You’re Walking Through The Woods. It’s So Quiet Here, So Much More Quiet Than It Used To Be, And

(Character A) always takes care of (Character B)

Me: Nice

(Character A) isn’t used to receiving the affection they usually give and is completely shocked when (Character B) responds the same

Me: NiCE

Prompt #2

Soulmate AU, where the first words you say to someone are written on your body somewhere. The catch is that they’re written in your soulmate’s handwriting, aging with them.

For example, if a child is about four years old when their soulmate is born, then scribbles will appear on their body somewhere, illegible until they get older and learn how to write. The baby would be born with their soulmate’s writing already on them.

Illiterate people’s soulmates would be nearly unable to find them. People would be getting older and older, and not know whether they had no soulmate or whether their soulmate had not been born yet.

Tfw you’re trying to watch movies illegally online and get sent to NSFW sites

Prompt #0.5

(Character A), a celebrity, is a big fan of (Character B), a Tumblr stan account dedicated to (Character A).

Because they suck at communication, (Character A) decides to comission fanfiction of themselves through (Character B) to talk to them.

Why do people want flat stomachs so super badly????

Like, I don’t hate people with flat stomachs at all, it’s not a bad thing, but like

Why only accept completely flat, hard stomachs when you can also have

Squish

Prompt #11

(Character A) is a hero who unintentionally causes most of the crimes in their city. (Character B) is a villain who unintentionally fights those crimes.

Example:

(Character A) accidentally shoplifts. (Character B) steals the stolen item and drops it by the shop on accident, and so on.

(Character A) still thinks they are the hero, and (Character B) still thinks they are the villain.

Prompt #14

Take your OTP. Imagine them as an angel and a demon, based on personality.

Switch them.

it hurts

“It hurts,” says the ice to the sun, “It hurts me to be with you.”

“But it hurts me too,” says the sun. “Have you ever thought about how your dripping water sizzles on my skin?”

The ice was confused. “Your pain comes from my destruction, yet you invalidate my pain from my own destruction with it?”

“But my pain is important too!” The sun screams their pain louder than the ice ever could.

“Okay,” says the ice, and caters to the sun’s sizzling blisters, not acknowledging their own mutilation.

The blisters do look rather serious, of course.

And so the ice suffers in silence.

the oasis vs the ocean

it’s freezing in the quiet empty.

cold is comforting in its honesty;

the heat may envelope me but it only burns my skin,

its lies are all-encompassing.

yet the cold is here now,

and it is blunt, but it never hugs - it loves without a single touch.

the heat tries to love,

but it sears and scratches my bones, marking and tearing at my skin.

it smears its ash over my broken body, tears turning to steam and my gasping sobs turning into a cacophony of silence.

‘would you rather die of heat or cold?’

someone once said to me that the world will either end in fire or ice.

i know what i would prefer.

i know what i would rather feel.

numbness, hot, blazing frostbite causing slow inane hallucinations, a sick parody of the little match girl.

scathing, writhing flames licking the walls and leaning in, reeking of its victims and leering at its future prey.

i know myself well.

i hate that sometimes.

did you know that cold is not a feasible term?

cold is not its own self.

cold is simply the absence of heat.

a room filled to the brim with snow is not full,

not in the way a room full of fire is.

a room full of fire is suffocation in its most simple form,

smoke rising and smothering.

the snow is breathable, almost nonexistent,

and some animals even hide in the snow for protection in the winter.

did you know that?

the heat is a hitch in your breath, it’s a splatter of ink from a shaking hand.

it is stifling and deadly, not an embrace but a chokehold.

the heat will kill fierce, passionate, ares in his most pure form.

the cold is a ghost of a touch, a never ending inhale, a whisp of an idea.

it is a weathered blanket, holed and tattered and a false shelter in the storm.

the cold will kill gentle, quiet.

there is no glory, no fight in dying of cold.

resignation is cold, so it makes sense that cold will kill with resignation.

too little or too much?

i have always been safe in my choices.

too much will never make me empty,

too much will never leave me in the dark, blind and unknowing,

too much will never let me stay alone in blue air and white breaths and blurry vision from the saltwater streaming down my crimson cheeks and lips like shattered glass,

too much will never crack me with nothing, a void in my eyes and a thousand yard stare,

too much will never keep me deathly still in anticipation until everything seeps out of me in a realization that I only anticipate anticipation.

