#writing-prompt-s

[gimmick-blog-bracket]

Round 1: The Quarterquarterquartersemifinals

@writing-prompt-s

(no propaganda submitted)

@memes-to-show-the-past

“honestly i’m surprised this idea hasn’t been done sooner! it’s so fun!”

[heritageposts]

Did you see writing-prompt-s most recent post? Do you have thoughts on it?

I'm inclined to believe it, but it's a little suspicious that it's the "politics" they're seemingly having a problem with, and not the blatant anti-Arab racism.

If this is actually real, and the original admin are as "deeply deplored" as they say they are, then I'd at least like to know the name of the mod responsible.

[Context, for those unaware of the racist harassment campaign that @/writing-prompt-s initiated, and the lies they've been promoting about Palestinian GFMs. And please don't treat this as some fun Tumblr drama or discourse; real, material harm has come from this to people trying to survive a genocide.]

[periwinklecosma]

update: writing-prompt-s continues to double down on painting 90-ghost as an unreliable scammer

after this post i made about writing-prompt-s being a complete and total dickweed started spreading around, i honestly thought i'd be done with them for the time being, but someone in the reblogs of that post called something to my attention, and i'm completely and utterly disgusted. i don't care anymore at this point, i just don't want ANYTHING related to writing-prompt-s and their racism towards palestinians passing under the radar, hence this new post. please, if you remember reblogging the first post, reblog this one too, because i think this is an important follow-up. and if you somehow missed all of this until now and you have no idea what this is about, the post i linked explains pretty much all you need to know because i'm not gonna bother going over old info right now.

i thought writing-prompt-s quietly deleting their shitty racist post was a real coward move but i figured that they wouldn't do anything other than pretend like they never said anything and hope that this all blows over for them eventually. but apparently they can't stfu because, in the wake of everyone pointing out to them that 90-ghost aka ahmed has had tumblr for 12 years, they made this post:

i'm completely speechless that even in the face of intense backlash and overwhelming evidence to the contrary that they'd rather double down on attacking ahmed's identity than admit to being wrong. a few of the other dumbasses who accused palestinians of being scammers, while never exactly apologizing, at least backtracked on what they said and went "okay well maybe some of them are legit," but this cunt can't even do that. and what's more, they're doing it in this weird underhanded way where people who aren't in the know (and even some who are) wouldn't understand what they're trying to do here. you know, because they're a little bitch who can't even be open about the fact that they're a virulent racist, so they choose to only express it using subtle tactics.

anyway the screenshotted post is in the wayback machine already in case writing-prompt-s chooses to do the expected thing and delete it in the same way they deleted their initial post.

seriously, we need to wreck this guy.

[marlinspirkhall]

The Un-Maker

To the uninformed, you are nothing more than a necromancer. You wear their sigil on your chest; the chief mage insists on it- after all, he can read magik better than most. He is the first to discern the true meaning of your gift, years before even you do.

His own magik is significantly strong- though, like him, it has withered with time. By and large, the other mages ignore you. After all, you are only a svvein.

The first time you leave the magery, he gives you a cloak. It's dark purple- the robe of a novice- which is a generous assessment at best. You can barely resurrect a magefly.

His eyes sparkle, then grow serious. “Take it,” he insists. “It will help you blend in.” Of course, you take it only to humor him- blending in comes naturally to you. It might be your only skill.

You perform small tasks in the village, basic magecraft which is little more than a conjurer's trick. You un-break a wheel. You un-graze a knee. When you pass, the best blacksmith in the village watches with baited breath.

You un-forge his sword.

•

While hiding from the smith, you crouch behind the stables. You won’t realise for many years, but the gate you closed on the way in prevented the escape of a horse. The horse- who dreams of the apples in the nearby grove- snickers sadly to herself.

There is a boy at the magery who wears red. Red, the robes of a master. He holds himself with the confidence of someone older, but both of you are five-and-ten.

One night, he lifts a heavy staff above his head, and performs a summoning spell: the most powerful of all magecraft. In an instant, the sky trembles, and rolls with dark clouds. The old masters rejoice, and sing his praises in the downpour, of a boy so powerful that even lightning obeys his command.

You shelter at the edge of the courtyard, and watch without envy.

He's the first to leave, when the war comes.

•

In the coming weeks, you wander the village. You are the only teenager left now that the others have gone, but there are still children to babysit. There are still bloody noses and scraped knees to un-attend to. By now, the villagers know your gift well- that strange, backwards magik you perform without intention. When your mere presence stops an axe falling on his head, even the blacksmith learns to forgive you.

But then, the war comes for the innocents, too.

Families flee Vale-Meg'ed with oxen, horse and handcart. The mages buy them time, and instruct you to leave with them.

“I want to help,” you say.

