I Posted 423 Times In 2022

I posted 423 times in 2022

46 posts created (11%)

377 posts reblogged (89%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@ambersky0319

@writing-is-a-martial-art

@enchanted-lightning-aes

@ashen-crest

@ellierenae

I tagged 406 of my posts in 2022

Only 4% of my posts had no tags

#chaos queue - 208 posts

#others work - 39 posts

#writeblr - 18 posts

#my writing - 18 posts

#ask - 17 posts

#ask game - 15 posts

#writing positivity - 14 posts

#good soup - 14 posts

#a quest of cards and calamity wip - 13 posts

#writing resources - 13 posts

Longest Tag: 121 characters

#this does happen prior to the main narrative so he knows his stance on attraction and relationships as much as anyone can

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

A/N: After about a month and a half wait, I have finally plucked up the courage to post part 2!! After this there are only 3 more sections and if i feel like breaking some hearts, an alternate ending

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Part II: Catch

Bella tugged at her hood. Despite knowing it concealed her face well with the deep shadow created in the dim light, she needed something to do with her hands and hoped it would be succinct and subtle enough to not be noteworthy.

She jumped as Manic Alchemist spoke, ripping her hands away and tucking them together in her lap. He sat halfway across the room from her, legs crossed and leaning against an ebony high backed chair that screamed try-hard villain. “This is a surprisingly impromptu meeting for you,” he said, smooth and undaunted. Anyone who heard about him before actually hearing him was always surprised by the disconnect between his diction and his voice - a teenager with the everyday language of a college lecture. 

“Well,” Bella, the Crimson Programmer, said, fumbling. She was always terrible at lying with short notice. Twisting the finger of her new glove with her bare hand, she continued, “Sometimes I worry about you, squirt. Your ego took quite the beating this weekend. Maybe you need more of my tech to supplement your talents.” With a quiet pop as the Crimson Programmer squeezed her wrists, hidden capsules released a swarm of Crimson Nanites into the room. Perhaps her fiddling could pass the movement off as a nervous gesture.

Meanwhile, Manic Alchemist bristled at her jab. “Thank you for the offer,” he said, “but I don’t have the budget for any upgrades at the moment. You have a steep price.”

The Crimson Programmer forced lightness into her voice, saying, “Come on. Isn’t it worth it for the fee? I’m top of the line. You were lucky to find me.” She was desperately stalling for time. The cluttered room would increase travel time for the nanites. Disguised by her hood and minimal self control keeping her head trained on Manic Alchemist, her eyes sporadically flickered from the bots to him. Distantly she wondered what Zach would think. He obviously assumed she would use the glove she showed him, maybe other equipment she’d developed in his company, to apprehend a B-list villain. Theoretically, she could, but it was just so much easier to use her nanites. She was using the latest version, 6.3, which was exclusively for her personal use, since it was still in beta and far too dangerous and useful to put in anyone else’s hands. Besides, she deserved to treat herself with one of a kind new toys every once in a while. 

“Maybe,” Manic Alchemist said, breaking through her train of thought. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I have no money to spare! As you said so subtly, my attack this weekend failed, so everything I risked was lost.” Lights began flickering at the edge of the room; he was getting dangerously ticked off. While his anger would make him less observant, it would dramatically increase his likelihood of storming off or driving her out, and that would doom the easy picking he served as one of her more docile contacts.

“Don’t worry,” she said, trying to smooth over his frustration. “You can get new equipment on credit. Interest rates are very low, especially for regular high-paying customers like you, and I already have some updates planned for what you’ve purchased from me already.”

Manic Alchemist drummed his fingers on the sliver of free space at the table he sat at and said simply, “Perhaps.” The heat had drained from him, but his outburst had left both of them on edge, tense in biting, barely sustained diplomacy. 

At the prompting of a beep updating the Crimson Programmer on the Nanites’ progress, she jumped in. “Say that you did get the updates. For a reduced price, even. What would you do then?” She hoped the usual tactic of getting the Alchemist to talk about himself would be distraction enough. He loved gloating, even if he would never  admit it. Thankfully for his own sake, he only did it in secure spaces where he was sure no one would interrupt the schemes he revealed. Though amusing, it was embarrassing to watch villains monologue in front of heroes that would then effortlessly defeat them after the villains revealed their plans. 

