#the writers deserve a statue

[randomsataan]

Hi its me with another rant about chapter 7 of ofmd because im derranged

So i think its obvious to every one how stede and ed kinda flipped roles this last two episodes.

So i been thinking and do you all remember how in chapter 9 of the first season before stede leaves blackbeard badminton tells stede that he was the one who brought blackbeard to a ruin and that he defile beautiful things this making stede feel that he somehow fucked up blackbeard making him feel that ed would be better with out him?

I think that now ed is feeling that exact same way about stede. Like he thinks that stede killed ned in cold blood to avenge blackbeards name that action giving him infamy and turning him into a "real pirate" making him this new stede. In a way he feels like he has ruined him and that he needs to get away from him in order to not ruin him anymore. Also this and the fact that they where going to fast and that stede was starting to thrive in a lifestyle that ed wants to get away from because it was harming him.

[shummthechumm]

part of me wants to say that MV couldve really benefitted from being longer, but then i immediately remember that this is wc we are talking about and no matter what; they will find a way to deny just how dangerous a way of life following the code can be for those who don’t fit within it’s rules. 

all of warriors does this and it only confuses the narrative more. im not surprised that there is so much discourse surrounding the story and it’s characters, man. and on top of that the series is targeted towards kids in elementary school so. 

[hellcheerficdatabase]

Your Biggest Fan

Author: @ashleyfanfic

Rating/Warning: Mature

Chapter Count: 2/3

Description: Chrissy is the new coach of the high school's cheer squad (also the Phys Ed teacher). She's getting her squad into competition shape when Eddie shows up to bring her forgotten lunch to her at school. The squad is shocked. But Eddie is endlessly supportive and his wife is endlessly in love with him.

Tags: Alternate universe, future fic, domestic fluff, established relationship, 90s au, Cheer coach!Chrissy, Writer!Eddie, Eddie is still in a band, fluff, smut, alternating POV, multiple chapters, status: WIP

[dramarants]

ah they just had the fiancee cheat with arguably the slimiest character in the show to try and balance out the leads finally kissing, all of a sudden spells aren't real and the curse is entirely forgotten they're solving everything with lazy ass writing okay

[onewordshy]

Was rewatching Right Now Kapow and I can’t stop thinking about this skit... like... the scream...

[jankillbride]

Also highkey all brothers are just the brothers karamazov thank you send post

[steveyockey]

In the absence of a clear and obvious angle to attack Bushnell’s protest, most likely due to his status as a serviceman that would make outright insulting him or suppressing the news itself scandalous, discussions on Western shores have now taken on the familiar framing of mental illness. In Time Magazine’s write-up of Bushnell’s death, the article finishes with a link to the suicide hotline, and asks readers to contact mental health providers if they are experiencing a “crisis.” Mark Joseph Stern, a writer at Slate, seemingly unasked, also wrote on Twitter/X:

“I strongly oppose valorizing any form of suicide as a noble, principled, or legitimate form of political protest. People suffering mental illness deserve empathy and respect, but it is wildly irresponsible to praise them for using a political justification to take their own life.”

Conviction does not exist to the American. To be willing to die in a selfless act for what they believe in only exists for those outside America's sphere of influence. Many will recall reporting on those who self-immolated in protest in Iran and in Russia for instance where this sort of approach, unwilling to engage with the root of its cause, would not even be entertained, let alone written and published with sincerity. The Arab Spring began with a self-immolation. The self-immolation of Buddhist monks in protest of South Vietnam’s persecution became defining images of the war and its corruption. Within America’s walls however, there is a belief, unspoken and ingrained from birth, that democracy allows for everyone’s voices to be heard and that its representatives are inherently inclined to respond to the people and their widespread wishes.

Desperation at inaction or complicity in terror and atrocity need not apply. Everyone incensed by their government to such an extent must simply have something wrong with them. To be able to go about one’s day knowing that children are screaming from the hunger that is eating their insides and that pregnant women are eating bread made from animal feed, and that the United States is supporting Israel’s creation of this famine, is apparently the real sign of well-adjustment.

Seamus Malekafzali, “The Words Burned Through His Throat: The Sacrifice of Aaron Bushnell,” February 26, 2024.

[rockingbytheseaside]

Hi! I wanted to say I absolutely adore your art and headcannons! I wanted to ask if you would be interested in making a headcannon for our lovely harbingers where there is someone trying to sabotage their relationship with the reader like for example the person is saying that the reader is cheating or is saying mean things about the harbingers and that they have ,,proof" it is if course a lie. Don't force yourself to do anything you don't want to tho!

(Absolutely genius idea! Sorry to keep you waiting! I’m a slow writer…)

✦ When others try to sabotage your relationship with them

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Childe

(tw: general mentions of violence and blood. sfw) 

Being intimate with a powerful Fatui Harbinger provides the illusory dream of having riches, power, and status. Some watch you with hushed murmurs as you accompany your beloved with linked arms, looking all elegant beside him. Perhaps some people cannot comprehend how such a ruthless Fatuus can even court someone like you. Others simply cannot comprehend that status and money is not a key factor in your relationship.

