self-shipping-doll13

[self-shipping-doll13]

when hayao miyazaki said that true love was two people inspiring each other to live…recognizing just how hard living is, putting one foot in front of the other every day, how easy it is to lose our passion for it…… that’s the real shit

[self-shipping-doll13]

“I can fix them!” “I’ll can make them worse!!”

Well I CAN LOVE HIM HOW HE IS. He’s perfect already, he’s a lil fucked up. sure. but he’s still perfect.

[self-shipping-doll13]

Imagine your F/O's fingers lingering on the underside of your chin after they break the kiss with you. You can feel the softness of their breath on your face, and the intensity of their gaze as they look into your eyes. They have no intention of letting you go.

[self-shipping-doll13]

your f/o loves you. all your quirks and habits, all your flaws and oddities. they love everything about you. no matter how unconventional it is or if you dont love it yourself. youre not perfect, but they dont love you because they think youre perfect, they love you because you are you. and they love you.

[self-shipping-doll13]

LOVE LETTERS NOW OPEN!

"Loved you yesterday, love you still, always have, always will."

Ur F/O is waiting for you to write back, once you write back, they'll be happy!

And for the rules and simple understanding, please write your F/O's source and how you'd like them to be, I am doing research of the character so i can make it as perfect as possible! you can even write the love letter and send it in as in

~~

"From: me!

HII I've missed you so much, "insert character" i cannot stop thinking of you and how much i miss you, i miss you smh and love you please you are my SOULMATEE AHHHHH!!

to insert character, my darling!

(source: is from askesis/og source)" - like that! and i'll write back something for you dear reader!

(this is just for fun! will write comfort, nsfw (only for older people minors do NOT ask for this bruh.), sfw!

it can be platonic and or romantic!

you can do as many requests as you please :3!

ANTIS DNI.

[self-shipping-doll13]

your f/o will comfort you whenever you feel distressed. theyll tell you its okay. theyll protect you if anything bad happens

[self-shipping-doll13]

this is your daily reminder you can self ship with literally anyone.... yes even that character that's a rapist, yes that character that's a genuine piece of shit. you can self ship with strade from btd, you can selfship with jimmy from mouthwashing...it doesn't make you a bad person, why? they're not real.

yall will claim you can self ship with "villains"...but then you turn right around and bitch at people that date bad people. make it make sense yall.

also, people are allowed to ship how they want. if someone's relationship is abusive that's THEIR relationship. if you don't like it you can what...say it with me...block people.

"oh but they're romant-" it's not your abuse. they're not talking about you. "oh but they're normaliz-" shut the fuck up. fiction doesn't normalize abusive relationships and if it's normalized it you have an extremely poor judgement and have some form of psychotic problem (this is coming from someone with psychosis and delusional problems) "oh but what about the childre-" stfu about the children. 11 year olds shouldent be online and anyone above the age of fucking 13 (should, if they got taught) understand that abuse, sexual assault, rape, and or murder is bad.

get real.

“people on this app will treat fictional characters as if they were real people and then talk about real people as if they were fictional and then get mad at you for knowing the difference” - reyssben, Twitter

[self-shipping-doll13]

thinking about how depraved my f/o’s canon character is and going: idc still gonna enjoy that bad character just because i can!🥰 giggling at kicking my feet when drawing us smooching because I CAN DO THAT!!🥰🥰 proselfshippers are so cool 🥰🥰🥰

[self-shipping-doll13]

Ah my favorite character, lawnmower

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[self-shipping-doll13]

Sunken Graves

November Prompts

Wc: 2540

Tw: Lawrence Being Creepy, Dead Bird

Veils of cobweb draped over an iron wrought fence, frail threads of gossamer that sparkled with dew.

The entrance gate shrieked as it was forced to gape open. We passed into that shadowy realm. Him, a cheerless psychopomp. Me, the dead soul drifting by his side. Observing things, not interacting with them, on the cusp of an existence but not quite there

The stuffy, humid greenhouse atmosphere I’d been kept in for the last few months had suffocated me. Now the air I breathed in was crisp and smokey. It reeked of neglect, of wet mossy stone and crushed grass. I gulped it greedily, fearing I might never know it again.

