#forced to take a body

[cozmic-ash]

more Harvey, bc my brain is only capable of focusing on like three things at any given time

imagining he works out with the ladies at Pierre's place and the farmer is peeking around the corner like 😳

[ghostbredtt]

nya page bcuz I missed her. I'm not back in the building, but who knows!!

[bet-on-me-13]

The one where Bruce is the asshole (again)

So! We have a typical story where the JLA finds out about the Situation in Amity.

Whichever way they find out doesn't matter, but either way they end up sending Batman to do a threat analysis and review of whether this requires their attention.

And while there, he runs into a Kid who obviously needs to be saved from his Abusive Home. Look at him, he's far too thin, his grades are horrible, he has many unexcused absences, and he has bruises hidden under his clothes.

Even after figuring out that Danny is Phantom the local Hero, he thinks Danny needs to be saved from his Parents.

I mean, it's plain to see! They Hates Ghosts with a Passion, negelct their son very often, shoot at him nearly every day, and are probably the ones who killed him in the first place!

So, with no input from Danny himself, Bruce calls CPS on the Fentons and uses his Wealth to expedite the process and avoid the actual Investigation. (I mean, why would you even need one? It's so obviously a bad home!)

The Fenton's are arrested, and Bruce reveals that Danny is Phantom to convince the Courts that they are horrible people for shooting at their own son, and that they should be locked up (ignoring the horrified looks on their faces, probably cause they were living with a Ghost for so long, thats probably why).

He immediately offers to adopt Danny, even when Danny vehemently refuses his offer. He knows that Danny will come around to it, he's doing this for his own good. He still thinks his Parents were good people, and not thr Villains they really were.

Meanwhile Danny's life has been completely uprooted thanks to the self-righteous machinations of an Adoption Crazed Fruitloop! And not even the usual one!

Sure his parents were often busy with their work, but they Always set aside time to hang out with their kids and make sure they were okay. They never abused him, the neglect was only for like a month or two when the portal before they got their act together and apologized for it, and (most importantly) THEY DIDN'T KNOW he was a Halfa when they shot at him! They only found out when the ASSHOLE revealed his Identity in Court!

And Danny is Extra enraged by that part. The Adoption Crazed Fruitloop had revealed his secret identity for the ENTIRE WORLD TO HEAR!

He would never be able to live a normal life anymore, even if he managed to get away from the Moron who caused all this!

Bruce Wayne was a Villain in his eyes.

He ripped him from his home and from his family (basically kidnapped), revealed his identity to the world so he was forced to stay with him for fear of the GIW, and spun the whole story so that it looked like he was the Good Guy in this!?

It was official. Danny Hates Bruce Wayne, possibly more than anyone else in the World.

And that's a High Bar.

[meltedmush]

With great power comes with great need to make skin creatures

HELL YEAHH

[always-a-joyful-note]

To Be Hero X, the most idol donghua that isn't an idol donghua that there ever was....

[coldbronzemoon]

Dead on Arrival

Stan goes to his brother's house hoping for a reunion.

He doesn't get one.

A Frankenford one-shot inspired by this post by @crypticmushroom

Stanley Pines didn't know what the hell he was looking at.

Well, he did. He was looking at 618 Gopher Road, the address his twin brother supposedly lived in. But that didn't make sense.

He wasn't sure exactly what he would've imagined Stanford's house to look like at this point in their lives—mostly he'd be busy gnawing on his jealousy that Stanford had a whole house to his name—but it would've involved less... barbed wire. Less 'KEEP OUT!' signs. Less of an overwhelming air of mania and fear. The cabin stood stark against the white of the blizzard Stanford had forced Stan to drive through. It looked less like a building and more like an animal crouching in wait, some looming beast with one large glassy eye staring down at him.

Stan almost wanted to turn around and go back to his car, currently abandoned some distance away when the piles of snow had proven too much for an old girl with no winter tires to speak of.

But Stanford had sent for him. After ten years. Even if the last sparks of brotherly concern weren't urging Stan on, sheer curiosity would've pushed him forward. What the hell was going on?

He trudged his way through the snow and up to the front porch, stilling at the door. His fist hesitated in place. This cabin was nothing like what he would've imagined. It unsettled him, left him off-kilter. It made his imagination spiral off to odd places; he thought of this house not even being Stanford's, that he was about to invite a maniac to hurl the door open and shoot him dead then and there.

But no. Stanford wouldn't break ten years of silence just to be a bastard. Would he?

