of all the words of tongue or pen

a prose poem about ghosts

we’ll help you, my mother tells me, but you’ve got to want to help yourself too. my father, standing by my bed, saying, play the piano again for us, for your mind. i think of what it will mean to take medication: the white pill between my fingers like a secret, a pearl pressed flat on a train track. the cold water glass. my heart unfurling.

i dig through the dusty piano bench. pressed in a yellowed 60s copy of preparatory exercises are loose leaf pages, a secret. titled sebastian in someone else’s handwriting, scanned copy of notes drawn in pen on printed staff. sebastian, meaning: basket of marigolds, summer as rich as wine, brideshead, in the time before depression when my tongue was a moon crater still learning to how to taste the word man.

here, by the keys, my bones hum. melancholy is a night with no wind pressed up against my ribs. i hold on to my body as if it were its own secret, me, my blood, and all the words i cannot say. take my time with each note. my hands wreaths of rust, the dust spilling out of me. i think again of the pills, my heart prying itself open to reveal the real heart nestled inside, the red one, the one that beats.

summer is only a word, but it’s an orange word, a kind of burning. i play softly. there’s a ghost in the room somewhere. he might be sitting on the bench. he might be evaporating.

utopia // stiles stilinski

Summary: Stiles & Y/N escape their perfect city of Utopia only to face the dangers of the supernatural

Requested: no, but @sincerelystiles gave me the motivation to post this & @stilinski-jpeg was beyond supportive with this idea

Pairing: Stiles & Y/N

Warning: yes, mature language, themes & smut throughout

Masterlist

By definition, it was suppose to be a perfect society but it was far from it. The concrete walls acted as a prison and the citizens were it’s inmates. It was originally suppose to be a temporary solution to the growing outbreak of the supernatural. That was 5 years ago. It was a now permanent solution as two races competed for world domination.

Each citizen was stripped of their individuality, each given a similar set of clothes and a number to replace their name. Women had to wear their hair tied back in a bun while men had to keep their hair free of any unnatural product. They were all served the same meal everyday and no matter what job they did for the colony, they all received the same amount of pay. There was absolutely no way to strive in the Utopia, making it a perfect society in the sense that everyone was equal.

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Petrichor [Yoonmin - M]

Author’s Note: This became way longer than intended, but enjoy university!au Yoonmin; apologies if at times they seem a bit out of character. This is for the lovely fic exchange with @btsbound.

Word Count: 11,861 (lord help me)

Originally posted by myloveseokjin

pet·ri·chor ˈpeˌtrīkôr/

noun

a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather.


There are very few things in the world that truly grate on Yoongi’s nerves.

  1. When the sunlight creeps in his bedroom window, on the days when he was up far too late the night before; albeit the countless number of times he’s shut the blinds (he’s positive he did), some always manages to sneak through, successfully waking him hours before his mind was ready.
  2. When his roommate (and best friend) Hoseok always steals the last banana milk, even if Yoongi writes his name all over the damn bottle. (It’s not that big, there’s not that much space to scribble on, you’d think he’d get the point after four years?)
  3. And finally, when his favorite study room is taken in the library, the one by the far back window where it’s warm, and honestly, the best place for Yoongi to sleep in between classes.

And as his luck would have it, one of the three things happened to him today. Needless to say, he was in a shitty mood.

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I Can Do It

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1670

Warnings: Angst, serious injury during a hunt, and loss of hearing…I think that’s it.

A/N: This is for @little-red-83 ’s Love Your “Flaws” Writing Challenge. My prompts are Deafness and Human by Christina Perri. I grew up with a sister that has been hearing impaired since birth but have never really experienced what it is like first hand. That being said, I hope I got what this experience is like close to accurate and if not I apologize. Many thanks to my wonderful beta, @inmysparetime0, who also submitted the gif to me quite a while ago. It’s been a long time coming, this fic has haunted me for months. It has taken me several computer crashes and three times longer than usual to get this posted using my daughter’s computer…but here it is. Hope you like it.


Dean’s words echoed in your head, “If you can’t protect yourself, then you shouldn’t be hunting.”

But that was years ago and wasn’t directed at you, but damn if it didn’t apply to you now.

You know that it wasn’t your fault that this has happened to you. It was a freak accident that no one saw coming. It was a risk every hunter took every day. You had never stopped to think of this outcome though. Death, sure. Major injury, absolutely, but not like this.

When the explosion happened the last thing you remembered was Dean yelling out for you, then darkness. When you woke up nothing but pain and silence. It was different than any silence you had ever heard before. What most people think is silence, isn’t. There are still tiny noises in the air that are so small the average person doesn’t register them. A true silence was void of all noise. That was exactly what you were experiencing now and it was terrifying.

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AU #2: Telepathy Isn’t Special (1)

this one i titled Telepathy Isn’t Special. Ain’t that fun? ITS A KURT FIC GET EXCITED

Also it’s pretty much another soul mate au sorta thing but this soul mate thing is a presence in the mind, like you’re linked and can access each other whenever you want but it’s not always.


You grimaced, the weight of another mind pressing against yours and your fingers clenched around your pen.

I’m busy. You shot to the sudden presence and you felt it wince, the unhappiness at being forced away. Your heart twinges and you send begrudging affection toward the presence, feeling it light up.

I missed you. The presence answers and your stomach flips, your lips turning up helplessly. You let the presence bath in your matched feelings before you remind it that you really are busy. This time, it recedes happily, wishing you good luck and you return to the page feeling settled, easier than you were before.

Your pen touches the page before you remember your drink, your eyes scanning the area around you for it only to see it resting, sweating, on the kitchen counter all the way across the room. Your nose wrinkles unhappily and your fingers twitch, the glass disappearing from the bench and reappearing to dampen your fingers.

Taking a sip, you set it off to the side and return to your work, your hand writing out the words as if it was your native tongue and not a long dead language.


“It’s got what we need.” Scott mutters, his face upturned as he glares at the building. Beside him, Jean runs a palm over his shoulder and down his back, easing him and he smiles at her.

“I think the it you’re talking about is a person.” Storm glowers, always displeased with his attitude and Peter nods along with her.

“And why don’t I just go get it?” He adds, offering the girl beside him a goofy grin that she reluctantly returns. “I’m no professor but I can move it.”

Kurt snorts at the half joke, the group recalling the previous nights dance party where most of Quicksilvers moves had been blurs.

“We need the person. They’re a mutant. Their mutation isn’t important, though the Professor told me we need to be careful of it.” Scott butts in, talking over the beginning of Kurts sentence and Storm shares a look with the young man.

“The professor told me.” She mouths to him, poking her tongue out obviously and Jean sighs, the entire group able to feel their leader grind his teeth.

“Here’s how it’s going to be-” Scott begins, the words the same at every debrief, no matter what was happening around them or where they were. Last time, someone’s bullet had just grazed Storm and she was about to go nuclear when he’d cut in with a mission update and calmed the group enough to take down those against them. “Jean’s going to the door, she’s inconspicuous and actually nice.” A pointed look spears Ororo and she growls softly. “Once she’s got the girl talking, she’s going to blank her. From there, Kurt needs to grab her and put her in the car. Then we go home.”

“Why’re we here then?” Peter hums, drumming a rhythm on the street light they were all congregated around.

“In case anything goes wrong. It’s a flimsy plan but it’s the quickest and simplest. We don’t want a fuss.” Scott answers and the group nod, easy understanding filling them.

“Off we go.” Jean grins, bumping her shoulder against Scotts softly, his eyes soft on her, as she turns and heads across the street. Her hands fill her pockets, head down and just slightly nodding, as if she can hear music.


Come on Eileen!” You sing laughingly, sliding and bouncing from spot to spot as you prepare dinner. Your hand flies out, salt appearing in it and suddenly becoming your microphone. “Toora Loora Toora Loo- Rye Aye!”

A knock sounds at the door just as the presence pushes against your mind and you stumble, the salt slipping from your fingers as you catch the counter. The smash echos and you jump, worry pushing against your mind, almost chafing.

“Just a minute!” You try and call over the din, hoping your voice carries over the music. Waving a hand, you dart for the record player, the salt and glass shards disappearing to reappear in the bin behind you.

Panting, you open the door and smile at the red headed girl before you.

“Hello, sorry. I… Uh, was cooking.” You manage, brushing off the fumble with a smile. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m looking for a girl named Emily?” She asks, voice clear and precise. Very precise for someone who’s supposed to be confused.

“She lives on the floor below. Exactly below actually.” You answer with a furrowed brow, suspicion in your voice and her cheeks colour.

“Oh, right. Sorry.” She answers almost instantly, your words barely out of your mouth. Her cheeks get a little redder and you’re about to question her when the presence shoves against your mind and you make a small sound of fury.

“Stop.” You whisper harshly to it, the words escaping your lips accidentally and you’re the one to blush this time. Your eyes meet the girls in the doorway awkwardly and she grins at you.

“Soulmate?” She asks with ease and you know she’s had practice with it, more than likely that this girl has met hers already.

