#that sucks. that thought really sucks.

[ahyesthesufferingoftvteens]

I open AO3. My latest The Hollow alternate universe fanfiction with dedicated lore, a unique premise, original characters, mysteries, and a planned adventure has nine kudos and around 100 clicks.

I scroll down to the Kaidam fanfiction. Kudos from the 50s to 90s. Clicks over the hundreds. Less comments though. I generally prefer comments on my fan-works anyways, but the kudos say a LOT too.

At this point I can’t tell if my writing is bad or if this fandom only really cares about popular ships. I keep entertaining the thought of adding Kaidam to Realm of The Forgotten but, again, I don’t want to sacrifice the narrative of my story for people to only focus on a minuscule part of it. I like to tell stories, and it’s so fun when people discuss and speculate in the comments with me.

I sometimes feel like giving up, not gonna lie. This fandom is just so…non-cooperative? I’ve seen this talked about in length in a different post. The little of us left should really up our game and interact with the fanbase more.

I’ll keep going regardless, because I love The Hollow. It’s my favorite show. The Hollow literally brought me to a friend I now consider my true family. It fundamentally changed me as a person. I’ll never truly give up on it.

I just wish fandoms in general were more interested in concepts not related to popular romantic relationships. I wish The Hollow fans would interact with concepts and alternate universes that others create more often, and maybe even entertain less popular ships? What happened to fandom curiosity and discussions and analysis about other people’s works? What happened to fandom unity and collaboration?

Or maybe my writing IS bad and I’m complaining about nothing? I’m not sure. I’ll keep moving forward. Maybe things will look up? I hope they do. I want to be a part of this fandom, but god is it frustrating that most don’t really snag onto each other. Everyone is doing their own thing instead of collaborating and communicating.

I don’t know, I’m just ranting a bit to get things out in the air. I wonder if anyone else feels like this?

[sandflakedraws]

re : how each brother reacts learning that they can't go back

you'll have to pry the "all the Brozone Bros knew what happened at the tree" headcanon outta my cold, dead dead dead hands.

[l3viat8an]

Ro do you have any thing to say about soft morning sex with Lucifer? Soft lots of laughing afterglow vibes 

Nsfw!

I have a little to say, yea <3

Lucifer watches as you start to wake up, the way your eyes squeeze shut before you open them- but he doesn’t even wait for your eyes to be all the way open as he starts pressing soft kisses down from your cheek to your shoulder-

Wrapping his arm around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest, effectively keeping your body tucked fully into his. even Lucifer can be a little clingy in the morning- You sigh happily turning your head over your shoulder to look at him, smiling softly when you see just how messy his hair is.

“Good morning, darling,” he whispers right by your ear, his other hand now slowly moving up your side. Your body relaxes again, letting your head fall back. a soft moan falling from your lips as his wandering hand cups your tit giving it a quick squeeze before moving a little lower.

“Good morning,” you mumble back, shifting a little when you feel his cock pressing hard against your ass. “I see someone’s still riled up from last night.” you laugh, at the same time you start lazily grinding back against him, making him groan low in your ear. 

“Did you really think I would be able to control myself, when the first thing I see in the morning is you?” Lucifer laughs quietly, now rutting his hips against yours a little harder. His hand moves down your body and grabs your leg to move it over his hip-

Moaning as his cock slowly slips inside your welcoming pussy, “You know… we’re only naked because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself last night either,” you add with another small laugh and his only response is a few more kisses against your neck as he continues to grind against you lazily, his cock hitting that sweet spot inside of you, as he adds “and I still can’t keep my hands off you.”

Everything is soft and slow, especially compared to what you two did last night- now Lucifer takes his time, kissing every part of you he can, his hands touching any part of your body his lips can’t reach~

[sharkgirldick]

It would be really awesome to suck someone's dick for a while and swallow their load, then immediately scoot over and start eating someone's pussy until they cum all over my face. Bonus points if they're making out and feeling each other up and completely ignoring me while I get them off.

