinks a little too quickly. Lois tightens her jaw. Takes her hands out of her pockets and leaves them at her sides instead. Clark never thought he'd see them without her wedding ring again. 

"It's been–months, I know," he says, hating himself for thinking he even deserves to say this. "For you. But I still . . ." 

"I love you," Lois says. "Come home." 

There is no possible world in which he could tell her "no". 

Med bay makes him wait for another two hours of observation and runs some scans, but then they let him go. Lois waits with him the whole time. She doesn't call anyone or send any texts. Doesn't leave the room. Barely says a word. Hardly even takes her eyes off him, like she thinks if she blinks he's going to disappear. 

Clark can hardly keep her heartbeat out of his ears, so he doesn't blame her. 

He doesn't blame her at all. 

They go to Smallville. Bruce had said he'd send Dick to pick up Jon from the babysitter's and get him to the farm, and as much as Clark had wanted to go straight to him himself . . . 

Ma and Pa first, he reminds himself. This is going to be upsetting for Jon–most likely traumatic, once it all sinks in. And definitely disorienting. It'll be best if as many of the adults in his life as possible know what's going on in advance, so he can go to whoever he needs to go to; get whatever comfort they can prepare themselves to offer. 

Clark doesn't know how to do this. 

He doesn't . . . 

They don't take two steps onto the farm before a familiar blur is crashing into him head-on. 

"Oh," Clark manages, and Krypto barks excitedly and flies up to lick his face, tail wagging wildly as he jumps all over him. Like he's missed him. Like he's been waiting for him. 

Clark nearly cries again.

"Good boy, Krypto," he tells him, quiet and rough. "I missed you too, boy." 

He scratches Krypto's ears. Strokes his back. Krypto nearly bowls him over in delight. 

Clark buries his face in his neck and cries a bit after all. 

Lois watches. 

Waits. 

Clark spends . . . maybe a little bit too long crying on his dog, and then they all head up to the house. Ma and Pa are both standing on the porch; presumably they heard Krypto barking. They both look a little bit startled and a little bit confused and a lot more pained at the sight of him, and Clark swallows painfully and stops just before the porch steps. 

He looks at them, and he loves them so desperately. Everything they ever did for him, and everything they've ever been to him, and . . . 

"I'm sorry," he says. "I just . . . there was . . ."

God, the way this hurts. 

"It was mind control," he says. "The past fourteen months or so. I was . . . I wasn't. Wasn't here. Or . . . anywhere." 

"Oh," Ma says, and her eyes are instantly wet with tears. Pa blinks very quickly, his hand curling against the porch railing. 

"I'm so, so sorry," Clark repeats tightly, his own hands in useless fists. "But I'm–back now. I'm home." 

"Oh, Clark," Ma chokes, and then they both throw themselves at him. Clark's been hugged by people with strength far past superhuman, but it's never felt . . . 

No. It's never once felt the same way as when his parents do it. 

They cling to him. He clings back. Krypto barks again and swoops around the knot of them, wagging his tail hard enough to nearly knock Lois over with the force of wind it stirs up. Definitely some of the porch furniture gets displaced. 

Clark feels so much. 

They sit together on the porch, Krypto sprawled contentedly across Clark's lap and Lois on the steps beside him. Clark gives Ma and Pa what explanation he can–tells them everything he knows about Keystone and the electrocution and the watchtower and the surgery and waking up. They watch him just as intently as Lois does the entire time. 

He doesn't . . . he doesn't mention his suspicions about what might've happened to Kon. Not . . . not yet. 

He doesn't know how to. Not to Ma and Pa. Not after he brought the kid here and left him on their doorstep with no real direction and . . . 

Just–he'll tell them. He'll tell them soon. 

Just . . . not yet. 

It's not a very long talk, in the end. Ma and Pa take in everything he says and just take it all in stride, just like they always have. Baby in a spaceship? Kid with superpowers? Son who thinks he can save the whole damn world? 

Of course they take it in stride. 

Clark loves them too much to even define. Too much to even wrap his own head around. They're the best people he knows. The best people he's ever known. 

They don't even think there's anything for him to be sorry for. 

It's . . . painful, a little, when Clark realizes that. 

Or a lot. 

So, so damn painful. 

Clark hears the definitely-not-a-Batmobile coming, far down the road. Three heartbeats inside it. Dick, Damian, and . . . 

Jon. 

Obviously. 

Clark strokes Krypto's ears one last time, then gets up. No one asks him why, but he supposes the look on his face must be answer enough right now. 

