#i dont want to trigger anyone

[wolfsbanesparks]

Hey y'all!

After a few minor delays I've finally posted the first chapter of my serial killer fic, Pretty Little Thing!

This is much darker than my usual fics, so please read the tags and chapter specific warnings carefully before jumping in! This story tackles a lot of dark subject matter so please be wary.

If you see anything that you think needs an additional tag, please let me know in the comments so I can add it.

Also this fic is non linear! We will be jumping back and forth in time before syncing up the two main story lines near the end. I'll be putting dates for each chapter to help you all follow along.

Summary:

Captain Marvel has gone missing and the whole world is looking for him.

Billy Batson has also gone missing and no one has noticed.

[brainlessbaguette]

Some Hylia doodles/wips that I did on a whim awhile ago that I probably wont be revisiting so I'm sharing now.

Trigger warning for character death, tried to keep it non graphic however I was feeling some things after my grandma died and honestly Hylia's death is one of the most interesting bits about her character both in fanon and canon. Her entire existence is just one big fun concept to explore, mostly because we have scraps to go off of and what we do get is inconsistent.

[slingbats]

🏳️‍🌈 based on several old photos of gerard way

[mikayesha]

she keeps on growing,

slippin' through my fingers all the time.

[roverthegoober]

I JUSTBWATCH WHITEPINE 2 EEE

Spoilers and TW warning for mention/implied abuse, also a lot of rambling

I was lowkey busy while watching, anyway

Im already mad at the detectives BYE

Ross(i think) needing a shovel for cobwebs? Like i get not being able to reach, buttt...

Div in the woods humming?

The stairs are focused on, especially due to Misti dying

Pyro was outed by someone, and i dont think its Misti lol

Zam and Seraptor seem kind of chill w eachother, but I'm not completely sure

Ivory being scared to go in the shower and have someone follow her :( she was shaking too bro, i think someone abused her. And she also seemed really stressed during the entire ep, even in Wych Elm, you can hear shaky breathing, i think. Its also the music that plays while she cooks and gets ordered around

Oughh and seraptor mentioning his family and where he lives. I hope we meet them in a good way and not in a way where seraptor dies and we have to see them 😭 i heart seraptor pleade dont DIEE

Zombie has a lack of emotion and stuff

Misti is still warm?? Like WHAT???? WHYYT

Im just so hyped rn!!!

[dukeofthomas]

I need people to realize how horrible 'stalking/constant surveillance/breaking into each other's homes is how the Batfamily show love' is. Like i really need someone to just acknowledge how horrific saying this bullshit is.

Like even fics where they're shown as happy and healthy and with good ties, you've always got this thing where none of them have privacy or any boundaries with each other. Which is directly antithetical to actually having good relationships. And this invasion via hacking and stalking and breaking into homes is portrayed as a positive, good thing; it's just how they show love and care to each other, after all. But for some reason I just personally don't find stalking, lack of privacy or boundaries, and emotional manipulation funny, endearing, or healthy, and just end up disgusted at the attempt to sweep it all under the rug.

[raineandsky]

The Villain's Housekeeper

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6) (part 7) (part 8) (part 9) (part 10) (part 11)

tw death mention

The courtesy the villain has decided to show the hero has been incredibly weird. A relief, of course, but weird.

They avoid the hero most days now. The time they used to spend watching the hero break their back for them is now spent as far away from the hero as humanly possible. The hero kind of understands, though—since their damning little slip up in the bedroom last week, the villain’s demanded they stop doing the chores until their arm is better. There isn’t much to watch anymore.

And when the villain disappears out the front door for the night, it’s always with the same instruction now: “get a decent night’s sleep, don’t lie on your arm, and for the love of god don’t make it worse.”

No chores to be done in their absence. No rules. Just… rest. Get better. It’s a breath of fresh air.

Anyway, the lack of random work to do gives them more time to snoop. Okay, so it’s not no rules, but one very easily breakable rule. A rule they couldn’t care less about breaking—snapping clean in half, if they can. The agency taught them how to pry and leave no trace. This is the easiest, most rewarding part of their stay here. It's more of a routine than anything now, trekking through their notes.

