[brat2die]

back to the basics:

you can call me: dolly.

pronouns: she/her.

to love me is to suffer me: jennifer’s body. showgirls. pink and black. ethel cain. charli xcx enthusiast. pinterest + spotify. calla lilies. the most famous girl at the waffle house. victoria’s secret. nancy wheeler. deers and bunnies. reading 24/7. gold. tease sugar fleur. challengers. nfr.

ㅤ♡ ㅤrules

ㅤ♡ masterlist

ㅤ♡ recent work

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expectations is my anthem

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olivia rodrigo the angel you are for, once again, putting my feelings into songs perfectly. </3

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rules and guidelines

first off, ageless/underage blogs do not interact!! i am not comfortable with minors reading my work as i might eventually write smut, so please respect my boundaries. please have your age in your bio or pinned post if you’re going to read/interact with my stuff or else i will likely block you.

if you have any requests or asks, feel free to send it to me as long as you have not sent it to any other author and please do not sent spam requests or asks.

I am currently writing for: rafe cameron, jj maybank, clark kent, jess mariano, bucky barnes, steve harrington, nancy wheeler, robin buckley and eventually more, but feel free to request someone and i’ll let you know if ill write for them.

although i do not have a huge following or many works out, that does not give anyone permission to copy my work or post it anywhere else (wattpad, ao3, etc.)

please do not use my work as an inspiration for ai bots. i do not support any form of ai so please do not ask me to create ai bots either.

homophobes, transphobic, trump supporters, ice defenders, zionists, etc., do not come into my blog, you are not welcome here and i will block you!

also, do not come around here mentioning eating disorders or anything related as it is not something i am personally comfortable with. do not interact with my blog if you have a pro-ana account either, i will block you.

lastly, do not bring any negativity here. i may not be the best writer, but thats why im writing to improve my skills so if you don’t have anything nice to say, just scroll and carry on!

[thepinkernet]

betsey johnson s/s 2005 collection 🎀

[brat2die]

if i write a series abt obx inspired by the ethel cain lore would yall fw that?? im thinking jj as willoughby, barry as logan and then rafe as isaiah. do you guys see the vision??

[kittysdiary]

kitty energy VI. 🐈👛

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i’m going astral project to see sabrina at lollapolooza

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i’ve got a little rival/enemies to lovers nancy wheeler x reader, set in the 2000s new york fic in mind, but i can’t decided whether to do make reader a fashion designer and nancy a fashion critic/journalist with a column on celebrities but mostly about fashion like models,designers etc. or make reader an actress and nancy would still be journalist who writes about celebrities controversies/gossip who reader is real familiar with

what dynamic would you guys like?

fashion!designer!reader x fashion!critic!nancy

messy!actress!reader x celebrity!gossip!columnist!nancy

other (leave ideas in comments)

don’t click! (for me to see results)

Voting ended onMar 2

[brat2die]

messy!actress!reader x celebrity!gossip!colummisy!nancy it is!! yay, i can’t wait to finish this up!

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You made it feel like home: a bones and all! au

Am I making you feel sick?

or…the first time rafe ate someone, bones and all.

w.c.: 1.2k

a/n: this is part of my bones and all! au, you can find more here!! this is rafe’s version but you can find readers here! also, divider creds: @suupersonic

“Man up.”

The words echoed though his mind like a loud noise in a cave, dizzying him as his hands trembled when cutting up the cocaine. It seemed to be all he was good for nowadays. He had never been his father’s pride, that was his sister, Sarah’s—and even sometimes Wheezie’s—job. That was her role in this family while he was nothing more than different in his father’s eyes. No matter how hard he tried, he wasn’t enough, he wasn’t good. He was no good, he was destined to be the fucked up child, the black sheep of the family even, filled with such anger and spite for his relatives, it shouldn’t have been a surprise when he finally snapped at his father.

Perhaps snapped wasn’t the most appropriate word. He’s yelled at his father before when arguments got too heated, he’s taken hits and he’s fought back as he got older. So, he’s snapped before, but he never snapped in a way that was so feral and bizarre to human kind before. So animalistic. It was like he was infected with some disease that made him more irrational than he usually was. He couldn’t blame drugs or alcohol for the incident, he was completely sober when it happened.

But even sober, there was nothing normal about his erratic behavior. He knew there was something wrong with him, he remembers being young, about 10 years old, two years after his mother died, hearing his step mom—if he could even call a woman he despised—voicing concerns over his mentality to Ward. He knew there was something wrong, of course he did, but it felt weird, shameful, even to hear other people assume that there was something wrong with him.

Coming back to reality as he caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror, he finally took note of the blood staining his face, the disgusting red against his skin made him feel sick, a mockery to the high class image he presented himself to be. It was just a reminder of what a mess he was. If his mother could see what an atrocity he just committed, he was sure that was when he’d finally feel guilt for what he did to his father.

