#exploring POV

[gagliandi]

From Idea to Lyrics

From Idea to Lyrics

From Idea to Lyrics: How to Structure Your Song(Inspired by Jack Perricone’s Great Songwriting Techniques)After you’ve decided on a title or central idea, it’s crucial to clarify what you want to say and how you want to say it. This involves choosing your perspective (who’s speaking, and to whom) and developing a concept that ties every lyric element together.The Power of a ‘Concept’A general…

[dragonbonez]

He adopted him after that.

[taradactyls]

It's thinking about Darcy desperately yearning running into Elizabeth at Pemberley hours.

Like, you fell in love with this woman, but rationally (pridefully) you though it wasn't something you should pursue. But you can't forget her, and then she's at Rosings... and the more you see her - with her wit, her eyes, the liveliness of her mind - the more she undoes every expectation of who you should marry that you'd ever had. You prolong your trip to see more of her, you start imagining what it will be like married to her and unwisely after only seeing her again for a week begin asking how she'd feel living far away from Longbourn, and even hint things like she'd be staying at Rosings next time she visits Kent.

It's too much. You're feeling too much.

She's due to visit for tea the night before you take leave, and an evening gives far more opportunity for privacy and conversation than sitting in Mrs Collins' drawing room for half an hour the next day.

But she doesn't come, she's feeling ill, and you won't see her. If you don't make an effort, you might never see her again. It's not like Bingley will be going back to Netherfield anytime soon, after all.

You bail on the evening and go check if she's ok.

It's late, but you have to see her.

She's not super friendly when answering your questions about whether she's feeling better, yet that's to be expected when someone has a headache. But she's there, sitting with you quietly, and then you're so agitated that you begin pacing.

It's inescapable. You love her too much.

You'll marry her, and deal with all the impropriety of her family's connections and behaviour. She's worth it.

Because of course she'll say yes. You've been so open that she must be expecting your addresses. It doesn't occur to you that you're wrong to assume she's wishing for it.

Then she rejects you.

And she doesn't only reject you: she shatters your entire perception of self. Not immediately - oh, she creates a large crack, but it takes some time for you to do justice to her words. But they linger, inescapably.

"Had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner."

You're bitter, and angry, and hurt, and offended, and the sense of doubt isn't going away. But there is one thing you can do, that you have to do.

You write her a letter to explain yourself against the accusations she levied your way - some unjust, but others will eventually gnaw at you until you're forced to face them and stare directly at all the faults you didn't know you had.

You know it won't make her accept you.

The turn of her countenance you'll never forget, as she said that you could not have addressed her in any possible way that would induce her to accept you.

But you need to write the letter: to explain, to warn, and maybe - just maybe - make her think a little better of you.

If she even gives credit to anything you say.

She thinks so little of you she might dismiss your arguments and only hate you more for what you said of her family.

God, you basically insulted her family again in the letter. With an apology, yes, and as an explanation, but you knew at the time that those comments and what you divulged of Wickham would give her pain. But it's necessary. You still believe that, even as time goes on and you begin to wonder if all it achieved was making her hate you more.

The last time you saw her was as you handed her that letter.

She hadn't spoken.

You weren't yet master of your emotions enough to see her and be friendly, the best you could do was try be composed.

If only you'd been truly as calm and composed as you thought you were when you wrote that letter. You can see now that you wrote in a dreadful bitterness of spirit. There were some expressions you used, the opening of it, which alone would be enough to justify her hate. Though, despite your emotions, you never doubted for a moment in her goodness - never doubted that she won't spread around what you divulged of your sister.

She hates you, but all the reasons you love her are still there.

That's something that doesn't change as you slowly unravel the flaws her reproofs revealed to you and you try to become the person you always thought you were. So many behaviours, and the emotions that governed them, were not what they ought to be. Your principles were always good but you followed them in pride and conceit.

You were blind until she cut you to the quick. Opened your eyes to yourself and taught you such a hard lesson - but it was for the best. She properly humbled you and taught you how insufficient all your pretensions were to please a woman worthy of being pleased. Even if you never see her again you will be worthy of the title gentleman.

You will work to become the person you want to be.

Her rejection doesn't hurt so much as the knowledge that she was right and you failed yourself and so many others. Any anger or blame you felt for her words when refusing your hand are long since passed. If she had been able to overlook those flaws she wouldn't have been the woman you love.

The more you reflect and seek to rectify your behaviour the clearer it all becomes. In trying to understand yourself you realise that so many of these flaws have existed almost your whole life. And yet, despite how obvious it now seems, you had no idea.

