Untitled

[miiin-0315]

wither

It’s done. 

With one small envelope and a set of keys left on the kitchen table, it’s done. 

The decision is final, even as he takes another walk through the halls of the small, but clean house. The floor, polished hardwood, is smooth and cool beneath his feet, creaking quietly when he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He pauses in front of a door, leaning against it with the barest hint of his weight.

The paint is white and pure, clean and unchipped, and he can feel each and every grain line of the wood beneath his fingers. The texture is soothing when he traces the patterns, organic lines grown over centuries, now cold and forever unchanging. Behind it, he can faintly hear the shifting of crisp sheets, accompanied by a contented hum as the muffled sounds die down.

His heart pulls, pleading with him to give in, to crack open the door and look at that face one more time, commit to memory a sight he knows he will never see again. He refuses, feeling the clench in his chest as he rips himself away. The luxury of a final glance would be his undoing—he knows this well—knows that the craving will tear him to pieces, that if he acts upon it, he will be forever unable to leave the home he has painstakingly carved himself out of.

So he keeps his gaze locked in front of him, even when his eyes begin to burn, when his hand shakes on the front door’s handle. Because he is certain that if he glances back, if he catches the slightest hint of what he leaves behind, he will not be able to contain his selfish urge to simply stay. 

The door cracks open with a tug, as if to remind him that this is easier, that this is right, and he shudders feeling the cold air curl over his knuckles.

Don’t turn your head.

Don’t look back.

What’s done is done.

[angelwarm]

i hope that one day i will finally be ok….i’ll make a cherry pie when it is all over

[angelwarm]

today is the day

[joshpeck]

reblog the cherry pie to be ok

[pumpkinylink]

The cherry pie worked for me and here’s to hoping it’ll work for you too

[fanficaddict13125-deactivated20]

Let the cherry pie do it’s magic

[kendallroy-deactivated20210425]

i literally can’t stop laughing at this

[miiin-0315]

temptation

There are legends, of monsters that lurk in the deep, of clawed creatures that surface only to claim their prey, of how a sailor must be wary in the darkest of nights for he very well may meet his doom in their clutches.

But how can one claim a monster of something so undeniably beautiful?

It is like the moon, shimmering with a pale glow that reflects all that is pure in the realm. It is the porcelain skin–smooth and flawless and without a trace of imperfection, the long white hair—falling down in clean sheets and spreading so cleanly over the top of the waves, the dark eyes–seemingly trapping the mysteries of the world within them. It is the dainty hands—the long and thin fingers that cannot possibly be used to harm, the sweet voice—the bell-like toll that could only be a beacon of light leading to the heavens, the pretty smile—the pink lips that curve so naturally. They say that they would never harm you.

It is the way his figure moves through the turbulent waves with ease, slim waist twisting and turning elegantly and with a grace unmatched by even the most famed of dancers. It is the flippant way he blinks, batting long lashes that catch the reflection of the stars off the water, his adoring gaze aimed at you and only for you. It is how the scales catch the moonlight, the way the iridescent silver shifts and glimmers, a personal light show to accompany the lonely nights at sea. 

The fins are translucent, silk-like and smooth in how they drift along, draping like a fine nightdress around his temping—oh so tempting—form, framing it just as one might frame a work of art. For what is he if not art, if not the embodiment of all that is alluring and fine, if not the angel that visits in the night to guide you towards a peaceful slumber?

No, he cannot possibly be a monster, you think. Not him, with his soft face, his delicate neck, his enchanting propositions, the promises that you will never be lonely again.

Yes, you think.

He would not lie.

And you jump.

[rothlow]

A WISH YOUR HEART MAKES.

He is certain that this is a dream. He is certain by the light, a warm sunlight that spills over the land and gently hugs the skin. It pools across the ground in endless gold, blushing its beams upon all it touches until the world has come to a graceful silence. There is no urgency here, no reason to run.

Zenith can do nothing but stand in this warm, basking in its rays until he realizes that he is not alone. 

There is a man sitting in the grass a few paces away, his sleeves pushed up as he tilts his head to the sky. He revels in the sunlight, just as Zenith had moments before—and he is enthralling. The wind lazily shifts strands of his hair, moving through those brown locks just enough for it to shine in new light. It is strange seeing him so… soft. It is rare that the world would allow such a thing; a moment where the tension has slipped entirely from his shoulders, ease filling his body as watchfulness leaves his posture. 

