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important ! In recent years especially this year I’ve noticed a lot that the internet language picked up so many Islamic phrases and, from a muslim perspective, it makes the internet a little more welcoming. the thing is, a lot of the time with Islamic phrases you have to be careful about when and where to say them they hold their own weight and demand their own respect so here is a list explaining each phrase and some notes about it.

In sha allah

It means “ If God wills “. It’s mostly a response that can mean yes or no. If someone asks you to do something you can say in sha allah as in “ I heard you and I’ll try to do itc but I can’t claim that It will happen “ . Muslims say it because we’re unaware of what future holds it’s actually blasphemous to claim to know the future, so saying so means “ If it’s the will of god it will happen if not it won’t “ and you’d also say it about future events.

Ma sha allah

It means “ this is what god intended “ and it’s a compliment. Saying so is like saying WOW! But it’s also kind of a prayer of protection? If I see someone with pretty hair I should say “ Ma sha allah your hair is very pretty “ the ma sha allah protects the person from the evil eye. By saying that I’m also saying I’m not jealous I’m genuinely enamored and I don’t wish any harm to go to it.

Astagfurullah

it means “ to god I repent “ or “ from god I seek forgiveness” it’s usually used when you make a mistake but people also use it when they see something bad or when they want to avoid saying something bad. Like once my card refused to work and I’d say that so I won’t say any curse words and to calm down my anger

wallah/wallahi

okay this one is important. This one shouldn’t be used so lightly. It means “ by god’s name “ and it’s basically swearing in Allah’s name. You are only supposed to say it if you genuinely mean what you’re saying. It’s such a heavy word that I only say it very rarely and if you say it and don’t follow up on what you said you have to fast for three days as repentance.

ya allah

ya is an addressing word? Like talking to someone or calling them? Like saying O’ ( someone ) so ya allah means O’ god

Al hamdullilah // hamdullilah

it means ‘ praise/thanks to god ‘ said when something good happens or when you feel relieved about something— for example, my shirt is stained badly and I’m worried it won’t clean well. I clean it and the stain is gone so I say “ al hamdullilah “ kind of like phew!. Sometimes people say it as an answer when they’re asked how they are it can either mean things are good or bad but we preserve .

One more note is that with the name of Allah you should also be careful it’s not supposed to be written on papers that’ll get stepped on or lightly used in art because it also has its own weight it’s regarded heavily. Like even in home decorations it should be elevated and not overshadowed. If I have to throw away a paper I have to sit down and color over the name of Allah or burn the papers so it won’t get thrown in trash.

another note is that those phrases aren’t Muslim exclusive. Some Arab non-Muslims use them as well. This is only my explanation from a Muslim perspective.

Another another note is this is what I can remember at the moment but if you have additions or enquiries let me know

[toofabuloustobelabeled]

writers and artists will go "this isn't good enough." my brother in christ, you're creating something new out of nothing and expressing yourself creatively. your productivity and unrealistic standards of perfection do not define you or the worth of your art. you're doing great.

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the notes are broken 😂

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Reader who joins the 141. (I.e something silly)

They take one look at you and laugh.

Soap tries on the usual charming disarming flirtation.

Gaz tries to ease you in, being sweet as pie.

Ghost fucking glowers at you.

Price just observes you from afar.

You have to stop yourself from smirking at their behaviour.

It’s like they don’t see anything but for the fact you have breasts.

But you disarm ordinance faster than Soap knows is possible.

You outshoot Gaz on the range and in tactical scenarios.

You sneak up on Ghost in the Sennybridge tunnels.

None of them can figure you out.

Price knows what kind of person you are yet you still one up him with your management skills.

You’ve managed to get the team to fight amongst themselves over who could beat you in X or Y contest.

You chuckle as you place tender little kisses to Kate’s lips.

“So, when are we telling them I’m your wife?” You ask as you dip your fingers below the waist of her sweatpants.

“Never,” Kate responds as she lets out a soft sigh as your fingers ghost along her clothed cunt, “I like to keep them guessing.”

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I have been waiting all year to post this.

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THE ANGST OF BEING IN AN AGEGAP-SHIP WITH JOEL.

I'm talking pre-outbreak here, but you can fully imagine post outbreak Joel because it still stands that the relationship would have so much angst to it!! 

The minute it starts happening, the minute Joel feels that pang in his heart or that twitch of want in his cock, he knows he’s fucked. It doesn't matter if you add a shared history into the mix (dad's best friend, neighbor, etc), Joel knows he needs to keep his distance. 