“Svvein-”

“Perhaps I can un-make the war!”

The chief mage smiles a grim smile. “It will not obey you.”

“But we haven't tried-”

“No.” He wheels on you, his eyes fury and fire. “Take this, and flee.”

It's his first-hewn staff: a spindly thing he carved as a mageling. It's little more than a bolt of wood, but you feel its weight when you touch it. Your hands tremble, and the old mage drives it into the ground afore you.

Sparks flicker.

“Go!”

When you stumble, the staff catches you.

You flee. You trip on your robes, drive the staff into the path, and watch dust fly where sparks ought to instead. You drive the staff down again and again, but it leaks no more magik.

In the distance, storms rage over Mages' Hill. Thunder crackles, and lightning flickers back and forth. Two dark clouds loom beside each other, fighting for dominance.

•

There's a body on the road out of Vale-Meg'ed.

You can't help but slow down. You've seen dead bodies before, of course– they used them for practice at the magery, even those that you couldn't resurrect– so you know what they look like.

For the first thirty seconds, this person is definitely deceased. Then, they gasp, and sit bolt upright.

You scream, and they do too.

Once the shock of not being dead has worn off, they cough soundly, and offer you a swig of water from their flask. Not knowing what killed them, you shake your head.

They down it, then cough some more. “Young svvein. You are but a novice?” They say, seeing your simple robes.

“I–” you say. “I didn’t–”

“Why, magikst most powerful!” They declare, as they check their wounds. “I thought I was going to lose my leg.”

You stare at them in silence as they reach for their purse. “Svvein, I know not why you've saved my life- and I have few coins to give- but accept my thanks.”

You take their silver, if only to preserve your cover, and help them to their feet. They accompany you to the end of the road, where the path splits. Then, they give thanks, and head towards Mages’ Hill.

It’s silent now, but the fires are still burning.

You turn away, and touch the embroidered sigil on your chest: the necromancer’s coil. You wonder if the chief mage knew more than he let on.

•

True necromancing is a complex task, often requiring a pack of mages. Death has compounding interest. The more injuries, the more mages are required. The longer dead, the longer the spell must prevail. Ordinarily, necromancers work long, arduous hours to resurrect a single person. Those who have an understanding of the mage’s art are shocked to see only one of you.

“Where are the others?” someone asks, as you pass them.

“They... Went to lunch,” you say.

“That's unheard of.” They stretch, and crack their back. “The first thing they do is always to collect payment.”

“This isn't your first time being resurrected, is it?” You realise, with a sinking feeling.

They grin toothily, and accept a discount, in exchange for not asking too many questions.

•

In the coming weeks, you un-kill many people along the battlefield. The bodies you pass wake up more often than not, always coughing and spluttering. That which once was jarring becomes routine. Some scream in fright, others clutch at long-healed wounds. Others jolt at the sight of a mage, and cower in your presence.

“Get away, get away!”

Beside them, a cracked mage-staff lies in the mud, snapped cleanly in two. You decide to forgo payment.

You make a living this way for a while, drifting from battle to battle like a vulture. It pays little- the soldiers that die are never the best-equipped, and you get there long after the looters do. Still, those who find themselves alive are invariably grateful to do so, and reward you as well as they can. It's enough to buy you board at the tavern most nights, if not a meal, too.

With time, the war moves on from the valley, though it rages in the distance. You are older now, broader of shoulders, and the First-Hewn staff is older, too. It grows brittle in your fingers.

Before long, it is broken.

You stare at it for a long while, for you are not in the business of breaking things. Still, breaking is a kind of un-making, you suppose. It falls to pieces with nothing more than a whisper, and you mourn it: the First-Hewn staff of an elder holds great power. That it is freed from your possession is a bittersweet relief.

For the first time since the war came, you think of the man who forged it. They say in the early days of war, Mages' Hill was razed to the ground. You haven’t returned to Vale-Meg’ed since.

That night, you rent a room at the tavern, and weep.

•

It's impossible to blend in without your staff, so you attempt to carve your own. For seven suns and seven moons, sparks fly, and lightning pummels the forest. You abandon the task.

The trees are scarred and pockmarked, and the ground will never be the same, yet not a single beam struck you.

For a week, you remain in the valley, but your purse-strings are tight, and the taverns are fit to burst. With little choice, you venture out into the marshland. You out-grew the purple robes years ago, and you’re dressed simply: in a linen shirt and trousers. For now, you are simply a traveller, and you don't intend to continue your grift. Without a staff to speak of, you hardly look the part of a necromancer anymore.

•

Battle does not suit the marshland. It makes the swamp reek worse than usual, and the reeds are soaked with blood. When you trawl for treasure, you find bodies instead.

Bodies who wake up confused, and ask you what's going on.

You sigh, and help them out of the mud.

