#Just be yourself. Let people see the real imperfect

[authenticity2025]

Just be yourself. Let people see the real imperfect, flawed, quirky, weird, beautiful and magical person you are. Unknown

[foreverdolly]

ೃ࿔ SAVAGE BONDS part 2 『 feyd rautha x atreides!reader 』

summary: destined to one another since conception, your very life belongs to feyd rautha. as a token of good will you are sent to the strange planet of giedi prime a week before your wedding ceremony, only to learn that it is far more hostile than you imagined it would be. a failed assassination attempt has tempers flaring and sparks flying when it is decided to be safer to sleep alongside feyd. you hate to admit it, but he has played the part of a "protector" better than the guards who were tasked to watch over you. whilst you have been dreading this union all of your life, feyd has been anticipating it. meeting you as children had left him awe-struck. . . and a bit obsessed.

warnings: !SMUT HEAVY IN FUTURE PARTS!, feyd is super overprotective in this fic and kills multiple people in your honor, blood and gore, it's a dark romance folks, political marriage, forced proximity, temporary unrequited love, a lil dubious consent in some scenes, there's a lot of talk about breeding, enemies to lovers (in your mind, not his), there's a "who did this to you" scene, knife play, blood kink, breeding kink heavy, lots of scent marking/marking.

word count: 4.5k

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Legs tangled in gray sheets. The lightning-quick flash of a silver dagger, held by a pale hand.

The images in the dream are more like fragments- impossible to discern and decipher. On the bed, asleep and vulnerable. . .

There’s you.

And then Feyd wakes up, heart hammering in his chest so hard he can feel it in his throat. Slowly his fingers crawl up, up, up the expanse of the bed in search of something. In search of warmth, of you. Nothing. He’s just as alone in his room as he was when he drifted off into sleep. He lays awake the rest of the night, tossing and turning with worry.

This dream felt more like a warning than just another disjointed nightmare. It felt real. He was used to having dreams every now and again which clearly depicted a future outcome. He saw you in his dreams quite often, more so once he was no longer a boy-child.

If someone thought to hurt you… he’d just have to hurt them first.

The customs you and your people practiced were completely different to those that were normal on Geidi Prime. You watched one of your ladies-in-waiting as she brought over another small bowl of sweet smelling bath salts, dumping it in and using her hand to properly dissolve them. For a moment you felt self conscious, running your fingers through your hair as you looked at their perfect complexions and shaved heads. What did they see when they looked at you? Someone beautiful and strange. . . or an alien?

Still, you would eventually have to disrobe and bathe. Pressing your luck and refusing their help would only solidify your place as an outsider. You were sure that whispers of your arrival were already spreading like wildfire, and it was almost guaranteed that no one was happy about it. An Atreides amongst Harkonnen’s? You were nothing more than a pariah on their industrial wasteland of a planet.

The air was even more acrid in your lungs than it had been the night before, and while the smell of the rose body oils and salts were thick and hazy in your room, you could still catch the scent of pollution. Already you missed the cool, crisp air of Caladan. You missed your horses, your parents and your brother to the point of pain. This was not where you belonged. Not here in Geidi Prime. Not here with Feyd-Rautha.

The urge to cry yourself hoarse was practically undeniable, and yet you somehow managed to resist. You were late to breakfast already, and surely the Baron was making some unsavory comments about your family and their taught “manners”. So you untied the front of your nightdress and shimmied out of it, letting the soft cotton pool at the ground beneath your feet. The women couldn’t help but gawk at the tiny imperfections they saw there- a beauty mark you’d had since you were a child, a scar you’d received while training with Gurney. You weren’t used to feeling so self conscious, and so you were quick to grab one of the women’s extended hands so that you could sit down in the murky bath water.

They rubbed floral smelling soaps into your hair and on your skin, making sure to handle you as though you were as fragile as porcelain. You wished they would scrub you raw. Even then they wouldn’t be able to cleanse you of your fears. You were in the hands of the Harkonnen’s now.

No one could save you.

“We are not very used to styling hair, my lady. It might not be to your liking.” One of the women said anxiously. The way that her hands shook as she gripped the hairbrush was not lost on you.

How cruelly were they treated here? Or even worse- what did she think of the Atreides family? What lies had they poisoned these people’s impressionable minds with? You didn’t care to dwell too much on such thoughts. Reaching out you gently removed the brush from her hands, flashing her the kindest smile you could muster before shaking your head.

“Leave this to me then. Why don’t you pick something for me to wear from my things?” Your bags were still packed, lying exactly where a few servants had laid them last night. You had denied every offer to have them unpacked for you.

Denial. You refused to believe that you were actually stuck here. This would never be your home. It couldn’t be.

“He’s not here,” Feyd was sitting at a long, slate-gray table by himself. The food on his plate had barely been touched, but he had busied himself with chopping the meat up into miniscule pieces, too small to even fit on the prongs of his fork. “If you were planning on trying to make a good impression, you can forget about it. He always has his food sent to his quarters.”

You thanked the two ladies that had shown you through the colorless halls under your breath, moving to sit on the other side of the table. At least eight chairs separated you from the Na-baron and it still wasn’t enough. You wished you were on an entirely different planet, lightyears away from the Harkonnen scum.

The room was practically empty aside from the large dining room table. No art decorated the walls or rugs to cover the floor. It was all cold, black marble with white accents.

“I don’t care, actually.” And you were being truthful. You didn’t care about getting on the Baron’s good side any more than you cared about getting on Feyd’s.

He smiled then, staring at you long and hard before licking one of his black painted canines. He was amused by the blase way you brushed off his uncle so easily. Indifference wasn’t something he was used to, especially not when everyone in the galaxy had tried so hard to get on their good sides. People tended to tread lightly as far as the Harkonnens were concerned. They were as wealthy as they were cunning.

“Be careful, little Atreides. Saying things like that might get you hurt around here.” His gruff voice was but a whisper now, and suddenly you felt as though there weren’t twelve feet of dead-air separating the two of you.

You had picked up your fork, ready to eat whatever bland food had been prepared for you, but froze at his words. Heat rose to your cheeks and you were quick to lean back in the ornate high-backed chair, the cool iron seeping into your back through your clothes.

“Do you mean to threaten me?” Your words were icy, tongue sharp and ready to give him a proper lashing.

