#because it's impossible to write without them

[luna-azzurra]

What to Give a Sh*t About While Editing Your Book

↳ Emotional Impact

Ask yourself: Do I actually feel something here? If a scene is technically “well-written” but emotionally flat, it’s dead weight. Your readers won’t remember your clever metaphors, but they’ll remember the way a quiet line of dialogue made their stomach drop. So yeah—give a sh*t about that.

↳ Character Motivation That Actually Makes Sense

If your characters are making decisions just because the plot needs them to… we’ve got a problem. In edits, zoom in on their choices. Are they acting like real, flawed, complex humans? Or puppets? Edit until their actions make you nod and go, “Yep. That’s exactly what that little disaster would do.”

↳ Cutting the “Almost Good” Stuff

This hurts, but it’s necessary. Some lines are nice. Pretty. Kind of smart. But if they’re not serving the story, they’ve got to go. Save them in a “kill darlings” file. Grieve if needed. But don’t let “kinda good” block the greatness trying to come through.

↳ Scene Purpose

Every scene needs to earn its place like it’s paying rent. Does it move the plot? Deepen character? Build tension? Ideally, two out of three. If the answer is “it’s vibes,” that might work for a paragraph—but not for 3,000 words. Cut. Condense. Clarify. Your future reader will thank you.

↳ Pacing That Doesn’t Bore People to Death

Look, I love a moody slow burn too. But if your story crawls for 50 pages without conflict, tension, or curiosity—your reader will ghost you. Read your scenes out loud. If you’re zoning out? So will they. Tighten that sh*t up.

↳ Dialogue That Sounds Like Real People (and Not AI)

If your characters sound like they're reading from a very polite script, it’s time to rewrite. Interruptions, unfinished thoughts, weird little phrases—those are gold. Make it messy. Make it sound like how people actually talk when they’re nervous, angry, or halfway in love and lying about it.

↳ Themes You Accidentally Nailed (and Can Now Strengthen)

Themes tend to sneak in while you’re drafting. During edits? Time to spotlight them. Don’t slap it on with a neon sign—but do lean into the emotional throughline you already created. It’s probably smarter and more beautiful than you gave yourself credit for.

↳ Your Voice

Don’t edit your weird out. Editing is for clarity, not sanding down your style until it sounds like generic internet writing. Keep the voicey bits. The odd metaphors. The lines that sound exactly like you. That’s what readers fall in love with—not perfection.

↳ Trusting That You’ll Need Multiple Rounds

This isn’t one-and-done. Your second draft will suck differently than your first. Your third might suck less, but still suck. That’s fine. It’s part of the process. What matters is that each time, it gets sharper, truer, and more you.

↳ Not Quitting Halfway Through Just Because It’s Hard

Editing is hard. But you’ve already done the impossible: you wrote a damn book. That’s massive. Now you’re just sculpting it. Don’t give up because it’s messy. Don’t panic because it’s not “there” yet. Keep showing up. Even if it’s just one scene at a time. Even if you’re crying into your tea. Especially then.

[bitterrfruit]

people using ai to generate fics is terrifying because large language models are getting better and better at approximating real writing, for the very reason that they steal more and more work from real writers every second.

ai generated writing has become sophisticated enough that often you truly have to rely on a gut feeling that what you’re reading isn’t written by a human. as @bi-writes says in her post, it’s the same as ai images that just have a certain look to them. sometimes there are specific “tells” you can pick out as evidence, but sometimes there aren’t.

ultimately what ai writing lacks is a true understanding of what is being written.

crucially, large language models aren’t actually intelligent. the way they work is simply predictive text on steroids. they generate words based on the words that come before - when they start a passage of text, they don’t “know” where it will go. this is why sources like chatGPT consistently give incorrect information, it doesn’t know what it is telling you, it is only regurgitating words in a human-like order based on the swathes of information it has stolen from other sources.

one thing ai writing will always lack is a true thought-out plot. it will constantly repeat itself. it will have plenty of adjectives and similes and “creative” synonyms, it'll be rife with cringey wattpad tropes as bi mentioned, because it is entirely unoriginal.

what frightens me is a future where the difference becomes indistinguishable to laypeople or casual readers, especially those who aren’t writers themselves. making accusations is near impossible without evidence and we don’t want a world where real art is dismissed simply out of ai paranoia, but the thought of a future in which real authors are sidelined in the industry because readers are sated by robot-written slop is genuine nightmare fuel.

all this to say, i guess, is human writing can never be genuinely replaced if readers and writers are aware that ai generated work is hollow, meaningless, unoriginal garbage whose very production is harming our planet. or, rather, that readers continue to care that the art they consume is produced by a human being.

i honestly don’t know how anyone can stomach to read or enjoy work produced by ai knowing that there is no human feeling behind its creation. all i can do is hope the majority feel the same.

[b1eedthefreak]

can we have some daryl angst? Daryl and reader get into an argument and it ends with him saying something mean and making her cry. Fluff at the end and forgiveness, put your own twist on it your ideas are great!

Be There For You

daryl x reader

warnings: angst, daryl being stubborn and mean

a/n anon i loved this request i’ve been wanting to write something like this for so long! i also apologize because i forgot to add the fluff at the end 💔 but they forgive eachother at the end :)

⸻

The sun was starting to dip low, painting the sky in streaks of orange and gold as you and Daryl trudged through the woods, bags slung over your shoulders, the day’s haul secured. You were talking his ear off like usual, voice light and cheerful despite the exhaustion pulling at your limbs.

“I saw this field earlier,” you said, glancing over at him with a bright smile. “It was full of those little white flowers, you know? Like… wild daisies or something. We should stop by on the way back. It looked so pretty, Daryl, you’d love it!”

He gave a small grunt in response, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting a smile, but before he could say anything, his hand shot out, covering your mouth. Your heart jumped in your chest.

His eyes were sharp, scanning the trees. That’s when you heard it, the voices, too close, too many.

Daryl pressed you back against the nearest wall of a crumbling brick building, his body shielding yours. “Stay here,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You barely had time to nod before he was slipping away, silent like a shadow. You clutched the strap of your bag, peeking just enough to see him step into view. There were three men. They clocked Daryl immediately, shouting at him to hand over his supplies. Daryl stayed calm, his crossbow raised slightly, but ready, but not stupid enough to make the first move.

And then everything exploded into chaos.

The men fired first. Daryl ducked behind cover, returning fire with sharp, precise shots. You stayed frozen behind the wall like he told you, heart hammering against your ribs.

Until you saw him, another man, one that must’ve been hidden creeping up behind Daryl with a gun raised.

Your body moved before your brain could catch up. You darted from your hiding spot, lifted your pistol and fired.

The man dropped like a stone, his gun clattering against the pavement.

But it didn’t end there.

Another guy lunged for you. You barely got your arm up in time before the blade nicked you, a shallow cut, but enough to sting sharp and hot. You stumbled back, but before he could do more damage, Daryl turned and shot him square in the chest.

Silence fell heavy around you.

You clutched your arm as Daryl stalked toward you, his face thunderous. He grabbed your uninjured arm, pulling you toward him roughly, not enough to hurt, but enough to shake you.

“What the hell are ya doin’?!” he barked, his voice booming louder than the gunshots had been. “I told you to stay put!”

You opened your mouth to explain, to tell him you had to… he would’ve been shot if you hadn’t, but he didn’t give you the chance.

“You were tryin’ to help?” he snapped, cutting you off. His eyes burned into you, harder than you’d ever seen them. “That what ya think? If you wanted to help, you would’ve stayed the hell back and let me handle it! But no, that’s too damn difficult for ya to understand, right? I don’t need no damn help, and I sure as hell don’t need your help.”

You stared at him, the breath knocked out of you. Your chest ached, tears welling up fast, hot, but you bit them back. You refused to let him see you cry. Not here. Not now.

Without another word, Daryl grabbed the bags and started marching back toward Alexandria.

You followed him silently, a wide gap between you. The walk felt endless, your chest tight, the lump in your throat impossible to swallow. You kept your head down, letting the tears fall freely now, wiping them away with the sleeve of your jacket.

When you reached the gates, Eugene spotted you both from his post. He furrowed his brow, taking in Daryl’s stormy expression and your teary one.