He steps off the porch and goes to wait by the driveway. 

It's not that long a wait, but it feels like the better part of eternity.

[ceruleansol]

Just found there’s little to no written content for Suzume here, so I started another wip on a whim. This’ll probably be a mix of romance and angst.

a Souta x reader (snippet)

Plz rb if you enjoyed !

--

Eyes open, the air around you still feels ethereal.

It's gotten worse, your ability to tell the difference between your dreams and the waking world. The worst part of it is your keystone; the one thing keeping you tethered and grounded is missing.

Staring at the familiar ceiling not a couple feet above you, you reach out and touch it. The coolness of the surface tingles through your fingers. It sure feels real.

The sheets and blankets that cover you keep you wrapped in warmth as they do most mornings.

You release a sigh. Time to bite the bullet.

Reluctance and anticipation overwhelm your heart, but you bring yourself to turn your head to look past the edge of the elevated bed and over the rest of the rented flat.

There's no one.

“(Name)...”

There's no one... 

“(Name)...”

He left...? 

“(Name).”

Your eyes open, a sharp intake of air expanding your lungs. Blue eyes and a tousle of dark hair immediately greet you. His face is worried.

A pad from his finger swipes gently at your cheek, taking a tear you hadn't noticed away with it.

“Hey...” his voice is soft but laced with concern. You realize most of his body is on top of yours, providing a comforting weight. "Happy sunrise. You were in a deep sleep again. You okay..?"

“Souta?”

He smiles at that. “I'm here.”

[hanafubuxi]

did we look like lovers or partners in crime?

welcome to her lady's favourite records, delivered to you by me, daijin! these are collected records from her keystones that she favours. she told me to pass on the following message: minors dni with green coded works & abide by each individual keystones' blog rules!

