#This uh

[puppetmaster13u]

Another de-aged Danny au, but he's with Dan & Ellie & Jazz as well.

Jason has like just arrived back to Gotham, caused chaos in the underbelly due to well, 8 heads in a duffle bag, and is just starting his takeover of Crime Alley. It's going good, great even! And then he busts some sort of gang or smuggling ring run by people in white suits and there's... holy shit why do these four toddlers have Lazarus eyes?!

Is that a lab?! And Lazarus waters?! Jason might be a bit mad but he's not an asshole, he's not going to just leave these kids here to the streets. He can't just take them to the Batclan either, and as much as he begrudgingly trusts Talia, he sure as fuck doesn't trust Ras. Who knows what he'd do to four... what are they, pit-kids?

Now he's juggling his whole revenge-thing, running a criminal empire, taking over Gotham's underbelly, and being a single dad. At least the goonion seems to be down for helping, seeing as he's making Crime Alley safer...? .... Fuck he needs some proper sleep

[doughguts-art]

STOP FIGHTIIIIING

[coldgoldlazarus]

Metroid, as a series, as a story, is like a potluck picnic. You have all these really tasty individual dishes, that on their own wouldn't necessarily be enough to sustain a full meal unless you're looking for a small snack. But for an event like this, the appeal is getting a full-course meal out of these smaller food items.

You got peanut butter & jelly sandwiches, (Metroid) you got crunchy corn chips, (Return Of Samus) you got the slightly more substantial ham sandwiches. (Super). Next year, someone brings peanut butter celery snacks, (Zero Mission) X-treem Flavorblast potato chips (Samus Returns) and cool ranch corn chips (AM2R). Sometime, someone brings a super basic salad of lettuce and ranch dressing (Federation Force) that the kids all raise a disproportionate fuss about for something so harmless. There's hotdogs (Prime) and an initially unappetizing-looking but in fact astonishingly delicious quiche (Fusion) that arrive at the same time. Someone orders a pineapple pizza (Echoes) that also gets some complaints, but those that like it, really like it. Someone even has little mini-sausages on toothpicks (Pinball) that you can wash down with seven different flavors of soda. (Hunters) and of course for dessert, those packaged ice cream cones (Corruption) with a chocolate shell and a bunch of nuts that you always almost choke on at least once. Someone mentions they were gonna bring spicy chicken, but then goes radio silent and you assume they're stuck in traffic or went home.

And then he does show up after all, but bringing a giant pot of soup, and it just tastes. Bad. And the guy who brought it, you think his heart seems to have been in the right place, but he's eagerly explaining why he did this and it feels like he missed the point of the potluck. He says he felt like these picnic foods are all so simple and he wanted to make sure everyone's properly well-fed, so he decided to brew up this big thing of soup with a custom recipe, that has everything anyone could want all in one package.

And you look in the soup, and you see this hodgepodge of really really delicious, high-quality ingredients, that have absolutely no business being put together they way they were. Beef and veggies belong in soup, sure, but strawberry ice cream? Spaghetti? Mustard sauce? Did he dilute his broth base with gatorade? And you feel your heart sink because this feels like a waste of some perfectly good ingredients, and now nobody's going to be able to look at half this stuff without feeling nauseous. It doesn't go over well, a few kids and even some of the adults start crying, everyone goes home feeling like crap, and it's up in the air whether the hosts are even going to want to have another picnic after this.

But after a long wait, there is a next time, and this time the guy just brings the spicy chicken (Dread) he originally mentioned, and even though the jalapeno flavor is pretty dang strong (courtesy of the same source as the Xtreem-Flavorblast potato chips, who helped him out) it's a hit with everyone, and now we're all just waiting on the hotdog/pizza/ice cream cone guys to arrive with their surprise mystery cake.

[possiblym3rkury]

“do I look like him”

[transingthoseformers]

Just saying. In any universe where there's a sex ban going on, someone is going to be naive enough to think that you can essentially chastity belt a bot by plugging that hole up. Someone is going to legalise and encourage the use of valve plugs for legal reasons

Oh my God yes

That exactly happened

[lynx-tales]

The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka and Donnie Darko both feel like fantasies written by suicidal people but in very different ways

In Metamorphosis, the main character, Gregor Samsa, is transformed into a giant bug. Once the breadwinner, he becomes a burden on his family. They can’t understand him. He cannot work. He cannot leave his room. They increasingly forget about his existence even as he remains an ever present stressor. Just before he dies, his family decides that the bug is no longer Gregor. Their conversation is analytical, almost devoid of emotion to their transformed (and presumably deceased) son and brother. When Samsa finally dies, there is very little grief. The family leaves him behind, relief, if not joy, surrounds them.