“Uh… reckon the mission was a mite more eventful than anticipated,” Eugene said awkwardly, shifting on his feet. “Ya need me to… fetch someone?”

You shook your head quickly, mumbling a quiet “no thanks” before pushing past him, making a beeline for your house.

You barely made it inside before the sobs broke free. You dropped your bag on the floor, covering your mouth to muffle the sounds as you collapsed onto the couch, curling into yourself.

A few minutes passed. You heard the door creak open but didn’t lift your head.

Heavy footsteps. Then a bag being thrown carelessly onto the other side of the couch.”What’s wrong with you?” Daryl’s voice was gruff, but there was confusion underneath it, like he didn’t understand why you were crying.

You whipped your head up, tears streaking your cheeks. “You don’t get to ask me that after what you said,” you choked out, voice cracking.

Daryl stiffened. “All I said was for ya to stay back. I didn’t need your help—”

“No, Daryl!” you shouted, pushing yourself off the couch, shoving at his chest with both hands. “You don’t get it! Just because you’re this big strong guy doesn’t mean you can treat me like I’m nothing! We’re supposed to be partners, Daryl — dating! You don’t get to talk to me like that!”

You pushed him again, and he stumbled back a step, wide eyed.

“I was trying to help you,” you cried, fists pounding weakly against his chest. “I just wanted to help…”

Realization finally dawned across his face. His mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

“Baby…” he rasped finally, reaching for you, but you shoved at him again. “Get off me,” you hiccupped, tears blurring your vision.

But Daryl didn’t let go. He wrapped his arms around you, strong and warm, pulling you against his chest as you struggled weakly. “I know, baby. I know. I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice breaking right alongside you. “I’m sorry, so sorry…”

You clung to his shirt, fists balling into the fabric, soaking it with your tears. His hands moved up and down your back, trying to soothe you, trying to hold you together when he’d been the one to tear you apart.

“I just wanted to help you,” you sobbed against him. “Please, Daryl… let me be there for you..”

He pressed his face into your hair, breathing you in like you were the only thing keeping him alive. “You’re right,” he murmured hoarsely. “You’re right, baby. I’m sorry. I just—”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumbs wiping the tears from your cheeks, so gentle it made your heart hurt.

“Jus’… get scared,” he admitted, his voice raw. “I can’t lose you, ya hear me? I can’t.”

You hiccupped, your arms wrapping around his neck as fresh tears slid down your cheeks only this time they weren’t just from sadness. They were from feeling seen.

“You won’t lose me,” you whispered. “But you gotta trust me, Daryl. You gotta let me be there for you, too.”

He nodded, forehead resting against yours. “I will, baby. I swear. I’ll do better. You’re my

everything. I ain’t never gonna push you away again.”

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers curling into his hair. For a long time, you just held each other, breathing each other in, the world outside forgotten.

Daryl Dixon, stubborn, gruff, and so scared to love,

finally understood.

And he wasn’t letting you go.

⸻

[asha-mage]

Something I've been thinking about a lot since Goldeneyes is Perrin's line "Not a solider among us and yet you are the only one afraid to die" to Padan Fain and how it really captures the Two Rivers broader place as a Vietnam allegory, something that easily could have been lost in the show.

In the books Jordan writes the Two Rivers' struggle with serious parallels to the Vietnam war. A pair of outside forces- the Whitecloaks and the Trollocs- march into a foreign largely rural area both intending to occupy it for their own aims. And while the Trollocs are their out of simple fear and the promise of violence, the Whitecloaks are, in theory, there on the justification of a broader idealistic struggle.

And yet the Whitecloaks face a constant crisis of morale, as the murky politics and unsound tactics of the occupation create doubt, and the increasing violence carried out in the name of vaguely defined goals and uncertain outcomes erodes their sense of moral authority. This is worsened by 'allies' such as Padan Fain, who commit gleeful war crimes of such excessive cruelty they unsettle even the pretty flexible sensibilities of the of the Whitecloaks....while also carrying the official sanction of the Whitecloak leader, and operating nominally towards the same goals. While the Whitecloaks do help against the Trollocs to a limited degree, it is clearly not their intended priority- as Perrin notes their help seems almost accidental, and in a way it is. On the surface their there to fight Shadow, but in reality they are not here for anything of the sort. Both groups are here to try and lure Rand out, for the Shadow so that they can psychologically torment him in the hopes of breaking his spirit, and for the Whitecloaks so that he be used as a pawn in Niall's efforts to unite the Westlands under his rule- which means for the most part terrorizing innocent people and focusing on inconsequential battles like book banning and hunting Aes Sedai, instead of doing anything meaningful to actually help anyone. Dain ultimately realizes this (or at least enough of it) which is root of his crisis of faith, which he resolves mostly by drinking and tormenting himself, because this runs so counter to what he has been raised by his father to believe about the Children of the Light and their purpose.

It's also this combination of factors that lead to the Two Rivers uniting under Perrin- who carries out what amounts to a guerilla war against the Trollocs and the Whitecloaks both. Using superior knowledge of the terrain and a quickly constructed network of support from farmers and other locals, Perrin launches a series of highly successful ambushes and raids meant, not to win any open battles, but to inspire fear and make the task of actually holding the Two Rivers impossible for either group.

And this works because ultimately the Whitecloaks aren't committed to the conflict. It's one thing to use the threat of force to bully small groups into compliance- it's another to take and hold miles of farmland and in the face of popular opposition- common men and women who want nothing more then to be in left in peace and live their lives. It's a bloody, draining mire that saps the morale of the Whitecloaks, even despite their deeply ingrained indoctrination, and in Dain's case even begins to erode his faith in the ideals the Children stand for. Their not their to bring the Light to the Two Rivers, their there because of a calculation made in a room none of them have set foot in- a piece on a chess board carelessly tossed out without regarding for their humanity, to do bloody work judged necessary by a politician with an agenda utterly divorced from the lived reality of the people he is presiding over.

The Two Rivers folk have everything to loose and as a result nothing to fear. They will never stop struggling, and ultimately the Whitecloaks and the Trollocs can not outlast their determination- they fear dying more then they want whatever their is to gain out of scouring the Two Rivers.

[sknyuz]

guard your heart (preview) | l.c. (dino)

synopsis — in which the king sends a knight to reel in his precious daughter—the princess—who keeps disappearing into the forest at night.

pairing — knight!dino x princess!reader

genre — fantasy, romance, royal/medieval au, knight!chan, princess!reader

warnings — violence, mild swearing, cuts and bruises, a little manhandling from dino, alcohol consumption

wc — preview ~1.1k (full fic: tbd)

a/n — oh god i am having way too much fun writing this. i am a sucker for fantasy settings like this. can you tell by the cover art i even edited, different from my usual, minimalist ones? this was actually a request from anon, which turned out to be wayyyy longer than i had planned. releasing this by the end of the week, maybe. but without further ado, enjoy ~

if you'd like to join the taglist for this au, as usual, reblog or leave a comment on this post ^^

masterlist

"hey, sir lee."

he straightens a little at the way you say his name. "princess?"

"do you know how to dance?"

he blinks once.

"i was taught basic waltz steps, and the proper formalities for court dances." his voice is careful, neutral, like he’s reporting his swordsmanship level. "enough to keep up, if needed." you hum, pretending to consider it. "basic, huh?" you tap your chin. "i guess you’ll survive the king’s ball without embarrassing yourself, then."

"i would hope so," he says, but there’s the tiniest edge of a smile hidden in his voice, the barest crinkle around his piercing eyes. you file the knowledge away. basic steps. enough to keep up. just in case, you tell yourself. not for any particular reason.

you spin lazily again, the golden light catching in your hair, and wonder if maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to dance with someone who wouldn’t trip over your toes for once.

you meet his gaze through the narrow slit of his helmet—sharp, slanted, unreadable—a flicker of something reluctant sparking in them. maybe even something softer, hidden too deep to name.

"think you can keep up, sir lee?" you tease, offering your hand, palm open and expectant. the smirk tugging at your lips is impossible to miss.

chan exhales slowly, metal plates shifting with the motion. "i wouldn't be the best dance partner," he says, voice even but clearly reluctant. "not compared to the noblemen you'll be dancing with at the banquet. and besides—" he taps his gauntleted fingers against his chestplate lightly, the clink of armor echoing in the wide hall, "—my armor isn't quite fit for this sort of thing, princess."

you only grin wider, stepping closer. your hand reaches up to flick the front of his helmet, the heavy faceguard, with a soft clink.