It is peace, and it is strange. 

“You gonna keep starin’, or you gonna get your ass over here?” 

And there it is. That voice, that drawl he cannot seem to let go of. Even though he cannot see his face, he can hear the smile that tugs at his mouth as he speaks. It seems that a small tease and a quick beckon is all Zenith needs, for he slowly crosses the distant. Every ounce of his soul wishes to rush toward the warmth in front of him, to cling to it and never let go, but he finds himself unwilling to break this moment with hurry. This peace, fragile and rightfully earned, is meant to be protected. It is a sacred moment of silence, and it is wholly theirs. 

When he lowers himself beside the man, he can feel the grass bending beneath his weight, brushing softly against his hands. The warmth of the sun lingers in the ground, in the air. In the air they share. 

There he is. A man like the sun, radiant and glowing despite each and every odd that comes his way. A beacon of warmth and hope, and a call to safety in the darkest of nights. 

Harley Sawyer.

He doesn’t move away once Zenith settles himself onto the ground. If anything, he leans in closer, his shoulder brushing Zenith’s in an unthinking familiarity.

“C’mere,” he murmurs softly, speaking as though such an invitation was meant for this place and nowhere else. Zenith only hesitates for a mere second before he lifts his hand, his fingers sliding carefully into Harley’s hair. His hand hesitates as if he is learning something sanctified by touch alone. The strands are softer than he expects, warm from the sun and parting easily beneath his hand as he brushes them back from Harley’s face. Harley exhales softly at the contact, quiet and content, and turns his head slightly into Zenith’s palm. 

For a man who is wholly made of the raging flames of the forge, there is no resistance or guard now. There is trust, and it’s enough to make Zenith’s hand still where it rests lightly against the side of Harley’s head. His thumb brushes once along his temple, an instinctive gesture in its simplicity. 

This should know this is a dream, he quickly realizes. It is much too perfect, too complete. There is no distant threat or underlying tension that waits and waits to break through. There is sunlight and breath, and for once, there is no consequence. 

On any other day, he would recognize the signs immediately. But then Harley laughs, a soft sound as he opens his eyes and look sat Zenith with that teasing glint and all the honesty he has in his body. 

“You’re thinkin’ too hard,” he teases, his voice a cadence to Zenith’s ears. And he studies Harley now—Harley Sawyer, with every detail of his face illuminated by light, Harley Sawyer, who has hidden his true expression from everyone but Zenith. He feels something warm and pulling in his chest, a natural, spreading warmth and ease. 

The simple act of being cloe to him is not unfamiliar, not is it impossible. That is because it is what Harley has always brought into his life, even in the midst of chaos. Even in the darkest places, he is a light that shines without reservation and without condition, and in doing so, he changes everything around him. 

So Zenith chooses to not pull away, and to not question this moment. He lets his hand drift once more through Harley’s hair, memorizing each detail, from the shape of it to the way it falls, and the way it feels soft beneath his fingertips. Harley’s eyes slip closed once more, letting out a slight, quiet hum of contentment as he leans further into the touch. 

The sun is still shining. For a moment—longer than a moment—Zenith truly allows himself to believe that this is not a dream at all. Because Harley, and every feeling he brings forth into Zenith’s heart, has always felt like stepping into a brighter world. 

If this is a dream… then it is only because reality has already taught him about what this kind of peace feels like. He knows once he opens his eyes, that same, gentle sun spilling through the windows, it won’t be long before he is greeted with a charming, “Mornin’ sunshine.” 

[miiin-0315]

MY SONNNNNNNN (゜ロ゜)

[miiin-0315]

Lost and Found

At first, it’s just the sound of rain pattering atop the rayon film, the quiet splash of footsteps in puddles, two sets staggered such that one always followed the other. They aren’t quite in sync, but there is a certain set rhythm to them, the rhythm of two hearts learning to beat for another once again. There is a certain warmth at his side, another wrapped around him, comforting and ever present—a warmth he had not asked for, yet received anyways.

And it feels something akin to peace.