𐐪𐑂 heia : @heiayen : works found under the tag #heia's writin' ♡

gently wipe the sorrows off my life, i dream : scaramouche x gn!reader

in danger, sinking deeper in your arms : neuvillette x gn!reader

to think that we could stay the same : lumine x gn!reader

so, when i die, which i must do : neuvillette x gn!reader

𐐪𐑂 oak : @rinneverse : masterlist ♡

wolf in sheep's clothing : jing yuan x f!reader

bad idea : itadori yuuji x f!reader

cherry flavoured : diluc x f!reader

wrapped around her finger : aventurine x f!reader

𐐪𐑂 jay : @mitsvriii : masterlist ♡

starving : aventurine x gn!reader

five things : aventurine x gn!reader

puppet strings : scaramouche x gn!reader

attraction : obanai iguro x gn!reader x giyuu tomioka

𐐪𐑂 coco : @hwaitham : masterlist ♡

principles of love : alhaitham x f!reader

fondant baby doll : wriothesley x f!reader

whimsies & oddities : alhaitham x gn!reader

tangerines for two : yingxing x f!reader

𐐪𐑂 zenith : @lovingluxury : masterlist ♡

sleep tight : dan heng x gn!reader

when the thunder strikes : wriothesley x gn!reader

on metal benches : albedo x gn!reader

nom : multi blue lock x gn!reader

𐐪𐑂 aly : @soleillunne : masterlist ♡

hold my hand, please, one last time : multi genshin x gn!reader

stars : multi genshin x gn!reader

may sparks fly : lyney x gn!reader

snowed in : albedo x gn!reader

𐐪𐑂 avery : @stellar-skyy : masterlist ♡

dance with me? : aventurine x gn!reader

i just despise you : heizou x gn!reader

dancing in the moonlight : nilou x gn!reader

a silence so loud : heizou x gn!reader

𐐪𐑂 gray : @mydiluc : masterlist ♡

lingerie : kaveh x f!reader

cravings : multi genshin x f!reader

you, me, we : diluc x f!reader

stuck! : diluc x f!reader x wriothesley

𐐪𐑂 ying : @xianyoon : masterlist ♡

slow & steady : wriothesley x gn!reader

mighty ocean or a gentle kiss : wriothesley x gn!reader

my great, lost love : childe x gn!reader

kissproof : alhaitham x gn!reader

𐐪𐑂 xixi : @cubffections : masterlist ♡

all mine : sunday x f!reader

stress reliever : isagi yoichi x f!reader

outside : cyno x f!reader

given-taken : childe x f!reader

𐐪𐑂 manu : @chaldeanu : masterlist ♡

dawn : diluc x gn!reader

spectacle : neuvillette x f!reader x furina

applying cream on cracked lips : wriothesley x gn!reader

laundry room : sunday x f!reader

𐐪𐑂 yukari : @ryuryuryuyurboat : masterlist ♡

the most beautiful time of year : albedo x gn!reader

nice 'tea' meet you : cyno x gn!reader

last kiss : wanderer x gn!reader

the way he loves : wriothesley x gn!reader

𐐪𐑂 kai : @yngxing : masterlist ♡

a new feeling : blade x f!reader

the best relief : yingxing x f!reader

daylight : ayato x f!reader

blessed : aventurine x gn!reader

her lady would like to add that, if you find yourself to be missing - it is merely because at the time of collaborating this post, your pinned/masterlists had been wip so she hasn't been able to gather her favourite works on your blog as of right now. you will be added in due time. new mutuals will be added as they are made! these are also in no particular order!

"how do i say this? listen suzume... one day you'll grow up, okay? don't be scared, the future is not that scary. you’ll meet many people whom you will cherish and many people who will cherish you back. it might be tough moving forward but at the end of a seemingly endless dark night, there will be morning. you will grow up basking in that light. i'm sure of it. it's written in the stars."

did you look like mine?

[casuallyferal]

It's been announced that Elon is reflecting on making X membership exclusive, ie where you pay to have an X membership.

With the upcoming death of X, I find myself having meta thoughts about my fandoms, the art community, and where they intersect; and, how much those things radically-and-completely changed after the death of Tumblr -- and still haven't recovered.

(this does relate to Cross!Sans' recent win I prommy just give me a minute)

...

To start off with an example:

Some folks still remember the mass death of Tumblr.

It's hard to describe it to people who didn't see it.

There were actual casualties. Y'all remember that, too? The deaths?

Most of them were because for many people, their ~5-10 years of portfolio disappeared overnight with no recovery. Even for folks who had backups, the little things that mattered most, like reblog-chains, had been compromised. I remember reading a vent post that stuck w/ me of a college applicant sobbing because their blog was going to be their portfolio to apply, and the needed morning, it was gone. They lived through an abusive home and lost their out. They stopped posting after that.

There are keystone works that now only exist in our minds.

Cornerstones of both fandom and people's real lives were erased by a mega corp afraid of organic Human sensuality, the artist's familiar muse. A kiss, a shirtless photo, a man lounging in the sun, didn't matter. Gone with no explanatory messages. Everything was very unstable about the rules for a disturbingly long time with ghost-edits to the sitewide rules, and vague lettering. If you posted a single dangly bit, you're out. If you posted male or female nypples at any point, you're out. The rules now aren't the rules that were for a little while, long enough to carve up careers and sink fandoms.

As a case study:

Try to understand that if you're a new arrival into an old fandom from the Before Times, like say Undertale,

... you arrived into a fandom carved into quarters.

Everything we cared about and definitive blogs & art pieces vanished. I was temporarily surprised that Cross!Sans won the AU contest instead of the longtime fandom favorites like G!Sans.

For years, he was our fandom mascot.

I had a harrowing realization and began doomscrolling to confirm that nobody can find 👌the showstopping sensuality 👌😩 of G!Sans. It's gone.

G-o-n-e gone, can't find it anywhere, like that mfker into his smoke.

Our fandom values and cultural pillars that we built ourselves were deleted off-site by some Suits.

Everything the young people inherited was bleached-out and fucking sanitized by a corporation. We had no choice but to tolerate that, even as self aware as we were about it.

...this cultural-drift was not because of natural evolution, but because we weren't sterile enough to "make the cut;" and now, it's definitive with a clear before/after gap.

...

I'm of the opinion that the online art community has never really recovered from these repeat events.

It's never been the same:

I see a lot less WIPs unless it's teasing a piece.

I see less reckless abbandon in artwork. There's less scribbles.

There's less breath on the canvas.

People tightened their shit up into hyper polished presentation-pieces.

There's less shitposting in general. People used to post doodles and silly faces and polished pieces were in between.

I think this new media relationship comes from a place of collective hurt. I think many of us realized all society gives a fuck about is money money money money for something that for many of us is a necessary biproduct of being alive. The people who couldn't handle that never came back. They Told Us So when they left, and coincidentally, never came back -- or came back different.

