PLEASE send me some writing prompts or little one-shot/drabble ideas!! arcana or not!!! i literally have no creativity of my own right now and i need to warm up for a school writing thing!!!
Bazzpop not to burst your bubble but whenever I read your HCs with MASSIVE DICKS like "bad dragon toy on steroida thing" the more I'm sure you never had a real dick inside of you. That horny magical impossible thing you write about? Would hurt like fuck. Hit a cervix with this ting and you're legit dead. Not prepare beforehand? Yeah, feel being ripped into half. Ah yes, I can already picture how that HUMONGOUS phallus rearranges internal organs. Do some research before you write, will you?
god i wish someone would just absolutely insult my massive cock like this. just really get on my nerves about my huge dick. my absolutely humongous penis. because it’s huge. i have a huge co
PLEASE send me some writing prompts or little one-shot/drabble ideas!! arcana or not!!! i literally have no creativity of my own right now and i need to warm up for a school writing thing!!!
i rewrote the last scene in book 15 of Julian’s route as a warm-up, but i have nothing to do with it, so feast your eyes on my trash
[also: this is my first time writing in the first person, as well as publishing my stuff. if it sucks, it sucks.]
Inside the ballroom, guests graciously danced, blissfully unaware. Unaware that I’m here, that was. Unaware that I’ve lost my body to the devil in a blind deal. Everyone’s faces are blurry, my vision resembling a smudge of ink, or as if someone had rubbed honey into my eyes with greasy thumbs. Except the honey had been drained of its rich, golden glow beforehand. The color -- it’s Malak’s feathers. It’s Julian’s scratchy handwriting of ink-too-thick. It’s smoke, burning my eyes and choking my lungs.
But, I saw a flick of contrast.
Portia’s hair.
“Portia!” I scream. “Portia, help us!” My throat shreds itself like frayed rope as I call out to her.
But she doesn’t hear me. She doesn’t react.
Neither did anyone else.
But they’re looking at me, I thought. Aren’t they?
Or are they looking through me?
The human eye naturally locks on what’s in its foreground. The focus is visible from the third person. I should be that foreground. Middleground, even. Their eyes should have no choice but to lock onto my figure, standing in front of them. But they’re looking right through me. Through both of us.
They can’t see me. Nor can they see Julian. Nobody can see us.
Then, I noticed the smoke. It swirled up the stairs like a tidal wave against a rigid cliff, unnoticed by the guests.
They were still dancing.
It grew denser and darker the higher it traveled. Like a threatening storm cloud ready to burst.
Once the fog arrived at the top landing of the steps, it billowed into a figure. It was thick. It was suffocating. One, tall shape it took, in an ever-threatening cloud.
Then, the clock chimed.
It was midnight.
The room fell silent. Deafening silence, it was, as the clock rang on.
The cloud remained in place.
It wasn’t until the clock’s chimes fell to a hush before the lights began to dim. They grew dimmer, and dimmer. Every time I assumed it was finally dark enough, it grew darker, until there was nothing left but a pool of light draped against the top of the staircase. Deafening silence, asphyxiating darkness. The room was drowning.
Then, I heard Julian gasp behind me. “It can’t be,” he whispered. I could practically hear the wideness of his eyes, even in the pitch black.
It was then that my gut dropped through my skin, like an anchor plunging into Marianas Trench, sinking deeper and deeper. My tongue dried to desert sand as my brain scraped the walls of my skull, looking for a way to piece what I was seeing together, to make even a sliver of sense. My temples tingled at the lack of explanation.
Before, this figure had been nothing but a painting to me. Nothing but an antagonist from other people’s memories. Nothing but a monochromatic nightmare.
Nothing but stories to keep me up for the night, making me pull the covers up to my chin and squeeze my eyes shut until I saw shapes. Anything to get it out of my head. Anything to get him away from me.
But now, he was here.
He was in the palace.
He was in front of me.
And uncomfortably familiar, he was.
Blond, slicked-back hair above the blood-flooded scleras, his eyeliner sharpened to threatening points to mock his thick eyebrows against his carved cheekbones. His cocky smirk was visible from where I stood, with a tiny detail of a dimple at his mouth’s peak. I couldn’t pick what scared me the most. Maybe his eyes, with the most fearsome glare of ill intent that I’ve ever seen from anybody. Maybe the grin. Or maybe it was the outfit. It was the exact attire that had first made my stomach wrench when I laid eyes on the painting in his old bedroom. The last surviving portrait, it was, with the white fur stippled with black spots draped against his shoulder that fanned out his monochrome cape. He wore his red sash with various medals over his white two-piece bodysuit. Black, leather boots were hiked up past his knees.
Then, I laid eyes upon the golden arm. Shined until it was blinding, the honey-colored weapon glowed under the light he bathed in, claws glinting as he strode down the stairs, slowly inching closer. I could practically feel the metal claws raking against the inside of my stomach and ripping my lungs open, clawing like an animal locked in a crate.
His arms were bent at the elbows, hands thrown out to the sides. A cocky gesture it was.
Rightfully so.
His smirk didn’t flinch.
Lucio basked in the silence of the ballroom, the click of his heels against the marble creating their own, nauseatingly slow tempo.
“Dry your tears, Vesuvia!” he called. His threatening whine drummed against the walls with a daunting echo, ringing in my skull until it throbbed. “Your mourning days are over.”
His pinhole pupils scanned the room.
“Your beloved Count,” he sang in a tease, “has returned.”
Incense. Patchouli oil. Vanilla. All different tea flavors. Candy you’ve never heard of, but remember the taste of. Belladonna. Cotton candy. Tangy fruit. Essential oils. Bread. Pumpkin spice.
Salt. Leather. Roses. Alcohol. Disinfectant. Iron. Sweat. A sea breeze. Rope. Faded cologne. Spice. Coffee. Cloth. The smell of the heat in a car. Citrus. Warmth.
Too much cologne. Acrylic paint. Fur. The ache in your feet from wearing heels. Burnt hair. Hair gel. Gilding. Milk. Dogs. Mud. Mint. Detergent. A freshly extinguished flame. Burning wood. Cold metal. Makeup remover. Smoke. Pomegranates.
The finest bath salts. Flowers you’ve never heard of. Springwater. Thin fabric. Opening a window for the first time in Spring. Imported fruit. Rich milk. Velvet fabrics. Cool water.
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