#I have a fic that deals a lot with this

[cross-d-a]

I am….SO tired of “Qui-Gon is the uncaring selfish master” fic trend like……come up with something original. Make it nuanced. Stop with the black and white shit I am BEGGING. Not like I don’t adore the Jedi apprentice series bc I very VERY much do but jfc the Qui-gon bashing train is So Old. Pick something else. Just leaves a sour taste in my mouth at this point *BIG SIGH like if you’re gonna go that route make him actually LEARN from his mistakes. Miscommunication doesn’t make a villain, either. No one’s perfect and it’s absolutely uninteresting if you stick him in this solely negative role like Damn.

[finemealprompt]

DP x DC Prompt #88

Superman didn’t know how to handle having a clone. He was fighting the urge to get close to Kon, guide him in a way no one had been able to Clark, with feeling violated every time he saw the boy. He didn’t want to hate Kon, but he didn’t know how to balance his own emotions. 

When Clark admits this to Batman, he suggests someone who can help: Phantom. Dani Phantom.

[hood-ex]

Bruce barging in on Dick and Roy's violent trauma dump sexcapade is absolutely sending me.

[dustykneed]

--Really, Doctor?

[moyazaika]

people don’t write it often, probably bc it’s a bit intense and can be triggering

but my favorite type of darling are the ones who are 100% seriously willing and able to kill themselves to escape their yan

i don’t care about the having the will to survive and escape i want to have the pettiness and spite to take away the only thing they truly love (me)

ooooh ur right nonniee!!!! ☝🏽☝🏽

iii i agree it can be quite triggering. think for a lot of people it also breaks the immersion; if ur reading yandere to feel like you matter to the extent where someone is so enamoured with you they’d condemn the law and their own morals, it defeats the purpose if darling just ,,, like,,,, kills themselves,,,,,,

but there’s also a sort of power in that!!

the sheer devastation it would entail for them, to lose the object of their affection by their own fucking hand. they promised to keep you safe, tucked away from the rest of the world and all its dangers; and yet, in a tragically ironic way—

you were the one thing they couldn’t protect you from.

wonder who gets the last laugh, then.

[swiggity-swexual-i-am-asexual]

DPxDC media story prompt

Okay first off, this sort of thing has been done before, but here’s a different version involving Jazz Fenton.

Popular in DPxDC fanfic is that the GIW have a media blackouts—or whiteouts, there’s kind of a difference, where whiteouts work more like… there is a file, but you can’t edit it or it may be locked out for certain users, or an edited version of events where things are ‘whited out’ like with correction paste, among other definitions.

Point is!

The GIW have a media restriction, and among these is social media, probably with certain words or phrases pinging to location restrict the post. There was probably a phase for a while where the A-Listers tried to get around it, but ultimately failed, and since they could only get information IN rather than information OUT, and possibly still a limited amount of outside information in the first place, social media didn’t take off as much in Amity Park than in other places in the world. There’s still a small local presence, but at this point it’s almost like a city wide chat room than actual social media.

Enter in, Jazz Fenton. She’s chronically behind on trends, so by the time she decides to get on social media, the GIW aren’t being as militant on it. And she has that habit of calling the ghosts by code names instead of their actual names, such as Crate Creep instead of The Box Ghost, or Ghost X instead of Skulker. By pure coincidence of her personal language use and Tucker messing with all of Team Phantom’s phone locaters for easier excuse giving, Jazz manages to dodge all the word censors.

She accidentally creates a whole online story community convinced it’s some kind of altered reality game or role playing game, what have you. Meanwhile, Jazz is letting off steam by ranting online with, of course, made up names of all the people involved. She doesn’t even notice the numbers, and that’s assuming the GIW didn’t just—region lock the ability to see them for whatever reason. The few Amity Parkers on social medias see Jazz, maybe look at a complaint post or two, then move on because this isn’t even an unusual video inside Amity Park’s social media sphere.

Heck, PHANTOM has a social media presence and he’s done several rant videos too! One particularly famous one is him complaining about keeping his boots and gloves white while being chased and one of the GIW agents actually stops and gives him advice before shooting at him again.

