prompt word

Everything is still so vivid to me, from the day you first embraced me to that morning you told me you like someone else. It’s been years, but the memory of you still remains. I still keep the letters you gave me and the song you wrote for me. The cap you always wore back then, before you put it on my head that night you left, still hangs in my room. My lips still remember how it felt when you first touched it with yours. You hugged me tightly before finally devouring me with passionate kisses like there’s not tomorrow. Until now, my heart aches a little whenever I hear Radiohead’s Creep because you used to sing that to me. My relatives still ask about you sometimes, but I just laugh it off. Isn’t it a wonder how you’ve long gone and moved on, but pieces of you seem to be scattered here still? You’ve left but I do not know if I remember our relationship to be my happiness or my greatest sadness. It’s too damn hurtful of you to share everything I loved and take away a part of it with you. It’s so unfair, so unfair, that I still see the image of you but you are no longer here anymore.
—  AM // when he leaves but the memories don’t

I want to dance with you

with just the light of the moon

and the soft hum of the radio

chests pressed together

rocking slowly

smiling wide

never breaking the embrace

-S

Sleeping Draco

(Day 10 of 30 day OTP challenge - Watching The Other Sleep)

(AO3 LINK) (MASTERPOST)

Harry loves watching Draco sleep. He especially loves when Draco falls asleep with his head in Harry’s lap while they are both on the sofa. Even though they both fall asleep every night in the same bed, Harry considers it even more special when Draco falls asleep on the sofa. 

He always carries Draco to bed after that and Draco conveniently sleeps through the whole journey to the bedroom, and only wakes up when he is laid comfortably on the bed. 

But back to watching Draco sleeping. Harry loves combing his fingers through Draco’s soft hair. Sometimes there are tiny curls and Harry loves pulling them gently and watching them bounce back into shape. It’s just so adorable, he has to bite his lip not to make an embarrassing noise and wake the other man up. 

Draco’s eyelashes are another thing Harry loves to gaze at. So close he could see that they’re darker than Draco’s hair, almost honey in colour. And they’re quite long and thick - breathtakingly beautiful, if you ask Harry.

And Draco’s lips are yet another thing Harry loves to look at. Sometimes he even traces the lower lip with his thumb and enjoys its softness. It’s plum and perfect for kissing. But he always feel a bit weird after that so he does it rarely.

But most of all, Harry loves that Draco looks so peaceful and relaxed in his sleep, so free. His face is open and vulnerable and Harry loves knowing he’s trusted enough to see Draco like that. 

So Harry loves watching Draco sleep. And Draco loves being carried to bed.

nic6879  asked:

Continuation of #318!!! (not above begging by now ;))

#319

—–

“Guessing?!” Her guts knotted. “I made it clear to you. We had a conversation. You said you understood. You said you would wait.”

“I did wait.”

And then you stopped.” She was breathing hard, her insides fluttering and jittery. “You stopped waiting and now what am I supposed to say to this - this confession? Because it doesn’t feel real to me, it’s never felt real to me.”

“Never felt real?” His anger had a force to it, a rage consuming. “I don’t see how I can make it any more real to you, Beckett.”

“Maybe don’t yell at me.”

A voice cut through their stalemate. Maybe you both don’t yell, yeah? I can hear you over the music.”

Kate’s cheeks burned and she turned her head away. The cab driver was chuckling from the front seat, turning right across traffic in a way that made her American sensibilities roil.

“I wasn’t yelling at you,” Castle said. His voice rough as sandpaper. “I was trying to keep you alive with me.”

The breath was knocked out of her at that. She glanced quickly at him; he still held her hand in his like clutching at straws. Desperate.

“You really…” She swallowed quickly, the urge to be sick rising again. “Makes me panicky, Rick.”

“Well, great.”

“No, not you saying - not that. That day. Mem-memory,” she whispered. “Makes me sick.”

