Did I really play with children this time? Not in dreams but in real life? Did I really play with children not just alone but with someone? Yes I do. I played with children with someone and it was such a wonderful company with someone. It was my first time playing with the children with someone, never did I know it was more pleasurable.
I wonder if we can have a staircase soon to go up.
I would love to take the stairs with someone soon.
Notes: this was a oneshot I wrote when I was eighteen - I’m 21 now - but I think it was one of my better ones. This was back when I used to write for third person, female readers, and I have a few more oneshots like this in such a restricted context (?) My apologies, I guess I just hated writing in second person narrative. I will release a few more of these older oneshots and then start editing future ones/releasing new ones and have them be more accommodating/gender-neutral.
Smut warning, though it’s not graphic. That is the point, however. This is all about the emotions. I also normally don’t write in exclusively present tense but here we are.
[F/n] = First name. [L/n] = last name.
Teeth chattering, muscles aching, heart throbbing.
Years have gone and your touch keeps on haunting me.
I’m still here, loving you since twenty sixteen.
Certain times calls for certain measures,
And sometimes I’ve made foolish decisions.
Recklessness is in my nature.
Not a care in things, oblivious to others.
I wished I lived like I’m made of glass.
imagine loving so much that your heart hurts just looking at them because you know if they would ever come close to leaving you, you’d know exactly why funerals are for the living and not for the dead.
chest thump like fear nothing or at least nothing enough to alter course, starboard to port, starving in short, a most alarming sort of sport like competition, sport like hunting sport like the hunted like destinies shunted these developmentally stunted cunts and all their well-worn ruts where enough was never enough
tub-thump like fear nothing like war cry like ready, life at high velocities and the comparison of relative viscosities of blood, water, other such interchangeable substances theres too much of this them in our us too much dirt in the cuts, infection, infective insurrection these misdirections in the base conception we discuss the differences with utter indifference and weigh the sin against the penance, prayer
wake up like fear nothing but i mean absolutely fucking terrified of nothing the heart thumping warning of red sky mornings pumping cold blood barely warming with the sun, this perpetually coming undone these teeth we sink for fun for fuck for love for lust for lunch like we all gotta eat, carnivorous, evolutions a bitch like that sometimes where only the fittest survive and othertimes only some are truly free to live life, we find that we cant find much in this dying light, failing, these ghost-dance flailings,
lost blood like fear nothing, consciousness slips into a cold and shivering bliss no goodbye note no farewell kiss just sink into a welcoming abyss, closed-eye nothing amiss this is a place of dreams, fully realized or died, withered on vine, really either way is fine and mostly the same on a long enough timeline
Cracked stones and parakeets
The sky was the colour of gravestones. A light rain was falling, the kind that is imperceptibly fine but leaves you wet through. I had neither a hood nor an umbrella but nevertheless was committed; it was too late to turn back.
My journey takes me past an old stone church with a small graveyard. I always intend to get closer to better inspect and take photos of the medieval building but alas! my…
If all my life was an empty page, I’d write about you.
I am writing because they told me to never start a sentence with because. But I wasn’t trying to make a sentence—I was trying to break free. Because freedom, I am told, is nothing but the distance between the hunter and its prey.
Ocean Vuong, from On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous
I fell in love with the way you care so easily and are kind with no exceptions. The love I feel when I’m in your space is so comforting and protective, and it means everything to me.
And in the end, love is good reason for everything to fall apart.
We held the bitter taste of liquor in our moths
Far different from the sweet tastes we grew up with
And took deeply with each inhalation
Drags of sharp smoke to the back of our throats
Until we couldn’t breathe without poisoned air
We altered our images
Changed how we viewed ourselves
Hid our true interests locked in the back of our minds
Swung back and forth between moods
Just like we used to play on your childhood swing-set
in the backyard heat of the summer sun
We exchanged friendship for false passion
Throwing away our hopes and dreams
All just a bigger version of the games we would play
Yet we only now realised
We wasted our lives encased in the fantasy of growing up
Dean. Watching a new horror show with my brother, thinking I should love Sam- the one who ran away to learn, the one who loses his love, the one with the long hair and the resentment for his past, and I do, I love Sam, but the moment I see Dean I am gone. Dean with his wide smile and inappropriate flirting and the ache, the profound ache, that shines through his laughing eyes. It takes a little while to discover how much I see myself in him. Eldest sibling, caring for your brother, trying to keep a family together:I don’t know yet about the deep self loathing and the repressed sexuality, but it’s like looking in a fun house mirror, like seeing long buried parts of myself blown out of proportion on a screen. I love Dean, and in loving him I start to forgive myself, I start to accept myself, and yes,l understand being willing to go to hell for someone you love. I don’t believe in angels until I fall in love with one. I grow, and I work on myself, and now Dean is no longer my reflection, he is a companion through dark roads-I walk through forests of shadow and hear him sing beside me, off tune and with great joy, as we come near the door to Hell. ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE. Except Dean is hope. Dean is faith, faith in people and affection and friendship, and I find myself believing again, a belief in humanity that is holier than anything I have ever experienced. Green eyes, shards of hope. Through suffering and sorrow I see them and remember: if there’s anything worth dying for, this is it, this life, these people, this world.
He’s just a character. He’s halfway real. He’s my companion in solitude. I want the skies to scream once more that Dean Winchester is saved, because a part of myself will always be saved with him-by him.
and if I look, you think of the worst.
you hide behind thunderstorms, you cry and tell yourself how utterly broken you are—how you despise the ugliness covering you.
but you haven’t seen your reflection yet, how the sea always misses your presence, how it longs to view the beauty that you are, how it longs to be blessed with your radiant glow.
please love, show yourself, and I will make sure to make you feel beautiful.
This image is from this post!
Loving you is simple.
It’s the first sip of a perfect temperature latte. It’s waking up from a nap and realizing that your migraine is finally gone. It’s the moment in a song that makes your soul sing.
It’s your fingers intertwined with mine and your knee pressing against my thigh and the way we sometimes say the same exact thing at the same exact time.
It’s simple to drive out to the lookout to watch the sunset with you. It’s harder to capture that sunset on canvas the next day, to tweak the colors and the composition to reflect how I felt sitting in that car with you, watching the sky be painted in reds and purples and love and hope and orange and the shade of green in the center of your iris.
I’ve written hundreds and thousands of words about you. And I’ll keep writing them. Because everything I write is so complicated, and loving you is so simple.
There is a certain essence to his beauty.
My eyes followed his giant hands from pot to pot, their bulging veins shaking hints of spice across the bubbling cauldrons. I’m mesmerized by his concentration on each dish, the tick in his jaw, the slight raise in eyebrows, the quiet mumbles underneath his breath, recollecting recipes in his attentive mind as if his grandmother was guiding him through.…