"C'mon," he muttered to himself, just to hear something outside of the howling of the wind. "He's your brother. He won't bite."

He knocked on the door.

Nothing.

He pounded on the door.

Nothing.

Just silence underneath the wind and the whipping of pine branches out in the forest.

His breath rushed out of him in white plumes. He shivered. His jacket was good enough for New Mexico, not a freak blizzard up north in Oregon. If nothing else, Stanford owed him some time in his heated house for making Stan drag himself through this weather.

Stan gave one final round of resounding knocks, ones so harsh anyone in the house had to have heard them.

Nothing.

This was the point were Stan turned around, got back into his car, and gave up on his brother. Or at least, it was the point that he turned around, got back into his car, and found a place to stay the night in town before trying again tomorrow, hopefully with less snow whipping around him and chilling him to the bone.

Stan's hand drifted down to the door knob. In a fit of impulse, he turned it and tried to open the door.

The front door groaned open, something scraping along the frame as it went. Stan almost laughed out loud. All of the fencing, the signs, the frantic desperation to keep people away, and the front door was unlocked? Was Stanford stupid?

No. He wasn't. Not this kind of stupid, anyway.

The unlocked door was suddenly as unsettling as the rest of the house.

Still, Stan didn't have any plans to freeze outside when there was a perfectly good interior right in front of him. Better to ask forgiveness instead of permission, that was always his motto. Right behind 'Never say please' and 'Punching solves all your problems one way or another.'

He pushed the door in even further and let himself inside.

Stan didn't know what the hell he was looking at.

He expected a living room. Maybe one of those fancy 'mudrooms' that just seemed like a waste of building material to him. Something half-way to normal.

Instead, there was stuff. Loads and loads of stuff. Things in jars, giant hulking shapes hidden underneath tarps, a huge fish tank with a skull in it, an anatomical skeleton, way too many medical instrument-looking things. It looked like a horror movie props department and the storage room for a college of science had thrown up in the same spot.

Stan edged into the room, shutting the door behind him. It was nearly as cold in here as it was outside, that was the first thing he noticed. The second was that there were no lights on, and that the place smelled bad.

He knew this kind of smell. It came from a bunch of injured people being in a room together before they got any medical attention that introduced disinfectant to the equation. It was a heavy metallic smell that cut through the dust and rot that also hovered in the air.

Why did Stanford's house smell like blood? Why did it look like this?

Mechanically, he turned to make sure that the door was locked, a well-earned habit. He stopped. The front door had eight locks running down its side.

Stan spent a long moment looking at those locks. Somehow, they were worse than all the signs of paranoia outside.

The outside... it was over the top. It was too much. He couldn't imagine Stanford setting it all up. These locks were also too much, but Stan understood them. He had never wrapped barbed wire around his house, but he had installed more locks on a motel room door in a fit of desperation once.

That was something you did with wild eyes, crouching and ducking and thinking that at any second someone was going to take a knife to your back.

Stan took a deep, ragged breath, still staring at the locks.

He was—afraid. Yeah, afraid. Stan had been afraid a lot of points in his life, but it usually wasn't this kind of slow, sickly fear, one that made him unable to move. Usually his fear was driving his feet to run him straight out of Dodge.

A loud howl of wind scraped along the sides of the cabin, rattling it. Stan flinched away from the door, then lurched back to it to hastily lock every lock he could in one go.

He turned back to the dark cavern of a room he was in, finding a doorway to a hallway with his eyes.

There were two options.

One: Stanford wasn't in the house anymore. Whatever had driven him to the extent of paranoia the cabin displayed had later driven him to run from it, out somewhere Stan couldn't follow. Stan hadn't seen a car, so maybe... but then, he hadn't looked around the cabin too thoroughly, so there was a chance there was a car here he hadn't noticed.

Two: Stanford was here in the house somewhere, and had forgotten it was Stan that was coming and hid himself away once the knocking started. It was cold and dark because Stanford wanted to make it seem like there was no one here.

Option two was the one that gave Stan anything to do, so he chose to believe that one. He just had to find where Stanford had holed himself up, coax him out, and then start a game plan for dealing with whoever had frightened his brother so much he resorted to barbed wire and eight locks on the door.

And then... then they'd go from there. Stan had spent too much of the drive imagining that this was finally Stanford reaching out to him so they could be proper brothers again, but that thought wasn't important anymore. Stan didn't need reconciliation right now. Knowing Stanford was safe would do.

