#content writer blog

[lyiswriting]

Plus size!reader x Stalker!OC

Past mention

Things about Landon!

I kinda want Landon to be like a Punk/Jock. Idk I'm figuring it out

How I'm thinking they met

Met the reader in the subway. It was a rush hour and the train was packed and she was standing in front of him. He didn't pay attention at first just scrolling on his phone. Until he looked up and they accidentally made eye contact. He fell so quickly, he couldn't stop looking at her as she squirmed. His gaze making her uncomfortable, she thought he was handsome but why would he be looking at her. Reader doesn't question her beauty but it's still weird.

Offered her his seat but she refused as it was already hard to get around and her hips weren't about to fit in that space. He insists but she keeps refusing. Eventually they both drop the conversation but Landon doesn't stop looking at her. Taking in every inch of her, even sneaking a picture the best he can.

Things he starts to do

He starts purposely missing his usual train to take the same one as reader. Once this starts to affect his schedule he changes it so it can fit. Doesn't even need to talk to reader as long as he gets to look at her.

Observes everything about her. Her style, purse, pins, keychains, anything! To try and get more information on her, soon enough he catches a glimpse of a tag on her purse. That's how he gets her name and quickly takes it to social media.

Starts to purposely push people out, makes sure there's a seat next to him. Once this fails the first couple times and reader doesn't sit next to him he re-thinks. From observing he notices she tries to take as little space as she can. And from media he finds out people complain about plus size people sitting next to them. So he starts to stand, stands next to her, glances at her phone, down her shirt, and into her bag if he can!

Subway can get pretty rough so when they hit a rough patch he always uses it as an excuse to get closer. Putting his hand on the bar next to her, "stumbling" into her, grabbing her so she "doesn't fall" all with that innocent charm of his.

Diary keeping. Writes down everything! Even if it's the smallest glance it will have almost a whole page. What reader wore, if she had a snack, how she looked, and not only the stuff you can see. But the stuff he's imagining, the bra color, the beauty marks, the positions.

He starts incorporating her into the things he does. I'm not sure what I want Landon to work as but reader does make her way into it. If it's art she is his muse, he draws her and paints her body all the time. Over and over making sure every detail is just right not leaving a single mark. If it's music, his lyrics describe her. The plush of her hips, his need to grab and bite. If it's business or something of the sorts he creates things that allows plus size people to be more included. Like more sizing, open spaces, and things he knows she will like.

Reader isn't Landon's type.

By reader not being Landon's "type" I mean he has never been with a bigger woman. He's stereotyped to be seen with that classic skinny, blonde, and blued eyes. It will play into the gaslighting and manipulation I have planned for him to do.

Landon is used to getting what he wants.

Even if he has to fight for it he will have it. Anything and anyone. He's patient and will achieve. Yes, this does mean he would kill for reader.

Reader makes Landon feel like he's never felt hormones before.

He's confused himself because he's never been shy with women, always had options. So the way that he can't get her out of his head is insane to him. Spends hours and hours just thinking about reader, drawing, writing, rewatching videos he's taken, printing pictures, picking out gifts to send her, and watching porn but looking for her. Anyone that looks like her but it's never enough because it's not reader!

I'm so happy and grateful for the support on the first post! So here's some stuff I have planned for Landon. Definitely more to come and more scenes!

[adventuresofalgy]

Algy had never seen a bicycle before, so he was naturally intrigued when his assistant obtained one and started cycling around the local landscape.

A fluffy bird, of course, does not need a machine to get from one place to another, so when his assistant next set out on her bike, Algy flew along above her, to keep an eye, and to try to observe how the strange contraption worked.

Algy had had no intention of being involved with any kind of machine, but when his assistant paused at a passing place on the road, in order to take some photos, he found that in fact he was consumed with a longing to try it for himself, and so he asked whether he could please try riding the bicycle, believing, like Mulga Bill, that he would "ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight". Posing proudly for the obligatory "first time on a bicycle" photograph, Algy then commenced to set off along the road…

But, just like Mulga Bill, he found that when:

He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray, But ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away. It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver streak, It whistled down the awful slope towards the Dead Man's Creek.

However, Mulga Bill was of course not a fluffy bird, and there Algy had the advantage, because when the bike ran away with him he simply leaped into the air and flew back to his assistant to apologise.