“It’s not a threat, darling.” He was practically purring, reveling in the joy of referring to you whilst using a pet name. It suddenly looked as though a switch had been turned on, his eyes narrowing on you. “I know him far better than you do. He’s killed people for far less. Be careful.” There seemed to be something he wasn’t telling you. There was genuine warning in his tone.

A pause.

“Please.” And then he went back to eating.

So were you supposed to act gutted at his uncle’s absence? You picked up the fork and took a bite of whatever had been put on your plate. It wasn’t at all what you were used to. Even the food tasted. . . fake. The meat tasted like it had been pumped full of chemicals and was mealy in your mouth, like sand. Still, you swallowed despite your distaste and shoved the plate away from you.

“Who have you assigned to be my sparring partner? I’m sure that my father made your uncle aware that I train daily, correct?” If you didn’t physically exert yourself and blow off some steam then you were bound to get no sleep tonight.

Last night you had tossed and turned, unable to stay asleep when your body was constantly alerting you to possible dangers. Even now you were on high alert, eyes locked on the knife that sat on the right side of Feyd’s plate. Your own fingers danced towards yours it you watched. Waited. Worried.

“Training?” He tilted his head again, eyes narrowed in disbelief. You could almost see the cogs turning as he mulled over your words. “What good would training do you now? If there are any threats then I am here to protect you- that’s my duty as your husband.”

Ah, yes. Why would a woman train when she could just sit back and play the part of a perfect little wife instead? You could spit.

“Would you rather I just hunt down one of your servants and kill him for sport?” You hated that he was so good at getting a reaction out of you. Maybe you were acting too much like a brat, but you wanted to see him squirm. Seeing him mad must be better than seeing him. . . like this.

For a second he sat there, arms perched nonchalantly over the armrests of his chair, staring at you with a crooked smile. You jumped in surprise when a chuckle escaped him, the act itself so out of place, so surprising that all you could do was stare in horror. The chuckles soon morphed into frenzied laughter, and he was quick to lean back in his seat so that he could place a hand on his chest.

“Was that funny to you?” You spoke through gritted teeth.

He watched the muscle in your jaw clench and unclench with wild eyes, sucking in a deep breath in the hopes of calming himself. Still, to hear such a beautiful woman speak such hideous words. . . it was wonderful, bordering on perverted.

“If you do kill a servant, please make sure I’m there to watch.”

He was too busy watching your face to notice the knife that you slid into the sleeve of your dress. With a huff you stood up, your skirts dryly brushing along the ground as you started to make your way out of the large room.

“I require a trainer.” You tried to mimic your mother’s tone, straightening your shoulders as you turned to look at him.

Lady Jessica always had a way of commanding a room. She was powerful, your mother. You needed to channel that same power now.

“You’ll train with me then,” He stood up from the table, the height and build of him alone nearly causing you to take a step back. You’d forgotten how large he was. How formidable. “Consider it a wedding gift.”

This had you balking, mouth opening and closing as you tried to think of some way to refuse. He was already stalking past you though, ignoring whatever retorts you were bound to make.

“I recommend getting changed. . . Unless you want me to tear that dress to shreds.”

That awful, ugly, no good- 

“Bastard!” You whispered under your breath, wadding up your dress just to angrily toss it onto your bed. 

You sank to your knees, braiding your fingers into your hair so that you could give it a few good yanks. He was doing this to fuck with your head. All of this was calculated on his part, it had to be. Was it all just to get a rise out of you? Or did he truly want to try and hurt you? You couldn’t figure him out, and that boiled your blood. All Harkonnens were cunning, blood thirsty schemers. You wouldn’t put it past him to be unhappy with the marriage arrangement, choosing to resort to violence in order to end things. 

‘Now. Now is the time to strike.’ 

You’d already hidden the blade under the mattress of the bed. The Baron wouldn’t allow you to live if you killed his precious nephew, but you’d much rather put up some sort of a fight than be put down like a dog. After taking a few steadying breaths you somehow managed to pull on your trousers and shirt, your mind plagued with dangerous, dangerous thoughts. If the moment called for it you were certain that you could not kill Feyd in hand to hand combat. His skills with a blade was well known across the galaxy, and while you were more than able to defend yourself, you weren’t delusional enough to think that you could manage to beat him without using underhanded tactics. 

You’d have to wait until his guard was lowered. 

“Do all women take this long to get ready?” 

You hadn’t heard the door open, nor his footsteps approaching. Who knew how long he had been watching you. The intrusion was an unwelcome one. You looked up to glare at him, trying hard not to balk at his appearance. The clothes he wore were skin tight, a black material that caught the dim lighting- like it was made of pitch black oil. His pants were tucked into big black boots, laced up high on his calf. 

He stretched his arms up, leaning against the doorframe so that he could continue his awkward staring. 

He did a lot of that it would seem. Any time you turned your head to face him you found that he was already looking in your direction. It was odd. . . off putting to say the least. Of course you couldn’t know that he was currently tracing the lines of your face with his eyes, committing every detail to memory. You were so different when he compared you to the females that he was used to seeing. You were all soft lines, long lashes and doe eyes. He found it impossible not to look at you. Gorgeous… you were gorgeous. 

“It took me a while to get out of my dress on my own.”You shoved your way past him in the doorway, his chest warm under your palms. 

You were quick to jerk away, startled by the fact that this was the first time that you’d touched him since the two of you had reunited. 

You didn’t hate the feel of him, but you should have. 

“Then you should have asked for some help.” He said, reaching out to grab you by the back of your shirt when you started to walk off in the wrong direction. 

Feyd pulled you along like he would a pet on a leash through the triangular halls, ignoring your mumbled curses as you tried swatting him away. 

The shield vibrated in your ears as you switched on the button, enveloping you in its warmth. 

You used to find it uncomfortable as a child, the tight, foreign warmth triggering a mild case of claustrophobia. You were used to it now, wearing it like a second skin. You waited for Feyd to turn his on as well, the blade clutched tight in your palm. 

You waited. And waited. And waited. 

“Where’s your shield?” You asked him, motioning towards his hip with your free hand. 

There it was, that crooked smile again. He was laughing at you. Was he trying to infer that you were weak? Was he so confident in his skills that he didn’t even see you as a threat?  

“I don’t see the nee-” He didn’t get very far. 

