#pocwriters

[mcondance]

carmy’s arms have been literally plaguing me

he’s not too big and definitely not too little— just strong and built and firm and fuck

his arm wraps nice around your neck, your body pushed into the bed while he pumps into your sticky pussy, wet and messy and stretched.

air seems like something you’d forgo to be like this all day, caged under him with his big arm around your neck, the swell of his muscle tucked pretty around you, just tight enough to make your head swim, his other holding him up.

even still, carmen can't just take what he wants, so he's trailing his kisses from your neck and up your jaw, gracing your ear with his soft question, "you okay?", still rocking his hips against your ass.

"f-fuck," you gasp out, head still spinning and now even hazier cause of the tone of his voice, his breathy little slurred words.

"m okay, s-shitfuck, jus' keep f-doin' that."

carmy knows he can push your limits, so he squeezes his arm around your neck just a little tighter and he gets what he wanted— another gasp from your mouth and you clench so pretty around him, and he feels you wet him up even more, gushing out around his thick cock that has you feeling nice and full.

"mmhm, love it when you do that, get all tight around me, fuckin' heaven"

"gonna make me- make me fucking cum."

"so fuckin' desperate, gonna cum just from this." he's not even trying to say what he's saying, not trying to degrade you, and the knowledge of his overwhelming admiration of your pleasure, the way he feels so fucked and used by this simple thing, and the feel of his arm getting tighter and tighter and fucking tighter has you slapping and gripping his arm as your climax hits you like a fucking truck, sensitive walls clenching so nice around carmen while he lets go so you suck in air, air that tastes so much fucking sweeter when it's been taken from you.

"fuckin god, cummin' so fuckin' hard f'me, can fuckin' feel that shit, perfect fuckin' pussy."

you cum without his hand on your clit, just the soft pressure from your body pressed into the mattress, the way you can still feel his arm ghosting against your neck while he keeps fucking you deep, prolonging your orgasm and chasing his.

"s-shit, you're tryna fuckin' milk me, pussy's so perfect, fuck." his last word slips into a depraved growl, desperate and broken. he tucks his head into your neck, his balancing hand gripping the messy sheets tight and his arm pressing softly around your neck again.

"god." he huffs out a moan, relaxing more onto you with one last rock, almost giggling at the sound of your blissed out moans and small gasps for air.

[missvmisery]

I am not heaven

Nor hell

I am purgatory

Stuck between what’s bad for me

And something better

Stuck between more than you know

It’s a hard place to be

To be stuck between wanting love from another

And wanting to love yourself

While not needing the love you crave

It’s being stuck between independence

And dependencies

I’m stuck between loving myself unapologetically

But yet not nearly enough

Stuck between other’s expectations and my own happiness

I’m stuck between having it all together

And falling apart

Stuck between making it look easy (it’s not)

And being honest about how hard it is (that’s not an actual option tho, now is it?)

I’m stuck between vulnerability and invincibility

Stuck between bad decision and bettering myself

I’m stuck

I’m stuck

I’m stuck

Between heaven and hell

In a purgatory

Of my own making

-Stuck In Purgatory

[caocao-caokie-blog]

Okay, so I had a big think right now at 11:51 and I have classes tomorrow, but. I need to say something

P.S. The Topic I am touching upon is body dysmorphia to an individual in Isekai, especially one that is a person of color, specifically POC in America. If that is not something you would like to read and/or Triggering to any feelings you may have, skip this post. I have told you the basic premise of my ideas.

Now, I need to talk about what I was thinking.

I am a big Isekai/Transmigration/Reincarnation trope lover. Stories like SVSSS and stories from baffilinghaze on AO3 are what I dearly love ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️

Also, I wanted to explore the ideas of POC and how they would specifically navigate a new world. While yes, anyone and everyone would be confused and scared too, I want to see specifically the horror part of it.

The melancholy.

The loss.

The feeling of losing your culture, your family, friends, everything you had created or built or achieved.

This could go for anyone, really, since there is a true horror in losing your body and possessing a new one in certain isekai’s, but for minorities, I see it differently.