The fantasy in this case is the fantasy that one is a burden, that when one dies there will only be relief and ultimately, their life will not have mattered much except as a footnote in the lives of the ones they troubled. One becomes more than their loved ones can bear. They become something loathsome, unable to looked upon, disgusting. And when one finally dies, there is no grief, only ease.

In Donnie Darko, it is the fantasy that one’s death can only improve the world, and the release of culpability for one’s own demise. When he spins back time, he creates a new timeline, one in which he dies, but which ultimately saves the lives of many of his loved ones and people he does not know. It is a mostly heroic sacrifice. There is grief, of course, but his death, in their eyes, is not his fault. To them, he has not committed suicide; his death is a random, horrible, freak accident. He bears no blame for it. He dies, lives are saved (though they likely don’t know it), he is tragically deceased, but no one is to blame. His death is not wholly good of course - the handsome pedophilic preacher/self help author doesn’t get outed for instance- but on the whole, the narrative supports his decision. He dies, and his death improves the world.

When one fantasizes about dying, in my experience, one often imagines a scenario in which they are not the one who carries out the deed. A car crash. An aneurism. Tackling a mass murderer. Not always heroic (though occasionally), but quick, clean, unambiguous, blameless. And one imagines the aftermath. A funeral, of course. (How many people show up that really care?) (How many show up that actually knew you?) But after that, their lives improve. Loved ones no longer have to accommodate for the wants and needs of the deceased. The deceased takes up no space but a cemetery plot, uses no resources and occupies little of their loved ones thoughts. As with Gregor Samsa, one imagines their death to ultimately be a relief. One less mouth to feed, one less carbon emitter, one less mess to clean up after, one less person they have to care about and cater to.

These are the fantasies of the suicidal - to die, for that death to be blameless, for their life to vanish under the waves of time, and to make the world better by having passed on.

[thegcng-arch]

there's this voice in my head that keeps telling me i'm doing everything wrong. it's been here for as long as i can remember, really. it sounds just like my mother, our dearly departed barbara. even though she's dead it seems she never really left. it always puts me on edge, makes me so angry. it's difficult to explain, hard to explain, too vulnerable. i don't want people to know about this voice, about these thoughts. that's not who dennis is supposed to be. i'm confident, perfect, intelligent, handsome. i'm enough, i have to be enough. the only person who i think picks up on the voice is @clockturned. that only annoys me more. that will happen, i suppose, when you live with someone for over twenty years.

mac is always trying to help and it pisses me off. like a puppy waiting for a treat, tail wagging with excitement as he waits to be given an order, begging to show his master how good he is ( i suppose that's what i am, his master ). even though all morning i've been telling mac to shut up as he tries to help me 'feel better', he still has the audacity to look at me with those shining brown eyes and say "i would do anything for you".

my head snaps to the side, eyes narrowing in his direction as i let his words hang in the air. i can hear the voice in my head getting louder, telling me to push mac away, to push away anyone who tries to help. "i know that mac." i respond, words quiet and cool, drawing in a deep breath. i've been trying to ignore that voice in my head recently, trying to be better. less rage-full. but how do i move on from everything i know?

"you should worry about what you can do for yourself." i continue on as i take a sip of my tea, leaning back in the kitchen chair a bit as i tilt my head up to look at mac. "because honestly, mac, you're a mess. if you spent less time worrying about how to fix me, maybe you could finally fix whatever the fuck is going on with you."

[itsahotminuteinbetween]

After your first encounter with Moon (which I have yet to write about, bear with me here), Sun tells you not to wait at the lamppost anymore, but to instead go straight to his cave and wait inside, making absolutely no stops along the way. You quirk a brow at his instructions (red flag #1, Sunny) but don't protest, shrugging it off as part of the elaborate mystery of the world in your closet. Sun neglects to tell you of the true dangers of the woods, the spies and thieves and kidnappers, of the terrible fate which falls upon every human that treks the death-white snow. He really ought to tell you, but every time he opens his mouth to say something, it's the wrong time, because you're laughing at his jokes or smiling warmly in his direction, or staring up at him with eyes that soak in everything he's ever wanted to say with devoted wonder and passion, and he hasn't had pleasant company in so long, not since...

His voice dies in his throat every time.

