#its called a writing style

[uglypastels]

Tbf you do often write pretty ambiguous endings so people just want to know how it ends

Yeah, I suppose "The End" is quite ambiguous

[towerofluin]

C’mon Raph, don’t noogie the elderly

(Or: finally, communication)

[carlyraejepsans]

HELPP i found out about character AIs and im losing it over calling deltarune sans "a more manipulative personality" 😭😭 like whatt we've only seen this man like 2 times

sorry im being a hater hgfjdks but you're the sans understander

lmaoo character.ai, look where the fall of ai dungeon got us, smh. thank you for the compliment though!

[kreachvera]

redraw of this panel of Faust House (READ FAUST HOUSE RAAAAHHHHH)

[boxwinebaddie]

my time in kindergarten has cursed me with the knowledge that kyle is def the tiny 'erm, actually!' kid in big ass fishbowl glasses who tries to answer questions that i haven't even finished asking yet, is reading books at third grade reading level like 6 y/o megamind, all of which is Great except that little fkn einstein is constantly TRYING ME by attempting to undermine my authority by staging a literal Coup in my class over who should clean up the magnetiles and ‘start shit’ aka intense philosophical debates abt BLUEY during Quiet Time.

and conversely, stan is the kid who almost gets hit by a car during pick up trying to pick a fkn ROLLYPOLY out of the gd street, needs to be told 25/8 to stop playing in the planters/stop building complex worm terrariums out of sticks and mud everyday at recess, cries anytime i have to raise my voice above a whisper, is super adhd, gets extremely overstimulated by EVERYTHING, blurts Constantly abt things he did over the weekend and drew a...Very Frightening ‘my family portrait’ of his dad yelling, mom crying, sister in devil horns and him frowning...

...In Big, Blue, Lopsided Crayon.

[seconds-over-first]

Sending a word/phrase, etc for the 3 sentence prompt 💖 (also DYING for your pfp! 🥰)

“Another cuppa?” and for the person, can I please ask for Mr Johnny Soap MacTavish? 🥺🙏🏻 thank you 💕

OH MY GOD I SAVED THIS TO MY DRAFTS AND DIDN'T HIT POST I AM SO SORRY 😱😱😱

-

Closing your laptop and books with a tired groan, you make a somewhat decent effort to rub away the evidence of your all-nighter with a guilty mug of cold coffee in your hands, opting to retreat to the break room to try and brew a fresh mug.

You’re met by the familiar sight of the team’s Scotsman, standing there at the coffee pot with a grin pulling at his lips at the sight of you. He lifts his mug against his lips in a show of friendly greeting, and from somewhere behind him, pulls out the fresh pot he must have been drinking from to offer it to you.

“Another cuppa?”

[ruiiruu]

The gold part of Kotoko's hat is more stylized than Es's

Es has been shown with Art Nouveau a lot, examples being the Hill House chair and Willow Chair by Charles Rennie Mackintosh, known for his reinterpretation of Art Nouveau.

[istherewifiinhell]

i wont keep rbing this post cause its getting too long but

mr president. a second movie transformer woman has hit the towers

[tf movie toy reveal]

[ID: box of a one step changer air achnid toy for the new movie, the toy a chunky little black spider and bot. There is promo art of her movie design, her face looking very similar to elita's, but seeming to lack any nose. and a large black helm extending her head shape sleekly. END]

so if anyones wondering how this movie is ranking on my gendered alt mode frame work. we have one motorcycle and one spider. so. pretty bad!!!! ah and alas its my least favourite iteration of the sexy spider woman too.

[definitelynotshouting]

I just binged your whole hunger au and your prose and structure and literally everything is so masterfully done AHHHHH!! eagerly looking forward to the next update! do you have any particular inspirations for your writing/storytelling style?

🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 THIS IS SUCH A SWEET MESSAGE WAUGH THANK YOU ANON,,,,

oh gosh honestly i get inspiration from all over-- my style was sorta cobbled together from a bajillion different sources that i cherrypicked what i liked from and then evolved it from there. A lot of it probably comes from growing up on fantasy books published in the 70s-80s, tbh; theres a very particular cadence to many of them that i think echoes in my writing quite a bit. I also uh, read Beowulf when i was 11, so that may have had something to do with it too 😅😅😅

Its funny looking back on things from my childhood and seeing where a lot of inspo comes from-- i also grew up reading norse and greek mythology so im pretty sure some of the poetry of those storytelling conventions rubbed off on me. I definitely know there are a few fic authors out there whom i shamelessly incorporated bits and bobs of their writing styles into mine because i loved them so much. But yeah its basically a giant melting pot of different inspirations in here SKDNWKDNSKS thank you for the question!! :DDD

[waterlogged-detective]

He's working on calling cards!!