I am a Filipino male, in college, and somewhat okay, so I can not nor will I not talk about the experiences of other minorities. I will you myself instead as an example of my idea.

So I was dropped into the body of a light skinned prince who was known to have been quite the player and/or the jerk.

And yes, while this might be a bit of me venting, I want to make use of the useless villain turned good trope a little.

At first, I would be scared, curious, and nervous. I’m in a new world with no idea of a ‘standard’ nor do I know my social standing yet.

Then, I would act to try and strive to have a more positive outlook, or to at least make minor changes in some way. Even changing the way the useless prince acted before is an action.

And then.

And then.

When I’m alone, sitting near a fire, or maybe even when I am standing in a ballroom, or even in a hallway, I’ll think.

Think of what I lost. Think of my family, my friends, my home.

I will think back to my past body, think back to the wavy long hair I had, the tan on my arm and legs; the tan lines I have that severely change in skin tone, but make me unique. I’ll look at this body, unnerved at the revelation that I am someone else now. I am, in a way, privileged. In a way, even if I was born poor, even then, I don’t look like me.

I would probably think I look conventionally attractive or beautiful, and loath and cry about how I wish to look like myself again, even for a brief moment. I would lament the promiscuity of the prince too, and the garnered hatred from whoever. I am one, slightly repulsed from physical contact, and two, a people pleaser.

The fact the prince had violated two of my boundaries are not his fault, but it is more telling that I am not him.

At last, I would live in twain. I could share bits and pieces of myself to others, try to recreate ideas of the world now, but I could never get back the understanding of my culture, the people, the places, myself.

Now, this topic got heavy, but their are some other ways to go about this.

First off, I would like to have a character who thinks about home more often.

Oftentimes, most Isekai protags try and forget their past, that, or while they remember it, they usually live bland, uneventful, or traumatizing lives. I would love to see more people who thrived in one setting struggle in another.

Another way is to have this person try to talk of their past world. Stories and history is what I know best, so much so, I’m trying to reach for a degree for it. But they are things that are meant to be shared, and I can’t help but want to have people understand or here my thoughts and stories I have.

Lastly, if the person has a certain craft or talent specific to their culture, then they can have fun by doing something to remind them of home.

In bafflinghaze’s story These Side Characters Have More Important Things To Do, the character Ren Xiyang(I believe it is spelled like this but I might be wrong) shares dishes of his old world. He also bring along changes to his fief to improve it for the better.

Utilizing these ways of writing or more, or even sticking with my original thought, Isekai is a fun way to experience a new world through the eyes of someone just as clueless as us. I wish to see myself represented as the lead one day, but I hold my breath smile, having a sinking, knowing feeling it might never happen.

Sorry for the downer ending, but I really hope I give people an Idea about Isekai, and hour to utilize them as a way to talk about the inherent horror of body swaps and up other such things. I wish I could have been more eloquent in my wording or explanations, but I hope I got my point across!

Bye! See you soon! And stay curiously safe!

[streetrunnazvol40]

the impact of Little Caesar's Pizza on Black Households (excerpt)

Chance the Rapper’s smash hit “No Problems” echoes off of the narrow bathroom's walls into the open hallways and living room. Occasionally, you'd hear the collisions of spray bottles dropping to the floor, passive aggressive stage whispering, and the oohs and awes that accompanied the last-minute revisions to outfits.  Empty store-brand 2-liters and a partially filled pizza box cluttered the table in the living room. The table served many purposes, like also servign as a rotating display of a hastily assembled outfit. 

Just outside the range of the small, muddy cellphone speaker dominated by a Chicago native, plays a completely different arrangement of the same sounds, as the living room television is blaring Kanye West's Mercy. The two sounds battle it out until my mother’s voice cuts through the auditory battlefield, demanding that one of the sounds stop. Then she said something about not being in the mood. After a few seconds of waiting to see who would hesitate, my siblings turn their music off. 

