hey we should do that 3 sentence fanfic thing again that would be awesome.

naranja-in-pajamas:

  • prompt
  • pairing
  • au setting
  • FANDOM OR ORIGINAL 
  • PLEASE
  • GO
  • please

(Source: dramaticleaves)

11 months ago · 220 notes · Reblog
#asks 

meeting in a dream

naranja-in-pajamas:

Write a scene where your character wakes up to find them self in a room, and every aspect of their life was nothing more than a dream. How do they react?

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1 year ago · 4 notes · Reblog
#original #circa 2012 

vonnietalk whispered,

ohmygoodnes.. i'm in love. your writings and blog style is so wonderful ^^ so glad i found ur writing blog, its so inspirational cuz i love writing too haha (:

Thank you very much! I’m glad I can make things to inspire! :)

untitled

It’s that itch beneath the skin

no matter how much you scratch it can’t be relieved.

It’s that scratching, that scratching against surfaces

that serves no purposes worth pursuing.

It’s the no matter how hard you try

it’s the no matter how jaded, how damaged, how cold

you try to be dance of the devilish and persistent and the

inability to hold onto all you are and all you try to be.

It’s that feeling that haunts, that lingers, that taunts

it pulls and pulls and pulls until heartstrings snap and

rhythmic beatings of heart turn to an empty chorus of rap

but you’re still singing to the same old song and dance

because you don’t know how to release it

nor do you understand how to embrace it

so you dance and you dance and you sing and you hope that

you forget the words one day but they come natural like instincts 

as though emotions are something meant to 

be felt and heard instead of sheltered.

To what do we bow and break and yield and 

try so desperately to shake 

to what to we owe the pleasure of displeasure

of ache and want and need and yet no strength to act

no strength to resist

So we sit in wait for the drumming sound to silence

for the cheap records to stop scratching away at itches that

just cannot be quelled by common fingers

for cheap beats to regress into pleasing sounds

Unlit cancer rests between the chapped and rough lips of Luce Worth as he readies himself in the bathroom mirror. He’s grinning at himself out of vanity(his good looks are something worth cherishing and everyone is entitled to their patron sin) white teeth glimmering against light-streaked glass, pale blue eyes piercing like a knife but soft as the sky. Slender fingers fiddle against thinly stripped silk, fold, loop, tie, four in hand knot, pulling off casual with a simple white button-down shirt.

Another once over in the mirror. Vanity, but can one really make such a claim to sin when one does not like everything seen in a reflection? Thoughts wander, take hold, and he’s bothered for only those few moments between self-disgust and reaching for the little orange bottle in the cabinet.

Just one to take the edge off. 

Pill. Water. 

Cigarettes aren’t enough any more(which brings him to discard the one already between his lips). Just one, followed by water. Dry lips are relieved by the moisture but cuts and chaps do not heal so quickly and are merely sated for the moment.

There’s an exhale after swallowing the water and non-prescription RX medication, a breath of contentment and neck stretches as head tilts backwards, eyes refocusing against bright and direct artificial light. 

The remaining pills rattle and the shallow contact of plastic container against porcelain sink echoes against ceramic tiled surfaces and Luce leans over, forehead pressing against cold mirrored glass. The contrasting feeling of lightness and heavy weight in his head is a pleasant rush of immediate high and lips curl lazily into what he intends to be a grin. 

What is he doing putting on a tie and a fancy shirt only to blend into a world that he’s not sure he wants to be part of any more? When has he ever cared to impress anyone? Never. He glances at himself in the mirror again, whose blue eyes are those? Whose blurred features catch in his eye? Surely not his, for Luce Worth would never wear such a mask, never put on such a façade. He scoffs, frowning immediately.

The edge is still there. 

Just a couple more. It’ll take the edge off.

Pills. Water. Just one more. Repeat steps one and two.

This time moisture lingers on the corners of his mouth; he doesn’t care enough to wipe it away. Perhaps the visage in the mirror will be pleasing he hopes as his head tilts again to catch blurred sight of ordinarily sharp features. Blond hair is the only thing distinguishable from vague tones of flesh. Blue eyes are blended against abstract shapes and drops of water on the mirror. Had he splashed upwards? But he can’t see his eyes any more, the eyes he couldn’t bear to look into for fear and loathing. Those blue eyes did not hold who he was any more and they looked at him with such scorn.

Just one more to take the edge off.

Just one.

Pill. Water. Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

PUKES ONTO KEYBOARD.