✧ To crossfire with Pierro is to go against every single Fatui Harbinger. The Director is known far and wide as a man of cold words and power beyond the seven nations. All valuable intel and actions are reported to him first and foremost, as even the top Harbingers bow before him. You, on the other hand, were not meant to bow before him. The Jester shall never let you lower your head, because it is he who shall stoop to worship you. 

However recently, a certain rumor reached his ears. His spies related to him info that certain Fatui soldiers, some lowly commoners at the bottom of the ranks, are spreading uncouth jabs about you and Pierro. Intel states that these fools think you infiltrated the Fatui and The Director’s inner circle by some intimate provocation and seduction; that you’re in it for the money and status.

Pierro’s gloved hands gripped the papers. Nevertheless, his expression is placid as always. 

Thus, the culprit now sat in Pierro’s office, trembling as the room oozed with murderous silence. The Jester never raised his voice, nor did he question the man who “joked” about you. The fellow kept spitting apologies, begging for mercy. He knew it was futile to lie or waste the Director's patience.

And the Jester? It took everything in his power not to get his gloved hands bloodied. To hear someone accuse you - his most cherished, as a shallow harlot? Consequences shall be faced. Calming his boiling turmoil, Pierro continued to conduct himself professionally:

He made sure the man and his entire generation met their oblivion. 

With the recruitment of his best spies, he ascertained that the culprit’s disappearance was not felt by a single soul, his entire family gone, and all traces of spread rumors eradicated. Above all, it was orchestrated so that you would remain unaware that anyone dared to tarnish your reputation.

You carried on with your life, blissfully unaware and undisturbed. Even now, you came in knocking on his office, asking: “Long day at work, honey? I can bring you some tea or coffee if you want.”

The Jester's smile returned, throwing away some crumbled documents into the trash can - “A tea break would be excellent, my divine.”

If it’s blood that needs to be spilled to protect you and his private affairs, then Pierro won’t think twice. 

✧ For Il Capitano, the way of the blade speaks more for its wielder than words. If you wish to prove your stance, you better be prepared to face the First Fatui Harbinger, as his might will test you in a relentless duel of strength. So what do you think happened when Capitano overheard someone calling you “weak”? That his beloved does not deserve an ounce of his attention, because you are a meek being compared to the Harbinger? 

His hand instantly found its place on the hilt of his claymore. He left no room for negotiation or doubt. He marched straight towards the culprit, unsheathed his weapon, and pointed the sharp point of his blade straight at the person.

“If you are so confident to spit such insolence about them, then you must be equally confident with your strength. Let your blade speak.”

The poor fool tried to defend himself with excuses. But his mocking meant nothing to the Captain’s weapon. Before you know it, there is an ongoing duel initiated by Il Capitano. The witnesses know that whoever is on the receiving end of his wrath has no chance of surviving. Not when a single swing of his weapon causes craters on the ground.

The man was about to collapse, accepting his violent demise. But just as Capitano was about to unleash his final lesson, your voice rang out amongst the crowd.

“Hey! Cease this commotion at once!” - you stepped up, your expression stern as you stood in front of your beloved. In a rare moment of vulnerability, the Captain’s already stoic body language shifted. His claymore was sheathed back to its place.

“My beloved, you shouldn’t have seen this…”

“And yet I did. It would’ve reached my ears anyway. What did I say about temperamental duels, Capitano? Morons are not worth it.” 

“He called you weak. I cannot allow it.”

For a minute, Capitano kept his head hung low in reverence. You stood with your arms on your hips, scolding him. Was it not for your intervention, that person who vocally mocked you would’ve been lying dead now. Instead, you spared the offender, and the man was allowed to flee in humiliation. 

The conflict was eradicated, and Capitano's imposing demeanor showed he didn't regret his actions. Considering how even Capitano bowed to your words, the accuser realized - you are not weak. Because if there was one person who made the First Harbinger go motionless then it was you. 

✧ Today was a good day for Il Dottore, but you weren't sure why. He was a tad clingy, his steps laced with a sense of giddiness. Giving you extra squeezes while hugging, smothering you with longer kisses on the cheek. Even as you sat idly in his lab, you watched him as he worked on some paperwork with a grin.

Thus you questioned him, lazily strolling around his lab and observing the countless tools or vials. But he waved off his excitement, tapping his pencil over some papers - “Nothing of major importance, but I did have something interesting happen recently.”

You raised an eyebrow, beckoning him to continue.

“An idiot made a pathetic attempt at spreading rumors about us.” - You stopped in your tracks, going still as you held some miscellaneous container with what seemed to be tissue samples. The Harbinger continued: “Some fool spoke behind your back; stating that anyone who is close with a heretical scholar is bound to be equally insane. They thought that if their words didn't reach you, then it's of no consequence.”