He doesn’t have time for the mess that could come from it. Doesn’t have time to think about how he hasn’t felt like this in god knows when—where he can’t get you off his mind even while he’s working, a song coming on the radio, and he wonders if it would be your thing (would you like it? would you dance to it? for him? with him?).

How do you take your coffee in the morning? Do you take it black like him, or do you like that iced coffee that he just can’t seem to get into? 

What do you smell like when you’ve just gotten out of the shower, and how can he make it linger for days so he can be even more consumed by you? Maybe it would stop his heart from squeezing in his chest every time he sees you. Every time you give him that sweet smile that makes him want to say fuck it and have you. 

He thinks he might be crazy. Maybe he’s been out of the dating pool, hasn’t felt this attraction in so long that maybe he just doesn’t know how to act. 

But then he catches your eyes lingering on him—the smile you bite away as you turn your head. The sheen that comes across your eyes when you’ve caught him staring. The way being in the same room as him makes you fidgety. The hard swallows, the tapping fingers, the pressing of your thigh—he knows he’s not crazy because you feel it too. 

And it’s even more reason for him to stay away. 

To just live with wrapping his hand around his cock at night, thinking about you. He doesn’t need the real thing. 

He doesn’t need to feel your lips around the head of his cock, where his palm twists and pulls. He doesn’t need to feel your body underneath him as he presses your legs to your chest, leaning down to claim your mouth—his tongue lapping up every weak noise you make. 

And he most certainly does not need to come inside of you. on you. down your throat. 

Coming on his stomach with your name bitten into his tongue is enough. Should be enough. 

But it’s not. It’s so far from being enough that when the dam breaks, you’re both flooded with every missed chance and opportunity, and what if that you spend hours in bed. 

Hours of Joel between your legs—his mouth pressed to your clit as he sucks and rolls his tongue, switching between strokes and presses of his fingers, trying to figure out what you like until he’s got it down. Until you’re coming against his mouth, your fingers pulling at strands of his hair. making him want to stay down there longer just to hear you come like that again. To feel it. 

Hours of Joel trying not to come down your throat as you let him buck his hips up into it. The underside of his cock rubbing against your tongue, the side of your hollowed cheeks, the tip hitting the back of your throat making you gag around him—and Joel never thought seeing your eyes full of tears could look so hot. 

Hours of Joel spreading you out on your back, legs open and pushed down against the mattress as he watches himself pump in and out of you. 

Hours of Joel pulling your back into his chest, cuddling you from behind—a respite the both of you think until he’s fucking you again. Wrapping a hand around your jaw to bring your mouth to his. 

Both of you losing track of how many times you’ve come. 

And after that first night, it’s constant. 

If Joel ever thought after having you he’d feel normal again, he was dead wrong.  

He doesn’t think he’ll ever feel normal again. 

Not when it comes to you. 

But then doubt sets in. After months, after hearts have fallen, and Joel really knows there’s no going back from this. From you. That he’s actually in love with you; he doesn’t know if he should be. 

If the two of you should keep sneaking around like this. He doesn’t care who knows. Couldn’t give a shit, really. But he’s not stupid. He knows what some people will say. How they will react. He can take it. 

It’s you he’s worried about. 

Not that you can’t hold your own, but it’s not something you deserve. A judgmental eye towards an amazing woman doesn’t sit right with him. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him, but you’re good. Too good for this world, he thinks sometimes when he’s watching you sleep. 

Thumb resting against your chin as he counts your breaths. 

And when he brings this up to you, when he tries to put an end to your relationship to give you an out, it blows up. It makes him feel that pain of heartbreak he thought he remembered but feels fucking debilitating now. The tears in your eyes now only making his chest ache. Only making him want to punch something, someone. 

"I won’t hold you back.”

“You deserve better.”

"Darlin', please understand.” 

“I'm sorry. I'm just tryna do what’s right.” 

"Fuck, I love you.” 

Your cheeks burn under his palms when he grabs them to bring your mouth to his. The kiss filled with more passion than Joel thinks he’s ever felt in his lifetime. The salty taste of your tears licked away by his tongue. Kissed away by his lips at your cheek as he murmurs, "I ain’t goin nowhere; I'm here. Come on, that’s it,” as he strips you bare and slips inside of you. 

The strokes of his cock slow and hard. Gazes held and filled with love. Moans, grunts, and whimpers bit and marked into skin—into Joel’s heart. 

