#insert your fave

[zorosdimples]

a little hurt/comfort. angsty at first.

sadness.

it slowly seeps, at first. from your heart—always from that fragile spot beneath your breast—too soft to do any good. blue bleeds until it settles in your bones, clouds your mind, wearies your soul. until it wholly consumes.

it’s painful to watch. it doesn’t matter how many times he sees you crumble into dust; each and every instance is no less devastating than the last.

“it’s just one of those days,” you said in the morning, eyes devoid of the brightness that should have accompanied your smile. he knew something was wrong. but he can’t force you to share your burdens.

now, he is witnessing the life leave your body.

you close and curl in on yourself, shrinking, wishing to disappear before him. as if he would let you.

the warmth of his skin against yours makes your eyes sting. he can’t see the tears that sparkle as they wet his shirt—your face is buried in the soft fabric, fingers gripping the garment like a lifeline.

words of comfort light as air leave his lips, but most don’t reach your burning ears. the sentiment is what counts. and the hand that soothes up and down your back is all you can really focus on, anyway.

he never tells you to stop crying. he lets you have your way, shifting to pull you into his lap, palm moving up to smooth over your hair. his chest is damp with your sadness, aches in tune with your own.

how long you stay like that doesn’t matter; it always ends the same. you come up for air, face a mess (your words, not his). your gaze is puffy and your voice is thick as you whisper, “sorry.”

“don’t apologize,” is his reply, kisses dotted on your eyelids and cheeks and nose for good measure.

sadness comes and goes. but the two of you always remain.

[luxesiren]

jealous sex with your fave. they catch someone trying to flirt with you and they would instantly get jealous (maybe your fave would be silently jealous and deal with it later) but they would fake smile their way through the whole interaction but when you guys get back home? oh they would show you that the other guy can’t fuck you the way they can.

they would lay you out on your bed, pinning your hands above your head and fucking into you roughly, practically seeing red. the thought of someone else doing this to you makes them angry, thrusting into you even harder, “they can’t fuck you the way i can. remember how i make you feel, i’m gonna make sure you feel it every time i fuck you.”

a/n : something i wrote awhile back for my discord girlies but i wanted to post it on here as well

[mythicalmage]

All this time, Rayla was reading smutty self-insert fix-it Conrad/Esmerelda RPF (and thinking about Callum).

[arttrampbelle]

Why ship canon x canon when you can just ship yourself with canon character?

It's 2023 get over yourself. Self ship. You self ship with that character rn!

Make an oc. Make a self insert. Make yourself love that blorbo. Ffs!

Fuck what people think. Stop being a bitch and do it! You go fucking love that character!!!

I am being aggressively self ship positive.

If anyone gives you flack for self shipping. I will find them and throw hands!

Like srsly cringe culture is dead. It's time to be clown!

[iwriteloveletters]

every time i see someone say that (anime character) would only like white women an angel loses its wings why are we limiting drawings to eurocentric beauty standards let the drawing like latinas yall 💔 and poc in general lmfao stop limiting them !!! ur fucking weird !!!

[owchie-wowchie]

Holloway deserves to fucking kill someone while someone watches with starry eyes. Who, you may ask? Whoever you want, baby

[skywalkr-nberrie]

I just think it’s weird to say that Padmé’s “ideal” person would be an entirely different character from Anakin. When everything in canon points to the opposite of that statement. From Padmé saying the only Jedi she could ever love is Anakin (ROTS novel), to Sabé confirming in Queen’s Hope that many people fell for Padmé but she only fell back for Anakin, to Padmé herself claiming in the AOTC novel that most men she’s encountered in her career were never genuine and were always after a bigger prize due to her status (thus her never giving them a chance), and Anakin’s genuine desire and love for her attracted her. There’s much more as well, but I mean… the point here is that the whole story literally SCREAMS at us, at every point and chance it gets, that Anakin is the only person that could win Padmé’s heart. That he’s her ideal, he’s her one and only, he’s her everything. Yet we still have people out here saying they haven’t yet “decided” whom would fit her the best…

Some of them are really sleeping on the fact that Anakin was like a prince for Padmé. He saved her from the tower where she’s cooped up alone and doesn’t exist for herself. In the same way she’s his hero, and saves him from nearly drowning in isolation by giving him love, sympathy, and support.

