Armand is so hot. I don't like him, but HE'S SO FINE. Lucky Daniel😔😔.
LOOK AT HIM!!! God, he pisses me off tho...
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Mike Driver

Janaina Medeiros
trying on a metaphor
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me

@theartofmadeline
NASA

blake kathryn
DEAR READER

titsay
dirt enthusiast
noise dept.
Three Goblin Art
No title available
Today's Document

JBB: An Artblog!
Cosmic Funnies

izzy's playlists!
YOU ARE THE REASON

if i look back, i am lost
seen from United States
seen from Italy

seen from United States
seen from Netherlands

seen from Russia
seen from Spain

seen from Kazakhstan

seen from Singapore
seen from United States

seen from United Kingdom

seen from Türkiye

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United Kingdom

seen from Malaysia

seen from Türkiye

seen from Germany

seen from United Kingdom

seen from United States

seen from Russia
@siriusvvv
Armand is so hot. I don't like him, but HE'S SO FINE. Lucky Daniel😔😔.
LOOK AT HIM!!! God, he pisses me off tho...
wlw soldier x nurse
PLEASE!!!! WOMENNNNN!!!
Realised all my oc's names start with an "A". Both the girls and boys. And I put a lot of thought in them as well...
What does this mean?? It's time to change it up a bit, I'm not one for pattern.
I wanna be Sirius Black's husband so bad. I would bend to his every whim. I would do anything for him. We'd get married young and live happily ever after.
(I read Black Pride by Angelofer a long time ago and I still can't get it out if my head, someone recommend me something similar or I might combust.)
It is time that I take matters into my own hands and add a new "fanfic in the making."
I wanna be Sirius Black's husband so bad. I would bend to his every whim. I would do anything for him. We'd get married young and live happily ever after.
(I read Black Pride by Angelofer a long time ago and I still can't get it out if my head, someone recommend me something similar or I might combust.)
Having specific scenes that you want to write but not knowing where you want the story to go in order to add them must be "Top ten worst experiences."
Writing Description Notes:
Updated 19th October 2025 More writing tips, review tips & writing description notes
Dialogue Tags
Facial Expressions
Masking Emotions
Smiles/Smirks/Grins
Eye Contact/Eye Movements
Blushing
Voice/Tone
Body Language/Idle Movement
Thoughts/Thinking/Focusing/Distracted
Silence
Memories
Happy/Content/Comforted
Love/Romance
Sadness/Crying/Hurt
Confidence/Determination/Hopeful
Surprised/Shocked
Guilt/Regret
Disgusted/Jealous
Uncertain/Doubtful/Worried
Anger/Rage
Laughter
Confused
Speechless/Tongue Tied
Fear/Terrified
Mental Pain
Physical Pain
Tired/Drowsy/Exhausted
Eating
Drinking
Warm/Hot
Cold/Freezing
Unpopular (?) Take but I can't begin to describe how much I hate the "he would share his partner (reader) with his mates" trope, and I'm talking sexually.
It feels soooo disrespectful and dehumanising. I hate it, it disgusts me. I could NEVERRRR let a man treat me that way.
But to each their own. I would never directly hate on a post, but I need to let it out. It's been feeding on my happiness like a leech.
People pick and choose who they want to talk about.
If you actually cared about the genocide that is happening in Palestine then you would also mention what's occurring in Lebanon.
You have no excuse on your lack of awareness when it comes to all these suffering countries on the hands of evil.
People have died and are still dying. Educate yourselves and speak up. You have a platform, therefore you have a voice.
What's happening to Gaza will happen to the southern of Lebanon.
Just because it isn't happening to you doesn't mean it is any less important.
FUCK ISRA*L
Reader who joined the military after their mother's death, which left them with no one to turn to.
Reader who had never felt the isolation in which they were surrounded by. Not until they had to bid their mom a last farewell.
Reader who focused on surviving the tough environment of the military, so they could go to college comfortably.
Price who notices the kid that is always sat alone, albeit being one of the best recruits.
Price who dismisses his unease. Everyone is different, who's to say they don't enjoy their own company? Ghost is living proof.
Price who stumbles upon them getting reprimanded by a fellow CO for getting into a fight.
Price who is finally close enough notice the firm set of their jaw, as well as the stubborn and challenging glint in their eyes.
Price knows that look and he felt his ground shake once their eyes met.
He knows that face. He stares at it every day.
Little thought I had. I mean let's be real, you're telling me it's not a possibility that John got someone pregnant without his knowledge and stumbled upon his own kid years later? Well excuse me...
Second son
the whole RDA needs to explode i need jake sully to get his white boy whimsy back
give me this idiot back
I realised how much people hate OCs (OC insert fics).
Here to say that they are my favourite type of Fanfiction and they r immensely interesting especially if they're written well.
Like, yes, I wanna read about your character that had the worst childhood growing up just to recieve a letter to a magical school (Hogwarts).
Nobody’s daughter
Warnings: none, yet… will show in chapter when there are though. Not planning on a happy ending.
Description: Neglected!oc x batfam. Jenna (oc) is the product of a relationship between Bruce Wayne and Wanda Maximoff. Wanda disappears and Bruce if left to take care of Jenna. However Bruce can’t look at Jenna the same, every time he looks at her he’s reminded of Wanda which leads to him forgetting or ignoring her.
Bruce wants to be a part of her life once he finds out she’s 16.
Chapters:
Coming soon…