You kicked your leg out, catching the back of his right knee. His legs buckled, and he was quick to adjust himself, his left arm flying up to catch your wrist before you could sink the blade home. For a split second the two of you just stared at each other. Mild shock in his eyes, your own alight with an anger so consuming that you feared you might be burnt up with it. He gave your arm a sharp tug, hard enough that the joint rolled uncomfortably in its socket. 

You kicked your leg out before he could throw you over his shoulder, landing a sharp blow to his ribs. You heard him let out a pained moan before you hit the ground. Using your weight to your advantage, you tucked your body in, rolling to the side so that you could easily stand up to your knees, blade poised at your side and ready for an attack. 

“You fight well, Atreides.” Feyd purred, spinning his blade between two fingers before letting it fall back into his pale palm. 

“Turn on your shield.” You growled, rising to your full height so that you could begin circling him, a panther ready to pounce. 

“Was it Duke Leto that trained you?” Still, he was ignoring your statement. 

“No.” 

“No, of course it wasn’t him,” He took a step closer to you, eyeing you down. No one had looked at you like that before. . . and it made your skin crawl. You didn’t want to be desired by this man, the thought alone was miserable enough to have bile rising in your throat. “Your father is too weak-spirited to ever train you himself, lest he accidentally harm you.” 

Your heart was beginning to pound in your ears now, vision tunneling. All you could see was Feyd. All you could imagine was the blade that you were currently white-knuckling sunk hilt deep into his chest. 

“How horrible it must be for Caladan to have a Duke so. . .  spineless.” 

You bared your teeth, and for a second you were sure that you would snap the hilt in half with how hard you were gripping your blade. You demanded blood for such an insult. How dare he. How dare he. 

“I should cut out your tongue!” You screamed, pointed the blade at him. 

‘Don’t come any closer’ you urged with your eyes, feeling the angry tears causing your vision to fog. A Harkonnen was insulting your father. He was insulting your family and now he was smiling at you. The bastard had the gall to smile and this time all of his teeth were showing. Wide, unabashed in his joy. He was terrifying. So much so that you felt your legs begin to shake underneath you. 

“But you’ll want to put this tongue to good use eventually.” His gravelly voice purred. 

“Silence!” And before you could even control yourself you were using the Voice. 

You might not be as talented as your brother when it came to hand to hand combat, but your mother had taken the time to teach you well. Feyd’s mouth snapped shut so hard that you heard his teeth clatter together. 

“One more word and I will gut you.” Your voice shook and before you could rethink your actions you were lunging forward, the blade cutting through the air. . . 

Aimed at his throat. 

He was quick to push your arm away with his forearm, and even with the shield up you could feel the bone shattering pressure he put behind the movement. He was stronger than Paul- stronger than even Gurney. He took advantage of the fact that you were put off balance and grabbed a fist full of hair, the shield around you flashing red as he pressed his blade as close as he could to the base of your throat. Your scalp exploded in pain, eyes watering as he gripped harder to yank your head back so that you were staring directly into his eyes. They held no malice towards you, even despite the fact that you were obviously trying to maim him. 

And then he leaned in closer. And closer.

“If I didn’t know any better then I would think that you were actually trying to kill me.” He whispered against the shell of your ear. You could practically feel the warmth of his lips against your skin as he spoke, your heart roaring in your ribcage. With your chests practically touching like this you could smell him.

 You’d only caught the scent of spice once in your life- and it was akin to bitter cinnamon. There was something else though, something more complex to it. Aromatic spices you couldn’t quite put your fingers on and. .  . the natural musk of his skin. 

“So you can speak again?” You managed to tease him through your pain, wincing as he brought you even closer against his chest. The blade that you clutched in your hand was now pressing against his side, the pointed edge digging into his skin. 

He didn’t wince, even when you put more pressure against it. 

“You think it wise to use the Voice on me in my own home, little girl?” He hissed as he pulled away from your ear, and the fire that was in your eyes was now mirrored in his own. 

Slowly you moved the blade away from him, the metallic clanging echoing around the room as you let it fall to the floor. Your palm hurt from the vice-like grip you had been holding it in. 

“Release me now.” You didn’t shy away from staring into his eyes, unwavering even when he pressed the blade even tighter, the shield vibrating louder and louder around you. 

He leaned in, even when your hands moved to press against his chest, willing him to give you space. You could barely breathe with him this close to you. His own knife clattered to the ground, and using his free hand he ripped the shield from off of your hip. The gasp that escaped your lips was uncontrollable. You could feel his breath on your lips as his eyes continued to swallow you up whole. 

They looked even bluer when you were up close like this, framed by long black lashes. For a split second you wondered what had become of that beautiful little boy you had met. Had Baron Vladmir beaten the beauty out of him? Or perhaps it had never truly been there to begin with. 

When Feyd looked at you, up close like this, all he saw was the object of his ever-present affections. Something yawned to life in his chest- the need to protect. All at once he felt wrong, disgusting and horrible for causing you any sort of pain. 

But you looked so lovely with those tears in your eyes. So much so that he gave your hair another small yank, a shuddered breath escaping his lips as you yelped in pain. He saw the hate in your eyes and he detested it. 

‘Fear me’ he silently urged. ‘Love me, do as I say and I will become your slave.’ 

His lips brushed against yours, achingly slow- painfully soft. 

“I yield.” You were quick to say, pulling as far back as you could even with the grip he had on your hair. 

Fire. Your scalp felt like it was on fire. 

And then he released you, taking a step back with a heaving chest. The spell now broken, it felt like the world around you suddenly resumed its orbit. Wordlessly he pressed a hand to his side- the side that you had pressed the knife- and when he pulled it away you could see that it was stained with blood. 

“Didn’t you say that you were going to gut me?” There was no hint of humor in his voice now. 

“I wanted to.” You conceded. 

“Then you should have tried harder.”

Again you lay in bed awake, unable to fall asleep. You told yourself that it was just homesickness that had you clinging to the blankets, but you knew better. What had happened today left you rattled and confused. 

There were a hundred times today that Feyd could have killed you. Everything that Gurney had ever taught you had disappeared like smoke in the wind the second that your father was mentioned. You had acted on instinct alone. 

And if it was an actual fight to the death then you would have lost. Miserably. 

There was something strange about it though. It never once felt like an actual training session. He taught you nothing and gave you no feedback. Not only that but. . . it never felt like he actually wanted to damage your pride. He didn’t turn on his shield before and after taunting you, almost as though he actually wanted one of your attacks to land. 