The drone is broken by a bark, faint and pitiful, nearly drowned out by the pouring rain, and Yu-Xin’s eyes snap open. The sound is sudden enough to startle, a flinch rippling through his body even with how distant it was. When he strains his ears to listen, he hears it again. There is a frantic note to it, to the persistent yelps, the high-pitched whines, and he feels his heart strain in his chest. 

He does not hesitate to run out from underneath the umbrella, ignoring the bewildered “where are you going?” that sounds behind him, and the hurried rush that follows him. For those few moments, there is only the sound of that singular bark, the distress that tugs at his heart in a way he does not yet understand. He understands less when he comes to the source, a sizeable puppy drenched with dirty rainwater, floppy ears plastered to his head.

He doesn’t know what color the dog is, its fur and paws caked with too much mud and grime. But he knows the color of its eyes, a beautiful shade of emerald green that look towards him as if he is the only light in a sea of darkness. He sees the drenched tail start to wag, the floppy ears twitch as if they are trying to stand up, the posture straighten and stand at attention. And he drops to his knees, tentatively reaching out to let the pup sniff his hand.

It is hardly wary when it approaches him, nose quivering as it nuzzles over his outstretched knuckles, ticklish in how the warm wetness grazes over his cold skin. The corners of his mouth twitch, and he feels a soft smile spread across his lips. Cautiously, he lifts his other hand up, sliding it into the puppy’s dirty fur, ruffling it and scratching at the skin beneath.

“Friendly, huh?” The raindrops soaking into his skin are no-more and he turns to look, look at the stray that had somehow managed to bring him to a home. Harley. The corners of his lips twitch and he nods fondly.

[ No collar, no owner?; from where?; how old? ]

“I wonder why it’s out here all alone,” Yu-Xin ponders out loud, absentmindedly continuing to scratch behind the large puppy’s ears. Abruptly, it steps back and shakes itself off, loosening the droplets on its fur enough to drench Yu-Xin in the dirty water. He pauses, startled by the sudden movement, but finds himself laughing instead of recoiling, a soft and quiet giggle as the dog bounces back towards him and he reaches for it in turn.

“Who knows?” He hears the response come from behind, a faint tinge of fondness in the deep voice he’d grown so familiar with. “It seems to like you, do you want to bring it home?”

His traitorous heart swells at the thought, a pleasant warmth spreading through his rain-soaked bones. The pup is a sweet thing, nuzzling into his face and bopping his cheeks with its wet nose. They ache, with the smile that widens across his face each passing second. 

“Do you think we could?” He asks quietly, unsure whether they could even care for another addition to their finally comfortable household. “It wouldn’t be too much?”

“We could make it work,” Comes the reassuring response, an affirmation that makes him feel almost giddy. 

He eases his way back onto his feet, biting back another giggle when the puppy noses at him attentively, bumping his legs gently with a quizzical look in its curious eyes. It is a beautiful creature, in spite of the mud and city soot that cakes its fur. And it feels almost an honor that he has been chosen by it, picked to be trusted by a poor thing that has surely faced so much hardship in its short little life. 

“Here buddy,” Yu-Xin murmurs, backing up and beckoning with a hand. “Do you want to come home with us?”

[rothlow]

OH MY LORDY MY BABIES I LOVE HIM THAGS MY MAN RIGHT THERE

[miiin-0315]

it's our sons do u love them very much?

[miiin-0315]

Lost and Found

At first, it’s just the sound of rain pattering atop the rayon film, the quiet splash of footsteps in puddles, two sets staggered such that one always followed the other. They aren’t quite in sync, but there is a certain set rhythm to them, the rhythm of two hearts learning to beat for another once again. There is a certain warmth at his side, another wrapped around him, comforting and ever present—a warmth he had not asked for, yet received anyways.

And it feels something akin to peace.

The drone is broken by a bark, faint and pitiful, nearly drowned out by the pouring rain, and Yu-Xin’s eyes snap open. The sound is sudden enough to startle, a flinch rippling through his body even with how distant it was. When he strains his ears to listen, he hears it again. There is a frantic note to it, to the persistent yelps, the high-pitched whines, and he feels his heart strain in his chest. 

