winterwandersland

[winterwandersland]

do i have like 500 WIPs? yea. did i come up with an idea for a new one? yes. will i write it? i’m really thinking about it. will it only add to the other stories i need to continue writing? yes. but on the bright side, it gives me just another way to build the writing synapses in my brain. i’ll just never be bored of writing something.

[winterwandersland]

five topics i could talk about for hours

1. wanda, wandavision, and basically anything having to do with wanda maximoff/the scarlet witch.

2. octavia blake (her character development and blodreina era): i will defend her and wanda sorry not sorry. i will literally sit and break down each decision and why she did it even if it was “wrong”.

3. if it has to do with moral ambiguity, i’m in there fr. i wrote a whole paper in my class about the 100 and characters making morally ambiguous decision and tying it to real life (along with other elements of the show). got an A.

4. anything having to do with behavioral psychology.

5. character analysis. i love analyzing characters. i love figuring out who a character is, why they are the way they are, and just figuring them out. i love analyzing their decisions and everything.

bonus: parallels. i love talking about and finding parallels in moves/shows/books. i love a good parallel.

another bonus: horror films. or almost anything film related

tags: @aaaaa678910 @magicwriterinspo @ohdrey89 @pinkmoonbeam

thank you @keeganrussmybeloved ❤️

I saw this meme going around on twitter and I think it'll be perfect for this account.

List 5 topics you can talk on for an hour without preparing any material.

[winterwandersland]

i am, unfortunately, a sucker for pining & yearning. please bring it back in books. give me a no smut all pine. no smut all yearn. i need it or else i will continue to suffer

[winterwandersland]

Discord Server Is Open to All

[winterwandersland]

The Birth of Venus, Sandro Botticelli (1483-85) . Manuh Rubi in Instagram (2018) Photography of Mario Testino.

[winterwandersland]

headcanons: task force 141 & price’s wife

price’s wife is the calm center of the storm, the one who can make the entire task force stop bickering with just one look or a quiet word.

soap calls her “ma’am” in the most respectful yet cheeky tone, but he secretly thinks of her as the team’s good-luck charm.

gaz always says she has the best tea-making skills, even better than price (to which price just grumbles and rolls his eyes).

ghost never says much, but everyone notices how he subtly relaxes when she’s around. she’s one of the few people he allows to pat his shoulder or hand him a cup of coffee without flinching.

she insists on feeding them whenever they visit. “you can’t fight on an empty stomach,” she says, and soap once declared her shepherd’s pie “a national treasure.”

price becomes softer around her, though he tries to hide it. the squad teases him when she calls him “love” on comms during a mission check-in.

she writes little notes for each of them—tiny motivational words or jokes tucked into their packs before missions. ghost keeps them all, folded neatly in a pocket of his gear.

gaz often calls her “mum” by accident when she fusses over his cuts or bruises, and she just smiles.

soap once tried to teach her how to shoot better, but she ended up outscoring him on the range. ghost and gaz didn’t let him live it down for weeks.

she’s the only one who can tell price when he’s pushing himself too hard. when she tells him to rest, he actually listens.

during holidays, she sets up a small celebration for the squad—no matter how chaotic life gets, she always makes them feel like they have a home to come back to.

ghost once said quietly, “she’s the only one who doesn’t see the mask,” and everyone understood exactly what he meant.

price looks at her like she’s his anchor, the only thing that keeps him grounded when the job tries to take too much from him.

they all agree that if anyone dared to hurt her, the wrath of 141 would be terrifying.

[winterwandersland]

idk something about keegan gives me hockey player vibes. like yes, he’s quiet and composed, but on the ice is where he can blow off his steam and he talks the most shit. and then when he goes home, he’s back to being a hermit crab.

[winterwandersland]

help idk how to write a backstory if it’s brought up in conversation

[winterwandersland]

my fear is marketing a book i’m writing and people being excited and that gets me pumped to finish it, then i publish it, just for everyone to say it’s ass and then i never write again.