Those outside Amity Park, of course, only see Jazz’s videos. And she has no idea that she has an entire online presence and mild amounts of online fame. And again, almost everyone thinks the whole thing is just a fun little game, if oddly detailed.

Until, that is, a certain young man by the name of Bernard comes in. One of the few who are totally convinced this is real, he tries to also convince his boyfriend—Timothy Drake-Wayne. Who, in turn, finds it incredibly suspicious that it’s this hard to get news and posts from one random town in the Midwest.

[teecupangel]

Do you have a personal take on esama's Badass with a Baby. The one where minerva gives ezio a baby desmond in the vault?

Badass With a Baby by esama for those who are curious.

Honestly? I wanna see Mario's reaction to seeing Ezio walking out of cathedral with a baby in hand.

He came there to help his nephew escape after assassinating Rodrigo Borgia, not knowing that said nephew didn't kill their greatest enemy and now he's running out of the Vatican with a baby in his arms.

He is definitely wondering if

Ezio abandoned his mission because he learned that he has a son being kept by the Borgias

OR

Ezio kidnapped a secret child of a Borgia

Or worse...

Ezio had an affair with the young lady of the Borgias and he's now running away with his newborn child.

[rosekasa]

creating for a fandom from teenage years to adulthood is so special because you can see where your subconscious was through the history of your works

[official-lucifers-child]

new fanfic pet peeve is when people are writing children and clearly don’t know the difference between a 3-year-old, a 7-year-old, and a 13-year-old. this newborn isn’t saying words, this teenager is learning emotional intelligence, this child is literally not capable of comprehending that complex topic. please, it takes 2 minutes to look up “how should a 9-year-old be speaking” and “how developed is a 4-year-old’s mind”

you could even take it a half step further and look up the various stages of development in people. piaget, kohlberg, erikson, all those psychologists created these stages because we all followed such strict patterns when growing. you don’t need to go into the moral development of your oc’s child but at least make sure they’re speaking and acting like a child would at that age.

also when in doubt, for older children just go for more mature. it’s far better than treating teenagers like they don’t know what an emotion is lol

[screechingfromthevoid]

Dorian with the crown keepers in some quiet taverns in quiet towns as they travel, he's always up late. He can't quite fall asleep well. So he sneaks out to a different tavern than the one they're staying at. He doesn't want to risk someone recognizing him in the morning.

At the new taverns, he goes straight to their stages. The emptier the better but it's not hard for him to convince a half drunk bard to get even drunker.

Sometimes he'd sit on the poorly lit stage and strum his mandolin and not say a word at all as he started to pluck out a tune. The chords are simple at first, something he heard in a dream. Every night spent working, adds another measure. Deeper swells and higher jumps. A mournful reverberation. He was stuck for a while.

Until he hears "glad you're not here... wish you were anyways".

Then, disjointed and seemingly unexpected, a reprise of that first plucking, an octave and a half lower. Still major, still jovial. Just. Deeper. Just... Realer.

I'll fix the transition later, he thought.

That's when the lyrics came. They weren't good but they spilled out of his mouth involuntarily. If it were up to him, those thoughts, those feelings would stay caged in his heart. Instead, a room full of strangers knew him more fully than his intimates.

Protector of air, guard of heart, bulwark of us

His simple plucked out tune, a dreamed up melody for a man he could only dream of.

You say you don't lead. But when I look to you, you're drenched in the boreal crux

A deep and quiet start to the encroaching swell, getting louder and higher.

Crowns of spiders couldn't tempt me astray from your due north

Trilled eight notes that felt like crawling legs and whispy silk on the back of the neck.

I thought you might be the wind caught in my sails. Always only you caught in my fibers

His last word carries a sour note, it sounded wrong, out of tune. Like he was.

A storm by another name, gold and red and melting black, tore us off course

Dorian's run was backwards, like he was free falling from a ledge. Accidentals plaguing it's decent.

It's harder than ever to orient through shades of grey and leave behind no remorse...