He does not hesitate to run out from underneath the umbrella, ignoring the bewildered “where are you going?” that sounds behind him, and the hurried rush that follows him. For those few moments, there is only the sound of that singular bark, the distress that tugs at his heart in a way he does not yet understand. He understands less when he comes to the source, a sizeable puppy drenched with dirty rainwater, floppy ears plastered to his head.

He doesn’t know what color the dog is, its fur and paws caked with too much mud and grime. But he knows the color of its eyes, a beautiful shade of emerald green that look towards him as if he is the only light in a sea of darkness. He sees the drenched tail start to wag, the floppy ears twitch as if they are trying to stand up, the posture straighten and stand at attention. And he drops to his knees, tentatively reaching out to let the pup sniff his hand.

It is hardly wary when it approaches him, nose quivering as it nuzzles over his outstretched knuckles, ticklish in how the warm wetness grazes over his cold skin. The corners of his mouth twitch, and he feels a soft smile spread across his lips. Cautiously, he lifts his other hand up, sliding it into the puppy’s dirty fur, ruffling it and scratching at the skin beneath.

“Friendly, huh?” The raindrops soaking into his skin are no-more and he turns to look, look at the stray that had somehow managed to bring him to a home. Harley. The corners of his lips twitch and he nods fondly.

[ No collar, no owner?; from where?; how old? ]

“I wonder why it’s out here all alone,” Yu-Xin ponders out loud, absentmindedly continuing to scratch behind the large puppy’s ears. Abruptly, it steps back and shakes itself off, loosening the droplets on its fur enough to drench Yu-Xin in the dirty water. He pauses, startled by the sudden movement, but finds himself laughing instead of recoiling, a soft and quiet giggle as the dog bounces back towards him and he reaches for it in turn.

“Who knows?” He hears the response come from behind, a faint tinge of fondness in the deep voice he’d grown so familiar with. “It seems to like you, do you want to bring it home?”

His traitorous heart swells at the thought, a pleasant warmth spreading through his rain-soaked bones. The pup is a sweet thing, nuzzling into his face and bopping his cheeks with its wet nose. They ache, with the smile that widens across his face each passing second. 

“Do you think we could?” He asks quietly, unsure whether they could even care for another addition to their finally comfortable household. “It wouldn’t be too much?”

“We could make it work,” Comes the reassuring response, an affirmation that makes him feel almost giddy. 

He eases his way back onto his feet, biting back another giggle when the puppy noses at him attentively, bumping his legs gently with a quizzical look in its curious eyes. It is a beautiful creature, in spite of the mud and city soot that cakes its fur. And it feels almost an honor that he has been chosen by it, picked to be trusted by a poor thing that has surely faced so much hardship in its short little life. 

“Here buddy,” Yu-Xin murmurs, backing up and beckoning with a hand. “Do you want to come home with us?”

[rothlow]

A LITTLE BIT HARDER NOW.

❝ Y'know, sugar... if you wanted me on my knees, all you had to do was ask. ❞

The alley is hot, thick with the scent of sweat, city grime, and the faint burn of neon buzzing overhead. The distant beat of a club’s bassline thrums beneath Harley’s skin, rattling through his ribs like a heartbeat that isn’t his own. But right now, all he can focus on is the poor bastard in front of him, bloody-lipped and breathing heavily, barely keeping his stance.

Harley? He’s far from winded—from even trying. 

He exhales slowly, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip, tasting the copper sting of his own blood. Not much, just a nick. A tease of a real fight. His jeans sit just right, belt loose, his shirt clinging in places from the humidity, thin enough to show the way his chest moves with each breath. And still, through all of it, that damn smirk remains, lazy and knowing.

“C’mon now,” he drawls, his voice syrupy smooth. “Ain’t no fun if you’re already foldin’.”

The other guy wipes at his mouth, glaring. “You think this is funny?” he spits, voice rough, half-growl, half-breathless. “You’re a cocky little shit, y’know that?”

Harley grins, wide and damn near delighted. “Mhm. And I know you love it.”

The man snaps. His fist comes swinging—sloppy and thoughtless, making it desperate—and Harley’s already quick on his feet, stepping just enough to the side to let him stumble past. He doesn’t stop there. Before the guy can right himself, Harley’s behind him, close enough that their bodies nearly press together, close enough that he can feel the heat rolling off him in waves. He leans in, his breath warm against his ear, as his voice drops to something sweet and condescending.