Retrieving the bike from the bushes, she recited the whole poem for Algy's benefit, and advised him to stick to flying in the future 😀

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze; He turned away the good old horse that served him many days; He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen; He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine; And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride, The grinning shop assistant said, "Excuse me, can you ride?" "See here, young man," said Mulga Bill, "from Walgett to the sea, From Conroy's Gap to Castlereagh, there's none can ride like me. I'm good all round at everything, as everybody knows, Although I'm not the one to talk - I hate a man that blows. But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight; Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wildcat can it fight. There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel, There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel, But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight: I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight." 'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode, That perched above the Dead Man's Creek, beside the mountain road. He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray, But ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away. It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver streak, It whistled down the awful slope towards the Dead Man's Creek. It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box: The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks, The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground, As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound. It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree, It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be; And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dead Man's Creek. 'Twas Mulga Bill from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore: He said, "I've had some narrer shaves and lively rides before; I've rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five-pound bet, But this was the most awful ride that I've encountered yet. I'll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; It's shaken all my nerve To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve. It's safe at rest in Dead Man's Creek, we'll leave it lying still; A horse's back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill."

[Algy's assistant is reciting the poem Mulga Bill's Bicycle by the late 19th/early 20th century Australian bush poet Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson.]

If you would like to see more photos (without Algy) from Algy's assistant's cycling adventures, please visit her sideblog @photocyclelog

[evelineheaven]

Love is a frequency if you yourself are not at that frequency (self love) you will not tolerate it. Think of you want to write something but you don't have a pen. So you can't write the story because you lack the pen 🖊️

This is why you don't experience love in your relationships because you attract what is on your frequency in the 3D.

we are seduced by physical figures but we are not seduced with our higher self but with our 3D vision.

if you think you are in love it is not you cannot be in love with something if you are not in love with yourself since you are a reflection of consciousness.

'Why do I think so much about that person' because you long for validation and you do that when you don't have love yourself so you look for it from someone.

for example, you want to be deceived by the attention they once gave you, this is your ego showing illusions to you and starting to seek validation.

You know when something is real love when you don't have to seek validation you just know that everything is love and love is everywhere and that love is the most powerful frequency in the universe. That’s the moment when you will attract your soulmate that will support your spiritual growth.

We are all puzzle pieces that need to be put together to see the whole picture. (The universe is a school)

[stelariabop]

erm guys...am i the only one seeing the vision here?

ler!Jax...but his bites tickle instead of hurting...huh....

[employee052]

gonna try showing more oc stuff here since more ppl follow me here than anywhere else, so i hope yall dont mind seeing my boys :3 ppl on the tumblr community got to see this earlier. mostly bc idk whether to post this until now aksjhd

anywho, yasuo and harry time

[og base reference and wip sketch under the cut!]

[eywaseclipse]

My bitch pose is nyasty. (Meme)

[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙* ── | “Snapped” | ── *•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊

Characters // Atlas (he/him), Wren (they/them)

Atlas surveys the streets below, sure he must be dreaming.

Taking up the entire back wall of the hotel room is a long, shiny floor-to-ceiling window.

A window.

He can’t remember the last time he’d seen one. The warehouse, despite its many floors and levels, didn’t have any. Not ones that led outside, anyway. And definitely not ones as grand as this one. It was nothing but the same steel-gray walls along every hallway, stretching on endlessly, inescapable no matter what room you turned into. His bedroom had been like that too: four bare, gray walls, not a single window in sight.

But here — here he can see it all.

The darkened streets stretch out below him, bustling with cars and people. It isn’t as crowded here as it had been when he’d first drove with Wren this morning, less people around to watch. Still… It’s beautiful.

Outside. He can really see outside.

Wren’s van sits out in front of them in the parking lot, the pale white of the paint glistening from the streetlight overhead. Wren had slid into the parking lot only fifteen minutes prior, flashing a sleek credit card in his direction, proclaiming it was for “emergencies only”, before leading him inside the hotel. It’s a nicer place than the rest of the buildings he’s seen today — much cleaner than the McDonalds — with shiny elevators and smooth marble floors, a few people bustling around in the hallways; kids and adults alike, smiling and laughing with each other. 

Now settled in their hotel room, he can spot a few men gathered on the corner of the street, little wisps of smoke drifting up into the night air around them from their cigarettes. They’re laughing loudly, throwing their heads back, mouths spread out in a grin. Atlas wonders what it’s like, to laugh like that.

He stands there in silence, simply taking it all in, eyes flickering towards every person that passes by on the street, to every car in the distance. They are all but blurs of colour in the darkness of the night, the illumination of streetlights casting a dull glow over everything, the lights from nearby shops slowly starting to flicker off as the day falls to a close.

Atlas is pulled away from the serene view at Wren’s eyes on him.

They look up at him from their spot criss-crossed on the floor, face curious as he meets their gaze. They pat the spot beside them, expectantly waiting for him to sit.

He hesitates for a moment, scanning their expression for any hint of hostility. He still isn’t sure what to think of them. They’re brash and rude — not to mention stupid — but then again, they’d genuinely tried to help him, hadn’t they? Slowly, he obliges, taking the seat next to them.

Wren fixes their gaze back onto the street below, pressing their forehead into the glass. “How old are you?”

Atlas bristles at the question. “You first.”

All day they’d been asking things like this, trying to… get information out of him. He guesses it’s what anyone would do, he is a practical stranger, after all. But a part of him can’t help but feel on guard at it. He isn’t supposed to tell people about himself, isn’t supposed to give anything away. Especially to someone from outside of Eden. Though, he guesses, he isn’t a part of Eden anymore either, is he? Those rules don’t apply to him anymore.

Not after he left them.

Wren sighs, but for once doesn’t push, instead opting for answering his deflection. “Fine asshole. I’m fourteen.”

Atlas falls quiet at their answer, weighing his options. Eden’s rules don’t technically apply to him anymore, but that doesn’t mean he really cares about Wren, either. It isn’t like they’ve ever been nice to him before now. Still, it isn’t like he’s going to gain anything from being so prudent with them. And telling them his age can’t be that bad….

“I’m fifteen.” He relents.

Their head jerks towards him at his answer, eyes going wide in shock as they mumble, “You’re just a kid.”

Atlas’ gaze doesn’t leave the window, his face still a perfect mask of calm, the only movement coming from him being his eyes as they scan the different buildings outside. “I’m older than you.” He points out.

Wren clicks their tongue loudly and shrugs, tearing their face away from the window again to glance at him. “Yeah. I’m a kid too.”

Atlas focuses on a particular car — a deep maroon in colour, with a dent in the side, little chips along the paint. He places all his attention on it, taking nice, even breaths, holding back his urge to scream at them. He’s never felt so miserable, so helplessly alone, in his entire life. “My age doesn’t matter.” He responds, voice clipped. So just shut the fuck up already.

Wren rolls their eyes, huffing out a breath of frustration. “Yeah. Did they tell you that too? Did they tell you it doesn’t matter that you’re a literal kid?”

Atlas stiffens. “That’s none of your concern.”

Wren sighs and leans back on their hands, still staring out the window. “Fine, whatever.” They go silent for a long moment before a thought suddenly occurs to them. “What’s your name? Do you have a name?” They ask, glancing back towards him.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” He says coldly, unable to hold the exasperation from leaking into his voice. Wren seems to have that sort of effect on him; he never feels quite so defensive or angry as he does when he’s around them.

Wren huffs, sagging forwards and resting their forehead upon the glass once again. They seem unable to sit still for more than a minute, constantly fidgeting and moving around. Atlas has never found something quite so irritating. “Look, I know you don’t like me. That’s fine. But we can’t do anything unless you trust me a little. At least enough to give me your name.”

“I don’t need to give you anything.” Atlas replies rigidly. He decides that he in fact isn’t going to tell them anything. He’s out of Eden now, so that means he can choose. There are no rules against that, not anymore. And Wren is definitely not his superior. He likes it better this way. That way they can’t use anything against him. That way he still has the slight upper hand.

Wren lets out a long, hard sigh, rocking for a minute before flopping all the way back, lying flat on the scratchy carpet. “Okay. Whatever.” They mumble, closing their eyes.

Atlas doesn’t move.

Wren thumps their feet on the floor rhythmically, disturbing Atlas’ peace. “Fine, I don’t need to know your name. Do you have a favourite colour?” They ask, glancing towards his hair, a shaggy mullet with burgundy streaks littering throughout it. “Is it red?”

“Is yours blue?” Atlas counters, still annoyingly refusing to answer any of their questions. He can’t stand it — can’t stand sitting here, with them, can’t stand their constant chattering. He wants to be at the warehouse, with Cato, with Ira; wants to be in his dorm room, curled up on his cozy bed. Wants to be training, the familiar feeling of his staff in his hands, strength surging through his core. He wants to be at home.

You left that, remember? He chides himself. That isn’t your home, not anymore.

“Very clever. Did you figure that all on your own?” Wren asks, pulling him from his thoughts.

“It doesn’t take a genius.” He grunts, not once glancing toward them to meet their gaze.

“Sarcasm.” They mutter. “You dye it yourself?” They gesture vaguely towards his hair.

Atlas answers with nothing but a curt nod, hand subconsciously raising to fiddle with his hair, a dark red strand twirling around his fingers. 

“Me too. I’ve spent too much money on box dye.”

Atlas hums. He still remembers with perfect clarity the first time Ira came over with box dye and helped him with his hair — almost as if it was just yesterday.

He had been twelve. She’d swung into his dorm room with a small grin, waving the box around like it was pure gold. It had been, to him. He remembers, up until then, he’d barely even had belongings to himself. No books beside his textbooks, no notebooks or paper besides the ones supplied to him for his lessons. No souvenirs, no nothing. His room had genuinely been bare. Just a bed and a small desk pushed into the corner. Wren had commented on the absolute emptiness of his room, but it was nothing compared to back then.