"it's an order," you announce, chin lifting in challenge.

and really, who is he to resist a royal command?

chan sighs, a quiet sound, and reluctantly takes your hand in his, his hold surprisingly light for someone weighed down by so much armor. the cold brush of metal contrasts with the careful way he cradles your fingers, almost like he's afraid of bruising you.

you wait for the usual stumble, the awkward shuffle that always comes with new dance partners. but to your surprise, it’s chan who steps first—a precise, confident glide of his foot, leading you into the first motion of the waltz without hesitation.

your head tilts slightly, caught a little off balance, not from the dance but from him. it’s not perfect, but it's not the fumbling you expected either.

because chan hasn’t just been standing there these past few days, silent as a statue while you fumbled through lessons.

he’s been watching.

and somehow, just from sight alone, he’s picked up the steps well enough to guide you—rough around the edges, sure, but steady. dependable.

you stumble once when he spins you, surprised by the unfamiliar strength behind the movement compared to madame's usual delicate corrections. he steadies you quickly, a firm hand at your waist, the clink of his armor muffled against your skirts.

"you're... not bad," you murmur, almost suspicious.

you feel, rather than see: the small smile he hides behind the heavy line of his helmet.

"i learn quickly, princess," he says, voice low and almost amused. "comes with the job."

you try to catch him off guard. it’s petty, maybe — a playful shift in your step, a sudden change in direction you don’t warn him about, just to see if the knight so confident in his armor can really keep up.

but chan—sir lee—is ready for you. he follows the change almost immediately, like he'd expected it, like he could read your thoughts before your body even moved. his grip adjusts without tightening, guiding you through the sudden pivot with a smoothness that borders on irritating.

"scheming already, princess?" he murmurs lowly, the ghost of a smirk threading through his words.

you narrow your eyes up at him, catching the slight twitch of his mouth through the small gap of his helmet.

"just keeping you on your toes, sir," you say, all honeyed sweetness.

the floor is cool and echoing underfoot, your shoes making soft scuffs against the polished stone. his armor shifts and clinks faintly with each step, but somehow, he moves like it weighs nothing. every turn, every pivot, every measured guide of your hand feels deliberate, like he’s spent years preparing for something exactly like this without ever knowing it.

for a moment, you forget about your planned stubbornness, forget about the teasing.

because you realize, startlingly, how easy it is to fall into rhythm with him, how safe his arms feel, even cloaked in cold iron and war-forged discipline.

the music isn’t playing. the instructor isn't here. the hall is vast and empty, morning sun catching the dust motes floating lazily in the air.

but somehow, the world seems to spin in time with the way he leads you.

"you're scarily good at this," you mutter, a little breathless when he spins you out and catches you again.

he only tilts his head slightly, like a curious cat sizing up something unexpected.

"observation is part of guarding, princess," he says simply. "i'd hardly be useful if i missed the steps you take."

there's a warmth that prickles at your cheeks, but you scowl lightly to cover it, flicking the edge of his helmet again just to make him huff a laugh under his breath.

"show-off," you say, half-grumbling.

he catches your wrist gently this time, steadying you as the dance slows, the space between you suddenly feeling much smaller than the grand hall would suggest.

with a final step and a sure hand at your back, chan guides you through a turn. then smoothly, almost effortlessly, lowers you into a dip.

for a half-second, your breath catches. not out of fear, but out of sheer, dizzying surprise at the fluidity of it. his hand is firm at your waist, the other holding yours steady, the whole motion feeling absurdly practiced.

your hair brushes the air as you tip backward, and when he draws you up again, it’s with that same measured strength, not a single stumble in his footing.

you blink up at him, heart a little unsteadied, though you refuse to show it as he shifts your hand gracefully to the crook of his arm and steps back.

then, chan bows.

low, precise, a perfect formal motion as if you were already center stage at the king’s grand hall.

there’s a glint in his eyes when he straightens—not quite amusement, not mockery—something lighter, something quietly proud.

you open your mouth, half a mind to laugh, half a mind to finally commend him, "not bad for a bru—"

when the doors crash open with a loud, embarrassing BANG! against the walls.

so, that’s a small sneak peek into what’s coming up for u guys <3 this is taken from the middle of the fic so it may be a little out of context, but i wanted to throw you guys into the world, yknow?

if this is something you’re looking forward to read, reblog or comment to be added to the taglist so you’re mentioned when this full fic comes out !! tysm again <3

𐔌 . ⋮ taglist .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ @kstrucknet @ateez-atiny380 @alien0n3arth @cuppasunu

join here!

[imagine-it-was-us]

love me not pt.3 || Carlos Sainz

Inspiration: Ravyn Lenae x Rex Orange County "Love me not"

Author's note: And here it ends. Wel, I loved writing this one! I will sound like an absolute idiot, but it makes me crave the chaotic relationship I never had, if it means you're getting your happy ending. Please, share your thoughts, the feedback is everything 🥺

Pairing: Carlos Sainz Jr. x female reader

Warnings: toxic relationship, mentions of pregnancy, time jumps.

Summary: They started as a spark – fast, reckless, impossible to ignore. One night turned into something more. But when love feels like a push and pull, when you only know how to leave before you're left… how do you stay?

Word count: 3.5k+

part1 part2

The best thing that could’ve happened to their relationship was the winter break.

Even with Carlos in the midst of switching teams – juggling meetings and a never-ending string of training sessions and briefings – there was still room for her. And he took his time with it, without hesitation, like he’d already learned the hard way what happens when you don’t make time for the things that matter.

They say that in the beginning, love is all pink glasses and soft focus, where even the flaws look charming and the fights feel like flirtation. Maybe that was true for them, too. Or maybe, after all the turbulence, the thing they needed most was stillness. A kind of gentle recalibration. Whatever it was, the chaos slowed. And in its place came something that looked a lot like peace.

There were quiet mornings that turned into rituals – her brushing her teeth in nothing but one of his hoodies, sleeves too long and neckline stretched from wear. He’d already be in the kitchen, brewing coffee the way she liked it: milk, just a splash, and a swirl of honey. No need to ask, he just knew.

Sometimes they moved around the flat without speaking, music humming low in the background, caught in their own thoughts but still orbiting each other. He’d pass her a mug without a word, and she’d curl her hand around it like it was his hand she was holding. Other days, they cooked dinner together, him stirring pasta, her dancing barefoot around the kitchen to some old R&B track, occasionally dropping a kiss to his shoulder just because she could. It wasn’t loud love. It wasn’t performative. But it allowed them to be their true authentic selves without any reservations. 

One time, Carlos came home late (again). The weeks leading up to the Bahrain testing had been relentless, every day packed with meetings, sim sessions, and adjusting to the new rhythm with Williams. He was used to returning to a quiet, dim apartment after long days like this. But not anymore. Now, home smelled like grilled vegetables and sounded like whatever low-stakes show she had playing on the TV. Warmth clung to the air like something he could wrap himself in.

She was curled up on the couch, wearing her pajamas, legs tucked beneath her and a blanket thrown haphazardly across her lap.

“There are freshly made burgers in the oven,” she called out without even looking away from the screen. “I tried to set the oven timer so they’d still be warm.”

That one simple sentence nearly knocked the air out of him. It wasn’t just thoughtfulness. It was the casual way she did things like that. As if it was second nature to care for him. As if she belonged here, with him. A grin stretched across his face before he even realized it. 

When he finally dropped down beside her, letting his body sink into the cushions and his exhaustion fade just a little, the words slipped out before he could stop them.

“God, I love you.”

The silence that followed hit him like a slap. He froze, realizing what he’d said. Too fast? Too soon? A couple of months had passed since Monte Carlo, since they’d finally put a name on what they were. Things had been good, but he hadn’t planned to say it. Not yet. Maybe not like this. 

For a split second, fear bubbled up in his chest. Then she turned to him, smiling lazy and eyes full of that impossible softness that always seemed to undo him.

“I don’t know if you’re being religious or calling me God,” she said, head tilting just a little, “but either way, I love you more.”

His heart stuttered, just once. Relief flooding in, knocking the wind out of him all over again. There were still ghosts haunting the edges of what they were building, but right now, the feelings were growing fonder. And for the first time in a long time, Carlos believed it would last.

But sometimes, she’d linger in the bathroom longer than she meant to, just to shake off the overthinking about some words he said. Sometimes, he’d watch her while she slept and wonder how someone could look so calm next to him when he was still learning how not to self-destruct. There were those moments. Fleeting, barely-there pauses in their routine. Glances that didn’t land. Words half-said, then swallowed. Not arguments, just tension, subtle but present, like a crack forming in a foundation no one wanted to acknowledge.

They laughed a lot. They kissed even more. But every now and then, one of them would say something too sharply. He’d shut down without meaning to. She’d withdraw with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

As the time passed and their relationship grew and deepened, disagreements were no longer a question of if, but when. It was natural – a sign that they were both real, both human, both still learning how to love and be loved the right way. What mattered wasn’t the presence of conflict, but how they navigated it. How they circled back to each other after the storm. But the truth was, no matter how far they’d come, every fight still stung just as badly as the first. Maybe even more. Because now, there was more to lose. Now, the silences hit harder. The words, when they came, cut deeper.

And the worst part? Carlos still hadn’t learned how to stay. He didn’t know how to sit with discomfort, to hold space for pain without retreating from it. In the heat of the moment, his instinct never wavered: he walked away. Not because he didn’t care – but because he cared so much he didn’t know what to do with all the emotions.

She’d wait, every time. But even the strongest hearts can only take so much waiting.

As summer edged closer, the calendar finally loosened its chokehold – at least on paper. The races came a little slower now, the travel days stretched out with just enough space to pretend things were easier. But breathing room didn’t mean peace.

Not for them.

The cracks they’d carefully papered over all winter were starting to split wider under the weight of everything unsaid. Carlos was still carrying the bruises from his rough start with Williams, frustrated, tense, never really able to leave the pressure at the track. And her moods, usually so even, had been swinging unpredictably for weeks now, leaving both of them confused and defensive.

It didn’t take much to spark a fire anymore. The argument that night started, ironically, with nothing more than a photo.She was scrolling through her phone, mindless, half-watching the muted TV, when the image popped up: Carlos, earlier at an event, arm slung around a girl whose smile was a little too wide, whose body leaned a little too close.

It shouldn’t have mattered. It wasn’t anything new. Fans adored him, he adored them back in that polite, easy way that made him Carlos. But tonight, it hit differently. Maybe because she already felt like she was losing pieces of him, one laugh and one late night at a time. Or maybe because for weeks she hadn't been able to look in the mirror without seeing someone unrecognizable and because hormones made everything a little more raw, a little more breakable.

When she heard his footsteps approaching from their bedroom, she didn’t even think before she spoke.

“Did you have fun today?”, voice light but slicing. Carlos immediately caught the off tone.

“What’s that supposed to mean?’ he sat next to her on the sofa, visible confusion on his face. 

“Nothing,” she shrugged, tossing the phone to him. “Just… nice to see you enjoying yourself, that’s all.”

It didn’t take him more than a glance to see what had set her off.

“It was a fan. Jesus, you’re making something out of nothing again.”

Again. The word landed like a slap.

“Maybe if you still looked at me the way you looked at her, I wouldn’t have to,” she said, voice dripping with envy, her eyes never meeting his gaze.

Carlos’s mouth twisted. Frustration boiled up the way it always did when he didn’t have the words to fix it.

“This is what you do,” he bit out. “Pick a fight because you’re in a bad mood. Blame me for it.”

“Yeah, because I’m the problem. And God forbid I dare to voice my feelings out,” she threw back, folding her arms tight across her chest like armor.

Carlos’s jaw tensed; his fingers curled into fists at his sides. He took a deep breath and stood up, realizing that whatever he said now would only make her spiral further.

“You know what?” he said, voice sharp. “I’m not doing this tonight. I’m going to Charles’.”

He turned around, already heading to grab his keys. Maybe if she wasn’t so tired, so worn down, she would’ve let him go. But not tonight.

“Sure,” she snapped, her voice cracking despite her best efforts, “go ahead. Leave. Like you always do. Leave us.”

The word hung there, thick and heavy, an earthquake in a single syllable.

Carlos froze. And she kept going.

“It’s the only way you know how to deal with situations like this, isn’t it? Always leaving. Always making me deal with my feelings alone, wondering if this is the time you're done with me for good.”

Her voice shook, but she pushed through it. “I can’t do this. This–”

“What do you mean, ‘us’?” he interrupted, voice low and shaky, like he wasn’t sure he heard her right.

Her throat burned. She didn’t want to say it like this. She didn’t want this to be the moment. But she couldn’t un-say it now.

“I’m pregnant, Carlos,” she whispered, voice breaking. “And I can’t– I can’t do this with someone who’s always halfway out the door. I can’t raise a kid wondering if you’re going to leave the second it gets hard.”

Carlos didn’t move for a second. Then, slowly, he came back, sinking down onto the edge of the bed like his legs didn’t know how to hold him up anymore.

His hands ran down his face, breathing shaky, but not because he was doubting it, not because he didn’t want it.

Family. With her. Not something he ever thought he’d deserve. But now that it was real, sitting between them like a live wire… There wasn’t a single part of him that regretted it.

“How long have you known?” he asked, voice hoarse, almost afraid to break whatever fragile thread was holding them together.

She twisted the hem of her sweatshirt around her fingers, not meeting his eyes.

“A month,” she said quietly. ”I’m... eleven weeks now.”

Something clicked sharply into place in Carlos’s mind. The flashes he hadn’t pieced together before.

The night she refused to come to the drivers’ dinner, claiming she was sick. How he got frustrated with her, accused her of blowing him off. Left her to deal with it alone. The way her moods had swung wildly some days, and instead of asking, he’d pulled back, snapping instead of supporting. The fights. The cracks. All the moments he could have held her closer, but didn’t. His chest tightened with regret so fierce it nearly knocked him over.

Meanwhile, she kept talking, voice trembling slightly like she couldn’t stop herself even if she tried.

“It’s been rough. The first trimester has been…” she shook her head, searching for the right word. “Hard. And with all the tension between us, I–” she swallowed, the confession threatening to strangle her, “I thought about leaving. About raising it alone.”

Carlos looked at her then, staring deep into her soul. The anger from earlier, the fear clouding everything between them – it was all gone. He only saw her – raw and scared and still so fiercely strong. Carrying not just his child, but the weight of every unspoken thing between them.

He slid across the couch until he was close enough to touch her, but didn’t, not yet. Not until she wanted him to.

“I don’t want you to do this alone,” he said quietly, fiercely. “I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to.”

Her eyes finally met his, guarded, shining with unshed tears.

“I mean it,” Carlos whispered, like a vow. “We can do this. We’re going to be better for them.”

She hesitated for a heartbeat. Two. Then, like a dam breaking, she leaned into him. He caught her instantly, pulling her into his arms, cradling the back of her head, anchoring her against him like he was afraid she might disappear if he let go.

She knew things weren’t magically fixed, that the doubt would still curl around the edges of her mind, whispering that maybe he was staying because of the baby, not because of her.

But here he was. Still here. Holding her like he meant it. And for now, that was enough.

Silent tears spilled down her cheeks, soaking into his shirt where her face was pressed against him. Carlos felt the dampness, the shudder of her breath against his chest, and somehow he knew – he just knew – what was running through her head.

His hand found the back of her neck, thumb brushing soothingly over her skin, grounding her.

“Cariño,” he murmured against her hair, voice low and steady. “When things get hard... when your mind starts telling you all the wrong things... don’t shut me out, okay? Don’t let me walk out on you. I know that I’m not the easiest person to be with, but you are the only one who can hold me down. So please, talk to me.”

He pulled her tighter against him, feeling the damp warmth of her tears soak through his shirt. His own chest ached with the weight of it – the mistakes he’d made, the fear she still carried, the trust she was still fighting to give him.

“I chose you before,” he whispered, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “And I’m choosing you now. Every day. No matter what.”

Her fingers clutched his hoodie, the smallest broken sound escaping her, but this time it wasn’t fear – it was something closer to hope, fragile and real.

They still had a lot to learn. A lot to fix. But they would.