You wade through the bog for a while, stepping on stones where you can. There's a strange smell in the air; acrid, like burning. The tips of the reeds are signed.

A soldier lies in the dirt, facedown. You roll her over so she doesn’t choke when she wakes, and begin to move on your way.

Her dark eyes open, looking up at the sky. She coughs, and you offer her your water-skin.

She refuses to take it. “I have nothing with which to pay you.”

“The water is a courtesy.”

“And the undying?”

You shift your feet. “That wasn't me.”

She leans back on her arms, and peers up at you sluggishly. “You have no staff.”

“Well-noticed.” You offer a hand.

She doesn’t take it. “There is one other mage who summons without a staff. This war is his design.”

“I am no summoner.”

“Yet you summon the dead.”

You watch her mutely.

“Have I revived you before?” You say at last.

“No, but I've heard of you. You travel alone, and revive villeins when others raise kings.”

You bristle, and take a step backwards. “Your payment is commuted,” you say, and retreat as fast as the mud will allow.

It is not fast at all.

“Wait!” She curses, and coughs furiously. There's a rending, and the slap of footsteps.

You turn. This time, when you offer herr water, she drinks.

“I'm Merra.” She hands the skin back, and wipes her mouth.

“I'm no-one,” you say, which is true enough. You fasten the skin to your belt, and, again, walk away.

Merra keeps pace with you. “I heard you were once a Svvein.”

You remain silent, heading back across the marshland to see how far she will follow. This is the path you cleared earlier– free of bodies– and you retrace your steps where you can. Merra follows all the while, and her sword creaks at her belt.

“Have you no business to attend to?” You say, at last.

“No more than you,” she says, with a smile in her voice.

“I have my living.”

“Then attend to it,” she says. “You think I haven't noticed you're avoiding the dead?”

“Necromancing is a hallowed ritual,” you say.

She scoffs. “Which is why you perform it in galoshes.”

You look down. “There's nothing wrong with my galoshes.”

“Most mage-shoes are hidden by their robes,” she muses. “But I'd imagine mage-shoes are made waterproof by enchantment.”

“That would be a waste of enchantment.”

“And what of your robes, or lack thereof?”

You grunt. “The war destroyed Mages' Hill.”

“Yes, many years ago. But I have seen robes since, and mages too.”

“And what of their magikal shoes?” You ask.

She purses her lips, and surveys the landscape. “There were bodies here, Necromancer. Did you resurrect them all?”

You say nothing.

“It's just past noon,” she reasons. “And this swamp was full of the fallen. How did you recall them all in one morning?”

You glance at her. “How can you be sure I revived you on the same day you fell?”

“As surely as I know there are no maggots in my mouth and nose.”

“Perhaps you have them on the brain.”

You spy the valley up ahead, and slow your pace. You're not eager to return to the villages, with their heroes and veterans and small opportunities; but you can't cross the marshland with Merra- there are too many bodies. Tentatively, you turn onto the village path.

“What killed you?” You enquire, as you walk along.

Merra gives you a look.

“It must have been significant,” you say. “For not all undying know they are so.”

She falls silent, and so do you.

•

You encounter a body on the way into Vale-Egar.

It's a maimed thing, old, bloated, and past its prime. Ordinarily, you wouldn't worry about it- you never seem to wake those who are too far gone- but, today, you pass it with a kind of trepidation. When nothing happens, you let out a breath.

“He looked like a noble,” Merra says, as you hurry past.

“Nothing noble is found in Vale-Egar, especially not by the side of the road.”

“Is that why you won't resurrect him?”

“No,” you say. “It's because he won't come back.”

•

The next body you stumble upon is more intact: a young man with a gaunt face who might as well be sleeping. He's hunched over and leaning against the wall, a tin clutched in his frozen hand. You don't wonder how it stays there- you know better than anyone that rigour mortis begins in the fingers.

As you pass, some colour returns to his face. You hurry Merra along.

The next person you pass is alive, and welcomes you to the village with a smile.

You have no coin with which to pay, but it's no matter. The presence of Merra's sword is payment enough, for there is a bed for all warriors in Vale-Egar.

“That explains why it's so crowded,” you say, as you untie your shoes and leave them at the foot of the bed. You offer to sleep on the floor, but Merra won't hear of it. Apparently, she's got it into her head that she owes you a life-debt. Tonight, you are too tired to argue, so you lay down beside her.

For a long while, she watches you.

The room in this upstairs tavern contains five beds, all of which are crammed with people. You lie on your back and listen to their breathing. This is the closest you've been to the living in a while, and so many, at that. You recall the last time you were around people, of the dormitories on Mages' Hill.

You can feel Merra's breath on your cheek.

“You said not all undead know they are so,” she says.

“Yes,” you murmur.

“So, that beggar outside-?”