“Yeah. Likes to butt in all the time.” You answer gratefully only to blush again. “He’s great, he really is. Really nice.”

She nods and the tension eases in your shoulders, your momentarily bitter slip having brought a tenseness to them. You hate when people hate him, when he vents to you.

“I’m so sorry for kidnapping you like this. It was advised that we stretch our legs after last weeks incident.” The strange girl offers apologetically and you rear back. Kidnapping? Incident? You’re inside your home, you have no idea about an incident. What is-

The world goes dark.


“Now Kurt.” Scott orders, the dark skinned boys face drawn and unhappy, but he disappears all the same, reappearing moments later with Jean who supports the stranger in her arms.

“Jean.” Scott chides, moving forward and taking the load from her with an unhappy expression and she smiles at him warmly, opening the car door to settle the body in the back.

The team grumbles as they settle into the seats, Jean taking her place beside a driving Scott and Storm at her side. In the back, Kurt rests his head against the window, worry etched in the lines of his face while Peter makes smart comments that have Scott grinding his teeth.

“It’s okay.” Jean promises, turning to face Kurt, who meets her eyes momentarily before turning back to the racing landscape, the tree’s giving way to a stone wall.

“We’re home.” Scott announces, another ritual, as they drive through the gates.


“Y/N.” The wheel chair guy before you greets and you scowl at him. You’re well aware of who he is. Renowned mutant activist, Charles Xavier and by his side- Raven Darkholme. If it weren’t for them, their entirely recognizable faces and more recognizable acts in support of Mutant rights, then you’d be ditching this joint.

“Mr Wheelchair Guy.” You greet cordially, the scowl almost set into your face by now and Mystique matches it.

“Read this, if you could.” He smiles, ignoring the name calling, and offers you a piece of paper.

“I could. But what’re you going to offer me?” You smirk, taking the page and scanning it. Words highlight themselves before you and you flinch from the page, holding it like a bloody knife. “What the hell is this?”

“That’s what we would like to know.” He answers cryptically and you nearly snarl, wanting to throw the page away.

“I’ll tell you what it looks like then.” You snap, barely holding the paper now and knowing if there was a stiff breeze you’d lose it, not that that would be too terrible. “It looks like a signed confession to mutant genocide. And it’s descriptive as hell.”

Ravens brows furrow and she glances at Charles, who meets her eyes for a moment before looking back at you.

“If you could read it? Aloud?” He asks gently and you hiss a breath, inhaling sharply.

“They’re like the wild sheep in the hills.” You begin, teeth clenched between sentences. “Unclean creatures muddying the bloodlines we’ve fought to maintain. Like the sheep from the hills, we clear them. Like the sheep from the hills, the stones are stained with their blood and we paint our houses with the rich colour. The sheep scream, though never as satisfyingly as those plaguing our streets.”

You pause, looking up at the pair as they watch each other. “I don’t want to read this.”

“You’re the best translator in the country, we must ask you to continue.” Charles says with a blank expression and you wonder what he’s hiding, what thoughts are nestled in his mind.

Your heart stutters uneasily and the presence returns, pushing against your mind nervously and you welcome it. Your longing and affection reaches for it, colliding with it’s own and a smile settles on your face.

I’m sorry I snapped earlier. You apologize and warmth fills you, assurances bleeding through your thoughts. Your heart picks up at the attention and instant forgiveness.

I am sorry I pushed so hard. You flinch from the words, denials bursting from your mind to his and you can feel the small laugh that leaves his lips.

“Please continue.” Charles pipes up, ignoring your moments of silence without a word and you change positions before continuing, a thrum in the back of your mind keeping you warm and safe.


“Talking to your lover?” Storm pipes up from beside Kurt and he jumps, popping out of existence and right back on the other side of her. A laugh tinkles from her lips and he watches her dazedly. “A very lucky girl? Boy?”

Kurt hums at the question, he’d never really cared. You knew he was a boy but he’d never pestered you for that kind of information on your own. He doesn’t even know your name.

“You don’t know.” Storm frowns, a pause after her words before she nods understandingly.

“I went through that, for a while. It doesn’t matter who they are on the outside, just the person they are on the inside. The one that your soul recognises.” She explains and his shoulders droop at the confirmation, an agreement with something he’d never been able to voice.

“That is exactly it. Thank you.” Kurt smiles, Ororo copying it without hesitation before she launches into another topic, his famous mutants education.


there you have it. number oneeee

.82

For: @babydollvalens21
Characters: Amaro/Reader
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 1, 453
Note: Request was for a female reader.


