#writing emotions through prose

[dreamsy990]

hi i wanted to draw my own au so have a snippet of scene i rewrote like 12 times and will likely rewrite again

[mythboundcal]

The Sea Forgets Slowly One Piece Fanfic by MythboundCal

It’s a windless day. The Thousand Sunny barely sways. The kind of quiet that only happens between islands—between battles.

Nami sits with her legs dangling off the deck. A glass of orange juice sweats in her hand. Beside her, Robin’s book is closed. She hasn’t opened it in an hour.

Neither of them says anything for a long time.

“It’s strange,” Nami says, finally. “You can sail for days and still feel like you’re not getting anywhere.”

Robin hums. “Sometimes that’s the point.”

The sun is soft today. Not lazy—just gentle, like it knows they need room to breathe.

“There’s this place on my old map,” Nami continues. “I used to call it the Nowhere Zone. No winds. No waves. I thought it was cursed. But now…”

She trails off.

Robin doesn’t push. She never does. She just waits—like tide on rock.

“I think maybe it was a place for people like us. The ones who lost too much too fast. Who needed the sea to stop moving so we could catch up.”

Robin smiles, small. Sad. True.

“I never mapped that place,” Nami says. “But I think we’re in it now.”

Robin looks out at the glassy water, her voice softer than the breeze. “The sea forgets slowly,” she says. “But it never forgets completely.”

They sit like that for a while. Two women stitched with old pain, breathing in silence like it’s a prayer.

And somewhere in the distance, the wind stirs—just a little. Not enough to move the ship.

But enough to remind them it still could.

---

A/N: I wrote “The Sea Forgets Slowly” because I think grief in the One Piece world is often loud—explosive, heroic, full of tears and flames. But grief can also be quiet. It can sit with you for days at sea, just like someone who understands without asking questions. I wanted to give Nami and Robin that kind of silence. That kind of breath. A moment between islands, where nothing has to happen—and that’s what makes it healing.

For anyone still carrying something heavy: this one’s for you.

– Cal 🦋✨

[prosecoloredglasses]

You said,

I trust you—

to handle this

to handle me

I trusted you too

trusted you

to handle me gently

But you dropped me

And couldn’t understand why

I was on the ground

[vivsinkpot]

Original Writing: My First Friend

Twenty years, a threadbare ear,

Five houses changed, but you stayed near.

Four breakups, quiet in my arms,

You held me through love’s false alarms.

Mum’s last smile, a softened light—

You caught my tears that winter night.

Sleepovers filled with whispered fears,

And every holiday, through the years.

You saw me cry when no one knew,

You braved the dark when I needed you.

A world on pause, masks and dread—

You curled beside me on my bed.

From girlhood’s dreams to woman’s name,

Through every shift, you stayed the same.

A silent soul, a stitched-up seam,

You kept me close, you held the dream.

Every moment. Every start.

You are the keeper of my heart.

About that “20 years, 5 houses, 4 breakups” tiktok trend — and why i wrote this poem

there’s this viral tiktok trend where people list out milestones in their lives like:

“20 years

5 houses

3 schools

4 breakups”

and it’s always paired with something meaningful — a person, a place, an object — that’s been with them through it all.

what makes it so powerful is how those simple numbers distill a whole lifetime of memories, change, and emotion into just a few words. it’s like a poetic snapshot of everything that’s shaped us, from loss to love to growth.

so i wrote my poem inspired by that, but i wanted to go deeper. instead of just listing facts, i wanted to feel those moments — the tears, the holidays, the quiet nights — through the lens of my very first teddy bear.

this teddy isn’t just a toy. it’s a witness to every step i’ve taken from childhood to becoming a woman, holding pieces of my story stitched into its fur.

turning numbers into emotion — that’s what i aimed for. it’s a tribute to resilience, memory, and the small, constant things that hold us together.

every moment, every start.

[kitttcatalyst]

https://kickstarter.com/projects/your-link-goes-here?tumblr-main

📚 The Hollowlight — A Queer Mythpunk Fantasy Novel (Kickstarter LIVE!)

✨ Written by @kittycatalyst (Krystin Myers) 🩸 Queer grief. Sacred rot. Broken boys who won't stay broken. 🧠 Autistic trauma-core fantasy with gorgeous prose and too many knives.

“You don’t haunt the place that loved you. You haunt the place that let you rot.”

📖 The Hollowlight is my debut indie novel: 138,000 words of divine corruption, haunted gods, soul-bonded disaster boys, and survival through grief and rage.

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💬 Reblogs = visibility. Backers = life. I love you. Let's haunt something beautiful.

[sino--69]

I don't have anything...

Like okay maybe sure i do have 11k ish words written in my notepad

But explaining all the context and everything... And the fear of posting itself.

Why do i want to post?

Isn't it okay for it to stay in there.

