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Me- sees a prompt, wants to write a small concise breathtaking short story

Also me- makes alternate universe, fuckton of characters, a sequel and a spin-off.

1 notes

Prompt 123

“Get out of my sight.”

“B-but-“

Hero beamed. “Is what I would have said if I didn’t love you.”

A beat.

“Have I ever mentioned how much I wanted to kill you?”

“Plenty of times, darling, but would you look at that? I’m still here.”

15 notes

“he’s that guy.” the villainess thought.

she quickly made a turn, wanting to avoid meeting the guy she met on the streets. “if he was here, invited at the banquet, then that must mean that he’s a noble.”

unfortunately, fate must have wanted for them to cross each other’s paths that she couldn’t avoid him entirely. or was it him who seemed drawn to her?

“excuse me, my lady. may i dance with you?”

the villainess’ mouth dropped open at the hero’s sudden request. surely, she won’t be able to reject his request, unless she was that heartless.

“damn,” she thought, biting her lower lip as she stared up to him.

the hero does seem like he enjoyed this that he even smiled sweetly at her. just how could she escape this troublesome guy?

image

۵ ─ lily.

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Quote
<div> —  Jack Kerouac<br> </div><span>I was a young writer and I wanted to take off.</span>
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When a fanfic on AO3 is labeled as *character*/reader but then the main character is an OC 😭

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People know.

People can see it.

People talk and people whisper.

People ask and people give you looks.

Those looks that warm your cheeks.

Looks that make you worry they might discover the truth.

People can see. I know because I see, too.

In others.

People recognize a lie, even when you believe it.

Because even when my lips say no, you’re mistaken.

My eyes scream yes.

Before my brain gets the thought that the heart doesn’t want to send, my eyes already know it.

And so, people know it, too.

Before me, people know.

They know we’re in love, even before we realized we walked in.

And closed the door behind us.

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dysphoria

She. Like a bullet does it break through my skin. Her. Like an arrow does it pierce my heart. But loving she, but kissing her, oh as a ballad rings deep in my sorrow chest. Like a hole does my rib cage serve to love, to ache and pound for one called she. To call and beckon, to sing like my voice is crystal and my blood is burning, alight of fire. Kindled to burn forever, of a fire ignited with no heart set in mind.

Beat like a butterfly’s wings, hollow as a forest fire oak. I am alive and I am fire. I am heavy, soaked through to the bone and destined to drown. Sobs that crack my throat in two, screams in the night that ricochet from the cave walls of a car, piece by piece do I long to shatter. Sweeter than a cries of love, wanton and breathy, wails of misery. Of endless end, of suffering up in grey, thick smoke. Seductive and breathless is death in the eyes of a man in his stolen skin.

Nails blunt tear at my stomach, ripping and gouging and wanting. Selfish and insatiable is the hunger of wrongful birth. Incurable by short hair or him and he and his. Unwantable by she and her and hers. Ghostly and pale and monstrous is this loveable disdain, is this want for Lucifer to claw my somber and melancholy eyes from their sleepless sockets.

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Te culpo a tí, intruso

De llegar y ganarte mi confiaza

De hacerme adicta a tus labios a tus brazos incluso aún cuando no me querías para tí

Te culpo de mi dolor

De las largas noches entre llantos desconsolados por el filo de tus labios

Del nudo en mi garganta y del constante sentimiento de opresión en mi pecho

Te culpo por que me diste todo el espació para la ilusión de una hermosa historía juntos que con tus acciones me hiciste abrir los ojos

Te culpo de que me cueste dejarte incluso cuando no te esfuerzas por hacerme feliz


Kleon

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There’s a paradox presented to anyone who falls in love with their oppressor 

It is so sweet 

The sweet relief of being the be all end all of their relief 

To hear a man scream under me 

The sweet sound of reparation

And yet, 

I do not feel complete hatred for men 

How could I? 

When they’re sweetness is like a crisp bitter grapefruit on my sore bitten lips 

I suck you up 

In this culture that should have called you by now with it’s ruthless ways 

But, 

It hasn’t perhaps because you are not yet too far gone 

Some might condemn me for my mercy 

But frankly people have told me what I can and can’t be for so long 

That regardless of whether it is in favor of my best interest I will defy

Complexity and the enigmatic nature of humanity is not a reality we share 

I embrace it 

you, the big, you deflect it 

And in that sense I side with my oppressor 

And I wont feel shame 

I wont feel worthless 

I will only know that I will have achieved true pleasure for myself and sex 

And isn’t that partially what this is all about 

To fuck who I want How I want 

Even If I’ve never been fucked the way people would accept 

That’s just the way it is 

And only I have the right to interpret it 

It is my history 

You have no say in my life 

I wanna be choked and fucked 

Just because I want too

Don’t assign your baggage to my cart 

And we’ll be fine.