❕ (brief cw cp)

As necessary aside, I'm not lumping in the CP -- it's that every platform has CP, and addressing CP head-on on a platform like Tumblr also meant having regulations that corporate with legal, consensual sensuality, and that's not feasible without endorsing that exists... AND, is deeply influential to many artists. Tumblr wasn't willing to do that.

Tumblr wasn't willing to accept ads from orgs that are okay with that, either.

❕ (cw over)

I feel like this keeps happening... Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter/X... because it comes from a cultural climate of fear towards the veritable Human qualities, some raw, beastial, or even vestigial, of which is the Creative's foundational wellspring. What inspires is often transgressive, and there's no room for such things on a corporate level due to the sterile inhumanity of present day economics. If it's not palettable enough that it can be sold to stockholders with polished floors and dry-cleaned suits, we're a weed between the concrete.

Get too tall and we're seen as a disordered presentation of society instead of just... just, Human. Raw, beastial, vestigially Human.

...

At the end of the day,

our inherently-self-expressive Human potential keeps getting butchered alive by fear of sex & sensuality and love, and the bitter taste of culturally dominant hatespeech; to really spit on the situation, the biggest driver behind both of those is economic. There's a desire knit into the social fabric to squeeeeeeze every fkn penny possible out of an inherently involuntary part of the Creative's experience.

For many, creating freely is a necessary part of a Creative's self-regulation, regardless of whether it's just a hobby or a career path. Creatives create things. We have to or we wilt. It is counter-intuitive to the nature of Wall Street, as it stands, and so it will never favor us -- let alone begin to understand that, without overhaul.

For me, painting is like breathing, I have to do it or I become ill.

...

...It's like... they bottled our air.

Dammed our wellsprings and sell our own work back to us in plastic jugs. Elusive, ominous "they," vague because it's a lottery for whoever plays "them" next; executioner with hanging-rope in hand to strange the creative experience.

There's nothing sacred left when it's all about making money.

...so, where's next?

(: Might as well grit our teeth about it and stay organized. Mastodon, I think? Dreamwidth also? Misskey? Where have you heard? Where do I go, now?

I miss the reblog-artfights and having Tumblr friends before it was deleted by a suit, and I don't want to lose that.

[ansixilus]

RULES: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

Tagged by @peyurtle thank ye kindly. I benefit here from a habit for poetical naming, though I have to pull from several sources since my organization is as scattered as my muse's time-share schedule.

Black Wings in Twilight

Topsy Turvy, Purple and Red

Dancing on Cracking Glass

Not What We Seem

Waxing Moon

Summoned, Newmade

Dragon Below, Horizon Eyes

Semiautomagic

Lines in the Fog

The God Machine

Raythe Wormwood

Unity

Xenophon's Song

My Beloved Desert

A Touch of the Beyond

We're Monsters, Not Monstrous

The Monarchs

Keystone Research

Wolf

Raindrop on a Bending Leaf

Glass Masks

System Ghost

My Roommate, the Unspeakable Horror

Who Cares if I was Raised by a Wolf

Overthrow the Reign of Madness

Never Dead Which Eternal Burns

Stitching Together Fates and Shadows

And these ones don't exactly have WIPs, but they're rattling about in my head no less

The End of Wars

Thumb Bone Doorways

A Second Chance at Happiness

I'm A Magic Man

Okay, you made me trawl through my WIP folder and dig up stories long forgotten, fair enough. No, they aren't in much of any order, so the developed ones I'm actually working on are scattered in amongst the old snippets.

I'm pretty sure I don't know enough other writers, nor writer-adjacent folk, let alone as mutuals, but I'll try:

@asexualmonsterfucker Dearest friend, woe be upon thee

@humormehorny I think you're writer-adjacent???

@ernmark I think that's your writer aspect?

@yourozness you're in fandom, close enough

@lynnestra44 Finally, an unambiguous person I sort of know who writes things!

@mageofeternity I think I know who you are under there

@wizardlyghost wait, no, you're, but, who? I? Wha?

@nagia-pronounced-neijia HOW DID I NOT KNOW BEFORE NOW YOU'RE A FANDOM WRITER?

@cinturon-cadena

@thebutterflyoficeandwisteria

@esgiel if you're who I think you are... and if not oh well

@iron-mage

@imsorrywhatsalifeagain I think you do stuff???

@stormfalcon2018 cheap shot, ayyyy!

@hihogandalfaway

@ageblue You're in my notes and therefore my field of fire, have fun!

@kingofthesafetypins do you do things? I don't remember

Okay I'm running out of time this will have to do okay I love you byebye!