“He was merely sleeping.” You move to roll over, but she catches you by the shoulder.

“Credit me some intellect.” She peers down at you. “It was fast; faster than any magecraft I've seen. How did you do it?”

The others in the room are all sleeping soundly.

“I know not how,” you say, in a single breath.

•

In the morning, you leave the village.

“You have no staff,” Merra says, again.

You watch her for a moment. All these years, the staff was your only companion, and now, you have another.

“I haven't the skill to make one,” you admit.

“So, you are no mage.”

“No.”

“And yet you raise the dead.”

•

Over the coming days, Merra accompanies you across the marshland, and the dead spring up in your wake. There's no coin to speak of, but the soldiers pledge fealty to you. You tell them you already have a knight, and a fine one, at that. Merra smiles, as a knight clad in well-made plate armor shakes his head and walks away.

“Have you seen her fight?” Asks another, dressed in mail.

You bristle. “No, but neither, sir, have you.”

He offers her his armor, but she won't take it.

“I travel light.”

•

As you traverse the valley, the marshland turns to grass. You encounter fewer bodies, and those you find are too degraded to wake.

The horizon alights with a flash, and Merra freezes. Thunder roils over the hills.

“You never did tell me what moved you to fight,” you say, quietly.

“I had a quest,” she says, simply. Her hair whispers in the wind, and you nod.

“Then you are bound to it.”

She looks at you with pleading eyes. “But I was dead.”

You shake your head. “It doesn't work like that.”

Thunder resounds.

After a day's travel, the once-lush grass turns to scorched earth underfoot. You stop in your tracks.

“This is Vale-Meg'ed.”

•

Amongst the rubble, there is but one field undisturbed by ash. It's the stable where you hid from the blacksmith all those years ago. Most unusually of all, the gate which you closed has since remained intact.

The horse stands alone in the field, her tail flicking back and forth. She's much older now, and has a grey streak on her nose, but you'd know her anywhere.

“You survived the war,” you comment, as you reach for her mane. She huffs, and hoofs at the dirt. You raise an eyebrow, and turn to Merra. “Could you open the gate?”

She opens it, and the horse races through the ruined grove. You follow behind.

Merra gasps. Right before your eyes, the charred treetops flourish and bear fruit. The horse gallops towards them, and you sprint to catch up.

You chuckle, softly. “Do you forgive me now, mare?”

The horse scarfs down her apples, and allows you to pet her mane.

•

You sleep in the rubble of the magery, and Merra takes first watch. The next morning, you are woken by the sun.

“You didn’t wake me,” you say.

“No,” she says, as she watches the sunrise.

You fall silent. This is her quest, not yours.

•

You spend the day on Mage’s Hill. Merra prepares barricades, and whets her blade. Somehow, you feel as if you've known her a lifetime.

You search the ruins one last time, and are not surprised when you find it, in the remains of the novice quarters.

It is a first-hewn staff. The wood crackles beneath your fingertips.

The ruins are painted orange by sunset.

•

Past nightfall, you remain alert. You sit a few paces from Merra, twisting the staff in your hands. There's a familiarity about it you cannot place, a raw power which stings you if you hold it tight.

The wind picks up suddenly. Too suddenly.

“This is magewind!” She yells.

You jump to attention. It's been many years since you've felt anything like it, but it chills you to the bone. All you can picture is that night on Mages' Hill, on the eve of war: a staff, held aloft as red robes billowed in the breeze.

Tonight, a mass moves upon you: denser than storm itself.

“Merra!” You cry, as the gale sweeps her aside. She catches hold of one of the barricades; hefty chunks of stone which buckle under the pressure.

You run for her, but the wind picks you up like a ragdoll. You fall, and scrape upon every rock as you’re dragged dowhill. You are drowning in wind itself, the breath rivened from you faster than you can draw it. Your clothes tear, then your flesh. You thrust the staff forwards, blindly, and puncture an air pocket. You push down, and pressure slaps you back. You tumble again and again, until at last you make contact with the ground.

You lie, spread-eagled on the floor.

A numbness overtakes you. You grip the staff so tight that it flares with energy.

The sky above you dances. Merra lunges at clouds, and purple lightning arcs around her. A shadow flits through the smog, impossibly light and fast.

The shape moves upon you: dark, tattered robes, deeper than blood, deeper than red, but unmistakably the same robes from all those years ago, held together by magiks. His boots- made of a fine, red leather, have similar weatherproofing, and your eyes dart to Merra.

“Face me,” says the storm.

Your head tilts back to observe him. It hurts to watch, this splicing-together of mage and fury. You try to turn away, but the wind holds you fast. You see Merra from the corner of your eye, silhouetted against the storm.

The Summoner moves upon you slowly, as if he isn't used to walking. “You’re no mage,” he says, at last.