Spring was the last time I had been outside. My colour for that season was yellow; buttery streaks of sunlight, melting Easter eggs, Wordsworth’s golden daffodils. Summer grew jaundiced, and Autumn was lapsing into amber pill boxes and The Cure records. A carpet of leaves was strewn over the cemetery grounds, the dying embers of its fire. Ruthless gales scattered them, and made the petals of flowers lain on the graves flutter like injured butterflies. Bent trees stretched their naked limbs out in search of all they’d lost.

As Winter slowly edged closer, the evening air held a chilling bite, and the sky was a dark, foreboding grey, steadily falling into ever darker shades. It was not closing time for a while yet, but as this late in the year, the night fell soon and silently. It was the earliest Lawrence would brave the world of the living. A world of bustle and colour, one that held no place for either of us any longer. Stopping, he stood there, staring out at the bleak landscape with a strange intensity. After a moment, he turned back to me, a hesitant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I thought... maybe we could take a walk," Lawrence said to me, his soft voice almost lost in the rustling. He gestured vaguely behind him, towards a dense stand of bare branches. "It's not far from here. Just through those trees, and then a bit up the hill…"

I didn’t answer. Spun up in one of his coats, I was a fly in a spider’s cocoon.

His grip tightened, icy fingers curled around my wrist like a manacle. He led me along with measured steps, and I trailed numbly behind him.

When he first told me of his intention to take me out of the apartment for sunlight and fresh air, I thought it must have been a dream I’d woken up in. As he must’ve thought over it quite carefully, Lawrence also drove carefully. He often cast sideways glances towards my hands, which I kept tucked safely in my lap, in full visibility to keep on his good side. The roads had been slippery and greasy, and beams of yellowy light poured down from early-lit lamps as we’d spilled out into the carpark. Already the day was that dim.

Trail, trail, trail. Slimy wooden benches rotted along the path, which he deviated from, following the footfalls of his own shoes as I followed him. Leaves shifted restlessly at our feet, skirling in the wind. I thought I felt a phantom’s sigh fanning onto my cheeks, the last exhale of a dying man. And I saw it. There, a mound of freshly dug up soil where a plot was marked out with stakes and strings. A new grave, yawning open to receive its victim. There was a kind of twisting inside my rib cage. Briefly, I felt the frantic thumping of a rabbit that had been caught in a snare. Lawrence did notice my discomfort as he brought me away.

“Ah… I like this time of year,” he remarked absentmindedly. He weaved between the tombstones, seeming familiar with the layout. “It’s silent. No one comes here anymore. No one ever bothers me.”

“I think I know what you mean,” I said quietly, through dry, chapped lips. “Autumn was my favourite season.”

“Autumn,” he repeated the word, almost with a sense of reverence, as if it was a sacred thing to him.

“For me it was the colours,” I whispered. “The way everything looks as if it’s burning, on fire... I found this leaf once, from a maple tree, and it looked just like a bloody handprint. With the thin red veins spilling out…” With a pounding heart, I tried to convince myself that there was something grimly freeing in our journey—I was literally close to being free—and perhaps with it, I’d mistake his grip on my life’s thread to be slackening.

“You could always tell…” Yellow Springtime strands were tossed into his pale face as he spoke to me. “That nature was finally being honest with you. Finally honest about dying. No more lies from flowers. Fall is the truth, in all its raw, rotten beauty…”

The sharp twinge of a familiar sentiment hit me, a sickly sweet odour. The stench of all those flowers on all those graves. Flowers are liars, he’d told me.

Why was I beginning to speak just like him?

"Everything just gives up,” Lawrence breathed, in a soft, dreamy cadence. “And the cold helps it all go peacefully." There was a placid smile on his mouth.

A cruel dream this must’ve been, to tempt me with false freedoms.

Shivering, I bowed my head beneath the entangled archway of black branches that formed the true gate of the spirit world. Onwards, we crested a small hill. Lawrence did not like people, and to his relief no signs of life stirred, too daunted by the cold. I should've been glad he wasn’t anxious, pulling me along with a vice-like harshness and clammy hands. But in that isolation, I realised that his unusual confidence was very justified. It would be so easy to hold his hand over my mouth, knock me out, kill and bury me… It was only the dead here, and my scream would have been paid less heed than a crow’s scream. From this new vantage point, the sight of the deserted graveyard felt nearly apocalyptic, an empty husk of land lying defeated under a pall of nuclear winter.