Though your parents were good themselves they spoilt you - first as an only child, then as an only son - and you grew selfish and overbearing, caring only for your small family circle. Thinking meanly of the rest of the world, wanting to think meanly of their sense and worth compared to your own.

You owe the world so much better.

Your position, far from giving you leave to treat others as inconsequential, means you have a duty to think of others and ensure they are not wronged. Yes, you've done that broadly - especially on your estate, and always with servants and the poor - but what of in smaller ways, to those closer to your own rank? Have you directly treated them with civility and respect?

You know the answer now, but you're doing your best to fix it.

For almost four months, you ruminate on her words and turn yourself into a gentleman you can respect. Someone worthy of the respect you've so rarely had to actually earn. Someone who might've been worthy of her respect from the beginning.

You've never stopped loving her.

Almost four months, and you're not sure if you'll ever see her again.

You certainly weren't expecting to leave the stables after arriving at Pemberley and find her standing in front of your house.

Your eyes meet.

You freeze in place.

Four months of distance and then twenty yards away from each other.

She's blushing (so are you).

Your brain is too surprised to work.

She's here.

She's here and you're just standing there.

You have to go to her. Even if you didn't still love her, it's the polite and friendly thing to. (But you do still love her, and so her presence is a physical weight in your chest that you could scarce resist).

She had turned away briefly, but turns back when you approach.

You hardly know what you say, she hardly raises her eyes to meet yours, but you hear her voice, and she doesn't sound annoyed when she answers that her family is well.

Honestly, despite how discomposed you are by seeing her without time to prepare, your instinct is to stay by her. Even if it means speaking like a fool. You're pretty sure you ask her when she started travelling and how long she's been in Derbyshire at least thrice. But you start to recollect yourself, breathing a little more evenly, and run out of things to say. Remembering that she's here with friends and you've just come from the road, you take your leave.

Your thoughts stay with her though.

She was still just as lovely as ever. More civil to you than you have any claim to.

Your housekeeper says a gentleman and two ladies were taking a tour of the house, and have now gone with the gardener to see the accustomed part of the park. You know the place.

As your valet helps you change your thoughts solidify: you can meet them, and, through every civility in your power, show her that you aren't resentful of the past.

She's so close, and you can't lose this chance to perhaps obtain her forgiveness, lessen her ill opinion, by showing that her reproofs have been attended to.

And, maybe, you're just desperate for any excuse to see her.

By now, you've been in love with her for more than eight months, despite trying, really trying, to forget her both when you left Hertfordshire and Kent. It's pointless, either you'll recover in time or you'll spend the rest of your life in love with her. At this point you don't even want to fight it. Despite the pain of her not feeling the same way, she did you the greatest good anyone could, by showing you who you really were. You improved yourself because you should, without any expectation of seeing her again, but one thing that you can't alter about yourself is your love for her.

Right now, what matters is being near her and showing her you can be a real gentleman.

So, you follow her and her companions to the stream.

She speaks first this time. Putting herself forward to be friendly and polite. Proof, surely, that she doesn't hate you so much anymore? She's almost her usual smiling self, though she goes red and silent while admiring Pemberley's beauty.

You can understand why - you had determined to not ask whether she liked your home in case it sounded like you were wondering whether she regretted rejecting you and thus Pemberley. You know she didn't mean anything by her praise (and she'd known you were rich when she turned you down) but you understand her sudden embarrassment.

Although... when did she start caring that you might misunderstand her and think badly of her? She didn't care the last time you met.

But that's not important now. It's for you to ease the conversation and prove yourself. So you change the subject, and ask her to do the honour of introducing you to her friends.

Her surprise is obvious, and fair. Seeking the acquaintance of strangers, even respectable-looking ones, just wasn't something you used to do regardless of what the well-bred and civil action was.

And what does it say about you - with all your newfound respect and civility - that you're still surprised when the fashionable couple she's with turn out to be the very aunt and uncle you'd previously declared would be a disgraceful connection. You recognised you were wrong to be so dismissive, so rude, but the core assumption that the tradesman brother of Mrs Bennet and his wife must be noticeably vulgar had clearly remained. Yet here they were, everything elegant and well-bred.

How right Elizabeth had been about you.

But now you can show her that was the past, and your manners are improved and prejudices lessened.