[numberonetacostan]

Obliviously fruity vs excellent gaydar (inspired by @justin-chapmanswers's last stream lol)

[try-set-me-on-fire]

birds all sing as if they knew

[artuurle]

please tell us more about hector's quirks o great sniler

also your art and tags bring me so much joy!! hope you have a wonderful weekend :D

Context: In a previous post i drew Hector with visible seems on his body and in the tags said he has a few ... quirks for being an ex-god.

Hector will quite literally fall apart at a random seam (or a few) if he gets too wrapped up in destructive/unhealthy thinking now. If you wanna think about it in a more terrifying context this is essentially what i headcanoned happened to his body when he ascended - except in the rift it all dissipated, leaving him as how he was as Inspekta.

Once you go in the rift even if you choose to leave it still will affect you. You will have to live with the choices you made either way. You climbed the tower of Babel and looked gods in the eye as an equal- you do NOT return the same.

[baejax-the-great]

If I were a writer at a big game company working on a sequel to a beloved series and the higher ups kept telling me to make the game shittier and kept sending my work back to me to be dumbed down even further somehow, and then once most of the writing was done they laid me and my coworkers off illegally without severance, I'd probably gleefully watch as people trashed the shitty game that shipped.

[signorcerullo]

Mal's Avatar: The Last Airbender rewatch: The Western Air Temple 3.12

[manchesterau]

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

I started reading Dungeon Meshi last week, became instantly charmed and captivated, and blitzed through the entire manga in 4 days (and changed my profile picture about it). With that in mind, I would just like to say...

I love your dungeon meshi art so so much

CHILCHUCK!!!!!!!!

Thank you kindly! I love Dungeon Meshi a lot, so I'm happy to see so many people get into it for the first time.

CHILCHUCK!!!

[daftpatience]

it was volo. its volo. im deeply in love w him

[royaltea000]

Every letter addressed to Jonah Magnus just sounds like several men of good high standing who he’s tricked into giving him their knowledge money and affections realizing that they’ve fallen for a succubus but they can’t find it in them to hate him too hard- like do you know what I mean??? I know it’s just the old timey way of speaking but every statement just sounds like “please my evil twink, I beseech you!” Like this is why I can only imagine him as like very Dorian Gray-esque in my head. Please someone tell me I’m not crazy for thinking this that’s literally their evil bbg that’s sucked them for all they’re worth and thrown em away

[starry-bi-sky]

Stuck in the middle of a forest made of

Flesh and bones and they're all scared of

A lost little boy who has lost his heart

Fear's not enough, they have to

Tear him apart —-------

There are two things Daniel Fenton knows that his family knows as well: 

He’s adopted.

He can’t remember anything else before that.  

‘Adoption’ is a loose term, implying that they went through the official legal processes and troubles of adopting a child into their home willingly, and with the full intention of doing so going into it. That is not what happened. What happened is that Jasmine Fenton found a half-dead child, in strange clothing, in the middle of the woods at her Aunt Alicia’s cabin, and then she went and got her parents. 

What happened is that a twelve year old Danny woke up in the same cabin, wearing clothes much too big on him that didn’t belong to him, and with very little memory of before that moment. He wakes up like a spring being set loose, sitting up so fast he scares the daylights out of Jasmine Fenton sitting next to him. He wakes up, reaching for his sleeve for something that isn’t there, and when it isn’t his mind stutters, like he’s tripped at the top of a steep hill. 

When they ask him for his name, he tells them, clearing muddled thoughts from his mind; Danny. He’s twelve.

(He thinks that’s his name, at least. It sounds right; it feels right. If he thinks really hard about it, he thinks he can remember someone calling him that, utter adoration in their voice. So it must be his name.) 

The Jasmine girl convinces her parents to take him home with them, and they give him the spare guest room upstairs. He has nothing to fill it with.

It’s… a strange experience, to go to a ‘new’ home when he doesn’t even remember his old one. 

The official adoption process… happens. He can’t say it’s easy, or difficult. He’s oblivious for the most of it, Jasmine intends on helping him settle in and Danny can’t say he enjoys the smothering. He learns that he is stubbornly self-independent, that’s one new thing he knows about himself. 

