the end of the line

what is grief if not love persevering?

[neighborhoodparker]

you should put your age in your bio or a pinned post. just a heads up.

i can’t tell if this is a threat or genuine advice lmfao. the last anon i got told me i wasn’t wanted 🤣 . but, the movie tarzan is only a couple years older than i am. my age is actually IN my about me, which is accessible mainly on desktop because themes are funky on mobile. :)

[byjove]

I’m pro third trimester abortion. They never ever happen for shits and giggles but pro-life weirdos are always like “When does a baby become a person to you? What if a pregnant woman decides she doesn’t want to have the baby at 32 weeks?” idgaf. In this hypothetical, she should be allowed to waddle her pregnant self in for a termination if she wants to. Cryptic pregnancies when you only find out you’re pregnant 6+ months in are the scariest fucking thing I can imagine, the only other alternate to abortion in that situation for me would be suicide. Late term abortions are almost always because the pregnant party is dying or the fetus is incompatible with life but if there is anyone out there who does make it 7 months and goes “Nah, not feeling it.” I think they should be allowed an abortion. No doctor is going to do that so it’s a non-issue but as a hypothetical, I support it. My controversial hot take but I am not playing games with these people anymore.

[byjove]

The vast, vast majority of abortions are first trimester so pro-lifers know what they’re doing trying to demonize abortion based on the small minority of abortions that are performed after the second trimester despite the fact they’re done for medical reasons. Do not let them make you concede to their point that abortion is yucky and gross because the idea of a late term abortion personally horrifies you. It horrifies the people who require it but they should have access, always. They want you to be morally outraged about something neither of you fully understand in that moment.

[bookishdiplodocus]

Reblog the writers’ fortune cookie for luck!

[redeadepression]

Guys I reblogged this and then wrote an 8000 word story I didn’t even have a solid plan for. Reblog this shit.

[epicfangirl01]

Please, great fortune cookie of writing. I beg of you.

[huffego]

I need this right now man!

[neighborhoodparker]

Panacea [0] - Updated

Pairing: Steve Harrington X Reader

Word count: 2,758

Warnings: There are mentions and explanations of abuse, sexual coercion, and overall toxic relationships. Please read this series at your own risk; as these tough/triggering topics will follow along throughout the series ― as well as notes of racism and mental illnesses. Know that this series won't involve the Upside Down. Hawkins is just a normal little town, where the biggest monsters that exist are human.

Summary: The one where you can see your story in Hawkins.

Taglist:

improved introduction | part 1 | part 2

You didn't know what to expect when you first moved to Roane County, your '67 Chevrolet Impala filled with all the things you could say belonged to you. It wasn't much ― bags and boxes filled with clothes, sparse toiletries, and the memories of your mother you had managed to keep. The car itself was your mother's, one her brother gifted her once he finally got the car of his dreams. While the car contained a whole sliver of your heart, the next most precious thing to you were your mother's journals.

Neat, meticulous cursive wrote her story out for you. The way she'd never been able to connect with her birth parents, as they were always absent. When they weren't absent, they were down―right abusive. Her journals told of the way her brother saved her from beatings, often taking the brunt of hits. It also told you how she found solace in the couple who lived next door; who had been in their fifties when your mother knew them. Your mother's handwriting, her way with words, it told you of how she met your father ― how she sealed her fate in stone when she became pregnant with you.

That was why you left your small town in Nebraska after she died. You had a home to fall into in Hawkins, Indiana. That old couple, now pushing into their seventies, did their best to keep in touch with your mother. They offered solace, a haven, a place she could have run to if she only had the courage. But your mother was dreadfully loyal; a fault that led her to what ultimately killed her.

Your mother's journal tracked how she was eight months pregnant when she packed up and left. It wasn't a choice. You were painfully aware of that. Your father, the man who had both given you life and taken away everything that you knew you deserved, forced her to leave. He threatened the lives of everyone your mother cared for. In Indiana, they would never let him see her. They would save her from him. And your mother dictated in her story how she was scared, in pages crinkled with long―dried tears. She couldn't imagine living with the grief of her brother, of the couple next door, dying because she couldn't live with her choices.

It started a horrific adventure that lasted 15 years. You remembered every moment vividly ― the screaming, the physicality, the way your mother would weep until you sought her out. She was brave, strong, and refused to let you see her cry. You still remembered her voice, soothing and trying not to break, as she told you "this is just how your father loves". 

Love that ended in his hands around her throat, strangling the life from him that could have done so much more. If he hadn't been in the picture. You had found her body that day, barely escaped with your own life after your father found you holding her and crying. You're not quite sure how you managed to escape, how your mother knew you would be able to leave once she was gone, and how she knew she would die that day.

All you knew was that you made it out, alive. And you were going to live a better life than your mother had.

