something I've noticed that is Very prevalent in the fandom is the assumption that All of the 10 sacred pokemon in Hisui are referred to as Nobles, which is actually Not Canon. There's the ride pokemon, but they're not Noble pokemon.

and since it's not actually canon, but rather widespread fanon, it's everywhere and completely untagged.

I'm not gonna ask people to change their headcanons or rewrite everything, that's ridiculous. but it IS technically misinformation that can be easily corrected;

therefore i propose using the "The Ride Pokemon are Considered Nobles" tag on ao3 for when one writes ride mons as nobles, at the very least

I bet there's Pokemon therapists. Probably either a psychic type Pokemon or a trainer with psychic types to aid in communication. I bet they'd be very concerned to tell Ingo that his Elektross was "mourning his humanity"

Me in the corner nerfing the fuck out of psychic types

The way I usually like writing pokemon is by putting a whole lot more animal into them. I don't like writing pokemon that are basically on the same intellect level as people because then it just gets... Weird. This is especially true for psychic and ghost types. So when I write those typings they are SEVERELY nerfed.

Sure as shit none of them know the human language to communicate telepathically. They can become in tune with a person's feelings pretty closely but nothing close to mind reading.

And forgive me for nerfing human psychics because it just trivializes the story in my opinion. Basically I write human psychics with the same telepathy barriers. They can't just outright read minds. They can have clairvoyance, empathic abilities, etc but mind reading and telepathy are straight out. I don't like having psychics be the answer to every hard emotional problem.

”I hate you because you literally assaulted him” - Nick Nelson

Nick and Ben’s relationship throughout the season was so important. The mutual hatred in particular was interesting.

Ben as a character was explored much more during this season, and his relationship with Imogen was a beautiful disaster.

hawke derangement symptoms masterpost if you behave like this seek help!!! why do they care abt getting u work so bad like genuinely

i got distracted from the previous thing i was working on in record pace so instead i'm doing whatever this is, im thinking of calling this game "Among Us"

[an excerpt from Fault, from the Cessation epoch. This is a SBI SCP AU. The SCP Foundation found a clever method of simultaneously training MTF units and sufficiently terrorizing a Thaumiel into summoning an escaped Keter.]

The game was called Target Practice and it went like this:

Tommy was being hunted. 

The maze was dark and twisting and decidedly urban, the floor littered with debris and gravel that cut into his bare feet, the twisting industry pipes and concrete walls riddled with holes and offering very meager protection as he raced through, slamming into walls and battering himself and not carrying because he needed to run before he was found. To be cautious was to be caught. Whatever nooks and crannies he shoved himself into were hardly cover, though they caught the bullets racing towards him. Well. Most of them, anyways; they didn’t play target practice anymore for a reason. 

(They’d always liked to use the Instigator for training.)

To be fair, not everyone had guns for target practice. Some had crackling tasers, and many had nets. The goal was to train up Mobile Task Forces, teach them how to go about capturing a SCP. How to herd its movement, how to corner it, how to pin it down until it stopped resisting. Learn how it thinks. Does it race down the dark corridors, frantically dashing in wild directions praying it runs into nothing, or does it hide like a cockroach? If so, where? Into the subterranean tunnels, where every footstep echoes thunderously and betrays every whimper? Into the towers, knowing it’ll take longer to be found but that there’s no way down as the fleet sweeps the rooms in well trained searches? Ah, there we are, pinned, shaking, in the corner of a back room. Very good, ensign, now you’re thinking like a monster. Quick, use the right radio channel, that’s it. Teamwork is the one advantage we have over them. Remember that in the field. 

It was not possible to win Target Practice, only prolong it. This was done by jolting still at every gun shot, waiting to realize if he was dead. This was done by clamping his hand over his mouth, refusing to breathe as footsteps raced past. This was done by learning how to not scream and betray his position when a bullet exploded mere centimeters away from his face, caught by half a cannibalized refrigerator, freezing because to run was to be caught. By doing anything and everything so he wouldn’t cry, because he could already see so little. By not caring about the gravel and slivers of glass that sliced into his feet, sprinting at full speed even if he knew the bloodied footprints marked his trail. By tucking his hands to his chest and not touching a single thing, though he was always so easy to find given the pooling Red that only grew worse the longer the game went on. The groups were always different, sometimes sneaking shadows that peeled out of nowhere, sometimes whooping and shouting with glee as they peppered bullets into the space mere seconds behind him, sometimes coordinated, sometimes not, sometimes fighting amongst themselves for the honor of who caught the game. Tommy taught each one exactly how to ruin someone else’s life, but it’s not like he could do anything but flee deep into the dark maze, heart hammering, Red racing. 

