[bookished]

(  ★  ) dreamletter 🕯️ “i write the kind of stories i would’ve whispered to the stars.”

⸺ you’ve wandered into a little corner of neverland. she/her · ninety-eight's · quiet type · cloud-collector ☁️ ✎ here you’ll find: › starry thoughts · lullaby letters · gentle magic › writing for the ones who still look for second stars › themes of longing, light, and lost time

writing is my first language — silence, my second.

⋆ navigation: 1️⃣. GUIDELINES 2️⃣. MSTRLIST WEB 3️⃣. NAV 4️⃣. KINKTOBER

📫 inbox: open │ 📁 requests: closed

[finefeatheredfabler]

I believe in the separation of church (fandom) and state (media creators)

[bookished]

Shipping ruins fandoms when the shippers are acting like rabies infested dogs because someone doesnt follow their delusional headcanons.

[lost-in-eriador]

in 2026, remember how GOOD writing feels. remember how satsfying it is to get your characters to the point you have been dying to get to, where they will experience the love, fear, relief or whatever the feeling you want to bring to life may be. let this year be the year of writing, prgress and of satisfactory endings.

[bookished]

‘daaaamn are you okay? you spent all that time typing this instead of focusing on something you like?’

> author to an abundance of unwritten novels

Don’t worry bud, clearly nobody’s missing out by you keeping them unwritten.

you're a grown man writing essays on tumblr dot com about taylor swift and had to come as anon on my blog... get better, man

[writing-prompt-s]

You know that someone at your court is trying to poison you. You can taste it in every meal you eat, in every glass of wine you drink. They have exhausted almost every poison known to man and are clearly getting desperate, not knowing how you are still alive.

[bookished]

They say every monarch hides a curse. Yours just happens to have your name on it.

He should’ve died a dozen times by now — from the banquet wine, from the council’s whispered “gifts,” from the soft smiles that hide arsenic. But he doesn’t. Because you keep him alive.

Not out of mercy. Not anymore.

At first, it was duty — the precise balance of antidote and faith. You neutralized their toxins, soothed the venom, prayed to the gods of science and sin to keep him breathing another day. But mercy fades. It spoils on your tongue.

So you began experimenting. You started blending death and devotion in equal measure. A drop of wolfsbane to sharpen his senses. A kiss of belladonna to paint him celestial. Silverroot, goldleaf, nightshade — all whispering his name.

Now, when you draw his blood, it gleams faintly in the light. There’s gold in it — your gold. You’ve written yourself into his pulse.

He doesn’t realize that the same hands that save him are the ones remaking him. He calls it resilience. He calls it luck. You call it alchemy.

You’ve woven yourself into his survival. He breathes because you said he would. He shines because your poisons made him holy.

Sometimes you wonder if he suspects it — the way your love has teeth, the way your devotion rots everything it touches. Sometimes you catch him watching you like he knows he’s no longer a man, but your creation.

The court keeps plotting. Their goblets are laced with lies; their daggers polished with desperation. Let them try. Let them feed him their finest toxins.

They don’t understand that he’s already yours — every heartbeat dosed in your madness, every breath thick with your sins. They could never kill him cleanly now. Not when every cell in his body sings your name.

He’ll live as long as you love him. And you have never, ever loved gently.

[reignpage]

heyyyyy youre my favourite writer on tumblr ever and youre somewhat of a role model for me as a beginner writer on here 😅 so cringe im sorry. basically, ive been thinking about opening requests but idk what it entails, like the reality of it. and your requests are famously closed so i wanted to ask why you opened yours in the first place and why you closed it and whether youll ever open it again. hope that makes sense and im not making you uncomfortable.

Heyyy aw that’s so sweet 🥺 thank you, I’m honoured!!

I see, I see. Okay let me impart my wisdom and insight heh

Here are some of the pros and cons of opening requests:

Pros

Greater interaction — good for new writers as a way to bring in readership and have some interaction in their inbox

Good for writing exercises — pushes you to be more creative, to interpret prompts as you please and add your own twist

Good way of keeping up to date with trends — you’re constantly in the loop of what other writers are doing, what’s popular, what the community likes or dislikes. makes for great observations

Good if you’re running out of ideas — you might also just want some inspiration, in which case requests can help with that. You get a list of things that you might not want to do today but you might tomorrow or the next week.