“Lady, you ‘bout to be sick? You look knackered. Hey, mate, you stop yelling at her. I get it’s all a cock-up. But she chunders in my cab and you’re-”

“I’m not sick,” she croaked. “I’m fine. It’s fine. Too sober to throw up.”

“I’ll stop yelling at her.”

She glanced at Castle, the sharp grief on his face as he spoke. His eyes met hers and there was no amusement in them.

None of this was funny. 

“The Langham is up ahead on the left,” the cabbie said, gesturing vaguely.

Kate peered past the car’s frame to see what slick chrome edifice Castle had directed them to, some awful blowout night from his past, but instead-

It was everything London ought to be, grand and regal and stately, a Castle. She stared, feeling once more out of place, out of her league, unable to measure up. 

But her hand was still trapped in his - and-

and so was her heart.

—–

anonymous asked:

I'm vaguely scared of what you might do but Ed x Brooke (6 for the ask)

6. “You can’t die. Please don’t die.”


When Ed was twelve, his class had had to fill out some stupid worksheet about where they saw themselves in five years.

“Please.”

No one had taken it seriously. They were a group of rowdy twelve-year-old boys. They neither knew nor cared what they would be doing five days from then, let alone five years. But Ed Carter was a good, studious boy, and he had given it some thought - about ten minutes of thought, before he abandoned it in favor of more fun pastimes, like kicking a football around his room, or helping his parents with dinner, or doodling on his math assignment, or anything but this.

“God, please, no.”

In the end, Ed had slapped on some generic fluff about hanging with friends and making good grades and maybe having a job so he could have extra money to spend. It took all of five seconds and no heavy thinking, but it was still more than the rest of the class bothered with and he had received the highest grade on account of being one of two people to hand it back in the next day.

“Oh, my God.”

Were he to be completely honest, his answers were unlikely to change even if he had sat and really thought about it. After all, what does a twelve-year-old know about where he’ll be in five years. What does a twelve-year-old care?

“Oh my God, oh my God, ohmygod ohmygod omygod.”

And as it turned out, he would have been wrong anyway. How could he have predicted that the world would end? That his parents would die? That everyone’s parents, everyone’s older siblings, everyone who was supposed to know what to do in bad situations would all die? Or not die, and just. Hang around. How could he have predicted that he and all the other surviving kids would be spending their lives fighting the shambling, rotting, ravenous remains of their society?

“Please no, God. No no no nonono no, please no.”

And as it turned out, he would have been wrong anyway. But how could he have predicted that he didn’t have five years to imagine?

“You can’t die. Please don’t die.”

When Ed was sixteen, he had led a group of kids - children - into battle. A battle to the end, against the ravenous, rotting, murderous adults, who would stop at nothing to see them dead. Who had given up their sense of fear, had lost their sense of pain, had nothing to lose. How foolish they - children - had been to think they could win. To think they could do anything besides delay the inevitable.

“Ed, please, please, please, stay with me.”

Ed’s eyes rolled around, searching for the voice hovering somewhere above him. He couldn’t quite make out what it was saying, but it did not sound happy. Why? Where was he?

“Ed, oh my God. Okay. You’re going to be okay. Okay?”

It was a nice voice. Familiar. Relaxing in its familiarity. He may not recognize where he was, or know what he was doing, but at least this nice, familiar voice was here to keep him company.

“Ed, you have to be okay, please, don’t do this to me.”

Ed tried to remember, but it kept slipping away from him. It was hard to see, since his surroundings seemed to be so blurry and clouded, so he couldn’t garner any context clues from what he could see.

“Ed, okay, fuck. Just. Let’s get you up, okay? I’m going to pick you up.”

Something about a flag? Maybe? That sounded just south of right.

“God, God, God.”

What was their flag? Was it even about their flag? Was it even about a flag?

“Fuck.”

He remembered bodies. Lots of bodies. Moving around. A lot of people moving around. Was he at school? Where was Jack, was he not going to help him?