(Sidenote, as an adult who works a stressful job 40 hours a week-- I totally get it mom)

My sister raps a verse from No Problems at the same time that she grabs a slice of pizza. She’s interrupted as her best friend cuts her off and laughs heartily pointing out how the slice of pizza she got was shaped weird. For what it’s worth, the pizza was in fact, somehow cut into a rhombus instead of the triangle we’d all grown to respect.

Ignoring him, she took a bite of the pizza and she washed it down with her golden Four Loco. After this she waits a moment, gathers her thoughts while she stares blankly at the table. Suddenly, she sadly expressed her distaste for the cheap pizza in her deep country accent a sentence so accurate it still strikes truth to this day:

“Little Ceasars be good fa’ 5 minutes then it get hard.” 

[neptunalea]

poetic prose novella | 8k words into first draft | tw: suicide drug use

> NOCTURNALIA is the story of V--., a young woman with no past and no one to turn to. Her boyfriend Corey just drove into a lamppost and they don’t know if it was suicide or just an accident. But he’s back from the dead, haunting her, trying to get her to die with him. 

Just as she’s about to pull the plug on life, her guardian angel, Alua, arrives on the scene. Alua is determined to keep V--. alive by showing her the drug-addled underbelly of the City of Collioppius. Surely partying hard enough will show Alua that life is worth living, even without her undead harp-playing boyfriend. 

She sleeps all day and stays up all night. She is a part-time go-go dancer. Join V--. as she drops acid, fucks capital-g God, and sprints down the line between life and death at top speed. 

> Part One:

I.

I am the anti-fae of the power plants. I eat iron and lurk under street lights like a bad smell. I wear black, white and gold. I flicker in and out of parties, alt-dimensions where time doesn’t go straight. I dig out raves and basement shows. I slide through those chaotic spheres like a shadow, pressing my lips to the forehead of anyone who buys me a gram. Sometimes I’m a go-go dancer, half-specter, half-naked. When you see me in my panties and virgin skin, it’s only for a second. Then I disappear into the crowd.

 II.

I’ve been anti-fae for six weeks now, but nighttime still holds novelty. I’ve been using it to indulge my deepest sadnesses; each one is a mass of velvety despair in my gut. Gunmetal-heavy, they anchor me to the world. My eyes are forgetting the sting of sunlight, my mind the concrete-eating anxiety of interacting with baristas and bank tellers.

To be seen by people is my great anxiety.

This is one of the main reasons I took so well to nighttime. At three in the morning, no one asks if I’d heard any good music lately, or if I’m planning to go to the grocery store that afternoon. I can hold my marbles of sadness inside me and treasure them like a dragon on a mountain of gold.

I’m in Corey’s apartment on the living room couch. The lights are off. Through the window, I watch the dark parts of the vacant lot across the street. (Maybe something inside them watches me, too.) It’s filled with debris; the City has summoned me here with nothing but a tire iron and a fire pit. The way someone might put words in the mouth of God, I imagine what this place might tell me if it could speak. I will find you in the dark. I will pick you out like a bug in my hair. I will find you nocturnal. 

tagging nobody bc nobody is on this taglist, lemme know if you wanna be on it <3 

[kitchentablelit]

For #GivingTuesdayNow we're raising funds to offer FREE online classes for Black women and women of color writers and poets. . . . Please give what you can. Link in bio! . . . #creativewriting #onlineclasses #wewritehere #blackwomenpoets #blackwomenwriters #pocwriters #WOCWriters #writingcommunity #writersofinstagram #kitchentablelit #givingtuesday #givingtuesdaynow2020 https://www.instagram.com/p/B_z9kwJA1xF/?igshid=14qr8e134zhwi

[djmunden]

RELEASE DATE TIME

Time for some exciting news everyone! My #fantasy book, Tavern, has its official release date, March 26th! The official cover and map reveal to be some time this week! 

[flamespeaks]

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A post shared by Behind The Scenes W/ Flame (@momentswithflame)

This is deep #flamespeaks #tonimorrison #tonimorrisonquote #potd #qotd #blackwriter #blackwriters #blackwomenwriters #pocwriters #thetruth https://www.instagram.com/p/Bzw2ZIIll87/?igshid=j3scany3q6ao

[justomnitings]

CALLING ALL THOSE WHO NEED HELP WITH CREATING STORIES!!!