He crept further into the house after giving the first room a cursory once-over. All he found were more weird things in glassy containers, reams of messy papers, and machines and tools with purposes he couldn't divine. He hadn't really expected to find Stanford there.

Taking a bat he found among the stuff for an emergency weapon, he took on the hallway. It was as dark and cold as the front of the cabin, random things strewn around. There were a lot of post-it notes stuck up on the wall, and when he used his lighter to read them, he found a confusing mix between written codes and demands for someone to stop talking.

Unnerved, he stopped pausing to read them. Stanford could explain them when Stan found him.

Beyond that was a room that was maybe a living room before tons of junk had been shoved into it, or maybe it used to be some sort of study. Either way, Stan called out that it was him and sifted through the stuff until he was satisfied that Stanford wasn't crammed behind a desk or something.

The kitchen was refreshingly kitchen-like, as long as he ignored the stupid arrangement of the furniture and the masses of dirty plates and cups. There was even something shattered on the ground and a huge dark stain on the wooden floor and smeared along the wall. Stan chose to believe it was coffee Stanford hadn't cleaned up and moved on. There was nowhere for someone to hide in there.

The wind outside continued to howl and wail as he worked through the dark interior. Snow was driving against the windows. Soon enough it wouldn't matter if Stanford was hiding in this house; Stan would be stuck until the snow melted.

He pushed that thought away and made for another door. A bathroom, this time. The sight of it stopped him in his tracks. The smell was worse. It was the metallic rot of blood, and it was easy to see why. The tiles of the room were splattered with the stuff, rolls of soiled bandages chucked into the small trash can, a bloody six-fingered hand print left on the cracked mirror.

Stan's breath seized in his chest. What the hell had happened here? How had Stanford gotten this injured?

Was there a reason Stanford hadn't come to investigate who was in his house yet...?

No. Stan forced himself to look the blood over again. It was old, having at least a day to dry. Maybe more. If Stanford had been attacked, he survived it well enough to fix himself up and later replace the bandages multiple times and trash them.

All this meant was that Stanford had good reason to give his door eight locks. Someone did want him hurt. But that didn't mean they'd done him in.

The plan still remained the same. Find Stanford, figure out what was going on, get rid of whoever made his brother so frantic and paranoid. Whoever had hurt him.

Stan backed out of the bathroom. He needed to be anywhere else before the room started to really get to him. He didn't want to get lost in thoughts of exactly what kinds of wounds his twin had gotten.

He stepped through the hallway, calling out to Stanford. He was pretty sure his voice was close enough to what it was ten years ago that Stanford would recognize it. He was getting a bit sick of having to search every nook and cranny.

No response but the creaking of the cabin. Stan twitched at every sound, sure it was either Stanford coming out of his hiding place or someone returning to finish the job.

Another door. He creaked it open, expecting another room full of junk.

Not this one. It was eerily open compared to the clutter of the rest of the house, even with all of the papers stacked around. It took him a moment to register the calendar on the wall and the fact that the couch in here had blankets thrown over it.

Stanford used to jokingly claim that couches were infinitely more comfortable to sleep in than beds, and that if he ever got his own room he'd insist on a couch to sleep on. Was this his room?

Stan nudged his way in, surveying the papers from what little he could make out in the long shadows of the night. Maybe there'd be something useful here, notes that helped explain who was after Stanford. It was worth a look.

He took his lighter out and got a better look around. Papers, papers, more papers—

And something else in the very back of the room. A dark lump. Stan had seen too many weird shapes in this house to jump, but he didn't like that he couldn't tell what it was all the same. He stepped over the papers to get a look.

It was the right size...

Stan didn't let himself think that.

The fabric that his lighter revealed didn't look like upholstery...

Stan didn't let himself think that.

The smell of blood was heavy in his room as well...

Stan didn't let himself think that.

"Sixer," he said into the cold air. His voice was hoarse. "Stanford. What are you doing? Get up."

There was a dark patch on the wall in front of his brother.

"Stanford. This isn't fucking funny. I'm tryin' to help you."

The shape on the floor didn't move. Stan's breaths were coming heavy now, more gasps than anything, and he didn't know why, he refused to know why. He dropped the bat.

He stooped down and grabbed Stanford's shoulder, forcing him up into a kneeling position from where he'd been folded over himself.

"Get up, Stanford. I'm serious," he said.

But Stanford wasn't listening. His eyes were wide and wild and unblinking. One of his temples was bloody and caved in like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. Dark lines of blood trailed down one of his eyes, out of his nose. He wasn't breathing.

Stanford was dead.

Stan's heaving gasps filled the room. He couldn't hear the wind anymore. He couldn't hear anything.

Stanford was dead.

That was impossible. Between the two of them, Stan should've been the one to die first. He had always known that in the back of his mind. Stan was the drifter, the criminal, the one who got himself tangled up with all the wrong people. He was the one who should've died with no one caring to check on him. Not Stanford.

He should've known, somehow. He should've felt it as he drove up to the cabin.

The blood was still tacky. When had Ford died? It had to have been recently. Had it been today?

Could Stan have gotten here before it happened? If he had driven faster—had jumped into his car the minute he saw the card, not leaving time to pack his meager possessions—if he had rustled up the money for a plane ride—if he'd bitten the bullet months ago, years ago, and just said something after calling Stanford in a moment of weakness—

Then his brother might not be dead.

"Stanford," he croaked. A denial. A plea. "Ford, Ford, Ford—"

His brother didn't answer, merely staring up at the ceiling where his tipped-back head directed him to look. For the first time, Stan noticed the red cover of a book cradled in Ford's stiff arms, a piece of paper crinkled in his hold as well. It was almost like Ford was just looking up at the ceiling in thought after reading another science textbook Stan couldn't hope to understand.

The bloody indent on Ford's head refused him that daydream. Stan couldn't bear to keep looking at it. He looked down at the book and paper instead.

On the paper was the word 'STAN'. He almost let Ford drop down against the floor in his haste to tug it out of his cold hands. There was a note written there, one in their old secret language he still remembered after all this time. That Ford still remembered after all this time.

Stanley Pines didn't cry. He hadn't since he was a child. Crying was useless. But sitting there in the dark with the cold corpse of his own twin brother, he came dangerously close. Perhaps he really did cry.

There was no one else in the house to see it happen, after all.

He held the note bearing his name tightly in his hands.

Later, when he finally mustered up the courage to read the note, it read: IF YOU HAVE THIS, I'M DEAD. MY BODY IS AT RISK OF POSSESSION--THE DEMON SEEKING MY BODY CANNOT BE ALLOWED TO USE IT. PLEASE LOCATE THE NECROMANCY BOOK I'VE STORED BEHIND THE SHIP AND FOLLOW DIRECTIONS TO BAR HIM FROM ME.

Stan read the note at least three times. He came to an easy decision.

He didn't give a damn about any demons. If there was a book on necromancy in this house, he was using it for one thing and one thing only.

Bringing his brother back to life.

[skunkes]

old drawings i found and enjoyed while looking for something else

[agathasvidal]

imagine rio and agatha did have nicholas together.

rio brought this child into the world, only to have to take him away again.

[everythingwasnormalhere]

trans day of remembrance please for fuck's sake remember disabled trans people this time, dont leave it to us to be the only ones who mourn them

so many posts about today and ive seen nobody mention them. nobody at all.

im fucking tired.

[tarantula-hawk-wasp]

quite simply character of all time to me i keep coming back to doing screenshot redraws of Shiro in fall of the castle of lions & tears of the balmera. episodes of all time to me no notes.

[tmos-time]

hi

so uhhh this line in your erisol understuck post "not getting into all the ELABORATE thoughts i have on how the geno route would go"

…………can we have some of it????I'm dying of curiousity ever since I read that post lol

also just to let you know that your aus are all very fabulous and they live in my brain rent free all the time. i was wondering do you mind fanart??

aww thank you, i don't mind at all! would love to be tagged if anyone makes any <3

as for the understuck geno route; here's a loose plot path for it!

basically, the plan would be to have a split in how the route could theoretically go; a normal version of the route following close enough to undertale's canon events with the characters given, and a secret route for speedrunners because sollux deserves to have a proper battle at the chagrin of people trying to speedrun LOL

[heartfullofleeches]

There is an universe somewhere where I'm able to commission you one William dollar to make a bottom Host blurb but it isn't this one unfortunately 💔💔

If only there was a universe where someone requested this because i would be willing to write it in a heartbeat but alas 💔

[unforth]

Alright I'm gonna try to keep this brief but things have progressed enough that they're definitely going to impact my ability to do even my basic online shit so here's wtf has been going on.