You walk back with them, talking to the uncle, who has intelligence, taste, and sense. You like him a surprising amount. He points out trout in the water, and you're glad to invite him to fish here while they stay in the area. You have all the supplies he might need, and know the best spots. As you speak with him your attention is only half distracted by who walks behind you at a short distance.

Hopefully her uncle's happiness makes her happy also.

You have the chance to see, when the walking arrangements change and then she's the one walking beside you.

Honestly, you're not immediately sure what to say, but again, she speaks first.

Yes, she almost certainly doesn't hate you anymore.

Her explanation that she'd been assured of your absence before visiting sounds more like she doesn't want you to think her rude, than expressing disappointment that you are here.

Yes, whatever her past insults, she definitely cares that you don't think badly of her...

As though you ever could.

In mentioning why you returned a day early you mention who you're with, and too late saying Bingley's name reminds you that the last time you two spoke of him was when she (rightfully) blamed you for separating Bingley and her sister.

That silences you for a moment - but she doesn't respond with anger.

Composing yourself, you ask if your sister might be introduced to her. You've spoken of Elizabeth so highly to Georgiana, and so often, that your sister would love to meet her. You don't need to ask - your sister is the social superior, her wishing for the acquaintance is strictly enough for the introduction to be made - but you want to. You mean it, when you ask Elizabeth whether you're asking too much by facilitating the introduction. You want her to have the chance to say no.

But she says yes.

(Even sounding pleased about it, though surprised.)

Which is also a yes to seeing you again during her stay at Lambton. Renewing your acquaintance, despite everything.

The happiness, however irrational, this creates cannot be quelled.

You love her too dearly to not appreciate every fragile overture and sign that she must no longer think you so bad. The letter - your own improved civility - one or both has done away with her dislike.

Replaced it with... well, anything other than dislike is a place to begin.

This time the silence stretches as you walk; she, perhaps, just as lost in thought as yourself.

You could get used to walking around Pemberley with her.

A dangerous thought.

You scarce know what to say as you wait by the carriage for her aunt and uncle to catch up, after she declared herself not tired when you asked if she wanted to come into the house. But, again, she makes the effort to talk to you. You've never spoken of Matlock or Dovedale so persistently, but you want to keep talking to her - hearing her voice - receiving her smiles - for every moment that you can steal.

Four months apart and then the first day seeing her again your heart loves her more than ever before.

And she no longer hates you.

You would have them all come inside, take refreshment, stay, please stay a little longer, but they felt it was time to return to the inn. They're leaving, but you've already organised to bring your sister to see her the day after tomorrow, so it's only a short parting.

Not another four months.

You hand her aunt up into the carriage - and then Elizabeth.

Who is dearest and loveliest to you still, though you might never be able to say those words to her.

You're so aware of feeling her hand in yours, though gloved; the weight and warmth of it. The brief tightening of her fingers on yours as she takes the step up, leaving you bereft when she lets go.

You don't watch them drive away, though you feel her absence palpably as you slowly walk back to the house.

But it's only two days - two days before you'll see her again.

And they're staying for a little while.

All of it is more chances to show her the person you are now. Both the good qualities you never properly revealed before, and the newer ones deliberately acquired to remedy the errors she revealed. Show her you're a man she might admire.

Perhaps a man she might one day be able to love.

It's almost embarrassing, to admit how quickly that wish introduced itself after seeing Elizabeth again.

It probably took under half an hour after you saw her again.

[collophora]

Plan 99's anniversary rough concept

[alchemistc]

She's not ...entirely sure this is a good idea.

Even as she raises her hand to knock she's second guessing herself.

The thing is - the thing is there aren't a lot of people in her life who don't take one look at her and make assumptions. She's petite, she's blonde, her face is eerily symmetrical.

When people see her, they think they know her.

Cap is great. The sort of man she wishes she'd known more of, growing up. The kind of man who stood in front of the entire crew and doled out cleaning duties and cooking duties to his men and didn't blink an eye handing her inventory, but pulled aside a guy six years into the job to inform him that if he made a snide comment about having to do Mona's job again he'd be looking for a new station. Respectfully.

The kind of man who let his crew cut loose and created a kind of family behind those bay doors, but didn't take their shit when they got out of hand

The kind of man who looked at her and just saw another firefighter.

Cap is great.

It's just...

Well, the guys don't go to Cap for advice, and she knows once upon a time that kind of hurt his feelings, but this feels like one of those things his husband is better equipped to handle.

("It's because he's older, right?" Cap had asked once, failing miserably at holding in a pout while the team around him demolished the roast he'd obviously spent hours prepping the night before.