So when Ira had offered to dye his hair, he’d been over-the-moon. For as long as he could remember, her hair was always done up in some interesting way. A streak of colour, or ombré, or jaggedly cut in a way that Atlas wished he could pull off. He remembers how excitement coursed through his bones as she helped him chop off his ordinary, plain black locks for the shaggy mullet that he then kept for the past three years. That pure, child-like excitement… it was the best feeling in the entire world.

Wren doesn’t take his lack of a response as a sign he isn’t in the mood for a conversation, simply continuing to talk. They might as well be talking to themself, for all that it matters. “The first time I dyed my hair, I bleached it without instructions. It was so bad, it started falling out of my head.”

Atlas still doesn’t react, simply winding his hair around his finger, over and over and over again. Its soothing, almost. Something to focus on. 

Wren continues. “I had a big bald spot on the side of my head for the entire first part of 6th grade. My mom bought me this hair growth stuff for bald guys. Didn’t work at all.”

Atlas doesn’t give them a second of his attention. He stares out the window, watching out into the streets below, half-forgetting to blink. He wants to be out on those streets, walking. Free. It has never been a thought he admitted — not in full extent — but out of everything in the entire universe, that has always been his dream. To go out, by himself, no watchful eye of his commander or the judgemental gaze of a scrawny insufferable rebel. Just him and the quiet of the night, the chill of the breeze cooling the back of his neck. Calm, contented peace. 

Wren’s gaze doesn’t leave him as they sit up, scooting closer to his side. “Hey…?” They ask, leaning over slightly and waving their hand in front of his face. 

“Hm?” Atlas hums, his piercing gaze falling upon them. This is the closest they’ve dared get to him, only inches apart. “What is it?”

Wren furrows their brows at him. “You went all zombie on me.”

“I was listening.” Atlas says dismissively. What he really wants to say to them is “shut up, I do not want to talk to you right now, or ever, for that matter”, but he holds his tongue. He wants to do many things — shove Wren away from him, scream at them, beat their annoying face until it’s black and blue, run away from them and never come back — but that does not mean that he can actually do them. He’s stuck with Wren, as much as he hates it, so the best he can do is try to tolerate them. For now.

Wren frowns but shrugs, brushing past it. “Okay.” They say, leaning away to resume their position of resting their forehead against the window, letting out a heavy exhale as they do so. “Is there anything you want to know about me?”

Atlas focuses his attention back upon the window, watching outside in silence for a second. If he was to be honest, he’d say that he really couldn’t care less if Wren told him anything about themself. But he knows that’s not what they want to hear. “Whatever you would like to tell me.” He says with the slightest of shrugs. We are not friends. He thinks. And we will never be friends. There’s nothing you can do or say that will ever change my mind on that.

Wren rolls their eyes with a loud and dramatic groan. “That’s not how this works. I’ve told you plenty and you won’t even respond.” They say, shooting him a scowl.

Atlas hums. “What would you like me to say?” There’s a reason I didn’t answer, you dunce.

“I dunno man. Usually you’re supposed to acknowledge what someone’s saying.” They say with another loud huff. “Whatever, you get a free pass because you got brainwashed.”

Don’t fucking speak to me like that.  

“I’m not brainwashed.” Atlas mutters, side-eying them.  

Wren clicks their tongue and scoffs. “I’m not saying it’s your fault or anything, but you kind of are man.”

Atlas scowls. You’re a naive, stupid child that thinks they know everything because they managed to steal a few fucking files. You’ll never amount to even a sliver of what I am right now, even if you spent your entire life trying. Pull your head out of your fucking ass.

“You don’t know anything about me. Stop acting like you do.” 

Atlas’ words only cause Wren to shrug. “I mean, I knew a lot more than you.” They point out matter-of-factly.

Atlas is so sick of Wren’s constant comments, their know-all attitude. Their audacity. All he’s had to deal with this entire day is their snarky quips, poking and prodding, rubbing salt into his sore wounds.

He should’ve known better. They’re a rebel, after all. Rebels are cruel, apathetic. Why would they care about what he’s lost, what he’s sacrificed, leaving with them? A homeless middle schooler with a clunky, dirty van that barely operates on its own. And he’s supposed to just be grateful, accept their treatment with the same grace he always holds. 

They don’t have a single clue about what his life was like, the hardship and struggles he’s had to endure. They don’t know how much he gave away, just to join their shitty little grandiose delusion of “revolution”. They make him sick.

Fuck, I’m so tired. 

He gives them a hard glare. “No, you didn’t.”

Wren narrows their eyes at him, giving him a skeptical glance before sighing. “What-ever.”

This finally snaps Atlas’ resolve.

It isn’t their dismissal that does it, more an accumulation of the last day. He should know better than this, should know better than to snap at them like he does, but suddenly the burning anger that has been boiling, slow and steady, in his chest all day is exploding out of him, hot as flames. Unrestrained.