[sematarygirls]

                   ౨ৎ

You were a haunted house. You were the bones, the unsteady frame that time had begun to take its toll on, pieces crumbling from the weight of everything it's forced to uphold. The rooms were all empty, once full of carefully picked decor that echoed life. Now, they were barren. Years of people coming and going, taking more than they left until the house grew completely and utterly empty. No one wanted an empty house, an ugly house, a useless house, and so, you were left to rot with nothing more than the ghosts lingering about as a constant reminder of all you'd lost, all you'd let them take from you.

You were all peeled wallpaper and overgrown vines. Resilient grass growing out from under your floorboards— "life always finds a way," your mother would've said if she wasn't just worm food and soil nutrients, a decomposing carcass fueling the circle of life.

Life always finds a way.

The irony was almost humorous.

Almost.

You'd gotten used to the everpresent, overbearing quiet, only the ghosts and the occasional creak of the old floorboards to keep you from insanity. Sometimes, on nights when it was real quiet, not even the whistle of the wind to keep you company, you thought you could hear your mother's voice calling to you from the back garden where she lay— calling for help, pleading for it even. But you've learned to ignore the symphony of agony that the afterlife brings, convincing yourself it's just the maggots and flies enjoying their banquet.

[chibishortdeath]

Some attempts at a design for Selena :3. The second image is inspired by the wedding in Haunted Castle, but I changed Simon’s outfit cause idk I just can’t picture him being comfortable in a suit.

The last two of these are way more headcanon-y lol. They’re under a cut mostly in case my headcanons and story ideas change d(^^ ). One of them was inspired by a Kikuo song I was listening to while drawing lol, the song “Let’s Go to Heaven”.

[daddyplasmius]

hand on my stupid heart flashbacks

this is a No One Knows AU & Full Hazmat AU where Danny ended up in the Ghost Zone & didn't go back into the human world initially because he thought he was dead. by the time he realized he is, in fact, at least half alive, he'd already been missing for at least 2 weeks. will probs never finish homsh sorry. i wrote this a couple years ago in a haze & just haven't been able to finish it because i can't replicate the style, which i find is what i love about this fic the most. it wouldn't be the same without it. posting the flashback introsーwhich are meant to be read between chapters/the actual plot, starting after chapter 1ーcuz fuck it. excuse typos & shit, i never properly edited it, as i forgot it existed immediately after i wrote it original description of homsh: Danny Fenton has officially been missing for over a year. Maddie & Jack Fenton refuse to give up on their son. Sick and tired of the police running them in circles, and the case getting colder by the day, the Fentons turn to their last resortーPhantom. 800~ words (full unfinished fic is 20k~)

-

When Danny woke up surrounded by thick, green fog, and couldn’t breathe without swallowing heavy air that was more like water than anything, he was sure he was dead. The portal glowed behind him, illuminating the pitch darkness around him in soft, yellow, warm light.

He almost went back.

Almost.

He was dead. His parents were ghost hunters. They had drilled into his head from the moment he was born that he could never, ever panic in death. That he would accept it. That he would not be scared. So he would be prepared to be brave in the face of death and would not become a ghost.

He panicked. He did not accept it. He was terrified. And so he woke up in the Ghost Zone.

-

Danny went back through the portal when he saw some ectopuses acting… strange. Like they had an idea in their heads. Like they had a plan.

Which was weird, with animal ghosts. He had only been in the Ghost Zoneーmom and dad called it that, he rememberedーfor a couple weeks. Or, he had already been there for two weeks. Or maybe time worked differently and he was there five minutes, or four years orー

The ectopuses went through the portal and, despite everything, Danny went after them.

While he was busy reeling at being home, the ectopuses immediately attacked dad. Danny was horrified. Jack was overwhelmed. Danny stepped in, in a moment fueled by sheer adrenaline and stupidity, snatching a Fenton Thermos™ off a shelf and releasing his shaky invisibility. The ectopuses didn’t stand a chance. And when they were safely in the Thermos, he slowly turned around to dad, ready for the confrontation. Ready for the “what happened to you?” and the “where have you been?” and the “we’ve missed you”.