The villain’s office is a mess, to put it lightly. It makes it just that little bit harder to restore when they’re done, but it doesn’t matter too much—they get information. A list of missing villains, heroes on hit lists, plans. Plans to infiltrate and extort and seduce and kill. God, everything the agency’s ever wanted is in here. The hero commits it all to memory, and by the time the villain gets home they’re already asleep on the sofa downstairs.

The villain always comes back in the early hours of the morning, and today is no different. The only difference is that the front door batters against the opposite wall and the villain staggers rather loudly into the kitchen.

The hero is up in an instant, sleep torn from them abruptly. They trail after the villain, glancing instinctively to the floor for blood, but the tile is clean. The villain sinks into a kitchen chair like it’s the last thing they’re ever going to do.

“[Villain]...?” the hero says into the silence. The villain barely responds, their gaze burning into the table as they lean their face against their palms, their elbows propped up on the table.

“We’re dying,” the villain says flatly. “We’re dropping like flies, and [Supervillain] is still trying to send us all to our deaths to save herself.”

It’s not hard to feign surprise; this wasn’t mentioned in any of the paperwork the hero’s seen. They pull a chair out and settle opposite them. “What do you mean?”

“What do I—” The villain’s tone is scathing for a moment, but they bite back the end of their sentence with a sigh. “Heroes are killing us. I’ve found more than one person face-down in some back alley. People I know—allies. Friends.”

The hero’s throat closes up for a long, long moment. “I– I’m sorry,” they say testily, but they come out as more of a choke. The villain doesn’t seem to hear them anyway.

“Every so often [Supervillain] sends a new batch of villains into the thick of it, to try and take down some of the heroes wiping us out. Those who do survive are few and far between, usually screwed up beyond repair. And [Supervillain]— she’s—”

The villain sucks in a shuddery breath. The hero waits patiently.

“[Supervillain]’s chosen her next round of sacrifices,” the villain says with a breath of a humourless laugh, and a knot twists in the hero’s stomach. The villain fixes them with an empty stare, and the hero shoves down the urge to glance away. “I’m one of them. I’m— I’m being sent to die.”

Perfect, some part of the hero’s mind murmurs. A safe haven, all to yourself.

But despite everything, the villain’s been kind to them. Even though they humiliated them and forced their hand, the hero’s not in the claws of the superhero yet because of them. And they’re going to die. The villain’s going to leave one day, and they won’t come back. The hero’s brain almost can’t wrap around it.

“She— I’ll be setting off… for good next Thursday.” The villain’s face morphs into hopelessness.

It’s Tuesday now. Nine days.

The villain clears their throat, though it doesn’t seem to dislodge the anxious rasp residing there. “I, uh— I’m sorry,” they say unexpectedly. “For being a villain, for making you dance for my entertainment to stay alive, for— god, for everything. I’m sorry, [Hero].”

The hero can only blink at them for a moment. Sorry? “That’s, uh… it’s okay,” the hero says dumbly after a moment.

“No, it’s not. The least I can do is fix what I can before I… y’know.” The villain’s eyes lock onto the hero’s so intensely that they can’t find it in themself to look away this time. “I’m so sorry.”

You saved my life. You let me stay here. You let me hide from your enemy. You let me hide from mine. You ignored the benefits of turning me out for what? Companionship? Necessity? Something else entirely?

The hero can’t say that to their nemesis. The villain already sounds insane saying all this. They don’t need to feed into the absurdity of the evening. So they simply force a smile, of sorts, onto their face, and say, “I forgive you.”

(next part)

[evermorepeyton]

i didnt even know what to screenshot from this chapter (it’s different from the others so im sorry, but i felt it was important to the story)

anyway, chapter 14 of my dnp F1 au fic is up 🏎️🏎️🏎️🤍🤍🤍✨

[mokeonn]

Hey so recently my relationship with food has changed in a very concerning (yet familiar) direction, where I feel either very grossed out by or I'm very disinterested in the concept of eating solid foods. These last few days I've been primarily just drinking various drinks and a couple of, not very nutritious, small meals. I'm considering getting meal replacement drinks or something to that effect to help me through this, but I worry that I might dislike the taste or texture and I won't use it.