Harsh gusts assaulted me on the way down. We crossed by a path and his hiking boots crunched on the hard gravel, fading to a whisper once we returned to weedy, overgrown grass. "We're almost there. It's a good spot... I think you'll like it,” he told me.

Then, in a secluded area of the cemetery, Lawrence halted again. My trainers squelched into the damp, marshy ground and wetness trickled into my socks.

Puddles swollen with Autumn rain had funnelled into a depression in the land. Charon’s ferries of fallen leaves floated across it, White lichen spotted gravestones that were sunken into the half-buried skull of the earth like a row of crooked teeth. Their ancient inscriptions were long faded, barely decipherable. Iron spikes were impaling a dead end. Overlooking us, a gnarled oak tree reached out skeletal fingers to the heavens.

"You see this place? It’s quiet, just like how I wanted to keep you—away from the noise of the world."

A sobbing tremor rose from within. I gnawed my lip.

“It's... I've had my eyes on it for ages, waiting for the right time to take you here,” he began slowly, his gaze drifting over the old, abandoned tombstones. “It feels so untouched. Private, I guess. like no one's ever bothered to pay it any mind. But I did. I did…”

“Wait, you’ve thought of this for a while?” I was bewildered, it seemed so unexpected for him.

“Y-yeah, a long time.” He rubbed his arm nervously, and then gave a little smile. “I watched you.”

Lawrence was talking quickly, startled, as if afraid he had betrayed something. "From a distance. The first time I saw you, in the park. I just…” He looked away. “Watched from a distance, like an animal watches another animal… You see, it all became so much clearer once you came along. Everything just..." He then glanced back at me, with an odd sense of determination. "It became so much clearer."

I hugged myself. Was that why he’d dragged me out here? To explain himself, to justify it? It was more unsettling that I didn’t recall seeing him at the park. .

“You had such a normal life. You were so normal. But I could tell that underneath there was something…”

“You already found it,” I said, willing it to be over soon.

Lawrence leaned back his head, slowly and silently, staring up at the big sad sky, a plant searching for sun. I wanted to scream into it but I knew that I couldn’t.

“I don’t think so,” he said flatly. “But I will.”

Nothing was real and nothing about this was like two real humans interacting. I was given the impression of two walkers passing each other but never meeting.

Suddenly when I took a whiff of the fresh air it was not so fresh. It stank foully, like the old decaying corpses buried in the damp earth. With trembling hands, I gripped a slate headstone and almost expected it to lower into the sludge. My feet felt heavy like I was being held down by cinder blocks. I shifted, making gross sucking noises with my mucky shoes.

“When I go out, it’s like I can see things around me falling apart,” he began. “Nothing can stop it.”

Lawrence stooped low. When he got back up he held in his hand a ruffled bundle of moist, tawny feathers. Because one of Lawrence’s 27 books contained an encyclopaedia on species of common birds and their physical characteristics, I saw it was a sparrow.

A dead one. It lay lifeless in his palm. Uneasy, I huddled in my borrowed coat. “Yeah?”

He studied the corpse. “It’s a slow degradation. Slowly, but I, ah… feel it… This bird, and you, too. I’ve watched you for a long time. Degrading slowly…”

Lawrence was glaring like a lizard up at me from underneath his eyelids. Mentally he dissected me, piece by piece, as I stood there in my cerements.

“Do you understand me, Jasmine?”

Though I didn’t, I nodded. Before, I might’ve flinched.

But I couldn’t stop looking at the dead bird. There was a sense of profound wrongness in him cradling it like that in his naked hands. Briefly I wondered to myself if he needed to be concerned about washing them after touching animal remains like most people did. Somehow I thought not. Living things perished when forced to be near Lawrence. Flies dropped dead all over the apartment when they were unlucky enough to take shelter inside, though he had not the awareness to kill them. Spiders too, curled up in balls of legs.

It was for the same reason why food would rot too quickly around him, condemning us both to a diet of cheap plastic and grease. Looking at him now, I saw it in the wan pallor of him, in the hollows of his face, and knew he belonged here in this garden of bones.

And maybe now I did too.