[bittercape]

I was tagged by @mightymightygnomepriest, thank you lovely

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

204 posted works under 2 pseuds

2. What is your AO3 wordcount?

484,365 as of 2/6/24.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Mostly DC and Marvel now, but I'll dip into others from time to time

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Kiss and Tell (DC, M, wc 1,845) Paradise At My Fingertips (DC, T, wc 1,559) a bird on the edge of a blade (DC, T, wc 1,261) The Unbearable Lightness of Bedding (DC, T, wc 2,045) raps at my window, waits at the gate (DC, E, wc 2,865)

5. Do you respond to comments?

I want to, and I try to, but it's difficult when I fall behind. I cherish every comment like the treasures they are, but it's sometimes very difficult to respond.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I don't really do angst, and at least not angsty endings. The closest I get is Once More Into the Fray or The Road to Tartarus, both RQG fics and both ending with MCD. Somehow they're still not angsty.

7. What is the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Most of my endings are happy, or at least funny. I think maybe What Spring Does With the Cherry Trees?

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Very rarely

9. Do you write smut? If so, which kind?

So much. Mostly M/M, but I occasionally do femslash, and sometimes omegaverse. I am far too willing to answer any challenge (or percieved challenge) that comes my way, so I have written a lot of different kinks, some of which were a struggle.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest crossover you’ve ever written?

Yes! I love crossovers and write a lot of DC/Marvel, which is not crazy at all. I'm quite happy with the DC/Discworld fic I wrote, though.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of, but there are some fics similar enough to mine that I have gotten anon messages about it.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I know of

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes! Baguettes At Dawn with @mightymightygnomepriest, and The Care And Feeding Of Tjelvar Stornsnasson, Or, What I Did Last Summer, by Edward Keystone, aged 27 with @ex-libris-craux a couple of years ago

14. What’s your all-time favourite ship?

So many. So, so many. Like many others, I shipped Gigolas before I knew what shipping was, and I don't think I'll ever stop shipping 00Q and Arthur/Eames. Current favourite is Jason/Slade, but I'm willing to ship Jason with almos anyone. Sailing up as a new fave is Jason/Frank Castle. And of course Winterhawk, which truly has some of the best writers out there.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Avignon, which I struggle with because of JKR. It's been ten years, so if I don't manage to pick it up this year, it's probably officially abandoned.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I've been told I'm good at beginnings, and I like to set the scene with a bang -- which is a necessity when mainly writing shorter fics like I do. I've also been told my dialogue is good.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I like writing long paragraphs, which is not universally appreciated. I'm trying to find a balance. I struggle a lot with writing longer fics, and I think it's unlikely I'll aim for anything longer than 20k again, at least when I'm writing on my own.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I've done it a couple of times, mostly single sentences in Russian for Nat or Bucky. As a reader, I enjoy it a lot.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Harry Potter

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

What Spring Does With the Cherry Trees is probably the one where I made the most effort and I think it shows. How To Get Ahead In Gotham was probably one of the most fun to write. But I think my actual favourite is Seven Days in June, which is a tiny little found documents-style thing and possibly the most me thing I've ever written.

No-pressure tagging: @ex-libris-craux @there-must-be-a-lock @drgrlfriend @katzynia @daisyapples

[themelongum]

meeting eren in a classroom after he'd annoyed the shit out of reader

haven't posted about my wip here in a while, so here are some Eren crumbs for you <3

multi-chaptered rating: explicit main pairings: eren/reader; jean/reader AU: college; band

Monday came in a flash. With everything happening, I nearly forgot why I got here in the first place, but the early morning class in my schedule was a harsh reminder. Since none of my roommates were as lucky as me, I quietly got ready, breakfasted alone, and left the apartment with a lingering feeling of jealousy.

The road to the campus was only a twenty-minute walk, according to the GPS, so I opted to go by foot instead of waiting for a bus. Despite the early hour, the sun was already warming my skin enough for me to take the sunglasses out of my tote bag. Putting them on, I smiled to myself, feeling good in my first day outfit—an oversized milky sweatshirt, a dark-brown miniskirt, and a pair of loafers in a matching color—academia enough, but not too formal.

As a tall, Gothic-style tower with a spire came into my view, it wasn’t long before I stepped foot onto a green, extensive lawn, intersected by an organized layout of concrete paths. Besides the main building, there were two other structures. The one on the left had the very same spire I saw from afar, while the right one had a circular shape with a glass dome.