He had allowed you to get everything out of your system. You hated that it had worked. It wasn’t helping you to sleep tonight though. No, you had other things on your mind now. 

Like the fact that he had almost kissed you. 

Your knowledge was limited where men were concerned, but you were nearly positive that there was something sexual about the way that he had treated you. It was like he didn’t want to actually hurt you, but still went out of his way to touch you. 

You’d be sure to ask for someone that might be willing to train you again tomorrow over breakfast. Someone who wasn’t Feyd, preferably. Lunch and dinner had been spent in silence on your part tonight. He had tried to strike up conversation a few times, even baiting you in ways that might warrant annoyance and anger. You didn’t budge. Why? Because you hated how nervous you felt in his presence now. 

Was it because you were afraid of him? That had to be it. Hearing about his proficiency in fighting and seeing it first hand were two different things. He had practically swung you around like a ragdoll. It was absolutely humiliating. 

Yes, that had to be it. . . well, you hoped. 

“Atreides.” 

The sound of your name had you bolting up into a sitting position, willing your eyes to adjust to the non-existent lighting in the room. The sound of footsteps had your heart jumping up into your throat, adrenaline flooding your system once you realized that it wasn’t a voice that you recognized. 

No one had entered the room since you’d gotten back from dinner, which meant. . . 

Whoever this was had been hiding, waiting until you completely lowered your guard. You were in danger. Horrible, horrible danger. 

‘Be careful. Please.’ You remembered Feyd’s words from earlier. 

He had been trying to warn you.

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ೃ࿔ savage bonds taglist:

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the wonderful line “fear me, love me. do as i say and i will become your slave” is from the movie “the labyrinth”!

[bloomzone]

2025: #5 CONFIDENCE ISN'T GIVEN

You’re not born confident. Confidence is forged. It’s earned when you decide—and I mean decide—to stop caring about what people think. You want to know why you don’t feel confident? It’s because you’ve spent your whole life chasing validation. You want people to like you. You want people to approve of you. You’re scared someone might have something bad to say about you. But FOR REAL nobody cares as much as you think they do. They’re too busy worrying about their own STOP GIVING SHIT

..✒️So why are you holding yourself back? Why are you giving other people the power to control how you see yourself? Let me tell you something—if you keep waiting for someone to tell you you’re good enough, you’ll be waiting forever. Confidence starts the moment you stop asking for permission to be yourself. You’ve got to walk into every room like you own it, even if you feel like a fraud. You think everyone who looks confident actually is? Hell no. They’re just better at pretending. And guess what? The more you pretend, the more real it becomes.

HOW TO BUILD CONFIDENCE

Own Your Flaws Let’s get this straight—confidence isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being real. Stop trying to hide the parts of yourself you don’t like. Everyone has insecurities. Everyone has doubts. But the difference between confident people and insecure people? Confident people say, “Yeah, I’ve got flaws. So what?” They own it. They wear their imperfections like armor.You’ve got to stop being afraid of judgment. You think your flaws are holding you back, but the truth is, it’s your fear of them that’s holding you back. Confidence isn’t about eliminating insecurities cuz we allllll have ones it’s about walking into a room and saying, “Here I am, take it or leave it.”

Get Uncomfortable You know what kills confidence? Comfort zones. You’ve built this little bubble around yourself, and you’re too scared to step out of it. You avoid challenges. You avoid risks. And then you wonder why you don’t feel confident. Confidence grows when you do hard things. When you push yourself. When you fail and get back up. You’ve got to start chasing discomfort like your life depends on it—because it does.Start small if you have to, but start. Speak up in a meeting. Wear the outfit you’re scared people will judge. Say no when you mean no. Every time you push through fear, you prove to yourself that you’re stronger than you think. And that’s where confidence comes from—action, not thinking about it, not talking about it.

Stop Comparing Comparison is the thief of confidence. You’re scrolling through social media, looking at people who seem like they have it all together, and you’re sitting there feeling like trash. Let me tell you something—nobody’s posting their failures. Nobody’s showing you their breakdowns. Stop comparing your behind-the-scenes to someone else’s highlight reel.You don’t need to be like them. You don’t need to have what they have. What you need is to look in the mirror and realize you’re the damn prize. You’ve got your own path, your own strengths, your own story. Own it. Stop trying to fit into someone else’s mold.

Take Care of Yourself and Let’s be real .. If you don’t take care of yourself, you’re sending a message to the world—and to yourself—that you don’t value you. You want to feel confident? Start showing up for yourself. Eat like you care about your body. Move like you want to be strong. Dress like you give a damn. When you look good, you feel good. And when you feel good, you carry yourself differently. That’s not shallow—it’s self-respect.

Talk to Yourself Like You Matter You’re your own worst critic. You say things to yourself you’d never say to someone else. “I’m not good enough.” “I’m so stupid.” “I’ll never be as good as them.” Stop. Stop talking to yourself like you’re worthless. Start hyping yourself up like you’re your own biggest fan. Look in the mirror and say, “I’ve got this. I’m unstoppable. I’m the one they need to watch out for.” It feels weird at first, but fake it until it’s real.

CONFIDENCE IS A MINDSET

Confidence isn’t about never doubting yourself LET ME EXPLAIN .. It’s about showing up in spite of the doubt. It’s about walking into every situation and saying, “I might not have all the answers, but I belong here.”

Stop overthinking. Stop waiting for permission. Stop letting fear dictate your life. People will always have something to say—'That hairstyle doesn’t suit you,' 'Why are you wearing that?' Who cares? Their opinions don’t define you. You like it? That’s all that matters. Stop living for their approval and start living for yourself.You’ve got everything you need to be confident—you just have to decide to use it. So, stop sitting on the sidelines of your own life. Get up. Take action. Be bold. Be loud. Be unapologetically you.

the world doesn’t need another copy. It needs you. And if you’re too scared to show up as yourself, you’re robbing the world of something incredible. Confidence isn’t given—it’s taken. So, take it. !

@bloomzone 📇

[nightingale-prompts]

(Kutos to the person who started calling this AU the Beholder AU. You are so real and valid.)

Beholder AU - DC X DP prompt

More here

This AU is basically about what Ghosts have a different definition of what is attractive which is reversed from what humans consider beautiful.

The more pale, waxy, and lifeless you appear the more beautiful you are. Of course, every ghost has their own preference. Some prefer more greenish skin others like gray. Some like what humans consider ugly or repulsive.