Lawrence’s smile was almost hopeful. “That’s good. That’s good… It’s hard to live in a city… Or to just exist at all. Loud, frightening people and busy roads…”

“It’s safer for you to be mine,” he said, and the finality of his words seemed to reverberate off the trees. A minute later, he bit his lip. “But I guess it’s also unhealthy for you to be inside all the time. You need the sunlight to grow, and rain. Or you’ll...”

He trailed off, and then there it was. That meek downcast gaze, like he didn’t just drill right down to the marrow of my bone with those knives. Lawrence put down the dead sparrow, slipping it into a foetid pool. I was relieved that he left it to decompose in the soil.

He had let go of my wrist.

Realising it, I didn’t think of how much distance I could put between myself and him if I ran fast enough. I could never run fast enough. Lost in thought, I knelt to pick up a fallen acorn. It shone like burnished bronze. Or maybe it was the sheen of unshed tears. Wiping them away, I stuffed the acorn into the coat pocket, rubbing my thumb on the smooth sloping shape of it.

“You’re very fragile,” said Lawrence. “That’s why.”

A fine breeze caressed my hair. His long, cool fingers slid through the strands and clasped gently onto my nape, as one might paralyse an unruly kitten.

“When you cry…” Lawrence could have easily snapped my neck. “It’s special. I think you’re most beautiful when that happens. The way your throat constricts, and your cheeks are warm and red with blood… You’re like these leaves.” He captured a stray one twirling and crushed it, frail and rotting to dust in his hand.

“Getting under shoes, being crushed and destroyed. You’re just withering away and you don’t even know it. It’s lovely. I could… I could destroy you, if I wanted to.”

Lawrence’s mutterings ceased.

“Are you happy?” He asked.

The sharp acrid air of the season had sobered me. Now with clarity I looked around myself at the Autumn, at the rejoicing of a hundred thousand carrion feeders.

“Yes,” I decided, all my tears dried out and drained. “I’m glad to be out here… I mean, with you.”

His cheeks flushed and he looked away shyly.

“You’re fragile.” Blissfully serene, he said it again, as if he was close to reaching an epiphany. “It’s strange. I don’t want that to happen to you. At least, not yet…”

A plaintive sigh echoed once more, chasms opening up for me deep down in that hallowed earth. Weak, I wavered into the sickly sweet scent of his jacket.

Lawrence smelled like Autumn and Autumn smelled like him. Only as tender as its cruelty, the burning of the wind stung in my eyes. I wanted to ask him to hug me, or maybe kiss me. Not because I wanted it from him but because I wanted it. The single acorn in my pocket reminded me that I had one wish, and only one.

“Lawrence… I think I’d like to go home now.”

When I thought of home, I thought of burying my face into warm cat fur. The soft, purring vibrations.

I thought of trudging home in the snow in the too-early, late year, Winter darkness, and hanging up my keys.

I thought of the open grave waiting for me.

So I barely even registered what his answer was.

Did it even make a difference anymore? No. Lawrence’s cold fingers clamped around my wrist, and I hurried to keep up with his long strides.

Home, home, home, h-o-m-e. My numb tongue formed around the phantom of the syllables. Suddenly then I thought of hypothermia. Winter was in my path, and I thought of Lawrence’s deathlike enveloping me, submerging me in pale lethargy. Disoriented, the victim would strip until naked. They would surrender, and they would long to lie down, to sleep, to die.

Which is why I got it for my 22nd birthday.

Dividers @/thecutestgrotto

[self-shipping-doll13]

If you have hand/finger scars your f/o would love them. They will kiss them and chart them out and ask you what the stories are behind them if you want to share.

If you have calloused or rough hands your f/o would love them. You don’t need to have smooth soft hands for them to adore you.

If you have easily breakable/uneven/bitten to the quick nails your f/o would love them. They would still paint nails together if you want!

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Imagine your f/o kissing each and every finger, all the spots on your hands and palms that they can reach. They let out a few small giggles, their eyes filled with gratitude.

[self-shipping-doll13]

#7 - Rest | Bandages

Spooktober prompt: Rest | Bandages

Wc: 815

Everything was hurting.

Every fibre in Ivar’s body was screaming in pure agony. He could hardly move, and opening his eyes seemed impossible. He couldn’t move a muscle.