"I'm all yours. You’re mine.” He whispers against your lips. The hand around your throat is gentler and softer than it usually is. Rubbing a soothing circle against your heartbeat as the other hand moves between you to pull your leg up. Opening you and pushing your pelvis up to have your clit rubbing against him at just the right angle, matched with how deep his cock fucks into you, makes you whine into his mouth as you come. 

“My girl, my girl,” Joel mumbles softly against your skin after you’ve both come down. His lips at the back of your neck. Arm keeping you flush against him, like he refuses to let go. Like he’s stupid for thinking it was ever possible he could. 

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No offense but minors will parade around trying to protect a fictional character and then go insert themselves into porn spaces and hard kinks. girl go save yourself you're the child in danger

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Sorry it’s early but you really can’t use fanfiction terms in a non fanfiction context like if someone is trying to sell me a book to read and they tell me there’s an enemy to lovers I would be annoyed because why are you spoiling the story lol

[toofabuloustobelabeled]

Until the End

CoD - Greek Mythology AU - Hades!Soap x Persephone!Reader

SYNOPSIS : Hades’ thoughts to his Queen.

WARNINGS : None.

Author’s Note : Inspired by @charliemwrites ‘ version of a Greek Mythology AU. I really wanted to try and write a little something about it - it was meant to be longer at first, but I’ve been kind of stuck lately. Still, I kinda like it, so here you go o/

I do not give permission to re-publish, re-use and/or translate my works, be it here or on any other platform.

It didn’t take much for the mortals to forget all about us.

Even though they still talk about us ; write about us ;grace celestial bodies with our names ; and fantasise about our time…

We are now nothing more than myths in the back of their minds. Stories to be analysed over and over, used to teach about the ruins of a civilisation that merged into many. An empire devoid of its former glory.

It didn’t take much for the mortals to forget all about us.

And it took even less for some of the Gods to forget about each other.

The Titans have long since gone silent down in Tartarus, and so have Orpheus’ songs. The souls hovering in the Underworld have all been sent out to a new life, their newfound beliefs condemning Cerberus to guard gates that are never to be opened again. There is no judgment to be given, no life to be retrieved.

In the end, the Earth keeps spinning. The sun keeps rising, and the moon keeps rising. The seasons, too, keep changing, following their never-ending dance from one hemisphere to the other. The foundations of this world remain the same.

Yet you no longer grace my domain with your light.

Time spares no one. Not even us Gods are immune against its passing.

But I refuse to forget.

I still spend my night in the bed we used to share. The scent of your perfume vanished eons ago, yet my dreams are filled with visions of you. Your laughter echoes in the back of my mind, and flowers bloom in my memory - just like they did before, following you wherever you went. They petals glisten with phantom dew.

Do you dream about me too ?

I cannot seem to remember where my body has been left to wither ; but every new vessel I find shall guide me to yours. The Moiras no longer spin any thread - so I keep clutching the one binding our souls together in my war-torn hands, hoping that you, too, glance longingly at it whenever it meets your eyes.

It might not be the case, however. If so, I will make it my goal to remind you of every single memory we once shared.

It didn’t take much for the mortals to forget all about us.

And it took even less for some of the Gods to forget about each other.

But I will not follow their lead.

For you hold a special place inside of me.

A place I shall guard until the End.

[toofabuloustobelabeled]

you buy a second-hand laptop from a dodgy craigslist user only to make a carnal discovery hidden between the files.

cw for anal sex, face fucking, pet play, choking, masturbation, noncon filmed sex, overall dubcon, reader is fujoing out

ghoap (x reader)

-

You saw it in a flitting advertisement. Used Acer Aspire V5, female buyers only, and didn’t hesitate to contact the poster.

Ghost was his screen name. Macabre, but not something to dwell on because he’s selling the only affordable hand-me-down you can find. He insisted on meeting at a hole-in-the-wall pub, beneath a metal sheet awning. There’s a cigarette pinched between his lips as you approach, an overripe mask rolled over his broken nose.

“You’re our bird?” He asks in a Manchester hint, exhaling a plume of off-white smoke.

You stifle over that operative word—our—but push through it and meekly nod, preening at his feet.

Beneath the predatory glint of his eyes, you realize you’ve gravely miscalculated the calibre of this situation. Meeting a complete stranger in a gritty alleyway and waiting to pick up his scrap-metal laptop, all because it satisfies your budget.