Together.

“No, you’re not carrying that,” Carlos commented, rising halfway from the floor where he was crouched in front of an almost-finished crib. His eyes narrowed at the box in her hands like it personally offended him.

She raised a brow and shushed him with a dramatic flick of her wrist.

“Relax, Carlitos. It’s just a changing pad. It barely weighs a thing.”

With a roll of her eyes and a small grunt, she set the cardboard box down on top of the assembled changing table. The nursery had taken shape quickly in the past few weeks – muted tones, soft lighting, tiny clothes already folded into drawers that smelled faintly of lavender detergent and baby powder. Books lined the small shelf. Plush toys peeked out of the corner.

Carlos took a step back to look around, wiping his palms on his sweatpants.

“We actually pulled it off,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “This is starting to look like... a real home.”

And for once, it really did.

Things were looking up.

The past six months hadn’t been easy, but they’d been transformative. After the storm came something close to peace.. Therapy became a grounding point, not just for the baby’s sake, but for theirs. A shared promise: to give their child the kind of love they hadn’t always known growing up. To unlearn the damage, brick by brick. It was their way to show up for each other in a way that no one else did. Carlos had surprised them both with how open he became. Somewhere along the way, the sessions stopped feeling like obligation and started feeling like oxygen. His dread, the constant, clawing fear of not being enough, slowly faded into something quieter. Manageable.

She stayed at work as long as her body allowed it, balancing spreadsheets and mood swings like a pro, until her doctor insisted she step back and take her pregnancy leave. The downtime hadn’t come easily to her, but it gave her space to breathe. Nest. Heal. She was fighting demons of her own, not only fearing the mistake her impulsiveness can cause to their relationship, but also how it could damage their child in the long run. 

But healing didn’t come neatly packaged with a bow. Therapy didn’t wave a magic wand over their problems – it just handed them the tools. And some days, they still fumbled. They still argued, got stubborn, said the wrong thing at the wrong time. But now, there was something different at the heart of it all – intention. Instead of walking away, they leaned in. Instead of shutting down, they reached out. It wasn’t perfect, but it was honest. They weren’t just learning how to love each other better – they were learning how to stay, even when it got hard.

And the baby? Oh, the baby was already the most loved fetus on the grid. When they’d shared the news – “Sainz Jr. Jr. arriving 2026” scrawled across a grainy ultrasound on Instagram – the internet had exploded. Aunties and uncles lined up in their DMs, a different driver claiming dibs on godparent status every week. The group chats were chaotic. Pure, hilarious chaos.

And now, the calm. The nursery light dimmed to a warm gold as the sun dipped lower. She was curled on the sofa, a hand on her stomach, the other balancing a cup of chamomile tea he’d just handed her.

He joined her a moment later, sitting down slowly, one hand resting lightly on her belly as if it grounded him there. They didn’t need many words. But tonight, something buzzed in the air, sweet and slow.

They talked about the future. About tiny shoes and first birthdays and whether the baby would inherit Carlos’ curls or her sarcasm. The laughter died down to a quiet hum as he shifted beside her, suddenly more serious, more certain. And then he reached into his pocket.

“Okay,” he said, clearing his throat. “So, I’ve been thinking about how to do this. I had about fifty different ideas. I threw out forty-nine of them last night. And I’m probably still going to mess it up–”

Carlos took a steady breath as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small velvet box with hands that had never felt so unsure. She watched him, confused at first, then still – eyes fixed on his face as he began to speak.

“I’ll never forget the first time I saw you,” he said quietly, voice steadier than he expected. “You pulled me in like you had a gravity of your own. And in that moment, I just knew I needed you.”

She sat up slowly, one hand braced against her belly, the other covering her mouth as emotion washed over her.

“We started with a spark... and then we were on fire. It was too much, too fast, and I kept telling myself we needed to slow down. Be cool. And I guess... we got our slowdown. We both slipped into our old, toxic ways. But somehow, I think we had to fall apart to learn how to come back together. Even when I was with someone else, before we figured this out... I knew. You were it for me. My endgame. There’s never been anyone else.”

She blinked, tears pooling in her lashes.

“Our love started like one of those old children’s games – pulling petals, wondering ‘she loves me... she loves me not.’ But once you really had me, truly had me, I never doubted your love or wanted to be anywhere else. I still don’t.”

He paused, eyes locked with hers as he dropped down to one knee, gently taking her free hand in his.

“I’ve made more mistakes than I can count. And the fact that I’m standing here, still getting to love you, is nothing short of a miracle. But know this – I would’ve never let you go without a fight. Never.”

A tear slipped down her cheek.

“I know I’ll mess up again. We both will. But if we keep showing up, keep fighting for this... there’s no doubt in my heart. No place I’d rather be than right here. With you. Always.”

She blinked. Once. Twice. Then her lips parted, and her face crumpled into something between awe and disbelief. But instead of answering him, she winced. A soft gasp escaped.

Carlos immediately froze.

“What? What is it?” he asked, already shifting closer, hand still wrapped around the little velvet box.

She blinked again, wider this time, and let out a shaky laugh.

“I think my waters just broke.”

Carlos stared at her. 

“You’re joking,” he said.

She wasn’t.

And suddenly, the calm was gone. The rush of it all descended – nerves, adrenaline, panic wrapped in joy. But somehow, amid all the flurry of half-packed hospital bags and reaching for his phone with trembling hands, Carlos was still grinning.

Because this? This was everything.

[musicfeedsmysoul12]

OMG Have you been on MHA twitter? People have started dragging (ie telling the truth about) Bakugou. Someone posted the infamous "he won't die if he dodges" and it's like the flood gates opened, with people criticizing him left and right. People are even calling his fights with Ochako and Shouto bs, saying he's an author's pet, an asshole, a gary stu etc.

I've never seen so much backlash directed at him since his fake out death. It's also likely because most of his stans were children and teens during the run of MHA and they've become adults who are starting to look back at the series with a critical eye.

Better late than never, I guess.

Fuck Twitter. I refuse to use it, so sadly I haven't seen it.

And I'm not surprised. The manga's run is over, and people are beginning to either reread it or watch it for the first time. This means a lot of people are looking it over with fresh eyes.

Due to this, they're actually WATCHING how Bakugou reacts, rather then think about it with rose glasses, or being influenced by fanfic of him.

When they take the time, they see how shoddy the writing is rather than having their minds fill in the gaps. Fanfics of fairly decentish redemptions of Bakugou are around. It's not impossible to think they read that, then read the manga, so they are influenced by what they just read.

There are also the people who waited this long for people to change interests. While plenty of people stick with a fandom, there are just as many who pick up and then ditch a fandom when canon is done. No shame to them; some people just prefer new stories to what they know.

But because a lot of them probably loved Bakugou since he was the flashy one, and they weren't the ones to do indepth media analysis because they like the surface level, without them the other voices speak up.

Though as well you're right. People are growing up and looking back with new eyes.

So I'm not surprised.

[lavandulawrites]

(Not sure if this was asked before, hope u dont mind) im a bit tired of the 'always weak Reader'. Like, why is the reader always so weak? The other characters always more strong- its not fair at all. So i wanted to ask, would u love the tought of the Reader finally being more stronger then characters? (Yandere's, of course.) for once, Reader is hard to catch, better at everything whether attacking running and etc, maybe even playfull like bratty but not rotten and actually kind to others- chaotic personality i guess.. Maybe it can be somehow inspiration to you. I hope u have a good day :3 (and please dont mind my bad english)

This is a very good question, anon.

I do get why many authors make the ‘reader’ weak. There may be serval reasons as to why such as: it may make writing ‘reader’ easier as they don’t have to have a strong personality (after all docile characters don’t necessarily need too much thoughts to them to make it work), if we are talking about a yandere context it may make the yandere seem more intimidating, it may be a preference by the author. After all we all have our own preferences. It would be extremely boring if everyone agreed on anything. I personally don’t mind weak ‘readers’ at all.

I personally hate the overly bratty/ bitchy/ rude ‘readers’ and I find them annoying (I’m thinking of the stereotypes, like Wattpad and etc.). I think it’s extremely frustrating how a female character almost always has to be physically strong and a ‘badass’ in order to be considered a ‘strong/ powerful woman’. I think that a female character is 100% able to be considered strong without being a warrior with non-feminine qualities. Being a strong female lead is not about how many men she can kill or how much she bench presses, it’s about being true to herself and being kind without letting others step over her (not saying that women can’t be physically strong obviously). She needs to stand her ground and not let anyone ruin her dreams hand her belief in her self.