As far he now knows, this wasn’t the first time he was this animalistic. At least not according to the man now lying dead and disemboweled in his own office. It serves him right for prioritizing work over his own son. Of course, Rafe knew what he did was wrong, that doesn’t mean he felt bad for the bastard of a father he was dealt. Yet, he couldn’t help but wonder what made him this way.

According to Ward, the first time he “ate” someone was when he was eight years old, back when his mother was still alive. Rafa had been helping her bake some cookies, it was one of the few cherished memories he had of his childhood, the rest was a blur. All he truly remembers was that his mother was dead shortly after, and that his hands that had once been cold from the cookie dough were now warm with a foreign substance. He doesn’t remember what happened, just read in the kitchen and the taste of something raw, maybe cookie dough, maybe flesh, in his mouth. However, he does remember Ward coming home from a business trip—he was always away—and how he stumbled upon the sight of his then wife bloody and lifeless, cold like how Tannyhill would soon become.

That was the first time Ward told him to man up. Like any son realizing his mother was gone, he had been crying, unaware of how much it was all his fault, and his father wasn’t having it. Angry and irritated from a flight home, that was the first time Ward hit him, and it wasn’t anywhere near the last. He remembers going to the bathroom, tending to his bruises and injuries after washing the blood off his hands with cold water, thankful that Sarah was spending the night at a friend’s and didn’t have to witness the horrific sight.

For years on after that, he never knew what truly happened, but many assumptions came to mind. Maybe she cut herself with a knife, maybe it was a suicide, or maybe he killed her. All those thoughts crossed his mind, leaving him frustrated each time that he couldn’t vividly remember what exactly went down. But never once had the thought that he ate his mother, ate her like a human eats a steak, savoring on her flesh as if he got it confused with the cookie dough.

When his father told him that after another one of their fights, he snapped, calling him a liar, an asshole, and any other vulgarity that came to him in his fit of rage. But deep down, Rafe knew Ward must’ve been right. It made sense, he couldn’t remember anything else. Maybe he had blocked it and he did feast in his own blood just like he did in his father.

Angry and offended at the sheer accusation that he would do something so inhumane, Rafe threatened his father, saying he’d do the same to him as punches were thrown and blood went flying through the room. Before he knew it—and even then, he still wasn’t too sure how it escalated to that point, he was over his father, for once having the upper hand, and eating him, bones and all, as if he had been starved his whole life.

But no, Rafe didn’t feel guilty. He didn’t cry, he was a man. Men didn’t cry, his father taught him that the day his mother passed, and he wasn’t going to change that now that Ward was gone too. He felt confused. He didn’t know why he was like this and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know. All he knew was that it was wrong, but it surely wouldn’t be the last time it happened. He had always been insatiable, wanting more than he had, and with this newfound desire for human flesh, he wanted more and more until he was satisfied.

Looking back at himself, he ignored the coke, a miracle in its own and likely the only one left in his life, and washed his hands clean, using cold water like he had 11 years ago, scrubbing away all sin.

The discovery that he was responsible for not only his mothers death, but now his fathers too, was unsettling and overwhelming, and he planned to leave this stupid, good for nothing town behind.

It’d be easy too, all he had to do was pack a bag, grab some cash—which he had plenty of—and skip town. There was nothing holding him back. Family was nothing to him. His parents were dead, Sarah hated him, and wheezie, poor wheezie, was stuck with Rose. So he’d leave first thing in the morning, he needed some rest tonight, and only sleep, he didn’t need to be reminded of what he just did. He promised himself to never speak upon it either, he’d take it to his grave no matter how quick or late it came. He’d have time to think of what he’d done as he drove far away from this place, he’d call it a road trip to make it seem more normal, so he’d feel normal. But as he cleaned his hands, ridding them of any evidence of the crime against nature he just committed, Rafe knew that there was something very, very wrong with him.

[brat2die]

i’ve got a little rival/enemies to lovers nancy wheeler x reader, set in the 2000s new york fic in mind, but i can’t decided whether to do make reader a fashion designer and nancy a fashion critic/journalist with a column on celebrities but mostly about fashion like models,designers etc. or make reader an actress and nancy would still be journalist who writes about celebrities controversies/gossip who reader is real familiar with

what dynamic would you guys like?

fashion!designer!reader x fashion!critic!nancy

messy!actress!reader x celebrity!gossip!columnist!nancy

other (leave ideas in comments)

don’t click! (for me to see results)

Voting ended onMar 2

[brat2die]

i hope the stranger things fandom, esp the nancy wheeler side, isn’t too dead cause i just got an idea for a fic

[brat2die]

You made it feel like home: a bones and all! au

Am I making you feel sick?

or…the first time you ate someone.

w.c: 1.1k

a/n: this is part of my bones and all! au, you can find the masterlist with reader’s and rafe’s intro here. also, you can find rafe’s version of his first time as an eater here!!