Cons

Thankless job — anons almost never come back to say thank you. interactions are likely to be limited to requests and not any meaningful personal messages. these anons may even be the type to not comment, like or reblog your work. maybe they’re not even following you.

Rude cunts — some anons won’t say please or word their requests nicely. some people are under the impression that requests are a right and entitlement rather than a privilege. they’ll make demands. they’ll ask you why you haven’t written it yet. they won’t even read your rules or check if you’ve already done a similar thing.

Overwhelming — for every request you do, you might get ten more. it feels like you’ll never get through them all. it can make writing feel like a job. especially if people don’t explain what they mean or they make a very specific, sensitive request and you have no idea where to start.

Overall, the biggest downside and the all-encompassing word I’d use to explain why I don’t do request, apart from not having the time to do them, is that it can be very degrading. Since people are constantly demanding and never saying thank you or supporting you, it can make you feel like a robot or a machine just pumping out work after work with no pay.

And as for whether I’ll ever open them again, the answer is it’s not likely. I genuinely do not have the time to do them. There’d be no point in having requests open cause I’d never write them. I’m also against suggestions because at the moment I want every thing I write, as much as possible, to come from own ideas.

Hope that helps. Best of luck and happy writing!!

[bookished]

wrong number, right obsession

pairing: drunk!f!reader x gojo satoru (stranger!au) content warnings: alcohol, cursing, flirty banter, nsfw undertones, loud drunk energy. author’s note: chaotic, bold, messy, and flirty. reader energy inspired by sabrina carpenter's "go go juice". have had this song on loop since the album came out and i couldn't stop thinking about this idea.

you’re three tequila shots deep, screaming at your phone like it’s personally responsible for your heartbreak. your exes are lined up like they’re auditioning for a role in the “why i drink alone” documentary, and tonight, you’re the cruel, drunk director.

so, naturally, you dial.

except.

wrong number.

you’ve been dumped… again and at this point, heartbreak feels like muscle memory. the bar knows your name, your friends know your sad “I’ll show them I’m fine” rants, and you definitely know your liquor. somehow, in the blur of tequila shots and unwise confidence, you grab your phone and scroll through your contacts like a greatest hits album of bad decisions... without realizing you start dialing: Ex #1… Ex #2… Ex #3…

your thumb finds him. ex #4. the one who deserves every unfiltered word sitting on your tongue.

so you call.

“hello?”

and you don’t let him speak. not even a word. because this is ex #4 and you have a lot to say.

“oh don’t you hello me, asshole. i’ve been meaning to say this for months, and now? now i’ve got the liquor courage. you were terrible. yeah. in bed, out of bed, everywhere in between—just. terrible. i’ve faked enthusiasm for ramen noodles longer than our relationship lasted.”

there’s a pause on the other end. but you’re in rant mode. unstoppable.

“and don’t think i didn’t notice you ghosting me when i tried to talk about my feelings. like, poof, magician’s act. except without the hot assistant, because god knows you didn’t have the stamina for that either.” you hear a sound. a low laugh. but you brush it off, steamrolling forward. “and communication? zero. zip. nada. i could’ve had a deeper conversation with my cat. at least he meows back when i say hi.”

another chuckle. louder this time.

you frown. why does he sound so… amused?

“what, you think this is funny? i’m baring my drunk little soul here and you’re—”

“uhhh… sorry, sweetheart, hate to break it to you, but… i’m pretty sure i’m not your ex.” he’s trying not to laugh. okay, failing spectacularly.

silence.

the bar noise fades. your tipsy brain hiccups mid-thought.

“wait… what?”

“yep. wrong number. but don’t stop on my account. honestly, i’m kinda invested now. tell me more about how terrible i was in bed?” you could hear the grin on the other end.

your jaw drops. your face burns. you nearly choke on your own words. he’s not your ex.

“you—you’re not—oh my god.”

he laughs, smooth and shameless.