Its not just looks that they are chamed by. Scarecrow is considered a heartthrob because of his ability to cause fear which to ghosts makes him a good previder, a ghost you see yourself settling down with. Strength is a deciding factor in most old-fashioned courting.

There is an inverse of this. Humans are drawn to ghosts as well. Not every ghost of course because just like some ghosts are drawn to deathly humans there are humans drawn to lively ghosts.

Ghosts that are considered ugly to other ghosts are beautiful to humans.

Danny has the misfortune of not being the hottest of ghosts. In fact undeath has made him appear downright lovely.

His skin turned into a perfect inhumane porcelain. Not a scratch, blemish, or mark. His skin was so clear and smooth you'd confuse him for a marble statue. His skin was only tinted by green-tinted blush that dusted his cheeks and shoulders.

Danny's eyes weren't creepy at all. They had rings of blue and green. If you stared into them you'd see flickering stars. You'd get lost in them rather than being paralyzed in fear. They weren't even bloodshot and no bags under them.

It was a travesty.

His fangs weren't even that big and no sharp nails on long gnarled fingers. Danny looked healthy and youthful with full cheeks and pearly teeth. You could mistake him for a model.

Lets not even mention the hair! It was silver! Soft. No flames. Not even oily and unwashed.

The other ghost found it tragic that every imperfection was erased without even a crooked tooth. How would the poor boy find a partner? Even with his power how could someone overlook the lack of fearsome traits.

Even Clockwork couldn't help but sigh. Even just a few beastly traits would help the boy. But there were none.

The problem on Danny's end was that while humans found him attractive he was a bit too attractive. Some call it uncanny, hauntingly beautiful or photoshopped. Like he walked out of a book or magazine cover. Which made him unapproachable by most people.

[thoughtkick]

Just be yourself. Let people see the real imperfect, flawed, quirky, weird, beautiful and magical person you are.

Unknown

[fuckyeahisawthat]

I think Crowley falls into two of the classic pitfalls of people who see that the problems are systemic long before anyone else around them does: impatience and despair.

(Yes yes I know, “Crowley was an optimist.” Book Crowley is an optimist. I don’t think that line is particularly useful for analyzing TV Crowley. Stay with me here.)

Let it be said that 95% of the time, Crowley has the patience of a fucking saint (ssh don’t tell him) around Aziraphale. He knows that Aziraphale needs to build his little plausible deniability rationales in order to do something that they both know he wants to do (because it’s right or simply because he would enjoy it) but Heaven wouldn’t approve of. And most of the time, Crowley is happy to help Aziraphale get there, asking the questions Aziraphale is afraid to ask, offering excuses and justifications until Aziraphale finds one he can accept. He does a lot of work of parsing out when “no” means “you haven’t convinced me yet, keep trying” and pushing through all the “I’m an angel, you’re a demon, we’re on opposite sides and mine is the good one” talk that Aziraphale gets up to all the way through s1. Because he knows that Aziraphale doesn’t really believe that stuff, right? He just needs some time to talk himself around his own cognitive dissonance, and most of the time Crowley is not only happy to facilitate that but sees it as part of his role in their relationship.

But then when the chips are down and Aziraphale is still dithering, that’s when he gets frustrated, because HOW CAN YOU NOT SEE what’s been blindingly obvious to Crowley for millennia, that Heaven is just as cruel as Hell and no one is going to step in and fix it because the system is working as intended. And that’s when he says things like “how can someone as clever as you be so stupid?” Which is a surefire way not to convince the person you’re arguing with of anything.

And then there’s the despair. I really think the running away thing is not about cowardice or selfishness or some kind of unhealthy level of avoidance of hard or scary things, but about hopelessness. They’ve spent their lives avoiding very very real danger, and of the two of them Crowley is much more constantly aware of the danger that they are in from both sides. Yes he’s hypervigilant but he is also almost always right about the amount of danger they are in. Trying to get as far away from danger as possible is not an irrational response, even if it’s not always the correct one for a given situation.

When you feel like you’re the only person who sees how rotten the system is, how it needs to be dismantled entirely, but you are also VERY aware of how strong the people in power are and how ruthless they are about crushing dissent because you experienced it personally…well that gets fucking depressing after a while. Because even if you think the whole system needs to go, that feels like a completely unattainable goal when it seems like no one else even sees the problem, or if they see it, they are too afraid to do anything about it. And can you blame them? You know exactly what happens to people who speak up.

So it’s very easy for your goals to shrink from systemic change to just taking yourself and the people you love and finding somewhere for them to be as safe as possible, for as long as the system will let you exist. Because reforming the system is a fool’s errand, and dismantling it entirely seems impossible. I think this is where Crowley is at. Even if on some level he knows it’s an imperfect solution, because both of them have enough compassion that they would feel guilty abandoning Earth and humans to save themselves, and because Heaven and Hell really can find them anywhere in the universe. He just doesn’t see another option.

And look, I think Aziraphale is 100% wrong that Heaven can be reformed. But he is not wrong to want to stay and fight to make things better, even if it means sacrificing the Earthly comforts he loves so much, and even if it means doing it without Crowley by his side.

Ultimately they both need each other. Aziraphale needs Crowley for his willingness to ask questions and to see the scale of the problem, even if it’s terrifying. But Crowley needs Aziraphale for his hope, his stubborn determination to believe things can and should be better, and to fight for that. In the right hands, hope is an enormously powerful weapon.

[quotemadness]

Just be yourself. Let people see the real imperfect, flawed, quirky, weird, beautiful and magical person you are.

Unknown

[perfeqt]

Just be yourself. Let people see the real imperfect, flawed, quirky, weird, beautiful and magical person you are.

Unknown

[perfectfeelings]

Just be yourself. Let people see the real imperfect, flawed, quirky, weird, beautiful and magical person you are.

Unknown

[creation-help]

Hii! I've been on ur blog for a bit and all the writing advice is super duper helpful

I'm sort of having trouble with starting basically anything w writing right now. I'm a beginner, I feel like i really want to make something but at this point I'm sort of stumped 😭 I'm not sure how to come up with real ideas or how I should even start.

