my hand writing is the worst shit ever

anonymous asked:

Can you do an angsty fic based off the song "Dancing on My Own" by Calum Scott pa-leeeaaasseee! I'm in a very angsty mood right now and need this. Cheers! xo

i have been watching old niall interviews from after he released this town and in one of them he said after writing this town he had kind of a funk and like the next 30 songs he wrote were “absolute crap”. how do you think he would act coming home from the studio to his missus during that time? small drabble maybe please!

So I joined these.  The second one isn’t exact but I felt it fit here.  Enjoy the pain y’all.

“Willie…ya wanna go out tonight?”

“Um…suuuuuuure.”  Willie answered in a slight state of shock.  

I couldn’t blame him.  It usually wasn’t my idea to hit the clubs.  Not lately anyway.  I had an album to write and record.  I’d promised it would be out by spring, summer at the latest.  And when I’d released “This Town” I really thought I could meet that deadline.

But nothing I’d written since “This Town” was worth the paper it was written on.  I couldn’t put together a coherent though no matter what I did.  The last 30 songs had to be the worst shit I’d ever egotistically called music.

I needed a release.  The pressure I was putting on myself was stifling.  I couldn’t think.  I couldn’t write.  And worst of all, I couldn’t feel.

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Tonight is the final night of The Vampire Diaries. While most are shedding tears of sadness, I’m shedding tears of happiness. 8 long years I’ve had to deal with inconsistent writing, awful ships, fandom coddling, disastrous retcons, and ship wars.

TVD had so much potential to be an amazing show. That was until Julie Plague got her grubby hands on the sole writing, and hired the devil incarnate Caroline Drywall. They ran one of my favorite shows, a show I used to run home to every Thursday, into the ground. They lived their lives through certain characters and ships, to live out some pathetic school girl fantasy.

The only main POC who happens to also be a WOC, got the worst treatment of all. Bonnie Bennett, who I related to the most on the show, was the most selfless, kickass character I’ve ever known. But because she wasn’t Caroline or Eleanor, she got the shit end of the stick. Bonnie fans wanted nothing but the best for her. It took three seasons for Bonnie to even get a house, when we’ve already visited the other girls home. Where was Bonnie’s 18th birthday? Caroline and Elmo got one.

Don’t even get me started on Bamon not being canon. Or any interesting Bonnie ship for that matter. Instead we were thrown bread crumbs (i.e. B/remey & Bon/nzo) to “satisfy” us. I can go on forever on why Bamon should have been canon, but I’ll leave that for the Bamon Captain, Ian Somerhalder.

“Certain rabid Bonnie fans…”

“Bonnie is too beautiful and strong to be with a vampire like Kol…”

But yet this woman spent 8 years coddling another certain fan base, giving them stunt flash backs and retconned storylines.

I’m gonna stop now. I just wanna say goodbye and good riddance.

Originally posted by realitytvgifs

Originally posted by secondstartotherightxo

Skysolo drabble loosely inspired by this amazing artwork.

“What makes you think I need your help?”

The kid – he looks like a kid, anyway, maybe 19 or 20 at most – cants his head toward one shoulder with a charmingly lopsided smile. Sandy blond hair tumbles across his forehead, those brilliantly blue eyes altogether too knowledgeable for someone who looks as though he’s still tuning the finer points of puberty.

“You’re lost,” the kid states, matter-of-fact, though his tone is faintly teasing. “You have no water, no shelter, no means of transport. You’re miles from the nearest settlement. You’re –”

“Alright already, I got it.” Han huffs an irritable sigh and rubs a wide palm over his eyes. Albeit begrudgingly, he’s got to admit that the kid makes a valid point. How else is he supposed to fix his ship and get out of this place in one piece? That asteroid belt had come out of nowhere, leaving a gaping hole the size of an R2 unit in the Falcon’s hull. He’d been lucky to make it down to solid ground with only a nasty bump or two, though it was just his rotten luck that he’d landed in the middle of a desert wasteland with nothing but sand and rock and open sky as far as he could see. A day of wading through searing-hot sand had gotten him nowhere other than hopelessly lost, harsh sun merciless on the exposed nape of his neck. The Falcon’s emergency supplies would only last him so long; he needed to find a town. 

Preferably one with a well-stocked tavern.

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