I think the new Snow White movie is a good example. They made her be a strong leader who doesn’t need a romantic relationship. Which is in itself nothing wrong (I love a strong leader), but it’s too contradicting to the original story. Yes, Snow White was no fighter, but she was kind and helped everyone around her. She didn’t let the dwarfs boss her around, but instead lived in harmony with them. Is she the best example for a strong female lead, no, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t.

My point is that I’m so incredibly sick and tired of seeing these ‘strong female leads’ that are only considered strong if they act ‘manly’ or is a fighter. Katniss on the other hand is a strong woman, but it’s not purely for her fighting abilities. It’s her morality and mental strength that makes her powerful. (I really do love Katniss and I think she is definitely one of the best female leads).

Little Women is also another great example. The sisters are all so different, but at the same time extremely strong in their own accepts.

And remember a weak character doesn’t mean she can be strong. That is a misconception that irritates me. Take Yui from Diabolik Lovers. Many people call her weak, but I disagree. In the games her personality really shines through and it’s impossible to say that the isn’t a strong female lead.

So will I make ‘reader’ or [Name] a strong female lead? The answer is yes, but not necessarily the way you might think. There are many ways to make a character string that isn’t just purely physical strength and that’s extremely important to remember. Robin is a strong female character and it isn’t because of her physical strength.

Will [Name] be a feminist? Absolutely. I would never make a female character that isn’t a feminist.

Anyways, I hope I answered your questions anon and I hope you have a great day as well!❤️

If anyone has any other questions about Astralis Desires, please let me know! I will be happy to answer them❤️

[makingfanfictionstosleep]

So. I am trying to write something and I have mixed feelings about it, although its going well so far... But maybe I can show you all a sneak peek and let me know wht you think. This is just the introduction.

Title : Theirs to Share

[Reader x Gojo, Geto, Nanami]

They called you the Elemental Sorceress. A rare phenomenon in the world of jujutsu—blessed, or perhaps cursed, with command over every elemental affinity: fire, water, earth, air, lightning, and even ice. You were a walking tempest, a special grade sorcerer before you’d even graduated. Some whispered your cursed energy was ancient, born of something even the higher-ups couldn’t name.

But before the title, before the accolades, there was Jujutsu High. That’s where you met them.

Satoru Gojo was impossible to miss. Tall, arrogant, mouth constantly running, and eyes that looked like they held galaxies—if you were ever lucky enough to see them. He’d swaggered up to you on your first day, dark round sunglasses and all, sipping some obnoxiously sweet drink like he wasn’t the most powerful sorcerer in the room. Until you walked in.

“Whoa,” he said, lips twitching into a grin as he looked you up and down. “Didn’t know they made sorcerers like you. You single, or just dangerously hot?”

You nearly melted the floor under his feet with a flick of your finger. He'd laughed. He liked it.

Suguru Geto had been different. Quieter. Sharper. Always watching. He approached you days later, after watching you command a storm into existence during training. His expression unreadable, his tone smooth and warm like honey laced with poison.

“You’re not like the others,” he said, standing close. Too close. “You don’t follow. You lead.”

He saw something in you. Not just power—but control. The way your magic bent to your will. He admired it. Maybe he wanted to own it. Or maybe… he just wanted you.

Kento Nanami was all discipline and distance. Stern. Cold. Until he wasn't.

He never flirted. Never smiled. Just trained alongside you with unshakable focus. He challenged you without saying a word, and in return, you pushed harder—because when he looked at you, it was like he saw everything. The fire and fury. The storm barely contained beneath your skin.

One night, long after everyone else had gone, he stayed behind while you practiced alone. Watched you summon flame after flame, lightning crashing above the courtyard.

“Your cursed energy,” he said, voice low, hands shoved into his pockets. “It’s... beautiful.”

You turned. Sweaty. Breathless. Heat radiating from your skin. So was the way he was looking at you.

They each wanted you for different reasons.

Satoru Gojo — because he needed someone who could match him, blow for blow, grin for grin.

Suguru Geto — because your darkness called to his own.

Kento Nanami — because even in your chaos, he saw something grounding. Something he craved.

And you? You wanted all of them. The thrill. The tension. The way they all unraveled in your presence.

You didn’t belong to just anyone.

You belong to all of them.

[darkeagleruins]

Important: This MUST be undone

US Government passed legislation allowing them to legally LIE on financial records

“SFFAS 56. The Statement of Federal Financial Accounting Standard 56 allows the US government to LEGALLY MODIFY OR OMIT FINANCIAL RECORDS to protect classified activities. Cook the books.”

“What if I told you the US government can legally lie about its finances?

In the news non stop has been The USAID program that spends $30-$50 billion a year on various fraudulent foreign aid programs and domestic propaganda campaigns. And people are upset. Totally understandably.

But what if I told you there is an even bigger financial black hole that makes USAID look like pocket change?

Ever hear of SFFAS 56? The Statement of Federal Financial Accounting Standard 56. It allows the US government to legally modify or omit financial records to protect classified activities. Cook the books.

SFFAS 56 became law through a quiet backdoor bureaucratic process without the need for congressional approval or public debate.

The Federal Accounting Standard Advisory Board proposed it and only 3 officials needed to sign off on it.

- Gene Dodaro, Comptroller General of The US

- Steve Mnuchin, Secretary Of The Treasury

- Mark Mulvaney, Director of the Office of Management and Budget

No congressional vote, no hearings, no major media coverage, just became law.

SFFAS 56 became the official accounting standard, allowing the government to hide spending at will in the name of national security.

The official explanation is that a new accounting method had to be created to protect classified operations, such as intelligence activities, covert military missions, and secret technology programs.

But the real impact is that it effectively legalized secret spending, making it impossible to conduct a full audit of the US government.

Since the Department of Defense started doing independent audits in 02/2018, it has yet to pass one, unable to account for trillions of dollars.

In the fiscal year 2024 audit, the Pentagon could only account for approximately 50% of its $3.8 trillion in assets, leaving about $1.9 trillion unaccounted for.

The US government demands financial transparency from its citizens, but when it comes to their own books, they write the rules to hide the truth.

Black projects, covert ops, money laundering, who knows?

This level of financial secrecy makes full audits impossible, So how much taxpayer money is actually unaccounted for?

Since the national conversation is now about financial transparency and cutting government waste, we also need full transparency in government auditing. Pressure Congress to repeal SFFAS 56 and enforce financial accountability.

Because if we don't know where trillions of dollars are going, we should be asking, who really controls the money?”

[cwboyss]

WEST OF HERE~🏈

|| UNIVERSITY AU || ABBY & READER ||

||so far a one shot- possibly could turn into a slowburn if anyone wants it- keep in mind i’m not english speaking 😭|| also wanted to admire Abby’s character a bit instead of jumping into crazy smuts… sigh, have fun!

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The air hit different here- heavier somehow, even with the ocean breeze trying to sweep it clean.

You stood on the curb with your suitcase at your side, staring up at the squat gray dorm building like it might swallow you whole.

It was the end of August.

Summer wasn’t gone yet, but it was bleeding out- slow and quiet, under skies that already felt too soft around the edges.

Your parents’ goodbye still clung to you like second skin: your mom’s tight smile, the way your dad’s hug lasted a beat too long.

Boston was three thousand miles behind you now.

And for the first time, you were really alone.

The cab pulled away from the sidewalk.

You stayed where you were for a moment, shoulders stiff, feeling that hollow pit yawning a little wider inside your chest.

No turning back.

Inside, the dorm smelled faintly like dust and old carpet.

You dragged your stuff up four flights of stairs because you didn’t have the energy to look for the elevator, sweat sticking to your back by the time you found your room.

Empty walls.

Two twin beds, one of them yours. A desk by the window.

No roommate yet.

You dropped your duffel with a thud, the sound weirdly loud in the empty space.

Then you sat down on the bare mattress, elbows on your knees, and stared out the open window.