I want to get good at writing. I can draw but most of the time I don't really know what I want to cmake if that makes sense

Do you have advice for this? My apologies if you've already answered an ask like this before lol I don't mean to bother, I hope your having an amazing day <333

Hi! I understand this is a difficult situation but from the looks of It, I think your trouble is the mind jail you're in currently. We see it repeated on Tumblr often "Do it bad, do it imperfect, just do it", and I'd like to fully stand by that advice here when talking to you!

Struggles with starting

Really there's no easier way to say this, but you have to Just Start. However there are multiple ways to help you Just start!

- Have something to write with easily on hand at all times, you never know when the idea strikes! This can be phone or even a notepad!

- When the idea strikes GET IT. Pounce on it like a jaguar. Get itttt. If you don't feel like expanding on it, then leave it, but you need to start treating all possible ideas that you vibe with, as potential sprouts to grow! If you spend too much time second guessing or debating over if the idea is good enough or not, you Won't Write More. If the idea sucks, you don't have to commit! But don't let the ideas pass you by! If you get an idea catch it, write it down, find expansive questions to grow it with, get music, brainstorm, vibe, rest, repeat! You are always allowed to start and stop. You are the god of your writing.

- It is okay to suck. You don't have to be good to share, but you also don't even have to share if you don't want! You don't have to share anything to anyone!

Struggles with ideas

- Find inspiration. Where? Anywhere! Start new shows, new movies, read other people's writing, look at flowers on the sidewalk, ask your parents dumb Fandom questions, get into a new music genre. You don't have to follow through with everything but so long as you surround yourself with variety, you will be nurturing your creativity! Just get a steady flow of new stuff to enrich your brain. This is part of the soil your sprouts will need.

- Make mind maps, Google every little detail you can think of relating to your new idea when you have it (not so much you'd exhaust yourself tho!), interrogate yourself, ask people to ask you questions about your idea, go down pointless meanders and rabbitholes about the idea. Give it time to soak. Indulge it. Be a little pretentious over it even.

- Nothing is original anymore, and every different interpretation is valuable enough to exist. What you make is unique to yourself. These ideas all coexist

Struggles with skills

- I am going to say this very gently but firmly. You will get better by doing more. You will hone your skills by using them.

- There's loads of resources both online and irl to search from if you want to improve your writing! You can even try to imitate styles that you like and start moving from there. Kinda like how artists do Studies. You can also expand your vocabulary by searching up different words for things you already know, or words relating to the things you wanna write. It'll help lots! My personal recommendation for improving writing even a little bit is to be conscious of your word choices and make sure you don't overuse the same word too much, at least not in the same sentence. Unless that's the intended effect you're going for

As a closing statement I also wanna add that you should just take care of yourself in general. Sometimes your brain needs more enrichment to work better, or sometimes it just doesn't really give you much just because. Try not to get torn up over it and try again later.

Hope any of this helps! Be brave!

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

thoughts on fanfiction, perfectionism, and being enough

I'm pretty sure I'm ill and half-asleep and the Good Omens fandom has destroyed my last tenuous grasp on reality, but I am making a post anyway not knowing what I'm going to say. Because that's what this site is for, is it not?

*holds out hand* *waits for you to take it* Hey, you know, you're never going to be done. You're never going to look at something you made and think it's perfect. It's never going to be enough. It's okay to stop and it let it be imperfect. The earth didn't just birth life into just the right conditions, it made creatures which evolved and went extinct, ice ages which ended, volcanos that destroyed life and volcanos that preserved cities for millennia. It made jagged rocks that would be smoothened by rivers and stomachs that would hunger, rivers that would flood and rivers that would run dry.

Create imperfect things and give them to the world. Let the world create from it in turn in an endless cycle. Like Milton on the Bible, like BBC with Sherlock Holmes, like anyone writing fanfiction of their favourite show... Let your creation be imperfect, so you can see all the million ways in which people try to perfect it. All the million ways in which perfection can exist. That's the beauty of fandoms and fanworks. It keeps the creation evolving, keeps it breathing and alive. It becomes the work of a million people, and carries their stories with it in a little back pocket.

And maybe we were made to be imperfect too. Our hair tangles just to be brushed, our arm itches just to be scratches, our hand clenches just to be held and unclenched. There are odd shapes that make us up but they fit in with everyone else's, in handshakes, in bridal carries, in a parent lifting a child, a rescue worker lifting a victim, a girl kissing her wife, a child hugging his toy, a person holding their hands in prayer or in pain.

I'm trying to remind myself of that, because it's so easy to keep wanting more, to believe that there will be a point at which I will be satisfied with what I have done. Even in this fandom, I look at my ridiculous summaries I accidentally wound up making, and look at someone's beautiful meta blog and I feel like shrinking a little bit. But in real life, I'm a designer and an artist, a reader and poet and songwriter, and someone who has been a writer the past eight years, if not all my life. Have I done enough to qualify for any of these roles? Who knows? It shouldn't matter to me, and it shouldn't matter to you, whatever you love doing or are doing.

It will never be enough, you will never be enough for yourself. Can we try to make peace with that little gap in ourselves that acts like a vacuum to keep sucking in more and more effort and things? It'll never be filled. That's okay.

*squeezes your hand before letting go* Isn't it amazing how imperfect and fucked up we all are? Isn't it beautiful that we don't have to sit and stare at statues we cannot touch, but we get stone that we can keep carving all we like? That creation starts with imperfection? I don't know if I'm making sense anymore, the medications are kicking in and my eyes are closing. But I love all of you, everyone who is a maggot and everyone reading this post, too.

Take this *holds out a seashell* it's pretty and it's broken and the animal that made it his home changed it, the sea changed it, and I hope you change it, too. That's all.

[mariclerc]

In your own skin | gr63

Summary: The moment doubts and criticisms of your body reappear, but you have a boyfriend who reminds you that you are perfect for him.

Warning: None, only George being such a sweetheart and a softie, insecure reader.

a/n: Writing this was very personal, as I often go through the same thing, I just wish I had a George to tell me how special I am. I hope you like it!! <3

Soft moonlight spills through the window of the bedroom, illuminating the rumpled bed and the figure on it. Your boyfriend George, watches you with sleepy affection as you stand barefoot in front of the full-length mirror. The moonlight paints your figure in silver, outlining the curves you seem to find so objectionable.

“There, do you see it? It's just wrong... So wrong, like everything.” You said while whispering to yourself. “I wish I was someone else...”

You pinch your stomach, wincing at the soft flesh. George stirs on the bed, his brow furrowing.