“don’t sound so horrified. i gotta say, though… i’ve never been insulted so thoroughly by a stranger before. ten out of ten performance. don’t stop on my account. you’re entertaining me.”

you groan into the phone, covering your face even though he can’t see you.

“i want to die. right now. immediately.”

“don’t. you’ve got too much material left. besides… a voice this cute? you’re wasted on breakups.”

he tells you it’s a wrong number. and you should hang up. you really should.

but his laugh—low, unbothered, curious—has you curling tighter on your barstool, phone pressed to your cheek like it’s suddenly keeping you alive. you stay quiet, telling yourself it could be a grown ass man, a creep, anyone. but your brain doesn’t follow, marinating in its own tequila haze.

your heart stutters. cute? cute?

suddenly the haze lifts just enough for reality to sucker punch you. this isn’t ex #4. this isn’t any of your exes.

this is a stranger.

you choke on air, mortification slamming into you harder than the tequila ever did.

“oh my god.”

“mhm?” you can still hear he's having fun at your cost, and the idea of the creepy man gets stronger.

“oh my god, i’m gonna die. i’m literally going to die. strike me down, tequila gods, i can’t live like this.”

your thumb fumbles at the screen. he’s saying something—teasing, amused, wanting to draw it out—but you don’t let him. you hang up with a click, staring at your reflection in the backlit screen like it’s laughing at you too.

the tequila, the breakup, the shame—everything burns. but under it all, there’s the echo of his laugh. low, unbothered, curious. and the dangerous thought you can’t shake:

what if he calls back?

[bookished]

sett x f!reader headcanons ◟if you love dark romance and messy, obsessive dynamics, buckle up. this is not a safe or healthy love story: it’s dangerous, consuming, and deliciously toxic. dangerously obsessed, toxic, and all-consuming. sett doesn’t just want you, he needs to possess you. the age gap is the least of your problems. jealousy, control, and obsession bleed into every glance, touch, and argument, and you can’t—or don’t want to—resist.

c.w. toxic relationship dynamics • unhealthy obsession / possessiveness • age gap (minor) • jealousy & control • degradation • rough handling / bruising • choking / wrist pinning • overstimulation • emotional manipulation / coercive undertones • punishment / “making up after fights” sex themes • unhealthy dependency & dark romance vibes.

the age gap is an afterthought. people whisper about it at first, but honestly… compared to everything else between you two (power imbalance, dangerous loyalty, questionable morals, tangled fates), it’s the most boring issue in the room.

sett doesn’t give a damn about years. he cares about usefulness and obsession. the second you prove yourself indispensable,,, whether it’s through wit, cunning, or just refusing to back down,,, he latches onto you.

you can’t tell if he’s protecting you out of some warped affection or because he’s already decided you belong to him. spoiler: it’s both.

the way he talks to you? patronizing pet names, but with a bite.

“careful, little one. i might start to believe you actually think you’re untouchable.” yet his hand lingers at your waist, guiding, claiming.

arguments are violent, not necessarily physical but emotionally scorching. sett doesn’t do gentle confrontation, he’ll corner you, force you to spit out the truth, demand you pick a side. somehow, you always choose him, even when you swear you won’t.

there’s a dangerous thrill in being the only one who can look him in the eye when he’s furious and not flinch. he respects it. he hates it. he craves it.

nights with him feel like walking a razor’s edge: half passion, half power struggle. you never know if you’ll wake up tangled in his arms or with a blade against your throat just because he wants to remind you how fragile you are in his world.

people ask if you ever feel unsafe with him. the answer? yes. constantly. but it’s not the kind of unsafe that drives you away but the kind that hooks deep into your veins, keeps you running back because danger has become synonymous with desire.

sett is possessive in ways that don’t feel like love—at least not the healthy kind. it’s obsession, control, addiction. and yet, when he cups your jaw after a fight and murmurs, “i wouldn’t let anyone else get this close,” you believe him. you hate yourself for believing him.

if anyone else tries to point out the toxicity of it all, you laugh.

him being older? the issue? no, the problem is that you’ve tied yourself to a man who could burn entire kingdoms just because you looked at someone else too long and you don’t know if you’d stop him.

sett doesn’t see you as his equal. not at first. you’re a challenge, a toy, a pretty little thing to bend until you break. the age gap is just another lever of control he can pull.