“Yeah…” you mumble. Try to make yourself invisible even though it’s redundant—he already towers over you, his shadow eclipsing your body, his heat drinking you in.

“‘ere it is,” he grunts. “You’ve got our cash?”

You hand him the crumpled wad of paper, squirming as he passes his thumb over his tongue and folds through the money, counting it with a mean curl of his lips.

“That’s– is everything alright?”

He stuffs the money into his jacket and expells a deep prusten sound, like an idle predator. “Fine. Pleasure doin’ business with you, bird.”

Ghost turns on his mud-clogged boot and strays off, letting the shadows swallow him whole. You hold the bulky laptop to your chest and wield it like a weapon on your way home, finally settling into bed, ready to examine your new purchase.

The hinges creak as you pull it open. A grimace splits your cheeks at the dust crusted in the margins, the rings of juice gummed to the mousepad.

A few letters from the keyboard are missing, and a few strips of tape look dog-eared, peeling from the corners, exposing the laptop’s internal wiring. Gossamer-like, spiderweb cracks work across the edges. The screen is a blotchy eyesore, striated with horizontal lines.

You have to beat your knuckles on the laptop to keep it from jamming. You navigate the desktop with simmering irritation, invaded by the inkling that you’ve been utterly scammed. Nothing matches the photos advertised on Ghost’s account, and just as your annoyance is about to ripen into white-hot anger, something catches your eye.

It’s nestled into a nook on the desktop. It’s an unnamed folder that stares back at you, unassuming, the icon already half-opened and waiting to be examined.

You double click it, more like triple click, actually, since the mousepad decides to cramp, and squirm as the folder flares over the screen. It’s a collection of videos, their thumbnails all spotty and dark, eclipsed by the thumb of whoever’s holding the camera.

Their titles are as cryptic as their photos.

wet.avi; tail_plug.avi; no_prep.avi; with_price.avi.

You find yourself scrolling lower, your fingers working against the mousepad like a rapidly unfurling spool of thread. You decide to investigate one of the videos, one with a foggy, filmy thumbnail, and carefully heed the title before poising your finger above the open function.

johnny_leash.avi

The video is grainy, as if it was imported from a camcorder rather than a phone. The first few seconds are a blurry with grey-scale strobes running across the screen, radiating an aura of seediness that makes a hint of discomfort sink like sediment in your stomach, adhering to your viscera. A deep, damp squelching sound peals out, tempered with the sticky noise of something being broken in, hollowed out.

The camera ebbs, settles, then focuses all at once. You think you’re going to faint.

It’s someone’s puffy ass getting stretched out on a fat cock. It puckers and tightens with each piston-paced thrust, red.

A large hand belonging to the person recording enters the frame. Their hand tattoos stretch as they split their palm across the hind of their spine, the cameraman’s fingers digging sickle-shaped scratches into their back, clawing them down on their battering ram of a cock.

“Quit whinin’, Johnny,” the voice behind the camera loudly grunts.

The one getting split open, Johnny, snivels into the pillow. His spine is curved into the mattress, his ass pert and sticking in the air, rippling with the force of the cameraman’s hips.

A plume of dust travels over the screen, fleetingly concealing the image. When the soot thins into the air and bares the salacious material of the video, you gasp.

There’s a glint caught on something silver from the feeble lightning. It’s a chrome-plated chain, you see, connecting to Johnny’s throat. A leather collar cutting into his ruddy skin. The leash is wrapped around the cameraman’s hand like a reel, and each time he tugs, pulling his hand back as if winding up for an attack, Johnny gets peeled off the bed, his back arching so deep you’re sure it’s close to snapping.

“Shit, Simon—!” He squeals. “Can ye… slow down?”

The aforementioned Simon grunts. Animalistic, like a rabid predator. The camera whirls, the unromantic colours of the room they’re in bleeding into each other, and when it focuses, you see Simon’s large palm splayed against the back of Johnny’s half-shaven skull, gripping his hair, pushing him into the bed.

The man flails like a fish out of water, struggling under his hand. It prompts an emergency response out of you—the way he’s being fucked into the mattress, no doubt pressing a Johnny-shaped chalk outline like the ones at crime scenes into the bedding. Alarm seizes you, and the thought of submitting this to the authorities trumpets like strobe lights in your mind.

The video is written with inept non-professionalism, reeking with the sentiment of a found-footage horror film that it’s not the authenticity that rattles your bones like a wind chime, but the morality.