This thought has been rolling around the back of my head for a long while now and I'm making this more as an experiment to see if there's a need for this.

I'm offering my services for creating unique characters, settings, and story ideas to people who might need help!

I have a great love for writing, but one thing I love more than that is creating the riveting plot that fleshed-out, relatable, realistic, and lovable characters can not just engage with- but thrive in. I love it so much that it sometimes distracts me from the stories I'm currently writing and compels me to go about crafting whole new worlds and characters to cater to. It's something, I've found, I'm actually quite good at too and I'm sending this out to see if it'll reach someone who may need help with their own stories.

To anyone who has the inkling of a story that'll wow the world in their minds but need a helping hand to really give it shape.

To anyone who can see the misty silhouette of an amazing character that will thrill readers for generations, but isn't sure how to make them feel real.

And I know anyone can go on a blog to figure all that out, but I personally feel nothing beats an IRL person when it comes to something as precious as your story. You can read all the articles in the world, try the free courses (or pay for them if you got it like that), you can type comment after comment trying to get an answer to YOUR SPECIFIC QUESTION- and still not get the remedy that works to your satisfaction. And hey, I'm not saying I have all the answers... I've just been doing this for a long time and am still steadily working my way through like so many other writers and artists out there. I want to learn too and I'm eager to see what I can gain myself from corresponding with writers from different backgrounds.

I'M NOT ASKING FOR ANY MONEY OR ANYTHING LIKE THAT (right now anyways), and this is coming from a place of knowing what it's like to not really know what to do with what can be an awesome story because you're stuck on characters or a sticky plot point or anything like that. I know firsthand what it feels like to just want to talk about your creations and your craft to a like-minded individual, but having none in your general vicinity.

TL;DR: If you're a writer struggling with a story, my inbox is open to you for assistance! I can help with plots and settings, and I shine with character development!

[mcondance]

peter who tells you to just breathe

peter’s big, in multiple senses of the word. you both know this. he’s tall, and he’s buff, and, you know, he’s hung. . so it’s a process when you want him and he wants you, even if it hasn’t been that long.

kissing on the couch ends up with you bent over said couch, cause why walk stumble to the bedroom between kisses and touches and grabs when peter’s mumbling between one kiss and tug of clothes and another “couch, darlin’, right here’s good, anywhere’s good” and you oblige, kissing him again before you turn around and arch your back pretty how he likes it, jolting a little when you feel his hands ghost up the backs of your thighs

and yeah, foreplay helps— one, two, three of his fingers sliding slow and smooth inside you while he reaches under you to tease your clit— but he’s still big, and you can only take so much foreplay before you’re pushing back on him and throwing all caution to the wind. “just put it in,” you’re begging, and quill knows it’s gonna take a while to actually do what you said but at this point, fuck it.

he wastes no time, wraps his hand around his cock and taps his fat tip against your wet cunt, and pushes in just a little. you tense up, and he’s rubbing up and down your back and kneading your sides, humming “you got it, darlin’, you always do.”

and you know you do, but fuck, he’s big.

but he encourages you, whispers “just breathe, baby, le’me in.”

with deep breaths and peter’s hand snaking under you to play gently with your clit, he sliiidess in just a little more, praising you— "look at you, my perfect girl, takin' me so good."

he keeps praising you with every slide of his cock deeper inside you, his sweet tongue never growing short of words to help you. "almost there, pretty, you almost got it" and "you got it, star, know how good you can take it."

and when you close the gap yourself, push back onto him until your ass meets his hips, he's groaning softly as he watches your cunt swallow him up.

"'m all the way in," he tells you. "looked so pretty lettin' me stretch you open."

it takes a minute for you to tell him "move, baby, please", but it's not long until he's pulling out to slide right back in and you're moving back on him, listening to his slurred praises mix with your pretty moans and whines.

