sorry about the writing

Snow White

Once upon a time, there lived a Princess named Snow White. Her name was given to her for her skin was as white as snow. Her hair was as black as night and her lips were as red as blood. She was a beautiful girl and made more so through her kind and gentle nature.

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anonymous asked:

;< ʷʰᵉʳᵉ ᶦˢ ¹⁰ ᶜʰᵃᵖ ᵒᶠ "ʸᵒᵘ'ʳᵉ ⁿᵒʷ ʳᵒᶜᵏᶦⁿ' ʷᶦᵗʰ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᵃᵐᵖᶦᵒⁿ"?? ᵢ'ₘ cᵣyᵢₙg!!!!

me trying to read this ask like:

Originally posted by biscuitsarenice

where is chapter 10? well, it’s half-written in the depths of my google docs

you know what’s a better way to get the update rather than a passive aggressive ask with really tiny font that hurts my eyes? ask me about the au! leave a comment! why are you crying? what do you like about it? for a fic with about 315 subscribers i hear from maybe 5-10% of them about what they like about the au why they like it or questions they have… or even just that they like it?

I know everyone’s always talking about Bucky having a mass freak out when he finds out all the dumb shit Steve’s been doing while he was gone but at the same time I feel like the next time Steve jumps out of a plane with no parachute every single other avenger is gonna freak out while Bucky’s just standing there like

jason to the batfam gc at 3am: @ duke @ babs this could be us but u playin (by the old mans rules) :/

duke: god i wish that were me

babs: im the girl in red who knew that had to be done

duke: im the girl in brown pretending to be shocked in case she’s caught on camera, so she can just say she was forced to participate and is left off the hook

jason: damn you’re good thomas

bruce: you know we can all read the groupchat right.

Knowing I can’t give you everything you deserve is breaking me apart

7

OK CONCERNING THE WHOLE HEADCANON THING IM WRITING THAT PPL KEEP ASKING ME ABT, i was talking to @chompiee abt a ~love confession~ and then @cryptidsp00n abt the aftermath of said confession concerning them kissing

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  • luke skywalker is terrifying. 
  • no, shut up, come back.
  • you have to understand:
  •  to you or me he may not be; he may be all sunshine smiles and corngold hair and the biggest eyes this side of the galaxy, but imagine you’re Dagger (stormtroopers don’t get proper names), firing at a boy, only the bolts never hit. They sing to the side. You think that there’s something wrong with your blaster, maybe, but none of your friends can hit him either. Finest shots in the Empire, you are, but you can’t hit this boy. And he cuts you down. He wields a weapon whose name you’ve never learned and he cuts you down into smoking bloodless bodies and your friends die before you – only he leaves you. Knocks you out with a blow of the Force – and isn’t that a nightmare of its own, unseen hands blotting out your thoughts – leaves you there in the cooling blood of your squadmates.
  •  Imagine that you’re Cara Ilhyre and you’re a dancer for the Hutt and you hate it, of course you do, but it is a living, a living, and this boy comes in, fresh-faced and young and he says surrender or be destroyed only he and you both know that the Hutt do not and never have surrendered and when he says destroy there’s this grin on his lips, thin and sharp, and he’s kind, of course he is, but –
    • so you’re Cara Ilhyre and you’re a native of tattooine and like many of your specis you are force-touched and you were a girl, once, a very little girl, and your mother told you tales of krayt dragons who slumbered beneath the sands and gentled their young to their pearl-heavy breasts. krayt dragons are tender mothers, she had said, and it was meant to teach you something of the duality of nature, or to fear those with young to protect, or something; but all you can think is this boy, how he smiles as kind as your mother did, once, but you’re convinced that if you were to cut him down the middle you would find dragon-pearls in his ribs and fire instead of a heart
    • the boy cuts downs jabba’s goons like they are nothing, nothing, and afterwards, afterwards, you sense his sorrow. and somehow that makes it worse.
    • because you say, later, to your mother’s ghost (maybe) or to the desert, he knows that killing people is hard and that weighs on him and he does it anyway and –
    • and, you say, it isn’t as simple as: he makes the hard choices. he knew the hutt would fight. he wanted to burn them down, oh he did, and that sister of his –

F**K ME.

Artist: Lena_レナ | Source: | Twitter: inunekosukii | Pixiv: id=4269065
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» This is Ereri.