Do any other autistic people have advice on this? I had this problem in the past when I was 14-15 and it had gotten incredibly bad back then. There's a non-zero chance it's ARFID but I am unable to afford going to a doctor right now, so I can't really say that it is that for sure.

Unfortunately the main issue besides general disinterest in food and disgust towards eating, is that the only solid foods I can eat are processed and don't meet my nutritional needs. I would really like to not eat only pizza pockets and cereal because I am 24 years old now and I can feel the effects of no vegetable.

But yeah any other autistic people who might have this issue and know how to overcome it (again) pleasepleaseplease help

[midnightsunnyday]

So, I've been thinking over this, and I'm really not trying to come across as rude or offend anyone with my take, but...

What exactly does this fandom want from this game and its characters?

Do y'all want a game featuring good, uncomplicated human men who live by good, uncomplicated human standards and never do anything wrong but with tails, horns, and wings?

Or do y'all want a game about the literal lords of hell and whatever that may entail?

Because I can't be the only one who finds it ironic that the characters who act the most like demons are widely disliked, while the characters who act less like demons are widely liked, right? In a game about dating demons, being demonic or showing any kind of character flaw isn't attractive, and those of us who actually do enjoy the darker themes, when we do get them, are treated as having somehow failed morally for liking it. It makes no sense to me.

And this is in spite of so many posts from this fandom stating how they want their "demons to be demons." That they want complex and interesting characters. That they want to feel like they're in a realm surrounded by devils and engage with all the hostilities and angst and drama and blood that comes along with that, yet in the same breath, can't even handle characters like Lucifer, Belphegor, Asmodeus, Solomon, Simeon, and Diavolo. Characters who aren't exactly nice or fully transparent about their goals or actions. Characters who are a little or a lot fucked up. Characters who are gray at worse, but ultimately, show they are capable of being more. Even if poorly executed by the writers, they tried to show us, to some extent, exactly what we've been asking for. Now we rarely get events or chapters where the brothers so much as even swat a fly, and I can't help but blame that on the knee jerk reaction of the fandom to scream about anything less than flattering.

Which is why I can't help but wonder if Obey Me! Nightbringer does happen to touch on darker themes and characterization, than I can only imagine how well the fandom will handle any of it (my guess is poorly).

Feel free to leave a comment. As I'd really like to have some more opinions on this.

[moeblob]

So, Fall 5 rolls around and I give Elliott flowers in the morning while he's trapped in his shack (because it's raining on a bday again wow). I continue on with my day in game and grab a hot pepper and run over to the bar to give Shane a gift. Which is delayed because I had to get drunk with Elliott first, then am politely removed from the premises as the heart event ends, and walked RIGHT BACK INSIDE while still drunk from Elliott and give Shane a hot pepper and wobbled back out. But it's so funny to imagine Shane watching the weird farmer getting drunk, leaving, running back in to hand him a pepper, and then leaving /again/.

[chocottang]

the more i think abt goldica the more i like it

[ghosttotheparty]

@thorniest-rose this is ur fault your tags on part one made me emotional so here’s one more part <3 love u also i added it as chapter two of broken brain <3

cw: tics; self-deprecation

“Hey, baby.”

Eddie looks up from where he’s sitting at the kitchen island, his legs crossed on his seat in front of him, setting his pen down.

“Hi.”

“How’re you?” Steve asks softly, taking off his vest and dropping it on the countertop, coming close.

“Having a rough day,” Eddie says, the words barely out of his mouth before his chin jerks to the side, turning his head sharply. He closes his eyes, sighing heavily, and before he can open them, Steve is sliding his hands over Eddie’s neck gently, rubbing it tenderly. Eddie moves slowly, shifting to face Steve, and before he can lean into Steve’s torso, his hand flies out and hits Steve’s hip hard. Eddie flinches, pressing his hand to the spot carefully.