That reverberation was accompanied by a strain in his voice. Something that happened every night once he made it to that point. It came next to a swallow of something in his throat. That transition came to him, when Dorian thought about what got him out of his slump, he laughed. Bashfully, sheepishly. He always felt his face burn.

My heart aches. Stay steadfast. Fairer winds...

What a thing to say instead of I miss you.

I have stolen a world away. You are there, I am here. And all I want is to be together when we wake

His melody, their melody, picked up again. His fingers started to pluck staccatos in between the languid chords.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Or so they say. This distance has only made mine bleed icar

Dorian wouldn't allow himself to end this with a confession. At least, not one of guilt. It wasn't supposed to be about his straying. It was supposed to be about Orym. It was supposed to be about the man he-

I look for the direction ivy green grows. I look to you still, to find my way.

Sometimes he ended the song with another reprise of his dreamy melody. Sometimes, his fingers would slip on the strings and rancid mistakes would ring out into the crowd. It seemed to depend on how hard they fought that day. How much more Opal stained.

Dorian would always thanked the crowd before taking up the coins that were haphazardly thrown on stage. He wouldn't set out a hat or cup, it wasn't about that, but there was always coin at his feet by the end.

He'd walk quiet streets and thought about Bertrand. Dorian understood now, what he said about walking alone at night. He stepped carefully up lulling tavern stairs thinking about picking up a bottle for a round of "what the fuck is up with that" with friend that weren't waiting for him. He slid into the room he shared with his brother, acknowledging every time that this was the first time they did that. They never shared a room or a bed as children. They didn't share much. Now fully grown, he felt they were more childish than ever.

Dorian curled into himself on his cold side of the bed and thought about how he used to have a pulsing heart beat on his skin. Whether it was across his legs, against his back, against his chest. He never felt loneliness like this before. He never felt the absence of someone before.

And he was worse for it

[uncleardyn]

(alan wake-gravity falls crossover) man i love that character. you know, the deeply paranoid author who made a pact with a dark entity that ultimately ended with him stranded in another dimension separated from his loved ones for years at a time? takes place in the pacific northwest? has twin imagery associated with him and a reoccurring specific piece of symbology related to the unfortunate situation they're in? doesn't ever explain the reasoning behind his actions and instead just kinda goes "bro trust me"? yeah he also wears an outer layer of clothing with elbow pads on it, that one.

[im-not-corrupted]

I was consumed by the idea of Merman!Hob in the last few days and now I'm writing a Dreamling fic about it so have a small, 1.7k snippet from the much larger fic :)

Includes: near-drowning, near death experiences, perhaps many medical inaccuracies because I am not a doctor and haven't edited yet, Merman!Hob, Prince!Dream and some light angst.

---------

He awakes with a gasping, heaving breath. His lungs are greedy things, sucking in air with desperation, and he presses a hand to his chest. Beneath his palm, his heart races. Adrenaline and panic both fill his veins and his hand shakes. His lungs feel full, but as he coughs mostly involuntarily, nothing comes up at all.

It takes a bit for him to calm down. When he does, when his lungs stop heaving and he stops coughing and he is left with nothing but an ache in his lungs, his head and a rawness in his throat, he looks around himself.

He sits on a beach, the sands golden and kissed by the sun. It shines down on him, blessing his face with its light. His clothes are soaked through and no doubt ruined, and before him—before him is the ocean.

It holds none of the fierceness he saw earlier, and he stares at it blankly. It looks as welcoming, as lovely, as it did the day he stepped onto the ship. His mind had been occupied, yes, but he had enough awareness to acknowledge the sea’s beauty.

Not enough awareness to acknowledge its dangers, though. He remembers in startling clarity the coldness of its waters, the ferocity with which it drowned him, the storm that waged and threw him overboard.

He should’ve been more careful.

It is not just the ocean that lies before him, but a man, too. A man, staring at him with honey-eyes that catch the sunlight as though they were made for it, with a curiosity on his face that, if it weren’t for the sudden anxiety twisting his all-too empty stomach, would’ve endeared him immediately. His skin is tan, golden like the sands, and some distant part of his brain wants to press his lips to that skin and find out what it tastes like for himself. Like ocean salt and sweat and the sun itself, he thinks, and then considers the possibility that he may have suffered some brain damage due to oxygen deprivation.

