The Amount Of Times I Could Have Been That White Girl In The Horror Movie Could Honestly Be A Movie In

The amount of times I could have been that white girl in the horror movie could honestly be a movie in itself and it’s honestly a waste that my entire life isn’t constantly recorded on film because it would be HILARIOUS

Thank you for the tag, lovely @jay-avian !

It took me a LONG time to come up with this one (I spent like, hours on my bathroom floor when I was twelve brainstorming ideas and they were all absolutely awful) until somehow, I came up with this one.

Mainly, it stems from how I see myself (bear with me). I’m not super attached to my corporeal form, so essentially I’m a bottle, and all the me is inside of it. And that me, in my head, is this massive tangled scribble ink ball (picture spaghetti) filled with scraps of ribbon, words and adjectives in typewriter font, song lyrics, and memories. I kind of just spill that stuff into the world wherever I go, when writing or singing or doing anything really, and that reminded me of a leaky pen. It doesn’t spill stuff on purpose, and it can still write on purpose, but inherently it still sometimes leaves drops behind, and vomits puddles.

So the ink is my me and the mark I leave on the world through the things I create and do.

Along with that, though I haven’t used it on here, generally my username is some form of Archangel (I’ve got no explanation. Supernatural was formative for me.)

Gently tagging @imaginativemind29new @clairelsonao3 @oh-no-another-idea

what made u guys pick ur url's !

“You’re drunk,” the villain said, voice tinted with surprise.

The hero hiccuped.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No—wait, why are you here?”

The villain laughed.

“Someone told me a party was going on, and that I should crash it. I didn’t expect it to be yours.”

The hero blinked back a sudden onslaught of tears.

“Not really mine any more. So if you had any reservations about crashing…”

The villain arched a brow, and sat down on the slightly damp grass across from the hero.

“Are you saying you want me to crash your party?”

“Not my party.”

The villain tugged out a piece of grass.

“Why isn’t it your party anymore.”

“It just isn’t,” the hero said around a sob.

The villain studied them, too observant, too seeing.

“Does this have anything to do with you being drunk?”

The hero hiccuped again. “No.”

The villain hummed.

“I thought you had a problem with alcohol. Because of your—“

The hero stuck their hand out, pressing a finger to the villain’s lips.

“Can we not?”

The villain had the audacity to smile.

“Stop smiling.”

The villain obliged.

“Did you…did you want to get drunk?”

The hero didn’t answer, and the villain stiffened. Their eye caught on the empty solo cup, abandoned on the grass beside them.

“Please—and I mean this in every sense of the word—tell me that those ‘friends’ of yours did not spike your drink.”

The hero shrugged, noncommittally.

“They just wanted me to relax. Have fun. It isn’t their fault.”

When they looked up again, the villain was seething.

“They drugged you.”

“That sounds so bad—“

“Did you give consent?” The villain’s face was carved from stone.

“I—they wanted me to relax.”

“That’s a no.” The villain grabbed the hero’s chin. “If it isn’t an enthusiastic yes, it’s a no.”

The hero moved their head from the villain’s hand.

“It’s fine.”

“It isn’t.”

The hero looked back at the villain. The villain sighed.

“You’re even more stubborn when you’re drunk.”

Ridiculously, the hero smiled.

A moment later, the villain held out their hand.

“Come on. Let’s go get you some better friends—these ones are trash.”

The hero blinked uncertainly. They shot a glance back at the house, humming with music, and laughter, and light. The hero doubted their friends—their ex friends—had even noticed they were gone.

They took the villain’s hand.

“As long as they aren’t douchebags.”

The villain laughed. God, they had a nice laugh, and led the hero away, down the street, and kept holding their hand the whole time.

The only friend the hero ended up making that night was the villain.

And in the end, they were the only friend that mattered.

Oh I am SO late to this.

“She sobbed again—and slipped into the black.”

@imaginativemind29new @jay-avian

Thank you for the tag @regalserpent !!

Post the last sentence you wrote (fanfic / original / anything) and tag as many people as there are words in the sentence

This is from The Sea is in Her Blood:

She felt her dispassionate façade crumble. “What?”

Tagging (with no pressure): @groundhog-day-party , @elrallin , @author-a-holmes , @eriquin , @amewinterswriting , @clairelsonao3 , @sender-paulson

“If I help you learn this, you won’t do anything illegal with it, right?”

The villain shot them a dry look.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that question, and if it helps, you can pretend I gave a comforting answer.”

The book was soft like butter under the hero’s fingers, old and worn. There had been a lock around the cover, but that was easy enough to break off. It was a miracle the school kept any students at all out of the restricted section—but maybe that was the point.

The villain leaned over their shoulder, warm through the hero’s coat.

“You figured it out?”

“You asked me to, didn’t you?”

The villain snorted, reaching over to scoot the hero’s hand off a piece of the text.

“We’ll make a Baneswallow out of you yet.”

The use of the villain’s last name pulled a blush to the hero’s cheek, and they ducked their head. The villain’s family was—nice. Ostentatious, and well known, but they still smiled at the hero whenever the villain dragged them home for dinner. They looked at the hero like they were worth just as much as their own child, asked about their day like they were one of their own.