“Sorry.”

“‘S okay,” Steve murmurs, one of his hands pushing through Eddie’s hair. Eddie’s stomach twists, and he huffs quietly, closing his eyes. “What is it?”

Eddie shakes his head, opening his eyes to look up at him.

Steve touches his face, his fingers brushing over his cheek, over the rough, sensitive skin of his scar, and he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to Eddie’s forehead.

“What is it?” he asks quietly.

Eddie exhales, turning his cheek into Steve’s palm, feeling the tension leave his body.

“…How are you not tired of me?” he asks after a moment.

Steve blinks, his expression hardening, but his hands remain soft on him.

“What do you mean?” he asks in a small voice.

“I just…” Eddie shrugs weakly. “Feel like you should be fed up with me by now,” he half-jokes, but Steve frowns, his fingers trailing over Eddie’s jaw.

“Why would you think that?” he asks quietly, like he’s offended.

Eddie blinks at him, his eyes stinging a little bit. His hand tightens on Steve’s hip, one of his fingers holding loop of his jeans.

“I keep hitting you,” he says weakly. It happens often. Not as often as his whistling, or his head jerking, his eyes squeezing shut or rolling to the ceiling, but often. When they’re on the sofa, when they’re hugging, when they’re just talking. Eddie wants to cry every time, but Steve doesn’t even acknowledge it, except for the occasional it’s okay.

“You can’t control that, babe,” Steve says adamantly.

“I know, it’s just…” Eddie looks away, frustrated. “I keep hurting you.”

“I think you think you hit a lot harder than you do.”

“Steve,” Eddie says seriously, tugging at his belt loop, looking up at him. “I almost smacked you in the face the other day.”

“You redirected,” Steve says lightly, shrugging.

“Steve.”

“Do you want me to be mad at you?”

“I…” Of course he doesn’t. But it feels like Steve should be mad at him. Or at least annoyed. “I don’t know.”

“Well I’m not,” Steve says firmly, holding his chin. “Ever. Okay?”

It doesn’t make Eddie feel better. He exhales, looking down, at the blue ink on the top of Steve’s thigh, rough doodles on his jeans from when he gets bored at work.

Steve sighs, pushing Eddie’s hair back before he lets go of him, moving so Eddie’s hand falls from his hip, and he pushes Eddie’s sketchbook out of the way, looking at the drawing on the open page. It’s an unfinished sketch, messy and not very good at all in Eddie’s overly humble opinion, but Steve smiles at it.

“‘S good,” he says softly as he pulls himself up onto the counter. Eddie watches him, watches the muscles of his arms flex, and his cheeks flush with warmth when Steve reaches for the armrests of his chair and easily pulls him closer, between his legs.

Eddie looks up at him, that familiar feeling settling in his chest, and he reaches his hands up, setting his arms across Steve’s legs, holding his hips again.

“Talk,” Steve says softly. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” He touches said head, runs his fingers through Eddie’s hair, scratches at his scalp. Eddie wants to cry.

Eddie sighs, leaning to rest his cheek on Steve’s knee, closing his eyes.

“Just…” His shoulder jerks slightly. He ignores it. “I don’t know. Kinda crazy you haven’t gotten sick of me yet.”

“Why would I ever get sick of you?” Steve asks softly, playing with Eddie’s hair. “Hm?”

“Because I keep hitting you,” Eddie says sullenly, letting go of Steve’s hips. “Because I… throw things and hit things and I’m… noisy.” He pushes Steve’s shirt up with one hand, the other falling under the island, untucking it and pressing his hands under the fabric to Steve’s skin. “I interrupt. I’m annoying.”

Steve pulls his hands away and untucks the rest of his shirt, holding it up with one hand so Eddie can trace his scars softly, gazing.

“You’re not annoying, Eddie.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t believe him, and Steve can tell.

“Eddie, baby, look at me.”

Eddie looks at him without lifting his head. His vision is obstructed by his hair, and Steve gently moves it out of the way.