His adoption papers say ‘Daniel J. Fenton’. Danny remembers staring at the name ‘Daniel’ for a long, long moment, something curdling sour in his sternum. His name is Danny, that he knows. But it’s not Daniel. But he doesn’t know any other way of saying it, so he keeps his complaints to himself.

(Jack Fenton boisterously claps his hand on Danny’s shoulder and jerks him around, grinning wide as he welcomes him into the Fenton Family. Danny’s mind blanches at the touch on his shoulder, an instinct snapping like the maw of a snake, telling him to cut off the man’s fingers for daring to touch him.) 

(He keeps the thought to himself, tension rising up his shoulders the longer Jack Fenton’s heavy hand stays on him.) 

They found Danny in the summer. It’s a perfect coincidence, Maddie Fenton says before she goes back into her lab with Jack Fenton. She says it’s enough time to allow Danny to adjust; that they’ll enroll him into the school year in the fall. Then she stuffs a canister of ectoplasm onto the top shelf, and disappears like the ghosts she studies back down the stairs.  

(There’s something eerily familiar about the ectoplasm sitting in the fridge, something unsettlingly so. Danny knows what that stuff is, but he doesn’t know where. When the house is empty, he takes a can from the fridge and inspects it.)

Jazz wants him to leave the house. Danny doesn’t want to step foot outside of the FentonWorks building until he has something that quells the feeling of vulnerability he gets whenever he does. He tried to once, and he felt exposed. Unsafe. 

He turned back around and went inside.

—-------

Where do we go

When the river's running slow

Where do we run

When the cats kill one by one

—------

One day, when the house is empty — or, as empty as it can be; the Fenton parents down in the lab, and jazz out with friends. Danny is making a sandwich, and he caves into the urge to flip the knife in his hands between his fingers. A childish impulse, but one he falls for nonetheless. It comes to him easily, like second nature, in fact. The slip of the blade between his fingers is seamless, flowing with an ease like water running down the wall.  

He’s almost startled by it; his body holds memories that his mind does not. Muscles that know which way to move and twist, limbs that know how to hold and how to throw. He continues twirling it, fascinated, as if he were a scientist discovering a new species of animal. 

It’s not for a handful of minutes when a new thought hits him; an impulsive thought that pops in the back of his mind like a firecracker; Danny moves without thinking. 

He turns, and throws the knife. The pull of his shoulder, the flick of his elbow, is familiar like a hug. He knows when to let go, and the blade flies through the air in impressive speed, embedding itself into the wall with a hearty, loud thunk. Sinking into the drywall like butter. 

Danny stares at it in shock, he feels relieved — about what? — before he feels the guilt. He scrambles across the kitchen to pull it out, heart racing in his chest at being caught, and prays no one notices the hole it left behind. 

(He runs up the stairs before anyone can find him, food forgotten, and hides the knife beneath his mattress like a guilty murder weapon.)

After that, he leaves the house more. It’s more out of fear of being caught than the desire to leave. But Danny is quickly learning that among all things, he is someone who was dangerous, before he lost his memory. Even with his mind in fractures, he is still dangerous. 

He’s not sure how to feel about that — he thinks he should be scared. He feels a little proud, instead.

—------

Hazel beneath our claws

While we wait for cerulean to cry

Unsettled ticks run through time

Enough for the hunt to go awry

—-----

There’s another thing he learns about himself. That he knows about since he woke up. He knows that he left someone behind. He doesn’t know who, but he knows they must have been close; he’s always looking down and finding himself surprised when the only shadow he sees is his own. 

He thinks that he must have sung to them a lot; he finds himself humming familiar melodies when he’s lost in thought. Lullabies lingering at the tip of his tongue, an instinct to turn and sing them to someone beside him. He can’t remember the lyrics, but his mouth does, it tries to get him to say them when he’s not thinking. He can’t. 

Danny’s found himself humming under his breath more times than he can count, trying to recall whatever it is his mind is trying to claw forward. 

(“That’s a pretty song, Danny.” Jazz tells him at breakfast one day, Danny screws his mouth shut. He hadn’t realized he was humming. “What is it?”) 