“Ed, don’t - fuck. What do I do? Oh my God, okay.”

No, Jack wasn’t here. There was some reason Jack wasn’t here. Was he sick today?

“Please.”

Was he at school?

“Help! Somebody! Please.”

Everyone was looking for someone, an adult - a teacher? - someone important. Was that it?

“C’mon, Ed, you’re doing great, just keep - just keep walking okay? You’re going to be okay, okay?”

The flag. A crowd. Some teacher? Was that it?

“Don’t - fuck, Ed, please, please move your feet, I can’t -”

St. George?

“Fuck - Ed!”

Without warning the ground gave way beneath him and he felt it suddenly rise up and slap him in the face, felt the pressure of it, felt where the pain would set in in his neck. He couldn’t feel his face.

“Ed, no, fuck, Ed, please”

He couldn’t feel a lot of things.

“Ed, look at me, please, I can’t”

The world rotated around him and then there was more pressure on his head, on his face. What was that?

“Okay, let me just - You’ve got - There’s blood, everywhere, fuck”

The pressure kept at his face and suddenly he could see but all he could see was light. It was a nice, sunny day. Maybe after everyone found that teacher, he could go check on Jack, see if he was up for some football.

“Ed? Ed, God, please”

He saw the voice. The voice was Brooke. That was odd, Brooke didn’t go to his school. Also, if Brooke was here, then Jack was dead. Jack was dead?

“Ed?”

He tried to answer her, but something wasn’t right. He still couldn’t feel his face, among other essential body parts. His mouth didn’t seem to be working. Or maybe it was and his ears weren’t.

“God.”

Was Brooke crying? Why was she crying? They should be looking for that adult, shouldn’t they? She didn’t really have time to be crying, they had to find St. George.

“Fuck, please.”

He was really tired, though, that kind of fatigued where you’re just completely out of it and woozy. Maybe he could take a raincheck on the whole find St. George thing. Someone else could do it probably. Maybe he’d go find Jack and they could chill. Maybe his mom would make them cookies.

“Ed.”

Brooke put her face right in front of Ed. Now he couldn’t see the sky. Where was Jack?

She sobbed. Her chest hurt.

He wished Brooke wouldn’t cry. They had more important things to do, he was pretty sure. Also, he wasn’t very good at comforting crying girls.

Her voice cracked, her gasps scratching her throat.

He raised his hand to Brooke’s face. He was pretty sure he did. He didn’t feel his hand respond, but that was definitely his hand on her cheek.

If she had had the energy to scream, she might have done so, right there.

He stared at Brooke. His voice still didn’t seem to be working, or else his ears weren’t, so he tried to convey all he meant through his eyes alone. It was tough. What was he even trying to tell her?

She grabbed his hand, clinging desperately, capable of nothing more than gasping sobs.

I’m sorry.

She couldn’t breathe, her voice kept getting caught somewhere in her chest or her throat or her heart.

I love you.

She couldn’t do this again. She whimpered. She couldn’t do this again.

You’ll make it.

She hiccuped, worn out, thoroughly spent. She wouldn’t do this again. She didn’t want to.

Good-bye.

(She screamed.)


Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, my inbox is super weird and I didn’t see your message until just now. I hope you like this and it makes up for the wait!

Post #45: If Mirrors Could Speak

“Stop letting your eyes only focus on tiny portions of your face and body. The bump in your nose, the tilt of your chin, the mark on your cheek, are so slight that only you ever see as you sit here in front of me scrutinizing. You are not a detective and your face is not a crime scene. I know you’re searching for the clues that will make what they say true, but I’ve seen everything. There is nothing to find and nothing to hide. You’re the only one I ever see and I wouldn’t want to see another.”

anonymous asked:

Are you still taking prompts? I want to know how Magnus and Alec would try to resolve a silly fight between Max and Rafael, lol. Thank you!! Keep on being fabulous!!

Ah, thank you so much!