A week and a half ago, I found out my dad was very sick. He'd been keeping it a secret. A week ago, my brother came and bullied dad to go to the hospital. He had a systemic infection that would have been fatal left untreated and he also has prostate cancer (which he knew but hadn't told us). He's been hospitalized since; he was discharged yesterday to in-patient rehab because he can't even sit up without help. He is 83 and expected to recover, though if he'll reach 100% is iffy.

His wife, my step-mother, has Alzheimers that has gotten quite advanced. Dad is her sole caretaker (surely why he risked death to stay home with her). She cannot be left alone. With him unable to care for her, my brother, step-brother, and I are juggling her care, but she threatened my brother with a knife so he won't stay with her (she didn’t know who he was, thought he'd broken in to attack her), and I live 2.5 hrs away and step-brother can't do it entirely solo (like. He doesn't drive. He can't get her to appointments or anything) . She needs a long-term not-at-home solution and while dad has been saving money to make that happen, no actual steps had been taken yet.

And I discovered yesterday that I have her power of attorney while dad is incapacitated, which means the legal decisions and responsibility for getting her help are all on me.

Needless to say, that's a lot of pressure and is time consuming, especially factoring in the distances involved - the area where we're looking to place her is 3+ hr drive for me.

And I've still got my own family, two kids, our house and life, and @duckprintspress

I. Might be just a little stressed the fuck out right now.

So. Apologies in advance if I fall behind on anything or fuck anything up. I'm stretched about as far as I can be, and then stretched a bit more just for funsies and The Bit.

[wreckedhoney]

time travel au but specifically with the flavor of post-66 longtime fugitive obi-wan having little to no sense of self importance next to the grand scheme of things. coming across a power that allows him to choose one (or three?) points in the past where he can temporarily possess his past self and alter events, and one of the first things he thinks of doing is sacrificing himself to save qui-gon, because maybe he'd be the better, wiser, more experienced master; maybe he can catch and handle everything obi-wan couldn't.

except young obi-wan is healed with older-wan still in his body, vader following him through time and ensuring that events go as they did originally - before they're both thrust out of this time, obi-wan failing and lost as to why vader wouldn't at least give himself the decent chance to avoid being maimed at mustafar, and vader ensuring that obi-wan will live to be with anakin.

BONUS! AGAIN! for the three points option! obi-wan is torn between speaking personally with anakin, younger and oblivious to obi-wan taking over his younger self as a general, or to head straight for the council. when he comes to this point in time, however, it's like he has no choice. as soon as anakin approaches him, he has to speak with him, but it comes across harried and panicked (he has too little time). he tries to fly through everything, from anakin's freedom to leave the order if he wishes, to their friendship, attachments, to the influence of the chancellor (and obi-wan has to be so, so careful here). he needs to rush past, to find someone else he can speak more freely with, but anakin stops him, alarmed and concerned, and more so when obi-wan is flown a few feet away from him. vader looms a short distance away, unaggressive but halting obi-wan's efforts nonetheless, until they again run out of time.

obi-wan staggers out of mustafar, dragging two injured with him. padmé's last moments are just as agonizing, and anakin/vader's injuries are as well, but obi-wan flies them to a medical facility as fast as he can. he doesn't have just a time limit now; anakin/vader's wounds will be fatal if not mended fast enough, never mind that already he's in better shape than in the original timeline since obi-wan lifted him out quicker. he's also expecting vader - his vader - any moment, but oddly, that future version of him does not make an appearance this time. obi-wan takes another look at the unconscious sith with him, wondering if this self will kill him once he leaves this body. his intervention continues uninterrupted.

that unsettles him, and he opens his eyes to witness what kind of change just that altered decision, perhaps his largest risk of his three chances, had on the future point he originated from, the one he will now have to live in. for the first short moment, there is only the sensation akin to waking up from a deep sleep. and then, the memories flood in, many old and familiar - until others flow alongside them now, new.

[lexosaurus]

I know that was a shitpost for the latest Danny Phantom fandom meme, but I'm genuinely impressed and how authentic it sounds. How much of Dash's monologue is real advice, and how do you know all of that? Do you work out?

Yes I'm so sorry to inform my good people of Tumblr that I've secretly been a part of the gym fandom for all this time. I've only recently come out as a gymbro in this phandom via my creation of the current dp gym bro au meme that I've forced upon everyone in this good holy christian space. I mix whey protein into my overnight oats, I track my macros, and I have a closet full of Gym Girlie Outfits™️.

And just know it's a badge of honor that I carry to be able to say I've converted multiple members of the Danny Phantom phandom into regular gym goers as well 💪