On the hill, Merra drives her sword into the clouds, but The Summoner ignores her. He circles around you. Far too slowly, the feeling returns to your legs.

“Years ago, when the battle was won and there were less bodies on the battlefield than there should be; I heard the strangest whispers from the valley.” He speaks in a low voice, barely above a whisper, but the breeze carries every word. “They spoke of a novice, who summoned the dead.” He turns his attention back to the top of the hill, where Merra is fighting shadows. “You have resurrected one of mine.” He raises a hand. “It’s time to correct that mistake.”

Lightning connects with the tip of Merra’s sword, and the flash lights up the mountainside.

“Mer…” you twitch.

Soil cascades from the heavens, and you hold the staff aloft. “Heed me,” you say. “Heed me!”

It might as well be a twig.

The Summoner laughs. “You cannot resurrect ash.”

You roll onto your front, too weak to stand. For the first time in your life, you attempt to use your powers with intention. You draw runes in the dirt and chant long-forgotten spells, as The Summoner watches with cold amusement.

“You don't know our craft. The magik you do have is little more than a parlour trick.”

“I knew enough to thwart you,” you wheeze.

“Can you undo this, Pretender?”

He unfurls his palm, and the storm rages louder than before. It howls and howls, and lightning blasts the ground until Mage’s Hill is cratered.

Earth is loosened. Stones and rocks turn to vapor, and become part of the storm.

You crawl towards the place where Merra was standing, though you know it is useless. You might as well be crawling through mud in the swamp where you found her. There's an uphill climb past jagged rocks, and another fall would kill you. You have never had to un-make your own death. You wait, as the land continues to slide.

The hill remains un-mended. This cannot be undone– but you can still fight.

“This staff was yours,” you whisper. You haven't seen it since you were three-and-ten, but you recognise it's power.

“Yes.” He holds out a hand, and it flies to him. The staff cracks with energy, and he weighs it in his palm. “I have surpassed the need to bind my magik to the physical realm. But you… You cannot even cast an illusion.” He tosses the staff back to you, and it lands in the dirt.

You make no attempt to pick it up.

“You saw that first summoning spell on Mages' Hill, and were powerless to stop me then. What makes you think you can stand against me now?” His hand forms a fist.

For the first time in your life, lightning makes no effort to avoid you. It arches out of the sky, and bears down on you again and again. You lie in the dirt. You know there is no escape, for this is the mage who commands the four winds as he pleases.

You should be dead, like Merra.

The Summoner’s voice booms, magnified tenfold by the storm. “All that I call for comes to me but The Dead. You have hidden that power from me for too long!”

You open your eyes. A flash of silver runs down the hillside, too small to be lightning. You steady your breathing, and fix your gaze on The Summoner.

“You are no chosen one,” he bellows, as the light flashes again.

“No,” you gasp. “But she is.”

He turns, as Merra strikes true. It's a killing blow, perfectly aimed for the heart, but the storm coalesces around him, and the sword is ejected from his chest. Red blood whips around him, the same colour as his robes, as the heavens bend towards Merra. With a yell, she drives her sword into the ground, and the sky detonates. The energy flows through it once more, illuminating her skeleton, but she stands strong.

She grabs The Summoner with both hands, tearing his robes. He holds out a hand for his magestaff, and you close your fingers around it. It drags you through the dirt until you fall beside him, and you grasp his foot.

You have never needed to fight before, and you're not suited for it. Your attempts to trip him are met with a single kick to the forearm, as the wind tears at you. The lightning which rains down upon you hits all three of you indiscriminately, but The Summoner only grows stronger from each strike. He holds his arms out, bathing in it, as Merra wrenches her sword free.

The blade swings in a wide arc. It hits him at the same moment the lightning does.

For a moment, they are bound together; Knight and Summoner both. They fall as one unit, and crumple to the ground.

Merra smoulders. You struggle towards her. Your back stings; patches exposed to the open air as rainwater falls into the cuts.

Though it feels like an age, you reach her. The Summoner lies mere inches away, motionless.

You place your hands on either side of Merra’s head, and call on a power you have no control over.

With surprising strength, her hands push yours away.

“You must leave this place,” she whispers. “Leave, or he'll never die.”

You grasp her hands with your own. “But you will live.”

Her laugh is a death rattle. “He has killed so many. What's one more?”

You shake your head, and force yourself upwards. Your arms tremble with effort; your legs won't respond.

The Summoner does not stir.

“Leave,” Merra utters.

You fall at her side. “I cannot.”

•

You're not sure for how long you lie there. It could be days, it could be mere hours.

The storm passes on, though the skies remain grey.

The horse trots towards you, and, at last, you find the strength to sit up.

“Merra,” you say.

She looks up.

The two of you struggle to stand, sliding in the mud as you do.