“sweet thing, i was cutting throats before you even knew how to lace your shoes.” says with a smirk, while his hand traces your thigh.

his affection is calculated cruelty. he withholds tenderness on purpose, watching you squirm, desperate to prove you deserve it. when he finally gives in—kisses bruising, words low and sharp—you feel like you’ve won. but it’s never enough.

jealousy? lethal. it doesn’t matter if it’s a stranger glancing your way or a friend lingering too close—sett makes sure they regret it. in public, it’s a casual threat disguised as charm. in private, it’s his hand gripping your jaw while he hisses:

“You’re mine. Don’t make me remind you in ways you won’t like.”

arguments spiral into dangerous games. you slam doors, he breaks them. you throw words, he throws daggers into the wall beside your head. and then, minutes later, he’s kissing you like you’re oxygen, muttering, “don’t you dare leave me.” arguments escalate into hands gripping, voices sharp. then, later, he drags you into bed, making you beg while his obsession hums through every move.

you’ve stopped asking yourself if you love him. it doesn’t matter. what you feel is stronger than love,,, it’s dependency, obsession, the kind of sick devotion that rots at the edges.

sett is manipulative in ways that make you doubt your own mind. he’ll twist your anger into guilt, your victories into his generosity, your defiance into his triumph. and when you finally cave, he kisses your tears away like he’s the only one who can soothe the pain he caused.

he doesn’t let you forget the power imbalance. every once in a while, he’ll whisper something soft like, “you’d be nothing without me,” in a tone so intimate it almost sounds like a vow.

danger is the glue binding you two together. he drags you into his messes, pulls you close when the world is burning, and tells you it’s safer at his side,,, even when you know he’s the danger.

sett doesn’t want a partner. he wants possession. and the sickest part? you want to be possessed. you want to drown in the toxicity, because nothing else feels as consuming as him.

the age gap is the least problematic part. the real problem is that you’re not sure whether you’d survive if he ever let you go. and worse,,, you’re not sure if you’d want to.

he doesn’t make love, he conquers. every touch reminds you who holds the power. hands on your throat, nails down your back, bites marking your skin… you’re his, in every sense, and he knows it.

anyone daring to glance your way earns your body later. he drags out your pleasure and your desperation just to remind you who owns you. "bet they couldn’t touch you like I can."

sett calls you pet, little girl, plaything... mocking, possessive, intoxicating. you repeat it back, admitting you belong to him while he ruins you, and you love that you do. after breaking you down, he holds you close, kisses your tear-streaked face, murmuring things no one else would ever hear: "no one else touches you. only me."

a.n. unlocked something delicious here after watching nina the starry bride hehe sett already screams "red flag I could fix (or make worse)" so making the age gap the least problematic thing is perfect. credits for the beautiful chain divider goes to cursed-carmine.

[bookished]

( a collection of too many closets to stay clean prompts. adjust phrasing as necessary.) feel free to make edits to better suit your muse.

“People talk about skeletons in the closet. I’ve got a whole graveyard.”

“I didn’t just make mistakes, I built homes out of them.”

“You think I’m complicated? That’s because you’ve only met the version of me that survived.”

“Every time I start over, I swear it’ll be different. And then the old me crawls back out.”

“I carry more funerals inside me than memories.”

“You don’t get to my age without becoming someone you swore you’d never be. Twice.”

“I don’t just have a past—I’ve got entire lifetimes I’d kill to forget.”

“I’ve buried so many versions of myself, I can’t remember which one you’re holding now.”

“Everyone carries a secret. I carry empires that collapsed.”

“You don’t understand—my past isn’t behind me. It’s inside me, clawing to get out.”

“Some people hide their shame. I hide entire lifetimes.”

“You’re falling for me, but you’re not falling for all of me.”

“What’s in my closet? The monsters I used to be.”

“I was a liar in one life, a coward in another. Tell me—would you love me if I became both again?”

“People say redemption is possible. But redemption only works if you’ve sinned once.”