[astralselfships]

🌸 But just imagine your F/O reacting to you being timid/ a timid S/I.

Timid- shy and modest, easily frightened

If your F/O is the confident, cocky type, imagine the amount of teasing: never to make you feel bad, not for them to laugh at you but you two to end up laughing together. They'll ease every situation you encounter. This F/O will be your voice: imagine how they show you off to everyone, complimenting you tirelessly and loudly.

However, if your F/O is more introverted, PDA might not be a big thing, but you know that once a bad word about you escapes someone's mouth, they're dead (either metaphorically or literally 🤭)

Oh what a slow ride you two have! Lazy and wholesome moments, quiet times and the cutest dates ever!!!

Imagine how, for you, they will make exceptions to their introversion and hold you hand in public if they feel you overwhelmed. 🫶

[yeyinde]

Just saw a TikTok where a kid send their favorite stuff animal to his dad who's deployed. Just imagine this happening with 141 🥺 (I'm actually sending this to my favorite writers hoping I can get a cute scenario 😅)

I admire your honesty lmao. So. Here ya go:

—Gen. Reader (but tbh, *you're* a very minor part of this). Child is not named or gendered, either, and can easily be read as adopted instead of bio (with cheeky little hints geared toward this). Fluff(ish).

—I'm not really sure if this constitutes as cute but I wanted to try and write something that was extremely vague but also incredibly...not vague. Transparent, almost. This is that. A thought experiment. Enjoy.

On the surface, the package isn't anything special. Nondescript beige. Square. It's a bit beat up from its journey, bruised and dented like most boxes shipped halfway across the world tend to be, and much too light to be a care pack. 

He sits in his assigned cot with a heavy sigh that creaks through aching bones and tender muscles, eyes already half mast from a day staring at sand dunes and trying to divine answers in gunpowder, reading bullets like tea leaves. Sleep isn't beckoning, it's screaming. Howling loud in his ears and knocking all his thoughts asunder. 

He has half a mind to tuck the box aside, lay down with his boots still on, and sleep until it doesn't make his head split at the seams to keep his eyes open. It's needed, too. They head out tomorrow. Sure, firm, and bound in brass. An unavoidable calamity as they chase shadows with grasping hands, fingers always a hair too short to reach. He might, yet, he thinks, but the box is nearly weightless in his hands, and despite its featherlight heft in his lap, it calls to him. 

If he waits, it'll never leave the sanctity of this safe house. It'll get lost in the shuffle. In the tumult tomorrow morning, a breath before dawn, will surely bring. 

So, he opens it. 

Clumsy fingers, numbed from curling around the butt of a gun all day, paw at the tape until it unravels in a messy cluster, sticking to the palm of his hand. He presses it to the side before slipping his fingers through the flaps. 

It might be a letter asking for a divorce. He thinks about laughing, maybe, but the humour is bereft of reprieve. 

You'd hit him, he thinks. Smack him upside the head for the very thought. 

(Maybe dislodge the monsters in there, too.)

But when he peels back the lips, and peers inside, it isn't a letter. It's a bear.  

Pocket sized, he remembers saying. A negotiation tactic in the middle of a toy aisle to keep the tears from flooding over a glistening lash line. It was as effective as he expected it to be, but the compromise, however shaky, was reinforced with the promise of McDonald's if they didn't cause a scene in the middle of the shops. Sniffles meet his ears still, but they slow, considering the offer. Head tilts adorably to the side (ladies in the aisle over coo). Then, sticky, wet fingers slapped his palm. Deal made. Done. 

Done. 

