#so please heed my warning

[rantceratops]

Alright, I just have one request for when Thanks To Them airs:

(DO NOT CLICK READ MORE IF YOU MANAGED TO AVOID THE LEAKS. You have been warned, so don’t @ me)

I need someone to let me know if any of the main kids die, specifically Hunter, after they see the episode. That’s all I want to know. Cause I probably won’t bother watching at all if that happens.

This shit has given me literal anxiety all week. I wish I had been spared seeing them.

[pineapplesaresweet]

Pov; you are the cop sent to investigate that supposedly empty mall

[inkykeiji]

Have you thought about a Tomura-nii? 🥺

ooooh my god anon

tw: pseudocest (adopted siblings), coercion, taking advantage of a younger sibling’s naive and innocent nature, implied size difference (reader is smaller than tomura), female reader, virgin!tomura, masturbation, blood, noncon, overstimulation, blowjobs, use of the word daddy to describe adoptive father, honestly just really fucking nasty and genuinely disgusting, please be careful with this lil piece words: 792

i have!!! i just feel like he’d be really fucking gross, you know??? disgusting in the most heinous way, like flawless tomura but a hundred times worse. i feel like he’d totally be a shut-in, completely inexperienced because your adoptive father (afo) never lets either of you—his fully grown adult children—out of his or kurogiri’s watchful protection. but that doesn’t mean there aren’t times when they aren’t looking.

tomura-nii has never been touched, romantically or sexually, by anyone else, but he is an avid consumer of porn + hentai, so much so that it borders on addiction. and eventually, it just isn’t enough. it isn’t enough to spend hours locked away in his room, jerking his cock until it’s red and wrecked, skin chafed so bad its flaking and peeling and bleeding, thin little wounds that weep crimson staining the lines of his sweaty palm a watery pink. it isn’t enough to throw hundreds and hundreds of his father’s money at those online cam girls, making them do unspeakable acts and recording it all for him. it isn’t enough, he needs more, he needs real; something he can feel, something he can touch, something he can own and mark and sink his teeth into—flesh and blood and bone filling his hands and yielding beneath his fingers and quivering around his cock. 

he needs you. 

and sure, he’s sheltered, but you’re even more sheltered, not even allowed access to the internet without daddy’s heavy supervision—so when he sees you, his innocent, naive, totally fucking clueless little sister, he knows he can manipulate you into doing whatever the fuck he wants you to, because nii-san said so, and nii-san knows best, right? nii-san is older, wiser, the boss, and what he says goes, always. he’s basically second in command beneath your adoptive father; even kurogiri seems to bend and break to his every will and whim and wish. 

so who are you to say anything, to know any better, against your bigger, smarter, better brother? who are you to deny him, to say ew and no and gross and it’s wrong! when he slinks into your bedroom in the middle of the night, waking you with his ragged pants and the vigorous slap of his fist against his pelvis, and streaks that lacy little nightgown with thick strokes of glistening cream, quickly cooling as they seep into the dainty fabric, heavy and gelatinous against your skin?

who are you to refuse him, when he asks if he can see how pretty your pussy is, when he asks if he can play with it, unexperienced fingers grinding and pinching until your rubbed-raw clit is swollen and your trembling thighs are stained with copious amounts of your own slick and your eyes are lidded and glassy, vision downy at the edges and bleary with tears, because it (finally) feels so good, too good, that you’re fucking sobbing? 

who are you to reject him, when he says he wants to show you his cock, when he tells you to hold it in your soft little palms and pet it until it’s oozing something sticky and shimmering all over your skin, when he demands that your lick your hands clean, that you put the head in your mouth and suckle on it, that you glide the tip of your tongue, rounded and hard, over the slit as fast as you can—back and forth, back and forth, until he’s shoving the entire thing into your mouth and he’s stuffing your throat full of something thick and acrid? 

nii-san says that it’s okay, that this is normal and what good little sisters are supposed to do, that brothers and sisters who love each other so much do this all the time, and don’t you love him, too? don’t you want to show him just how much you love him? just how perfect and obedient you are? 

and nii-san would never lie to you, would never lead you astray, would never ever want to hurt you, so you should believe everything he says without question, right? right. 

and, christ, you’re so fucking good, so sweet and precious and daddy’s flawless, faultless little rule-abiding princess, adhering to every order and regulation given to you. but daddy doesn’t deserve you, or your good nature and kind heart and eager-to-please tendencies; not when tomura sees you more often, takes care of you better than daddy ever has or ever will, so shouldn’t you be his flawless, faultless little rule-abiding little princess, too? nii-san deserves your attention so much more than daddy does, don’t you think? you owe him this much, yeah? 

of course. of course you do.