“I’ve been more people than I can count. And none of them were good.”

“My closet doesn’t rattle—it howls.”

“You see a person. I see a thousand versions of me I had to kill just to stand here.”

“I’ve buried more secrets than I’ve ever confessed. And sometimes I think they’re still alive down there.”

“Don’t ask me to tell you the truth. The truth is rot. The truth stinks.”

“You’re asking for my story? Which one—the one I tell, or the one I can’t?”

“I can love you, but I can’t promise you won’t hate me once you know what’s in the dark.”

“There’s not just one truth to tell you. There’s a pile of them, and they’ll crush you if I drop them all at once.”

“I don’t know which version of me you’d hate more.”

“The thing about closets is they don’t stay shut forever.”

“You say everyone deserves forgiveness. But what if I need forgiving twice?”

“I’ve been reborn so many times, I’ve forgotten which version of me committed which sin.”

“If I told you the truth, you’d realize you’re in love with a stranger.”

“You’re not the first person I’ve promised honesty to. And you won’t be the first I’ve lied to.”

“I’ve built entire lives out of secrets. Do you really think you’ll be the one to survive knowing them?”

“You love who I am now, but my closets are full of who I used to be—violent, selfish, desperate. And they don’t stay dead.”

“Every time I start fresh, it feels less like a beginning and more like a cover-up.”

“You want my past? Fine. Which one do you want—the one that ruined me, or the one where I ruined everyone else?”

“Depends which life you want the story from.”

“Do you want to love me, or survive me?”

“If I confess, it won’t be the truth you think you want. It’ll be worse.”

“Everyone has a past… but I’ve got two.”

“Which one do you want me to tell you about—the past where I was the villain, or the past where I was the victim?”

“You think you’ve met me, but you’ve only met the version I keep polished.”

“I’ve been someone else so many times, I don’t remember which self I buried alive.”

“You say you want the truth. Fine. Which one?”

“Every skeleton in my closet has teeth. They bite back.”

“I didn’t reinvent myself. I escaped myself. Twice.”

“The name you know isn’t the first one I destroyed.”

“You’re in love with the mask, not the man. And the mask has cracks.”

“When the closet doors swing open, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I don’t need forgiveness once. I need it twice.”

“What you call my secrets… I call my survival.”

“You wouldn’t recognize me if you met me back then. That’s the point.”

“I didn’t lose my pasts. I locked them away. But locks rust.”

“You’re safer not knowing who I was before I learned how to lie this well.”

[bookished]

rockstar!gojo situationship headcanons

rockstar!gojo is your bad idea you can’t drop. everyone around you knows better—he’s reckless, loud, impossible to pin down. but you can’t stop orbiting him, because he makes every room feel like a stage and every glance like a spotlight.

rockstar!gojo that kisses you backstage and you think those don’t mean anything… until they do. he’ll pull you behind the curtains, still humming from the adrenaline of the show, hands sliding under your shirt like it’s the most natural thing in the world. then he’ll toss you a wink and vanish back into the crowd, leaving you burning.

rockstar!gojo and the criminal way he texts. entire days of silence followed by “u up?” at 3AM. or blurry mirror selfies captioned “thinking of you. or maybe it’s the tequila.” you hate it. you love it.

rockstar!gojo that keeps writing songs that sound like they’re about you. but when you ask, he just grins and says, “relax. it’s not that deep.” Except then he plays the song three nights in a row, locking eyes with you in the crowd.

rockstar!gojo that treats the situationship like a game. teasing you in interviews (“who inspires my lyrics? wouldn’t you like to know?”), showing up at your apartment at 4AM barefoot with a bag of chips, insisting he doesn’t do relationships aaaand then getting jealous when someone else buys you a drink.

rockstar!gojo that never really lets you go. every time you try to cut it off, he reels you back in with one reckless grin, one whispered “you know you’ll miss me too much.” and the worst part? he’s right.

rockstar!gojo's tour life = emotional whiplash. he’ll disappear to europe for weeks, and you convince yourself you’re done. then he’s back in your city, sunglasses at midnight, strutting into your life like he owns it. like he still owns you.