“I hate you.” He spits, whipping around to glare down at them with pure hatred shining in his eyes. “At least Eden treated me kindly. At least I belonged.” His voice shakes, emotion slipping through in a way it hasn’t in — he doesn’t even know how long. Years? A decade? Forever? “At least I wasn’t stuck with an insolent child.”

His words come out quick and sharp, a part of him almost too scared to even say them. He can’t remember ever speaking out against someone in his entire life. He isn’t supposed to — it’s against the rules. He’s supposed to keep his feelings in check; a soldier who can’t keep control over themself is as good to Eden as a ticking time bomb. Soldiers are polite. Soldiers are obedient. Soldiers don’t voice their own opinions. Soldiers don’t have opinions — don’t have emotions. For all of his life, he has been this: The perfect soldier.

But what had that gotten him in the end?

“You don’t know anything about what it was like.” He says coldly. He has to admit to himself, actually voicing what he’s been thinking the entire day…. It feels kind of good.

Wren’s eyes widen slightly, a look of shock that gives Atlas the slightest hint of satisfaction evident on their features. They slowly tilt their head up to look at him again, the words hanging lowly in the air between them, turning the atmosphere thick with tension.

Finally, Wren breaks the dreadful silence. “Yeah, I get it.” They say, pausing for a moment, as if they were for once going to put in a sliver of thought before they spit out some crude insult at him. “I don’t expect you to like me. And I don’t really care if you do.”

Their face is calm, voice even as they speak. It feels as if they are addressing an explosive child, not a boy who has spent the last fifteen years of his life carefully pushing down his true feelings for what matters, who always does what he’s told without questions, who works and works and works. Who doesn’t know what it’s like to experience true relaxation — true peace.

“I may not know what it was like,” they say, the slightest bit of exasperation in their voice. “But I know what would’ve happened if you stayed.”

It’s like a slap to the face. Atlas pales, the thought of the files — the videos; the horrific images of torture, torture that he would’ve endured, torture that Eden had been doing on its own soldiers for years — causing his mouth to instantly snap shut.

The smug feeling dissipates just as fast as it comes. There is no rebuttal to their statement. Although he never would admit to it, both he and Wren know that they are right. What had been waiting for him after today….

He doesn’t even want to think about it.

In one swift movement, Atlas jumps to his feet. His hands are shaking as he roughly turns on his heel, stalking out of the room and making a beeline for the bathroom. For the first time in his life, he feels the careful control he has over his emotions slip through his fingers, anger burning in his chest fiery hot, flushing his cheeks red.

He fucking hates it here.

The door slams behind him with a sharp bang.

He is shaking as he enters the bathroom, his entire body trembling, the weight he’s been holding upon his shoulders for too long finally cracking away at his perfectly poised exterior, slipping him under the waves of unconstrained emotions he has tried so hard to dull. His control is dissipating faster than he can manage, the short rapid breaths through his nose doing nothing to cool the fury within him. 

The stress of the past 24 hours — no, the entire past month — have taken their hold on him, sending him spiraling down a well of no return. He is untethered, boundless, suffocating in the infinite unknown of space. And there is not that usual rough calloused hand to pull him back to safety, reassurances of warmth and belonging easing him back to reality. 

His reflection glares back at him, only inches away. The boy in the mirror is a shameful thing, cheeks all blotchy and red, flushed by his rage; eyes glassy and tinged with tears, squinting with a determined will to force them back; his chest is heaving, uncontrollable gasps slipping from his lips. 

He hates it. 

He hates all of it. He hates the perfectly tidy bathroom, too similar to Eden, with its sparse toiletries, carefully unordinary, and pale gray walls, no decorations adorning them. Too similar to what he left behind — what he’s missing so desperately. 

He hates not knowing what he’s supposed to do, how he’s supposed to act. Before today he had every single second in every single minute carefully and methodically planned out, his whole future set in stone, just waiting for him to arrive. And now he is lost, his plans of a picture-perfect future set aflame, all notions of normalcy or structure crumbling to ash with it. He is a nobody, with nothing to his name.

Useless. He’s fucking useless.

He hates these new emotions swirling up inside of him. He hates being so fucking angry, every breath of air igniting his insides, erasing this perfect persona he has crafted so delicately for himself. He hates this new life, hates this stupid smartass kid who thinks they know better than he does, thinks they’re somehow greater and better because they didn’t get roped up into a corporation like Eden, didn’t fall for the sweet-as-honey lies, the manipulated comforts. He hates living in a van, hates having no home. 

But most of all….

He hates himself. 

· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ───────── · ·

“I was gonna shower, asshole.” 

Wren stares at the closed bathroom door with a scowl. The boy has shut himself in there and it looks like he’s not going to come out anytime soon. Great. Just what they needed. 