Fred had still had half a loaf of bread in his mouth when he explained that talking to their boss about their sex lives just felt like an HR nightmare.

"So you go to my boyfriend instead?")

Mona's still considering turning heel and leaving the way she came when she hears whistling around the side of the house, and before she can make a break for it, Cap's husband is rounding the corner of the porch, winding his hands in a grease rag, and he's catching sight of her, raising a brow, slowing his steps.

He must see the panicked look in her eye.

"I can turn back around and pretend you were never here," he murmurs, the slightest hint of a smile on his face, and Mona feels every ounce of flight just seep from her bones.

Yeah. Okay. She gets why the guys all think he's the one to go to when they've royally fucked something up.

There's an ease to him, a gentleness that she knows for a fact was hard fought.

"No, I..."

The brow ticks up a little more.

"I just found a new sour Evan won't touch with a ten foot pole, if you're gonna be here a minute," Tommy says, and any resistance left vanishes. Mona's been to enough of Cap's barbecues to know his husband always has the best beer in the county.

"Yeah, okay."

Tommy crosses the length of the porch and glances glumly at his greasy hands. "You mind grabbing the door? Evan throws a fit every time I leave fingerprints behind."

She's interrupting his day, she realizes. He's a weird sort of semi-retired - flies for the county sometimes during wildfire season, flips classic cars from their huge ass garage around the side of the house, spends a month teaching courses to new pilots every year out of state and it's always the crankiest they ever get to see Cap. People charter his chopper, sometimes, although lately it seems like he only keeps the thing around so he can take Cap up to watch spectacular sunsets because they're the most sickeningly perfect couple she's ever met.

Mona grabs the door. Shuffles in ahead of him when he shows no signs of moving, and makes her way down the hall to the kitchen because she's been here enough times by now not to feel as weird about how welcoming they both were right away.

He uses his rag to pull open the sink cabinet and grab the heavy duty soap from underneath to wash his hands.

The scent rolls over her in waves, throwing her back about fifteen years to her parents tiny little apartment over the shop, her father's rough and callused hands soaking under shitty water pressure, the grease under his fingernails he could never quite scrape clean.

Tommy tips a chin at the fridge. "Grab me one, too? Bottle openers on the side."

There's an ease to the way he says it, like this is a normal occurrence, like Mona's ever stepped foot across the threshold for anything that wasn't a station-wide get together. She supposes for him it probably is. At least a few of the guys act like he's their dad, wandering into the house without even bothering to knock, gathering around him when he shows up at the station like lost little puppies.

He's used to it.

He hums his thank you when she sets one of the bottles on the island beside him, and Mona glances around to distract herself while he's drying his hands.

A couple dozen pictures of Cap and Tommy, in various stages of their lives.

The fridge is plastered with pictures. A couple she recognizes as Cap's sister and brother-in-law, two adorable kids at their knees. A guy standing next to a kid wearing a cap and gown and leaning on two crutches. An older man she's lovingly heard Cap refer to as basically his dad - the reason they eat better at work than anyone has the right to. A couple she'd seen at the wedding, standing with a kid she remembers Cap staring at like he was seeing a ghost. There's so many people that she doesn't know, but - there's the station pictures too. Candids of the boys when they were living in the Captain's house, back when Cap first got here, when she'd still been a year and a half from graduating high school and didn't have a fucking clue what she wanted to do with her life. The Christmas that Fred had cursed them with the q-word and Tommy had spent the day in the station kitchen putting together a meal they'd all stuck around to eat after shift despite the exhaustion seeping into their bones, all of A shift crammed together around a tiny wobbly table to squeeze into the picture.

She gets stuck on the picture of the two of them in hard hats, building what she's pretty sure is the wrap around porch she's snuck a few cigarettes on when the house gets a little overwhelming. There's something about the way they're looking at each other that makes her want to cry, a little.

Fuck.

Damnit.

Tommy leans over to tap the picture with a grin. "We had a blowout fight the night before our buddy took this picture," he says, the deep grooves of his smile stretched wide across his face. "I'd left my job and sold my house six months earlier to chase him across the country and he was convinced if he didn't find a way to turn every half-thought-out desire of mine into a reality that I was gonna vanish in the night. He bought the lumber without telling me and I came home to him and his best friend ripping out the stairs to the front door."

Mona's instantly drawn in.

He makes them sound like a train wreck.