rockstar!gojo that makes you feel like a secret and a muse at the same time. he doesn’t call you his, but the way he holds your wrist when someone else is looking? that’s not casual. not at all.

credits of the fan art belong to the amazing camy.min

[solarsthoughts]

my roman empire is complaining that writing is hard but then willingly locking myself in a room for six hours straight with nothing but the fictional characters in my head and the echoing sound of my own problems that i will project onto them

[atomiclace]

these are my mutuals. they know who they are

[inconveniently-discorporated]

Me: *agonizing over whether a semicolon goes here, what the proper dialogue should be there, other assorted rules and semantics*

Terry Pratchett: "!" said the stranger.

THAT'S ALLOWED?

[serricoj]

Writing is for communication. Sir Terry knew very well that anything's allowed if it helps you communicate something effectively.

[clemenlush]

astrophysics and music nerd gojo is like a breath of fresh air

[bookished]

“You know,” he says, lying flat on the grass with his guitar across his chest, “stars are just nuclear explosions billions of light-years away, but people still write love songs about them. Kinda funny, huh?”

Gojo cupping your face after a late-night lecture: “Did you know the universe is still expanding? Wild, right? Just like how I keep finding new ways to fall for you.”

His bedroom walls are plastered with both star maps and old vinyl sleeves. When you raise a brow, he shrugs. “What? They’re basically the same thing—just different ways to map infinity.”

Him, half-drunk, confessing: “You’re like a constant in my equation. Doesn’t matter how many variables I throw in—music, galaxies, black holes—you’re always… there.”

During a study session, he plucks absently at his guitar strings. “Can you shut up?” you groan. “Can you imagine how many centuries it takes for starlight to reach us?” he counters with a smug smile. “Now that’s distracting.”

“You’re my favorite duet,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours under the planetarium dome.

When you point out how messy his desk is—papers on gravitational lensing mixed with sheet music—he says: “I like to keep Bach and black holes next to each other. Feels… symmetrical.”

After a fight, he texts you a playlist called ‘Event Horizon’ with songs about inevitability, longing, and collapse. At the end of it is a voice recording of him softly saying: “Come back. Please.”

You tease: “If you weren’t doing physics, what would you be doing?” He smirks. “You. Definitely you.”

“You’re staring again.” “Am not.” “You are.” His smirk sharpens. “What, do I remind you of a supernova? Too bright to look at directly, but you can’t help it anyway?”

He plays guitar at 2 a.m., quiet enough not to wake anyone, except you. You stand in the doorway, arms crossed. “Friends don’t write songs like that for each other.” He doesn’t look up. “Maybe I wasn’t writing it for a friend.”

“Did you know some stars burn themselves out faster just because they shine too bright?” he whispers. “…yeah?” He looks at you with a softness he never lets anyone else see. “Kind of like me when you smile at someone else.”

“You know gravity?” he says, cornering you after class. “It’s the force that keeps everything where it belongs.” His smirk sharpens. “You included.”

When you compliment someone else’s singing voice, he scoffs, strumming his guitar louder. “Cute. But you only like minor chords when I play them, don’t lie.”

He uploads a playlist called ‘Gravitational Pull’ and sends you the link with no explanation. Every song is about obsession, inevitability, and belonging to someone... At the very end: a voice memo of him whispering your name.

“Black holes,” he murmurs one night, sprawled across your couch, “are greedy. They swallow everything nearby.” He tips his head toward you with a lazy grin. “Guess I know how they feel.”

When someone asks you to tutor them, Gojo butts in first: “She’s busy. With me. Always.”

original poster has to FORGIVE ME for this but what they unleashed is not my entire fault... i may need help

[bookished]

( a collection of too close for 'just friends' prompts. adjust phrasing as necessary.) feel free to make edits to better suit your muse.

They’ve always hugged, but lately those hugs linger just a beat too long.

Sharing a bed during a trip—neither of them sleeps much because they’re too aware of the other’s presence.

Accidentally slipping into couple habits (buying each other food, remembering their exact coffee order, fixing their collar, etc.).