“You are not annoying,” he says again, softer, his eyes shining earnestly. “I know you can’t control it.”

“That just makes it more annoying,” Eddie grumbles.

“No, it doesn’t.” Steve’s fingers drag through his hair.

Eddie exhales, looking back at where his hand is tracing Steve’s scars.

“You’re annoyed by it,” Steve says, and Eddie nods against his leg. “I’m not, Eddie.”

Eddie is quiet, a tingling starting on his shoulders like he’s going to shiver, and he tenses.

“Alright, Eddie, look at me,” Steve says, his voice shifting, tapping Eddie’s cheek to prompt him to lift his head. Eddie does, muttering a soft, “Hold on,” and looking away. He pushes his shoulders back, closing his eyes, and Steve waits quietly, patiently, until Eddie’s head jerks back violently, and his shoulders shrug up suddenly. A second passes before Eddie drops his head, sighing and relaxing.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Eddie shivers before he looks up at him tiredly, and Steve leans down, holding his face between his face, looking into his eyes.

“I need you to, like, really listen to me, okay?”

“Okay,” Eddie breathes.

“When I say that you’re annoying,” Steve says, still looking into his eyes, “or obnoxious, or any of those things, I don’t mean it. I’m just teasing. And if you don’t like it, or if it hurts you, I’ll stop.” He looks so earnest that Eddie almost hurts. “And when I say those things,” Steve says slowly, carefully and intentionally, “I’m talking about how you act with the kids, usually. When you’re…” He shrugs, smiling softly. “Immature and chaotic. But even though I tease, I love when you act like that.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows.

“Even though it riles them up?”

“Yeah,” Steve says softly. “Because they get to just be kids when you’re fucking around with them.”

Oh.

Eddie smiles softly.

“And,” Steve continues, “when I say those things, I am never, ever talking about your tics. You understand me?”

Eddie nods weakly, his eyes burning.

“You are not annoying to me, Eddie,” Steve says softly, leaning down and leaving a careful kiss on his lips. “I promise.”

“Don’t you get tired?” Eddie asks, exasperated. Steve looks at him.

“What do you mean?” Steve asks quietly.

“It’s constant, Steve,” Eddie says, his eyes burning. “And you just… put up with it, you— you’re always getting me ice, or holding my hand still, or getting pillows for me, or…” He exhales, looking up at Steve desperately. “You’re always taking care of me.”

“I like taking care of you,” Steve says adamantly. Eddie looks away, holding back an eyeful. “Eddie, I’m serious, look at me.”

Eddie looks up at him. His lips are pressed together, his eyes shining with some unreadable, desperate emotion.

“Steve,” Eddie breathes.

Steve leans down and kisses him, holding his face between his hands so his cheeks are squishing under his palms, sucking softly on his lower lip, slow and careful like everything he’s ever done with Eddie.

He pauses when they part, their foreheads pressed together, breathing a little hard, holding Eddie close. Eddie slides his other hand under Steve’s shirt. His skin is warm. His scars are rough, the skin thick and sensitive, tender evidence of his survival. Eddie likes to kiss them.

“I love you,” Steve whispers.

Eddie’s eyes open. His breath escapes him, and it’s like his bones melt. He slumps, squeezing his eyes shut as the words wash over him, his hands squeezing Steve’s sides softly.

“Really?” he chokes, pulling away after a moment. Steve’s eyes are tear-filled.

“Really really,” he says softly. Eddie blinks tears back, sliding his hands over Steve’s sides.

“I don’t get tired of taking care of you,” Steve murmurs, looking at Eddie’s face, his thumb brushing over his trembling lip, “because taking care of you, and helping you, and looking after you is… me loving you.” He pauses for a moment, letting their foreheads touch. “And I don’t ever get tired of loving you.”

Eddie’s whole body hurts.

He chokes Steve’s name weakly, his voice broken, almost squeaking, too high and small for it to even be understood, but Steve just kisses him even though he can’t kiss back, because tears are streaming down his cheeks, over Steve’s fingers.