He's weak. He can't. He can't bring himself to do it even if he has to, he knows he has to and yet he can't. You have this-this spark in your eyes, this light to your soul, one so bright it illuminates everything around it. Such light hasn't existed in a long, long time. You are a beacon that draws him in like a moth to a flame, urging him to bask in the light and drink in the warmth it provides. You bring hope to a world of bleak defeat, a hope that Narnia desperately needs, that he desperately needs.

Sun knows his time is limited. He could break any day now, either succumbing to the screaming urge to take you up to the manor, to your grave, or to be taken to the jaws of the waiting tyrant himself. But if he tells you of such a risk, you may not return. You would leave, and he would be in the dark again.

Perhaps he is selfish, for wanting to keep such a bright light to himself.

[skelekins]

I offer u my game on notes

I may make this comic someday but idk when

Starts with Snaps and Kelek at the end of a date and walking down the street. Snaps shoes are untied and Kelek ends up stepping on one of his laces (which he may have done on purpose).

So Kelek’s like “omg snaps ur the worst with tiring ur shoes” and is just. He’s not great at not being suspicious. Especially when he just kinda grins at the look Snaps gives him.

So he’s like “here I got this joke, you should read it to me while I tie your shoes” and a moment later Snaps gets a text with said joke. Kelek’s obviously prepared.

I imagine him just having the stupidest sneaky kitty face. And Snaps obviously knowing something’s up but plays along anyway.

He sent Snaps a version of this very long winded joke. Link

When Snaps is done and possibly snorts bc of what a dumb fucking joke that was he is met with Kelek also laughing and then promptly

Honking him right in the dick

Before scurrying away. In the time it took Snaps to read the joke (and willfully ignore Kelek ‘tieing his shoes’) Kelek has changed into one of his ‘play’ outfits.

He slaps his ass and tells Snaps he bet he can’t catch him and takes off.

When Snaps gives chase he prompty falls face first into the perfectly placed backpack Kelek left behind to make sure Snaps didn’t actually get hurt in the fall.

Kelek did tie his shoelaces! … together :3

Snaps belongs to @didderd; these are my own thoughts and takes :)

I just love these two sm

[basingstokemercury]

Hmm still trying to unpack that one, it's interesting as a self-psychoanalysis

I know that logically it shouldn't change how I see Julian

I couldn't care less about his physical ability, and having a highly intelligent character to relate to may be nice but isn't what makes a person

As ambivalent as I am about O'Brien, he's right here: I (and, I assume, the cast) love Julian for his compassion, understanding, and gentleness. None of those were given to him by the gene therapy, and none of them are changed by its existence.

So why do I still think of him differently? Why am I uncomfortable with this information? Why does being told that I spent all this time being enamoured by invested in a genetically altered person make me feel misled or betrayed somehow?

It's honestly a rather unpleasant self-realisation, considering all this was done without his consent and he seems to feel the same way about it.

Anyway to sidetrack from my awkward self-reflection

The ending stinger felt kind of... mean-spirited I guess?

He's clearly spent half his life agonising over whether he really deserves his success and what the life he should have had would have been like, and after one moment of sympathy and support O'Brien's response is "so this gives you an advantage over me? we can't have that!"

Honestly

I already wrote my thoughts on his actions in the next episode but this merits criticism too

WHY DO YOU WANT TO EMPHASISE THAT HE'S DIFFERENT AFTER HE POURED OUT HIS HEART IN FRONT OF YOU AND GAVE A WHOLE SELF-HATING MONOLOGUE DO YOU HAVE NEGATIVE EMOTIONAL INTELLIGENCE OR SOMETHING

[sparrowsage]

What's the WORST torture you can think of in the next five seconds??

NO CHEATING

TYPE IT. TYPE IT NOW.

Worst torture? It would probably be having my main subject tied hand and foot to a chair, gagged and unable to look away from what's in front of him. Then, I'd bring in someone he's close too, who would also be restrained and beat them bloody, letting my main subject watch on in horror. I'd take a hammer to their bones and a gun to their ball socket joints before pouring gasoline over their body and lighting it, watching on as my main subject cries in terror as they can't look away from their loved one dying a horrible gruesome death. Then I'd repeat til I was satisfied or til I ran out of people. By the end, I'd let my main subject sit with this horror for a few days before doing it to them.

[swervesbootycall]

Literally anything with riptide, man- love me my ocean man

//. Cybertronian Ex-Autobot neutral reader. Hope this is something.//

“I haven’t been held hostage in a while,” Riptide sounds almost impressed, “I didn’t think you would really go through with it.”

“I guess that explains why you practically volunteered,” you mutter.