Dean barely notices when Sam runs into the house to investigate the nephilim situation. His eyes dart this way and that, taking in the tattered, broken wingspan spread out before him.

All of the times that he lost Cas, he never saw his wings. Not once. And it feels so…final.

Dean’s lips tremble as he casts his gaze upwards towards where he knows heaven is watching. He wonders if the angels care. He wonders if God cares.

He knows Chuck probably isn’t even in heaven, and maybe he has his ears turned off while he’s having the family meeting to end all family meetings with Amara, but he tries anyway. He wants to beg, bargain, and scream, but he’s not sure he can speak. He sends up a plea, his lips mouthing silent prayers.

The air is still. Too still. Deathly still.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and slumps down to the ground. He bows his head down, but he can’t yet bear to look. Not yet. Not again.

He breathes, and it feels like a monumental effort. He is hyper aware of being alive, of his lungs filling with oxygen and expelling carbon dioxide, and suddenly he thinks he might understand why yoga helps to clear the mind. Maybe he’ll take it up. He could do with a nice, clear mind after…after…

He opens his eyes. Cas is there, but he isn’t.

Dean swallows against the burning lump in his throat as he reaches a hand out. Hand touches hand. One is cold.

Dean stares at the eyes and wills them to open as he curls his fingers around the still, cold hand. And finally, after much effort, he finds that he can speak.

“Please,” Dean pleads, his voice smaller than he thinks it has ever been. “Please. Cas. I need you.”

No. That’s not right. That’s not enough.

“I love you.”

Too late. He says it, finally, after all of these years, and it falls on deaf ears. Ears that will never hear those words.

Dean’s eyes sting. “Come back. Like you always do.” His voice cracks. “I love you. I love you. I love you. Please come back.”

The world is still. Too still.

He’s not coming back this time.

Dean folds himself over Cas’s body and finally allows himself to break.

Chubby body appreciation post tho???

Soft bodies are so?? GOOD??
Big tummies are good pillows and good kissing surfaces.
Tummies with stretch marks?? GOSH, YES??? It’s like nature itself is putting down a trail of lightning that says “KISS HERE PLEASE”

And chubby/fat arms though? Can we JUST? Thighs and stomachs get a lot of love (and rightfully deserved) but can we talk about ARMS??
That cute arm chub that I just want to be wrapped up in a hug and a snuggle in? SO PRECIOUS?? 
People with such soft, cuddly arms that there’s lil bumps and stretches from cellulite?? CUTE??

And soft necks? Necks with some squish on them? Very extra kissable?? And squishy cheeks GODDD I WANNA SMOOSH YOUR CUTE CHEEKS KISS ALL OVER YOUR FACE!!! And when people have chubby cheeks and lil dimples?? Or when they have high cheekbones so when their cheeks are chubby they’re VERY prominently chubby?? THIS IS GOOD AND FANTASTIC??

And THIGHS. My god. Thick thighs are never praised enough no matter how hard one tries. Big, soft laps are so perfect for laying your head on! And stretch marks on big thighs? Cute lightning patterns to trail your fingers over or gently kiss when you’re already laying in their lap?? YES!!
Cellulite on thighs is also so so good and cute!! Dimples in cheeks are wonderful and so are dimples in thighs and butts?? CUTE!!!

Hips with squish over them?? GAH!! I CANNOT HANDLE!!! Please be more confident with your hips (if you feel comfortable) because when you are you give me LIFE!!!

Back rolls?? CUTE and very fun to trace hands over and hold onto during snuggles!! Looks very cute all the time! 

Chubby/fat bodies in crop tops and short shorts?? YES!!! CUTE!!!

Chubby/fat bodies in sweat pants and a tshirt? EXTRA SOFTNESS TO THE SOFT CUTIE!!!

Chubby/fat bodies in swimsuits?? VERY CUTE?? Swim trunks and soft belly is very very good!!
One pieces that cling tight to your stomach or ride up your thighs are still cute no matter what anyone says!!
Two pieces? GOOD!!! You look so cute! Don’t feel obligated to cover that adorableness if you don’t wanna!! 