[missvmisery]

There I go thinking of you again

So I'll pull out my 10 reasons why you need to leave me be

1. You never wanted me (I wish you just would've told me so)

2. You've moved on

3. I've moved on (or so I claim)

4. You're selfish, you could've told me I was not what you wanted but you made me believe otherwise with pretty little nothings in my ear planted their by your pretty little mouth, just so I could stay around for when you wanted another fuck.

5. You don't care (if I'm being honest I don't think you ever did)

6. You left, but don't worry, I survived. And for once I was able to breathe easy although I admit the self control I had to instill not to pick up the phone and text you was nothing short of an Olympic feat.

7. I don't cry, but I remember crying so many times over you

8. I never knew a heart could be twisted and broken the way you twisted and broke mine. I never knew that a heart could break so hard that my chest physically hurt.

9. My heart needs to heal from you

10. I deserve better than the bare minimum. I don't deserve to have to be on my toes- walking on eggshells scared I'll say the wrong thing and you will leave without a word. I don't deserve to be lied to.

So I will choose you no longer

Instead

I'll choose to repair a heart you broke

Instead

I'll choose a person who I want to see happy

Myself

[quillrosetellsstories]

Get to Know the Author <3

Hello!

After a few posts and sharing a few pieces, I thought I'd do a quick introduction. My pen name is quill rose, I use she/her, and I'm 23. My sign is cancer (capricorn moon, scorpio rising), I'm an INFJ, and a writer! My personal identities tie into my writing. My current project is a fantasy series depicting poc and lgbtq characters. In writing, my strengths are dialogue and worldbuilding. I find the most joy in the telling of stories.

Quick favorites:

        Movie: Lego Batman

        Book: Percy Jackson (I'm counting the series)

        Music: AJR and Billy Joel

        Author: Yaa Gyasi 

        Poet: Audre Lorde

        Food: Popcorn

        Color: Purple

        Video Game: Mass Effect (Trilogy)

A few more interests I have aaare: reading, illustration, fashion, cosplaying, jewelry making, journaling, self-care, dancing, and my two cats; Ahsoka and Rex.

Continuing to write from here,

quill rose

[erikarois]

If you haven’t seen yourself in the stories you read, then write a story. There are other people who want that story too. #writerscomunity #pocwriters #blackwomeninfantasy https://www.instagram.com/p/BtMpugpBF0W/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1hbuguy4usy57

[streetrunnazvol40]

Nauseating Tension

“Okay Google, play the album I Let It In and It Took Everything by Loathe.”

The quiet room dimly lit by the overcast skies quickly filled with sound as I prep my laptop for writing. I take a long drag of my backwoods before I type something.  Four years ago, today was the day I ended the situationship with someone I wanted to marry. She decided to pursue our mutual friend behind my back and I caught them having sex. This is the aftermath. 

The air had turned sour after our vacation. Tension so thick in that 7-hour ride that it'd bust the windows if it had a physical form. A thick, repugnant gas of betrayal, jealousy, greed and lust. There's a certain type of hatred between two friends who turned into enemies. The friends who chose their respective sides revel in the camaraderie of the side they choose, but for what is turned into happiness is just as quickly turned into a putrid and deeply founded hatred of the other side. 

When you make a group of people choose a black-and-white side in a world composed of an amalgamation of grays it dilutes the little purity in the well of truth that both parties have to drink from. 

It creates an unnecessary drought of logical thinking and clarity amongst even the most well composed individuals.  You tend to build a deep distain for someone after you see them turn into something that they promised they wouldn't.  

After all, they promised. 

Hours passed, things happened and my phone vibrated. 

"We need to talk."

"Yea."

"Our spot?"

"Yea otw"

We sat together for what seemed like hours after we decided that it be best if we ended our friendship. Best if we dissolve our group of friends and go our separate ways. We were outside our little alcove that no one knew about, and we didn't want to go back into such a special place for such a sour occasion. Maybe she'll take him there, or maybe I'll take someone else there. It's not ours anymore, I guess, so it's best if I just mind my own business.  

