No No No What Are You Doing To Poor Virg!

I have no idea why I love this so much!!

Even sea lions want to celebrate Thunderbirds Day! 🦭💛

(I have no idea where this came from but we all need Gordon’s sunshine energy!!) 

GET THAT PIKACHU MAN AD AWAY FROM ME AND MY DASHBOARD I CANT DO THIS ANYMORE

Anyone got some good fanart? I’m in one of those moods.

(I’ll take literally anything from any fandom, at the moment. Just... ART!!)

so many fanfics, idk why but yeah

....accurate, and most of them are WIPs!

I made a what the fandom thinks of you generator

If you are a fan of any of these things please message me so we can become friends!

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Helmet - A Mandalorian Story

Author: mae-the-4th

Fandom: The Mandalorian/Star Wars

Timing: A few weeks after Season 1 of The Mandalorian

Warnings: none, just a bunch of fluff and a bit of angst

Author's Note: It's about time I wrote a new story! Felt like doing a Mandalorian one. I hope I do these characters justice. Please feel free to correct anything I may have gotten wrong. Enjoy!

xXxXxXx

The Razor Crest was quiet, the humming of the engines the only noise. The kid was asleep in his box, and Din could finally have a moment to himself.

His helmet stood proudly next to the bowl of soup on the table, silently judging the walls and ceiling of the ship. It's owner sat behind it, bare-headed, sipping soup and thinking over what the Armourer had said just those few weeks back.

She had told him that the Child was a foundling - specifically, his foundling. He would protect it, care for it, perhaps train it someday.

In other words, Din Djarin, fierce Mandalorian warrior, fearing throughout the galaxy, was a father.

Din was certainly familiar with the Mandalorian foundling program - he had been one himself, many years ago. Any child alone and without a family, the Mandalorians would take them in as one of their own, no questions asked.

This is the Way.

Din rubbed his temples and sighed. He had always been aware that he might be in charge of his own foundling one day - but not so suddenly or under such circumstances. Yet he couldn't find any regret or reluctance in him faced with looking after the kid. The womp rat was useful in a tough spot - the fact that Din was sitting in his ship, alive, was proof of that fact. And, yes, the kid was cute. Din could admit he had a soft spot for the green creature, anyone could see that. In a recent hologram transmission with Cara, she had pointed out that exact fact herself.

The almost daily transmissions with Nevarro was a distraction both occupants of the Razor Crest looked forward to. Greef Karga would update Din on the latest events - constantly praising Cara on her job as his enforcer, even though she protested that she was just doing her job. Her modesty was definitely something Din liked about her. Usually, Din and Cara would take up the most time during the transmission, chatting long into the night about recent events, the kid, and past battles. Occasionally, when topics were particularly hard, they would both break out a bottle of spotchka. On one of those nights, Cara had admitted to Din that it was nice to talk about past battles with him. That it brought some sort of closure for her, in a way. After almost no hesitation, Din agreed. He told her that he trusted her, both with his life, and with his past. He told her things that he'd never told anyone before.

He told her about his family. He told her about his life before he put on his helmet.

And Cara, recognising his trust in her, replied with stories of her life on Alderaan. Of her dream to be a healer before she became a killer.

Any time these stories came out into the open, Din slept easy that night, knowing her could trust his comrade, his best friend.

Din sighed again, rubbing the stubble on his chin. It was late, or at least the clock that showed Nevarro time told him it was. Din quickly finished his soup, reaching for his helmet-

And froze. And stared.

The kid stared back.

Din's eyes flickered down to his helmet, the visor accusing. His eye jerked back to the kid, breath hitching. Wide brown eyes flitted over Din's features and his wrinkled forehead furrowed.

An eternity later, Din finally found a way to work his mouth.

"Kid," he croaked. "Um-"

His voice seemed to have jostled the kid from his scrutiny, because the child took a step forward, a big grin on his face and holding out hands to be picked up. Not knowing what to do, Din just stared at him - until he thunked his helmet down onto the table and flopped onto his chair, his head in his hands. Fingers gripped dark hair and Din realised his hands were shaking. The kid toddled over and grabbed his leg.

"Da?"

Din barely heard him. All he could think about was how he had broken his oath - how he betrayed the last few remaining members of his Creed. He had let a living creature see his bare face.

"Da?"

His whole life was now a lie. Every ounce of respect he had worked for was now gone. He could never place his helmet back onto his head. He could never call himself a Mandalorian again.

"Da!"

Din peered through his fingers down at the kid. Tiny arms clung to his leg and he stared up at the man. The grin that was there before had vanished, confusion and worry replacing it. Din slowly reached down and picked the kid up.

"Don't worry about me kid. You shouldn't have to worry. That's my job as a father."

Father.

He was the kid's father.

Din choked back a sudden laugh, a disbelieving smile adorning his face. The kid cocked his head.

"I'm your dad! We're literally family! No rules about helmets there." The kid gurgled. "That means I can put it back on, kid. That means I can still be me." Din looked over at his discarded helmet. Unconsciously he tightened his grip on his kid, hugging him to his chest. The little womp rat smooshed his face into his shoulder in reply, a giggle escaping him. Leaning back and reaching up, Din's kid ran a three-fingered hand over his father's face, feeling the stubble on his chin. His hand moved upwards to the mustache - and pulled.

"Ow!" Din laughed. "That hurts, kid. But honestly, I don't mind much. It's about time you saw the real me."

xXxXxXx

FIN

Absolutely incredibly accurate. May I just add:

- *leans over* “Ooh, what are you writing?”

- Turning the brightness down as far as it will go

- Making the text so small you (and others) can barely see what you’re writing

- That tab switch

- People going “what the heck” when they see how much ‘work’ you have done

- People making t h a t face when they realise you’re writing fanfiction, even if they’re a fan

- That one rare person who actually knows what you’re talking about and gushes and fangirls with you (bless them. bless all of those people)

Writing Fanfiction Is:

Losing motivation when you have time

Getting motivation at ungodly hours of the day or when busy

Going back to your story trying to remember what the fuck you said

“Am I writing this character good or nah?”

“does the plot make sense?”

feeling guilty sometimes for absolutely no reason

waiting for comments on your fic from specific readers

writing something and thinking “oh yeah, thats definitely going to hurt them”

procrastinating on writing by writing other fics

having too many ideas and not enough time

never finishing your wips

debating whether to add the fucking dumbass joke in that scene or not

wondering if you should or shouldn’t add that angsty scene purely to fuck with the readers bc its not like its gonna kill them or anything

Hoping no one finds it while simultaneously hoping ppl read it

playing music for inspiration and zoning out

planning fics and never writing them

thinking its shit but ppl like it and suddenly ur imposter syndrome acts up LIKE A FUCKING BITCH

loving ur readers so so much

Happy Thunderbirds Day to everyone who loves all things Thunderbirds! 💙💚🧡💛❤🖤 FAB

@colonel-jeff-tracy Some good leg action there, 10/10.

Both of these are brilliant. Brilliant, I tell you.

It's Monday, it's sunny, sending you good week vibes ☀️

Probably an ancient headcanon but this is totally Gordon's jam, right?