“Wrong? What's wrong, honeybunch?”

He throws off the covers and pads over to you, his bare feet silent on the cool floor. He cups your face in his hands, turning you towards him. Your eyes flit away from his gaze, but he lifts your chin gently, forcing you to meet his warm blue eyes.

“Everything George, just... I mean, look at me... My stomach, it's all... puffy. My thighs, they're like tree trunks. My hips are so big, they stick out and make me look strange... And my chest, it's flat as a board.” You whispered as you sobbed a little. “I feel so strange in my own body.”

You said practically crying your eyes out, a flicker of pain crosses George's face, quickly replaced by a soft smile. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek.

“Hey, hey! Stop that princess... Don't talk about yourself like that, you're incredible.”

His hand trails down your torso, fingers brushing over the curve of your waist.

“Your thighs? They hold you up, they let you run like fire. Your chest... those aren't boards, baby. They're perfect for fitting right here. Your hips? Oh damn, your hips... They're the ones I like to hold when we're doing... You know.”

He pulls you against him, resting his chin on your shoulder. You blush a little at the last thing he said, you can feel the steady beat of his heart against your back, a comforting rhythm that seems to whisper away your anxieties. You always had these insecurities regarding your physical appearance, and comparisons with other girls and although you consider yourself a healthy girl and other people say that you look good the way you are, you can't help but compare your body with other bodies.

“And your stomach? It's soft. It's where I like to kiss you goodnight. Where I like to feel you rise and fall when you sleep. It's so perfect baby.”

He reaches down, tracing the line of your ribs with his fingertips. You shiver, caught between the fire of his touch and the chill of your own self-perception.

“But... you see all the models, George. They're like goddesses! So thin, so perfect, and I'm...”

His lips cut you off, silencing the doubt in your voice. The kiss is slow, gentle, infused with an unspoken promise. His hands gently roam your back, fingers dancing along the curve of your spine.

“Forget the models, darling. They're not real, you are! And you're everything I've ever wanted... Every curve, every shadow, every whisper of your skin. You're my goddess, my perfect imperfection.” He said with calm and sweetness in his voice.

His words hang in the air, heavy with sincerity. You lean into him, tears prickling at your eyes, not of sadness anymore, but of a fragile hope blooming in your chest.

“Do you really mean that?” You asked quietly.

“With every beat of this stupid, racing heart, sweetheart. Now come here.”

He scoops you up in his arms, carrying you back to the bed. You snuggle into his warmth, his scent calming your nerves. As he kisses your forehead, his voice murmurs against your skin.

“Close your eyes, darling. And when you wake up, remember, I see you. And I love you... All of you. Just the way you are.”

Under the pale sheets, nestled in the gentle curve of George's arms, you drift in and out of sleep. His steady breaths are a lullaby, and the warmth of his hand on your bare shoulder grounds you. The echoes of his words linger in your mind, a soft mantra against the whispers of doubt.

***

As dawn paints the sky with streaks of gold and pink, George stirs beside you. He stretches, his bare torso catching the light, and then turns to you with a sleepy smile.

“Mhm, good morning, sleeping beauty. Did you sleep well darling?”

You manage a small smile, still hesitant. “Better than usual, if I'm honest.”

He leans in, brushing a little kiss to your forehead. “Good. Now, are you hungry babe? I think the croissants downstairs are calling my name! Want to join me?”

You hesitate for a moment, then nod, a flicker of determination in your eyes. Maybe today, you can face the mirror with a different perspective. Maybe, just maybe, George's words can be your armor against the whispers of insecurity.

“Sure babe, just... give me a minute. I need to find something comfy to wear.”

He nods and winks. “Take your time honey, I'll just say that you look beautiful in everything... Even in pajamas.”

As he disappears into the kitchen, you stand before the mirror again. This time, you take a deep breath, trying to see yourself through George's eyes. You trace the curve of your hip, the line of your collarbone, the soft swell of your stomach. It's not the body of a goddess, you know, but it's yours. It's the body that has carried you through laughter and tears, through joy and sorrow. It's the body that George loves, the body that holds the beating pulse of your own unique soul.

And maybe, just maybe, that's enough for you.. It's even enough for him.

You pick out a flowy dress, its gentle fabric skimming your skin without clinging. As you walk into the kitchen, George whistles, his eyes sparkling with admiration.

“Oh my word, baby! You look... radiant! You look like an angel!”

He pulls out a chair, gesturing for you to sit. You take a bite of the croissant, savoring the buttery sweetness. It tastes different today, somehow richer, more alive. Maybe it's the sunshine streaming through the window, maybe it's the warmth of George's hand on yours... Or maybe, just maybe, it's the quiet bloom of self-acceptance taking root within you.

The day stretches before you, an open canvas. There will still be moments of doubt, flashes of insecurity. But now, you have a new anchor, a whispered promise of love that reminds you: you are beautiful, exactly as you are. And that, perhaps, is the most perfect imperfection of all.

[neptunes-sol-angel]

Pick the picture(s) that you're drawn to the most, then scroll for their corresponding message about what your soul tribe will love about you.

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Pile One

The traits that your soul tribe will love the most about you, are the aspects of yourself that people may have told you were "too big". You could be reduced to someone who's "very dramatic" or overly sensitive, but I'm seeing that in the eyes of your soul tribe, you're very adorable and witty. Emotionally, they're going to make sure that you're taken seriously, by being there for you when you need comfort and support for the things that you worry or are upset about, while still offering balance in this relationship by not infantilizing you. What's really sticking out to me is that that they're not going to be annoyed by you being happy. I know that sounds weird, but to break this down a bit, you could generally be someone who has a lot to offer, enchantingly attractive, but with no control over who it is that you're attracting. You could have experienced a lot of people that may have tried to dim your light by being pestered by your humanely traits like being excited for something, being social and knowing how to communicate, getting compliments on your appearance and talents, and maybe even just breathing (I'm not kidding, people are weird like that) but your soul tribe will be the backbone in the kind of support that you need around you, they're not going to be intimidated or jealous by your vibrant personality and the attention that you get in life, they're going to celebrate you and genuinely treat you like you're someone they want to be around. They'll always be there to help you win and applaud you for what you achieve, but they'll also love you enough to hold you accountable for things or to assist in unpacking conflicts whether it be external or internally. It will feel like a real family, where this isn't any anxiety, and that interacting with each other is like this flow of peaceful and orderly harmony. You won't have to hide from them at all.