It was work to move forward keeping Riptide’s gun pressed firmly against the spot marksmecha like yourself referred to as the “point of no return.” There were cranial injuries, even near complete destructions, that the right mechanic could bring a bugger back from, but you had a long, solid habit of never inflicting them. One shot: one less Decepticon. That had been your modus operandi from the moment you’d been forged up until your—

“The deserter!” Some bot or another yelps on finally spotting the two of you enter the ship’s main corridor.

“Your ship’s security is awful,” you grumbled to Riptide, “I assumed the alarm had been sounded back in the brig.”

“Red Alert was re-stationed a while ago, that’s probably why.”

“No idea who that is, but at least the name’s unsubtle enough to guess,” you raise your voice, “yeah it’s the deserter. The assassin. Tell Ultra Magnus to get a pod ready for the nearest waystation or you’re volunteering for next example.”

You jab the gun a little harder against Riptide and he winces, making you wince. You want to apologize, but the ruse is too important. Too much on the line. The bot rushes off to sound the alarm. You stick to the wall.

“I think they would let you go, if you just explained the situation. The war is over. And Ultra Magnus is-“

“Still running the place on military rank and code. Everybody’s still got their badges,” you mutter, “and it’s not like I haven’t racked up a body count on both sides. If you were serious about helping, just. Keep quiet.”

Riptide looks at you, concern in his faceplate, and you look away with a cough.

Very quietly you add, “please?” --- You spend the flight to the waystation pacing while Riptide sits and watches you.  "What are you worried about?" "Who says I'm worried?" "You're biting the paint from your hand?"

You exvent and face Riptide. "It's not easy to relax with," you gesture to the Lost Light, which lazily follows your small craft. "You really think they would have shot you down without me?" "I don't know what to think." You check on autopilot again. Check your weapons. Check your comms. You're so busy checking things that your don't notice Riptide until his arms are around you. His chin rests on your shoulder. "I'm glad I got to see you again, if that helps." What it does is bluescreen your processor. "Riptide. I'm not. It's not good that we... reunited."

"Huh." "Huh?" "Just huh." Slowly, you set your gear down and, cautiously, hug him back. "I didn't think you would really go through with the hostaging," Riptide finally says, "because we both know you can't lie for scrap." "...Well. Good thing we were the only ones who did." "Hah, yeah." You don't mean to kiss him. You really don't, but another thing you can't do for scrap is resist your feelings for Riptide. You've never been able to. You didn't mean to find yourself under him for the brief time you were stationed together, and you don't mean to now.

And just like then, he knows this somehow. Riptide doesn't escalate, he lets the two of you slide to the floor and just holds you- careful to avoid your scratched out insignia. "You want to focus on finding your brother," he says half to you, half to himself, and ten percent to no-one. "I'm sorry." "It's okay." "It's not. I owe you so much, Riptide."

"Okay, then just try to stay alive so you can pay me back. Hey, maybe if you find him we can capture both of you! Then you won't have to hostage anyone." "...That's...that's an idea. That exists. Thanks Riptide."

"You can kiss me again if you want."

--- You bolt the instant the pod touches down, transforming for maximum speed. Riptide watches you go ant touches his faceplate. At least you got to say goodbye this time. He wonders if you'll forget him. Maybe that's okay. Maybe it's best to try and forget too... not that he was able to before. He smiles. Nah. He has to remember you. Otherwise, how would he explain all the new paint transfers to Ratchet?

[epicaxolotls]

i forgot i made this thing, so here-

[dollopheadedmerlin]

Part of the reason I've been having trouble writing lately is that I almost just want to write one thing

Because one of my books will inevitably be my best book, right? Whether it's critically, financially, popularly, whatever. One of my books is inevitably going to feel like my masterpiece either to me or to the masses and if I make one book that does spectacular and no one reads the other ones, then all of the good ideas I had for the others go to waste. This scene is too good for this book. I should save it for later. Oh, this idea is too deep for my fan fiction, I should skip this scene and put it in a book later.

But that's all silly and irrational and I know that, but it still sometimes feels strange to separate all my loves and made up lives into separate works because I want them to be together. I wanna be able to show everyone the world. My silly little clown character from one book deserves just as much as the lovestruck lover from another, or the king and his fragile son or the immortal who is searching for a way to rest. So why not just keep them all together. Don't split them up. Just keep them all safe in my brain where they're all masterpieces to me.

And suddenly I get why some creators retcon mechanics of their stories. They found a better idea, but they love their characters. So instead of letting them go, they just shift the story around them to include everyone and everything.

I'm not going to do that.

Because one thing that fan fiction has taught me is that people love reading the same thing over and over again.