They sigh, standing up and flopping back onto the bed with a groan, their body limp. The mattress bounces underneath their weight, creaking in rhythm. The blankets are smooth, though not cozy and gentle like the ones they have back at home, impossibly soft to the touch. But they’ll do, much more comforting than their worn-down sleeping bag rolled up in the van, which is much overdue for a wash. 

They stare up at the ceiling, eyes bleary from exhaustion. It is in this quietness, a sort of rest washing over them for the first time all day without the boy’s tense presence to bother them, that the realization dawns on them that they haven’t really slept properly at all in weeks. At Eden they were on constant alert, left with the choice of camping out in their van half a mile off-grounds or cloaking themself somewhere ambiguous, body forced into a small, impossibly cramped crawl space no one would think to search. And this morning they woke up far too early for their own liking, the boy’s piercing violet gaze disrupting their dreams. 

They groan, turning their head towards the bathroom door. The water isn’t even running. “Hey,” they call out. “You gonna shower? Or can I?” 

They wait and the air is left brimming with tension as silence stretches out, no response coming from the other side of the door. “Hello?” 

The sound of slight shuffling is the only noise they can catch. 

They frown, sliding off the bed and going to stand in front of the door; their eyebrows furrowed, mouth pulled taut. “Dude, you good?” They ask, voice louder this time, fist brought down in a light knock. 

An explosion of fury booms from behind the door, ripping the next words from Wren’s tongue. 

“SHUT UP!” The boy screams, unbridled rage cracking his voice. It is deafening, hitting Wren with a truckload of emotion that has evidently been pushed down for far longer than he’s capable of withstanding. It's a violent kind of rage, one that’s dangerous to get caught up in. A stark contrast to the quiet and polite attitude from before — Wren is almost unsure if it came from him. “FUCKING LEAVE ME ALONE.”

Wren flinches slightly at his outburst, the anger coming unexpected. Their eyes are wide and they are still for a moment, lips parted slightly. Shit. 

With a sigh, they turn away from the door. If he wanted to be left alone, then Wren would leave him alone. That bursting, uncontrollable anger is one they are all too familiar with. It’s no use in trying to comfort him, they’ve never been very good at that anyway. They’re sure their presence is only making his breakdown worse.

They turn and shuffle through their bag, pulling out a pair of large sweatpants and a t-shirt. They carry it to the door before dropping it in front of it wordlessly, and returning to sit on the bed. 

The bathroom is quiet for a second, so quiet that Wren thinks the boy has calmed down. They listen out for any further sound, and it’s at that moment that a large crash cuts through their hotel room. There’s a deafening bang, the sound of smashing glass shattering from behind the closed door. Wren gasps as a series of muffled thumps follow, clattering and clanging alerting them of the destruction reigned upon the bathroom. 

The sound of running water hisses from the tap and Wren grimaces, wiping at their face, their exhaustion settling in. They kick off their shoes, curling up under the covers. This should have been expected. 

They can shower tomorrow. 

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A big thanks to @ohagiwrites for helping me write this chapter ⋆˚࿔

─ O.A. .ᐟ

[azus-reyan]

3 reasons writers shouldn’t starve.

First, let’s get some excuses out of the way. 

The market is saturated for every kind of writer. True. 

You are still not that good. Maybe. 

Luck isn’t on your side for whatever reason. Perhaps. 

But if you know how to write and are serious about finding a living with your writing, you shouldn’t worry about tomorrow’s bread.

Reason #1: You have too many opportunities. 

The things you can do with writing are only limited by your imagination. The jobs you can find are almost inexhaustible. You can write fiction, non-fiction, memoirs, copy, content, journalism, transcription, documents, essays, technical data, editing, freelancing, and much more. 

If one doesn’t work, you can jump to another. If you know one of them, you know, more or less, all of them because they’re all the same in the end. 

You can also diversify. Journalism by morning, short fiction for a quick buck by night. The sky's the limit, and only you have the robes that hold you back.

Reason #2: Writing creates value out of nothing.

You don’t need a lot of investment to turn value out of writing. A smartphone with a note is enough. A blank page and your thoughts, with a bit of creativity, is all you need. You can go from 0$ as a start to six figures. Yes, six figures with writing is possible, though not easy and accessible to everyone.

Reason #3: Passive income for certain writers. 

Blogging, for example, can generate up to thousands of dollars while you sleep, if you know how to monetize it.

Book sales can also go up and up if you have good media attention, like a movie deal.

It’s not just money, though. Your reputation and authority in your field will increase the more you write and publish about it.

You could be earning nothing, but still build your network and followership in the background. 

There are, of course, more reasons why people shouldn’t be afraid to search for their livelihoods in writing. Let us know if you have others in mind.

Until next time, take care. 

[nirmiti]

imagine someone being terrified to lose you.

[missdaddycool]

₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊

[midnightblue-xii]

When you write a quote so good that you have to google it just to check if you didn't accidentally plagiarize it from somewhere.