It takes him a bit to find his voice. During that time, the man—sitting in the ocean as though he belongs there, ignorant of its gentle waves lapping at him—continues to stare, head tilted like a particularly curious bird. “Who are you?” he asks, wincing at the hoarseness of his throat. It feels scraped raw, and he thinks he would like to simply not speak for a while, only—only this is rather strange, isn’t it?

The man’s shoulders shake with laughter. He is a beautiful creature, this man, with chestnut hair framing his face. Laughter, and amusement, becomes him. Distantly, Morpheus is aware that he should probably take offence at the man’s laughter, only—only he doesn’t really have the energy. If anything, he thinks he’d much rather sleep. “The one who saved you, obviously. Or did you forget you nearly drowned?"

He has half a mind to scowl at the strange man in the water, but only just has enough energy to narrow his eyes. "You saved me," he repeats dumbly. In his defence, he did nearly drown, and sleep calls to him now. Nearly drowning is, apparently, rather exhausting. "We were in the middle of the ocean. We weren't even close to any land. How did you—"

Come to think of it, he can't recall having seen this man's face before. Though perhaps that's explained easily. He was distracted on the ship, after all, and it wasn't like he went out of the way to remember the entire crew. Both Telute and Lucienne always said he should try to interact with people a little more than he does, but he thinks recent events made him exempt from that rule these last few months.

Still. The man's statement doesn't really make sense. They were in the middle of an ocean, and in a storm no less. It would've been impossible for the man to save him then, at least not without a boat or ship of his own.

Thinking of it made his head hurt more. For a moment he feels ready to simply shrug and accept the nonsensical answer as truth in the hopes that maybe the man would leave him to rest. Logically, he knows that isn't what will happen at all. If this man knows who Morpheus is, if he recognises him, then there will be some kind of demand. A boon for saving the Prince's life.

He can't do anything about that now, though, and the idea of laying on this beach and letting himself wither under the sun's heat seems very appealing. He doesn't even know where they are, or how close he is to his kingdom. How he's supposed to make it back in this condition, he doesn't know. The task seems impossible, in all honesty.

The man does not leave him to rest, not even when Morpheus simply nods stiffly and says, "Sure. Saved me. Alright." He remains in the ocean actually, the waves lapping at his torso, and continues to stare at him blankly as though expecting something a little more. Eventually, he rolls his eyes—Rude, Morpheus thinks, but hardly cares at all in the moment—and moves a little closer. It looks almost like the ocean parts for him, but that's ridiculous.

Then—well, then things get even stranger. Which also seems impossible, but—there they are. The man shifts in the water and brings what looks like a tail out of the ocean, all golden scales and fins. Beautiful, he thinks, knowing he's staring but seemingly unable to help it. Of course the man's tail would be golden. That only makes sense when the rest of him could've been carved from sunlight.

A little belatedly, he realises just what he's staring at. Which is the man, who had a fish's tail.

Hallucinating. He is hallucinating, then. That makes sense. Still, he can't help but laugh quietly—it makes him wince, his lungs still raw and aching, but the pain is temporary and certainly doesn't matter much if he's hallucinating—and says, "You're a merman."

The statement is ludicrous. Morpheus wonders just how much damage nearly drowning can do to a person, and then figures he doesn't want to know at all, actually.

"That is what you call us, yes," the man agrees easily.

Sure. Why not. "Why did you save me then?"

He shrugs softly. “Too pretty for death,” the—the merman, of all things, tells him. It sounds almost petulant.

He is losing his mind. He had swallowed a lot of water. A merman. “One can be too pretty for death?” he asks weakly, his throat hoarse and his chest tight with pain. The ridiculous nature of the question at least makes that pain easy to ignore. It will get him later, he knows that much, but he lets himself be distracted by his amusement at the situation for a while.

The merman blinks at him, expression entirely serious. “You are.”

