I want women to stop feeling subconsciously pressured into acting as uncomplicated, laid back and far from the stereotype “annoying girlfriend” as possible.

I want women to stop priding themselves on not being “like other girls”, on not “hiding behind makeup”,  on being “like a dude”.

I want women to stop ridiculing “skinny bitches” that order small salads at a steakhouse just as much as “fat cows” that obviously “let themselves go”.

I want women to stop trying so hard to be different from what “most women” are like in front of a potential male partner solely to impress him.

Women are raised to believe they’re in a constant competition with other females. We never even question it. The questions that really bother us are: Who of us is prettier? Who of us is skinnier? Who is more succesful? Has the better warderobe? Makes more money? Who of us gets the guy?

We try to distance ourselves from all the negative prejudices that are associated with women to impress men and to  come off like a good catch, like a keeper.

And this isn’t even our fault.

It’s the fault of the disappointingly tiring binary society we grew up in.

Everything that’s typically male is cool, funny, dorky, and even if it’s a negative characteristic, it’s still made out to be adorable in a way. Our society has a thing for romanticizing bad traits in males, whether they go to extremes, such as fueling the “sexy” hysteria revolving around an emotionally and physically abusive character like ‘Fifty Shades Of Grey’s Christian with more “love stories” on twisted doms with a soft spot for shy girls or whether they stick to a less provocative, more relatable behaviour: There’s award winning TV shows that glorify immature, antisocial and rude men, portraying them as the heroes of the somehow still succesful same damn underdog - storyline of every other sitcom and we feel compassion for those “stupid little boys” who don’t know how to cook or do their laundry instead of indignation, which we’d feel if Howard Wolowitz and the other members of Sheldon Cooper’s clique were women.

Everything that’s typically female is nerve-wracking and complicated. We’re bitchy, clingy, weird and fake. We’re liars, sluts and prunes. We’re too emotional. Too loud. Too insecure. Too fat. Too thin. We’re probably PMSing.

Who wants to be associated with a  stereotype that makes females look like a burden to their male partner on the emotional basis and a toy on the sexual one?


So, we try to distance ourselves from all that. After all, it seems so wrong. And we want to be right, don’t we? Right in the eyes of the men we’re attracted to. And we want them to be attracted to us, too.

It’s a common thing to advertise yourself by saying “I’m not like other women.” when you are, in fact like other women.

And that’s what’s wrong.

Being a woman on the other hand isn’t.

We don’t contribute to the destruction of gender roles by bashing everything that is associated with womanhood.

Women are strong. Women are wonderful. Women are beautiful. No matter our skin colour, shape, weight, height, whether we’re disabled, physically or mentally ill, whether we have “typically female” traits or whether we act like society’s stereotype of a man would, whether we order a salad or two McChickens and large fries, whether we’re into skirts and makeup or sweatpants and a beanie.

As long as you identify as a woman, you should never be ashamed of being one.

Especially not in front of a potential male partner.

Because a man that says he doesn’t like how “most women” are, is obviously just too immature to cope with the fact that “most women” really have an individual character, own preferences and characteristics, and that they come with more than what men wish to see and lay their hands on.

And a man that doesn’t acknowledge that each of us women is a unique, wonderful being with needs, a true goddess that should strive for self-love and pride instead of the pleasure of those who are too lazy to look beyond doesn’t deserve to be with a woman in first place.

—  “I’m Not Like Other Women!” Yes, you are. 
you hated it when i smoked,
even just once in a blue moon.
but now you’re the reason why
i smoke every day. 
how would that make you feel?

you don’t care about me anymore,
you probably hover and worry
over someone else. 
but it still hurts,
how you can just up and leave. 
—  j.e.b. ((about someone you used to love not caring anymore.))
Some day I’ll look across a table and I’ll see you. It might be in a small cafe or an outdoor coffee shop, but you’ll still be there. You’ll ask me about my life without you and where it’s taken me. I’ll ask you about Europe and if you’ve met anyone else along the way. We’ll look at each other and even though we won’t want to admit it, we’ll feel something. Whether it’s pain that we hid from years ago or lust for someone we were never meant to be with. And I’ll hide myself behind a cup that’s the size of my face and I’ll sip tea to clear the lodge in my throat. I’ll fight back the tears for as long as I can, but you know. One look from you and my world is over. You know me, you’ll see it in my eyes. You’ll make a joke and I’ll laugh, or I’ll say that “right now isn’t the time to do that.” Because how could you possibly joke when I’m still falling apart? I know what you’re doing and I know you’re just trying to make me laugh, but why are you so okay with this? I’ll look at you and I’ll see a blank expression. I’ll ask you over and over again what you’re thinking and you’ll answer with “I don’t know.” You’ll keep that same look in your light blue eyes that you had years ago and I’ll hate how I can’t read you, just the same. We’ll get up, shake hands, maybe even hug. I don’t know where life will take us after that, or if life will take us to that point to begin with. All I know is that I hope I see you again. I hope I look across that table and see your smile, just one more time.
—  Future (s.s)