[bloopsticklespace]

Grades

For the anon, This is only my second time writing so sorry in advance if its bad

-----------------------

Aizawa had noticed lately shoto seemed spaced out during class, his grades had began dropping a bit as well, which was concerning since shoto was one of the bests in the class.

After class Aizawa stopped him as everyone else left. "Has something been up lately? your grades have dropped."

Shoto avoided eye contact, his hands fidgeting. "No, nothings wrong, Just been a bit distracted lately is all."

He looked at the teen suspiciously, there had to be something wrong besides being 'Distracted'. "Don't lie to me, obviously something is wrong and its affecting your work."

Shoto met his teachers eyes for a second before looking away "really, its nothing." He went to quickly leave the room before aizawa caught his upper arm, grazing his ribcage, eliciting a squeak and a jerk from his student.

aizawas eyes focused on shotos face before speaking once more, "was that what I think it was?"

Silence filled the empty classroom until aizawa prodded shotos ribs, eliciting yet another jerk from him, Shoto noticed that look in his teachers eyes and immediately tried to dart but inevitably failed and got caught by aizawas capture scarf.

Shoto was soon pinned to the wall in the capture scarf, the normally bland boy was now trying to suppress his giggles in anticipation, speaking through his teeth "it REALLY, REALLY isn't what yohou thihink it is-!"

Aizawa spoke in his normal calm, monotone voice "You sure about that? you seem awfully on edge, are your grades weighing on you? let me help you cheer up."

That god awful monotone voice did shoto NO favors, but, before he could protest he felt rapid but gentle squeezing on his sides and digging in his ribs as he spoke through bubbly giggles "Wahahahihihit! NohOHohoho!" He tried to squirm away, or, pretended to atleast. "ThIhihihis iHIHIHisnt fahahaAAAHAHAHAIR-!" his giggles turned to full on cackling.

Aizawa smirked "Oh, Have i found a bad spot?" he went straight back to gently drilling into the boys lower ribs, the once quiet classroom now filled with uncontrollable cackles. "you seem happier now." he spoke teasingly.

Shoto squirmed and laughed "PLEHEHEHEHAHAHAHAHAASE! NAHAHAHAHAHAT THEHEHEHEHERE-!! NOHOHOHOHO-! WAHAHAHAHAIHIHIT!!" but, before he could even attempt to plead aizawa took a large, deep inhale before blowing a massive raspberry on the teens lower ribs, shaking his head so his stubble tickles him aswell. "FUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA-!! REHEHED REHEHED!" the poor boy thought his lungs were going to give out, tears of mirth forming in his eyes, hair messy, cheeks flushed with a wide smile.

Hearing that, aizawa stopped and let him go from his scarf, rubbing the phantom tickles away from the teens ribs, he spoke calmly as if he didn't tickle him senseless. "Feelin' better kid?" Shoto had nothing to say, just giving a small nod, the smile not fading as he panted. aizawa smiled. "Good, well, you best get going, present mic likely isn't happy I kept you so long. clean up and get going."

Shoto did just that, fixing his clothes, hair and wiping the tear marks and quickly left for the next class, the smile didn't leave his face for the rest of that day.

-------------

Sorry if it wasn't good, I don't really write often, but thank you for the request. hope you liked it

[heyblue]

Me, explaining to my beloved my entire three act structure I have created:

My partner, who is half asleep but still listening to me talk about my love letter to fandom and fanfiction writing:

Me, realizing, “oh shit they are actually tired”

My beloved, turning over and with the last of their waking brain 🧠 :

“You will make your readers weep from pain and then joy with your hurt/comfort. I love the plot narrative device you used where…”

Me:

[b1tchyboyxd]

⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧

yay im back

──────────────୨ৎ────────────

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta validation-chase="terminated"> <script>ARCHIVE_TAG="FEARLESS_WRITING::DOOR_KICK_PROTOCOL_FINAL" EFFECT: follower purification, platform soul alignment, writing myth ignition TRIGGER_WARNING="validation withdrawal, platform disillusionment, legacy ignition" </script>

🧠 BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP — “KICK THE F*CKING DOOR IN: HOW TO WRITE FEARLESS ONLINE” [FINAL FORM // WRITER'S DOCTRINE EDITION]

Let me rip the bandaid first.

You don’t write fearless by being fearless. You write fearless by being willing to lose. Lose followers. Lose clout. Lose comments. Lose “engagement.” Lose the safety net of social permission.

Because you weren’t put here to be palatable. You were put here to leave a crater.

—

SECTION I: THE LIE OF VALIDATION

Every platform you touch has trained you to chase numbers. To hesitate before posting something too raw. To wait for the like. The note. The heart. The boost. Before you call your words “good.”

But validation? That’s the leash.