”Right.” Right. Of course. Too pretty for death. That makes sense. As much sense as a merman fishing him out of the water does.

Whatever energy let him carry this conversation leaves him suddenly and he falls onto his back on top of the sand, his elbows failing to hold him up any longer. The sun glares down at him and he gazes back up at it blearily. Exhaustion clings to him just as the beach does to his sea-soaked clothes. Sleep seems like a wonderful, bright idea.

He let his eyes fall shut. It isn't very effective for blocking out the sun’s rays—it remains insistent, and closing his eyes doesn't give him the satisfaction of darkness that he dearly wants. Still, while that would’ve been a problem any other time, his body yearned for the void, to let the dark take him. It would be easy to simply lay here and wither, until either the tide takes him or someone finds him. Whichever came first. He didn’t mind either way.

Then the merman spoke again. “Are you dying, pretty one?”

It took a great deal of effort, but he grunts, “No.”

”Are you sure?”

He is not, actually. But that is no concern of this mermaid, and he merely answers, “I am certain.”

Silence follows that statement. Morpheus lets himself relax, lets himself hope this is it. He can sleep now, he thought—and is quickly proven wrong, for the merman states, “You look like you’re dying. Does anybody look for you?”

He hardly cares. Distantly, though, he thinks Lucienne might be. Jessamy and Matthew, too. “Perhaps,” he says after a couple of minutes pass, when he realises he has not yet replied. "I would like to sleep now."

The merman makes a considering noise. "I do not know much about humans," he said slowly, and Morpheus can practically feel the concern in his voice now, "but I'm pretty sure that's a bad idea. I'll stay and talk to you until you're found."

"Must you?" he asks, a desperate edge to his voice. The merman's voice is pleasant enough, yes, but rest is the preferred option here, regardless of what he says.

"Yes," he confirms. Morpheus's eyes are still closed so he can't actually see but he can imagine the smile on his face easily enough.

He sighs heavily and wonders what he did to deserve this. Then figures this is some weird, twisted kind of punishment for all that happened with Orpheus and Calliope and resigns himself to his fate. "Very well."

The merman talks, almost endlessly, until the sun is low in the sky. It is, truly, an impressive amount of talking. Morpheus doesn't remember much of that afternoon. At some point, he regains just enough energy to sit up, to listen more attentively. The merman, whose name he doesn't learn, seems to appreciate that. And just when despair begins to eat at him—I will not be found, he thinks and despite his inaction while he sank into the ocean, the idea panics him, I will die on this beach—there are calls of his name from behind him. They are voices he recognises and his heart picks up its pace when he turns around to see Lucienne, Telute and Jessamy walking down the beach towards him, each of them looking a little rough but all of them alive.

When he turns back to the ocean, the merman is no longer there, and Morpheus wonders if he dreamt the whole thing up. He does not mention it as Jessamy helps him to his feet, as Telute pulls him in for a hug, as the three of them begin to make it back home, to their duties, but he does not forget the kind eyes of the man who saved him from drowning.

[kindaasrikal]

How tf did this fanfic actually reach 5k words already on chapter one and its not even half way completed.

The things i do for morro 😭

[kindaorangey]

sorry to say but the maker-fledgling/parent-child relationship dynamics make DM so much juicier. and i don't mean that in a kinky way in the slightest i mean it's insane to be adamant about never having a child for 500 years, break that vow on a whim and then be a deadbeat dad for a bit. and also on the more lighthearted and sappy side of things it's really interesting for a dying man in his 70s to be given another shot at life, with eternity ahead of him and the power of an ancient in his veins to inherit over the course of that eternity. idk idk! it's just neat.

[siliconforbrains]

Okay, it's like 10pm on a work night and I haven't had any coffee today so my thoughts are a little scrambled BUT. I WAS THINKING.

(About In Stars and Time of course I'm always thinking about that game)

A couple of years ago, at the height of Steddie -my sister was big into it and recced me some fics okay- I read this fic about Steve dealing with time loops ("The one in which a time loop is fucking exhausting" by badpancake) and there was this specific detail about the epilogue that stuck with me.