Aries —
you remind me so much of my mother. it’s too late for me to free her, but not too late to free you. I’ll take good care of you; keep the flames your spirit is made of alive, fan them high, high, higher. you’re worth so much more than other people measure, worth so much more than you’re willing to sell yourself for. I’ll show you your colors seen through my eyes, if you’ll let me.

Taurus —
you’re going to break my heart, and I’m going to let you. I wish I could find it in me to regret it, to stop it all before it happens, but by god, I cannot. you’re so far from perfect it’s ridiculous, and somehow all these flaws make you all the more radiant; you burn bright, white-hot and kind like springtime sun, and I’ll sing hallelujah when you’ll char me down to dust and ashes.

Gemini —
I wish you’d spend less time turning yourself into what the world wants to see. you aren’t a canvas for others to draw stickmen onto; you’re so much more, deep down where you haven’t let anyone mar you. I guess I just wonder what made you hate yourself so much you forgot you’ve got the hanging gardens swinging from your lungs with every breath you take.

Cancer —
i’m sorry I can’t keep the promise I made you. we won’t get to grow old together, won’t get to raise our children across the hall from eachother, won’t get to hold hands all the way into our old age. I’ll come have coffee on your balcony, though, if you’ll have me; and I hope that all the wrinkles on your face will be from laughing. I hope life will be as kind to you as you were to me.

Leo —
I wish your mother had taught you how to love. maybe then neither of us would have such shaky, clumsy hands; maybe you’d be able to read my eyes, the vivid space between my words. a world thrives there, a kingdom of ash and ruin and so much life, a kingdom built on my heart. I wish so badly you’d see it; but you’re blind to all of it, so blind, and it’s killing me inside.

Virgo —
maybe it’s unfair of me to say this, but you were the only good thing in my life; still are. you were so beautiful, so kind. the whole of Eden was lodged between your lungs, and I had found my solace, there, in the soil underneath your ribs. you never kissed me like the world was ending; you always kissed me like we were deathless, infinite, and that was your only lie. you became the earth’s bride, and it hurt so much, so much, to be the one who lead you to the altar. I miss you.

Libra —
surprisingly, I don’t hate you. maybe I would’ve, if we were both entirely different people; you fucked up my entire life, but I don’t hate you, no. you just disgust me, so much my whole body shakes with it and I want to vomit my heart and brains out. and yet, I find myself pitying you – you’re nothing but a small man who didn’t know what to do with his mouth and hands, who barely had enough room for himself inside his heart. don’t ever say my name again, and maybe I’ll forgive you, if only just a little, for what you’ve done to me.

Scorpio —
you and I are so alike, it’s frightening. please be at ease, if you were ever concerned; I will not repeat your mistakes. I will not let myself be walked all over, and I will put myself first. you drowned out the world and sunk yourself in the process, found salvation at the bottom of the bottle. I will save myself by shattering the glass, not choking on it.

Sagittarius —
I’m sorry I couldn’t love you the way you wanted me to. I’m sorry I will never be able to. I’m sorry you have to take what you can, all because that’s the best I’m able to offer. I’m sorry I’m your whole world, because I’m dead on my feet and all I carry around are hopes like stars in the sky and milennia’s worth of hurt – both distant, both bad for your heart. I’m sorry, so sorry, for having made a graveyard out of you when I have no desire to bury myself in it.

Capricorn —
they’ve lied to you. it doesn’t get better, no matter how much you want it to or try to make it so. you are a battlefield, always will be, and as time goes on, the only thing that will change is the amount of blood on your hands and wounds carving you hollow, piece by piece, until you’ll barely be able to tell who’s looking back at you from behind the cracks in the mirror. hope is your only salvation, but we both know what hope is: placebo for the dying.

Aquarius —
you already have a vague idea of just how much you mean to me; you’ll never know the full extent of it, though, because not even I can quite tell the depths of the feeling. it’s alright; that’s not what we’re talking about today. today we’re talking about the life coiling in your belly, climbing up your esophagus, wrapping itself around your lungs. today we’re talking about what you are: a birther, a caregiver, a healer. please always remembers what your hands and mouth are meant for, as clumsy as they may often prove to be.