Your expression fell somber with each word Dottore spoke. He said it with such profound avidity, that his voice demonstrated threatening intent behind them. So he continued. “But you know me, dear. Nothing goes past me. Vile nicknames are nothing new to me. My work is not for the faint of heart, and those pesky cretins enjoy concealing their fear with profane titles. And they can call me whatever they want. However, I won't allow them to call you names. Not because of my work.”

You averted your gaze sadly onto the samples of veins and organs in vials. You pretended to inspect them, but your sorrow was more prominent. You suspected Dottore already did something, hence his unusual giddiness today. Thus, you inquired in a soft whisper - “So… what did you do?”

“I handled it, naturally.”

“...You did? What happened? To the person who said such things, I mean.”

“What happened? Dear, you're holding them in your hands right now.” - Il Dottore beamed, pointing at the vials of organs you held. 

✧ Today, Scaramouche was eerily silent. You were accompanying him during one of his work expeditions, aiding him with certain formalities regarding his Fatui subordinates. The 6th had soldiers working under him, and although he did not care for their training, he did not tolerate any incompetent weaklings.

Therefore, you decided to lend a hand. You helped conduct a training program for his underlings, making sure all standards were met. It’s not the first time you did so, since The Puppeteer often placed you as the second in command whenever he was absent. And the Fatui soldiers did not conceal their thrill - it’s like you were their favorite substitute teacher who was more cheerful and forgiving than their superior.

Either way, Scaramouche saw that the mission was going smoothly. But soon, lightning would strike. A certain Fatuus, an agent in training, was getting too charmful with you. It was during the usual training assigned by you, and this person was focusing more on his conversation with you than his training:

Telling you how you are a remarkably skilled person. How it’s a marvel to see someone so delightful as you working alongside the Balladeer. How you shouldn’t waste your time with someone as aggravating as Lord Harbinger Scaramouche. He’s even leaning closer towards you.

You smiled uncomfortably, your attempts at polite disagreement did not work with this agent. Yet now you felt the static in the air, and that’s when you realized - Your beloved heard all of it.

On this usual, unassuming morning, Scaramouche walked silently and struck a man with lightning. All eyes turned towards the commotion as you stood behind the Harbinger. His fists were clenched, sparks of electro crackling from them.

He may have been silent the whole day, but don’t mistake his silence for impassivity.

“Next time, know your place,” - he seethed, standing over the person who endeavored to sweet talk you. He permitted his subordinates too much leeway, now they dare charm you with empty flirts. Scaramouche would’ve stomped that man’s head if he wanted, but he wouldn’t create such a grotesque scene in your presence. Instead, he turned away, held your hand, and pulled you away.

He gave you a day off, his mind already conjuring plans to deal with his underlings later. At least he scoffed out an apology. Not for what he did; he does not lament that. Just a small ‘sorry’ for giving you a quick fright. The lightning strike was very loud, after all. 

✧ Pantalone often gets invited to luxurious meetings or extravagant galas. Any party that is attended by the richest man in Teyvat is a guarantee to make high-society elites turn heads. However, considering your prolonged relationship with your darling Pantalone, you know he secretly despises these social gatherings. Therefore, he takes you with him. Dressed in your finest, Pantalone proudly shows you off to the pompous aristocrats.

People would watch enviously, thinking to themselves: The Regrator’s sweetheart, spoiled by his riches. Your attire is as glorious as his expensive suit. His arm is tenderly linked with yours, always offering you his hand like a true gentleman whenever you two walk. Even as he conversed with various business partners, he always had to make sure his hand was around your waist or your hand.

This dotting behavior made certain ladies of Snezhnaya jealous. They could see you were not a noble-born, nor were you used to the attention during such gatherings. You just timidly accompanied him, and Pantalone kept rambling about you and your benign achievements. Childish, really. You’re probably someone who just ran after and clung to the Harbinger until he relented to keep you. Therefore, a group of ladies initiated the conversation: 

“It’s a pleasure to meet a man such as yourself, Lord Harbinger.” and “Why, a man of your status is probably seeking some interesting company. Oh? You are with someone? My, my, I did not notice them.” or “Surely you desire connections worthy of your status, sir.”

Pantalone had mastered the art of courteous smiling, yet even his act was about to crack. He noticed the way these ladies tried to stand too close to him, pretend you were not in the picture, or even passively mock you. Their insolence stenches, and noticing your silent discomfort caused his heart to sting. But he had a plan.