Once she saw my bruised knuckles, busted lip and broken nose, she couldn't look me in the eye. Hell, I probably looked something real ugly being all busted up and bruised. I thought it was an accomplishment to look like this, it was evidence that I was the better man, right?  I looked at her and she opened her mouth, but she closed it immediately. I started to speak, but I just dropped it. I didn't have anything to say anyways.  We'd exchange glances as the other looked away, seemingly proving to ourselves that we'd lost our compatibility in a matter of hours. 

She exhaled and shifted her body, while brushing her hair out of her face as she moved away from me. I sank my head and looked off into the distance down the long hallway that separated us from the rest of the building.

All these battle scars revealed was that she wasn't interested in me, at least not anymore. In fact, it seemed like she was afraid of me. It wasn't the fact that I was fighting, she'd been used to that. Seemed like everyone from my city was angry, and we had a reputation for it. I come from a city of broken spirits, drug addicts, and dulled men. A city where the best you could do was a factory job, or a city job and all that’s left is the anger that seeps out from a lack of opportunities. A city where you have to constantly be aware of your surroundings. I had a flashback of the physical altercation from hours earlier, and clenched my fists in anticipation as I glanced over my shoulder. We made eye contact. 

"You okay?" 

I grimaced. Honestly, no. I mean, I fought three people at once and got the shit kicked out of me, who would be? Had I not been a competent fighter I wouldn't have been able to get one of them down. He was the one who’d wronged me anyways. They won the battle; I won the war. I thought of what I could say that could comfort her, but I couldn't think of anything. 

"Yea."

Another bout of silence. There aren’t any lofty sentiments, just a stillness of death that can only come from the ending of a relationship no matter the significance. it seemed like we were both waiting for the other to say something, but neither of us could will ourselves to speak. 

The floor vibrated, and my phone screen came to life. It was my ex. 

"Can I see you daddy?"

"Yea"

She had to have seen it because she sank even lower. She contorted her face and exhaled. Punching her in the stomach might’ve been softer than what text had done. I figured it'd be best if I leave now before the pain sets in, so I get up and straighten my clothes. 

"I gotta go.”

"I know. Goodbye, Justin."

"Yea."

I heard her sniffling as I rounded the corner. 

[neptunalea]

We filed into the living room. There were plants everywhere—hanging from the ceiling, propped on the windowsills, on their own stands. Massive, glorious plants, with leaves the size of my face. The room was almost cluttered with them. Uncle Mitchell’s Christmas tree also stood proudly in one corner. It was sparsely decorated, but it was alive, and there was a lovely red velvet cloth beneath it to catch the needles. The whole room smelled woody and fresh. 

But hadn’t she told me, in her journals? That disastrous guilt she always talked about, never quite revealing its root… I had assumed she was simply being hard on herself. I had knelt before her in the dirt and found a way to believe she was the idyllic, brilliant woman I could aspire to become one day. As I sat there in Uncle Mitchell’s homey little living room, I gazed my human need to believe in the face. What I saw filled me with horror.  

The strange thing about Addie was that even when things were tumultuous, I could look at her for a while and feel a little better. Sometimes it was a nearly imperceptible improvement, but that night, it was real and drastic. We looked at each other. She raised a brow in a coy challenge for me to smile. I let my lips curl into a small, slow grin.

“There she is,” she said.

I looked away, still smiling. Just like that, she plunged her hand into the void and plucked me from its depths. And I knew, then, that regardless of how dark the woods might become, we would always save each other. It was a pact, sacred as blood, ancient and holy as the Frasier firs standing like guardians beyond the window. 

@lexwritesgayshit​ @unlike-clockwork​ @writeouswriter​ @all-is-supposed-to-write​ @loxonstag​ @finitereststophighway​ @vitrichor​ @unholieds​ @hekat-ie​ @suninks​

[auntlute]

Irreverent and poetic, “Her” by Cherry Muhanji is a daring novel that explores relationships among Black women of different generations and places who, above all, teach each other how to survive. You can purchase a copy from our distributors @spdbooks at 20% off w/code FETCH for the month of August! • www.spdbooks.org/On-sale.aspx • #her #cherrymuhanji #detroit #pocwriters #backtoschool #quote #auntlutebooks