A small sob escapes Eddie, and Steve pulls him into a hug, running his hands over his head as he buries his face in Steve’s belly. Eddie wraps his arms around Steve’s waist, his hands pressing into the small of his back, against his warm skin. Steve’s hands are shaking as they run through his hair.

Eddie’s shoulders jerk as he cries, just once, and Steve’s hands smooth over them gently, sweetly, gathering his hair back.

“Eddie, baby,” Steve's voice says softly, and Eddie feels like he’s surfacing from under cold water, gasping for breath, like his lungs are breathing properly for the first time in his life.

“I love you too,” he chokes, lifting his head and looking up at him. His vision is blurry with tears. He can still see Steve’s smile. “I love you so much.”

Steve laughs softly, sniffling, leaning down to kiss him chastely.

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, trying to breathe evenly, focusing on the feeling of Steve’s hands running over his cheeks, wiping his tears away. His head shakes slightly, but Steve doesn’t move his hands. He leans down to kiss his forehead.

“God,” Eddie exhales, holding his hips above the waistband of his jeans. “Thank you, Stevie.”

“You don’t have to thank me, baby,” Steve whispers. “You don’t have to apologize and you don’t have to thank me.”

He leans down and kisses his lips gently, murmuring a soft I love you, and Eddie reaches up, sliding his hands over Steve’s shoulders, over his cheeks, pulling him down to kiss him harder. After a moment he remembers that he’s sitting, and without pulling away, he stands, kicking his chair back noisily, one of his hands pushing into Steve’s hair as the other clutches at the small of his back. Steve’s legs wrap around his waist, and he tilts his head to kiss him deeper, holding Eddie’s face like he’ll fall apart if he lets go.

They’re both breathless and panting when they part. Steve’s fingers dance over the sides of Eddie’s neck, over his scars, making him shiver. (It’s a nice shiver.) They press their foreheads together, sharing breaths, eyes closed.

Steve pulls away after a moment, caressing Eddie’s cheeks.

“I’m not gonna get tired of you, Eddie,” he whispers. “You’re stuck with me, baby.”

Eddie laughs softly, sniffling and nuzzling his face into Steve’s cheek.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

[etherealspacejelly]

hi, sorry to hear you're having a hard time 💞

would it help/feel nice to talk about star trek?

if yes: what are some of the best things about Spock? like we know and love him, but if you had to explain to someone

if no (or either way actually): I am sending you a warm cup of tea (or preferred drink of your choice) and wishing you well 💕

i am currently so anxious i feel nauseus and can't eat breakfast! so yes. that might help. lets do that

i think one of the best things about spock is his inner conflict and character arc throughout the show and movies. he is a man at war with himself. he is emotional, and disagrees with that emotion, but to repress that emotion does him harm. his human blood makes it impossible to ignore those emotions, and that causes him shame.

this makes him a nuanced and complex character. we get to explore who he is when those walls come down. we get to see how he tries to build those walls up further and fails, and what causes him to fail. through him we get to ask the question "what even is 'logical', anyway?"

he also represents everything 'other'. i think many people relate to spock because he resonates with so many experiences. biracial people, queer people, neurodivergent people, and probably others, all see themselves reflected in this character. he never quite seems to fit in anywhere, certainly not on his own home planet. his parents pull him in two different directions, they expect things of him that he is not able to do. he was outcasted as a child by his peers. he found refuge in starfleet, but even then he still feels like an alien, an outsider, never quite good enough.

yeah idk this is all just off the dome so if any of it is wrong or doesnt make sense, thats why. dont take this too seriously i am a stem student after all

[bittsandpieces]

I'm a bit uncomfortable with that post you reblogged with the rewritten "First they came" poem, especially because it feels like it's comparing kink to the murder of my people. I'm a queer Jew and the equating there squicks me out

You know, that's one hundred percent fair. In hindsight, and as someone who's rroma, I really should've thought about it more before casually reblogging it. I think the sentiment of the original post is a good one, but there are far better ways to communicate it than equating kinkshaming with genocide. Deleting the reblog as soon as I post this