“Why yes, you are right,” - Pantalone smiled with his charming looks “I do value my time, and it’s important to not waste it on shallow conversationalists. Oh, but it’s such a shame that the people in front of us are just that. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Pantalone turned to you, his arms encircling your waist while speaking such backhanded comments with triumphant smiles. The ladies’ smiles fell instantly, and you tried everything to avert your gaze. “Um, Pantalone? Maybe we shouldn’t-”

“Shouldn’t bore ourselves with such lowly individuals? Hmm, I agree. There isn’t much to do here anyway, only the greedy will seek something in this superficial gathering. Oh well, let’s go so I can take you to dance, dear.” - Pantalone concluded in his usual enamoring tone “Ladies, if you would excuse yourself.”

In this world, the 9th of the Fatui Harbinger doesn’t excuse himself - others do. Therefore, he took you away, scoffing and checking up on you with hushed whispers. Pantalone was offended. Why do they assume it was you who desperately sought out the rich Harbinger? Little do they know it was Pantalone who used to run and seek your attention just to be yours. Honestly, they’re discrediting his neediness for you. 

✧ Should anyone meddle with Tartaglia’s personal life, they are picking up a brawl. Someone dares to flirt with you? His fists are ready. Someone said something unwelcoming about you? Anything in the vicinity can be used as a weapon. Someone endangers his relationship? Their life is now in danger.

Of course, you’re the one who consistently yanked him out of these fights. Usually, it’s nothing serious, as when you scold your boyfriend for such reckless behavior it ends with his heartfelt words and apologetic chuckles. He finds solace in embracing you from behind, gently enfolding his arms around your shoulders, reassuring himself that all is well.

However, Tartagia is still a Harbinger. Away from home, he’d personally search for intel on the culprit who dares to offend your relationship. Names, records, locations, anything to keep tabs on those who think they can drag his family into bloodshedding matters. Tracking is of no issue, after all, when he was still a young rookie, training as a Fatui agent was just the first step.

Once he determines the offender, he’ll pay a discreet visit to them. And this time, without you dragging him away from fights, there is no place for mercy or jests.

At night, Childe returned home, cheerful as the sight of you getting ready for bed welcomes him. Yet in the dim lights, you’d gasp and approach him with concern, catching traces of smeared blood on his face or hands.

Ajax would just smile; he didn’t need to explain. Instead, he would quietly approach you from behind and envelop his arms around your shoulders in quiet stillness.

[leori-the-unlearned]

Your favorite writer doesn’t have to be a celebrity or be famous. The status of your favorite writer doesn’t matter. Just enjoy that you can read their writing

Ok so i totally didn’t realize you were like a real life celebrity person and I just kinda assumed you were tumblr royalty (like a heritage poster that wasn’t a one hit wonder)

But I'm not a real life celebrity person???

[letterful]

anyhow, the reason why i've always been particularly defensive about the status of fanfiction as a medium that can and ought to stand on its own (rather than its common perception as a lesser form of original fiction; a three-wheeled bicycle for aspiring writers, if you will) and, consequently, its deserving to be judged by its own standards (because it should be judged! anything worthy of respect is also worthy of criticism, and i don't think that fanfiction is any exception; i simply believe that such criticism calls for its own paradigm) is that it's inherently and innately a labour of love – storytelling for storytelling's sake. its grey legal status is therefore both its greatest weakness – it's a thankless job, more often than not! – and its greatest strength: as it is, it happens to be one of the few remaining outlets of creative expression that is not bound and limited by any copyright laws or marketability concerns. telling the very story its author wants to tell – for no other reason than the itching need to enter into a dialogue with or expand upon another story – is the purpose in and of itself; there's nothing more and nothing less to it (& nor should there be!).

[rowenablade]

Okay. I’m going to wait to do a second watch before I articulate most of my other feelings here, but I want to address one thing.

I’m seeing a lot of posts like, “I related to Izzy because I am also queer and older/disabled/depressed. By killing him off, the writers are saying that I deserve to die.”

Guys.

I’m not saying your feelings aren’t valid. I totally understand grieving a character that you relate to. But speaking as a writer, I just want to point out that trying to write with the shadow of “what is the absolute worst and most harmful way a reader can interpret this” will smother your ability to create. Twisting yourself in knots, trying to think up the worst-faith takes possible and scotch-guarding all your writing decisions against them is exhausting to the point of making you just not want to write anymore.

And we’ve seen the writers deliberately choose not to do this in Season 1. Remember all those terrible “Izzy is racist” takes that the writers and cast seemed completely blindsided by? That happened because the writers and directors and actors weren’t going over every scene with a fine tooth comb, ferreting out every shot or line of dialogue or micro expression that could possibly be interpreted as racist, and scrubbing it off. Because there comes a point where your story is what it needs to be, and you have to accept that some people will interpret it in ways you didn’t intend them to. And if you can’t accept that, you’ll never find the courage to put your work out there.

The point of diverse casts and writing teams isn’t to achieve a state of, “Nothing bad ever happens to a character from a marginalized demographic ever again.” It’s to achieve a status quo of these types of characters just being people in the world of the story. Not symbols, not representation boxes to tick, not tokens that you can point to so that you can say, “Here, we acknowledged this type of person exists, now where’s our woke points?”