Slowly at first, almost as though skepticism and tension from earlier was holding him back, Manic Alchemist began talking, which quickly became ranting, about his grand plans. He continued speaking while the Crimson Programmer barely paid attention to him as she glanced constantly at her overengineered watch that was receiving updates about the Nanites’ status. It was agonizing, watching them creep across the room, hindered by Manic Alchemist’s mess. They flickered in and out of sight, climbing the wreckage of experiments, hiding behind trash cans littering the floor, avoiding piles of unidentifiable goo. There was no clock on the wall, so the Crimson Programmer was certain time was flowing slower than molasses, taunting her with the potential of failure. What if he saw the nanites crawling across the room? Surely he would with their snail-like pace. 

Finally, finally, they reached Manic Alchemist’s scuffed and stained boots. So as to not make their presence immediately obvious, the Crimson Programmer tore her eyes away from the bots and forced herself to look Alchemist in the face without cringing away from the possibility of eye contact. Her subtly inclined head might tip him off otherwise. 

Now sitting forward, his black eyes glittered with passion, frenzy, delight, as he monologued about his ambitions for tearing apart chunks of the city. It was impossible to tune back into what Manic Alchemist said, so the Programmer just watched his hands fly, darting out and mimicking patrol routes and flight paths and explosions. It was strangely endearing. Absently, she wondered how she ended up working so closely on a regular basis with teenagers. One of his hands abruptly stilled and jerked to his scalp. Risking a glance at her watch, the Crimson Programmer saw the bots were almost in place. Manic Alchemist’s fingers continued to reach towards the Nanites. A few more millimeters and the plan would fall apart. 

There were no contingencies for her to fall back on.

“Hey!” the Crimson Programmer said, lurching forward and brandishing her glove-clad hand in his face. “You should see my newest project.”

Manic Alchemist froze, dropping his hands away from his head and leaning farther forward, eyes narrowed, intrigued. The Crimson Programmer barely withheld a sigh of relief. If he suspected anything from her interruption, he held back, likely his curiosity triumphing over any other trains of thought. Impatiently, he waved his hand in her direction, prompting her to continue.

“You see, there are chips in the fingers with wireless probes that detect and hijack electrical currents,” explained the Crimson Programmer. “The signals feed through the wires…” She trailed off, waiting for him to catch on, hoping the time he took to connect the dots would be enough for the Crimson Nanites to lock in position.

“And you can take control of whatever you’re holding with the glove. That’s brilliant!” Manic Alchemist said after a few seconds, sounding impressed, for once. Technology wasn’t his strong suit, and he was loathe to admit his shortcomings. 

“Thank you.”

“Aren’t you going to elaborate?”

“No,” the Crimson Programmer said as her watch buzzed, signaling the Nanites were in place. “I don’t need to stall for time anymore.”

“What? So none of your offers… What have you done?” Manic Alchemist said, panicking. His face was pale and strikingly obvious in the gloomy light. She had never seen him so unsettled, so scared.

“I'm sorry. Good night, my friend,” she said, the last two words dripping with mockery. With that, the Crimson Programmer pressed the capsules on her wrists again. Manic Alchemist stiffened, spasming once as his nervous system was tapped into, and collapsed bonelessly into his chair. If her ambitions weren’t on the line, she would have pitied his helpless form. “You were just too good of an opportunity to pass up.”

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8 notes - Posted May 17, 2022

#4

encouraged by @pagesofcursive and spurred on by my own brainrot for my new characters, here’s a short story inspired by a combination of one word september prompts from @nosebleedclub 

the words were dead insects, spear, and hero, with cuckoo from here

The shrill cry of infants made it hard for Cuckoo to be heard. At least their cries drowned out the discomfort of the hoard in front of her. That afternoon, Cuckoo had been put in charge of seven children; whether they belonged to her parents or her aunts and uncles, she didn’t know. It didn’t really matter, at this point. They were all her responsibility to keep out of trouble — no getting hurt and no getting in the way. Cuckoo herself should have been looked after at the tender age of five and two thirds, but her unfortunate streak of independence had left her caring for the toddlers.