But the keystone of the campus was definitely a circular rotunda with two long wings. Made from limestone and brick, it had multiple columns and pointed arches with ornate carvings and reliefs adorning its walls. The only thing capable of stealing attention from the centerpiece was a large reflecting pool in front of it.

Before, I had only seen the pictures, but the University of Trost was much more impressive in person, especially at that time of the year, when the stone walls were drowned in greenery.

Walking through a grand hall, I mumbled under my nose, “Classroom 139… 139… Is it the right way?” Due to the early hour, my navigation was significantly complicated as I had not encountered anyone to ask for directions.

Finally getting to the room, I found myself the first one to arrive. I took a seat in the second row, at the table nearest to the window, so I could space out, observing the outside. Scrolling on my phone, I would lift my gaze every time someone walked in, but none of the faces looked familiar. Until one did.

With a backpack on his shoulder and his hands in the front pocket of his dark-gray hoodie, Eren carelessly walked to place himself at the table in the second row, one away from mine. I only noticed his sullen expression for a second, for I quickly averted my gaze from his figure. Or was it his tired face? Anyway, the only thing bothering me was the fact that, out of all people, he had to be in this class.

As time came closer to the start of the seminar, more and more people flooded the classroom. Soon, all the tables were taken except for the seat next to me and the one next to Eren. Just as I thought nobody else would come, a red-haired guy entered, making his way towards a table in the second row. Luckily, not mine.

Noticing the guy, Eren got up, and it looked like he was about to turn away before the former called him out. As they greeted each other, I heard the guy asking whether he could take the empty seat, and Eren gave the nod, mumbling something else. Only he didn’t sit back at his table, but instead came to plop right next to me.

“It’s taken,” I said without looking at him.

“By who?” He snapped his head in my direction.

“Not by you.”

“I’d say otherwise.”

Not finding the right words, I huffed and looked even further away from him. It was true; my only acquaintances were his own friends. Clearly my disadvantage.

It all went quiet when the door shut with a loud, echoing sound. A short, black-haired man, presumably in his thirties, walked into the classroom. Standing behind the lectern, he looked around the room with his piercing eyes, and I instantaneously realized it was better to pay attention, or else I would be screwed.

🌾 read the whole thing here or here

[zeroducks-2]

I received a ko-fi, which means that y'all get a snippet, a WIP or a sketch :)

Thank you so much Daniel! I was not sure what to share, and eventually I decided for something which won't likely ever see the light. It's a snippet of my Omegaverse Royal AU, but it's dedicated to Dick and Wally in particular (Wally is Laird of House West in Keystone, and Dick is Captain of the Royal Guard in Gotham) and it doesn't really fit anywhere but in a spin-off which I might or might not ever publish.

(TW: pregnancy, polyamorous pack)

Hail and wind howl outside but the nestroom stays warm. Pots filled with burning coals make the bedding materials comfortable, but still Wally won’t sleep, knuckles tracing from the top of his mate’s shoulder to where her arm wraps around Dick’s side, wishing he could keep both like that, right there in his nest, instead of constantly having to let one of them go. 

«Stop fretting.» Dick murmurs, his steady purr quieting. «You’ll wake her. She needs rest.»

«I thought you were sleeping too.» Wally admits, his hand reaching to cup his old friend’s cheek. «Let me fret. Night’s the only time when I can.»

Linda moves slightly against him, makes a soft sound in her sleep, and Dick sends him an eloquent look before resuming to purr, nuzzling her cheek and caressing the small swell of her belly. Wally feels guilty for almost an entire minute before he can bring himself to rumble, shifting so he can hold both of them as close as possible. 

«She’ll be alright.» The older Omega murmurs once Linda settles again. The fact that she managed to sleep for more than an hour is a lot already; in the past month she’s been in near constant discomfort, she bleeds way too often, and Wally is losing hope that she will manage carrying her pregnancy to term. «Wal, you’re fretting again. She’ll be alright. She’s strong, you know she is.»

«I know.» Wally frowns, dipping his nose into her dark hair to breathe in her pregnant scent. He immediately picks up the usual bitter notes and he hates them, he misses the way she smelled like a honeycomb in the first few weeks, the way she was glowing and always humming to herself and the pups growing in her. «I’m glad you’re here, Dick. I’m glad you came. I… I wish I could dedicate myself to her more, to my pups.» He also wishes his aunt to be back already, but he needs to rule over Keystone while she’s on her diplomatic endeavors. He can’t forsake their people, even if his mate needs him more than anyone else at the moment. 