If she's got the math right, that was her senior year. She remembers seeing them around town and thinking they were annoyingly sweet. She remembers her mom baking Tommy a casserole for the excuse of getting all the gossip about the Captain's mysterious paramour so she had the upper hand at her book club that weekend.

Tommy taps another. The two of them under a pergola, the expressions on their faces so disgustingly smitten Mona remembers wanting to blow a raspberry in the middle of the ceremony. She'd been so convinced she'd never let herself be so fucking dependent on another person for her happiness.

"He kept it a secret that he'd invited my father to the wedding until the night before. I spent most of my night with a punching bag instead of Evan." He points out another photo from the wedding. "The photographer tried to murder me when she saw my knuckles. Evan could barely fit the ring over my finger."

"Who snitched?" Mona asks, narrowing her eyes, and Tommy grins, huffs a laugh. He gestures vaguely at her face.

"You've got the look," he tells her, which doesn't really explain a whole lot. "And none of Evan's crew ever makes their first visit anything but love life issues."

"It could be something else," Mona argues, gesturing with her beer, and one of his brows ticks up. "It's not, but it could be."

"You want something to eat? Evan's been experimenting with cakes again, and the red velvet white chocolate escaped the discards."

"Is my so called look that bad?"

He grins. "Mostly I'm looking for an excuse for cake before noon."

Christ, he's good at this. It's actually a little eerie, how quickly he's set her at ease. It's been over a year and the guys still call her prickly when they think she can't hear them, but she never calls them out on it because they're not wrong. It takes her forever to warm up to people.

"Is that how this usually works? You butter us up with Cap's food and get us to spill our guts?"

He's already digging plates from a cabinet next to the stove. She can't see his expression, but she can picture the grin on his face. "Usually they raid my fridge and put their feet up on my coffee table before I've fully registered that they're here. It's sort of a novelty to get to act like a host in my own home."

That checks out, if she's being honest. They're all a bunch of rabid animals who've been emboldened by Cap's open door policy and his infectious smile and his incredibly hot and talented husband. She's never quite sure if the guys want to be him or screw him - not that Tommy's ever looked twice at anyone who wasn't Cap.

"I think I'm broken," Mona admits, the words coming out in a rush, her eyes on the dutch oven tucked under one of the wide kitchen windows.

Tommy slides a slice of fucking delicious looking cake her way and takes a swig of his beer. Waits.

Mona reaches for the fork and spills her guts.

---

"Oh, hey Mo," Cap says, stumbling his way over the threshold, eyes lighting on his husband and his expression going gooey.

Tommy broke into the rack of Banquet's an hour ago and Mona's pretty sure she's one with the couch. It's a good couch. When she'd told Tommy so twenty minutes ago there'd been a gleam in his eye she didn't understand.

She's still a little too buzzed to worry about the fact that she's oozing into the cushions and emotionally wrecked. She hasn't cried in front of another human being in at least six years. Tommy's probably a wizard, or something.

"Everything good?" Cap asks, and she knows that they've got a sort of agreement - unless Tommy thinks something is gonna affect the work, whatever Tommy talks about with them doesn't reach Cap's ears.

"Men," Mona huffs, and Cap pauses, shoots another look into the living room.

"Yeah. Men."

"No Cap. Men," she repeats, and he nods, a corner of his mouth quirking up.

"Oh. Men," he enunciates, and Mona feels the scowl on her face grow wider when the two of them share a sappy look. It's super fucking inconvenient to be surrounded by the proof of true fucking love when she's trying to convince herself she's already too jaded to find it. "If you wanna stay for dinner I can tell you the story of the time Tommy tried to leave me because he thought he could make my decisions for me."

Even Tommy's scowl is sappy as hell. It's gross. Shes having a hard time convincing herself it's not the best thing she's ever seen.

She tips her neck against the back of the couch to glance up at him. "Who snitched?"

Cap's laugh filters through the room, and right across from her, where the whole world and Mona can see, Tommy's expression goes warm and vulnerable, like the sound has soothed a few decades of wounds. "Word of advice? Never leave Harry with a secret and a crowded room."

[nunkisketches]

About forgivness

(This is set after the dinner at the Todoroki's, when they got back to UA after the fight)

[thankstothe]

witnesses house and wilson for a sec

“hey whats going on here?”