Ivar’s mind slowly was catching up on what had happened, and as the memories slowly came back. A fierce fight. Swords clashing, the thundering wheels of his war chariot, arrows flying by, and pain. Excruciating hot pain, as if a blazing magma spear had been lodged deep inside in his chest.

Then a pair of blue eyes came into his blurry view.

She was laying there, right by him, on that half of the bed where she always slept, in her place by his side.

“Dagny,” Ivar managed to croak.

Her voice was hoarse. “You’re awake.”

“I am,” he said quietly. His throat seemed full of sand.

Ivar forced his head to move down enough to look at his own body. Under the heavy fur blanket, thick white bandages were wrapped around his chest, and fragrant pine-green poultice had been smeared on to ward off infection. Fresh, applied by a loving hand.

“How long…?” He asked, his lids drooping again. It suddenly took immense effort to stay conscious.

“Two weeks and four days,” Dagny told him.

Two weeks and four days that he could not remember. As a völva, she had prophesied the conclusion before it had occurred, he knew that. But it was one thing to be told of it and one thing to truly experience it. Never before in his life had he felt this hurt and fragile.

Dagny slid over until her head rested on his shoulder, avoiding all the parts of his body that were hurt. With great effort he turned his head to look at her, into those deep blue pools of love.

The injured area felt impossibly tight, like the giant Ymir was sitting on him. He was a mess of sensation, but he thought it was likely that familiar pain in his leg was a bone fracture.

“But that doesn’t matter,” Dagny said, swallowing. “What matters is that you’re here. Alive. With me.”

She presented a cup of water that must’ve been left out for her by servants, but had been untouched. “Drink,” she murmured as she held it to his lips. She urged him to take careful sips, and it trickled down his throat like the waters of the clearest spring.

“You're going to recover, my love,” she said thickly. ”And you’ll heal well. The healers say this. I say this.” Dagny buried her face in his chest. “It’ll all be fine…”

Blinking in disorientation, Ivar tried to bury his nose in her hair. It had visibly suffered from lack of care, but he could still draw in the scent of the lavender she adored.

“Don’t think I have a choice,” he mumbled as the corners of his lips twitched. “You won’t let me die.”

It took a moment for him to realise that dampness on his shoulder was her tears. She was wiping them away by the time he said it, and she looked at him seriously, her eyes shining wet. “No. I won’t,” her voice trembled. “I am not ready to give you to the gods.”

Ivar looked at her, his heart swelling in his chest. It did not matter how much glory awaited him. The thought of leaving this woman behind was unfathomable. No matter what, he had to remain.

“You’d never let go, my sweet witch,” Ivar whispered, forcing a weak smile. He managed to lift his hand and stroke her cheek with his thumb. “I couldn’t die. Not before tasting your lips again.”

Dagny leaned forward, so carefully and gently, and gave him a tender kiss. Ivar reciprocated as much as he could, tasting the salt of her tears, her own sweetness on her breath. He would have given anything to wrap both his arms around her, to hold her tight against him, to feel her warmth spread throughout his injured body. The soft strands of her hair were tickling him like the wingbeats of butterflies.

“I… love you…” He said breathlessly once they broke apart again, and the quick motion made him dizzy.

“And I you.” Dagny pressed her mouth to his temple, and he felt a sense of nostalgia, as if recalling it in his unconsciousness, the previous days he was asleep. “Rest,” she whispered to him as she nestled into the crook of his neck, stroking his upper arm slowly. “Regain your strength. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

A wave of drowsiness hit him like a warhammer, making his eyelids drop. He struggled against it, trying to stay awake and relish this moment, but it was futile. Finally, he allowed himself to drift off. The last thing he was aware of was the sound of Dagny’s breathing, her body against his, and the faint thrum of her heartbeat.

Dividers by @/thecutestgrotto

[self-shipping-doll13]

Missionary while I'm wearing your hoodie with it hiked up over my tits? 😽

[self-shipping-doll13]

Imagine your F/O's breath soft against the back of your neck as they hold you from behind, wrapping their arms softly but firmly around you and rocking you gently back and forth.

[self-shipping-doll13]

Imagine your f/o thinking your messy handwriting is endearing and characteristic of you. Even if it’s difficult to read. It doesn’t have to be ‘neat’ or ‘pretty’ because it’s yours. They would love receiving notes from you and like the way you write their name.