«What did your uncle say?» Dick asks, his warm hand closing on Wally’s upper arm, thumb pressing to soothe the tense bend of his muscles. «I know, he’s a healer and not a midwife,» he adds, and Wally’s mouth clicks shut as he was about to say the exact same thing. Dick quietly snorts and flicks on his shoulder. «but he’s also an Omega and has successfully carried two pups himself. He has some degree of experience.»

«He says Linda is young, and that it’s frequent for a primigravida to lose her first pup. That it’s…» He stops, his chest tight. «Will you stay?» He asks all of a sudden, looking up and directly at Dick. «I know you need to get back to Gotham, you have your duties, I know. But just for… for a few days more.»

«I’ll stay.» Dick gets closer, touches their foreheads together and Wally breathes out what air he was holding. «I’ll stay as long as you and Linda need me.»

[thepixelelf]

Hi! I've really been enjoying oby and I'd like to ask a question about it if that's ok? As I was reading, I thought about the amount of planning that must go into it. How do you go about planning a long series like that or any fic in general? Do you sit down and plan them or is it more of a you start off with an idea and it develops as it goes? I'm curious because I know whenever I'm doing art, I'll maybe have the vaguest sketch but then the final piece is completely different ahaha. I enjoy learning how other people think, sorry about the random question haha

I love this question!

Fun fact, the initial idea for Oh Baby, You came to me while I was in Taiwan in May/June 2022, about 11 months before the masterlist was finally posted! At the time, I was stuck in a govt mandated covid hotel with my mom for 10 days and unemployed (the best combination for fic ideas to brew). I made all the fake twt profiles in that hotel room, drafted a basic plot summary (like the one on the masterlist), and then let the wip sit for many months.

I was actually pretty scared to try and tackle something like oby-- it's got relatively heavy themes for something like an smau, and I don't exactly have a great record with completing series, but the level of support and love oby has received really helped!! I feel so lucky to have you awesome readers 💕

As for my planning process, it's actually quite simple! I basically start out with keystone moments-- sometimes I write them down, but sometimes I just keep them in mind. For instance, the oby list (in my mind, not in writing) looked a little something like this:

You took Mingyu's scandal baby, resulting in Jihoon misunderstanding the situation and making Wonwoo cut you out of his life

3 years later, Wonwoo moves back and into the apartment across the hall on the same day as Orion's bday party

CEO Cheol sees you at Mingyu's house and starts to suspect you and Mingyu are Orion's parents

Cheol starts going on "dates" with you, and you feel happy and liked in a romantic sense for the first time in years

Confrontation at the concert where everything comes to light

(more but I'm not spoiling <3)

You can probably tell, but I didn't exactly stick to this plan!! While I do have keystone moments in mind, I usually let my character's lead the way. However I think they'd react to a situation, I let them, even if it messes my timeline up a little. Sometimes this leads to things taking a lot longer than I expect, and sometimes actually makes readers hate characters that I think are justified (to an extent) lol

Anyways, I basically write every chapter the night before, always with the next keystone moment in mind, and the overall plot too.

I don't know if you've ever read or plan to read my tbz smau Hood, but that ended up being 100+ parts, and took over a year for me to write (with a couple breaks). Still, I always knew how it was going to end, I just needed to guide my characters there!

I do kind of the same thing with long written fics, just without the whole one chapter per week thing

I hope this answered your curiosities :] feel free to ask me any other questions 💕

[maxfaiden]

WIP... or not. I really only worked on the interior because I had to figure out where I wanted the windows to go. and I only needed to know that so the exterior could look finished from any angle. and I only needed that so the neighborhood would look complete as shown in the first pic. but I got a little carried away. it's a 4-unit, 1-bedroom complex. each unit is a 2-storey with a partially enclosed balcony and designated parking. I might put someone there eventually, but right now, it's just atmosphere.

[koushuwu]

i have not been tagged in this but i wanted to do it so i’mma do it and start my own chain. (not all have names yet so i used my work titles.)

Rules: make a 24-hr poll with the names of your WIPs and then for whichever wins, write one sentence for each vote it gets

tagging: @prettyiwa @tyga-lily @auslanderka @no1frogfan @poursomesunaonme @ushiwhacka @darlingheichou @superbattrash

[suzukiblu]

Winner of the other day's mystery poll: have the start of a new WIP wherein YJ animated Clark wakes up alive.

Clark wakes up alive. 