You tell yourself to stop the video, but as the thought squeezes itself between your ears, Johnny’s hoisting his neck back and peering into the camera, his striking-blue eyes flaring in all-encompassing horror. His lips pop open and wrap around a soundless scream, warbling.

“Yer recordin’ me?”

“Smile for the camera, Johnny,” Simon pants. “Who knows who might see this, right?”

Simon shoots his hand up and bullies his fingers past Johnny’s lips. He sinks his nails into the round of his mouth, stretching his cheek back into a repugnant curl. It’s paradoxial—how Johnny’s mouth is pulled into a smile, but his eyes are wide and wet, wordlessly begging.

Your body betrays your moral plight.

Your rapt ocular vein, the signals rushing to your mind, your nipples stiffening in your shirt. You feel as though you’re made of livewire, not matter, as you watch Johnny’s ass get spread open on Simon’s cock, his eyes rolling like unruly billiard balls to the back of his head.

His ass is red and patchy, burning up. Simon’s hand swats through the air and makes the sound of a whistle, flaring into a booming crack of thunder whenever he brings it down on Johnny’s ass. It makes you jump. Makes you feel as if your ass is being abused by proxy just by sitting, and watching raptly.

Instead of inching your hand towards the button that exits the video, your hand dips below your waistband and moves to cup your cunt.

The gusset of your panties is already hot, clinging to your dewy core. It sticks to your pussy, baring your puffy lips and swollen clit. You give it a few slaps and rub your fingers languidly, pace quickening.

But the video abruptly ends before the ascent to your pleasure is able to materialize. You yank your hand from your pussy, smearing your arousal on the mousepad as you search for another video.

You don’t heed the title—face_fuck.avi—before clicking it and readily spreading your legs, flushing at the sound of your lips parting.

The video starts, and you swear it feels like you’ve been hit with a brick.

Simon—or Ghost, you now recognize—is a behemoth. Huge would be an understatement for him. The camera is set up this time, somewhere across the room, but Simon still just barely fits within the margins. He’s folded over Johnny who sits on his knees with his back against the wall, his neck hoisted up at him.

Simon’s cock is fat and heavy. He’s hard—this, you’re sure of because of how red his balls are—yet still, his cock droops with weight, the bulbous tip scarcely teasing Johnny’s lips.

“You want your snack, boy?”

Johnny nods. He darts his tongue out and tries kitten licking the slit, but Simon isn’t having that. He grips the base of his dick and swats it against Johnny’s cheek, slapping him, the noise so thick and resounding it sounds like a palm that breaks his skin, not a cock.

“Greedy bitch,” Ghost snarls—you decide that name is more seemly for him—“Can’t wait when it comes to dick, huh?”

Johnny’s lips part, a response poised behind his chattering teeth. However, his reply gets snuffed out and shoved to the back of his throat as Ghost feeds him his cock, slamming into him with one, slick motion.

Johnny’s head hits the wall, his face puckering as pain blooms behind his skull. The action makes his jaw clench, clamping down on Simon’s cock, but Simon is quickly gripping his hair and puppeting his head back, sliding his cock deeper, until the tuft of steel-wool hair on his pelvis brushes Johnny’s nose.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Ghost grunts. “No teeth.”

The only mercy Johnny is afforded is when he sinks his nails into the sinews of Ghost’s thighs, scratching him striated, trying to offset the burn in his jowls. The back of his head thumps dumbly against the wall with each of Ghost’s jackhammering thrusts, his smaller cock springing up and slapping against his navel.

You keen. Rub your clit a little faster, tease your forefinger around your winking hole as spit and precome sticks to Johnny’s chin the same way your juices strings your fingers together. Johnny goes lax and the video abruptly ends, and you almost feel yourself going crazy, hastily exiting the video because you miss the phantom sensation around your cunt getting stretched. You click on another video that has your heart jumping to your throat.

It’s dated from just yesterday, two days after you placed the order with Ghost.

breeding_my_boy.avi

Your panties are completely soaked through at this point. The image of Johnny folded like origami under Ghost, eclipsed by his body, makes you gush. His knees are pressed against his ears and his ass is in the air while Ghost tugs his cock, towering over him and pressing his tip against his hole, slowly sinking into him.

Simultaneously, you hook two of your fingers up your cunt. Your arousal seeps out and pools into the divots between your knuckles, hot and wet, making a sucking sound as you draw your fingers out and thrust them back in, pawing your walls.