OFMD is full of characters of color, queer characters, older characters, characters of differing body types. And in stories, things happen to characters. Some fall in love. Some make the same mistakes over and over. Some turn into birds. Some die.

Izzy’s character represents a lot of things, but he does not represent every older, disabled fan or fan who has struggled with suicide, any more than Jim represents all genderqueer fans, or Olu represents all black fans. That’s not how the writers were handling him. They were handling him like a character, because that’s what you have to do.

Again, I understand being sad. I am so, so fucking sad. But this idea of, “Any time something bad happens to a character I relate to means that the writer thinks I deserve these bad things to happen to me,” will poison everything you engage with eventually. Because stories are full of things happening to characters, and they won’t all be good things. And the more representation we get, the more often bad things will happen to characters we relate to.

But good things will happen too.

Queer couples get married. Disabled women run off with their favorite husbands. Middle-aged characters change careers. A multiracial polycule finds a home at sea. A fat man covered in tattoos stars in a drag show and all his friends cheer. All these things happened in the same show as Izzy’s death. This is what this world is.

Anyway. I know emotions are running high and I’ll probably get blocked or unfollowed by a few people for this. But I’m just trying to find my peace where I can, and if anyone else finds this useful, cheers.

[hellcheerficdatabase]

Ghosts

Author: storybelle

Rating/Warning: General

Chapter Count: 1/1

Description:

Eddie Munson has a lot going on. He might spend his days tracking down killers, but it's all to make up for the one case he couldn't solve.

The famed romance novelist, C.E. Cunningham, shadowing him on his cases may be more than he really needs.

Tags: Alternate Universe- no vecna, future fic, Writer!Chrissy, Detective!Eddie, fluff, castle au, Eddie is reluctant, i'd love MORE, Eddie POV, one-shot, status: completed

[luveline]

Hello! I just want to start off by saying you're an absolutely amazing writer! I've been reading your blog for two years now, I believe, or something very close to it, and I still find myself awestruck by your talent when I check your blog, which is pretty much daily!

If you're up for the prompt and if you're not too swamped with requests, could I ask for a blurb with bombshell reader x Spencer? Maybe reader makes him something really sincere and handmade? Maybe a baked good or a knitted sweater? No special occasion needed, just because he deserves it 😋

Thank you for sharing your works with us! Be well and remember to take breaks! Love you Jade!!

Thank you my love, that is so kind! Love you♡

You feel sleek walking into the office that morning. Fitted clothes steamed and pressed, hair freshly upkept at the salon the previous weekend, nails manicured, smile primly painted, you look perfect. 

But that's not what you're excited about. 

Spencer lounges cross-legged at his desk, a book in his lap, surprisingly broad shoulders hunched as he reads at a more natural pace than usual. His desk is cluttered in organised chaos, books lining the partition that separate his desk from Derek's and Emily's, strange knickknacks scattered. There's a bunch of bright squishy things from Penelope, an upside down umbrella statue lined with hair elastics, and, cutest of all, his two photo frames. One of him holding baby Henry, and one of you. You and him, of course, but mostly you in the frame, closer, smiling like you love him as you angle the camera back in a well meaning and misaligned self portrait. 

You do love him. He hasn't caught on yet, is all. 

"Spencer," you greet, hoping he won't jump. He flinches minutely and lifts his head to yours, closing the book against his hand. "Sorry, I was trying to make it so you didn't jump." 

"My fault." He rubs his eyes. "Just been reading this book for so long it's messing with me." 

The book, of which he's told you about in detail, is about a documentary, which is in turn about a bunch of dark, ever-changing rooms, hallways and tunnels from within a house. The line between what's fiction within fiction blurs, and it's actually pretty scary if he's to be believed. "I've never seen you take so long reading one book, even if it is eight hundred pages," you say teasingly, letting the handle of your handbag slip down your shoulder. 

"The point is suspense," he says, eyes following your fingers where they dive into your bag. "Which needs time to build. What are they?" 

"These are for you, handsome." 

"You already gave me a present," he says quizzically. 

His birthday was a few days ago, and he's right. "These aren't for your birthday, Spence." 

He cracks the lid off of the tupperware on side at a time like he's scared he'll ruin the sweet treats within. You've made him fresh baked shortbread biscuits dipped in dark-chocolate and topped with sparse coconut shavings. 

"What are these?" he asks.

You both know that he knows they're cookies, so you answer the unasked question instead. "I wanted to make them for you. I think you'll like them, they're a little rich but the coconut helps even it out. You don't have to try them now or anything–" 

"Can I?" he asks, lips quirked into a gentle pout. 

"Sure." You hide your nerves as he bites into one, the cookie itself breaking softly, crumbs falling into his waiting hand. "They're messy. Should've warned you." 