You found a home in Hawkins. Two years had passed since you were emancipated. Well, since you emancipated yourself and ran from the only house you'd ever known. The law didn't come running for you, didn't bat an eye when you enrolled in a new school with forged papers and parental signatures. Hawkins High didn't know your mother had died, that your father tried to help you join her in what came next. All the town knew was that a lovely elderly couple had taken in someone young, who brought with them as much love and light as they could muster.

It didn't matter to the town that you flinched when voices and hands were raised. They turned a blind eye to your anxiety, the impending sense of doom you possessed that everything and anything could come crashing down at any moment. You lived in the couple's basement, converted in the best way possible to be your own apartment. It was quaint; you had your own entrance to the basement, and it allowed you freedom just to be.  

It took you a while to adapt to the kindness of the couple, the lack of screaming and clenched fists. But you did what you've always done; you adapted. It was a skill you were forced to learn from a young age, stemming from your poisonous relationship with your father. It was the same adaptive nature enabling you to slip quietly into the social structure that made up Hawkin's High. You could paint on a friendly facade, where you were out―going and bubbly and the only cares you had were if your cheer―leading uniform would fit the way it was supposed to. You blended in with ease among those in the town that held good names. Your mother lived here for the first seventeen years of her life. And even though she left behind this town for a monster, the people of Hawkins welcomed you back with open arms. You were, after all, your mother's child ―  a woman they never stopped caring for. It felt like you lived your entire life within the small square footage making up the town. You supposed a town of this magnitude never truly forgets who it marks as its own.

It didn't take long for Hawkins to mark you as one of its own. The ease you pretended to have with moving there infiltrated every aspect of your life. You aced your assignments and tests, managing to pass your classes with flying colors. You found a job at the local diner, which had allowed you to not only decorate your small apartment ― but also to pay rent toward the Novak's, the lovely couple who took you in. And, according to your friend group, you hit the jackpot with a stunning significant other.

You had caught Billy Hargrove's eye the second he moved to town. A vibrant, lovely force who seemed to light up the room wherever they went. He was a conundrum. You had figured that out quickly, right after you had offered to help his family move into the house. Your pseudo―grandparents had sent you over to their house with Clare's famous lasagna recipe, with instructions you had wrote about how to prepare it when ready.

Billy had been unsure about you. They had barely been in the town for ten minutes and there you were, with hair pulled away from your face and an outfit that appeared to hide everything God may have given you ― talking to his shitty father. You had the metal baking pan cradled in your arms, speaking enthusiastically with the man who had only ever been angry toward him. And he was smiling at you; the kind of smile he remembered once seeing toward his mother.

You had dug into his family, his history, without trying. You heaved boxes into their new home, listening carefully to where each one needed to go, and took everything like it was a grain of salt. You laughed carelessly to his father's off―putting remarks and attempts of compliments. You meshed with his step―sister, who seemed to attach herself to you the second you made her smile. You even pulled his step―mother from a funk she had been in, ever since she tried to argue with Neil about moving here and was reprimanded.

You saw behind Billy's facade, behind the flirting and over―the―top charm he used while you were setting boxes of his clothes in his new room. You saw a kind of brokenness you only ever saw in one other place. In the eyes that stared back at you when you looked in a mirror. You knew all too well the acting you were greeted with. The good, rural little family looking for new beginnings after his father accepted a job in Roane County.

Your suspicions were confirmed the first night his younger step―sister, Max, had shown up at your door with Billy sprawled in the backseat of his Camaro. You couldn't question them fast enough, half―assisting, half―dragging Billy into the comfort of your place. You knew the wounds on his face; the bruising around his jaw, his eye, and the handprints around his neck. Once you lived with an angry, broken man ― you couldn't ignore the signs in others.

When Max brought Billy to you that night, she found how far your generosity could spread. That was when your apartment became her haven. She watched you patch up the wounds on her step―brother, without hesitation, and knew she could trust you. You found Max seeking you out every time her home became too much. You eventually copied your key and offered her the spare, wanting her to always have a place to go when she needed it.

It was after that night you realized Billy's conundrum of an existence. You were supposed to be his nepenthe; a person that could take away all his pains and sorrows, that could help him heal. But it didn't matter how many times you patched up his wounds and covered his bruises with your make―up. He would never admit you did anything to help him. He'd seek you out, to fix him up or relieve his stress, but you weren't helping him. You were blinded with your desire to save him. He could choke you during intimate moments, to the point where you'd see stars, and you would thank him for letting you help.

You weren't a weakness he could afford. You were a dog, dangling from the leash he crafted, and he didn't care what happened to you when you weren't there for his use. You could bark and whine and cry, but at the end of the day ― he'd chain you up in the cold and let you freeze.