You stroke the mare. The grey streak has disappeared from her nose, and Merra notices it too. She scratches her ears, and you let out a breath.

“A fine steed,” you say, “For an immortal knight.”

She looks at you with wonder. Neither of you know if it is true.

No one has ever died in your attendance before, and you've yet to see if it's possible. As you leave the crater which was once Mages’ Hill, ash falls upon you, followed by light rain. Merra tenses, but says nothing as she climbs onto the horse. She helps you on, and the horse moves in a direction of her choosing.

Neither of you turn to see what becomes of The Summoner’s remains, but the rain doesn't follow you for long. There begins a light sunshine, and the horse gains to a canter, as Merra hugs her mane for balance, and you cling to Merra for yours. She laughs, and spurs the horse onwards with a shout.

The three of you ride towards Vale-Egar.

[shinosarna]

About writing-prompt-s drama:

There obviously IS a 'scam ring'. By that I mean the same scam ring we've been dealing with for years, regular tumblr bot farms now also pose as Palestinians refugees because those people are scum who will do anything for money. I've myself gotten asks from "Palestinians" clearly mass sent by a bot.

Idea that vetters are intentional scam ring is an insane racist conspiracy theory. However, they're all volunteers - they're not detectives, lawyers or anyone with formal training in recognizing e.g. forged documents or poking holes at made-up backstories.

Some scammers seem to have made it to vetted lists. This is either by slipping through the cracks, or by hacked accounts. Makes sense, an account that is vetted is a super prime target for a scammer. This is inevitable and de facto impossible to prevent in a crowdsourced approach. They're doing their best, but that just *improves* chances, not guarantees it.

A process that is 100% true would have to be centralized, slow, restrictive and would hurt more people that it would help. 1% of gfms being scammers is bad, but it's better than the alternative. If it really bothers you, you can just... donate to an accredited charity instead?

@writing-prompt-s accused 90-ghost of being a scammer on a post that had nothing to do with him nor was written by him. Bullshit I say. Mere *existence* of actual scammers doesn't absolve him one fucking bit.

[lesbianbassline]

always good to align yourself with the side that uses phrases like "the bloodthirsty purity-obsessed crowds" 👍

[tobiimiller]

[sneakerdoodle]

i would love to see any one of the people participating in the scam slander campaign do as much consistent advocacy for Palestine as @el-shab-hussein is doing. as @fairuzfan is doing. as @tamarrudd is doing. as Ibtisam and Elios were doing before they had to disengage from the platform for their sake. i completely do not understand the strategy of waltzing into a circle that's been incredibly vocal about their people's violent and ruthless subjugation, picking out the ones connected to an aspect of it you find personally aggravating, and then comfortably discrediting them with no consideration for all their consistent presence and effort.

were they there when Ibtisam and at least five other people led a hunger strike to raise money for Anera, one of the organizations they all now smugly parade around and pretend the fundraiser network exists to borderline deliberately divert funds from it? that's just from April this year! i'm not even someone who has had engaged with the Pro-Palestinian online advocacy circles properly before October 2023; learning exactly what makes Hussein and Nairuz trusted sources, exactly who Ahmed @/90-ghost is, is not hard at all if you've popped your head into the Palestine tag more than a handful times in the 10 months since the escalation of the genocide.

treating the individuals in this circle with such disregard, contempt, distrust, malice, and consistently refusing to engage with them directly, as human beings, as Palestinians, betrays both their willful ignorance and their deeply entrenched cynicism, a lack of any shred of commitment to challenging themselves beyond what they're baseline convinced to be true/sound/correct. when we're talking about an active genocide. what is wrong with you people.

[faeren985]

glad people are finally unfollowing writing prompts. not just because of the recent gofundme thing, but also because the prompts are just genuinely bad

[inthecarpets]

uhh

Wth is that prompt.

How. How is it possible for a popular Writing prompts blog to have such AWFUL VILE grammar.

I get that not everyone is native to english but-- It's a Writing Blog??

I followed them for ages and not read posts bc 1. i was lazy, 2. when i read them they were-- Ehh? so i kind of skipped off everything. But now i'm just seeing how Bad quality the blog is so it's a lol.

[thagurl-kay]

[gimmick-blog-bracket]

Round 0

@writing-prompt-s

(no propaganda submitted)

@mcr5-thoughts-every-other-day

“Have you been going insane watching My Chemical Romance be posted about on Tumblr? Do you have any idea what mcr5 is? If you don't (even if you do), you need to stay up to date on the situation. By following @/mcr5-thoughts-every-other-day, you get a post every other day related to the potential 5th studio album from My Chemical Romance (a.k.a. mcr5) If (WHEN) mcr5 is released, it'll be BIG news on tumblr. So go ahead and start informing yourself now! But, why is this blog better than the other gimmick blogs? Well, gimmick blogs rarely help you to stay informed about current events. @/mcr5-thoughts-every-other-day helps keep you informed! It's like the news but much cooler and less boring. It educates you and helps you to not be confused when My Chemical Romance is trending (BECAUSE OF MCR5!!)”