[wanderinkind]

Washington//2025

[chocokeyboard]

Your love for bunnies is so strong your brother makes a apple bunny and inmediately thinks of you. Sobs on the floor

[gagliandi]

From Idea to Lyrics

From Idea to Lyrics

From Idea to Lyrics: How to Structure Your Song(Inspired by Jack Perricone’s Great Songwriting Techniques)After you’ve decided on a title or central idea, it’s crucial to clarify what you want to say and how you want to say it. This involves choosing your perspective (who’s speaking, and to whom) and developing a concept that ties every lyric element together.The Power of a ‘Concept’A general…

[swkbiggestdefender]

Headcannon that wukong feels incredibly uncomfortable and anxious whenever macaque shapshift into him because he only get reminded of how macaque tried to take his place and hurted his master and brothers using his face

[freshydip]

31 year old bf who just got us stuck in Antarctic pack ice because he wanted to be the first to reach the South pole for his country: we’re going to have to overwinter in the antarctic and i just can’t with this hell crew today

me [heard ‘overwinter in the antarctic’ and got so excited i got nauseous]: i think i hauve scurvy

[aingeal98]

There's this thing where a comic book writer will use a male character as a vehicle for their own misogyny and pedophilia and fans will have the understandable reaction of nooo my fave man wouldn't do that! Because nobody wants to see their favourite character get turned into a pedophile just because one writer is gross. But a lot of time in these conversations I just feel like there's no room for acknowledging the female characters involved in this. Like when Wolfman made Deathstroke a pedophile his interviews made it clear that he didn't see it that way, because to him Tara was the problem. Which is disgusting and incorrect obviously but, it does make me think a lot about Tara being victim blamed both in and out of universe and how she accidentally became a far more compelling character than Slade due to the horrific misogyny she faced from the characters and from her writers. And she's probably one of the better examples of fandom rallying against writer bullshit on behalf of the woman, since Slade is a villain and the judas contract is such an iconic and undeniably canon story that no one can really ignore her mistreatment. But when it's Bruce and Babs or Hal and Arisia, both not canon with current main continuity (Which is good! It's very good that these stories aren't canon!), there tends to be this desire to sweep it completely under the rug as a stain against the heroic men. And that's very understandable.

But... the men are usually fine, because they're the bigger names. Whereas the women can get sullied for longer with the bad writing: think about misogynist bat fans claiming Barbara's been with the entire family and calling her all sorts of names as a "joke" regardless of how brubabs isn't canon. Or how I only ever see Arisia mentioned as a smear against Hal, never as her own character. He recovered from it, she's forever known as the character that a bad writer used to make Hal a pedo.

I don't think it's fair to expect everyone to care about a minor side character more than the main but I also do think that there's room to actually dive into the female characters as more than just "the disgusting storyline we'd like to forget." It's a terrible story that shouldn't have happened, but it did. At least to her. And I'd like more deep dives into how the girls affected would grapple with that, especially when it was "heroes" that preyed on them.

[a--a---a]

thinking back on his life, eddie realizes that there were...a lot of instances...where it was pretty obvious that he's gay. whether it's the not feeling comfortable taking next steps with ana or the way, when they were younger, he would zone out during intimate times with shannon, or mb during the military when his bunk mates were saying how they missed porn or their wives (biblically) and he just...didn't. when he's finally out, when he's finally admitted to himself that big piece that he's been stowing away and compartmentalizing due to family stress and life stress and the fact that he rests most of his identity in being a father to christopher, he almost feels lighter.

so later (later) when he and buck are finally together and he can't help drooling over this man who's like washing the firetruck in basically a see through wet t shirt, or he's falling head over feet because buck is holding his hand while they pick out groceries, or they're lying together in bed peacefully he just feels like it makes a lot of sense. (he's gay.)

[into-fiction]

"observant but clueless elphie pov sorta kinda character study of glinda" is really my calling card huh. wonder how many of them i can get away with tbh lol

[glitter-stained]

Me: yeah so this fanfic is a slow burn about Roy and Jason falling slowly but deeply in love with eachother, learning to see past their projections and defensive walls and discovering tenderness within eachother, all symbolized through the horse movie tropes and a sideplot of the horses falling in love because apparently I have a public to please.

My word doc, mysteriously: Cheshire was so beautiful. Jade Nguyen breathed air and it was extremely aesthetically pleasing. Her skin, clear of any blemish, seemed to soften the shape of the atmosphere. The curve of her eyelids curled like a shadow over her deep dark eyed that seemed to captivate the light. Her lips parted, fascinating glimpse of breath, and it was like her voice was a lifeline, a silver thread to hold onto and breathe out in tune as he stood at the frontier of her horizon of events.