“Why are you acting so weird?”

“Excuse me?” You stammered, shoving your hands in your pocket as you shivered against the cool spring breeze.

Nick shrugged, stopping under a streetlight and eyeing you curiously, “You’ve been quiet all night and tripping over your words. It’s not like you. Normally things are so,” he paused, pursing his lips. “Easy when we hang out.”

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Prayer for Writing

Come to me Deities of Words,
Come to me Masters of Letters,
Come to me as I sit in front of my tools,
as I sit in front of blank scripts,
and grant me your writing wisdom.

Brighid, may you kindle my thoughts
and stoke my wonderment.
May you inspire my worlds,
and my imagination
So I may be as radiant as you.

Ogma, may you glitter my nouns
and glisten my verbs and adverbs.
May you transcend my poetry
and my prose
So I may be as honey-tongued as you.

Lugh, may you build upon my worlds,
and grant wit to my sentences.
May you bring out what is unique in me
and in my words
So I may be as talented as you.

I welcome all the Powers of the Pen,
and all Champions of Speech.
Come to me as I seek your guidance,
and to you I give my thanks:
Blessings upon Blessings be to you.

Some Words

Some words
In our head
Shouldn’t be
Said or read
Some thoughts
Need to be taught
To stop misbehaving
So in our head
They’re remaining
On the naughty step
Of our mind
As they’re unkind
Don’t try to rehearse
Those words in verse
They’re a curse
Mustn’t even think
About them in ink
Or letting them slip
From your lip
So teach them a lesson
Not with you to be messing
No slight of hand
Through pen and ink
What they think
No letting slip
Over tongue and lip
Just keep them in
Letting them out a sin
Some words
In our head
Just shouldn’t be
Said or read
They’d have others reeling
From their meaning
Treat them with
The contempt they deserve
Be measured and controlled
Be reserved
And as Thumper in Bambi
Once recalled
If you can’t say nothing nice
Don’t say nothing at all

impossiblerebelblaze  asked:

"Hello again, Sir. You had said something about wanting to meet with my Figment, Sorrel, if I recall correctly..? If you have the time, that is." The aforementioned Figment barges past me and lounges boldly on your desk, looking far too comfortable for his own good. "Hey, daddy Dark, heard from the little bitch over there that you have some words for me. Words, and.. something else that might persuade me otherwise?" He smiles. I'm in the distance, shaking my head and silently mouthing apologies.

His eyes lifted away from his scribbled notes, large blotches of ink from his scratches and edits showing the rough draft of his first made projects. Blinking for a moment, he finally set his pen aside and leaned himself back, seeing his personal space was being so blatantly ignored.

“A pleasure to meet you Sorrel. And yes, I do have some words for you. You are to treat my lovely properly.”

He began, his voice smooth, lacking fluctuation which somehow made it all the more demeaning.

“Because if you do not, I will personally crash out each and every one of your teeth and staple your tongue to the roof of your mouth so you will never speak poorly to them again. Can you do that for me friend? I’m sure you can. Ta ta now.”

fic: Hot For Teacher


title:
Hot For Teacher

warnings: blowjobs and swearing

word count: 2700

rating: nc-17

summary: “One-Night Stand.” - ‘A sexual relationship lasting only one night.’ 

So why was the guy Dan slept with two weeks ago stood at the front of his classroom announcing that he was his new teacher? It was when he told the class to call him ‘Mr Lester’ and he broke into a hot flush that he knew he was in trouble.

a/n: for cafephan (kirsten), because studentxteacher is her favourite and i promised her this fic ages ago and it was her birthday yesterday so i spent a fucking month writing this in preparation. enjoy. my favourite, beautiful best friend.

p.s. this follows the english school system of two/three years of college and then university just fyi.

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[Miraculous Ladybug]: It’s a Match!

Another day another chapter~!

A continuation of my Secret Santa gift for @neverbetheexpectation

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 3]

Link to Archive of Our Own: [AO3]

Title: It’s a Match!

Summary: “Oh my God, I just matched with Adrien Agreste, oh my freaking God! Chat!! Chat, come come come! Look look!”

But Chat Noir wasn’t paying her any mind. Because the moment she started screaming about her new match, Chat Noir tried to quickly exit out of his matches page so that he wouldn’t see who popped up. But it was far too late, because right when he blinked, his phone buzzed with an excited message about his new match.

He was not expecting it to be Marinette Dupain-Cheng.


Chapter 2: Hangout


Marinette: ok explain to me right now with sources and testimonials from experts why this would be at all a good idea

Adrien snorted and tried to make the texting he was doing in his lap look nondescript while he made occasional glances up at the lecture that was going on in front of him. 