He puts the uneaten half back in the tupperware and places it atop his closed book on the desk. He's nodding as he stands, arms quick over your shoulders. You can hear him swallow, his voice mildly hoarse as he says, "They're so nice," he praises, clearing his throat, "I think I swallowed too fast." His laugh warms your ear. "I can't believe you made those. How long did it take you?" 

"Not that long," you say, beaming as he pulls away. "I knew you'd like them." 

"It helps that you made them." He holds your elbow. "I don't know how to say thanks." 

You raise your cheek. "Only if you want." 

He kisses your cheek. You smile like a fool and giggle much the same, reaching around his arms to nab a cookie for yourself. They'd tasted nice last night when you tried them, but they're perfect after Spencer's praise. 

"No one's ever baked something for me before," he admits, the two of you standing much too close considering the setting. "I mean, there really wasn't a reason?" 

"No, Spence. I was watching some TV last night when I started thinking about you, and I recently got that cookbook, you remember? That was one of the dessert recipes. I had to make two batches because I put too much butter in the first try and they spread flat as a nickel." 

He smiles at your misfortune. "What?" you ask. "What's funny about that?" 

"It's not funny. You made me cookies and when they went wrong you made me more. I don't know what I–" His hand flirts with your elbow, index finger moving with a mind of its own, tickling you through your thin blouse. "You're amazing." 

"You make me really happy." You look down at his hand where it draws a line. "It makes me happy to be able to do something for you." 

Spencer can evidently see you turning shy, and he's a sweetheart, so he rescues you from your timidity with a life jacket. "Is there anything you can't do?"

"Not that I've found so far, handsome. Why, did you have something in mind?" 

He makes a big and genuine laugh, grabbing two cookies and forcing one into your hand. "You have to eat your share before Emily gets here." He nudges your hand up with his. "Go on. I'm not in the mood to share with anyone but you." 

[websterss]

PEOPLE I WANNA KNOW BETTER

Tagged by @lilstvr thank you babes 🫶

LAST SONG? Jungle- Good Times

FAVORITE COLOR? GREEN GREEN GREEN 🙃

CURRENTLY WATCHING? Nothing really cause everything on Netflix, disney+, & Soap2day is pissing me off, Hollywood needs to stop being bitches and pay their writers what they deserve 😭

LAST MOVIE? Bottoms

SWEET/SPICY/SAVORY? Mmm idk 😭 specific wise, candy sour, dinner spicy, and everything else savory.

RELATIONSHIP STATUS? Single but delusional and taken by fictional men

CURRENT OBSESSIONS? The Do-Over and Better The movies by Lynn painter, ACOTAR (I love Azriel so much😭) I’ve been reading a lot of books lately lol

LAST THING YOU GOOGLED? ‘How does one cope after their dog dies’ my dogs not dead I just get sad and I cried earlier because I know that it will happen some day.

tagging: @lovebugcody @raggedyoldwitch @vnusology @theold-ultraviolence @ghostlyloversworld @aislinrayne @biqherosix @certifiedlovergirlsstuff @thelov3lybookworm @auras-moonstone @ang3lik

[bettsfic]

Betts. how do I stop feeling jealous of everyone and everything and just focus on myself? I'm tired of being comprised of nothing but envy.

story time:

so i was recently at Millay, which is one of the top artist residencies in the country. they have an acceptance rate of something like 3%. when i was shown my room, there was a packet of all the residents' artist bios. i sat down and read through all of them. most of them were like half a page in length, single-spaced, listing out accomplishments i could never dream of. one artist had won a guggenheim. one author had published 12 books. another author published her first book at 19 years old. these were people who were extremely well accomplished and respected in their fields.

and we all became very good friends!

and then there was me. my bio was 3 sentences listing out a couple short publications and awards and other residencies i'd done. and my honest to god first thought was, "wow, the jurors must have really liked my writing to have accepted me among all these great artists."

and my second thought was, "that's the healthiest thing i have ever thought."

i had no jealousy of their accomplishments. even though my career hadn't even begun compared to theirs, i didn't attend dinner that night with any impostor syndrome. and that confirmed for me that i had grown out of whatever place i used to be in as a person, where i was basically a raw wound wrapped in barbed wire. everything hurt me and i hurt everything in return.

jealous feelings come from an intense need of external approval, but as i've mentioned in other asks, approval and validation is a well that gets filled over time. at our introductory dinner that night, i didn't talk about my work in the hope of convincing everyone i deserved to be there, which was what i would've done a few years before. instead we all ended up talking about a TV show. the most highbrow place i've ever been in my life, and we're getting wine drunk and discussing at length a cheesy discovery channel reality series. the guggenheim winner: loves box turtles. the guy who's published 12 books: his favorite movie is Spirited Away. the girl who published a book at 19: reads One Direction fanfic. the well-lauded poet: old school tumblrina.