It was a kind of softness the hero didn’t have for themself.

“So. It’s mainly a concentration spell, which means you’ll need a conduit—“ they twisted around, and found the villain focused on them intently. “What?”

“Nothing.” They shook their head, stepping back. “I just forgot how happy you were.”

The hero’s brow furrowed. They closed the book.

“Are you okay?”

They reached for the villain, standing from their chair, and fell instead, the smell of metal permeating their nose, sharp on their tongue, down and down and down.

They slammed into wet concrete with a snap.

“Fuck,” the hero wheezed. It took them a moment to get enough breath to roll onto their back. They were dizzy, mind swirling as they tried to figure out where and when they were. The villain watched them closely. “A memory spell?” They asked as they sat up, head reeling. They massaged their temple with one hand. “Why?”

The villain shrugged one shoulder.

“I wanted answers.”

The hero swallowed, nauseous and sick with the bone deep out-of-place feeling that came with being thrown into a memory, especially one so old.

“Did you find them?”

“Yes.”

The silence was palpable, a fragile sort of thing the two of them never used to hold between them.

“How’s your family,” they tried, and the villain’s face darkened. “I haven’t seen them in a while.”

“They’re fine. They miss you,” the villain’s voice was quiet, but it was steeped with anger. “They’re proud of you, too.”

Their mouth went dry. “They’re proud of me?”

The villain scoffed. “Of course they are. Did you think they stopped caring when you stopped coming around?”

The hero didn’t have an answer for that.

“You really thought—“

“I didn’t think they’d appreciate my profession.”

The villain shrugged once more. “They don’t care too much about that. Plus, it’s you.”

It’s you? Like it was any sort of answer, like the hero was something the villain’s family held dear.

When they spoke again, the villain’s voice was hurt.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I always told you everything, you know that.”

“No,” the villain spat. “I thought I knew that. Then I found out that you—“ they broke off. “Why?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s complicated,” the villain seethed. “That’s what you said. It’s complicated.”

The hero went cold.

“It is,” they rasped.

The villain turned away, hands shaking with unspent anger.

“It’s complicated is what you say when your parents don’t believe in magic. It’s complicated is when you aren’t speaking, or when they don’t accept you, or when they’re divorced. It’s complicated is not what you tell your best friend when your parents are brutally murdered.”

For a moment, they couldn’t breathe.

“Villain—“

“You could have told me.”

“I didn’t know how,” their voice was sharper than they had intended, and the villain froze. “What, you think it’s easy to tell someone, someone you love, that your parents died in the worst way possible? That you found them? You think I should have just said it over breakfast one day, like it was nothing?”

“I think you should have let us support you—“

“Shut up,” the hero hissed, and the villain did. “You still have your family at home. They’re wonderful, and they care, and they love you. I don’t have that. I haven’t had that for a long time. So stop telling me what I should have done, when you’ve never had to do it.”

They were wearing the villain’s coat, from all those years ago. The villain’s mother had given it to them on the way out the door, tucked it around them and whispered “keep it,” one winter break. They had wanted to keep that feeling of belonging, too, but the hadn’t. They wondered if the villain recognized it.

“They love you too,” They murmured, and the hero just stared at them. “To them, you were always just another child of theirs.”

“What?”

“They ask about you,” the villain continued. “All the time. Ever since graduation. Dad keeps all your newspaper clippings. Mom hasn’t given me a moments rest ever since she found out, asks me to invite you for dinner every time she sees that we’re fighting again.”

The hero was going to vomit, or cry, or both.

“Stop it.”

“Why,” the villain challenged. “It’s true. They miss you.”

They were a breath away from the hero, and the hero didn’t know when it had happened, or when they had stood from the ground.

“I miss you,” the villain whispered, and then, the hero did cry.

“I was worried you’d never look at me the same.” It wasn’t a sob, but it was close.

“What way is that?”

“Like I’m something more than a tragedy.”

The villain smiled something soft.

“You are a tragedy. But you’ve always been my favorite.”

The hero swayed, and then they were tucked into the villain’s neck.

The villain hushed them, arms tight, and it felt like childhood.

“My parents are dead,” they murmured into the villain’s neck, and this time, they just hummed.

“Mom is making Alfredo,” they said quietly, and the hero didn’t move.

“She still makes that?”

“You told her it was the best thing you’d ever had, once.”

“I remember.”

The villain held them closer, like they were memorizing them.

“Let’s go home,” the villain breathed. “Please.”

Home. Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? Somewhere between starting school and ending it, they had become something more than just the villain’s friend.

Somewhere between starting the academy and eating Alfredo, they had become a Baneswallow.

“Okay,” the hero whispered. “Okay.”

With a snap of magic, they were gone.

No no you don’t understand the utter joy I get when I see someone liking and reblogging a lot of my writing at once is just, unimaginable. It makes me so happy

And then if they follow afterwards I feel like a car salesman that successfully sold a car after hours of haggling

just saw someone post “it’s common knowledge ur not supposed to spam reblog from someone ur not mutuals with” …..?????????? am i confused??? IS that common knowledge???? i try not to spam if i can help it but i actually personally love seeing spam notifs lmao??? unless i dont know what spam reblog means