Adrien: you have no faith! the novelty of placing a protagonist into something like mecha strike is super intriguing. like come on. think of the storyline you could create

He sort of remembered Marinette complaining to him a couple of nights ago that she was falling behind in all of her literature reading and needed to start paying more attention in class to help her catch up. But he snuck a peek at her notebook from his seat next to her and saw that she was doodling random dresses and suits in the corners of her pages and writing out the words “ban the Mecha Strike movie!” over and over again across the page. When she finally received his message, she huffed, turned her notebook towards him, and started frantically typing a response, all the while making Adrien laugh quietly behind his tablet. Thank goodness they sat in the back of the classroom.

Marinette: ok but pick a one player story driven game to do that with. mecha strike is a fighting game and that’s it. why try to add plot to something that doesn’t need it?

Adrien: look at street fighter! they made that into a movie

Marinette: that movie totally bombed!

Adrien: that’s because they did nothing with the characters. have you read the summary of the mecha strike movie? they created a whole backstory for the mech!

Marinette: ugh that’s making me nervous

Adrien: it’s going to be totally cool

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Taehyung- A Psychosexual Analysis // PART 1

Kim Taehyung.  Wonder boy exrtaordinare.  Wonderbread extraordinare.  Diva.  Alien.  Devil.  Deep-voiced master of the tongue.  Hwarang.  Cutie.  King of stage presence and good looks alike.  

I gave my self twenty seconds to write that bit above.  I got my phone out, hit the timer, and instructed myself to stream-of-conscous-list all those various words and phrases that meant, to me, Kim Taehyung.  

I could have written more- but I found myself dragging my pen when it came to a certain phrase that I wasn’t sure of… that I couldn’t be sure of given it’s unsteadiness, it’s irregularity, and it’s inconsistency within my knowledge and interpretation of his character. 

Kim Taehyung, the sexy.

Now I suppose that to some (to many I suppose) this seems almost incomprehensible- the fact that I even so hesitate as to apply the definition of “sexy” to this wild character we all feel like we know so well.  

But how could I ignore the inconsistencies in my detailed observational research?  How could I possibly ignore the fact that perhaps there was a deeper, more complicated layer to our beloved Kim Taehyung?

To think it took me so long to understand something that was so simple, and so blatantly obvious about Tae…  And you won’t fucking believe what I’ve discovered.  

Shall we begin, then?

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We talk a lot about love and yet we never seem to know enough about it. We make metaphors and construct rhymes to capture its essence but we never quite get it. It’s easy to write about it because it’s so common. And yet, in truth, none of us really know exactly what we’re saying. It’s a feeling, not a description. I could tell you that you make me feel like a rain forest, and you wouldn’t have a clue what I meant. Because in that moment, I wanted to tell you that you made me feel full, that every bone in my body vibrated to the rhythm of your voice, that life bloomed beneath every inch of skin you touched– but of course, there is no way to perfectly explain that, you cannot put feelings this big into words. But I still write poems about you. Everyone still writes them and I can pretend they are all about you but they will never amount to the real thing. I think a lot about words and language and the power that strums within them all and I put a lot of faith into what I say and create on the pages. But no matter the range I try, from 26 letters to over 50,000 characters, no amount of poetry in any tongue will be able to describe love the way I want it to. So sometimes, at three in the morning, I put my pen down and go back to bed. Sometimes that is the closest I can get to saying this is love and I am here for it. Sometimes all it takes is being next to you.
—  A conundrum about words and love and everything good in the world of a writer

How to make a ghost of a poet:

Drink all the ink from their pen and hate the black staining your tongue.

Give them words but take their voice away the moment they try to scream into the night.

Make them chase their inspiration into Tartarus. Blind them with your presence.

Leave your fingerprints on each of their notebooks. Leave your blood on their lips. Laugh as their palms cannot push out anything but your name.

Touch them with light in your hands. Tell them the road to home starts with you. They will study you; find every hidden path to your heart. They will search for pomegranates inside of your bones that they will force into their bloodstream.

Make them apologize for falling in love. Make them apologize for feelings human. Make them apologize for feeling.

Write someone else’s name across their chest. It will burn their skin and curse their existence.

Laugh as their scars start to get deeper. Laugh as the battle lines become fog and sweat becomes thick and wanting and haunting.

Write their demons back to life. Hide them under the bed where you first made love.
When you leave,
Steal your name.
Steal your veins.
Steal your kiss.
Steal your touch.

—  Dictionary for lovers. Part 2.