You've been seeing more of Max these days. You tried to chalk it up to it being summer. Neither of you had school, and Max would often drag her friends into the diner to bother you. You didn't mind. You had a special place for the young girl in your heart; and her friends, though a little rough around the edges, were slowly worming their ways in. You'd always offer them baskets of fries and any milkshakes they wanted. It didn't matter that you paid for them. You wanted Max and her friends to have the sort of childhood you didn't get.

You've often been hosting them at your apartment, as well ― allowing them to rent movies on your dime and use your VHS player to watch. You knew they were safe, that Max was safe, and it gave you comfort.

Especially when you would go days without truly seeing your boyfriend.

You see his broken parts, the fragmented slivers of this unhealed child that's become your boyfriend ― and you think he'll come forward. You hopelessly believe with enough time, patience, space ― he'll finally let you in. But he won't. Because Billy Hargrove is past your ability to save. He's headed down a dark path, where you will eventually be caught in the crossfires.

You don't know that. Not consciously. He doesn't lay a hand on you, so you think things are okay. It doesn't matter to you that he doesn't show up. It doesn't matter that he screams when he's mad and never talks about it after. You see it all as his way of coping ― that it's not the same infectious relationship you once had with your father.

Your naivety is worsened by the fact you swore you'd never end up like your mother. After every physical and verbal altercation you watched, the way your mother collapsed upon herself, you swore. You promised. You vowed that you would be different.

You broke that. Because you didn't realize, through all her journals and the first―hand accounts of the people who lived in Hawkins, that your parents began the same way you and Billy did. It was a vicious cycle of abused people finding each other and abuse continuing to ooze down the lineage. You don't have enough love to spare to put Billy Hargrove back together again. Love isn't what can fix him. Nothing can patch  a boy together when he has crevices as empty and deep as Billy. Not with his unwillingness to change, to grow, or to leave.

This doesn't touch on the things he does that you know are wrong. He's a sexually―driven person. You found this out quickly once you officially got together. It didn't matter if you were in the mood for it. You were too focused on trying to meet his needs when he finally indulged his desires with you. You couldn't see the coercion behind the acts, the striking violence in his needs. You think you have it good because everyone around you is jealous of your intimacy. You don't realize his guilt―tripping to get you in his bed is assault. You don't see the red flags, how he bruises you when you don't do something he likes and when you do something the wrong way.

Hell, you've come to class more times than you can count wearing clothes too hot for the weather. Something you hadn't done since you lived with your father. Yet you tell yourself it's different; it's not the same because Billy does it when you're making love. He only does it when you're making love.

Everything else is verbal.

You think what you have is love, and it'll get better once you can pull him from his toxic household. It's not true. His abuse is so profoundly engrained in who he is as a person that he will take Neil's toxicity with him. Once there is an angry man in your house, there will always be an angry man in your house.

You and Billy are just like your parents. He's the spit image of his abusive father, and you're beginning to look more like your mother. Trapped somewhere horrific when you deserve better. You spent your childhood watching an abusive relationship pave out. Your father always had a mix of drugs or alcohol in his system, and it ignited an anger in him that he would take out on anything in his path. Your mother. Objects in the home. You.

You lost count of how many nights you spent hiding in your closet with your favorite stuffed animal, a blanket pulled taut over your body. It was your way of hiding from your father; his wrath, his actions toward your mother. You spent so many nights listening to your mother beg and plead that you'd think you would see the warning signs with Billy. But red flags are just ordinary flags when the entire world is seen through rose―colored glasses.

You and him are two sides of the same coin. The only thing that sets you apart is that you escaped your home, that you want better for yourself than the angry man in the back of your skull. You've dedicated your time to books and school, finding new interests and hobbies to distract you. You found friends, hyper―fixated on a better life. Billy, he turned to other things. He found cigarettes, alcohol, weed. He found pleasure in hook―ups, even when he had you to warm his bed, and focused on how he would one day pay Neil back for all the suffering he caused.You watched your father, day after wretched day, slowly kill your mother. You watched her dig her own grave, watched your father finally put her in it.

And Max.

Beautiful, wonderful, bright―eyed Max ― sees you. You, the older sister she never knew she needed, are losing yourself in a wretched boy. You, the girl she would do anything for, are slated to be caught in the aftermath of that boy's explosiveness. She would do anything to get you away from her step―brother, to save you the pain you told her your mother experienced. After the home you've offered her, the way you've taken care of her ― she sees your fate in her hands. It's not something she's going to take lightly, and she's enlisted the help of her friends and their self―proclaimed "baby―sitter" to save you.

[neighborhoodparker]

you're not wanted.

that’s cool! never speak to me or my 452 unread books again. :)

[terramythos]

'People are panicking about AI tools the same way they did when the calculator was invented, stop worrying' cannot stress enough the calculator did not forcibly pervade every aspect of our lives, has such a low error rate it's a statistical anomaly when it does happen, isn't built on mass plagiarism, and does not obliterate the fucking environment when you use it. Be so fucking serious right now

[hachama]

[nondelphic]

writing is 10% storytelling and 90% rearranging three sentences for an hour like you're trying to solve an ancient curse

[giuliadrawsstuff]

You are loved.