[meloncalic]

I conduct fear like electricity A man-made monstrosity

Don't turn out the lights Kiss yourself goodnight, cause there's a killer And he's coming after you

[non-un-topo]

Little Light - tog ficlet

Something I felt like writing but didn’t know what to do with. A little scene inspired by an old fic of mine, Dahlia. A bonus scene, if you will.

--

Somewhere outside these old wood walls, an owl calls the morning forth. A gentle if not calming sound to Andromache, but to tiny brand new ears it is unknown and frightening.

The babe emits a discontented little squeal, and as Andromache leans away from the wall to see into the makeshift bassinet — an armoire drawer, placed on the floor between a bedroll and Andromache’s watchful place at the wall — the tiny thing grunts and attempts to kick her swaddled legs. A little lip pouts, trembles, then her gummy mouth opens with grumpy staccato cries.

There’s a shift in the darkness on the bedroll just beside the drawer. There is enough pre-dawn light pouring in from a half-boarded window for Andromache to see Yusuf poke his head up from behind Nicolò’s shoulder, then quickly lift himself on an elbow as he comes out of sleep to register the baby’s distress.

Andromache’s hand is on the swaddled baby’s stomach, just rubbing very gently as Yusuf carefully crawls over Nicolò and comes forward. The child’s newborn cries sound almost like little angry coughs, increasing in volume as Andromache’s attempts to calm her do virtually nothing. She’s so small, so new. In her mind, Andromache is going through the list of remedies to calm her down: Is she hungry? Is she cold? Does she need a change? Was she simply startled by the owl? There are no easy answers, just a crying baby wiggling in tattered fabrics, all they have for her.

Yusuf is on it, though. Has been since that first horrific day that brought the tiny thing to them. He squats in front of the drawer, and Andromache removes her hand as Yusuf very carefully slides a hand behind the baby’s head and neck and begins to free her from her swaddle.

The moment her arms are free, they shoot up next to her head — some reflex Andromache has noticed, and Yusuf coos at the sight of it. Andromache watches the soft look in his eyes with unease, but she’s then drawn to the shift of Nicolò as the baby’s cries wake him too.

Yusuf shushes the babe, and there’s a moment of uncertainty on his face like he’s having similar thoughts to Andromache, similar anxieties, before he gets both hands below her tiny arms, fingers stretched out behind her neck and head to support her, and lifts her from the drawer. As he does so she scrunches up into a little ball, hand-stitched nappy crumpling up as her knees bend, and her pink fists bracket her face as she grunts.

Andromache watches in silence as Yusuf settles the baby against his shoulder, fingers feather-light and safe on the back of her head where her wispy hair gathers at the base of her skull. She adjusts a little, rubbing her nose into Yusuf’s shirt, as Yusuf pulls open the back of her nappy to check her.

Nicolò is there next to them then, more alert and awake than Yusuf whose eyelids are drooping. Andromache can see all the thoughts in Nicolò’s head play out just by the slight crease in his brow as he watches the baby’s face. He raises a hand, sets is back to the floor, and although Andromache had warned them both about the dangers of becoming attached to the child, she does not want the poor thing to suffer while three capable adults can comfort her. She blinks permissively at Nicolò but he doesn’t need the permission from her, only from himself.

Yusuf is bouncing the baby slightly against his shoulder as he shushes her little noises. He turns his head to see the longing on Nicolò’s face and nods sleepily at him. As Nicolò reaches out to stroke a thin curl on the top of the baby’s head, she begins to squeal again and soon unravels into hiccuping little cries. With mild alarm, Yusuf adjusts her so her face is not pressed into his clothes.

“Let me?” whispers Nicolò, hands out and ready. Yusuf nods, stifling a yawn, and very carefully passes the little grumpy ball over to Nicolò, who lays her over his forearm, cupping her bottom and scrunched up feet in his large hand. Yusuf releases her head last in the crook of Nicolò’s elbow, and her fists fly up again as she settles back with another round of staccato cries. With that done, Yusuf immediately stands to rifle through their packs, likely in search of some goat’s milk they’ve saved.

Finding sustenance for the child has been exhausting and certainly a battle, but Andromache has seen too many children starve to let this one go hungry. She will be fed every chance they get, and she will be warm, and when they are able they will pass her into loving hands who will be able to house her and love her and help her grow tall and strong.