(Something mean and possessive rears its head on instinct, uncoiling like a snake from its ball. His shoulders hunch defensively, he bites his cheek to prevent himself from baring his teeth. He doesn’t know what song it is, but it’s not for her. “I don’t know.”)  

He misses his person. Dearly. He knows, the longer he is without them, that they must have been close. Otherwise, he wouldn’t feel like he’s missing a chunk from himself. He wouldn’t be turning to someone who's not there; reaching for a hand that’s missing, birdsong on his tongue, a story to tell. 

A dream haunts him one night. Warm and familiar, he’s holding onto someone smaller than him, they’re tucked into his side like a puzzle piece. He’s humming one of his songs that is always playing in the back of his mind, an unfinished tale of a harpy and a hare. Danny can’t remember their face, not all of it. He remembers green eyes, hair dark like his own, skin brown like his. 

He loves them more than anything else in the world, a fact he knows down to his soul. He loves them so much it fills his heart with sunlight. Danny squeezes them tight, nuzzling into their hair; he makes them laugh. Then, he proudly boasts something. That when he takes something of their father’s, that his person — a sibling? That feels right — will be… the word fades from Danny’s mind before he can make sense of it. 

His person hugs him tight, his… brother? And their mother — a woman whose face he can’t remember either, but who he loves like a limb nonetheless — appears, smiling. Her hands reach for them both, voice calling them, ‘her sons’. There’s ticking in the distance, it sounds like the fastening of chains.

Danny wakes up cold, tears streaming down his face. The details of the dream already fading from his mind like the cold pull of a corpse.   

—-------

Harpy hare

Where have you buried all your children?

Tell me so I say

—-------

When school starts that Fall, Danny joins the sixth grade class, and quickly learns more things about himself. One of those things being that he’s smarter than the rest of his grade, whatever education he had before, it was better than the one he’s getting now. 

Everyone knows he’s adopted right off the bat. He tells them when the teacher forces himself to introduce himself, but it’s not like they needed him to tell them for them to know; he never existed in their little world before now, and the Fentons are pale as they come. Danny is not.

He befriends Sam Manson and Tucker Foley; they ask him about the scars fading up and down his arms, they ask him about the scar carved diagonal across his face.

Danny, as politely as he can, tells them he doesn’t remember. He thought kindness would come second nature to him, his dream burned into his mind where he hugged his brother so sweetly. Apparently, his sweetness is only second nature to people he considers his own. 

(It becomes even more apparent when Dash Baxter tries to bully him later that day, and Danny ruffles like an eagle threatened. His mind whispers, hissy and agitated, sinking like a shadow at his shoulder, several different ways Danny could kill him for talking to him like that, and fifteen more ways he could cripple him.)

(Danny ignores those thoughts, up until Dash Baxter tries to grab him. Then he breaks his nose on the wood of his desk. It’s easy how quickly the rest of his grade sinks him down to the status of social pariah.)

(At least Sam and Tucker still talk to him after that. When Danny goes to the principal’s office later, he wisely doesn’t mention the worse things he could’ve done than break Dash Baxter’s nose.)  

—--------------

It clicks and it clatters in corners and borders

And they will never

Hear me here listen to croons and a calling

I'll tell them all the

Story, the sun, and the swallow, her sorrow

Singing me the tale of the Harpy and the Hare

—-------

More dreams come, of course they do. Each one halfway to forgotten whenever he wakes up, ticking faint in his ears. He is many different ages. He is young, shorter than a table. He is older, holding onto his little brother. He is singing in almost every single one. He is singing to his brother. 

Danny can barely remember the lyrics, he’s begun leaving a journal by his bedside so that it’s the first thing he can write down when he wakes up. He’s a storyteller, he learns. He feels like a historian, trying to piece together a culture long dead and forgotten. 

His most vivid dream-like memory is not a happy one, and for once he’s almost relieved he barely recalls it. He is somewhere that isn’t home, but his mother and brother are there. He is dressed in black, blades keen in his hands. 

They are atop a moving train. They are fleeing something. His brother is struggling to keep up, he is small, and young. It’s beautifully sunny, they are somewhere green and lovely. 

It is a fast dream. 