Seattle stretched out beyond the campus like a postcard you weren’t sure how to read yet- misty hills, steel bridges, the blue-gray smudge of the Sound in the distance.

The breeze slid past the windowsill, cool against your damp skin, carrying the faint, far-off sound of cleats hitting turf somewhere across campus.

Maybe football practice.

Maybe life just going on without you.

You pulled your hoodie tighter around you even though it wasn’t cold yet.

Somewhere below, people were laughing, dragging boxes into buildings, starting their own versions of this day.

You weren’t part of it yet.

You were just-here.

You swallowed hard, blinked once, and forced yourself up.

Unpack.

Breathe out.

Start over.

It wasn’t home.

Not yet.

But it would have to be.

Unpacking feels impossible. Instead, you dig into your backpack for the thing you know will at least make this place feel a little like yours: a battered, half-broken CD player. The people your age have long since upgraded to sleek vinyl players or clean Spotify setups, but not you. You pull out your stack of scratched CDs, mostly from the ’80s. Some of the labels are faded from the years, others cracked from overuse.

You pick one-”Crowded House"and shove the disc into the machine. It whirs, complains, and finally coughs out a track.

You collapse onto the creaky twin bed and stare out the window at the sunset spilling across the mountains. The air smells clean, faintly salty. You crack open the window wider, trying to let that feeling in. "Maybe I’ll get used to this",you mutter to yourself, voice low, almost like you’re trying to convince yourself.

Your hand finds the small, leather notebook tucked in your bag- a something you picked up before leaving home, deciding that if you were starting over, you needed a new place to pour the mess inside you. A fresh start, or at least a fresh place to write all the same old things.

You grab a pencil, rolling it between your fingers as you think. Then, almost absentmindedly, you start sketching the outline of the mountains framed by the window, the jagged edges contrasting with the softness of the sky. The music hums in the background, gentle and steady, as the lines on the page take shape. Your chest loosens a little. It’s like each stroke on the paper gets rid of some of the tension in your shoulders.

When you’re almost finished, you scrawl a line at the bottom of the page:

“Seattle-don’t let me down.”

The last thing you remember is the sound of the wind against the glass and the feeling of graphite smudging your fingertips before you fall asleep.

⫘⫘⫘

You wake up the next morning with a headache and your notebook still cradled to your chest. Your phone-an ancient black iPhone 6 that you’ve stubbornly refused to replace- buzzes weakly on the nightstand. 7:05 AM.

“Could be worse,” you think with a yawn.

You drag yourself through the motions of the morning: cheap breakfast bar, brushing your teeth in the flickering dorm bathroom light, stuffing the heavy backpack onto your already sore shoulders.

First class: Introduction to Psychology.

You tap your fingers against the desk, absently watching the professor’s hand gestures as they explain the basics of Pavlov’s dogs, filling out the first pages of a brand-new notebook-the one with a dog printed on the cover you picked last minute because it was the only one with a weird vibe that made you laugh. I might be the only person here who finds this notebook oddly comforting, you think to yourself. The day crawls, a slow drip of hours, but you survive it.

When classes finally end, you don’t go straight back to your room.

Instead, you wander- past the library, the coffee shop, the cluster of oak trees shading the quad-letting the sun soak into your skin, your body already rebelling against the dorm life. You’re already craving some space to breathe.

Then you spot it: the football field. Massive, lined in deep green artificial turf. It sits just beyond your dorm, practically calling your name.

Curious, you climb the bleachers, dragging your tired body up the metal steps until you can sit at the top and breathe. The weight of the day seems to lift slightly as you settle in. You pull out your battered notebook again, click your pencil into your hand. Old white earbuds dangle from your ears, patched together with an adapter because your ancient phone refuses to upgrade. At this point, it’s almost a badge of honor-the embodiment of a refusal to let go of what’s old, what’s real, what’s yours.

You glance toward the field. A group of girls is already out there, practicing-fast, brutal, relentless. The sound of their shoes on turf, the echoing orders of the coach, the crisp air, it all pulls you in.

And then your eyes lock on her.

“Anderson!” the coach shouts, her whistle slicing through the air.

You squint toward the figure standing stock-still, her presence commanding the attention of everyone around her. She doesn’t flinch.

The coach’s voice is sharp, cutting through the noise of the field, and she doesn’t hesitate: “Anderson!”- she shouts again. It’s not a call, it’s a challenge.

You watch as the girl-"Anderson"-freezes in her tracks. Her posture doesn’t falter, but the tension in the air is palpable. She doesn’t turn, doesn’t make a move, just stands there, tall and still, like she’s waiting for the storm to pass.

The coach strides toward her, her expression a mix of frustration and disappointment. “Focus up,” she growls, low but firm. Each word lands with weight. “Stop bumping into everyone on purpose. This isn’t just your game. Get it together.”

Her response is low, barely audible from this distance, but clear. “I’m not babysitting anyone, Coach. But fine. I’ll try to keep it under control.”

The coach doesn’t even flinch, just stares at her, knowing this isn’t the first time. “Don’t make me repeat myself. Focus. Or it’s not just the game you’ll be sitting out.”

There’s a moment of silence. Anderson doesn’t respond. She just nods once, sharp and precise, almost too sharp. No apology, no excuse- just acceptance. Without another word, she turns back to the field, her strides long and purposeful. The air around her shifts as she moves, like everything around her shifts, too. The team picks up the pace, but there’s a weight to the air now, something unresolved.

The coach stands there for a second longer, watching the blonde girl’s back, her gaze unreadable. Then, without a second glance, she turns and walks away, disappearing into the distance, leaving Anderson to carry the weight of her presence alone.

You watch as her posture changes. Her shoulders shift, her jaw sets, and she becomes the embodiment of focus. She’s taller than the others-easily five’nine—built like an ox, solid, powerful. Broad shoulders, sharply cut arms, moving like a coiled wire. Every step she takes is calculated, purposeful. Her dark blue jersey clings to her back, the number 8 stamped across it, like a badge of something earned, not given.

Her hair, dirty blonde and messy, is tied in a loose braid, strands whipping around her face like they have a mind of their own. She doesn’t seem to notice — or care — as they fall out of place. She’s used to being watched, used to being the center of attention, used to having control. Even when she’s being reprimanded, there’s something about her — a quiet power. She doesn’t back down.

You can’t shake the feeling that there’s more going on here than meets the eye. She’s not just another player. Not just another name on the roster. There’s something different about her. Something waiting to be uncovered

You find yourself staring, like you can’t look away. "God, that’s not weird, right?"-you think, but it’s too late. Your hand is already moving, pencil flying across the page, capturing the fierce way she moves-charging forward, relentless. There’s something about the way she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t back down, even when she doesn’t have to be the one leading.

Her nose looks slightly crooked, like it might’ve been broken once, maybe twice, the story of a past that hasn’t quite been erased. Her features aren’t “pretty” in the usual sense-they’re sharp, weathered, magnetic, like she’s lived a thousand lives in a few short years. But there’s something real about her, something that makes you want to draw her. Or at least-get this out of your head.

You smirk to yourself, jotting a lazy note under your rough sketch:

“The girl who looks like that ‘Maneater’ song. She’s kinda cool”

You chuckle softly at the absurdity of it, but honestly, it feels kind of perfect. She looks and seems, like she could break your heart and make you fall in love with her all at once. You can’t help it. You’re already thinking TOO much.

The sky bleeds purple and orange above you, the night starting to edge in. For the first time in a long while, you let yourself think:

Maybe this place won’t be so bad after all.

Not just because of the sunsets.

But because of whatever-whoever-you’ve just found.

And you know damn well-you’ll be here again tomorrow.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Lowkey wanna write more 🤿

[healerqueen]

Here's a transcript of the above writing advice from C. S. Lewis.

"Letter of 14 December 1959," Collected Letters, Volume III, pp. 1108-1109. 

To a schoolgirl in America, who had written (at her teacher's suggestion) to request advice on writing.

14 December 1959

It is very hard to give any general advice about writing. Here's my attempt.

Turn off the Radio.

Read all the good books you can, and avoid nearly all magazines.

Always write (and read) with the ear, not the eye. You shd. hear every sentence you write as if it was being read aloud or spoken. If it does not sound nice, try again.

Write about what really interests you, whether it is real things or imaginary things, and nothing else. (Notice this means that if you are interested only in writing you will never be a writer, because you will have nothing to write about . . .)

