karkaroff:

Actors are pretty liars, I say as I paint my lips and get into costume, and that is why I’ve been lying to you this whole time.

Even though I never told you that except in my mind, because I am still a liar.

Untruths untangle themselves from the mess of my mind and create a barricade to my heart, and you shattered it through like a clean stroke from a lightsaber. The swift slice of your silence as you didn’t call, didn’t text, and I forgot to pick up the phone. Haven’t we always been like this? Haven’t our eyes, blue with brutality, always shattered each other’s souls?

But we are art, and art makes you feel something. And that is why words are still dripping from my pen even when our relationship has lost blood like a pen loses ink. Losing, losing, lost.

In my mind, you are probably both meaner and kinder than you really are. You say you like my singing voice, over and over, a broken record, as sleep slips from my fingertips. Your shoulder is where my head goes when the thoughts inside it are too heavy to hold without support, your laughter light when the day ends in darkness and I need to see.

The truth is that you are human, and you burn cold like the stars while your fingers burn hot from drawing, sketching mango-shaped heads and dazzling eyes that are too pretty to be human.

(like you, that one time the classroom lights were dim and you was a galaxy and I felt something like the possibility of a kiss for less than a second)

But I am an actor. I live in untruths and pretty lies, and the fact that you might miss me is nothing more than closed curtains before a show begins. I see nothing but a lie, and I see nothing but your eyes when I miss you and your warm arms around my shoulder in the shape of friendship.

I am an actor, and I keep playing this role in my mind long after the show has closed.

– i don’t want to miss you II @bookwrms

wordtamer:

MORNING

Death orders a plate of bacon, black coffee, and fresh ham. Life orders a plate of scrambled egg whites and a stack of strawberry pancakes with whipped cream. She even asks for soy milk with a smile that could conjure sunshine.

“You’re dead to me.” Death says wearily, as their waitress shoots them a glare that could melt the diner windows.

Life’s lips curl, and she puts out a brown hand on the table, tilting it so the diamond ring on her finger glittered.

“Tough; you’re stuck with me for life.” 


MIDDAY

Life pumps the breaks the moment she sees the next souvenir shop and hops out of the car as soon as Death says she’ll do the obligatory gas check. As Life orders the garishly colored Kansas magnet piece and snacks for the road, the woman at the countertop eyes the way her gold bracelets flash against her dark skin.

Life smiles. “They aren’t for sale.”

“Who gave them to you?” The shopkeeper asks lightly, the unspoken question of did you steal them heavy in the air.

“My wife.”

The woman starts. She looks out the window to see Death leaning against the hood of their car, blonde hair tangled in her loose tank top. Life’s brown eyes dance with amusement as the shopkeeper struggles over what to say. It’s the grating noise of the receipt machine that saves her from answering, and Life soon saunters out of the shop, magnet and goodies in tow.

NIGHT

Death leans down to make sure Life can tie the beige ribbon around her head, but Life wipes away the dirt and grime from her forehead before she does.

“You must be exhausted.” Life whispers, pressing a kiss on Death’s cheek that burns even after she pulls away.

They’re in the vacant parking lot of an old strip mall with Life looking at her like she’s about to collapse.

Death leans back on the driver’s seat and gives a tired, but grateful nod. “It’ll get easier.”

Life doesn’t answer; she only leans her head against Death’s shoulder and closes her eyes. 


— ROADTRIP || Kat K.

writing-prompt-s:

You’re an otherworldly archeologist sent to Earth long after humans have disappeared. Your race isn’t even aware of their prior existence. While out in the middle of nowhere, you stumble upon a mountain with four faces carved into it. You and your team try to decipher what it could mean.

writing-prompt-s:

Instead of heaven or hell, when you die, you find yourself in the room of a six year-old girl who invites you to join her tea party. It soon dawns on you, you’re her imaginary friend!

sassymajesty:

are you telling me that if i want to have a chapter written, i have to sit down and write the damn thing?? wtf the fuck??? this is outraging

alicelonjbottcm:

Pairing: Ron x Hermione
Word count: 668
Summary: Ron gets up at 3 in the morning, thinking the neighbors are drilling in the wall again, but it turns out to be something else entirely. 
Rating: K
Read on: fanfiction.net

A/N: like about a month ago I wrote this romione piece, and this one has been finished since about then when @karkaroff got pissed of at my torturing of these poor babies, so this happened

Ron woke up to what sounded like someone drilling into a wall. He was gonna kill those bloody neighbours. He didn’t care anymore that they were in their eighties or that they always invited them over for tea, or that the lady baked incredible cookies. This was the third time this week they’d seemed it fit to put up shelves at three in the morning. Doing his best not to wake Hermione up, and resiting the urge to just bang a wall, any wall, he got out of bed and pulled his nigh-robe closer around him as he walked down the hallway. 