actually, 4 out of 7 of us read fanfic and we had some great conversations about it. sometime i'll tell you about introducing the co-director of the residency to AO3.

when you think of the most accomplished and successful writer you've ever read, remember that they are, at the very core of their being, a nerd. and if you were to eat dinner with them, you would, with enough polite inquisitiveness, be able to unlock the goofy side of them that binges Property Brothers.

so that was the big change for me, i think. i started asking a lot of questions. i stopped talking and i started listening. it seems counterintuitive that admitting to not knowing stuff shows confidence, but it does. pretending you know stuff is what looks insecure. i think for me, i put so much of myself in my work, i wanted my work to be lauded so i could feel accomplished, and feeling accomplishment would let me believe i deserved to exist. but over time, i've reframed that mentality. my work is a thing that exists beyond me and is private to those who read it. it comes from me, but it is not me. what i am is just the person i am, and my life is a series of moments i choose for myself, and i am allowed to exist.

even sending this ask shows that you've begun filling your well. it takes someone who's already come a long way to realize jealousy isn't the status quo and is a feeling to be overcome. and you can overcome it. you can reach a place where you have enough success that other people's success has nothing to do with you, and you're free to just be happy for them. and when you read work that's better than yours you feel joy at learning something new.

so put your work into the world and let it be rejected. you'll rack up a couple wins or close calls, and those will give you energy to be rejected some more. and eventually you'll be rejected so much that rejection doesn't feel like anything, and you will have won enough to realize your work has a place in the world, and that place is no bigger or smaller than anyone else's. your work is allowed to exist simply as it is, and you are allowed to exist simply as you are.

[slttygeto]

Hello lovely human :) First off, I hope you are well you are having a nice cozy summer and life is treating you well, as you deserve ^^ I have been reading your jjk stuff for a while and saw your requests are open so i got the courage to give it a shot :) Long story short, what i had in mind is reader having feelings for Gojo but also being bad a direct interaction, so she shows her love to him by trying to make his *busy* life easier (which Gojo never experienced from someone) like: giving him food/sweets, making sure he sleeps, asking about his day and secretly taking on missions from him so he has more free time (to live his life, like??? helloo). He notices these things at some point, considering that is almost always he who does stuff for others, and giving the fact that he mayyyy alsoo like reader/oc he decides that maybe he should do something about his growing feelings too :D I thank you from my heart if you choose to write this! Thank you soo much :)

subliminal message | satoru gojo.

note: first of all! thank you so much for the sweet message, this truly made my day/week! and second of all, I have been struggling with writer’s block for a while so I hope you still like this as it somehow/slowly got me out of it. i had fun writing for satoru so thank you so much for this request!

word count: 1,6k

COMMISSIONS

For a guy who prides himself on using infinity, the space on Satoru’s desk suddenly feels limited. The bento boxes piled up on his right tumble over with an accidental brush of his hand. Then his eyes shift to the food crumbs on the carpet. It suddenly sinks in. Satoru has been having proper meals lately. 

But the strongest doesn’t know what to think of it at first. His six eyes point out almost everything, so it is surprising–perhaps even unusual for him to not notice things right away. Even more so when it is six bento boxes in total. 

His coffee splashes as he walks down the corridor and into the teacher’s lounge where his eyes land on your approaching figure. With a pile of documents in your hands, you fail to notice the pair of blue eyes following your every move. 

You were a talented sorcerer, a few years younger than Satoru so you didn’t witness his highschool years or knew of the awful friendship breakup that he had with his old best friend. All you knew was that he was called the strongest for a good reason, and that he welcomed you so warmly that it left you yearning for the man’s attention and friendship since day one. 

“Oh, good morning!” you say cheerfully and Satoru returns your greeting with just as much excitement. You say something about too much paperwork, a comment regarding the students making a mess in the cafeteria and then you were heading towards your office. Satoru looks back, sees your retreating figure disappear into the hallway before proceeding towards Yaga’s office. He still can’t figure out where the bento boxes came from. 

You learn of Satoru’s unhealthy lifestyle shortly after you join–it’s not hard to notice when the man was never there during lunch or dinner. He was the first person in the teacher’s lounge and the last person to leave. Plus, you are certain that the man has never slept in his dorm room. 

A few weeks ago, and after a long tutoring session with Yuuji, you found yourself packing your things and getting ready to head back to your room at 2AM. As you were locking your office, you hear rustling coming from Satoru’s office and see that the lights were still on and the man could be heard mumbling to himself something about his upcoming missions. 

“I stayed up.” He tells you at 8AM, heaving out a sigh that leaves your heart tightening and your eyebrows furrowing in concern. 

That’s bullshit. Because he was allowed to rest just as much as you and Nanami were. Your eye twitches whenever you hear him reaffirm his status as the strongest–that title was starting to irk you. 