Inspired by @dehydratedoverlord. On that note, I really love their fanfic. Go read “eyes without a face.” If you haven’t!
Thank you guys🥹❤️ this is for you all....
°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°
The Forgotten Twin
°part1. °Part2. °Part3. °Part4. °Part5
‼️❗️warning: Blood and severe physical injuries ❗️‼️
Y/N woke slowly, consciousness returning to him like heavy drops of water on stone. A headache throbbed in his skull like a war drum, and the pain in his arm pulsed like a separate, angry heart. His vision was blurred, the world around him drowned in pitch black, and he felt a continuous shaking beneath his back, as if the earth itself was trembling in terror. He saw black shapes moving around him; for a moment, he thought it was Alfred and tried to call out, his voice a hoarse croak. "Alfr...?"
Fractured Wings
𝑃𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑒 (𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑟𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒) - Part two - part tree
The apartment on Miller Street had walls the color of old bruises—yellowish-brown where the paint peeled, darker where the water damage spread like infections. You learned early that the pipes groaned warnings before they sputtered rust-colored water, that the radiator hissed but never quite warmed the room, that the thin walls carried every sound from the neighbors' arguments and televisions.
Your mother's name was Margaret, though you rarely heard anyone call her that. The men who stumbled through the door at odd hours called her Maggie, sometimes baby, sometimes nothing at all. You learned not to call her anything when those men were around. You learned to make yourself small, to fold into corners, to become part of the furniture.
The earliest memory you could piece together was sitting on the kitchen floor at three years old, stomach cramping with hunger, while your mother slept off whatever she'd taken the night before. The refrigerator hummed its empty song. You'd pulled yourself up using the counter edge, small fingers barely reaching the handle. Inside: a carton of spoiled milk, something green and unidentifiable in a container, and a half-empty bottle of vodka that caught the weak afternoon light.
You didn't know then that other children didn't live like this. You thought everyone's mother slept until afternoon, that everyone knew the particular silence that meant danger, that everyone learned to read moods like weather patterns—the gathering storm of her irritation, the lightning strike of her hand.
By four, you'd figured out the stove. The first time you tried to cook, you'd dragged a chair across the linoleum, its legs scraping harsh protests. You'd climbed up, turned the knob like you'd seen your mother do on her rare functional days. The flame had leaped up, blue and hungry, and you'd jerked back so fast you'd fallen off the chair. The bruise on your hip lasted two weeks, green-purple-yellow, a sunset of pain.
But you'd tried again. Because hunger was worse than burns.
The scars on your hands told stories you couldn't quite remember anymore. The puckered circle on your left palm from when you'd grabbed the pot handle without realizing it was hot. The constellation of small marks across your knuckles from grease spatters. The long, thin line along your right wrist from when you'd tried to open a can with a knife and it had slipped.
You learned to cook eggs by breaking dozens of them, watching the yolks spread across the pan bottom, sometimes raw, sometimes black. You learned that pasta needed boiling water and that if you waited too long, it became a sticky mass. You learned that bread could be toasted, and toast with butter was a meal, and butter alone when there was no bread was better than nothing.
Bath time was another lesson in trial and error. The first time you'd tried to bathe yourself, you'd turned only the hot water tap. The bathroom had filled with steam, and you'd stepped in before testing the temperature. The scream had torn from your throat before you could stop it, and you'd scrambled out, skin angry red, and your mother had stumbled to the bathroom door.
"Shut the hell up," she'd slurred, squinting at you through her hangover. "Jesus Christ, you're fine. Stop being so dramatic."
She'd slammed the door, and you'd sat on the cold tile floor, skin burning, tears streaming silently down your face. You'd learned then: screaming brought anger, not help.
After that, you'd tested the water with your hand first. Sometimes you got it wrong and bathed in cold water that made your teeth chatter, your small body shaking as you tried to scrub away the dirt. Sometimes it was too hot, and you'd endure it, red-skinned and hurting, because at least you'd be clean.
Your mother moved through the apartment like a ghost, present but not there. She'd lie on the couch for hours, cigarette burning between her fingers, ash growing longer until it fell onto her shirt, the cushions, sometimes smoldering until you patted it out with your small hands. The apartment reeked of stale smoke, spilled alcohol, and something else—something sour and defeated that seemed to seep from the walls themselves.
She didn't work. You didn't understand what that meant at first, only that other children's parents left in the morning and came back at night, and your mother didn't. Money came from somewhere—envelopes that men brought, checks that arrived in the mail that she'd cash at the corner store, emerging with bottles instead of groceries.
When she drank, she transformed. Sometimes she'd become almost animated, laughing too loud at nothing, pulling you close in an embrace that smelled like whiskey and made you stiffen with uncertainty. Those moments never lasted. More often, the drinking made her cruel.
"You're the reason," she'd say, pointing at you with a cigarette between her fingers. "You're the reason my life is shit. Do you know that? Everything was fine before you."