Ghost pulls his cock to the tip before driving himself back inside. He’s deeply-seated, knocking the air out of Johnny’s lungs with each stroke. Ghost draws his thighs close for leverage and sinks his fists into the bed, on either side of Johnny before snapping his hips, feeding him his whole cock.

You sink your other hand below your pants and blindly sweep at your clit, watching with keen eyes as Johnny gets pounded into the mattress, his legs thrashing dumbly with the force, his hands twisting into the moth-eaten sheets because he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands and according to Ghost, he’s “not allowed to touch his cock.”

You can barely see Ghost’s sweat in the coarse-grained, gritty video filter. It comes out as glistening dew, dribbling down his neck and onto Johnny’s cheek, to which he swiftly laps up.

It’s the same thing for Johnny’s tears—sparkling in the soft smoulder of light, smearing like spread as Ghost works his rough tongue against his cheek, licking up his brine.

Johnny’s whimpers and the crack of flesh against flesh emanate out of the janky laptop as tinny, thin. However as Ghost lowers his head, grumbling against the hull of Johnny’s ear, whispering, the thin sound travels out of the speakers and punctures your stomach.

“Wish I could breed you, pup…”

Pleasure gyrates in your belly, frothy. You curl your toes into your mattress and buck into your fingers, feeling your orgasm beginning to crest. You pinch your clit the same way Ghost snakes his hand low, trapping the tip of Johnny’s cock between his fingers to squeeze.

“Smile a’ the camera, dog,” he mutters. Takes him by the jaw and dimples his cheeks as he makes Johnny look into the lens, his eyes glossed over.

“Y’reckon she’s touching herself?” Ghost growls. “Watching you turn a mess?”

Your orgasm is on the edge now. Ghost looks at the camera, his eyes glowing like predators do on trail cams, a swill of molten rushing through you. He looks like he did beneath the awning—animalistic, as he seems to stare directly at you, snapping into Johnny’s ass.

“m gonnae come…” Johnny whimpers.

Ghost chokes his hand around Johnny’s cock, sliding his hand up and down to the pace of his thrusts. And with what happens next, your body girdles, throwing itself into the throes of your panoramic orgasm.

It’s Johnny. Bending his back off the bed and squeezing his thighs. He moans your name—your screen name—the one used to purchase the laptop. He treats it like something to bite on to defer the pain of his orgasm, trembling.

Thick ropes of come shoot from his cock just as an off-white liquid escapes you, splattering over the screen. You’re quivering as Ghost fills Johnny, watching as his balls tighten and breathe like a pulse as he comes inside.

The three of you are miraculously synchronized. Your laboured breaths simmer, thinning into nothing, as the two of them turn to look at the camera.

You undertake the decision to keep the laptop.

And a week later while browsing Craigslist’s homepage, you stumble across a familiar username.

Posted by Ghost 32 minutes ago.

Looking for a flatmate in Manchester. Two roommates. Three bedroom. Females only. Serious inquiries only.

A second doesn’t pass before you’re writing up your application.

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What if all fanfiction writers had the same attitudes that so many readers do? What if we treated our stories like content?

Readers: I won’t read WIPs, only completed work and LONG fics.

Writers: I will only post finished works once a year, you will never see 90% of my ideas and have no part of the creative process.

Readers: I will only read works that have tons of views/kudos/bookmarks.

Writers: I won’t update unless I have interest in my story. I’ll post a new chapter for every 100 kudos, 10 comments, and 5 bookmarks.

Readers: I can do whatever I want with fanfics, sell bound copies and criticise them publicly.

Writers: I will delete my fics without warning and never share more.

This is how you end fandom culture. This is how you lose AO3 and access to so many incredible stories for FREE.

✨Fanfiction is NOT content to be consumed! It is community and creative expression. ✨

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if you reblog this i will fucking destroy you

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Gaz: Animals can be 20 minutes old and they already know what to do.

Ghost: Meanwhile human babies come out with a spot on their head that isn't finished yet and the communication skills of an alarm clock.

Soap: Don't talk about our daughter like that.

[toofabuloustobelabeled]

Patience 💤

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(everybody is okay)

[toofabuloustobelabeled]

Dick/Bruce/Damian are 'she fell first but he fell harder' coded

Tim/Duke are 'he fell first but she fell when he fell out of love' coded

While

Jason gives hard 'he fell first and continues to fall harder the more he got to know her' vibes