Well. That's a surprise. 

He sits up. He's in the Watchtower med bay, and it doesn't look right. 

More accurately, it looks exactly like it looked after he woke up from the fight with Parasite in Keystone on April 17th at 2:08 PM EST. 

In 2010. 

The eidetic memory is a lot more useful than people tend to give it credit for. Certainly applicable in a lot more situations, if nothing else. 

Clark looks at himself in the reflection on the scanner he's hooked up to. He looks exactly the same as he's looked since turning thirty, but his costume is from 2010, when he was still young enough not to have realized that “thirty” was as old as he was going to look for quite a while, and his hair is half an inch longer than it was the last time he remembers looking at it. 

And again, eidetic memory. 

For example, he remembers dying with perfect clarity. Such, such perfect clarity. 

It's honestly less upsetting than all the deaths he remembers seeing, though. 

Which reminds him . . . it's 2:10 PM EST on April 17th in 2010 and he's just woken up in the Watchtower medbay, so . . . 

Yes. 

Bruce walks in. Clark heard him coming, of course, because even Bruce can't perfectly silence all the little sounds of a living body, but he's currently a bit distracted with trying to figure out if this is a time travel scenario or a death hallucination or the afterlife outright. It seems like a strange afterlife, considering, but he's not ruling it out. 

He remembers dying with perfect clarity, after all. 

“Took you long enough,” Bruce says dryly, exactly the same way he said it last time. Last time, Clark laughed, and then Bruce debriefed him on what had happened after Parasite got his hands on him. This time . . . 

“I have to go,” Clark says, pulling off the scanner’s sensors. Bruce frowns, but it’s April 17th, 2010 and Clark can’t explain. Not yet. Bruce will have questions, if he explains, and he can’t sit through all that Bat-paranoia. Not right now. 

Whether he's dead or alive, it’s still April 17th, 2010, and Conner is four weeks old right now.

Bruce opens his mouth and starts to say something, but Clark’s already gone.

[igotsnothing]

(I was tagged a while ago by @simstrashkingdom, but haven't had much time to play. Thanks for the tag and sorry it took me so long to do this!)

Share a random line of text from your current WIP or a line or two of dialogue from one of your characters. Do not give any explanation or context, and see what your followers think. Then, tag a few friends to keep the randomness going!

(I think this is really easy to guess if you know my simblr...)

"I can teach you some basics. Would you like to do that?"

"Yes. I greatly approve of this plan. We must convene every evening for several hours for my edification."

"You get two Tuesdays."

"Fine."

I am tagging some storytellers who are writing and plotting away and I am really looking forward to what they are up to! @greighish, always on heavy rotation chez Nothing, can you spritz a little eau de Keystone my way? And @damseljamsel, hit me with some aliens and werewolf strippers! And @akitasimblr, mother of dragons Harpers and Le Chat and the excellent Dreadful Nat bachelorette challenge (go Alexander, my boy!). And @stargazer-sims ,who mentioned recently that she has been enjoying writing stories again! This is me unabashedly fishing for spoilers! Here, fishie, fishie!

(Disclaimer: one item per customer, no purchase necessary- feel free to ignore. This is optional and everyone is invited to participate whether or not I tagged you because I love reading all the fics and stories but am oddly shy to reach out sometimes. BEEP BOOP!)

[fezwearingjellybananas]

Wally Fic

Realistically I need to decide if I'm scrapping the Wally Fic or if I ever plan on going back to it because it's been a WIP for ages and ages (it came from an almost throwaway line I wrote in Paper Cups, the 7th fic in the Milk and Sugar 'verse, which was published in 2019, though it didn't move from my notes file to its own document until I finished the Milk and Sugar 'verse which was December 2020), but the concept is instead of Zoom breaking Barry's back in that episode in s2 he just kills him, and it's about Wally getting powers and becoming the Flash in his place.

I have had the opening written for a long time though:

“I don’t know what to do,” Wally said to Barry. “What would you do?”

Unsurprisingly, the bronze statue of the Flash didn’t answer. Wally sighed and sat on the edge of the plinth, leaning against the statue. You could see the whole of Central City from up here, most of Keystone too, and the statue was poised like the Flash was about to run, like the city’s guardian angel was still watching over them. He wasn’t though. It was just a statue, a way to commemorate a fallen hero. A memorial on a hill fewer and fewer people visited. Wally’s own feet were vibrating again. He ran.

Thank you!

[WIP Folder Game]