#notes app musing

[moonlight-prose]

maybe it's my period, maybe it's maybelline. but old man logan would eat pussy from the back like it's a fucking reward, after he's finished filling it so much you're leaking.

[grooveguyz]

drag queen named tess tosterone

[spicypineneedles]

:] hehehe

[rawfather]

steve rogers x reader calling my name for the first time since middle school

[asterin-kelles]

A snippet of a thing that I’m working on that I don’t know when it will see the light of day but here’s a baby snippet anyway because I’m rather proud of this little exchange.

[valise-hy]

i want to write

i want to write

but nothing courses through my veins

i've robbed the fields barren of imagination

i've drunk the rivers dry of thought

yet nothing remains in this world

nothing runs through the fields

and nothing courses through the rivers

i've taken it all

and left myself with nothing

who's going to stop me before i tear the world apart?

[adanseydivorce]

teehee!!

[icarus-my-muse]

Don’t turn on the lights.
Don’t check the window.
Don’t speak your name aloud.

It knows sound.


It loves the shape of your voice.
That’s how it learns you.

You’ll want to call someone.
You’ll think, "This is ridiculous."


And for a while, it will be.

But then the static will start.

Not loud. Not right away.


Just a whisper behind the power lines.
Your name, maybe.
Or something that sounds like your name if you’re not listening too closely.

That’s how it starts.

You’ll feel watched.
You’ll feel followed.
You’ll find things moved, barely.


The chair turned six degrees.
The mirror slightly warped.
The door open to the wrong room.

Don’t acknowledge it.
That’s step one.

Step two: when the dreams begin, do not write them down.
It can crawl through ink.

Step three: never say you believe in it.
Even if you do. Especially if you do.
It feeds on confirmation.
It gets realer. Stronger. Closer.

By the time you smell the ash,
it’s already in.

You can’t kill it.
You can’t outrun it.


All you can do
is keep it distracted
with someone else

So if you���ve read this far,
if you’ve felt it stirring,
even now,
you’ll understand why I had to leave this here.


You’ll understand 
why I stopped talking to people.
Why I stopped being seen.

I’m sorry.

But I’d rather it take you
than remember
what it did to me

[cosmik-homo]

I can't screenshot cuz my current PDFs don't have any appendixes- annoying as hell- but. Alfred's preambling intro for his journal truly makes it sound like thee funniest primary source Ever. imagine trying to construct a historical narrative of some gay bitch's notes app.

[mangofresca]

anachronism

He’s handsy. More than anything he had been expecting, Romano is handsy, and Portugal does not need to be any sort of psychologist or poet to understand why. What catches him, though—and what he often spends his time considering—is the when, that variable shift from companionable air to congenial leading, amicable to insinuative to bold, before settling somewhere in the vicinity of amatory caressing.

He’s handsy, and Portugal, within his own personal revelations, likes it more than he tolerates it, indulges in it more than he expected, revels in it more frequently than he is willing to count.

And this, he knows, is Romano’s biggest fantasy, the thing that makes him hot and flushed and brazen, steadfast and sure beneath hands that have long since lost their hesitation. For all his blustering and posturing, Romano only ever cared for that which left him unsure, and Portugal understands in his own way, even relates to a certain degree. He expected it and he hadn’t.

It’s a truth that existed long before their paths wove themselves together so intrinsically, bonded in gold and sweetly-scented lavender, one that would exist long after their time in each other’s presence diverged, a truth that was laid out so plainly before him that he all but tripped and fell into it when he actually allowed himself to look. A truth Portugal could pluck from the skies of Alqueva and Lecce, shimmering like stars embedded in the outskirts of unwavering constellations, glittering fantastically before his eyes—a skittish, despairing, lonely truth.

Romano wants to be wanted. Not coveted nor revered nor exalted. Romano wants to be wanted, and Portugal, for reasons that dawned on him slowly at first then entirely all-encompassingly, wants him.

The notion of acting on this newly unearthed want had once been wholly at odds with Portugal’s nature. Romano has long existed within a sphere beyond Portugal’s notice, purview, and grasp, and he never cared to make any motion to extend his interest into that particular area of his brother’s imperium.

The nature of nations, Portugal knows, is that they are bonded to their people first and foremost. The nature of immortals, though, is that they are bonded to each other beyond what any human could ever conceivably fathom. As beings who live in the nebulous middle, their lives are only ever dictated by flux and wavering posture. All the more reason, then, he muses, to understand each other.