Take great pains to be clear. Remember that though you start by knowing what you mean, the reader doesn't, and a single ill-chosen word may lead him to a total misunderstanding. In a story it is terribly easy just to forget that you have not told the reader something that he needs to know -- the whole picture is so clear in your own mind that you forget that it isn't the same in his.

When you give up a bit of work don't (unless it is hopelessly bad) throw it away. Put it in a drawer. It may come in useful later. Much of my best work, or what I think my best, is the re-writing of things begun and abandoned years earlier.

Don't use a typewriter. The noise will destroy your sense of rhythm, which still needs years of training.

Be sure you know the meaning (or meanings) of every word you use.

Please don't avoid all magazines. Especially the ones I write for. 😉

[icewindandboringhorror]

sometimes looking at like Self Help Strategies lists for the symptoms I'm having is always just like:

thing that I already do

thing I have tried 10 times

thing I already do

thing that I don't have the money to do

thing I already do

thing I've been doing since I was 10yrs old to no avail

thing that is impossible given my situation

thing that doesn't apply to me

thing that I already do

thing I have already tried

hrmm, oh wait, maybe finally- OH, yeah.. okay. thing that I already do but it was just phrased slightly differently

thing I have already done

[ohitslen]

Thinking and headcannoning the shit out of angry Stampede! Vash and how Wolfwood deals with that first thing in the morning because i think him getting angry about something and letting down some of his mask in those genuine moments of anger is super awesome

Before we continue I have not read the manga yet so if you read something incredibly obvious or redundant to your experience, well, haha or something OQNENW

This is a VERY LONG Vashwood ramble I have to put SOMEWHERE or I will explode, so feel free to join if you want.

Vash is an overall very expressive person right? very emotional too generally, but the thing is I like drawing people getting angry so that’s what you are getting from me.

And I also often think about the fact that it’s Wolfwood and Knives the ones that have seen him be like that (most often than not towards them).

Wolfwood specifically, I think that he WOULD get scared because when Vash is angry angry, he just seethes and looks like he is three seconds away from being love and peace to hate and war. These are probably the moments in where he carries the most resemblance to Knives, and to anybody that has experienced the man firsthand they know how scary that is because everyone and their moms knows that he does not hesitate to resort to murder if he is upset about something or if it’s inconvenient to him, so it is rightfully terrifying to even think of him getting mad.

Now take the same idea and apply it to Vash, he is so friendly and playful all the time and he gets kicked around all the time too, that it would be almost impossible to imagine him getting angry in a genuine way. That is UNTIL his ideals and morals are being countered or challenged by someone and THAT’S when people are gently reminded that oh yeah he can get mad too, and really fucking mad at that.

The peak of his anger doesn’t last for too long because he tries to level himself quickly, he is aware of how he can look when he gets like that, and it would be showing a little too much about how he is not very human in nature for what he is comfortable with. I think that when he gets mad his expression turns into something very vulnerably honest, to the point in where he unconsciously looks imposing and demanding, paired with his uncanny vibes it really is a treat and anyone at the other end of it would be other than also upset, quite scared. Like Wolfwood.

There is something very obviously other about Vash and he has the privilege of knowing just exactly why that is, and considering that his brother has a record for being a certain way when angry, knowing what he is does not soothe him at all. Then again, Wolfwood cares for him still and he is a stubborn guy himself, so even when most likely scared shitless, he would not move his ground, and the only thing that reassures him that things will be fine, is Vash’s pacific nature and also knowing that he cares deeply for him too, but that is a thing he would not think too much about other than the flash of thought that it is in the moment.

Vash is petty as hell too, he remains silent and gives the cold shoulder to the other person that was involved in the argument, and it is usually, once again, Wolfwood at the end of that stick. Wolfwood is a “mind your business and I mind mine” kind of guy considering he never asks things, but traveling with that idiot and having to be with him 24/7 and being given the silent treatment has to be uncomfortable at best incredibly annoying at worst. So even though he won’t change his opinion most of the times, he still insists on talking to him idly sometimes after they argue, something he would usually not do.

All Vash ever responds with are the necessary answers, at first shrugs or nods, then very short and to the point sentences, he eventually warms up to him again and they talk the way they usually do; and just like that things seems to be at bay for the time being until the next unavoidable argument comes by.

No matter how many times they argue, when things escalate and Vash begins to show his very honest anger, Wolfwood’s instincts would be screaming at him to stop it and to get away, because whatever Vash is feeling is reeking of a danger that no matter how enhanced he might be, he is NOT gonna make it through whatever will happen to him worse comes to worst. But when has he ever actually heard his instincts when it comes to dealing with Vash. So he always replies and stays.

He is somehow one of the very few (almost non existent) people who can deal with Vash when he is like that, one thing is getting mad at Vash and the other is him getting mad at you, and he has bite alright, he will say things that can come across as hurtful and very venomous when he starts to get more visceral, and yeah the whole predator kind of vibe he can give off is there too.

Maybe Wolfwood also knows how hurt Vash would feel if he retreats because of how scared he feels and that’s why he doesn’t back away. It would be reasonable if he did, hell he doesn’t owe him shit for all he knows and he would be in his whole right to run away scared if he wanted, but for one it would be too cowardly, and two Vash would be once again pushed away for being something not human, and that would be a scar he would carry for his whole life and Wolfwood does not want to be a part of that. So that’s another reason to the ever growing list of “why don’t I just let this be”.

There is an odd sense of comfort in seeing Vash get mad, knowing that the man knows his ground, that even he has lines he won’t allow anyone to cross, that he can allow himself to feel something genuine for once and not the fake little things he is always doing. It is the positive side Wolfwood tries to see in those situations and what he has to remind himself over and over again so he doesn’t flinch away. Good thing he has some practice in arguments thanks to his little siblings back at the orphanage, practice he refuses to let go and holds on to dear life because he needs any crumb of reason at those moments.

At some point when hands are involved, when a clench to the shirt and a push to the shoulder escalates to shoving the other to the ground and a punch to the gut, Wolfwood goes full survival mode because no one told him that Vash was THAT strong and THAT heavy and THAT intimidating. He could have guessed after having watched the man fight. He is capable and strong, he usually moves with a certain preciseness and care under the goofy display, he may twirl around and stumble when dodging, but he is dodging and also landing hits.

He knows that Vash is strong and that he is also incredibly careful. But that’s when he is in all his senses with a mostly cool head, so having him hovering over Wolfwood pressing him down rendering him to the ground while very obviously mad and trying to prove his point, he freezes before he can react and fight back.

Those are the times where Vash feels the most guilty after the fight from what Wolfwood can gather and wildly assume. If him not eating (again) for days or even refusing to acknowledge Wolfwood unless necessary is any sign. That behavior can last over a week which is a little too long for Wolfwood’s peace of mind. So he starts poking again because apparently arguing again is the only way to make the bastard answer more. And it usually works, some nudging here and there and putting lemon with salt to the wound seems to do the trick.

It entails more shouting and screaming at each others faces their flaws that they already know like a script, until things start to calm down when Wolfwood reassures him that he is tougher than he looks, and that no matter what he won’t just leave Vash in a ditch, and if they were going to travel together for the future to come they would have to learn how to sort things out. Something he knows neither of them will probably never learn, but it is what it is and that’s what he can resort to at the moment, and it does seem to satisfy Vash a little. So once they are done, and they go their separate ways, never too far from each other, Vash starts to nibble at his food and says or asks little things to Wolfwood, and just like that they are good to go again.

They are both aware that addressing out loud how fucking scary Vash can be at those raw moments of anger, would be like painting a line of ‘I am this and you are that so we shouldn’t be doing this’ that neither of them would actually want to have. So even when yeah it can be horribly scary and surprisingly intimidating to deal with Vash when he is angry, Wolfwood is willing to stay and fight with him if that’s what he wants, if that’s what he needs. Even if it’s starting to take a toll on him. He is getting used to it though so it will be fine.

Probably.

[maryasmorevna]

why are you, as an adult in 2024, still hung up on reylo. why are you still mocking the shippers. why do you believe yourself to be superior only because you dislike a stupid ship from a fucking space fairytale. girl (gnc) get a grip

[puppppppppy]