It never worked for long. The ending was different every time. Maybe he’d find himself suddenly plucked out of hiding, struggling in a head lock until the dark went even darker. Maybe he’d be at the top of a tower, listening to every hiding spot below being cleared, the approaching team only growing nearer because there was nowhere else to go. Maybe it was a sprinter who overcame his slight head start, the pair crashing to the ground, debris digging into his skin. Maybe it was being cornered by a large group, countless guns trained on him. Maybe a trap laid, him crashing into a net and becoming hopelessly tangled. Maybe it was a bullet that failed to miss. 

Game over! Better luck next time!

Tommy was recaptured and he always would be. And then target practice was played again, and again, either until there were no more trainee units left to be tested…or until there were no more trainee units left. Usually this was after a few rounds of the cat and mouse game. Maybe it ended in mortal terror, crimson spilling out runes on the manufactured floor, a beacon of ruby illuminating the dark maze. Maybe it ended with the brutal finality of The Blood God’s vengeance. The roles jarringly swapped, the hunters now forced to survive. If they did…well. They graduated from training with a promotion as bonus. Clearly they were worthy. 

He wondered how they were tested now, because the Foundation no longer played Target Practice. 

The cover, poor as it was, had always saved him before. Tommy had very little luck in his life, and most of it was used surviving Target Practice. (It was bad luck, in a way. Someone forgot the rules, got over zealous. They’d earned Keter duty for that mistake.) He’d been in the sprawling underground tunnels, tucked into a tangle of pipes. When the bullet had slammed into his shoulder, exploding everything in dark garnet, his scream had rattled through the faux sewer. Tommy had immediately run blindly, adrenaline numbing it all. The tone shift had been terrifying, too, since the trainees before hand had been the type to treat it like a game, making wolf howls and laughing. The moment Tommy was shot they’d become serious, voices clipped over radios and tactics stone as they efficiently tracked down the wounded animal, corralling it and cutting off escape routes, having it knocked out within minutes. It wasn’t the first summoning session where he’d woken up in a hospital bed, brain fuzzy with pain meds and fear. 

They never played Target Practice again.

(It wasn’t hard to convince the Instigator it’d made it out having only been grazed. Then again, it was easy to lie to, given it thought them real bullets in the first place.)

what *is* cryptofash?

it's short for cryptofascist, it's a term used for someone who covertly supports fascist sentiments or ideas adjacent to them without explicitly signaling it. someone who's cryptofash might closely associate with people who are more openly alt-right, express sympathy for fascist talking points, and voice certain statements/ideas common in fascist circles that, while not always strictly fascist ideas in isolation, can imply alt-right thinking when in tandem with other common fascist sentiments. in essence it's that guy you've always been suspicious of but you can't say for certain if they're just under-educated, reactionary, or a genuine nazi until you discover screenshots of them asking the jewish question in a discord server

this video is wild. even if you don’t want to watch the entire thing, the conclusion is really good and really highlights some of the issues faced in game preservation and the failure to recognize contributions and properly credit artists that work on these games.

MEMORI The 100 / Season 4 / Episode 9 / DNR

here he is!! make way for the dearest darlingest part-of-the-top-50 scarabia fireworks boy!!

how do we like him? 👀

tagging the same mootmoots from da poll :3 @officialdaydreamer00 @dove-da-birb @taruruchi @somany-fandoms-solittle-time @cookiesandbiscuits

related to my previous post - i am now once again thinking about Jason specifically introducing himself as the son of Jove and Juno rather than Jupiter and Juno (because “Jove” specifically usually refers to Jupiter as a father-god) and i think that’s Very Fun

book VII ch 8 of feh once again blatantly showing how IS only writes to/assumes all their players are straight dudes huh

Thinking of Roy as an ominous and malevolent presence but not a cartoonishly evil one... like he's a producer with a Child Star son he's trying so hard to set up for simultaneous success while also keeping him ignorant enough that he can play a "child" on TV as long as possible so he doesnt grow up and grow independent.

He hates Duck's guts and fires him but will take his input and all his ideas (feeding Yellow canned Duck both the literal visual sense but also Duck's input in the show's writing is still there just uncredited).

He sees a kindred spirit in Red so seeks him out when the show jumps the shark and says "hey. We made a great team, didn't we? Come back on the show, I can give you a voice"

Weekly reminder that I'm running an interactive story on Patreon called Fairies Stole My Cum

Thomas Lynne’s life is far from conventional. His apartment building is a money-laundering front. He pays rent in the form of sexual favors. There is a ghost in his apartment who wants him dead. But none of this measures up to what happens to him in the aftermath of one Halloween night that results in him owing a debt to the fey.

The enormity of the debt, and how he repays it, will be decided by patrons.

protagonist is a queer sex worker

updates every other week

loosely inspired by the Ballad of Tam Lin

there's gonna be sex scenes

current voting cycle is about getting fucked by a mob boss landlord

seriously this first act is mostly gay sex

also the protagonist lives with a plot-relevant house ghost

Join the fun for $2/month

nothing screams vanity like looking in the mirror, admiring your own hair/face/eyes/skin and just thinking "I should make another oc"