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When I love someone

I think I will love them forever

And then the feelings I have are suddenly taken back

By my own self

Without permission

My emotions rock back and forth like the waves

And they hit the rocks hard and furious

But are quieted and calm a second later

I am scared to love because I am not in control of them

I cannot put someone through that

Maybe because I was.


Alex Delorme

3 notes
<div> —  <a href="https://href.li/?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ezq_oPDu9bw&ab_channel=BullBear">x</a><br> </div><span>Has there ever been an english prof that doesn’t have a ‘weird’ obsession with a writer who has been dead for 500 years?! Like… how do you think she got into lit? It’s her job to be obsessed with dead writers.</span>
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hair

Every haircut went shorter. Inches and inches, fallen to the ground like petals off blooming trees, littering the floor in a sea of brown. I’d sit there, wrapped in a cloak of black, eyes blurry with bad vision. Isn’t this cute? My hairstylist would prompt. Isn’t this fun?

I stare at myself during haircuts. Blurry and unfocused, I’m a splash of different colors. Like abstract art, the circle of my round face surrounded by brown swirls, big black obscuring my torso, two long legs crossed with black boots at the end. It’s thrilling to be unsure for so long, an hour of guessing what my appearance would be at the end of the adventure. Exhilarating was it to fly through each emotion like a bird through wispy, white clouds. Freeing.

Slices, chunks, strands. The scissors cut insistently, the blow drier losing my hearing in a sea of whooshes and buzzing. You go shorter every time, my hairstylist would comment. Just don’t ask for a buzzcut.

2 notes

salut. made the decision to start being more active on here, posting anything and everything, and meeting tons of interesting people…mainly cause I’m tired of keeping it all in my head, you know ?

so, enchanté :)

image
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Bagian dari kisah 2…

Apa kata sekitar tentang hidup yang kau jalani?

Sudah berapa banyak yang mengomentari tentang hidupmu?

Tentang usiamu

Tentang pilihan-pilihan yang kamu ambil…

Hemmm… Tak mudah memang menutup mata dan telinga rapat-rapat tentang mereka. Sungguh tak mudah, tapi bukan berarti sulit dan tak mungkin.


Karena terkadang kita perlu berjalan santai dengan pilihan pilihan yg kita pilih tanpa terganggu dengan kata mereka.

Bukan tentang tidak mendengar nasehat mereka… Tapi apakah nasehat itu berujung hujatan?


Aaahhh… Bukankah adab menasehati itu tanpa sepengetahuan orang lain dan bahkan sangat dianjurkan ketika tak seorang pun yang tahu.


Magetan, 28 Februari 2021

3 notes

2.28.21 | 12:57 AM

if only i could get in my toyota before the moon dims // and drive towards the end of this winter island // where small towns push against each other // like crooked teeth // and hold their breaths // two hours later i would be at the lighthouse // surrounded by the murky ocean and apple pie // the trees are the lungs // thats what my mom told me the first time we drove out there // the radio on and the hampton bay sun overhead // id climb the spiral staircase // where black ships meet the shore // and maybe become the wind and rain // maybe then i wouldnt have to be up for work tomorrow

v.a

2 notes

kindled hatred

I hated your confidence. It filled me with an ugly emotion, one black and thick that dripped down my ribs from my throat. It was of the same material that made one roll their eyes, or scoff at another, gruesome and twisted and undeserving. I hated your confidence, and I was a bad actor.

I’d grind my teeth when you were excited. And look away when you smiled. I would get this overwhelming sense inside me, horrific and unstoppable, telling me to say something mean. To spit out a nasty comment, to get under your skin and make you insecure again. It was some unhinged fire inside me that begged me desperately to tear you down, like the pressure on a toothache would it sooth my bitter insides.

I pushed it down for you. I pushed it down like a ferocious beast in need of being tamed, I pulled at it and prodded it, I stared longingly at it as if it would reveal to me why it was there. I sighed, discontent with all my insightful pondering. I wasn’t insecure myself, selfish and maybe arrogant could I be, but nothing close to feeling the need to compensate. So why?

Maybe it was the fact I never liked you to begin with. We rarely shared interests, and when we did, the monster inside me would laugh at you. You liked things I found deplorable, your music taste made me roll my eyes, your attitude made me squeeze my knuckles white. I hated your voice, and sometimes I’d stare at your butterscotch face with unexplainable disgust. Evil, black smoke of a bad personality infected my brain. Multiplying every time you became happier. I hated the way you’d sigh, the way you held your glass of drink, the way your eyelashes fell on your cheeks when you closed your eyes. I hated you, maybe I hated you. Maybe I hated you. I just did.

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is it still considered procrastination if i’m avoiding my WIP by doing unnecessarily extensive worldbuilding for it?

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Am I always going to be like this? Like a gohst looking in on the world from a different plane. Close enough to gather renements of people and emotions. But not brave enough to make a clear picture out of the pieces?

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