stormwright

[stormwright]

Tch, you're pretty good. But once I've memorized your attack pattern, we're making out sloppy style

[stormwright]

it’s because i’m always under some damn curse

[stormwright]

when i was a kid my Getting To Sleep technique was visualizing a child-sized shriveled up mummy with big piercing eyes that would stand silhouetted in the doorway & stare at me & probably attack if i so much as opened my eyes after getting into bed & this technique caused me to develop a lifelong nighttime-induced paranoia & it still takes me 2 hours to fall asleep. so i wouldnt recommend that

[stormwright]

[stormwright]

Edinburgh, Scotland (by Zsofia Foldvari)

[stormwright]

Me: *googling stuff about posion, murder, the Russian mafia and stab wounds*

My OCs, getting suspicious:

[stormwright]

Visual representation of writing one (1) scene and then realizing you have no idea what goes next:

[stormwright]

converting this space into writing/art/whatever space bc reasons ig

[stormwright]

[stormwright]

Please write stories that are problematic. 

Stories need conflict.

Write them to show what’s healthy. Write them to show what’s unhealthy.

Write them because problematic behaviors exists, and writing is a medium to explore and show– to teach and make the reader think. Shying away from these topics only creates ignorance. 

I see so many people telling writers to avoid anything that could be problematic, like writing about it is supporting it. They fail to see the importance of writing with depth and meaning. 

Writing has always been about conveying thoughts and ideas without fear of censorship. Being able to present problematic situations in a healthy way is important. 

[stormwright]

Sadeas, about to get stabbed by Adolin: What’re you gonna do, stab me?

[stormwright]

The hiss of the shower was a distant, immaterial thing; a quiet hum of noise that dipped in and out of the steady music that filled Jack's apartment. They were guises of substance that Rhys was only barely aware of, mildly registering them only for the sake that they identified where Jack himself was. Gone. Absent. He'd left Rhys there, just as he always did. Retiring to wash like his time with Rhys had been the sort of thing you ought to purge yourself of after it was all said and done. Distantly, Rhys found a kind of humor in that. An irony that Jack should be the one to cleanse himself when it was Rhys who'd so shamelessly and reverently bore the brunt of his appetites. And now he wore it on his skin. It lay over his senses like a lukewarm haze. He was drunk off it. Basking in it. And there was shame in it. He'd learned to stop rationalizing how terribly he coveted this haze. It was in the blood he could taste on his mouth, clean and still fresh from the split in his lip, the way his breath still came slow and measured as to not disturb the new pattern of bruises that made up the column of his throat. It was a mix of those pains, the bruises and cuts that marked where Jack had been, all sharpened teeth and tearing fingers, and the brazen thrum of satisfaction still hot and pulsing under Rhys's skin and wet where it lined his own navel. His eyes were vacant, glazed over and half-lidded as he watched the blade of the fan spin overhead, the rotation too slow to provide any relief to the lingering heat that consumed him by the grace of a breeze. He should move. Clean himself up before Jack could return and chide him for playing corpse on his bed. His fingers twitched with the anticipatory gesture to sit up, and he felt a twinge of pain flare up in a dozen places; mocking his bruised wrists and the countless, countless crescents of teeth marks that had left his skin pinkened and raw. He groaned quietly, and the sound that escaped him was not altogether displeased. After all, he had wanted this. He had practically begged for it and given praise (in not so many words) each time he'd been broken. So Rhys sat up, breathing sharply as his body protested the motion and biting down another noise of mixed pain and contentment as he pulled himself together. There was a part of him, a small but stupidly loud part of him, that drew his gaze to the bathroom door, cracked and billowing steam into the room like some come hither motion. He pointedly did not go to it. What would Jack have thought of him, climbing into the shower to join him like some love drunk puppy? Probably the same thing he thought of him when Rhys, bloodied and bruised, still had the temerity to ask for more. Fucking pathetic. Rhys didn't even bother to reward himself with a hot shower. He left the water ice cold and frigid as he rinsed in the spare bath, wincing and hissing as the spray disturbed his too sensitive skin. It was a quick rinse. Just enough to make him not utterly disgusting but left him shivering as he tumbled back into bed, wearing nothing but a borrowed company sweater that contributed little warmth and barely did anything to hide the array of blemishes Jack had left on him as he burrowed himself under the thick blankets that threatened to drown him in the everything of Jack's scent.

[stormwright]

⛓.after rapture

gift for @auriezvous​ that got too long bc i’m a dumb sap bye (rm for length)

“See something, boyo?”

The voice hadn’t stopped. A lot of the voices leftover from Rapture hadn’t stopped. Most he could ignore easily enough. They held no weight to him– no weight to anyone at all up here– they were just the echoes of people and people who were hardly people anymore that Jack couldn’t have placed names to even if he did pay them mind.

“Something catch your eye up there, Jacky?”

But not this one.

Keep reading

[stormwright]

I love how groups of friends will end up adopting a group name. like wether it’s something just like “squad” or “meme team” an inside joke or something. and you’ll just refer to the group like one unit like “hey, the meme team is coming over,” and people will just know who that means. I love it. I love these little gangs filled with good pals.

[stormwright]

[stormwright]

When I’m telling a story and a friend interrupts: