#original writing

[seyvith]

“ PERMISSION TO REST ”

OBSESSED WORSHIPPER — an angel who doesn’t know how to be loved, only how to kneel . . .

requested / gender neutral reader / emotionally fragile angel x reader / intense fixation / devotion laced with fear / touch starved beyond reason / unhealthy comfort / aching vulnerability

masterlist | intro post | character info . . . a/n: finally finished a post, yay!! been super busy with grad, so take these quickly written abrin headcannons as a little gift. i'll write proper fics with my full writing style once i have more time!

The first time you opened your arms to him, an invitation so simple, so achingly human, Abrin didn’t understand. What you meant as comfort, he mistook as a test.

Without pause or hesitation, he dropped to his knees before you, eyes wide with frantic devotion. He pressed desperate kisses along your legs as though in worship, trembling with a feverish need to prove himself. “Tell me what to do. I’ll be good. Please. Let me deserve this.”

You had to kneel with him, gently guiding his face into your hands like one might calm a frightened animal. To him, your embrace wasn’t a kindness, it was a divine trial. The thought that love could be given without condition had never once occurred to him.

When you finally drew him into your arms, his body resisted the moment. He didn’t know how to soften, how to yield. He sat stiff and trembling, his muscles coiled tight like strings drawn too far. Beneath your touch, his pulse fluttered, thin and frantic, as though his very heartbeat feared being held.

His hands hovered, barely brushing the air near your body. “Can I...?” he whispered, as though asking for permission to exist. When you said yes, the breath that left him shuddered out like it had been trapped in his lungs for years.

Cautiously, like a creature unsure of its own shape, he leaned in. He buried his face in the curve of your neck, not out of peace, but surrender. And when the sob finally tore through him, it came with whispered fragments of gratitude, broken and trembling: “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

Holding Abrin is not just cradling an angel. It is gathering the scattered, shattered pieces of something holy and hurt. He fears he is too much: too scarred, too cold, too far gone to ever be worthy of warmth. Yet he yearns for it all the same, as if your arms were the last place left in the world where he might still belong.

His wings bear the worst of it. They are torn, crooked at the joints, marred with breaks both ancient and new. And yet, when you hold him, it’s his wings he wants you to touch most. Every stroke of your fingers along those ruined feathers sends a jolt of pain through him. But he leans in, never away.

He clenches his teeth, eyes glassy with withheld tears. To him, the pain is sacred. Your touch is sacred. A quiet proof that you see all of him, even the broken parts, and still choose to stay. Sometimes, in a voice tight with emotion, he murmurs, “Please don’t stop. It only hurts when you let go.”

The longer you hold him, the more he melts. Slowly, hesitantly, like snow thawing in early spring. His shivering eases. His breath deepens. Eventually, with the carefulness of a child touching something beautiful for the first time, he rests his head against your chest. He listens to your heartbeat as if it were the music of the stars, the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

He always needs to hold something when he’s in your arms; a fold of your sleeve, a corner of your shirt, your hand clenched tightly in his. He anchors himself to you like a dreamer afraid of waking. It is as though he believes that if he’s not tethered to you, he’ll vanish. Or worse, that you will.

Sleep comes to him only in pieces, stitched with hesitation and fear. But in your arms, he wants to try. Still, his voice is soft with worry each time he asks: “May I sleep here? Will you stay?” The question hangs fragile in the air, like frost waiting to melt.

When you say yes, he settles into your warmth with the carefulness of something half starved. If you shift or pull away, even for a breath, he freezes, his body going still and cold like a candle just extinguished. So you stay, holding him until his breathing evens into something that resembles peace.

Once sleep finds him, it’s as though the world’s grip loosens. The tension in his brow fades. The sharp lines of his grief soften. Sometimes, if the night is kind, a faint smile touches his lips, so fleeting, it feels like a secret only you were meant to see.

When he wakes, something in his eyes has changed. The way he looks at you is no longer just grateful, it’s reverent. Disbelieving. He traces the line of your wrist with shaking fingers, as though still expecting you to vanish. “Does it hurt?” he sometimes asks, voice faint. “To touch me?” He believes there must be a cost.