Pile Two

Your soul tribe will tremendously appreciate your fierceness. I'm not talking about loving your grit, assertiveness, and darkness when it benefits them, they will love you whole as you are because the key theme in the foundation and lesson of your relationship is duplexity. You have the gift of helping people find their way back out of rock bottom both physically and mentally. Your insight is something fresh and unique that they don't get from anyone else, and it's usually always the missing piece that helps shift their entire mood and focus in an ironically positive way, no matter how how screwed up things may look for them. They love how you have their back and in return you'll finally have people who will reciprocate that instead of getting scared and ditching you when things are rough or when they can't gain anything from your hurdles. They'll love your humor and how you inspire them to have more confidence to not let people walk over them. Interchangeably, you use your imperfections to elevate each other in a way that's both equal. Another interesting trait about what the good qualities of you and your soul tribe, is how you don't keep each other stuck, even if you guys reach a disagreement, you will always find a healthy and peaceful resolution that will move you guys forward and stronger as a team.

Pile Three

What your soul tribe will love about you are the traits about yourself that you may feel are not identifiable. You could feel like because of your lack of experience in life that you have a dull personality, but your soul tribe will see you as someone with so much depth and will happily and effortlessly uncover your layers and help you discover your inner mogul. Almost every outing that you guys have will be out of the ordinary, or you will find yourself to be not as mundane as you thought. You could notice how you tense you've been in your day to day activities once you start hanging out with your soul tribe. You're going to feel more relaxed and no longer have this idea that you have to give in to the pressure that people put on to you. You could have had a lot of obsessions with perfectionism, and they want to release you from that. You could have had this attachment to restricting yourself because you feel that it's more likeable or acceptable to be this way in fear of being judged for letting loose, but your soul tribe is going to love what they see on the other side of when you finally just let go and allow yourself to be complex as you are instead of just one way.

[quotefeeling]

Just be yourself. Let people see the real imperfect, flawed, quirky, weird, beautiful and magical person you are.

Unknown

[whereserpentswalk]

You're a content creator. Or perhaps video maker is a better word. Filmaker doesn't sound right, you mostly just film yourself. But either way because you read stuff to a camera for a living everyone is telling you to get a digital voice box. You never thought of yourself as the type to become a cyborg, but it's not something you can see, and it really does get down that narration voice down more than any fleshy voice box does.

You finally cave in and get it. Your new voice is way more steady, a bit more feminine and high, strangely calmly enthusiastic. It's really weird hearing yourself talk with so little imperfections, it's not how you sound in your head at all, and all your freinds are kind of weirded out. But on the bright side your channel grows a lot, you've gained more subscribers in the month since you replaced your voice than you have in all the years when you had your biological voice. Everyone is so very proud of you, for the first time your parents actually support your job, and you have so much more to spend now.

After a few months a big network wants to sign a contract with you, it'll let you get the good sponsors, the ones that people trust, and let you crossover with content creators you only ever thought of yourself as a fan of. It seems so nice, though they do say that they can request any body part they want be replaced, or else you'll break contract, and become nothing once more.

After things go well for awhile, but your growth steadied a bit, your network request you take another mechanical body part. They say your expressions aren't very "on brand" and your face shape is a bit too 2050s for their liking, so they're going to replace some of your facial muscles with much more plyable machines. After the surgery your expressions are entirely manual, or set by an app, it skyrockets your channel, but none of your freinds or family even recognize your face, and it doesn't emote when you aren't actively telling it too, so most of your offline social interactions leave you stuck with an expressionless wide eyed stare. You realize they also added some online upgrades to your mechanical voice box, it sounds even less like you now, and you're not able to say words like 'fuck' or 'sex' or 'unionize'. You didn't realize before how horrifying it would be to try to say a specific words and not be able to, nomatter how hard you try.

Your career keeps going well, you get some upgrades that stop you from sleeping or eating that much but you don't really mind those. You also start having fewer and fewer freinds outside the industry and more and more freinds from within it. But after a minor scandal with an ex, your manager tells you you're going to get a new type of surgery: they say that it's not good for someone as famous as you to have body parts that aren't advertiser freindly, they tell you you need to have your genitals and nipples removed, with such a young audience it would be irresponsible not to. A marketing expert feigns comfort as you try to cry, telling you you'll be just like a cute little doll.

You know you can't resist. The company technically owns your face and your voice, if you tried to resist they could have them ripped out of your skull, leaving you a bloody mess. You enjoy your sex organs for the last few days you have them, trying to make the most out of what you'll probably never have again. When the operation is done you wish your eyes could still cry, your body feels so alien, your anatomy so weird and empty and like your body isn't your own. There's an awful voice in the back of your head (and in every comment section now) telling you're not a real woman anymore. You start to understand what people mean by dysphoria, your body is less and less your own every day.

Eventually they take almost all of your body, it's theirs to control. As the years go by you don't have bones you have metal and plastic, you don't have skin you have rubber that looks a lot like skin. Even your eyes are gone, you have new color changing eyes, with the same restrictive settings that Christian parents put on their children's artificial eyes, that block out things like nudity and gore, they censor away a lot of books and news articles too. You don't feel like yourself at all, you're someone else's now, someone's pretty little doll. Your body doesn't even look human now, more like a hyper feminine anime figurine, with no hair on its legs, and a face that never cries or gets angry.

You can barely look at human bodies now, they don't even read as real to you. You admire other cyborgs if anything, cyborgs who replaced their body parts because they wanted to, and look how they want, people with jailbroken limbs and organs that run on Linux, many limbed insectoids who don't try to look humanoid, and furries whose artificial skin makes them look like wolves or cats, or asymmetrical punks who have art sprawling across their metal chassises. You admire them more because at least you could in theory some day become that, become someone who owns their own body, even if most people consider them the lowest of the low, the most cringe the most unmarketable. You want so badly to become unmarketable.

Mabye you want everything to be torn away. You fantasize about your expensive body being destroyed, and ending up with boxy uncomfortable hospital model parts. Mabye if you're broken nobody will want to play with you. You don't know if anything can save you, anything short of a r*volution, and that's not even a word your eyes can see or your mouth should say, so it's so scary to think of it.

[thoughtkick]

Just be yourself. Let people see the real imperfect, flawed, quirky, weird, beautiful and magical person you are.

Unknown