The higher ups were full of shit and you were starting to think that the Jujutsu society was taking Gojo Satoru’s selflessness for granted. You were well aware of your lack of influence in a society where power and status mattered the most, so you chose the next best thing to do in order to remove some of the weight off of Satoru’s shoulders. 

Making bento boxes isn’t exactly complicated–however, it is time consuming and you hate doing things while half asleep. The only thing that kept you awake at 5AM while you were placing the carrot and fruit slices was the thought of Satoru going on missions with the same amount of sleep as you. Four hours to be exact. 

You prepare six bento boxes–leave the seventh one empty in case Satoru doesn’t need them and starts going to the cafeteria when he realizes the amount of free time he suddenly has. But that could only happen after you move onto the next part of your plan–which was to talk to Yaga. Your relationship with the principal wasn’t all that complicated. You respected him as your previous teacher, and he admired the fact that you came back to work for the highschool years later–even after you managed to fall into a rather peaceful lifestyle, away from curses and the constant fear of getting killed on a mission. When you approach him with the idea of taking on missions for the strongest–it is only natural for the older man to reject.

“Do you realize how dangerous it is?”

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be sitting here and confidently asking you to let me do it instead of him.”

“What would you get out of it?”

“Is it bad that I care for him?” 

How couldn’t he have noticed that? How did his six eyes miss the residue of your cursed energy on the bento boxes? It is a bit too late to be asking these questions, but Satoru’s brain refuses to shut down. His six eyes, like a leaf being tossed around in the wind, were out of control. He could feel your cursed energy–but he could also feel, even smell the residue of the same curse that had attacked you earlier that day. 

Satoru doesn't know what to say as he watches Shoko bandage you up, your reflective eyes refusing to meet his own blue ones—almost as though you were ashamed that you had failed not only as a sorcerer, but as a friend as well.

SAtoru can't seem to find the right words for this situation—he wasn’t necessarily mad at you, he wasn't disappointed either—perhaps a little surprised that you had gone out of your way to do something like that. and maybe he was wondering what the motive was. what would you get out of helping him? when he didn't even know that it was you? were you just that nice to everyone else?

Were you doing it so casually? And does that make him not that special to you?

He wants to brush off the lump that forms in his throat at the thought of all of this being casual to you, not that important—that you’d do it to someone else, but he can’t. Not when his growing affection towards you was starting to get out of control and he was failing to hide his own favoritism towards you.

He wants to say that it’s only because you react to his jokes with so much passion, so much excitement—that you know he likes kukifuku and make sure that his drinks aren’t too bitter. a part of him, buried deep under a pile of unresolved personal issues and failure to recognize those who actually love him or not, wants to scream every time you pat his shoulder when he almost drifts to sleep, noticing that the strongest had failed to get the right amount of sleep yet another time. that it’s just how you are with everyone else.

That he wasn’t special.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Thankfully, Shoko chooses to step out of the room—mumbles something about this being too awkward with a cigarette between her lips—and you find yourself alone in a room with satoru gojo.

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether or not you’d think it’s weird.” 

“I don’t think it’s weird, just a little unusual.” Satoru admits, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his broad chest. He refuses to take off his blindfold but you know that his six eyes were staring deep into your soul.

“You care for me so openly,” he then confesses and it almost breaks your heart. He is now staring at the door, bracing himself forward so that his elbows are on his knees.

“I like you.”

The room goes silent.

You didn’t know if it was the adrenaline, or if it was your heart beating as though you were being chased by 3 bulls at once—you spill out the words and then stare wide-eyed at satoru. lips trembling, fingers shaking, you can’t bring yourself to say anything else but those three words. It was supposed to be a silly crush, I mean—who wouldn’t have a crush on him, right? and it’s not like you were the first person to ever like him but—

You were panicking. Because the silence was stretching longer and longer and longer—or perhaps it was your quickening breath and your heightened senses making you far more sensitive to things simply because you had spilled your growing feelings to the same man who was sitting frozen on his seat.

“y-you don’t have to say anything in return—“ your throat has gone dry and you wipe your tears with the back of your hand. “I just figured telling you would—I don’t know, fuck—“ your cover your hot face in shame, ears burning in embarrassment because you didn’t know what to do. The humiliation of confessing to a crush stays even as an adult, you were discovering.

“Can I talk now?” you feel a hand resting on your knee and you stare at him with teary eyes. you hear his chuckle, this hand other hand travels up to your face where he wipes your tears and strokes your cheek with his thumb.

“You just figured telling me would, what?“

“Make it easier for me to move on.”

“You want to move on from me when we haven’t even dated?” he says with a playful pout, his blindfold no longer hiding his eyes and you see that the tip of his ears was turning a beautiful shade of pink.

But it also sinks in that the strongest was also confessing to you.

Using his own words, he was letting you know that he would gladly welcome you into his arms—into his world. It would no longer be just him, this next journey would involve you and him both—embarking on a new adventure. 

“But no more going on missions for me, okay?”

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