Dad scrambled to shoot at him.

Danny fled.

His parents didn’t recognize him.

-

The Lunch Lady attacked when Danny was mourning Halloween.

He’d waited all year. He made a costume that summer. He wouldn’t get to go trick or treating with Sam and Tucker this year. Or any year. For the rest of his lifeーor existence. Whatever.

The Lunch Lady appeared in the school and demanded in straight fury, “Who changed the menu?”

Everyone pointed at Sam.

Danny hadn’t known just how powerful ghosts could be. His parents never told him the specifics. Just that they were dangerous.

This ghost grew and her aura hit him like a hurricane, almost physically pushing him back. It was so strong that the students in the Casper High cafeteria seemed to feel it too.

The Lunch Lady was a much harder opponent than the ectopuses. She levitated meat. She used it as a weapon, and seemed to bring it back to life. She created weird meat creatures that grew sharp teeth and claws out of bones. They were mindless, attacking everything that got too close to the ghost. Danny would have run away without hesitation, if Sam hadn’t been in the crossfire.

Danny fought the Lunch Lady. It was a long struggle, but he caught her in the thermos after over an hour. When he turned to Sam and Tuckerーboth of whom he had to save due to Tucker trying to jump into the fightーall three of them bloody and bruised, he cringed. But a part of him hoped. Desperately.

Surely they would know him on sight.

“Wh-what are you?” Sam gasped at him finally.

Danny flinched as if she had struck him. “J-just… your friendly neighbourhood phantom.”

-

Danny didn’t know what possessed him. Oh. Pun not intended.

He just barely caught the Fentons leaving in the GAV, dragging suitcases behind them. He couldn’t help himself. What on Earth were they doing?

They were going to Vlad Master’s mansion for their college reunion.

It was a whole thing. But something was off. Besides all the adults reminiscing about the 80’s.

Danny sensed ghosts immediately but he couldn’t see anything. Unfortunately for him, Vlad could also sense him. It was two days of Danny staying invisible, and Vladーthe halfa? Is that what Danny is?ーtrying to kill Jack. Somehow, Danny managed to fight off Vlad, not turn back, and without the Fentons getting hurt. His secret intact.

VladーPlasmius, also learned about Phantom. And Vlad hated him. The manーghostーwhatever, seemed to only care about one thingーpossession. Of money. Of things. Of people. He was more ghost than Danny had ever seen. Vlad’s obsession was overwhelming.

Danny couldn’t believe someone so much like himself could be so disturbing.

[mirrortouchedsea]

⬛⬛⬛ was seven years old when his mother died. He remembers being sad, mourning her sudden loss in the way children process death. He stayed by her bedside as she took her last breath, holding her hand and crying, begging her to stay. She loved him. She had spent her last moments making sure he knew that he wasn’t alone and never would be, as long as he could keep her in his memory. 

He remembers crying out as her casket was closed for the final time, lowered into the ground. Something snapped in him and he was begging her to stay again, begging them to not take her away. 

⬛⬛⬛ didn’t come out of his room for weeks afterwards. He sat in his room, cradling a photo of his mother in his hands. His father would leave food for him and he would eat it, never taking his eyes off the photo. 

So when his father came home after only two months of his mother being dead, ⬛⬛⬛ was not what one would call happy. Even though he’d started going back to school a few weeks ago, he wasn’t ready for someone else to take her place. Nobody else could ever be his mother. 

He got into an argument with his father that night. At seven years old, ⬛⬛⬛ decided that he couldn’t bear to live in a house with a man who could so easily replace the woman he claimed to love. He didn’t know where he was going but he took the clothes on his back, the photo of his mother, and some cash he’d been saving up and just walked out. 

He made his way to the bus stop and got on, thinking about where he would even go. He wasn’t sure he could make his way to his mother’s family on his own, as they lived on the other side of the country, and he definitely didn’t want to see his father’s family. So he stayed on the bus as long as the driver would let him stay. 

Eventually though, he did have to get off. It was sprinkling out, not enough to make him uncomfortable, but it was a sign of heavier rains to come. ⬛⬛⬛ made his way from the bus stop to a restaurant that looked like it was about to close, but still had the lights on and maybe they could give him some shelter from the rain, at least for a while. He stepped inside and stared at the workers cleaning up the dining room. They looked…concerned that a child his age was alone at night, especially in this part of town, one would say.