“You can’t use magic if it’s just the two of us,” Rafa says, in the quietly exasperated voice that’s as close to shouting as he gets. “If we were playing with other warlocks, we could make it even with teams, but with just you and me it’s not fair.”

Max holds the frisbee in both hands, up at shoulder-height, and it looks like he’s making an honest attempt to squeeze the metaphorical life out of it. “It’s not my fault you can’t do magic. What’s not ‘fair’” (emphasized with dramatic air quotes) “is me having to pretend to be worse at this than I really am just because you’re a dumb shadowhunter who can’t do anything helpful!”

“Hey-” Alec cuts in, prying the frisbee from Max’s reluctant hands to make it clear that this nonsense is officially on hold until they get some adult mediation. But - as with all conundrums that involve some sort of judgement on Max’s magic - instead of offering his own ruling, he just looks at Magnus.

Magnus sighs. This morning, frisbee golf had seemed like such a calm, simple family activity. A chance for Max and Rafa to run around for a bit, and for Magnus and Alec to keep them vaguely in view while enjoying the scenery on a nice walk. A perfectly pleasant Saturday afternoon. He looks at Max, then at Rafa, then at the fucking frisbee. And he sighs again. “Mundane game, mundane rules. No magic.” He takes the frisbee from Alec, and starts the trek to the next hole. Hopefully the boys will exhaust their complaining by the time they get there.

-send me a character or pairing, and a prompt, and I’ll write a three-paragraph fic for you!-

anonymous asked:

#320 please (because you are getting way too much pleasure at stopping before the climax... Tease!)

#320

(continuation of 319, 318, etc - from the original prompt: kate drunk london)

—-

Walking through the immense lobby of the Langham Hotel London was enough to make her want to drop through the floor to the fiery heart of the earth. The marble pillars with grey veining, the cascading waterfall chandelier, the black and white mosaic tiling (oh God, it wasn’t tile, of course it wasn’t; she was just too poor to know what it ought to be called) - the whole effect of grandeur and regal nobility was enough to severely distress her.

She stood beside him at the wide front desk with its teak and cherry wood finishings, the leather embossed detailing, the black marble…

And tried to pretend she wasn’t wearing work clothes from yesterday (two days ago?) and that she had, somewhere recently, brushed her teeth with more than a pack of gum she’d bought at an airport Starbucks (because the duty-free shop was outrageously expensive and she’d felt like she didn’t deserve toothpaste and a toothbrush for her flight-of-shame home).

Castle booked them a room (one room, only a suite had been available and she hadn’t summoned the energy to protest; she was going to fall asleep the second her head hit a pillow or arm of a couch anyway, and what did it matter?)

He asked for something from the concierge, a murmur of pleasantries and obsequious of course sirs and then Castle was nodding towards the discreet bank of elevators towards the left side. He punched the call button - a bellhop had disappeared from their sides once he’d seen they had no luggage - and the elevator came with a slide of massive doors.

It was beautiful. It was too much. Never had she felt so hopeless.

“Third floor,” he murmured. Turning a brass key over in his hand. “All they had with - with a suite.”

“It’s fine,” she sighed. What did she care what floor they were on? She didn’t want to be in such a gorgeous royal hotel, but it was a good reminder that Castle moved in a world she’d only been allowed glimpses of.

Even if her mother had never… she still wouldn’t measure up to this.

The elevator doors opened on the fourth floor and Kate stepped off first, turning her head to check down the hall. She saw a man in a strangely muted uniform heading towards them, his whole form looked as if… as if he’d been washed too many times.

Weird. She couldn’t quite make out his face.

“Kate? We’re down this way.”

His voice caught her attention, and when she turned back to look, the man was gone.

“Kate?”

“I… did you see that?”

“Not funny, Kate.”

“What?” she said, confused by the irritation on his face as she followed. She glanced back over her shoulder, searching for the guy who’d been right there. “He was just - I thought he was about to ask us something. I think he was lost.”