Pisces —
congratulations, idiot. you’re the living proof that even I can be wrong sometimes, and god, just how horribly wrong. you were such a good, kind boy when we first met – when the hell did you turn into this? I wasn’t even gone, and yet you still managed to turn yourself into almost everything I stand against before I’d even blinked. if there’s even one piece of who you used to be left roaming inside, if you care about me even just a little, then you’ll snap out of it, because I cannot bear watching you become a monster. this isn’t who you are. you are a free spirit, a kind spirit; a considerate person, a caring person, a bleeding heart. please, please snap out of it.

—  anecdotes for the signs, L. Schreiber

wisegirlnextdoor asked:

Part two for your secret service AU? Pretty please?

A continuation of this prompt. I hope that you like it!

As Bellamy watched the President’s daughter toss back shots and dance on the floor of the club with her roommate, he couldn’t help but think that she would get along well with Octavia. He wasn’t a babysitter. It wasn’t his job to police her actions, even though he knew for a fact that she was using a fake ID to get her alcohol. All he was meant to do was protect her from any outside threats.

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She has glossy brown eyes and downy soft, cocoa hair to match,
But when I look at her, I see the dull darkness of your perceptive gaze, and the sheen of your wavy black hair.

When she talks about the things she adores, her face brightens and she laughs without a care,
And I think instead of the way you listened attentively to every word I uttered, and how you smiled cautiously when you ventured to add to the conversation.

When she says she loves me, I know her face is crumpled in pain on the other side of the screen.
When you said you loved me, it was with a quirk to your lips and a deep warmth to your tone.

She will interrupt my sentence halfway through to laugh without hearing a punchline, and though I love the sound of someone appreciating me,
I miss the unimpressed look on your face before you huffed a snicker, because you knew how stupid the joke was.

She clings when she hugs me, a drowning sailor holding fast to the side of the ship.
You used to be my steady ship, anchoring me, and letting me draw my strength to plow on from how you held me close in your arms.

She is present and she is here and she is now,
But I cannot bring myself to love her, not when I still want you to love me again, not when her voice changes to a baritone in my mind.


Sunshine girl and boy of darkness,
I do not love either of you the right way.

- y.v.l

No one is afraid of falling because that’ll always catch them by surprise, they're afraid of what they might land on. They’re afraid of what might shatter, collapse, explode into a million pieces.
—  you create the fear, otherwise it’d never there 

i want enthusiasm,
i want answering the phone to a happy voice on the end,
i want texts full of swearing and exclamation points.

i’m sick of “hey”s,
as if that’s the best that i’m worth,
as if you’d rather be doing something else than talking to me.

everyone types the same way nowadays,
i can feel myself slipping into the pattern,
because what are they going to think of me if i’m outside of it?

i want a pairing,
i want us to be doing it together,
to be working through it together.

i never understood people that wanted a relationship where,
they were only supporting the other,
or the other was only supporting them.

i want you to lean on me when you’re down,
i want to be the one that you text when you’re out of your head,
i want to be giving something back to you.

i do not do well in one-sided relationships.

i want to take care of the people that i love,
i want to increase your quality of life,
i want to make you as happy as you make me.

i want to be able to depend on you too,
i want to call you when my hands are shaking and my lungs hurt,
i want to tell you all the worries that no one wants to hear.

i want balance,
i want us to be a unit,
i want it to be able to be us against the world.

—  ideal; l.m.
Footie Love


“All right ladies, since I am ready to absolutely pop this baby out of me-I have to take a leave.” Your football coach walks back in forth in front of you.

She was swollen-her stomach huge. She should have left awhile ago, but she was hell bent that she was fine and that she could do it.

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Surrender (yourself to me)

I think the whole CS fandom died last night when a wonderful shipper found a video of Colin perfect chest and then proceeded on posting the video AND the previous scene that led him to be shirtless. I think it’s safe to say that I died and instantly though of CS and woke up this morning with the NEED to write some smut based on those two videos. For those who by any chance haven’t seen them or for those who just want to rewatch them over and over, here are the links.

pre-shirtless scene AKA the pornish makeout [X]

shirtless Colin and his chest in all its glory [X]

So here is some shameless smut!!! Sorry if there is some mistakes/misspell!

Emma was more than happy to come back from work and go home, especially since now home included an apartment all for herself and her pirate boyfriend. After everything that happened with her parents and after reconciling with them, she knew that it was time to get her own place (especially since things with Killian got more and more serious after he had come to rescue her once more, their adventure ending with both of them finally telling each other their true feelings).

She took her keys out of her coat while balancing with her other hand the take out bags she had brought from Granny’s as she finally succeeded on unlocking her door.  A smile graced her features when she saw her pirate sitting on the couch, his blue eyes lifting off the book he was reading as he gave her one of his usual grin.