Tender moments are seldom between them but, somewhere hidden in the depths of exchanging punches and and harsh words, they exist. They’re rare and hidden like delicate and fragile treasures that would shatter at the mere light of day. The mere touch of mortal hands would taint and deprive them of value, the linger of human eyes would appraise incorrectly leaving priceless artefacts with worthless labels. Moments like these are not to be shared with those who are not involved, with outsiders, with wandering glances and gazes and long disapproving stares at the languid movements of tongues in cheek, against lips, and teeth catching dried, chapped, raw skin. No one is to hear the sighs and breaths and occasional whispers of profanity against collarbones and flexing tendons, no one is to intrude on the rare tenderness that is displayed between rich and hard grinding of hips, filthy words, grasping fingers.

Tender moments are redefined with moments that are only slightly more tame that usual interaction, less punching and fighting and more kissing and pressing and touching and hitches in breathing. More secrecy and protection of the odd intimacy, less public display of rough and rowdy foreplay(that onlookers think nothing of besides fighting boys, they are not enlightened or subscribed to the exclusive club after all.)

(Source: madragingven)

wake

Some patients can’t be saved

Wrist deep in blood, cursing breaths, frantic and shaking hands, part of Luce already knows it’s over, gone, it’s done there is nothing more he can do, but even so he continues working hopelessly on his client. Incoherent mumblings fall into the air around him, can’t be gone, can’t be gone, blood is still flowing from the wound he was trying so hard to stitch.

but that burden’s not on you

Can’t be gone. Gone. No.

some patients can’t be saved

His fingers lost the needle ages ago but his hands still go through to motions of sewing what cannot be salvaged. Good doctors don’t let their patients die on the operating table, good doctors don’t tremble and shake and continue work on corpses bathed in dim and unflattering artificial light. Perhaps he was dead the moment he walked through the door clutching at impossible wounds to his abdomen, dripping blood on the cold and dingy cement floor like it was out of fashion.

but that burden’s not on you

But pre-wrapped and packaged to death’s front door or not the moment he stopped breathing was on Luce’s operating table and it was his wrists and hands that were covered in the blood that he couldn’t get back in fast enough. And even if this stranger’s recovery was not written in the stars his death certificate would be written in Luce’s script, messy, illegible, blood-stained scrawls of a failed doctor.

some patients can’t be saved

there are other differences…

John asks what the differences are and Jade offers nothing but a shrug and a demure smile. Just things, she says, her lips caught between her overgrown front teeth and she absently begins fiddling with the keyboard controls for John’s silly Ghostbuster’s game.

John persists, truly curious because he honestly cannot define Davesprite and Dave as separate beings. Dave is Dave.

Jade shakes her head again and reassures John that he doesn’t have to worry about it. And his face turns into skepticism and a little bit of frustration but he sighs and says okay fine, let’s just play Ghostbuster’s.

Relieved, Jade looks back to the screen with a smile and a flushed face that she hopes John doesn’t notice.

The biggest difference of them all, the one she can not overlook the way she overlooks the cawing and the wings, is that he is not her Dave.

you are not allowed to touch Me. My fingers will graze your skin, lips will claim your throat I will draw blood against the surface and breath from your lungs and they will clash like cymbals in sweet harmony with the music My fingers play across your ribs, your thighs, your spine. But you cannot play My skin until I give you word. You can grasp and cling to sheets, blankets, headboard, until knuckles are white and fingers weak from tension. you may speak, I grant you the privilege of words, the opportunity to MAKE Me want to let you touch Me and you should feel oh so honoured. you must be convincing, you must prove to Me that your fingers are desperate to curl in My hair, to claim My throat with a cutting precision and to drown Me in ecstasy with your lips, your hands, your everything. Tell me where your fingers would wander, how your hands would hold My wrists and you would make Me keen for you the way you yearn for Me now as I pull my lips away from the kiss that I never offered you. you are not being a very good boy.

artifacts

you’re damaged

but you are not worth any less

than that without cracks or scars

it makes you priceless

you are an artifact, one that must be

kept safe

let me guard you in a stronghold

you’re damaged and i don’t want to fix you

i want to embrace you for your flaws and 

in exchange i’ll show you how damaged i am

you can peek at my cracks and chips

run your fingers along the spaces of my heart

and body where pieces are left missing

together we’ll be artifacts 

priceless and treasured

keep me safe but do not fix me

for i cannot be tinkered with

like common clockwork

my spaces cannot be filled with 

out of era substances. The damage is already done 

and you can soothe and soothe and kiss and 

touch but do not fix and please try not to break

and i know your inner workings 

cannot be touched or tampered with

in such a similar way to mine

and I am perfectly fine with that

just let me lay with you, inside you

let me soothe and touch let me kiss

and let my fingers fill the space between yours

as our hands lie unbroken and entwined and we breathe

easy now knowing we are worn and tired and broken

and we do not need to be fixed 

we do not need a worth defined by a price

we define each other with writings against skin and with

scars we don’t need to hide