His brother stumbles on something, and Danny, fast as a whip, snatches him by the back of his shirt and hoists him up to his feet before he can fall. “Watch your feet, habibi.” He murmurs low, a hand on his back. It’s hard to hear, there is wind in their ears.

His brother, face obscured in all but his eyes, which are green as emeralds, nods. 

The dream blurs, but Danny falls behind. His foot catches on air — impossible, it should’ve been, at least. He never trips. — and he lands against the roof with a thud and a grunt. His mother and brother stop, and turn for him. 

The train hits a turn before Danny can get up, and he shouldn’t have, something pulls on him, he swears, but he slips. He can’t find the purchase to pull himself up, cold fear hits him as his nails scrape against the metal. 

His mother and brother’s horrified faces are the last thing he sees before he disappears off the side of the train. 

(The ticking is at its loudest when he wakes up, pounding against his inner skull. He only manages to write down ‘train fall’ in his journal, before he’s flipping over to press his head into his pillow to get the pain to stop.) 

—---  

She can't keep them all safe

They will die and be afraid

Mother, tell me so I say

(Mother, tell me so I say)

—-------

When Danny is fourteen he is still humming songs he can’t remember, his mind still in a broken puzzle. But his room is now decorated with stars and plants in every corner. He has a guitar he keeps in the corner of his room, and he plays the lullabies in his head on the strings over and over again. 

The ectoplasm in the fridge still unsettles him, still reminds him of a past he can’t recall. The knife beneath his mattress has returned to the kitchen — he doesn’t need it. He found a box in the attic last year, it had his name on it, and inside he found familiar, strange clothes, and more weapons than he thought was possible to carry on one person. 

(Even without knowing that the Fentons prefer guns to blades, Danny knows, instinctively, that they were his weapons. He was — was? Is — a dangerous person. He takes the box down to his room to sort through. The weapons all fit into his callused hands almost perfectly — the grooves worn to fit his palm. They’re just a little small.) 

(He tentatively takes a small blade with him to school one day, and feels much more comfortable with it sheathed beneath his shirt. He’s kept it on him ever since, like he’s reunited a lost limb to himself.)   

Danny doesn’t have a name for his person, his little brother, nor does he have a name for his beloved mother. He’s haunted by dreams every few weeks, many of them repeating. He’s ingrained the words he can remember to memory, and the ones he doesn’t, he writes down in his journal. His little brother; Danny calls him a bird, he can’t figure out what kind. His little bird of some kind; when Danny takes something from their father — what, he can’t remember what — then his little brother will be a little bird. 

(He doesn’t have a name for his brother, yet, but he’s calling his birdie in his head. It’s better than nothing.)

—------

Seeker, do you ever come to wonder

If what you're looking for is within where you hold

Will you leave a trail for them to follow a path

You'll soon forget

Home

—---------

When he’s fourteen, Danny dies. It does nothing to fix his fractured memories, much to his consternation. It just confirms something he already knows; that he was someone dangerous, and that he still is. 

When the shock of death has worn off, Danny inspects his ghost in the metal reflection of the closest table. It’s blurry, hard to see, but shock green eyes pierce back at him, green like the portal. Lazarus, Danny’s mind whispers, and he blinks rapidly.

‘Lazarus,’ he mouths to himself. It’s familiar. Sam shows him with her phone what he looks like, joking that he looks like an assassin. Danny doesn’t think she’s that too far off. 

He doesn’t tell her that. He tucks the thought away with the rest of his secrets, and fiddles with the hood gathering at his neck, attached to a cape with torn edges swinging down to his ankles. He pulls it over his shock white hair. It shadows over his face impossibly so, until all you can see are his green-green eyes peering out like a wolf hiding in the brush.

He ends up calling himself Phantom. 

(Maybe now he can start putting lyrics to his lullabies; his memories may not have returned, locked away with the sound of a clock, but the dead can talk. One of them may just have answers.) 

----------

Home is where we are

Home is where you are

Home is where I am

-----------------

Dedicated to @gascansposts for being the one who introduced me to the band Yaelokre, and thus being the whole reason I was inspired to write this in the first place >:] Those lyrics at the line breaks are all from their album Hayfields.