Sighing with too much world weariness, Cuckoo grabbed a dead beetle from the corner of the room. It was brittle and almost turning to dust in her fingers, its wings papery and shattered. It likely starved to death in a home that had barely enough food for the people living in it, let alone pests. She crammed a tiny twig into one of its claws, wrinkling her nose when the claw broke before trying the other. Unfazed by the sheer grime on the floor, she swept up a pile of dead ants behind the beetle armed with a spear. Directly across from the necromancer general and his hoard of undead soldiers, Cuckoo set up a dragonfly with only three wings. She outfitted the brave warrior with two spears, making it a much more helpful and willing toy combatant.

Cuckoo loosed a piercing whistle, drawing the attention of the smaller children, who were breaking from the listless staring and beginning to wander off. Just in time she began her tale, swooping up the opposing warriors in grimy fists.

“Once upon a time, there was a great but tragic hero facing off against an army that took all his red bean paste…”

Many years later...

Hands cradling the back of Cuckoo’s neck and propping up her head where she lay on the ground, Cuckoo gazed into the middle distance. Her attention shifted to staring up at the insects dancing with motes of sparks on the fire, riding the hot gusts of air. Her companions rested nearby, warmed by the fire. It was quiet, save for the occasional hoot of an owl or rustle of a lizard in grass. Flying near the hypnotic lick of flames, the bugs reminded her of evenings in the mud and fallen spices of her home.

Cuckoo wished she could say she missed it. Her home life was stifling, though, and her talents were wasted in that squalor. She missed the guarantee of love from a family, but what was love compared to glory.

On a quest of her own, fighting battles of her own, Cuckoo wondered. Was she now a hero with beetle wings and a weapon of leaves and twigs?

8 notes - Posted September 12, 2022

#3

See the full post

9 notes - Posted November 25, 2022

#2

A Pile of Sticks and Leaves

A/N: I was inspired by someone’s snippet of writing, but it’s been a while so I don’t remember who it was. Thank you for sparking this bundle of awkwardness that is my three babis trying to show affection

Summary: Zach decides Bella and Freddie are starved of affection and it’s his responsibility to correct that

Muscles screaming, Bella sank to the floor, leaning against the beaten-up sofa that still smelled funky even after hosing it into oblivion. She sighed heavily, head tipping back to rest on the seat of the couch, and tried to make herself comfortable but was thwarted by the low angle she sat at. The top of the sofa seemed too far away to move to.

Her eyes drifted shut momentarily, but they snapped open when Zach set his head on her thigh. Stiffening, Bella leveled a scalding glare at him but was exhausted beyond the point of caring to make him move. He met her gaze unflinchingly, cheek pillowed on her leg. A beat, then another. Breaking eye contact, having finished his assessment of her, Zach shifted, rolled, stood. Bella’s eyes followed where his feet pointed; Freddie sat peacefully on the fraying armchair in the corner of the room, which was in line with the kitchen, reading his recently liberated comic. A few weeks ago, after claiming the chair as solely his own, he had dragged it over to its current position to pick at half-prepared food and watch Bella cook. He claimed his new view was to make sure she wouldn’t kill him with terrible cooking. He was lying.

Zach stalked over to where Freddie was curled up. He leaned down. Freddie startled. Murmuring in Freddie’s ear, he waited for a nod, grabbed a slip of paper from the closest part of the dinged-up kitchen bench, slotted it into Freddie’s page in the comic, and slid the comic onto the bench. Perched in the same position, Freddie side-eyed Zach, making no move even as his hand was taken and tugged at. Intrigued, Bella watched on. Zach, his face blank and eyes bright, pulled more insistently. Still, Freddie didn’t budge. Having lost his patience, Zach huffed, stooped down, and effortlessly scooped Freddie up, who squawked indignantly. Tiredness made it easy for Bella to feign indifference as a smirk played at the edges of her mouth.

“Put me down!”

“Just give me a second.” Zach’s expression grew strained as he tried not to drop Freddie who writhed desperately in his grip. Reaching Bella, he tucked Freddie into her side. At the contact, the pair went immediately rigid. They would have made a good foundation for a campfire. “There, see?” Zach said, somewhat triumphant.