The bartering tool—a subpar toy for less than twenty dollars in lieu of a roaring dinosaur that was nearly seventy (Jesus fuckin' Christ)—becomes a reluctant ally against a set of imagined enemies, and then trusted friend. A companion, one carried everywhere—the bath, school, bed—and its loved state is shown through its disarray. Carried in patches of scant fur, in a nose that lost its glossy shine from too many kisses at night and in the morning, and just because ("because he's cute and he needs a kiss!"), and from rips and tears, and clumped cotton when it was hung to dry lopsidedly after spending a day at the beach. It's in the missing button on the little dungarees it wears, and the loose threads that split the seams. 

It's just a bear, but—

"If anything happens to Mr Bear, I will die, dad!" 

Little feet pounding the pavement, frantically searching for the fallen friend who slipped from the basket after a walk to the park. Eyes wide, wild, and filled with tears. Head swivelling in all directions. 

"Why will you die, exactly?" He hedges, brows drawing taut. He's not versed in this well enough to know if this is alarming yet. Maybe. He thinks it might be, has a nagging suspicion that it is, but you offer a shrug in response, and he's calmed a bit by your nonreaction. Normal, then, he thinks, and turns back the way they came, peering at the grass for any signs of an ugly little bear. 

"Because!" It's snapped in that waspish huff only children can muster—the one that says, duh! despite the absurdity of it all. "We share a heart. That's what mum says. And if a cat got him and he's all chewed up, and—"

You have the wherewithal to be a little bit sheepish when he turns to you, mouthing the words back. 

"It was—," you start, shrugging. A touch embarrassed. A little flustered. It suits you, he finds. You wear it like an endearing garment. "It was just a joke, but kids take everything so literally, and so now—"

"Mind, body, heart, and soul!" 

More little stomps. A pout forms. Wobbles. He bends down before the tears fall, gentle as he thinks he can be (and gentler some, because if parenthood has taught him anything, it's that his patience for a little being that picked him, that looked at him and said, you, you, you; I want you, is infinite) he places his hands on trembling shoulders, and tries to soothe the pain that etches in glossy eyes. Hand bearish and uncertain, but quivering from holding back, from offering nothing in this moment except liquid adoration and unfettered devotion. He feels it writ across the lines in his face.

"It's alright," he gruffs, and then hides a wince when the boney, fragile shoulders beneath his hands tense, shake. Soft as smoke, he adds: "we'll find the bastard—"

"Ahem!" 

"—the bear."

A sniffle. "His name is Mister Bear and I love him to the moon and back."

It melts him in ways he never expected. Unthaws tundric parts of himself he thought were lost to permafrost; empty and void of life. It cracks, shatters. He moves, tugging the little body wracked with sobs tight to his chest as if he means to tuck them between his rib cage where they'll stay, a little bird safe and sound and untouched by the uglier parts of the world that wants to maim and hurt. Gentle shushes fall from his lips. Clumsy affection he doesn't know how to give but will learn if it means he can whisper the same words—to the moon and back—until his throat rots and his words turn to ash. Until his bones are brittle and weary, and the earth reclaims his life. 

He says them, then, stilted and unsure, but firm. Heavy. 

"Love you, little bird," he rasps, lips pressing tight to a plump cheek. "Now let's find that Bastar—" ahem! "—bear. That bear. Okay?"

The bastard was in a pile of rubbish by the side of the road. His ear was lost to the many washes he went through to rid the stench of trash and cat piss from his fur. 

You'd scrubbed the bear in the sink before, it's little dungarees hung up to dry in the garden. He startled you, then, when his hands wrapped around your middle, tugging you tight to his chest. Your ring caught, cutting a clean stripe through the one beady it had left. 

He paid it little mind at the time, too busy nipping the nape of your neck as you offered weak protests that fell apart when you arched into him. Pretty and wanting. 

"Maybe another?" He'd rasped into your ear, eyes drifting down to the ugly, sodden bear in the sink. "Call up the stork and have one delivered tomorrow, mm?"