You remembered the horror on your mother’s face when you first took a bite of the raw meat she was preparing when you were only five years old. It wasn’t cooked at all, not even rare, just raw and disgusting, the blood still oozing out of it if you poked at the flesh. It was seasoned, with nothing more than pepper and salt, but that was only a side to the real meal. You bit the meat hard, like it was cooked and edible, swallowing like it was the best food out there, naive to the disgusting action you had just commented. Your mother didn’t yell, she never did, she was always gentle. She just cleaned your face off, despite her trembling hand and the wide eyed fear in her eyes, then sent you off to your room to play while she cooked the meat. But you were insatiable. Since that day, you wanted—craved—more. Dead cow meat didn’t satisfy. You didn’t understand it then, but looking back, you had always been different from everyone else.

It wasn’t too long after that you committed such a violent act again. You were only seven years old, two years after the discovery of just how delicious raw, cold, bloody meat could be. You’d been playing on the swings in your backyard with the babysitter, your parents out on a date after a busy week at work. It was getting late and the sun was setting, but it looked like the sun had been setting all day with how cloudy the sky was. The dark, gloomy weather had always been your favorite, finding odd comfort in the gentle breeze that sang a peaceful lullaby for you and in the patter of the rain against the gutter, harmonizing with the wind's swooshes. Your babysitter, Emilie—you still remembered her name and her smile so bright, it reminded you of the prettiest stars—urged for the two of you to head inside, the wind getting stronger and the sky getting darker, signifying a thunderstorm. But ever so in awe by the sky, you refused. You refused and refused until she practically had to drag you back inside, and even there, she wasn’t rough like other babysitters had been with you before. She was gentle like your mother. In fact, her caring nature reminded you a lot of your mom, and though you had seen her in the morning , too much time had passed and you missed your mother. And maybe that’s what fueled your desire: it was the comfort Emilie provided.

You remember sitting at the kitchen counter, eating cookies and waiting for your parents to come home, with Emilie by your side, when you suddenly bit her.

Like any child, you had your own weird habits, and you were a biter. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, and sure, maybe you were getting older and it was getting odd, but you knew better, and it was always playfully. Except for this time. You remember how your teeth sank in her flesh, reminiscent of a furious dog, desperate to protect and stay safe, biting anyone that reminded them of danger. But Emilie wasn’t danger, she was safe. She was sweet, and she was caring just like your mother. And now, you had your teeth sunk into her shoulder, biting hard as the metallic taste of blood filled cookie crumb covered lips. You savored the taste of her flesh, even the chemical taste of her perfume—smelling like roses and lavender—was appealing to you. It didn’t bother you, this was the one thing you didn’t want clean. Oddly, the taste of her perfume added to the moment, it was familiar, reminding you of the coppery scent of the uncooked meat you ate two years back. It was comforting, and as she yelled at your violence, it only encouraged you to give in to your hunger, eating away at her flesh like a ravenous zombie who hadn’t eaten in days—and in a way, you hadn’t.

The uneasiness of what you just did hadn’t hit you until your parents got home from work. The filthy, feral, cannibalistic act of eating someone else was shameful. Your mother screamed at the sight, but your father shushed her, yet their horror was the same. You had never seen your father looked so terrified before, and it made you nauseous to think that you were the reason he was scared. The carpet was bloody and the bones were left, you didn’t eat her bones, just her flesh, and even then, the little fat of her body that you left was unrecognizable, now stained with the deep maroon color of her own blood and your saliva from your greed for more.

Though you were young, you quickly caught on that what you did was wrong, punishable even. But you didn’t get punished. Your father ushered you upstairs to your bedroom, claiming that he’d clean the mess. But on your way up, your mothers sobs from your parents room taunted you for the unredeemable cruelty you had taken part of, the unforgivable sin you commited. That night, you got on your knees and prayed, hard and desperate, borderline begging to the god above, the one your parents had been so excited to bring you up on, for forgiveness. You prayed and prayed until your knees were bruised, your mother’s sobs and then your father’s hushed whispering motivating you to keep asking for redemption, apologizing over and over again and wanting nothing more than to wash away the sin. You promised to never do it again, childishly sticking up your pinky to the sky as proof that you meant it, only to be meant with the loud crack of the thundering sky, a sharp denial of what you begged for and the sound you once found comforting mocking your rotten ways.

a/n: i hope you guys enjoyed this and please feel free to send me some asks/requests on what’d you like to read abt this au or anything else! also divider credits: @suupersonic

[brat2die]

you made it feel like home: a bones and all au masterlist ⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ 🦌🫀 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

here you can find any works, drabbles, blurbs, etc about this au!

bonesandall!reader introduction

bonesandall!rafe introduction

the first time rafe ate someone

the first time bonesandall!reader ate someone

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i finally updated it!!

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too bad i can’t edit bc a rafe cameron edit to W.D.Y.W.F.M? by the neighbourhood would go hard

[bunid0ll]

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if the subway loses, it’ll feel so personal to me

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i feel like i just got my heart ripped out of my chest, that song meant sm to me