[kissorkill16]

This is Ava Nelson, she's the Sky High OC I wrote about a while ago on a writing prompt by @writing-prompt-s . Her powers are Fabric Manipulation, she can manipulate the fabric of time, fabric of reality, or just straight up fabric for clothing.

[gramaticallyannoying]

Warlock Youtuber: We're back at it again with another sponsorship! This time, ladies and gentlemen, it's both a Demon from Hell™ and Raid: Shadow Legends!

[starshipcaptainjojo]

Continuation (sort of) of this writing prompt

So Sunspot is on your couch under your heating pad while Elliot fusses over him like this is totally normal.

You made tea. The baby’s asleep and your husband won’t be home for a while yet- you called him already but he said “Is he staying for dinner?” like this was all totally normal.

So.

Sunspot. On your couch. Totally normal.

“I’m late for club,” Sunspot rasps unhelpfully when you shove tea under his nose, careful not to slosh it onto the bandages wrapped around his neck. “I need to go home and rest.”

“You have a concussion,” you didn’t mean to use Mom Voice but, alas. Mom Voice it is. “You’re sitting here, awake and drinking tea, while we figure out what to do with you.”

“Yes ma’am,” Sunspot says, surrendering to Mom voice.

“My teacher Mr. Right wouldn’t criticize you so much if he knew you saved my life,” Elliot tells Sunspot, sitting crosslegged by the couch helping you peel potatoes for dinner. A dinner Sunspot- AKA Eliot’s teacher Mr. Holman Right- will apparently be staying for.

“I think he would,” you grumble, and Sunspot laughs wetly from the couch.

“It’s cool that a super hero is here,” Elliot says speculatively, testing out if you’ll go on one of your usual anti-heroics tangents.

“Better here than anywhere else,” you agree sourly. “After this stunt you’re both grounded.”

Elliot complains, something about doing the right thing, something about villains ganging up on you.

You only tune back in when he mentions Sistern and Jumbro.

“What were they doing with you?” You dart a glance over at Sunspot, who is suspiciously quiet.

“They attacked the comic shop. Said it was for nerds.” Elliot looks away. “I know we’re not supposed to talk about it but-” he cuts himself off with a sharp look at Sunspot.

Sunspot already knows you’re Barracuda. You had this conversation the first day you met in plainclothes at Elliot’s school.

“Sunspot and I used to work together,” you tell your son, whose eyes light up with annoying amounts of hero worship. “He made the right decision bringing you here.”

“Used to? What, you retiring already?” Sunspot’s concussion is making him giddy. It’d worry you but he’s also heckling you, so he’s probably fine.

“Elliot go set the table. We’ll eat when your father gets home. You can play videogames once the table is set.” You point to the kitchen, but Elliot’s already moving. The most motivated teenager ever now that videogames are on the table.

With Elliot out of the room you sit on a chair across the coffee table from Sunspot laid out on your couch.

“Why are my former colleagues going after kids?” You drink your tea and watch Sunspot rub his eyes tiredly.

“No villains like you anymore, Barracuda.” He shrugs helplessly, “the era of villains is pretty much ending. I’m a glorified status symbol for the city. Sistern and Jumbro are not long for this world.” He quirks a sad smile. “They want their boss back. Your shoes are too big to fill you know.”

“Sounds almost like you miss me,” you tease.

“I do.” He says it so candidly that it makes your heart clench. “These new villains want to harm the world because the world hurt them. You are a class act.” He shakes his head. “You wanted to topple the world to make it better for yourself. Kids these days just want to watch the world burn.”

“That why you became a teacher?” You push the plate of saltines at Sunspot insistently. He takes one and nibbles it obediently.

“If I can save even one kid from becoming another Jumbro, I will feel accomplished.” He smiles wryly, “and if that makes you want to blow up another statue of me I really wouldn’t mind it.” 

“I appreciate you saving Elliot. Not that I’m surprised you did it of course.” You cross your legs. “The hero commission should give you some backup instead of a commemorative statue.”

“Nah they’d rather pay cops to shoot kids.” Sunspot lies back and closes his eyes.

“Eyes open, Sunny Boy.” You snap your fingers twice and his eyes flutter open. “Concussion watch.”

He sits up by force of will, listing to the side a little before righting himself.

“I never liked that you called me Sunny Boy you know...”

“That, Sunny Boy, is why I called you Sunny Boy.”