"You're ridiculous," you huffed but it wasn't no. 

And it wasn't meant to be, either. He was called away three days later, the words murmured out while you stitched up the misshapen mess of a teddy bear in the living room. Patient to a fault, you'd simply smiled at him, taut and painful around the edges, and said, be safe. 

The announcement of his departure wasn't nearly as smooth, though. A tantrum, fraught with heavy sobs and howled no's seemed to threaten to topple the house down over them all. 

But you'd spoken words he couldn't hear, and moon-shaped eyes turned to him, fogged over with tears. There was acceptance buried in the webbing nebula, but it was shaky. Tenuous. 

Childish hands hold him tight before he leaves. "Mr Bear always keeps me safe.

The sentiment was overlooked at the time. A passing murmur that was lost in the shuffle of packing, leaving. Kisses and whispered worries in the middle of the night. 

But he thinks about it now, and tries not to laugh. 

At the bottom of the box is a note. He'll keep you safe, too! Love you to the moon and back.

He tucks the bear into his breast pocket where it'll be the safest on this journey, and wonders what you thought about the whole mess. It makes his lips curl. 

Halfway across the world, and they still make him smile. 

[urfavegetscalledbbygirl]

Ken from The Barbie Movie gets called Babygirl!

[cmdrfupa]

My agenda is simple:

Domesticate every man so you can buy them cute little, multipocket waist aprons to where around the home.

Embrace the change, allow them free will in the kitchen.

Adopt 2 animals.

Watch him expertly fold the fitted sheets and organize the linens closet.

Rejoice.

[sw-trashship]

I need you imagine you and your f/o laying on the bed at night, there's only dark on the room and everything is silent except for the little sounds of your mouths as you both keep kissing before going to sleep in each other's arms.

[joking-suggestions]

imagine to misbehave with your f/o.

did they carried you along? or was it you?

if so, imagine them exclaiming exhausted "ah, the things I do for you..."

imagine your f/o giggling along your quiet laughter, you have to stay silent or you'll get caught, your hands covering your mouth, giving them glances of pure complicity. they looks at you with a lovestruck gaze, like they find you so beautiful right there and now and their desire to kiss you is unstoppable.

then someone catch you before your f/o even leans in, and you have to run.

ah, you have some much fun...

[your-fave-isdoomedbythenarrative]

Ethan Green from Hatchetfield is doomed by the narrative

Ethan Green from Nightmare Time is doomed by the narrative and trying to escape.

[bohemian-nights]

It’s odd when people go out of their way in fanfiction to make Daemon have a (white) daughter that he dotes and openly loves and has a good relationship with, but then turn around and either erase Baela and Rhaena or never have Daemon or their OC acknowledge their (black/blackish) siblings/daughters. Especially when you take into consideration that he’s a sh!t father to said (black/blackish) daughters in the show which is what most of them base their fanfiction off of 🤷🏾‍♀️

I really have no words for their behavior. The fact that they’ll go out of their way to create so many white OCs that way Daemon has a daughter “that’s like him” all while pretending Baela who’s his carbon copy in female form (and Rhaena) doesn’t matter is really astounding to me.

The fact that they don’t see themselves or don’t care or say they aren’t racist(and will use the excuse that Baela and Rhaena are white in canon yet they hardly have any more content than they did prior to the show which definitely shouldn’t be the case) will never not be funny.

We should have a ton of heart-to-heart daddy-daughter scenes. We shouldn’t want another character only put in to serve as someone’s surrogate daughter when he already has two very much real and alive daughters.

Even outside of Daemon these girls should be talked about, praised, used in romantic pairings, etc. We should see way more than what we are seeing for them. It’s all so weird, but alas that’s fandom life in this crazy fandom(and in most fandoms cause unfortunately anti-Blackness always seeps in).

[ftm-megamind]

i think jack is more of a ya fantasy type guy whereas david is more of a ya dystopian type guy. these two probably intertwine sometimes