But for now, Andromache only sits and watches as Nicolò rubs the pad of his thumb up the space between the child’s peach-fuzz brows, a little trick she’d taught him that may calm her down and put her to sleep but does not seem to be working at the moment. The baby’s mouth is still wide open and trembling as she cries and so, supporting her with both arms, Nicolò stands with an exaggerated groan and begins to bob her just slightly.

“Alright, piccola,” he says, turning away as he begins to pace around a little, humming some low made-up tune on the spot.

Yusuf stands at his side then, with the jar of milk and the cloth they use to soak it in so the baby can suckle, and Andromache lets herself relax, lets her back touch the wall again as she just watches them together, the pink-faced baby emitting little punched-out cries between them. She’s quieting down, though, as Nicolò bobs her like the sea. Yusuf stands by with the cloth, peering curiously at her little face.

Nicolò makes a brave move then. With one shared look with Yusuf, he blinks down at the child and leans down to ever-so-gently press his lips to her head. He stays there even after the little kiss, and Andromache can hear him hushing her softly as he continues to bounce her.

She’s stopped crying. As Nicolò draws back, Andromache can see that her eyes are wide open, gazing up at Yusuf and Nicolò in wonder. They smile down at her, and something lodges itself in Andromache’s throat. Almost subconsciously, her hand closes around the pendant against her chest.

Yusuf senses her unease, of course he does, because he looks over at her and beckons her over with a jerk of his head and an outstretched hand. She goes willingly, if a little stiffly, and although she swears in her mind that they will not be keeping this child it is nice to see the men smiling in victory and adoration at her little face.

“Looks like she just wanted to be held,” Yusuf whispers.

Andromache might think something about the fact that the first hands to ever touch this baby were Nicolò’s. She might think about the fact that Yusuf’s soft voice had been the one to calm her cries on that first night. She might remember the way her tiny body felt so warm in her arms the morning the child’s mother left this earth, when the ground still trembled with aftershocks and somewhere in the distance the ocean watched Andromache’s back.

She says none of this. Instead, she joins them in the middle of the room as it slowly fills with early morning light. The broken three of them, and the fragile brand new fourth.

They have not named her yet. Andromache does not dare. But she will be called Dahlia, after the flowers her mother sold in a little shop north of the hills of Campania, where the winds smell of oleander and the olive trees face the sunrise.

[thorniest-rose]

Steve looks shy suddenly. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah, of course."

"It's about... the hanky stuff."

Eddie blinks at him. Pretending not to know what he means. Just for the pleasure of seeing Steve squirm. "Hanky stuff?"

Steve's eyes slide over his shoulder, obviously embarrassed. "You said there was-"

Eddie tightens his hand on Steve's thigh. "Look at me when you talk to me."

Steve does as he's told. Instantly. Making something hot and heavy uncoil in the bottom of Eddie's stomach.

"Go on," he says, unclenching his grip and rubbing Steve's leg where he's left a red mark.

-

Six months after saving Hawkins, Steve and Eddie find themselves growing closer, from intimate phone calls deep into the night to hanging out just the two of them. But secrets and tensions come to the surface as Eddie talks about his sexuality, about what he likes to do to pretty boys like Steve. It's only a matter of time before something between them snaps.

[emjayewrites]

Cleaning/Updating my Taglist

Hi y’all 👋🏾 before I post the next chapter of The Fast Lane. I realize that I may have to update my taglist. Below is my tag list so far:

@royallyprincesslilly @mauvecherie-writes @saintslewis @peyiswriting @hamiltonvuitton @cocobutterqwueen , @qveenmelanink @ashanti-notthesinger @lewisroscoelove @lovebittenbyevans @lew1s-prix @jasmindaughteroftheworld @eugene-emt-roe @apenasumlug4r @simpfortoomanymen @roseseraj @alika-4466 @httpsserene @queenshikongo3 @cherry2stems @non-stop-imagines @anubisnoir @myescapefromthislife @chaneajoyyy @yeea-nah @lewiscrown @weetjy @a-moment-captured @sugardontbesweet @livinglifethroughfanfic @blveeeeeee @formula-hamilton @purplelewlew @trinitoldyouso @slytherinjimim3nthusiast @certifiedlesbianbaddie

Please let me know if you like to be added or removed

[j-philip-i-fry]

Philip J. Fry puts the y in babygirl. idk how else to be honest with you guys. This is my truth.

[imabillyami]

8 years ago on this day...

8 years ago on this day my dad died. He was 45. It pretty much happened out of nowhere. 

As in, we didn’t expect it to happen when it did and the way it did. 

He was an addict - alcohol, narcotics, plentiful drugs, the whole palate, you name it.

He had already had a massive stomach tumor, a perforated stomach & had already died due to that on the table at age 35. The doctors who brought him back said it was a sheer miracle. 

He got a second lease at life, but he didn’t use it. He never stopped drinking or searching the high of one more hit, even though the doctors told him it would kill him.

Still, his death happened out of nowhere for us. And it was quite tragic.  Cause in the end it the doctors were right. 

Don’t get me wrong, I hated my dad, I really did. He ruined my entire childhood, he ruined my mother, he ruined a good portion of my life.

I don’t remember many days as a kid where one of us didn’t end up beaten into a pulp. He started when I was still a toddler and he never stopped. Yet my mom stayed.

Even after he tried to stab her to death in front of me when I was 10. Even when beat her daily and broke her bones. Even when beat me and broke mine. He tried to kill himself in front of me when I was 12.

He tried to go after my little sister when she was still a toddler, but I never let him. From that day on it doubled the amount of beatings I took, cause he got a kick out of it when I put up a fight whenever he tried going after her.

When I was 14 he once again beat me into a pulp, before he kicked me out for being “a filthy whore” and “his biggest mistake”. After that I attempted to end my life for the first time. And after everything was said and done, my mom made me come back.

Just a few of the many highlights of my childhood/ teenage years. 

My dad left me mentally and physically broken to the point where even now, many years later, most days walking or even standing hurts. Badly. His abuse paved my own way into addiction. 

What I’m trying to say with all this, I’ll never understand that side of my dad. The violent side that is.

What I understand better now though, the older I get? The addiction and the mental health issues he was facing. 

Much like him, I’m dealing with a number of serious mental health conditions. Even now that I’m diagnosed, most days are a never ending struggle. 

Much like him, I’ve been an addict to everything I could get my hands on since my teenage years. That’s when the toll all these beatings took on my body started to really show and when my mind really started processing all the trauma that he'd put us through. 

Much like it did him, my addiction almost killed me. It was only a couple of years ago that my own addiction was so bad that I had pretty much given up and accepted that it would take my life. 

I hate my dad. Most days I’m glad he’s gone. But I understand his pain. So much.

Only thing different is that I never chose the path of violence that he chose. I never chose to hurt anyone or put them down to make them just as miserable as I was. I never chose violence to break someone.

I chose kindness and redemption and I was fortunate enough to find a way out of the addiction he could never escape. I’m thankful I chose that fight every day. And I’ll keep choosing that fight every day. 

That being said, I am 615 days sober today. Longest I’ve been since I started using at the prime age of 13. And I couldn’t be prouder of myself for that. 615 days and hopefully forever. 

I’m not gonna lie, I’m in pain almost every day, both physically and mentally, but for me living with that is better than not living at all. It’s better than endlessly chasing the numbness or the next high. 

And despite everything I just said, I still grieve my dad. Not the man he was, but everything that could’ve been. 

Despite everything he did to me I had chosen compassion. I had helped him get into rehab only months prior to his death, cause everyone else, even my mum, had finally given up on him. 

I was barely 20, an addict myself and in no shape to take care of anyone, yet it was a last ditch effort to maybe somehow make him love me. Joke’s on me, cause he never did. 

Last time I saw him was the summer before his death outside that rehab facility I dropped him off at. Our last text convo was making tentative plans for Christmas. A week later my then 13y.o. sister and my mum found him dead in his apartment. Multiple organ failure.

I never had a proper father figure to look up to, so what I’m really grieving is the idea of a father figure that could have been. 

The topic is quite controversial within our family, too. 

My mum just shoved everything aside and is still making him out to be this great guy that he wasn’t. She chose denial. Deep deep denial. My sister was too young to remember the worst of it. We shielded her the best we could, really. 

My dad finally left us for one of his many affairs and moved out when she was 9. He moved away and she saw him twice a year after that.

I saw him once a year when he came to visit. And we couldn’t be in the same room for more than two minutes without things getting physical between us.

I still remember an instance when I was 17 and he tried to lay hands on me again during his visit. I punched him right in the face in self-defense and he had a pretty shiner after that. 

My dad only moved back into town 6 months before his death in an attempt to fix things with my mum and my sister. I was already in college by then, I visited home during my term break though. Sometimes I wish I hadn't.

In these six months he did a number on my sister though, to the point where up until this day she sees him as this big hero. 

A lot of it also is thanks to my mum’s stories. My sister firmly believes that my dad was flawed, yet was the best dad ever. My mum and sister are both so deep in denial that it physically pains me. 

Me? I can’t forgive him. Never could. I see him for the monster he truly was. And I don’t believe in “protecting his memory”. Not when it’s all lies.

And every year around this day I can’t believe how much power he still holds over me, even from his grave. I’ve been in therapy on and off for 15 years, yet there’s things I can never let go or forget.

I’ve mostly forgiven my mum for what she put us through by staying with him. Mostly. The memories of my dad haunt me to this day though. The muscle memory is still there and the pain never leaves. I have constant physical reminders. 

Anyway. Today I’m grieving the idea of a father I could’ve had and I’m grieving the things and years I lost to his cruelty. I’m grieving, yet I’m celebrating being alive and sober and on the path to a better life at the same time. 

If you made it till here, just know this: I don’t want any pity. I don't wanna hear how strong I am. I know I am. But I wish I wasn't. I'd rather be not traumatized, but that's beside the point.

What I want is this: If you have someone you love, I want you to go hug them (a friend, a parent, a pet, whoever) today and think of a good memory you have with them, maybe tell them you love them. That would make me happy. 

[blorbocedes]

his eyes are like angels, his heart is cold

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Carlos Sainz Jr/Lando Norris, background implied Charles Leclerc/Carlos Sainz Jr

Word Count: 5.2k

Tags: mafia au, emotional manipulation, possessive behaviour, jealousy, unreliable narrator, unhealthy relationships, a little knifeplay as a treat, power dynamics, mclaren hate blogging

Summary:

Lando had brushed off his offer when he first received the suit, sardonically replying, “I think I can manage wearing a suit by myself.”

Carlos had raised an eyebrow at his confidence, pretended to back off, and murmured in his ear. “If you are sure, Lando. You know how important this gala is to me and my family. You would not want to embarrass us in any way, would you?” And let Lando spiral in his own self-doubt until he came back biting back his tongue to Carlos, needing him. And who was Carlos to deny him?

the second son of the italian mafioso and the ferrari driving academy graduate get dressed for the most important gala of the season.

world's biggest thank you to @colors-of-feeling my bestie for translations 🥺🥺🥺 also this was supposed to be a pwp that grew plot somehow 🥴 why is this 5k...... would be very 🥺 to hear your thoughts if you read...

[candyredterezii]

its crazy going in the notes of that post n seeing ppl talk how the tiktokers would harass n yell at them for being in their shot when filming at like. school or something like

also the fact that app a lot of these kids are doing this shit in the middle of school hallways, between classes ... that's so fucking insane to me.

[shoot-of-corruption]

((tw sad thoughts, tw irl, tw depression))

Starting to read a message, trying to hold a conversation.

Being unable to commit even the topic to memory or form a satisfactory reply... My brain and emotions are just unavailable for most of my life.

Sometimes I ask myself how this is supposed to work, how I am supposed to work.

Is that how this is supposed to feel like?

Living life being unavailable and overwhelmed.

I have a feeling being an adult is supposed to be eye opening and not just tossing yourself down an induced self sedation, so you don't feel half the shit that makes you want to claw your eyes out and scream until your voice cracks.

Isn't there supposed to be more to life than this?

[curiouscrux]

Approximately 2000 words of existentialist musings by Looks to the Moon, interspersed by board games with her neighbor.

[babygirlcowboy]

Washed my hair for the first time in a week 🥹🥹 made myself a meal 🥹🥹🥹 gonna maybe do something baking 🥹🥹🥹

[deaconsleatherpants]

Dead Boys Don't Cry - Chapter 8

Chapter Summary: Everything changes for you forever, one dark night when everything comes to light. It's raining; your skin wet and cold - and all you want is for time to stop moving, but it's too late. After all, you're just a human, mortal and fleshy, caught up with monsters and other things you could never have hoped to beat with luck alone.

Fandom: What We Do in the Shadows (2014)

Rating: M (some moderate violence)

Relationship: Deacon Brücke/Reader

Chapters: 8/9

Chapter 8

( @brughy @strange-birdy-me @gigabats @smuggsy @papyblook )

[silverlistenstothings]

i dont know if you're still taking them, but if you are, 9 or 20 for Marco/Grant, maybe? :0 if you're not still taking them, i apologize in advance hehe. either way, i love your work!

You still want 'em? They're yours, my friend. Apologies in advance.