“Now that,” he hums, letting the words drip like molasses, “was just pitiful.”

Then, as fast as a rattlesnake, he drives his elbow into the man’s ribs. A sharp, brutal crack rings out, followed by a strangled wheeze as the guy stumbles forward, clutching his side. Harley lets him stagger and gives him a second to process the pain before stepping in again, pressing in close and guiding him back against the brick wall close enough to border on intimate.

“Atta boy,” he purrs, licking the blood off his knuckles slowly. “Knew you had a little more fight in ya.”

The guy glares up at him, his teeth bared. “Fuck you.”

Harley’s lips twitch. “Well, now you’re flatterin’ me.”

That earns him another furious swing, but Harley catches his wrist mid-air, squeezing just hard enough to make him grunt. The smile never leaves his face.

“Y’know what your problem is?” he muses, head tilting, his voice casual enough as if they’re talking over drinks instead of in the middle of a fight. “You want so bad to be the one callin’ the shots. But here you are—strugglin’ ‘n sweatin’, damn near beggin’ for me to put you down.”

The guy snaps, shoving Harley back, gripping his throat with both hands, trying to force him against the wall instead.

For a second, Harley lets him.

He lets strong fingers press into his skin, lets the air thin just enough to make his vision sharpen.

Then, with a goddamn grin, wide and teasing, downright criminal—he manages to rasp out, “C’mon, you can squeeze harder than that.”

His attacker hesitates, though only for a second. And that’s all Harley needs.

With a sharp twist of his hips, he breaks free, slamming his knee up into the guy’s stomach, making him double over with a pained choke. Harley wastes no time, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and yanking him forward until their faces are close—too close.

“You shoulda quit while you were ahead,” Harley murmurs, his voice a deep, dangerous thing, his breath warm against the other man’s cheek. His grip tightens in the fabric, his other hand sliding down just enough to hook a finger into the guy’s belt, tugging just enough to throw him off balance. “But I do admire the dedication.”

The guy spits blood, panting. “You’re fucked in the head.”

Harley laughs, breathless and thrilled. “Careful now,” he purrs, “keep talkin’ dirty like that, I might just start likin’ you.”

The guy lunges.

Harley lets him. He loves this game—to make him think he’s got the upper hand for a split second before twisting out of his grip and landing a sharp, punishing uppercut to his jaw. The man’s head snaps back, then he finally falls, dead weight, hitting the pavement with a dull thud.

Harley exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off something insignificant. He adjusts his belt and runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair as he takes a moment to relish the quiet. The bassline from the club pounds in the distance, still calling, still oh so tempting. He kneels down, taking out a necklace from the man’s pocket—a necklace that looked as if it were a river of diamonds. 

“Gotcha,” he mumbled, slipping the jewelry into his pocket and patting it for safe-keeping. 

“Well,” he sighs, stepping over the unconscious body with all the lazy confidence in the world. “That was fun.”

He walks over to his parked motorcycle, his boots tapping against the pavement. The sleek black design camouflaged itself in the night. He kicked one leg over, twisting the throttle… and just like that, he was gone, vanishing into the night. Harley fucking Sawyer, a goddamn menace wrapped in denim and the sweet temptation of sin. 

Still, he thinks—

The poor sucker could’ve hit a little harder than that. 

[miiin-0315]

i'm so happy ur finally sharing these they're absolutely delish beautiful amazing i love i love

[rothlow]

SEPTEMBER FIELDS.

Strange, to watch mortals mark their time by seasons. They divide their lives into chapters, marking time with birthdays and harvests.

On my homeland, the sky hardly ever changed. Light shone past the horizon for centuries. But on Earth, in the September fields behind that country house, there I learned that life truly ended and began, all at once.

He loved that place. I learned that quickly. The beauty was understandable, a form of home as gold spilled across the vibrant grass.

It was where he walked when he could not be still, where he lay flat on his back and counted the stars. And every evening, I followed. His boots were abandoned by the porch steps, that silly hat tilted over those stunning eyes. The world was covered in amber, the gold shining in his hair as the wind tousled the curls I know all too well.