They asked him what he was doing out, if he lost his parents, if he was from the area. It’s not safe out here for kids like you, they told him. He doesn’t remember responding, but he must have because they shuffled him to the back of the restaurant to their boss and asked what to do with him. None of them could really afford to take a child in but he hadn’t told him where he was from or where his parents were. They suggested calling the police, but ⬛⬛⬛ started crying at the suggestion, not wanting to get them involved. I can’t go home, he told them, my father is a bad person.

The restaurant manager agreed to allow him to stay for a bit, giving him a meal on the grounds that he’d leave by the end of the week. ⬛⬛⬛ agreed, scarfing down the food like it was the best thing he’d ever eaten. 

Over the next few days, ⬛⬛⬛ bid his time by doing dishes, greeting customers, learning to read from the menu. The staff treated him kindly, but they felt distant, unsure of what to do with him, though by the time the weekend came, he hadn’t figured out where he wanted to go. A few of the staff pointed him towards an orphanage in town, but one of the cooks slipped him a one way train ticket to a few cities over, somewhere he could get out of that area, a note attached with directions on where to go to meet someone who would take him in. 

He held the ticket in his hand, scanning it as he walked through the station to the loading area, the note clutched in his hand. ⬛⬛⬛ was practically shaking as he entered the train by himself. A few adults asked if he was okay, if he knew where he was going. Yes, he said, I’m just not used to traveling by myself, but my uncle is going to meet me at my stop. That was a lie he’d rehearsed on the way there but they let him be. He had to fight himself to keep from falling asleep and missing his stop, but he must have succumbed to it at some point, as one of the adults next to him gently shook him awake as they approached his destination. He thanked them and hopped off his seat, getting ready to depart the train car and start his new life. 

He stepped onto the platform and was greeted by a bustling crowd. It was overwhelming to say the least, so many strange people just going about their day. ⬛⬛⬛ made his way to the staircase where someone came up from behind him, introduced himself as the person who would be taking care of the young boy. He could call him “Priest”, as his true name was of little importance. He asked if the young boy had a name, which the boy muttered under his breath. When asked to repeat it, he said he wished to give up his name, as he no longer wanted to be associated with the person who gave it to him. The Priest agreed with him and said they’d find a suitable name for him soon enough. There were many names in the world, but for now he’d be referred to as the Prodigal Son, or simply the Son for short. The Son found this amicable and agreed to the change. He remembers wondering what that meant, as he had never heard of the word “Prodigal” before, but he would come to understand it in due time. 

The Priest taught the Son many things, reading, writing, the history of Japan, things that he remembered being taught in school before his mother passed, but he also taught the Son many other things one would never find in a normal school. The Son learned the art of disguise, impersonation, how to manipulate his voice. Some day, the Priest had told him, he’d be called upon to use his gifts for the greater good. The Son, not knowing any better, accepted this and that his skills would be useful in the future. 

The Son went through many identities in his time studying under the Priest. His hair had been cut, extended, dyed and bleached, his eyes were a dozen different colors and none of them. He could mimic any voice after observing the speaker for ten minutes. He went by many different names, though he always came back to the Son. In due time, he forgot his father entirely, but he carried the last photo of his mother with him in his pocket wherever he went. It made him feel at ease, as if she were watching over him from the afterlife still, protecting him from the harsh realities of the world. The photo had faded with time, the wear and tear on it having almost removed her face entirely, but the Son could still picture it perfectly. It had been burned into his mind on the day he watched her take her last breath.

The Son started University at age 17, younger than many of his peers in Japan, and he graduated at age 20. It hadn’t been easy, but he had honed his skills and developed them on the stage, playing off his talents as being simply that, talent and skill, not something he had used to bring about political upheaval in the past and likely in the future. 

The Son had kept his distance at University though, going by another fake name and only attending the bare minimum of classes and extracurriculars that were required of him by the Priest. He had begun proper vocal training to learn how to sing, something that he had been told would be useful soon, though he had not been given the details, and further developed his voice by participating in several musical performances, though he still remained rather distant from the rest of the cast and crew, exchanging only the bare necessities of pleasantries and making excuses to get out of bonding time outside of scheduled practice hours. 