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Here we go: A new collection of Johnlock ficlets, starting today with this chapter! Enjoy reading :)

MOMENTS - A Collection of Johnlock ficlets

Chapter 1: Awkward


Sherlock stilled and for a moment the only sound they could hear was their heart’s beating and the blood whooshing in their ears.


Sherlock’s voice rumbled in his chest, pleasantly tickling John’s lips. He placed another kiss on the shirt.

'John, what are you doing?’

'Oh - just passing the time.’


It was awkward, but Sherlock liked awkward. Liked it quite a bit. Nevertheless, he needed to sit down, needed to change his position, and so he gingerly slid down the wooden boards as far as he could.

'Straddle me,’ he ordered and John obeyed.

'Ahh -’ Sherlock exhaled when he finally sat on the dirty ground, cross-legged, his back pressed against the wooden boards behind him and his knees scraping the boards opposite. A position which would give him cramps in his thighs and back in no time, but at the moment he could not care less. What a relief, what utter bliss he felt, when the pain in his shoulders and calves slowly subsided, becoming duller, leaving a not entirely unpleasant numbness behind.

'Better?’ John was very close, his breath ghosting over Sherlock’s face. He could not see him, only hear, feel and smell him. Exciting that was, a promise.

'Yes,’ Sherlock whispered. 'Yes, better.’


Read more on AO3


Read more on ff.net

The Lights Fade Out || Chapter One

Title: The Lights Fade Out (Part 1/?)
Rating: T
Summary: —AU, all human— It’s been a year since John came home from the war, and for the first time he’s living alone and trying to find his way. Meeting Rose Tyler doesn’t fix everything, but it at least makes it a little better.
Characters: Ninth Doctor, Rose Tyler
Author’s Notes: This is one I’ve been playing with for a while now. It’s my first time really attempting to write any form of Nine, so I’m hoping it goes well.

General Story Warnings: This story deals with PTSD – including flashbacks and nightmares – and eating disorders in later chapters. Specific chapters will have warnings as well.

Chapter Warnings: PTSD-related nightmares, images of war.

He’s thrown to the ground as the building he’s standing in front of explodes…screams deadened screams echo in his ears, and he looks around to find his platoon scattered — in more ways than one…there’s something wet against his face, licking…


John’s eyes snapped open with a sharp gasp, and he found himself looking into the dark eyes of the German Shepherd sitting on his chest, licking his face hurriedly.

“Hi Charlie,” he breathed, sighing as he brought a hand up to scratch behind the dog’s ears. Satisfied that his master was awake, Charlie whined and moved to settle down beside John, pressing his furry body against the man. John closed his eyes and rolled over to press his face into Charlie’s neck.

“Good dog.”

It was only four in the morning, but there would be no more sleep that night, John knew. He didn’t feel like getting up yet though — didn’t feel like explaining to his aunt and uncle why he was up before them (again) and how long he had been awake for.

It was so much easier to just lay in bed with Charlie and pretend the world didn’t exist.

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bruhthatsgay asked:

"i wasn’t gay but then i kissed you in front of some homophobes to piss them off and now im im kinda gay au "

John hated when the stupid church group was on campus. And they came like clockwork. Dave would know exactly the intervals between. He good at stuff like that. He could probably pinpoint when they started. John doesn’t care about that though, and he’d never ask Dave because all John really cares about is how uncomfortable it makes his friend.

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I was inspired by i-love-you-swan ‘s numerous posts (here, here and especially here) discussing how Killian let Emma win their sword fight.  Thanks also to the brilliant confuseddotcomforwardslashwhat for the brilliant expert analysis of the choreo in the scene here. I originally replied with my thoughts in a reblog, but I since this thing kind of took off, I’ll post it here.

I think this would make an excellent pillow talk subject.  I wanted this to be a text post, but I got carried away and it turned into a 1.6k word drabble.  After seeing the scene from “The Clinic” this just seemed to fit. I have no idea if this is any good, but I had to write it so there it is. This is my first CS fic ever so be kind and enjoy.

They were still trying to catch their breath.  Emma was lying on Killian’s shoulder, delicately running her hand over his chest, fingertips dancing in his chest hair. Killian had his hand behind his head and his left arm around Emma’s back holding her close in the afterglow.

Emma is playing back all the events in her head that lead up to this moment. She thinks about the beanstalk, the first time she saw him so artfully use his hand and mouth in unison to bandage her wound, and how she was not surprised at all that he was so good at what he just did… Then her mind drifts to the next time she saw him, escaped from his restraints and standing in between her and getting home. She remembered her rage, her determination to defeat him, now reveling in how someone she saw as an adversary was the person she felt closest to in the entire world.