You were five and didn't understand what you were the reason for, only that you were bad, wrong, the cause of something terrible.
The beatings started with slaps. Her hand across your face for being too loud, for crying, for asking if there was food. Then came the belt, the wooden spoon, whatever was closest. You learned to curl up, to protect your head, to make it end faster by not crying out. Tears only made her angrier.
"Toughen up," she'd say afterward, already reaching for her bottle. "World's not gonna baby you."
She was right about that, at least.
When you were six, she started making you clean. Not just your space—everything. The apartment had to be spotless, she'd decided during one of her manic phases, and you were going to make it that way.
"Earn your keep," she'd said, shoving a mop into your hands. "I didn't sign up to take care of a freeloader."
The mop was taller than you. The bucket was heavy even when half-full. Your arms ached after ten minutes, but you learned to push through the pain. You learned to clean the bathroom until your hands cracked from chemicals. You learned to scrub floors on your hands and knees, to dust shelves you could barely reach, to wash dishes in water so hot it left your skin pink.
Your body was small for your age, underfed and overworked. Your clothes hung loose, hand-me-downs from donation bins, often stained or torn. Your hair was a matted mess more often than not—you tried to brush it, but no one had taught you how, and the tangles hurt when you pulled.
At school, the other children noticed. They kept their distance at first, noses wrinkling. Then came the whispers, the pointing, the laughter.
"She smells," they'd say, loud enough for you to hear.
"Look at her clothes."
"Why is her hair like that?"
The teachers noticed too, but in a different way. Mrs. Henderson, your second-grade teacher, had called you to her desk once.
"Sweetheart," she'd said, voice gentle in a way that made you uncomfortable because you didn't understand it. "Is everything okay at home?"
You'd nodded automatically. Everything was normal. This was just how things were.
"Are you eating enough? You're very thin."
Another nod. You'd learned to lie by then, understanding instinctively that telling the truth would make things worse somehow.
Mrs. Henderson had looked at you with something in her eyes—was it pity? sadness?—but she'd let you go back to your seat. Nothing changed.
The men started coming more frequently when you were seven. Your mother would primp in front of the mirror, applying makeup with an unsteady hand, squeezing into tight dresses that had seen better days.
"Get out," she'd say when the doorbell rang. "Go to your room. Don't come out no matter what you hear."
But your room was barely a room—more like a large closet with a mattress on the floor, a sheet for a curtain in the doorway. You'd hear everything through the thin walls. Laughing, arguing, sounds you didn't understand but that made your stomach twist.
Sometimes she'd burst in, face flushed with anger. "I said get out. OUT. Leave the apartment."
It didn't matter if it was raining, snowing, or dark. Out meant out.
You'd learned the neighborhood at night, learned which stoops were safe to sit on, which alleys to avoid, which all-night diners would let a small child sit in a corner booth without ordering anything if you were quiet and still. The diner waitress, Linda, with her tired eyes and gray-streaked hair, would sometimes slide you a plate of fries.
"Can't let you sit here with nothing, hon," she'd mutter, not quite looking at you. "Against policy."
You'd eat slowly, making it last, grateful beyond words.
Other times, you'd sit in the stairwell of your building, counting the cigarette butts, the cracks in the concrete, the minutes until you could go back. You learned to tell time by the church bells three blocks away, by the patterns of traffic sounds, by the gradual shift from night to almost-morning.
When your mother finally let you back in, she wouldn't acknowledge you. She'd be asleep or passed out or simply staring at the television, and you'd slip into your closet-room, curl up on your mattress, and try to forget the cold, the fear, the aching emptiness.
The abuse became routine. A slap for speaking at the wrong time. A shove that sent you sprawling for not cleaning well enough. Once, she'd grabbed your hair and dragged you across the apartment, screaming about something you'd done or hadn't done—you couldn't even remember what. The pain had been blinding, and for days afterward, your scalp had been tender, some hair coming out in small clumps.
You learned not to cry. Tears made it worse. You learned to apologize for things that weren't your fault. You learned to move quietly, speak softly, make yourself invisible.
And because this was all you knew, you thought it was normal. You thought all mothers were like this. You thought all children lived like this—hungry, hurt, trying to survive day by day. When other kids talked about their parents, you assumed they were lying or exaggerating. When they showed up to school in clean clothes with packed lunches and smiles, you thought they were just better at pretending than you were.
You didn't know about love. Not the real kind. The word existed in books teachers read aloud, in movies you glimpsed through store windows, but it seemed like fantasy, like dragons and magic—something made up to make stories interesting.
Touch meant pain. Attention meant you'd done something wrong. Kindness was a trick, a setup for disappointment.
This was your normal. This was life.
And then, on a cold Tuesday morning two weeks after your tenth birthday—a birthday your mother had forgotten entirely—everything changed.
even worse when the second part isn't a recommended post after you finish reading the first