but even so…

too little will never send a fire through my nerves and cauterize my heart,

too little will never shatter me in a haze of red and dusty charcoal,

too little will never trace delicate fingers of ember across me and scar me in the ashes,

too little will never kill me with a glance, break me with uncertainty.

drowning is inevitable either way.

i will drown in either the oasis or the ocean,

nothing or all.

too little will never satisfy me,

but too much will only hurt me.

adventure has never been my friend,

and courage is swapped for anxiety.

my mind is not my brain,

and its thoughts aren’t my choices,

so i take the safe road,

as i always do.

…..

….

…

..

.

..

…

….

…..

the oasis is an empty salvation.

the ocean is an empty home.

water is simply an empty.

in the end, i will die, and it will be silent.

it is on nights like these that i think i will live in the nothing until nothing is my everything.

until i know the nothing as my home.

...

i will never know fulfillment the way i know the empty.

it went to voicemail

“I want you to understand that I’ll never be sorry for doing this,” he choked out. He couldn’t cry now, not now, when he was already so close. “Remember when I said that there’s probably only one thing in my life that I’ll never be upset about messing up?” His eyes were shifting now, across the moonlit skyline that showcased about five percent of the stars in the sky and the skyscrapers edging higher and higher in a desperate attempt to reach them. His phone, clutched tightly in his white-knuckled grasp, was shaking from where he held it.

“This is the one thing.”

He closed his eyes, staring at the backs of his eyelids flashing a billion fireworks.

“I want you to know that this isn’t your fault. It will never be.” There were tears falling now, falling to the near-empty pavement below and not even leaving a dot on the concrete to remember. He was a fool to think he could keep them in. His free hand clings to the railings and he leans back. His feet are almost dangling off the edge.

“I always loved you, you know? I was so stupid,” and now he was laughing and soaking in his own saltwater tears, as if he came straight from the ocean. “I was so stupid.”

The neon billboards were just as bright as the backs of his eyelids, and now he couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed. “I know you will probably delete this voicemail. I know how you hated to listen to them. I know, I know, I know,” and he was near hysterical now.

It had been three weeks of drinking straight vodka and not even recoiling, two weeks of experimenting with drugs he’d never heard of just in case he could finally learn what it was like to forget, one week of crumpled up paper balls because he couldn’t write his own suicide note correctly, how pathetic is that?

Every minute since the Words has been the worst minute of his life. They weren’t gone yet, not even close, and he didn’t know what to do to get rid of them, so he did the next best thing.

“I’m in love with somebody else,” had never been words he would expect from his lover’s mouth, never ever ever. Not a single nightmare had brought up this terror, not a single time had he woken up in a cold sweat thinking of the possibility.

And maybe that’s why he was so affected.

“I still love you, and I hate that. I don’t know how to hate you. I don’t think I have the ability to.” He was talking so fast, so brokenly and so close to a sobbing mess that he could taste the salt lingering on his tongue.

“I… The thing is, I don’t know how to be without you. I never have. And that’s not your fault.”

He can’t blame him for anything, no matter how much he wanted to be able to shout what he’d done wrong and shriek to the high heavens that he had been wronged, no matter how much he wanted to scream at anyone who walked by that he wasn’t okay, no matter how damp his pillow was and how parched his mouth always was nowadays.

“This is the best for me. This is the best for you. This is the best for us, for everyone!” He was smiling too now, and he had to remind himself to hang on for a little longer because his grip was getting loose.

“So, sayonara. I don’t know if we’ll meet again in another life. I don’t know if either of us will want to.” Only a little while longer. “Just… Know that I love you. It’s not your fault-“

And the voicemail crackles and muffles the last words. His last words.

No one knows what he said. What his final goodbye truly was. Nobody could hear him, from twenty-five floors above the ground and wind howling like a banshee. And so nobody will know what his last tears sounded like when the hit the ground, whether or not the left a mark, or whether or not he was still smiling or laughing through the tears, or what he even had to say.

“I still love you. I’m sorry.”

His last words echo across the starless skyline, around the neon signs, through the desperate skyscrapers, away from the roaring sirens and boisterous lights, and never reach anyone’s ears except his own.

He was still smiling.