The drilling had stopped and as he walked across the cold living room floor. The kitchen light was on. That was odd. Hermione was always careful to turn off all the lights before they went to bed. Then, he saw the shadow in the door opening. 

“Hermione?” 

She looked up from whatever she was doing over at the counter. There was flour on her cheeks and she sported a wide smile. Her eyes sparkled. “Hi.”

“What…what’re you doing?” Ron looked around at the kitchen. The sink was filled with cups, bowls and what looked like a large torture device.

“I’m baking.”

“You’re… it’s three am.”

Keep reading

:

thank you anne!! i shall do both! also omg i knew it was you fghsghjds

here’s a smol drabble:

Most of the time, Percy didn’t feel like he deserved this. When he looked at the worry lines etched forever into his mother’s face, when he saw the way his father’s hair had turned completely gray, and every time George started a sentence and looked to his left in expectation, only for his face to shut down, he remembered his own actions during the war and left a bitter taste in his mouth. Could he really say he belonged, when he had actively shun the only people who had ever loved him?

But then, his mother would light up at the sight of her one year old grand-daughter, his father would excitedly ask about how the Muggle-Wizard treaty was advancing, George would tease him about the formal robes he always wore, and Percy thought, maybe. Just maybe. And the simple confidence with which Audrey would help Molly in the kitchen, softly correct Arthur’s Muggle terms and always let George try his new products on her… 

Maybe he deserved his own happy ending. Because that’s what he saw in Audrey’s smile and her hand in his, when she whispered that everything would be okay.

and this is who you are aesthetically

hogwarts aesthetic:
house: hufflepuff | ravenclaw | gryffindor | slytherin
blood status: pureblood | halfblood | muggleborn | blood traitor
wand core: dragon heartstring | phoenix feather | unicorn hair | veela hair
pet: cat | rat | owl | toad | none
best subject: defense against the dark arts | history of magic | potions | transfiguration | charms | herbology | astronomy | muggle studies | ancient runes | arithmancy | divination | care of magical creatures
worst subject: defense against the dark arts | history of magic | potions | transfiguration | charms | herbology | astronomy | muggle studies | ancient runes | arithmancy | divination | care of magical creatures
quidditch position: chaser | beater | keeper | seeker | commentator | spectator
favorite place to hang out: by the lake | astronomy tower | hogsmeade | library | common room | secret passage | room of requirement

worldwithinworld:

When you are writing a story and refer to a character by a physical trait, occupation, age, or any other attribute, rather than that character’s name, you are bringing the reader’s attention to that particular attribute. That can be used quite effectively to help your reader to focus on key details with just a few words. However, if the fact that the character is “the blond,” “the magician,” “the older woman,” etc. is not relevant to that moment in the story, this will only distract the reader from the purpose of the scene. 

If your only reason for referring to a character this way is to avoid using his or her name or a pronoun too much, don’t do it. You’re fixing a problem that actually isn’t one. Just go ahead and use the name or pronoun again. It’ll be good.

writing-prompt-s:

Your Tumblr app is actually linked to an alternate universe, so you’ve been interacting with that reality, not ours. You’ve never realized it because that universe is so similar to ours. After two years on the app, though, you start to realize that something is… off.

fienfyre:

It’s the nights she saw the tightness of Remus’ face and the trembling of his hands, an eternal reminder of his monthly torture, sorrow and pain carved in the premature lines of his skin, that McGonagall shivered.

It’s the nights she recalled the emptiness in Sirius’ eyes as he was taken away to Azkaban, a haggard, destroyed look that never disappeared even as he prowled the halls of the Black mansion, that McGonagall stumbled.

It’s the nights she visited Alice and Frank, met by their blank smiles and absent minds, their bodies forever haunted by excruciating dolor, and was gently offered the crinkled paper of sweets, that McGonagall hurt.

It’s the nights she remembered Lily and James’ broken bodies, cast in desperation in front of the one person they would always protect, their love torn apart and yet still so present in the quiet darkness of the house, that McGonagall cried. 

She wanted to grab Dumbledore and shake him and yell. They were twenty, she wanted to scream. They were so young. They deserved to live. What was the point of fighting against evil if this was the price to pay?

Because the memories still came so easily, of James’ charming smiles and Sirius’ rebellious grins as they brilliantly broke another rule. Of Remus’ soft sweaters and dark chocolate as he scolded them fondly, and of a boy and a girl walking hand in hand like nothing else in the world existed. The beautiful youth was gone and yet she remained, fighting in remembrance of something that had already disappeared.

It’s those nights that McGonagall doubted.

But it’s the night she saw the limp body of Harry Potter in Hagrid’s arms that McGonagall broke.

written for the @hpwritersnet prompt of the week: mcgonagall