Chubby/fat bodies in lingerie?? SO IMPORTANT TO ME!!! When stomach is tucked into cute underwear it is very very adorable and when there’s chub over low rise underwear it’s also very very cute and endearing!! THIGH HIGHS?? UGH, MY HEART. I KNOW THAT THEY PROBABLY ARE FALLING DOWN CONSTANTLY BUT THANK YOU FOR WEARING THEM YOU’RE DOING US ALL AN AMAZING SERVICE.

In conclusion:
Softness is good
I will kiss you all over
Holding you and feeling handfuls of squish is amazing
I love you

To put this in more perspective: love and hate sit on opposite ends of the same spectrum.
So yes, love and hate are the same thing. Passion
I’ve spent most of my life chasing the person I want to be. Because 20-year-old me will have better friends, and 25-year-old me will land a killer job, and 30-year-old me will be madly in love. And me 6 months from now will be skinnier, and me a year from now will be more confident, and me some time from now will be better somehow. So much better. For years, this is what I thought. That if I could just wait it out, everything would get better.
     It took me a long time to realize that life doesn’t work that way. Older doesn’t mean happier or easier, and it certainly doesn’t mean better; it just means older. Life isn’t a well plotted screen play, or a checklist, or, God forbid, some waiting room. We have got to stop waiting. Because life isn’t about growing up to be all that we’ve ever wanted; it’s just about growing.
     It’s about love, and change, and crying yourself to sleep when it’s all too much. And working at a burger joint, and kissing your best friend even though he might not like you back, and calling your mom every Sunday because you miss her like hell. It’s fights, and promotions, and hospital visits. And then it’s this: another wedding of another one of your college friends, the third one this year, but this time you meet a groomsman who’s just as down on love and you dance all night. And this: he cries when you say “I do.” And this: a kid with your eyes and his dorky ears.
      Or maybe not. Maybe it’s this: you write everything, everywhere, all the time, even when the prettier kids make fun of you, and the short teacher with the big nose tells you it’s good. Really good. And this: you’re living in a shoebox, by the skin of your teeth, but there’s a bar across the street that lets you read your poetry, and every time you do, someone in the crowd finally knows what it feels like to be understood. And this: your words being published. Your words. Being bought by people who could be spending their money on anything at all. And you sit in your twin bed where you’ve written your entire novel, a dozen empty coffee mugs still dirty on the nightstand, and you scream until your lungs burn.
      It’s all of these things, and bad things, and good things, and the raw realization that it doesn’t get better or worse, it just gets different. It just changes. Always, always changes. And somehow that makes it more wonderful. Because future you may have the friends, and the boy, and the job, but she didn’t get it by waiting around. She is a product of you. Right now, tomorrow, changing and growing every moment that follows. She is kind, and breathing, and beautiful. But she waits for the day she doesn’t have to worry about paying a mortgage bill, and she worries too often about what people think of her. She still doesn’t have it together.
     And maybe that’s what I’ve learned after all this time: nobody has it together. We’re all just here, floundering around in pursuit of being something more. Broken, thoughtful creatures with too much time on our hands, desperate for the companionship of someone who reminds us that we are not alone. We don’t have much of anything figured out. Maybe we never will. But more importantly, I think that’s how it’s supposed to be.
—  ramblings of an overthinker
Fever Pitch

Anonymous request: Bill and his co-star are doing a “simulated” sex scene, they get aroused, are covered by blankets and decide to do it for real. *So this is pretty long! But if you read until the end, you will not be disappointed! Hope you all enjoy!*

Warnings: s m u t, nsfw, swearing, etc. 

You cup a hand over your right ear in an attempt to hear the person on the other line better, but it’s of no real use. You’re going to have to leave this party to speak to him. “Hold on a second Bill, I can’t hear you.” You inform the man on the other end and snake your way through the mass of gyrating bodies to the outside patio. When you can confirm that you’re actually alone, you continue talking.

 “I need a ride back to my trailer.” You bring the end of a menthol cigarette to your mouth, inhaling deeply.

 The silence is punctuated by an all too audible sigh out of Bill. “It’s fucking 2:47 in the morning on the morning of our final scene together and you need a ride back to your trailer? Where are you?”

 You drop the butt of the cigarette to the concrete floor beneath you and stamp the heel of your buckled boot over it. “Got invited to a crew party about a half an hour outside of the city.” You wait patiently for the expletive that inevitably falls from his mouth.

 “Fuck Y/N,” Bill hisses. “I’ll see you in forty five minutes.”

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