He felt most like himself here, and that is where we built our life, piece by piece.

“You’re staring,” he said. But I hadn’t realized I was.

On my world, we formed bonds. I never understood this word—love. But in the September fields, as the wind gently breezed through the grass and the sun felt warm on our skin, I remember his laugh. He laughed beautifully over something I cannot even remember now.

I remember that he spoke about the future.

“I dunno,” he would say, so soft I wanted to check if I was dreaming. He traced patterns in the dirt with a stick as he spoke, “Would be nice to stay somewhere for once.”

I would have centuries, and he would have seasons.

I was fond of the days when he would repair that same engine, arms dirtied with grease as I swiped away dirt from his jaw. The moments inside that home, where music always played. He would hum as he cooked, leaning back into me from the moment I stepped behind him.

But he was bright, sudden when he turned to me.

“You ever think ‘bout forever?”

Forever was ordinary where I am from. But in the September fields, I could not help but feel as though forever was mere theft.

“Yes,” I answered. And he smiled. Oh, how bright he smiled, as if I had graced him with only the most precious and prized of things. But I knew that when humans say 'forever,' they mean 'together,' not 'endless'.

My lips never allowed the words to slip free. Instead, I lay down beside him in the cooling grass, watching as the sun fell further underneath the horizon. Our ‘forever’ was every moment we shared. When he would leave his boots by the door, only for me to line them up as I passed. When he would drag me out into these very fields at dusk, lie flat in the grass, and point at every constellation he could find.

“That one’s all yours,” he would say, a bright smile on his face. “So you don’t get homesick.”

He did not understand that I had already chosen my home. It was there, in the September fields, in the kitchen light flicking on at midnight, in the sound of his breathing beside me, and the band on our fingers.

I then realized what humans mean when they say they have fallen.

It is not a choice. It is knowing that one day this field will be empty, the house will stand without him, and the grass will turn gold again and again and again—and I will still be here. September will return, and he will not.

Years passed, full of harvests and repairs, small arguments about nothing, long drives with no destination, and his hand finding mine in the dark without fail. He always joked in these moments, claiming he was only ensuring that I was ‘real’.

Even as his hair silvered at the temples, his laughter did not change. He grew older, just as all life did. He softened, but warmth never dulled through what had once been sharp and keen.

I did not change.

On the last September we shared, the field was as bright as the day I fell to my knee in front of him, offering ‘forever’. He walked slower now, but still, he walked. We lay down in the grass like we always had, his head resting against my shoulder. Just like always, his hand found mine.

“Still here,” he hummed, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

“Always,” I answered.

Humans close their eyes at the end. And that is how it happened.

His breath did not return, and the hand clutching my own loosened.

Even with his absence, the fields never changed, and always stayed. They are bathed in gold each year, and that stubborn house still stands. September comes back, time and time again, but he does not.

This is not the end of our story. For as long as I exist, as long as I walk those fields and remember the sound of his boots clicking on the porch and every time he brightly renamed the stars for me—he has not left me.

Forever does not end with a life. It ends once my love withers away, alongside my body, only to be reborn when I embrace him once more in fields of gold.

As long as the west wind moves, I will love him in every September that follows until I reach its end.

[miiin-0315]

ZENNY... ZENNYYYY OH MY BELOVED YEARNER TTTTT^TTTTT

[rothlow]

HARLEY SAWYER — PROLOGUE

Harley Sawyer had always been running.

He wasn’t running from anything specific—not from edgy, dark past or a lost dream. It was more like he was running toward something, something just beyond reach, a little farther out every time he thought he had it.

Tonight, the road was empty, lit by the pale light of a single, dusty moon. He found a strange solace in nights like these, feeling the smooth purr of his motorcycle’s engine beneath his hips, echoing in the silence as it passed right in time with his heartbeat. This was the freedom he’d always spent his life chasing—the feeling of endless speed, the wind whipping through his hair, and the unknown he can’t help but be drawn to like a moth to a flame.

A feeling akin to euphoria settled deep in his mind as he tightened his grip on the throttle. It was just him and the road, with only the stars above to witness the path he cut through the darkness.

Out there, somewhere—no matter how far or how long it would take, was a future waiting to be caught.