So if I write a scene and it is so cool and so fun to write, what is stopping me from writing it again with different context and different names? I'm only stealing from myself. I can do it again, if I want.

I just gotta focus on one story at a time. Sure, maybe this idea would be cooler in my next book, but why don't we just try it again then and find out, huh?

[endlesscacophony]

@beycndfates said: It was almost comedic how long it took her to merely walk from the counter to the tables. She stood there far too long after she had been handed the item requested from the cook brewed the cup that was gripped in her hand. Her footsteps were too methodical, though silent as she approached and set the cup down in front of him, hiding her face by looking to the side. “I apologize for intruding, I just felt this may help,” Khione spoke quietly, “Chamomile is good for headaches — or so I read. If you do not want it that is fine! I just thought it might help your pain. I’ve had similar—“ She stopped herself, giving a quick bow of respect, “Excuse my ramblings, I’ll be off then!” (For our boi dimiii)

The events that had unfolded over the last several weeks where unlike anything Dimitri had come across, unlike anything that he felt he could properly stand. Starting with Edelgard revealing herself to be the traitorous wretch that she was, secretly working alongside those that had killed her own mother all this time. He supposed, though, that after that, it was only a matter of time before the next several events followed suit, the declaration of war, the surge of imperial soldiers, and now the attack on Garreg Mach's holy ground. Perhaps she thought it to be a strategic attack, one where she could wipe the church along with the heirs to the other two countries in Fodlan off the map at the same time.

Taking out two birds with a single stone, he supposed. But alas, it didn't work, the church despite the damage was still standing, alongside the students who still remained inside.

The Black Eagle house had disappeared weeks ago, leaving the whole of them complacent in Edelgard's schemes, while the Golden Deer and Blue Lion houses had been left behind, left to fend for their very lives in a declaration of war none of them wished for. A war that that woman started, a war that Dimitri would end. kill her, kill her TAKE HER HEAD - !!

Dimitri's head settled in his hand for a moment, the pulsing of another wave of this headache settling on his shoulders as he attempted to rid himself of them. Attempting to push them away from the forefront of his mind have proved more and more difficult as time has passed on. But even still, he did what he must, pushed on through it all to ensure that those around him were properly taken care of. While most of the students were out, already headed to their homes to recuperate and prepare for the war to come. Some were still unconscious, injured from the attack, they were the reason Dimitri remained, despite the urging to return to Fhirdiad from those around him, he was not going to abandon those under his charge. And while his title of 'house leader' was all but moot, they were still his friends, still those he cherished be it in his own house or the Golden deer.

But waiting for others to heal enough to make the trip back was a difficult process, one that failed to see much progress as the hours passed on. There was little for him to do. Truly there was little that could be done at all, even with the healers tending to them all. Perhaps that was why he found himself here, in the mess hall once more, settled at the end of one of the long tables, staving off a headache that hasn't left him for weeks.

He supposes his own suffering was obvious, despite his best intentions, if the other's approach meant anything. Instantly, he sat up straighter, gentle blue eyes widen as he watched her, glancing to the cup of tea in her hands, still steaming from the hot water within it. "Oh," He moved to stand, to assist her with taking the cup that must be hurting her by this point. "Thank you, I -"

“Excuse my ramblings, I’ll be off then!”

His appreciation was halted on his lips, cut off not only by her excuse to leave his presence, but by his own call out to her, "I - Khione - !" He supposes it was a bit too loud for the quiet shuffling of the mess hall. He cleared his throat, fist raised to his lips as he averted his gaze, taking a mere moment to collect himself before he looked to her again.

"Apologies, I didn't mean to startle you," He started again, "I just ... I wanted to thank you properly ... for the tea," He gestured to the cup steaming before him on the table, "Perhaps you'd like to join me?" Long gone were the tea times shared with friends in the gardens outside, teas and cakes displayed on an elegant platter meant to be shared over polite conversation. All that a distant memory burnt asunder outside the door, now they were all that remained.

"I realized I hadn't really had the chance to check in on you after everything that happened," A true failing on his part, as a student of the blue lions house, he should have done more to ascertain that everyone was truly unharmed. While, he did all he could to help and assist where he was able, but between the debilitating headaches, the reminder that he, himself, should be heading home and the cacophonous accompaniment of voices rioting in his mind, it had grown quite difficult to concentrate, let alone remember everything that he must do. failure, foolish MONSTER, DISGUSTING WRETCH - !!

"Only if you have a moment, I don't wish to distract you if there are other matters that you need to attend to."