He shakes his head. “Sunspot. It refers to-”

“The spot on your face?” You raise your eyebrows and he seems surprised you mentioned it. In thirty years of beating the hell out of each other you’ve never once talked about it.

“So you can see it,” he mused.

“Of course I can see it. A birthmark in the shape of the sun on your shoulder? Kind of hard to miss.” Heroes. Honestly. You wave a hand dismissively. “Not sure how you lived a normal life with something like that.”

He smiles wryly. “I cover it at school.”

“I know. That was a joke, Sunny.”

“I like that it’s a birthmark.” He smiles at you, all tired eyes and barely healing wounds. You patched him up earlier but you itch to clean him up again. It’s an almost maternal thought- which is a little gross honestly. Mom-mode is hard to turn off. “Seemed weird to me you never wanted to acknowledge the ‘spot’ part.”

“I’m a woman, Sunny.” You gesture to yourself in case he missed that fact over thirty-plus years. “If you think I’m going to comment on an aspect of someone’s appearance that they can’t change, I’m no better than those douchebros or corporate leeches trying to set human interaction and empathy back decades.”

He laughs, and coughs because his throat was strangled by Jumbro.

You... might have to come out of semi-retirement for a day to set Jumbro on the right path.

You haven’t bitten off a dick since you got married. Harold might be into it, if you explain the situation to him first.

Food for thought.

“You’re smiling.” Sunspot raises his eyebrows. “And you’re showing Barracuda teeth.”

“You remember how they said I used to bite penises off?”

He crosses his legs. “Yes.”

“Did you ever think I really did it?“

“No,” he says, legs still very crossed.

“Liar.” You lean back in your seat. “I was just thinking Jumbro might benefit from losing what tiny dick he has.”

“Please don’t castrate a stupid man for me with your teeth. Feels... wrong somehow.” Sunspot sighs. “You never threatened me with that either, but they said you had a taste for... manflesh.”

You both scoff a laugh at that phrasing.

“If I did bite dicks off- which I am not admitting to- I wouldn’t be interested in doing it to you. You don’t seem to be obsessed with yours so taking it from you might not even do anything.”

You’re lying.

Well, you’re not lying. But the idea of going anywhere near Sunspot in an intimate- or even predatory- way never even crossed your mind.

If you’re honest with yourself-

“It’d be too weird, anyway,” you deflect.

He grimaces. “Wholeheartedly agree.”

The door mercifully opens and closes and Harold gets home. He finds you both sitting across from each other in silence, leans down and pecks you at the whorl of your hair.

“Sunspot. Nice to meet you. Hon, I’m gonna check on the brat, then we can eat. You guys look so awkward it physically hurts me. Work it out before it spoils dinner.”

He then pauses, your perfect crazy husband. He turns to Sunspot and holds out a hand. The two men shake, looking seriously at each other.

“We missed you at our wedding,” Harold says, not letting Sunspot’s hand go. “But obviously you’ve been keeping an eye on Elliot. So. You know. Open invitation to dinner. Always.”

“I thought the wedding invite was a joke,” Sunspot admits. 

“Nope,” you and Harold say together.

Harold steps back, nodding to himself. “Alright. Well. Work the awkwardness out, then we’re eating.” He gives your shoulder a squeeze, then heads to the den yelling the countdown to his arrival that makes Elliot save his game in a hurry.

“He’s very nice.” Sunspot sits back down. “Couldn’t picture you marrying someone but... he weirdly makes sense.”

“He found me bloody in a ditch.” You smile fondly. “He asked if I was gonna bite him.”

“Did you?” Sunspot looks more awake now, which is good.

“Only once he asked me to.” You grin, and Sunspot grimaces.

“Gross. It feels like my sister is trying to tell me about her sexcapades.” He hears the words only after he’s said them, eyes going wide. He covers his mouth.

But he’s right. Also it was hilarious.

“Yeah. I’m glad I don’t know anything about your love life either.” You smile, no teeth this time. He smiles back.

“Got any tips? I’m pathetically single.” Sunspot laughs and coughs again.

“We’ll find you a nice... uh. Girl? Man?” You never really thought about Sunspot's orientation, but a man who wears skintight white spandex could go either way.

“Yes,” Sunspot confirms and you snort a laugh.

You stand up and stretch. “Let’s go have dinner. We can work out what you’re going to do about Jumbro and Sistern afterward. I have some fun ideas for you.”

“No,” he says, but it’s not as firm as it should be. He sways when he walks, but he fusses when you gently support him down the hallway.

Somehow, you both make your way to dinner together like this is totally normal.

[brunhielda]

Check my blog for more posts- OG story and later award.

I made this a long time ago and was very nervous about posting it to Tumblr. I can’t really think of a good caption~ everything I wanted to say is in the little blurb at the beginning. 

‘God of Arepo’ Fan-made graphic novel 

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Read the Original Story Here