The Son was a lonely man, and he knew this. He knows this. He is a lonely man. He was about to turn 23 when the Priest finally told him about his newest mission. Do you remember your father, the Priest had asked over the phone. No, replied the Son, not more than I need to, anyway. So you remember you had a father, and he had another wife after you left, the Priest continued. The Son hummed in agreement, Yes I ran away because of her, you know this. Of course I do, but I just wanted to make sure, Anyway did you know he had another son with her? What do you mean by another son? I mean that you are an older brother, and your younger brother needs help. I do not want to speak to anyone else related to that man. Oh but you’ve been training to help your brother, haven’t you, he dreams of being an idol, someone who sings and dances on stage like you. Theater performances and being an idol are two different things. Yes, well it wouldn’t exactly be easy to get you to train to be an idol with no intentions on debuting, so we had to make do. Why should I help him? Out of the love in your heart for your own flesh and blood. I do not consider that old man my father, nor that boy my brother. He has a secret he needs to keep, something I’m sure you’re familiar with of course. What secret? All in due time, Son, will you help him or not? 

The Son refused to meet his brother in person for the first few months, preferring to instead communicate only by phone. He had been studying at Reimei academy, he told him, as part of the idol course. His mother loved idols, loved them so very much and it was the only memory he had of her. The Son understood his brother on that level. During their phone calls, the Son learned about his brother’s rival at the school, a boy by the name of Tatsumi Kazehaya who happened to be in the year above him. Tatsumi Kazehaya was perfect in many ways, something that his brother found infuriating. Why couldn’t he be like that? He lamented in one phone call. The Son told him that some people are simply born with talent, and Kazehaya was one of them. His brother relented and continued to update the Son on his progress. 

Despite the Son knowing his brother’s name, Kaname Tojou, his brother did not know his, instead choosing to refer to him only as “Onii-chan,” a word that grated on his ears. He was not a cute older brother to be looked up to and in fact he’d rather be doing anything else than be there, and yet. He stayed calm. Once Kaname debuted and got on his feet, the Son would fade back into the background as if he never existed. That was the plan, anyway. The Priest had told him that he would be free to do as he pleased away from his watchful eye if everything went according to plan. 

After a year of guiding his brother in the ways of being an idol, the Son wanted to see how he was progressing. Kaname hadn’t said anything about a performance, but since the Son was very good at keeping an ear to the ground, he had found out about a performance between Kaname and Tatsumi to be put on for the entire school. He wasn’t entirely sure what the purpose of that was exactly, but it would be a good time to gauge Kaname’s progress and how well he had followed the Son’s instructions. The Son made his way through the crowd, finding a spot near the front but not where Kaname could see him and he watched the empty stage, waiting for any sign of life.

The projectors came on and a video began playing, a video about the exact secret that the Son had been safeguarding even from his brother. It was a video about Kaname’s mother and how she had ruined the career of one of the best idols that had ever existed in Japan. The energy in the crowd was agitated, vibrating with anger as they waited for the two aspiring idols to take the stage. The Son wanted to run backstage, warn his brother of the impending danger, but could only watch in horror as the curtains raised and the crowd rushed forward. The Son looked on as the two young idols were yanked from the stage, a scream lost to the noise of the crowd, unable to do anything. 

When it was over, he had found himself in the hospital waiting room, pacing the length of it as he went over the potential outcome of the surgery. His brother had suffered greatly, that much was obvious to the Son as they loaded the two boys into the ambulance, but how much damage was done had yet to be seen. 

Someone approached the Prodigal Son while he was pacing and placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. Thank you for coming home. 

[mugenloopdalove]

I just in general have always hated the idea that quantity=quality in writing and rp. Like. That seems to be to common opinion and it's ???

Esp when ppl think shorter things are lower effort!!! Like everyone has different thresholds!! 5k words might be a lot of effort for one person. Hell, 2k could be a lot of effort, while another person might be able to get 10k-20k w the same amount of effort

[Image description: a meme of two white dogs, on small and one large, both with the same amount of mud on their fur. The smaller dog has mud nearly to their head, while the larger dog has it only to their ankles. The text on the meme reads: "How deep is the mud? Depends on who you ask." On top and "We all go through the same stuff differently." On the bottom. End description.]

[scorpiusmalfoylovesoscarwilde]

the urge to write vs the urge to create a sim and make them a famous best selling author to live through vicariously