His tears come often in your arms, and he despises that they do. He buries his face against your chest, sobbing in quiet, aching gasps. “I don’t know how to be held,” he whispers. “I don’t know how to be loved.” But you ask nothing of him. You never ask him to change. That, more than anything, undoes him.

He prepares for your embraces as if preparing for prayer. If he knows you’re coming, he straightens the place where you usually sit, changes into something cleaner, gently presses his ruined wings into order. Not because he thinks you expect perfection, but because he does. Because your arms feel holy, and he wants to meet them clean, even if he never truly can.

On days you don’t hold him, he grows quiet—not bitter, never that. Just quieter. Fainter. He watches you with eyes full of longing, but says nothing. And when, hours later, you finally reach for him again, his entire being crumbles. He folds into you without a word, like a man emerging from deep water who’s only just learned how to breathe again.

Yet even this begins to change. Little by little, you see him shift. The wariness softens. The tension loosens. He starts to believe that maybe your embrace isn’t a test, nor a trap. That perhaps not all softness is followed by pain. That love, once offered, might not be torn away.

One day, with his cheek nestled to your chest and his hand curled gently over your heart, he whispers the truest thing he’s ever let himself believe: “I think I was born just to be held by you.”

a/n2: can't yap too much at the front or my post layout will cry but omg when I first read your request, I got so scared at the "you need to time back your writing" part... until I finished reading and realized it was a compliment 😭 thank you sm anon, you're too sweet!!!

[tanixa8123]

Through our minds nature often imparts ‘shows’ of its immortality upon us evanescent creatures in spectacular moments in a myriad of places. It could happen to you on the slope of a hill, depending where the hill is.

The foothills of Rocky Mountain National Park often live up to their name. Boulders and cliffsides of variations of grey appeal the earth to photographers around the world. Its numerous lakes calming those who see it with its crystalline waters revealing another world submerged below. Animals of the likes of Bighorn Sheep and Mule Deer traverse their native hills while hares and squirrels scamper along their daily routes. Trout and bluebirds glide along their respective mediums, maybe seeking food, or a mate if the time’s right.

A rich diversity of flora set their roots in this place, hundreds of species of wildflower dames speak their own accent of color to their suitors that fly to greet them, visible or not. Trees stand tall and conoid as zephyr leaves his dames to tickle their leaves and groom them into shape so they may yet again, survive the harsher weather of winterland.

These trees fence lakes, hem rivers and hide from mountain peaks and humid sun. Primarily they perch on hillsides growing upwards against the slope like misbehaving children, either bunched up forests or sparse along the plains, merely popping up from time to time to remind the world of its existence.

And it is upon those hillside plains perhaps that I bargain you would see something spectacular-if the conditions are just right.

It would happen in this place where you can enjoy the plunging valleys and calm waters at a comfy distance as you bask in the ataraxis you’ve found. A solitude of repose. 

Prickly bushes hogging pretty colors will meet your eyes as you look around, perhaps even a lonesome tree, its shadow reaching out to you under an enjoyable clement sun. 

And then you crane your neck up, a likely rare action, and that’s when it hits. 

Emperors of nature, the mountains encompass the background of your entire view. You have seen them and now you can see nothing but them. They contrast the foothills black-green with their white-blue from the apricity you’ve subconsciously indulged. You’re looking at a battlefield of the earth, a war between tectonic plates, and it is beautiful.

The sky softens-sometimes blurs-the harsh edges of high altitude rock for your sight, veiling more remote mountains' true heights until you're too shortrange to actually see them in their complete trueness. Sometimes it sends its clouds down to play, teasing with its opacity, it may happen to you that day you visit. Perhaps on the way to your departure. 

And as it engulfs you with its chilly embrace, and you stumble blindly-hopefully safely-down home, you may wonder just what was hiding behind this vixen mist. Or rather how much?

It changes your whole perspective.

Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado; 5/16/2025

[monsoonwrites]

Until you arrive, I will keep my museum-heart like a love letter inked in devotion, sealed with longing, tucked away from the world, but always yours. I’ll adorn the walls with rose-laced blushes, and hang my prayers like fragile portraits, When you walk in, even the silence will bloom at the sound of your breath. You won’t be a visitor here, my love you will be the soul for whom this entire museum was built. Each room preserved in tenderness, each hallway echoes your name in joy, and every layer of this love kept safe and sacred not for anyone else,but for you alone

~ I am a museum of love preserved for him

Picture : Pinterest

[ijustreallylikepirates]

“I’m gonna write today” top ten biggest lies

[sauceforthesoul]

No words! 16tinyfrogs (Ella) has conjured up a masterpiece for every woman whose father was/is her greatest cheerleader <3

on watching a parent age

i saw somebody say “what if you’re gone and i haven’t become anything yet” and basically that broke me on a random thursday evening

[ghostinkpoetry]

"We Write to Bleed Softer"

We write because we can't scream— so we etch it quietly into silence, each line a wound folded neatly on the page no one reads aloud.

Not all writing is pretty. Sometimes it reeks of rot, of a childhood stitched together with silence and duty, of love never fully given, of being seen but not understood.

We write because the ache needs form, and no one else is listening. A therapist would ask too much. A friend would turn away. But the page—the page never flinches.

Some days, it’s poetry. Others, it's confession dressed in metaphor, like calling your sadness a storm so people stop asking why you always carry an umbrella.

We write to survive the quiet, to name the ghosts before they settle in. We write because the mirror lies, but the ink doesn't.

Because trauma has no edges, but a stanza gives it shape. And if we're lucky— we make the pain beautiful for just a second, just enough to keep going.

We write to feel seen, but not too much. Heard, but safely. We write because we were never taught how to ask for help without apology.

So we pour instead, again and again, until the words sound like breathing, until the silence finally breathes back.

@ghostinkpoetry

[evenlis]

Sometimes, I want to sit on the big rocks at the edge of the sea, then spill my pages of poem, and my ink tears into the waves and watch them all wash away. Watch them turn to foam and pearls. Maybe this ache will end then.

- Evenlis

[wileycap]

alert: the girls are fighting

alert: wait that's not fighting

alert: the girls are making love passionately and with reckless abandon

alert: the girls are settling into a routine

alert: the girls feel like some of the magic is gone but it's okay

alert: one of the girls is sort of checking out of the relationship while the other is trying to rediscover the spark and has booked a romantic getaway to a mountain cabin

alert: the other girl doesn't like mountain cabins and is upset that it was booked without consulting her

alert: the girl who booked it is trying to explain that she was trying to be spontaneous and romantic but it's okay

alert: the girl who doesn't like mountain cabins is sort-of-on-purpose misunderstanding because she's feeling aimless and frustrated and wants to fight and is saying "so i'm not romantic enough for you? I work two jobs what the fuck do you want me to do? jump up and down for a getaway I didn't want in the first place?"

alert: the other girl is looking at her with hurt in her eyes and accusing her of sabotaging a good relationship because it doesn't stack up to the impossible sterile ideal that she has in her head

alert: the girls are fighting :(

[a-hymnforher]

There's no beauty in a cursed story, unless you fall in love with the ruins.

[godsentfailure]

[helpmeimblorboing]

Writing ? I think you mean “spending six months coming up with and perfecting a story and world only for your hyperfixation to end the day you decide to sit down and actually write”

[lilacxquartz]

break away; oc!incubus x f!reader

plot: in which your human sized apartment causes your live-in incubus more than just distress — themes/cw: injury, stress, hurt/comfort, demon/human romance, blood, first aid, fem reader, the oc is a yandere so he is tagged as such even though this is a story just to explore his dynamic with the reader more — w.c: ~900+

for june of doom, day 20: “maybe it’s better this way” (alternative theme)/wound cleaning • read on ao3 • more event stories • masterlist

Living with Midnight came with its perks and challenges. For the most part, you felt better protected with your literal live-in demon, but in turn, Midnight struggled to fit himself into a much smaller space than he was used to.

Your apartment was a tight fit compared to the vastness of hell. He was much taller than you, too, bordering on around eight feet tall, which was a great height when he stood next to you, a regular human being. As a result, he found himself shuffling awkwardly through the narrow space, ducking beneath every frame he had to go through.