[luna-azzurra]

Writer brain: explained

⭒ open the doc. stare at it. close the doc. feel accomplished.

⭒ make a playlist for the vibe. hate it. make another playlist.

⭒ google “can you get drunk on cough syrup” and immediately regret it

⭒ draw a map of a town that gets one paragraph in the whole book.

⭒ reread the last chapter, notice you used the word “look” 37 times, spiral.

⭒ scroll pinterest for 3 hours and call it “worldbuilding.”

⭒ rewrite the same sentence until it sounds worse than when you started.

⭒ open a new doc “just for notes.” suddenly: new WIP.

⭒ pace your room at 1am acting out dialogue like a one-person play.

⭒ text your friends “i’m writing” while actually eating chips in bed.

⭒ invent entire backstories for characters who appear once.

⭒ complain in your journal about how hard writing is instead of writing.

⭒ delete 500 words. call it progress.

⭒ scroll tumblr and label it “studying human interaction.”

⭒ decide you can’t write until you make the perfect moodboard.

⭒ finally type 3 words. tweet about it. log off.

[glitchedoutpxie]

How to use Em Dash (—) and Semi Colon ( ; )

Since the ai accusations are still being thrown around, here's how i personally like to use these GASP ai telltales. 🦄✨

Em Dashes (—)

To emphasize a shift / action / thought.

They're accusing us—actually accusing us—of using AI.

To add drama.

They dismissed our skills as AI—didn't even think twice, the dimwits—and believed they were onto something.

To insert a sudden thought. Surely they wouldn't do that to us—would they?

To interrupt someone's speech. "Hey, please don't say that. I honed my craft through years of blood and tears—" "Shut up, prompter."

To interrupt someone's thoughts / insert a sudden event.

We're going to get those kudos. We're going to get those reblogs—

A chronically online Steve commented, “it sounds like ai, idk.”

Semi Colons ( ; )

To join two closely related independent sentences / connect ideas.

Not only ChatGPT is capable of correct punctuation; who do you think it learned from in the first place?

Ultimate pro tip: use them whenever the fudge you want. You don't owe anyone your creative process. 🌈

[inhurtandincomfort]

Heavy chains hanging loosely around limp, frail wrists... too weak to even hold themselves up anymore. They weren't this loose when they were put on, but it's been so long. Whumpee doesn't even have the will to fight anymore. They just stay there, numb to the world, arms held up only by the chains. Too exhausted to dare hope for freedom.

[miiin-0315]

i need writing juice...

[summer-oil-inactive]

forced caretaking as a trope i think is like cocaine to people who know they need to be taken care of but have mental blocks in the way like yeah please do gently force me into a state of vulnerability so my body learns it is a safe thing to feel around you

[fluffiest-fox-kira]

This has gotta be a hit with the girlies who have always wanted something terrible to happen to them just so people realize they're in more misery than their outward appearance lets on

[fatimazainab]

Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin

[miiin-0315]

finality

tw: depressive thoughts/s******** idealization

inspiration struck in the form of something depressing today :)

It's a freeing feeling, isn't it? To fall with nothing to support you, with no strings tied to your limbs and no hands reaching for yours. Freeing in the same way that flying is freeing—only there is no way up when you fall. Yet, the wind in your hair is the same, as is the cold breeze that strips away the warmth of your cheeks and the whip-sharp lashing of free cloth against your skin. Even gravity seems to loosen its hold in those few seconds, so that when your eyes close, you can almost imagine your weightlessnes. And what a wonderful feeling that weightlessness is—as though you are no longer tethered to the ground, the earth, the mortal plane itself. The fear is not so bad, not as bad as when you stepped off the ledge, not as bad as when you first felt that horrifying lurch in your gut. If anything, it has become a friend, a companion for the journey you have set off on. And you welcome it, for it is sweet in how it worries for you even now. "It's alright," you say, opening your eyes once more to a final, beautiful sight. The stars twinkle above you, the velvet sky watching you serenely. It respects your decision, in how it remains still, a mere spectator to the final flight of a wingless bird. There is no net that awaits to catch you, no clouds to break your fall. And even if there were someone waiting at the bottom for you, they wont be able to save you. And perhaps… Perhaps there is comfort to be found in that.