“Kate. Seriously. I’m not in the mood for another haunted house trick of yours.”

“Haunted…” She laughed, too bewildered to make sense of his statement. “Castle, what in the world are you talking about?”

He grimaced, giving her a sharp look as he turned the corner and started down another hallway. She couldn’t help glancing back once more, certain she’d seen someone approaching them.

But there was no one. 

Goosebumps prickled her skin; the hair stood up on the back of her neck. Chills down her spine.

“Castle,” she said slowly. “Castle, what made you pick the Langham?”

He scowled and stopped in front of a door marked 447. “Just be glad I knew enough not to accept 433.”

“What. Why?”

“Because Room 333 in the Langham Hotel is so severely haunted-”

What?”

His shoulders hunched. “Look, Beckett. The only hotels I know of are ones on my London Supernatural Tour. So… here we are. I hope the ghosts will be kind, because this has been a shitty week.”

“That was not a ghost in the hallway, Castle.”

He narrowed his eyes at her and finally got the door open. It moaned as it swung inwards. “You’re the one who saw it, Beckett. Not me.”

—–

4

I live in the world of pigmented color
—where my life is a big canvass
and I am still a work in progress.
Different hues and saturation of colors
—are coaxes through hoops
leaving a remark on my personality.
I came from messy drafts and scratches
—pushing me to become a great masterpiece myself.
Therefore,
I think I am an artist of my backlashed pieces.

💬: artistic-potato-2017 © G.D.B
ARTISTAHING PATATAS 🍟

My only fear of falling in love is falling harder than him. Nothing sounds more painful than loving someone more than they love you.
—  Excerpt from a book I’ll never write

person A: *laughs*
person B: *chokes*
person A: oh, hey, everything okay?
person B: n-no, i mean yes. i mean, y-you’re just *makes vague hand gestures* fuck. you’re - how do you say it in english. ma porca -
person A: pork? did you just call me a pig?
person B: NO! beautiful, but more

Challenges For Writers

You guys wanted some prompts and I thought this might give you some fun ideas. Some of these challenges can apply to every kind of writer, so I suggest skimming them all :)


Songwriters

  • Produce an album with each song touching on a different social issue
  • compose a movie score
  • write 1 song a month about the events in that time and visit those songs in a year
  • write a song about wherever you are right now
  • rewrite the lyrics of your favorite song
  • compose a new melody for your favorite song
  • write a song where the lyrics contradict the melody
  • make a mashup of completely different songs

Authors

  • write a story from the point of view of a character you hate
  • write a story based off a song
  • write a story from a deity’s point of view
  • write a story that takes place somewhere you’ve never been
  • write a story with no dialogue
  • write a story from the point of view of a piece of technology
  • turn a poem into a story
  • write a story with only 140 characters

Poets

  • write a positive poem about something you hate
  • condense your favorite song/movie into a haiku
  • write a poem about what you wish you knew when you were younger
  • write a poem completely out of YouTube comments
  • write a poem with song lyrics only
  • write a poem about a photo from over 50 years ago
  • write a poem about your favorite love story
  • write about an experience you’ve never had

Journalists

  • write an article from a perspective that is the opposite of yours
  • write an article based on a picture from the 1900′s
  • write about an interview with a dead person
  • report a story based on a poem or song
  • report the events in your favorite book
  • report a murder that nobody knows you committed
  • you’re a travel columnist. Write about where you are now.
  • write a fake news article about a world leader
prompt 858

Kurt Vonnegut’s Advice on Short Stories

 1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.

2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.

3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.

4. Every sentence must do one of two things—reveal character or advance the action.

5. Start as close to the end as possible.

6. Be a sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them—in order that the reader may see what they are made of.

7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia. 

8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.

The greatest American short story writer of my generation was Flannery O’Connor (1925-1964). She broke practically every one of my rules but the first. Great writers tend to do that.

                              –Kurt Vonnegut, preface to Bagombo Snuff Box