Then it hits her.  How had she bested him? Now that she knew him so well, his past, witnessed his skill in a fight, it didn’t add up.  How had she, a modern woman trained in pistol combat, defeated a 300 year old, military-trained pirate at sword fighting?

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Three Knocks on Bilbo’s Door

The Hobbit One Shot, Bilbo/Thorin

AO3 link to be updated, AO3 is down

For #anunexpectedanniversary I wrote this at 10.20 last night on the back of my study cards so it may be a little unstructured! 

The first knock comes as Bilbo Baggins is making a cup of tea. It is quarter past eleven and any respectable hobbit would be well into elevenses by now. But not Bilbo. He has not taken elevenses since his unexpected return a little over a year ago.

The knock is sharp, purposeful, and Bilbo knows who it is before he is even out of his seat.

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins is as frustrating and flamboyant as ever, bursting into the cosy hobbit hole with flair. She wears a garish yellow and large, ugly hat. Bilbo sighs.

“Hello Lobelia,” he begins as cordially as he can. “What can I do for you toda-”

“There are dwarves in town!” she interrupts. “Dwarves! Again! Bilbo, if these intruders have anything to do with you, I command you to remove them! I will not have those monsters messing up my peonies again!”

Bilbo’s heart drops, partly from fear, partly from excitement. He has missed his dwarvish friends, yes, and he greatly hopes it is Balin or Ori bringing news from Erebor. But also…he cannot face them just yet. It is too soon.

After a good ten minute rant on ill treatment to her ‘poor petunias’, Bilbo loses it with Lobelia, and they spiral into a passionate argument about the so called ‘unruly and disgusting manners of dwarves’. An insulted Lobelia leaves, taking at least one lace doily and a china dog with her. Bilbo doesn’t mind, however, too caught up in his thoughts to care.

The second knock comes as Bilbo settles down with a good book. At first he thinks he has imagined the sound, but then it comes again, a ‘rat-a-tat-tat’ on the window pane. Angrily, he storms to the door, almost afraid it might be one of his old friends. But it is far worse.

“Bilbo Baggins, my old friend!”

“No! None today thank you! I will have no more adventures! Whatever it is, you will not rope me in this time!”

He slams the door shut, just like he should have done the last time the wizard came to his door.

Gandalf the Grey taps the window with his staff mouthing something through the glass, but Bilbo ignores him. I am looking for someone to share in an adventure, oh yes, an adventure. I will never forgive you for your adventure, good sir.

“Be off with you! I need no more daring escapades, no more hairy situations and NO MORE HEARTBREAK!”

The meddlesome wizard does not press further, and Bilbo is left alone with his thoughts once again.

It is dark when he hears the third knock. The weather has worsened considerably, it’s now rainy and windy, stormy conditions for the Shire. It reminds Bilbo of the Storm Giants in the mountains and their terrible battle. He remembers a pair of warm, rough hands holding him tight, keeping him safe…

He is awake, staring blankly at the patterned drapes around his small warm bed, and when the knock comes it startles him. He rolls out of the quilt and shrugs on his patchwork dressing gown, shivering as he slides into his slippers. The little hobbit makes his way to the round door, ready to unleash a tirade of fury upon whoever it is this time. But when he opens the door he forgets everything.

A gust of wind blows raindrops onto his nice clean doormat, dampening the carpet. Bilbo doesn’t care.

“But…but you were dead.”

“No. Not quite.”

Thorin Oakenshield stands in the doorway, his majestic profile framed by the turbulent skies. He smiles softly, his blue eyes warm as he gazes at the hobbit. At his hobbit.

“I came back for you.”

Everything that’s typically male is cool, funny, dorky, and even if it’s a negative characteristic, it’s still made out to be adorable in a way. Our society has a thing for romanticizing bad traits in males, whether they go to extremes, such as fueling the “sexy” hysteria revolving around an emotionally and physically abusive character like ‘Fifty Shades Of Grey’s Christian with more “love stories” on twisted doms with a soft spot for shy girls or whether they stick to a less provocative, more relatable behaviour: There’s award winning TV shows that glorify immature, antisocial and rude men, portraying them as the heroes of the somehow still succesful same damn underdog - storyline of every other sitcom and we feel compassion for those “stupid little boys” who don’t know how to cook or do their laundry instead of indignation, which we’d feel if Howard Wolowitz and the other members of Sheldon Cooper’s clique were women.
—  from “I’m Not Like Other Women’ (x)