Friends teasing them for acting like a couple… and both of them freezing because it hits a little too close.

One notices the other’s dating profile and feels irrationally territorial.

The line between “friendly banter” and “flirting” has gotten blurry.

A partner/bystander points it out bluntly: “You know they’re in love with you, right?”

A fight about boundaries—because one of them wants more, but is terrified of losing the friendship.

A drunken kiss that neither of them can stop thinking about.

Everyone else assumes they’re together already… and they can’t quite correct them.

“Do you have any idea what it does to me when you look at me like that?”

“You’re supposed to be my safe place, not the reason my chest feels like it’s going to explode.”

“We can’t—God, we can’t cross that line.”

“Say it. Say you don’t feel it too, and I’ll drop it.”

“You don’t get to touch me like that and still call it friendship.”

“Stop smiling at me like I’m yours.”

“If this is just friendship, then why can’t I breathe when you’re this close?”

“You’re going to ruin me, and you don’t even know it.”

“One more second like this, and I’m not going to be able to stop myself.”

“Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll believe you.”

“Don’t kiss me like that and pretend it means nothing.”

“We’re not supposed to do this. We’re not supposed to feel this.”

“I’d rather lose my mind than lose you, and right now I think I’m losing both.”

“Do you want me to beg? Is that what this is?”

“If we cross this line, nothing will ever be the same. And God help me, I still want to.”

“If you keep touching me like that, I won’t be able to stop.”

“Friends don’t ache when the other leaves the room. So what does that make us?”

“Tell me to go, and I will. Please—say something before I do something we can’t take back.”

“Don’t call me your best friend when you’re looking at me like I’m more.”

“If this is nothing, then why does it feel like everything?”

“You don’t get it, do you? Every time you smile at me, it feels like a promise.”

“You’re in my head all the time, and it’s killing me. Friends aren’t supposed to feel like this.”

“If we cross this line, you’re not just my friend anymore. You’re my downfall.”

“You’re standing too close.”

“Do you even know what you’re doing to me right now?”

“Stop making me want something I can’t have.”

“I can’t lose you to this, but God, I can’t stop wanting you either.”

“You’re looking at me weird.”

“That wasn’t a… friendly thing to say.”

“Do you always stand this close?”

“Why does it feel different when it’s you?”

“You’re supposed to be my best friend, not the one making my heart race.”

“That… didn’t sound like a joke.”

“Stop holding me like that. Friends don’t hold each other like that.”

“Do you even realize how you’re looking at me right now?”

“Don’t call me yours. You don’t mean it.”

“I can’t breathe when you touch me like that.”

“Say we’re still just friends. Lie to me.”

“We’re not supposed to want this.”

“If this is nothing, then why does it feel like everything?”

“One more second and I’m not going to be able to stop myself.”

“Every time you laugh, I forget we’re not allowed to be more.”

“Tell me you don’t feel it. Please. Tell me I’m imagining this.”

“You can’t just kiss me and act like it means nothing.”

“I’m trying so hard not to want you, and you’re making it impossible.”

“If you keep looking at me like that, I swear I’ll ruin everything.”

“Tell me to go, or I’m not going to.”

“You’re mine. God help me, I don’t care what we call it—you’re mine.”

“I’d rather destroy this friendship than pretend I don’t want you anymore.”

“Do you want me to beg? Because I will.”

“We’ve already crossed the line. The second I realized I loved you, we did.”

“Stop staring at me like that. You’re my best friend.”

“You can’t just… say stuff like that. We’re supposed to be friends.”

“Friends don’t make my heart do backflips when they smile.”

“Why does it feel like I’m cheating when you go on dates?”

“Don’t hold my hand if you don’t mean it.”

“We’ve been friends for years, so why does it suddenly feel different?”

“Don’t kiss me like that if you’re going to pretend it didn’t happen.”

“You’re supposed to be the one I tell about my crush, not be the crush.”

“That’s not a friendly kind of jealousy.”

“If we’re just friends, then why do I feel like you’re mine?”

[sourdough-seal]

“omg you’re so creative. how do you get your ideas” i hallucinate a single scene in the taco bell drive thru and then spend 13 months trying to write it