It was the idea that, once the time loops were done and over with, people would slowly start to remember bits and pieces of what happened in earlier loops. After being fractured for so long across dozens of timelines and experiences and outcomes, time was finally healing, and broken shards of lost memories would find their way back into people's minds.

And that got me thinking about a post-game what-if scenario where the same happens to the gang as they travel through Vaugarde.

Like they still don't remember everything -just bits and pieces. Experiences so emotionally charged that they found a way to cross the sands of time and reach them again.

The question is, what would those memories be? The first answer that comes to mind is some of Siffrin's deaths, of course. I can't imagine watching your friend get pancake-d by a boulder would be pleasant, nor witnessing them turning their own dagger to themselves. Or offering him a slice of your favorite snack only for him to go into anaphylactic shock in front of your very eyes, for that matter!

But there would be other instances too, wouldn't they? Death is not the only thing that shook them to their core. What about their first death to the King? Or Bonnie's fate at the end of Act 3? What about basking in the blissful feeling of victory against the tormentor of your land only to turn to look at your friend and know something is very, very wrong?

What about fighting through the House with a party of 4 instead of 5, bloodied, confused, staring in the face of the King knowing you're about to die and wondering why your friend left you all when you needed them most?

I honestly have no idea where I'm going with this, but I've been rotating this concept in my head since this morning and thought I'd get it out on here so y'all can suffer with me tehee

[sinful-karateka]

I'll bite and talk about something that doesn't get enough spotlight in general, which are Demetri's and Eli's family life. So obviously several fic authors have their own twists and flavors to this, but if I may sell you something for a sec.

So far into the series, what we've got are these facts:

Demetri's Mom is the only family member to be mentioned in the show.

Eli's parents were mentioned a couple of times.

That should be enough context to deduce two things:

Demetri could be an only child to a single mother, and;

Eli's parents involve themselves in the stuff that he does — including karate, who knows — though they tend to be tone deaf with his actual needs.

There's strong evidence to why the boys act the way they act (brain functions notwithstanding, but this isn't the post for that), which is why I think these deductions make sense. How their hypothetical upbringing is part and parcel to how characters behave in this series. Of course societal influence comes in second because obviously you've got a show that encourages learning karate as defense against bullies, but this show is also about generational chains and traumas! So why wouldn't their home life inform the way it informs the LaRusso's, Lawrence's, and Nichols'? But I digress.

In the span of the entire series, I've held onto this headcanon that Demetri's neuroticism and ability to anticipate his actions carefully stem from a household that needs these systems in place, much more for someone who likes to be on top of things. Since he's just a student, the only authoritative figure who can make executive decisions... is his mom. Add to the fact that she may be a working mom, so when Demetri tells Daniel about certain restrictions in learning karate, what could have made her decide to just write a letter instead vs. taking the time out to go with his son herself? I know I know it's narrative writing but like do you seeeee where I'm at here

Eli's family life is by far gave us early indications of his dynamic with his mother — but not so a father — in earlier seasons. It's possible that his mom is a stay-at-home one, but if I were to push the bounds of this box even further, I'd even speculate that she's retired early if it meant that Eli's dad is the one making most of the living. Like of course they'd get mad at Hawk for getting a tattoo at his age, I think any parent would! But the way he tells Aisha to exclude him from her stories tells us that there's not a lot that his parents know about the life he lives as Hawk. At this point we all know the kind of effort it takes to successfully carry it out because he has to go home every night. It's either he a) puts in a lot of effort into concealing this identity once he gets home, or b) his parents are rarely ever home, which again, feeds into another assumption that maybe Mrs. Moskowitz works certain hours.

All we know is they're never around a whole lot for these boys, which is sad! and also again, very Indicative of their classification as awkward nerds pre- and early karate. When I read along certain fics that consider and include how the rest of their characters besides the found families they've formed, it gives much more depth and potency to writing them, their flaws, and how they think.

For all we know, Mrs. Alexopoulos could be a lesbian making fun of her son for not slinging pussy like she does being rizzless unlike her, but don't let me explain that when we have @demetriandelibinaryboyfriends!