He knows Romano would laugh at the very thought of it, of being understood, of understanding those who have only ever burned his bridges. But—or so Portugal likes to believe—that was why they differed: he hadn’t intended to try, and Romano certainly hadn’t intended to deliver. To Romano’s endless annoyance and even more infinite delight, Portugal doesn’t care if he fails. This pleases him, and Romano, in return, gives, because nothing is expected of him and every gift, every action, every physical admiration is received like it’s all Portugal wants, with no expectation of other.

And maybe, Portugal wonders, just maybe, it is.

It’s a small thing, only a tease, a tempt with none of the promise, but as they leave their table from a shared lunch one blinding, blistering afternoon, Romano reaches behind him, pulls the hand from Portugal’s pocket, and places it on the small of his back, beneath the flutter of his pristine suit jacket. His eyes flick over his shoulder, and Portugal is already watching, already receiving, delighted in that way he gets when he makes a particularly good dig or catches an underhanded comment, revelry adorned in equanimity.

Portugal lets his lips turn up into a smile, hand pressing just that much more against Romano’s back, thumb tracing the line of his spine, and Romano grins at him, the keeper of a secret he doesn’t know he’s already shared.

Romano wants to be wanted. Portugal wants to try.

[starfox313]

Every house I've ever lived in was haunted.

[jakekazansky]

Did you know if you type 5k+ words on a single note in the notes app on an iPhone it will cause it to lag?????

[sometimesanalice]

I’m low of spoons at the moment, but I’m hoping to get a little Like I Can prequel drabble together soon!

[ipsum-lorem-dolor]

you don’t know all my stories anymore, and i

don’t know yours,

but i still know the password to your phone, and

you still know mine.

[seaglassmelody]

The problem with writing things in the Notes app is I have no word count to check at all

[valise-hy]

Someone More Interesting

I don't like to write about myself. I lead an ordinary life, dull and colourless, plagued by monotone hues that reside at two extremes: one devoid of light, one nothing but light. This is where I'll live forever.

I have no gifts, but I have a will. I wish to create something brilliant, something ingenious, something inspiring. The already colourful worlds of others will be exposed to more vivid hues, more radiant skies. I'll weave the words of creation itself into a tapestry that knows no bounds. I aspire to shake the foundations of human emotion itself and control laughter and tears, rage and fear.

With that, I create a puppet, a persona, even. Someone whose body is a vessel to hold experiences more fascinating than mine. They will go on to witness my masterpieces, my best crafted stories, set in a world close to home, yet far, far from real.

I name this person "I". A narrator, a character, a friend.

I bless "myself" and wish for "me" to explore beyond the horizons of time and space. These journeys will define "interesting" itself through words and words alone.

My wishes are as such:

I wish "I" could witness verdant hills and starry skies far away from the nest of the city, yet in a land no different than the one that exists. "I" will observe the world around "me" and recount fantastical tales made only from the mundane.

I wish "I" could travel to the astral realm above without experiencing the horrors of a space so different from our own. In this realm I've crafted, "I" know how to stay safe. "I" know every rule, every loophole, every element that makes this space unique. I've become a guide for "myself".

I wish "I" could fly around the city and kiss all the birds goodnight. They need to be loved when the cold world shuns them. "I" wish not for the warmth of the self, only the warmth of others. Is this not what they deserve?

I wish "I" could swim in the sea with the fish without having to hold "my" breath. "I" can breathe the ocean like I breathe the air. The world's varying phases serve not as boundaries, but as gateways from one world to another. The old saying twists to fit the outlier: "Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day. Teach a fish to write, and the world changes forever."

I wish "I" could judge the world in its entirety. I wish "I" could adapt to the changes it throws at "me" to stop "me" from progressing through this chapter. A will can burn obstacles down if it is strong enough, but when have "I" ever possessed such a strong will?

I write my stories in first person because I like it more. This isn't my story, this is "my" story.

One day, the puppet is destined to question its existence. Why was "I" created? What purpose do "my" actions serve? Why do "I" act in this way? Why do "I" speak when "I" shouldn't, and don't when "I" should? Why must "we" all endure suffering and how do "we" make it stop? Who is this creator and why do "I" bow to the figurehead of someone "I" do not know?

And so this leads to the puppet questioning the creator, as things are fated to do. When the time comes, I'll be prepared. My knowledge is meant to be shared, even to creations with no name and no soul.

I envy that my creation learns the beauty of life for the first time.

The sun rises and falls, then the moon does the same. Life's river changes its flow however it pleases. The world is anything but constant, but the only constant in life is change. Yet, the new year comes once more, and my wish is always the same.

I wish that "I" could be someone more interesting.