If I’m Being Brutally Honest I Think People Just Really Wanted Someone To Hate And Chose Her.

who up hating pop psychology

I know that a lot of people use fanfiction and fandom as an escape mechanism for the heavy things but please remember that those of us who can do that can only do it because we’re safe.

cod fandom attention pls to save a Palestinian teenager

Please either donate or engage with the post in some way so more people see it, either way it genuinely does help in a meaningful way even if it doesn't feel like a lot

Even my little pony did “monstrous wolf” better how did vivzie screw this up so bad?

Loona’s feral form is so fucking horrible. It would’ve been so easy to make her look like an actual demonic hound instead of this furry abomination.

Vivziepop is so afraid of letting her female characters look monstrous or animalistic. They always have to be conventionally attractive regardless of what form they’re in.

also i’ve seen some people say they’re gonna kill themselves or swear off watcher because of something they announced TWO HOURS ago and i just

please i say this with the upmost sincerity, PLEASE reevaluate some things in your life and please seek mental health help or take a step back to think things through because a company should not have this kind of impact on your life

phone inaccessible I feel like I'm losing it

it's always "aros and aces can still date and fuck" and never "staying single and/or celibate is a valid life choice and people who do so are deserving of respect"

bwaaaah

No further questions.

Burning from the Inside

Yan! Batfamily x neglected! male! meta! Reader

Prologue: House Fire

Summary: A look back in your memories of a simpler time, and how it stopped being so simple. Word Count: 1463 Reading Time: 6:09 (mins:secs) Notes: I've wanted to write a batfam fic for a while but couldn't think of an interesting spin for the reader, that is until I read a oneshot about an Ice! meta reader that I can't seem to find again (😞) and my third eye opened. This reader is low-key inspired by an oc of mine, who I actually have a pinterest board for, but I've done my best to keep y/n fairly blank for people to project onto. It may or may not come up later in the story (haven't decided) but I'm imagining y/n as a trans man and as an unreliable narrator with memory issues so. First chapter is queued to go up in a week! Warnings: written in first person, anger issues (on reader's side), descriptions of a parent dying, lots of mentions of fire, reader being tossed around in the foster system. Please comment if you think I've missed a warning!

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Rage burned under your skin constantly. When you were young, still kind and innocent, it was easier to control, it didn’t burn quite as hot. You still had a temper- your mother would end up dragging you home from school after many arguments on the playground getting too loud, but it never felt so much like drowning before. 

You were never certain of where your rage came from until an event when you were seven. The memory, clear as glass, would replay every night for that week. Whilst playing  in the front yard, you had noticed a car pull up. It was shiny and silver, that you remembered. But the woman who exited the car was more blurred by time degrading the memory. She’d smiled at you as she walked up to the front door, knocking politely without acknowledging you any more. She’d excitedly talked to your mother, giving your mom a piece of paper before your mother blew up. You’d never seen her so angry before. She’d screamed at the woman, scaring her into running back to her shiny car. 

The woman had driven off in a frenzy, the wheels kicking up dead leaves which showered over you in a confetti spray of autumn colors. Your mom had walked over and scooped you into a tight hug before pulling you inside. You didn’t play outside alone much after that. Your childhood had been normal beyond the odd moments like that.

You used to get ice cream with your mom after a particularly hard day at school, walking in the park as you shared a styrofoam bowl of slowly melting ice cream with her. You held onto that memory with an iron grip. She’d also take you to various garage sales and thrift stores, allowing you to buy the occasional toy or plushie every once in a while. It was only when you were older that you realized how tight of a budget you two had been on. You don’t worry about money much anymore. Maybe to someone who’d grown up richer your childhood sounded awful, but to you it was the golden years of your life. You’d never realized how much you valued your life in your small city with your mom, living in your tiny house at the edge of the city limits, until it was suddenly ripped away.

You’d been sitting in class, scribbling away at the margins of your notebook as the teacher droned on and on. Math was your least favorite subject since the teacher had the most monotonous voice ever. You’d only glanced out the window for a moment, staring at the birds in the trees, when the teacher was interrupted by a knock at the door. You watched as your math teacher walked to the door and opened it for an officer. Something like this would usually become the talk of the lunch period, concerned hushed voices slowly graduating into whispery gossiping over the course of a meal. So you’d watched intently as the officer spoke in a low, almost inaudible, tone to the teacher, who turned and locked eyes with you specifically. Your heart began to race as your teacher gestured for you- not another student, not anyone else- to come over. Your heartbeat had pounded in your ears as you got up, already hearing the concerned “what’s going on”s and “is everything okay”s from your classmates. Your teacher had an expression on their face that you couldn’t quite grasp in the moment. Later on, however, you’d later categorize it as something between sorrow and despair. It wasn’t the last time you saw that expression that day.