[arttsuka]

Eating your art style, sorry

Anyways, imagine if Jed can read Chinese (learned from the railroad workers, both historically and movie canon! Well meaning they speak Chinese in the movie) And translates something into English for Larry while everyone just collectively goes "sorry, huh?"

Larry would be so done with that situation

Imagine your boyfriend knowing Chinese but not being able to learn Latin

Edit: there's, there's a fanfic of this now. Go read it.

[gilverrwrites]

idk if this is too weird or dark but I’ve been thinking about Arkham Knight Jason and Slade ruining Jason’s replacement by brainwashing her or feeding her Ivy’s aphrodisiacs, so every time one of them walks in the room, you’re ready to please them. You learn to automatically open your legs or get on your knees when you hear heavy boots approaching wherever Jason’s keeping you. Jason films a lot of it too, like when Slade will find a spot on the floor and you’ll immediately move to straddle him, grinding a little as you lean down to suck the old man’s tongue.

Related posts: one, two, three, and four.

WARNING: NON-CON/DUB-CON, brainwashing, corruption, degradation, spit. Just, these two should come with one of those toxic waste symbols on their heads.

Oooohhhhhhhhh, Ivy’s aphrodisiacs but not telling/gaslighting you into believing it's all on you, you just want them so fucking bad. You're lucky to have them to take care of you. Your body isn't betraying you, it just knows better. It's your base instincts telling you you're not meant for heroism, you're meant for fucking these nasty, dirty men.

That's why you feel so flushed whenever they're in the same room as you, that's why you can't help opening your legs and bucking your hips when they look your way, that's why just the graze of their gloved fingers on your cheek makes you cry in frustration, makes you beg for more.

"You should be so fucking grateful, letting you ride our dicks." Jason likes to taunt, with his face buried in your bouncing tits, finger in the flesh of your hips. "Where would you be without us? Still at Batman's beck and call. Waste of a perfectly good slut."

There was a time when you would kick and scream whenever you were even left alone with Slade. He used to tease you, threatening to bind and gag you, knowing full well he much preferred the thrill of the fight, preferred taming you the hard way. Now, now he just whistles and you're at his feet like a good little bitch in heat.

"I don't think a minute goes by where you‘re not thinking about this cock being inside you. Is that right?" He'll coo as he holds you steady, cock pulsing in the back of your throat, making sure you choke on him until tears are streaming down your pretty face. When he finally lets you go, you know to say 'Yes, sir." If you want him to keep using you.

Also, anon, I gotta say, the image of Jason filming while you grind in Slade, sucking his tongue, fingering his silver chest hair, just being a good girl for that filthy old man is sending me and has been since I read this like WHAT.

Jason jacking off to the whole display, spitting the vilest shit while you grind a stain into Slade's pant leg with your disgustingly wet pussy. “You like that, you needy whore? Old mans barely even touched you and you're creaming all over him.

Feels good, right? Letting your body do what it wants, take what it needs?

Oh just you wait ‘til I get my hands on you baby, you're not gonna know a word that isn't ‘fuck’ and ‘please’ by the time I'm done.”

Slade doesn't even care when Jason calls him an ‘old man’, not when you're sitting pretty, drooling on his fingers and begging for a good fuck.

"You look so good getting fucked like that, pretty girl." "She feels fucking good, you like that don't ya?" "Yeah! Yeahyeahyeah yeah, please don't stop." "Oh, don't worry, you nasty slut, I'm not stopping anytime soon." "Now smile for the camera bat-brat, this is going out to all of Gotham. Say 'Hi Batman!' Ha, blow him a big kiss baby."

And you're so fucking out of it from the pheromones or just, the euphoria of being bent and twisted and praised and degraded and railed just right, or whatever reason, that you do exactly that; With Jason's fist in your hair, his spit on your face, a smile on your lips. You flutter your lashes, waving limply into the lens as you say 'H-hi Batman! MuWAH!'

Shit, what if when they're not around they have all the footage Jason took playing on a loop wherever they're holding you. Intermitted with clip/photos of you pre-capture To remind you of how far you've fallen.