As Freddie overcame his shock he made to stand up. His escape attempt was foiled by Zach who had resumed his position on Bella’s lap and thrown an arm across Freddie’s chest. Groaning, Freddie settled stiffly back into his spot.

The fridge sputtered in its whirring across the room. Across the room, a hung-up shirt whispered to the floor as it succumbed to gravity. Silence stretched through the room. Chewing the inside of his cheek, Freddie mulled over the four conflicting angles disrupting the contact between his left side and Bella’s right. Zach’s arm went limp over his middle, pale fingers brushing his forearm. Not daring to move, Freddie flicked his eyes over to where Zach lay. He was twisted awkwardly over Bella’s legs, one hand over hers, laying on his back with his right shoulder draped over her knees to reach his frustratingly long arm around Freddie. Heart clenching strangely, Freddie dropped his head onto Bella’s shoulder and attempted to slump down to match her posture. It made his back hurt but, regardless, he continued.

Feeling Freddie relax, if oddly, Zach smiled and readjusted. He gave Bella’s hand an apologetic squeeze and began repositioning himself. Now he lay almost parallel to her, his upper back over her legs, curving one arm up towards Freddie. In silent acknowledgment of Zach’s gesture, Freddie laced a few fingers through his, eyes squeezed shut and eyebrows pinched but otherwise wearing a serene expression. Bella’s hand drifted to lay on his shoulder and Zach smiled lazily.

He hadn’t done this since Ethan. Just sitting together in semi-comfortable silence, as your breathing was a little too loud, but so was everyone else’s, which made it okay. Your joints would get stiff after a while, but it was worth it to just exist close to each other. You could stop running, stop hiding, and just be. Just lie with people you cared about, all in a pile, seated on the cold concrete floor of a stranger’s basement, surrounded by things you made, things you found, things you treasured.

17 notes - Posted May 2, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

I’m a writer. I can’t spell

49 notes - Posted February 7, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

To my fellow writers.

You're allowed to call yourself a writer, regardless of how good you are at writing. You're allowed to reach for the stars, to dream of becoming the next big thing. You're allowed to write just for the heck of it.

You're allowed to call yourself a writer, regardless of why you're writing. Regardless of how insignificant you believe your writing to be, because your writing is not insignificant. Nothing that brings you joy will ever be insignificant.

[answer this whenevah] happy blorbo blursday, eve! so, for alex, did they feel rejection or affection as a child? sorry for teh angsty question, i am just curious. sending good ~~ vibes ~~ and good luck to ya. :3 - 🌟

i finally had the time to answer, so get ready for serious angst

alex's circle of affection was very small. it was their momma, the guard, their mum, but distantly after she moved for work, and, of course, elestial. those three showered them in affection as much as they could: their momma taught them to defend themself and gives them work to keep them busy and just generally cares for them; their mum sends gifts and takes them around the city the few times they go to visit; elestial gives them company and has made many gadgets to help with paperwork or, more importantly, take care of their animals

when alex was cursed with bad luck, everything went wrong around them. people were injured, broke objects, lost things, and generally had a bad time. they connected the dots and started avoiding alex, ignoring them, insulting them to their face and behind their back, and, in extreme cases, attacking them (only when their momma wasn't around because she wouldn't hesitate to defend her baby) so alex avoided people back, tired of the way they were treated, and preferred to choose to be alone than face the world

Sometimes writing is like having an enormous lake in your head, and you want to get it out of your head and into a proper place for a lake so other people can come and go swimming and ride jet skis and stuff, except all you have to move the lake is a teaspoon. So you’re just sitting there frantically flinging water out of the lake with your teaspoon and telling people, “Guys, this lake is going to be so cool when it’s done,” but it will never be done. There is so much lake.

being the creator of your own blorbo is so fucking hard I have to do EVERYTHING around here

Any new writeblrs I can follow? I haven't been super active lately and my dash is kind of dead. My current project is realistic fiction, but I'm also a fan of fantasy and sci-fi, so I'll check out anyone who writes fiction.

Bonus points if you want to tell me about an interesting character dynamic. I need to be able to link more random songs to characters I've read about (for self-care reasons).