Despite this, he never once complained. He liked following you around, keeping in your shadow as you lived out your life just because you were doing all of those things. However mundane it was, he simply liked your company, but then, one night, one incident in particular gave you both pause.

Midnight stood rigidly just outside the bedroom door, unable to move. You were tucked in bed by then, waiting for him to join you.

The standstill caused him to tighten his fists and clench his jaw, attempting to will the sudden surge of pain away. A sharp coppery scent filled the room, and he grunted as he pried something off his head, holding it tight in his clawed hands. No matter what he felt, though, he promised himself never to violently react to anything in front of you, so he bit back a lot of what he felt.

The last thing he wanted to do, after all, was to frighten you over something that wasn’t your fault.

As the ache festered, you sat up in bed from the noise alone. The bedroom shook from the collision of him walking into the doorframe that time, but that wasn’t what concerned you. What did spark worry, however, was what he was holding onto.

Your eyes were trained on his chipped-off horn, unsure what to even say or do. “O-oh, oh no, I’m so sorry—”

“—It isn’t your fault,” he calmly stopped you, even as his voice was overcome with pain, “it was probably going to happen sooner or later.”

“Do you need any help?” you asked without skipping a beat, refusing to sit still as you fussed over the alarming sight.

Midnight blinked at you, but like always, you could never truly meet his blank gaze. Blood gathered at his darkened root from where the horn once grew, trickling in rolling beads down his ashen grey skin.

All he could do was shake his head, wincing at the sharp ache. “No, no. It’s okay,” he replied softly, trying to keep his voice calm for your sake, although he couldn’t resist a bit of dark humour. “Besides, it might be better this way. At least I can fit into your home now that at least one of these things are gone.”

You could only blink at his attempt to lighten the mood. Even if he was joking, you didn’t want him to think that way. His horns—just like everything else—were a part of him.

“Midnight—” you started.

He didn’t drop it. “—Maybe I should break off the other horn too,” he bitterly mused; however, he stopped himself before he pushed you away for good. He knew that you were acting the way you were out of a place of care, and he had to nurture that part of you rather than lighten the issue.

At that, he sighed as he walked slowly to the bed, sitting on the edge. Like usual, the mattress dipped to accommodate his weight. For now, he palmed at the wound to plug the leak. Thinking quickly as he bled over the floor, he tried to give you something to do—something that would likely help you both feel better—asking that you help clean him up.

Right away, you perked up as you dashed off to the bathroom, taking out the first aid kit you kept in the cabinet below the sink. You hoped that the simple supplies would be enough to help him, doing your best to sterilise and wipe the wound clean as Midnight sat tight, trying not to react to the sharp pain that radiated through his entire body.

Just as you were about to attempt to bandage around his head, though, he suddenly pulled you into his larger form. His arms encircled your frame, holding you close. Somehow, the act of care, even if he was the one who requested it, brought out even more of his feelings for you.

“Don’t,” he gently instructed, taking the bandage and scissors out of your hands, tossing them off to the side as he brought you over his chest, his back meeting the mattress. “I’m sorry for worrying you, but I’m fine now. You should rest.”

“But, but—” you weakly protested even as you felt the hypnotic pull of sleep. Midnight had that effect on you. Whether it was magic or comfort, you always felt a little too relaxed in his company.

He shushed you with a light squeeze. “I’ll sleep too,” he murmured softly, “sleep will probably heal the worst of it.”

You didn’t fight it the second time, falling asleep atop his form.

Midnight could only sigh, feeling up to meet with his broken horn. He weighed in on the good and the bad. The bad being that as he refused to part from you, the horn breaking was only the start of all the problems he potentially faced by staying in your world.

The good being that he could continue being with you, which he supposed overpowered the bad. For a life without you would break him down in a completely different way.

[16tinyfrogs]

oil & water

ummm yeah idk what to say about this one

[monsoonwrites]

I breathe poetry but only when you're the metaphor

[valemrsn]

making aus for ocs are so funny cause like. theyre already in a situation… but what if they were in a DIFFERENT situation