The officer had gently guided you into the hall where an administrator was waiting. Your worry shapeshifted into nervousness. You couldn’t remember doing anything horrible that’d warrant a police officer being there. Nervous that you’d be expelled over something you couldn’t remember, you began rambling apologies to the administrator, grasping at every single wrong thing you could remember doing. The man had just smiled and looked down at you with something akin to pity- the memory of that pitying expression made your skin crawl- and stopped your rambling with a single gesture. Then, the cop spoke. And the world you’d known shattered into bits.

The words came in bits and pieces as your brain struggled to adjust to this new reality you’d been thrown into. 

Your mother. House fire. The cop was sorry.

That was the thing that always stuck out to you. The apologies from people; as if they’d been the ones to start the fire. It still felt like molten sugar on a burn wound when people responded with “I’m so sorry for your loss”, even so many years later. It seemed like this one tragedy had suddenly changed everyone’s perception of you, reshaping you into the poor boy who was orphaned at the age of 11. 

That week (maybe it was a month, the specifics were hazy) turned into a blur as the world seemed to spin faster and faster around you. Suddenly, you were pulled from school and talking to social workers who had their own shiny cars, you were passed from adult to adult in a frantic bid for control over the situation your small city’s government found itself in. You remembered dizzy days in a guidance counselor’s office, then being rushed to a group home, then to a foster family, then another foster family further away, and again and again. Each time you were re-homed like a bad gift, you found yourself further and further from your little home town you’d loved. You don’t remember anything beyond the crushing weight of your mother being gone.

The only clear memory you have of that time was when a foster family took pity on you and drove you back home, to town. They brought you to the burnt-out remains of your old home. Neither member of the couple could hold you back when you ran towards the charred skeleton of the house. You remember crying and sobbing as hands pulled you away from the remains of the house, your own hands tightly grasping the one thing you’d managed to grab- a small book. You’d been shoved back into the car whilst hugging the book to your chest. Later, when you’d managed the courage to read that plain black book, you’d found that it was your mother’s journal. 

Maybe it was the fact that things had slowed to a more comprehensible speed, or maybe it was because you had something of your mother’s now, but you remembered more from this time period. In fact, you even remembered the foster family you’d been staying with when it happened. They were a sweet couple with a daughter not much younger than you. They’d given you your space, acting unsure and awkward whenever they interacted with you. They’d almost seemed relieved when the social worker came to retrieve you once again, as if having a grieving little boy in their house was equivalent to living with a nuclear bomb. The social worker didn’t need to prompt you at all to gather up your very few belongings and get in her car. You’d leaned your head against the window as she talked about your new home, barely paying attention. She’d talked about how “they” (you didn’t remember who “they” were. Maybe it was the police) had tried to find your father but had been unable, until he came forward himself. That deep anger flared up, flames licking at the bones of your rib cage as you kept it in. So he waltzes out of your life before you’re even born, ignores your existence for 11 whole years, and then struts back in as if nothing happened? The thought made you want to hit something. Someone. It made you want to hurt him. You’d clenched your fist and gritted your teeth as you tuned out the rest of the social worker’s speech.

Then, sooner than you’d wanted, you were in a hallway in one of the many community centers you’d been in, standing across from an elderly man wearing a suit. The fire that made you want to scream and bite and claw like a feral dog was quenched for a minute. Surely this couldn’t be your father, he was far too old. You couldn’t punch him- he’d fall over and die! You simply stood still as the man walked forward and gave a little bow. His voice was posh and his accent was clearly British, not unlike the period dramas your mom used to watch. 

“You, young man, must be (Y/N). Pleasure to meet you, my name is Alfred Pennyworth.”

He’d never know, but with that simple introduction, Alfred Pennyworth changed your world a second time.

hobie: kill yourself

pavitr: WHAT THE HELL BRO WHAT DID I DO

original format from @ha-youwish in this post!