Reference here

[levantra]

tags courtesy of @mayasaura (in case anyone was wondering about the story behind the photo)

[bookishdiplodocus]

Reblog the writers’ fortune cookie for luck!

[redeadepression]

Guys I reblogged this and then wrote an 8000 word story I didn’t even have a solid plan for. Reblog this shit.

[epicfangirl01]

Please, great fortune cookie of writing. I beg of you.

[huffego]

I need this right now man!

[anxeious]

[theconcealedweapon]

More proof that capitalism was never "freedom" or "small government".

[glittercallisto19-deactivated20]

Never speak to me or my 452 unread books again

[kurzler]

a quick psa to anyone recently getting into greek mythology and is a victim of tumblr and/or tiktok misconceptions:

-there is no shame in being introduced to mytholgy from something like percy jackson, epic the musical or anything like that, but keep in mind that actual myths are going to be VERY different from modern retellings

-the myth of medusa you probably know (her being a victim of poseidon and being cursed by athena) isn't 100% accurate to GREEK mythology (look up ovid)

-there is no version of persephone's abduction in which persephone willingly stays with hades, that's a tumblr invention (look up homeric hymn to demeter)

-as much as i would like it, no, cerberus' name does not mean "spot" (probably a misunderstanding from this wikipedia article)

-zeus isn't the only god who does terrible things to women, your fav male god probably has done the same

-on that note, your fav greek hero has probably done some heinous shit as well

-gods are more complicated than simply being "god of [insert thing]", many titles overlap between gods and some may even change depending on where they were worshipped

-also, apollo and artemis being the gods of the sun and the moon isn't 100% accurate, their main aspects as deities originally were music and the hunt

-titans and gods aren't two wholly different concepts, titan is just the word used to decribe the generation of gods before the olympians

-hector isn't the villain some people make him out to be

-hephaestus WAS married to aphrodite. they divorced. yes, divorce was a thing in ancient greece. hephaestus' wife is aglaia

-ancient greek society didn't have the same concepts of sexuality that we have now, it's incorrect to describe virgin goddesses like artemis and athena as lesbians, BUT it's also not wholly accurate to describe them as aromantic/asexual, it's more complex than that

-you can never fully understand certain myths if you don't understand the societal context in which they were told

-myths have lots and lots of retellings, there isn't one singular "canon", but we can try to distinguish between older and newer versions and bewteen greek and roman versions

-most of what you know about sparta is probably incorrect

-reading/waching retellings is not a substitute to reading the original myths, read the iliad! read the odyssey! i know they may seem intimidating, but they're much more entertaining than you may think

greek mythology is so complex and interesting, don't go into it with preconcieved notions! try to be open to learn!

[elianzis]

First: yes

Second: WHAT HECTOR DID TO YOU, PEOPLE?😭

[neighborhoodparker]

Hi 👋, My name is Mohammad, and I’m reaching out in a moment of desperate need. I’m a father of three young children living in Gaza, and we are caught in the midst of a catastrophic war. Our home is no longer a safe haven, and the future here seems increasingly uncertain. 💔

I’ve launched a fundraising campaign with the goal of raising $40,000 to relocate my family to a safer place where my children can grow up in peace and have a chance at a brighter future.

Unfortunately, my previous fundraising efforts were abruptly halted when my account was terminated without explanation. However, I remain determined to keep fighting for my family’s safety and well-being. 🫶

If you could take a moment to read our story, consider donating, or simply share our campaign with others, it would make an incredible difference. Every act of kindness, no matter how small, brings us one step closer to safety and a new beginning. 🙏

Thank you for your time, compassion, and support. ❤️‍🩹

https://gofund.me/fd1faea2 🔗

Responding mostly to share this with others.

[lovely-v]

writing fanfiction is just. i’m being so creative and original. i’m plagiarizing everyone by accident. i’m a genius. i’m cringe. i’m too angsty. i’m too cheesy. this is not in character. it doesn’t matter that it’s not in character because these are my characters now. i love my hobby. this is the worst possible use of my time. i’m seeking validation. i’m projecting my own personal problems onto this story and i’m barely hiding it. i know so many words and i’m using all of them wrong. im on tumblr posting about it instead of writing it.

[fuzzystudios]

this is a callout post

[greensaplinggrace]

I actually like it when ships hurt each other in long lasting and unforgiveable ways. I like it when they leave vicious, glaring scars. I like when they leave traumas. I like when they stab each other and torture each other and ruin each other’s lives and violate every inch of each other’s values. and I like it when they fucking kill each other permanently dead.