[winterwandersland]

So I'm actually a lying bastard and made one more edit, to treat myself in finding something I can do other than sit around and wait for the days to pass

It is shorter than the other two, but that's also bc I made this at midnight and I'm sleepy, so expect some things to not line up or something

[winterwandersland]

RIP Malcolm-Jamal Warner

[winterwandersland]

Honestly writing fanfics is a great writing exercise for me. I don't have to think about characters, setting and everything 🤷‍♀️ it's just there and I can do whatever I want with it

While writing a book 😪 yes I love researching about parasites like go tapeworm go❗️(^з^)-☆

[winterwandersland]

I love the energy 🥹

[winterwandersland]

I wanna mute my overthinking.

[winterwandersland]

a comment a day keeps the insanity at bay

[winterwandersland]

and to the person that made this edit: i love you 🫶🏽

[winterwandersland]

Your house is quiet when Simon steps through the front door, boots heavy with the weight of distance and exhaustion. It’s late, well past ten, but he’s finally home. The scent of lavender and something sweet lingers faintly in the air, weaving through the dim hallway like a welcome embrace.

He drops his bag by the stairs, his muscles aching, body thrumming with fatigue. Every part of him longs for sleep, but some part of him knows that you're still awake.

Upstairs, the softest glow spills from the cracked bathroom door. He hears the faint ripple of water and something shifts in his chest, it's tender and needy and almost unbearable.

He steps closer, pushing the door open and... there you are.

You're sitting submerged in a sea of bubbles, your head resting back against the tub’s edge, your hair twisted into a messy bun, though some rebellious strands cling to your damp neck and flushed cheeks. Your skin glows in the golden light, the steam rising like a halo around you, making you look like something ethereal.

When you see him, your face softens and you smile in that way that always cuts right through him, slow and warm and full of things he doesn’t know how to say. Your lips part, but no sound comes out. You just mouth a wordless “hi.”

He swallows hard, jaw tight, his heart aching behind his ribs. A rare smile tugs at his lips, small and crooked, but rich with all the emotion he’s too tired to hide.

“Hey,” he breathes.

You tilt your head up toward him, inviting.

He leans in and bends low until your foreheads almost touch, and brushes his lips over yours, soft and reverent. Your sigh melts into the kiss. Then, without a warning, Simon steps into the tub, boots and clothes and all. Water sloshes violently, bubbles fleeing for their lives as you let out a startled shriek that turns into pure laughter.

“Simon!” you gasp, half scolding, half in disbelief, your arms instinctively wrapping around his broad shoulders as he sinks against you, burying his face in the crook of your neck with a sigh that sounds like he’s finally home. Your giggles echo off the tiled walls, bubbling over him like champagne.

���You’re insane,” you say through your laughter, cupping his dripping face.

The water surges over the edge of the tub, waves lapping against porcelain. Bubbles scatter, clinging to his sleeves, his chest, your collarbone. His body presses against yours, damp clothes rough against your bare skin, but you don’t care. Not even a little.

The shift is immediate, his weight and raw need all pressing into you. His body is heavy from exhaustion, but it simply feels right when he melts into you. The scent of him, smoke, soap and something metallic, it rises up despite the steam.

His breath ghosts over your skin and you feel his smile forming. Subtle, but undeniably there, curling against the place just beneath your jaw. It's the smallest shift of his lips, the softest press of something warm and quietly happy.

You close your eyes and let your head fall back against the cool porcelain, your arms tightening around him, one hand threading into his damp hair at the base of his skull. He’s shaking a little, not from cold, but from something else. Maybe from finally being able to let his guard down.

“Need you closer,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your skin. Then his lips move. It's a soft kiss, barely there, just the faintest brush of his mouth against the delicate skin of your neck. Followed by another, and then one more, slower, warmer, pressed with quiet intention just beneath your ear. It's not lustful or teasing, but rather reverent.

Your eyes flutter shut, lips parting on a quiet inhale. The warmth of his breath, the scratch of his stubble, the rhythm of his mouth against your skin, it sends goosebumps racing over your arms even though the water is hot.

You cradle his head gently with soft eyes, fingers threading through his wet hair. “You’re soaking the entire bathroom," you whisper.

He lifts his head just enough to glance around at the water now cascading over the tub’s edge, and shrugs with the ghost of a grin. “'m imagining what else is soaked.”

You snort, cheeks pinker than the bathwater, and flick a bubble at him. He chuckles low and the sound rumbles through his chest, straight into your own.