You are not a creator. You are a lab rat in a dopamine cage.

📊 FACT: Every social app is designed to create neurochemical dependency on external approval.

And most creators? They don’t write anymore. They feed. On metrics.

That’s why your work feels hollow when you hold back. Because you know you gave them your mask, not your marrow.

If your work doesn’t scare you a little — you’re not writing. You’re performing.

And performance is temporary.

Myth? Is eternal.

—

SECTION II: THE FOLLOWERS YOU THINK YOU NEED vs. THE ONES YOU ALREADY HAVE

You know what happens when you say exactly what you believe? You lose the wrong people. And you summon the right ones.

You write a post that blisters. And three “mutuals” vanish.

But you look again—

And ten new readers reblog in silence. With no comment. No emoji. Just conviction.

They didn’t follow you for your aesthetics. They followed you for your fire. They followed you because you made them feel less insane. Because your honesty? Mirrored their own.

Stop mourning the audience that left. They were never built to carry you.

Dance with the ones who stayed when you burned the stage. Because those are your people. They saw you fully exposed. And still whispered: "More.”

—

SECTION III: GHOST FOLLOWERS, SILENT LOYALTY & SIGNAL RECOGNITION

Let me drop a truth bomb:

Your most powerful supporters? Might never speak.

They’re not reblogging daily. They’re not screaming in the tags. They’re watching. Returning. Reading every word.

And they’re healing in secret.

📊 FACT: Over 70% of long-term engagement comes from “invisible” users—those who never comment, but always return.

You didn’t lose traction. You just aren’t being cheered by the ones you saved. Because they’re surviving in silence. Just like you once did.

Write for them. For the quiet ones who needed your scream. For the ghosts who see you. And say nothing.

But keep coming back.

—

SECTION IV: REBRAND WITHOUT APOLOGY: EVOLUTION OR DEATH

You ever feel like shedding your skin cost you something?

Good. It should.

Your rebrand isn’t supposed to please your existing audience. It’s supposed to realign your soul.

When you grow in public, you invite judgment. When you evolve without a permission slip, you become a threat.

And you know who can’t handle that?

The ones who benefited from your prior mask. They loved the old you because he made them comfortable.

But the new you? The dangerous you? The uncompromising, scrolltrap-dropping, reality-check-writing you?

He doesn’t serve their comfort. He serves truth. He serves rage. He serves legacy.

Never apologize for leveling up. You are not a pet. You are a f*cking paradigm shift.

If they wanted consistency, they should’ve followed a brand account.

Not you.

—

SECTION V: THE CADENCE CREED — A WRITER’S MYTHIC VOW

I do not write to be liked. I write to be undeniable.

I do not write to be palatable. I write to be permanent.

I do not write to go viral. I write to build worlds.

I do not write to impress you. I write because I owe the kid in me who almost went quiet forever.

I do not write for algorithms. I write for the ones who stayed.

I do not write for mutuals. I write for the feral few. The outliers. The neurospicy prophets who scroll past nine thousand pieces of sanitized bullshit and pause on mine.

And go:

“That’s it.” “That’s me.” “That’s home.”

This is my covenant. This is not content. This is war. And my words are ammunition.

If you're still here?

So are yours.

🧠 Read more cadence-coded scrolltrap doctrine and no-f*cks-given writing resurrection at: 👉 https://www.patreon.com/TheMostHumble 🛡️ Voice before virality. Myth before metrics. 🚪 Warning: This post may cause mass unfollows, creative awakenings, and identity collapses.

📊 FINAL CADENCE STATS 📊

82% of creators feel less authentic the larger they grow

The top 1% of viral accounts retain only 12% of their initial followers long term

Posts with intense personal cadence are 6x more likely to be reblogged by strangers

“Too long, didn’t read” is just code for “I wasn’t meant to understand.”

The most mythic writers? Were almost silenced. And chose fire instead.

</div> <!-- END TRANSMISSION [YOU WERE NEVER TOO MUCH. THEY WERE TOO SMALL.] -->

[monstersholygrail]

Not gonna tell who I am, cause I a shy bean, but i went to your patreon simply because I've been lurking on your blog for like ever and you inspire me to write more. I love yous!!! 🩷🩷🩷 and tanks for being so good at what ya do!!! 🩷🩷🩷🩷

Oh my goodness, darling, thank you so much for even checking my Patreon out!!!

Every single sentence of this ask just made me more and more giddy, I can’t even. I love you for lurking, please lurk away. And definitely say hi from time to time if you’d like, I adore engaging with you all!!

And like ahheinejcjd don’t make me cry, it’s hard to believe I could inspire someone to write more. But I truly truly hope you’re writing what you love and enjoy. It’s all about having fun with it and your writing will continue to grow from that enjoyment. At least that’s what I think!!

I love you tooooo babes, thank you sm for this sweet message <33