Why do i not want to post?

Isn't it okay to not post. Isn't it okay to not show up?

Why must i prove myself.

Maybe im just tired.

And maybe that's okay. Not just "for a day" or "Until its time". Sure. The time will come. But the anticipation kills me.

Maybe it's fine to be tired.

Summer holidays are about to end. The world keeps moving. I don't make much of a change but, this isn't about nihilism. Maybe because nothing matters, i am free to choose how i do it, because—

What am i sacrificing my sanity for?

To show up? So that i can get a goodie on my to-do list? Which will anyhow reset the next day? When do i ever get to cash in the wins?

Why can't i just be?

Stare at the wall, the skies, listen to music, exist, breathe, not worry, not panic, not stress out, not achieve, not try to prove my worth to a non-existent meter of "what will finally make me happy"

What am i scared of?

The silence that comes when u stop? The thoughts that come up when you stop fucking thinking all the time? That maybe, just maybe, your legs hurt and you've been walking for too long? That maybe you may not get what you want and that it's okay?

That its okay to just pause? To just be?

That you need not prove your worth, because you're already worthy?

Am i scared of what comes next? The "if I'm worthy, then what?".

Then you live...

Exhale, a breath you never knew u were holding in.

Drop your shoulders, sit down, and maybe look back, maybe smile, maybe wonder

"Maybe it's not laziness. Maybe i just need it. Maybe i deserve it."

And finally remember. That you're

You.

Not your achievements or your failures, not your past or your future. Not even your thoughts.

You're the one that witnesses...

[prettylittleskyars]

Too Late

You know what's strange?

I've never been someone’s first choice.

Never the one they opened the door for.

I was always just outside—so close I could hear the laughter,

feel the warmth through the cracks.

But not close enough to be let in.

I always arrive late.

Too late for love.

Too late for space in their heart.

By the time I get there,

someone else has already unpacked their memories,

left their scent in the sheets,

written their name on the walls.

And me?

I just stand there,

holding all this love

with nowhere to put it.

Maybe if I looked like her.

Smiled like her.

Maybe if I reminded them of something familiar,

something already loved—

they would have made space for me.

But I’m not her.

And because of that,

no matter how softly I knock,

the door stays shut.

Every time,

I get to their heart

just a little too late.

And they never wait for me.

Vishakha Kallani

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Haunted by the possibilities of a novel in verse.

[abimee]

For what it's worth, I've been following you for a few years and I do think your skills as an artist have grown. You've seem to get more confident in the way you build the human body and face, your coloring has gotten more complex, and in general I feel like I've watched you settle more and more into a defined and unique art style.

I know it can be frustrating to not see the growth or changes you want but it does break my heart to see you be so harsh on yourself. I think you're genuinely extremely skilled and I always looked up to you as an artist, even when I was going through art school myself. I feel like you have a way of capturing people that's just so emotional and lovely and I want to see more of it in my own art, though I've been struggling to capture the same vibes too...

It's also never too late to pick up or try out something new, to find new skills or return to old ones. I loved the fics you posted, your prose is wonderful, and the way you speak about your characters is so thoughtful. It does hurt to feel like you've lost out on the time to do something, but please don't give up completely. I think you have a lot of genuine skill and talent and it'd be lovely to see you take it in any direction. Regardless of where the future takes you, I hope you have a nice day.

THANK YOU.... THAT MEANS A LOT TO ME TO HEAR.....

ive been like, trying to mull it over in my head because sometimes what i think is one way might sometimes morph into another and idk i dont think its its a dislike for my own art but like a sort of external critic ive decided to consume thats trying to sway me one way. i hate to be like ''the support i got on my art when i was younger was sort of really bad for me'' but maybe the years of being pushed To be an artist by adults and people around me saying they like my art only when its X or Y thing has like made me prey to feeling like im drawing not for myself. like i failed the expectations put on me and i dont have the chance to ''re-do''

maybe i just need to like reconsider what i like drawing or try smthn new that isnt like. hinged on this idea in my head that i need to keep peoples attention or what support i have because like. thats another fear is always like ''what if all these people who say they like my art one day just stop and im left alone'' but thats a different plate of cookies for a different glass of milk. i think i just need to figure out what I personally want out of my art and stop hinging everything on years-old circumstances

but then at the same time i dont really have any idea what i would want to do differently, i really like what i draw now but idk maybe theres something else for me in some way. i think im worried of just alienating people so used to one thing from me that changing that will just feel wrong. not really in like art style or anything but just like What i draw. i feel like ive always kept to the same concepts and ideas and imagrey that changing it will be strange or worse. but maybe i do just have to make that chance and not be so scared 😞

[dividedskylane]

the saddest thing that can happen to me when i'm reading a book is when it turns out to be not good, but with enough moments of brilliance scattered through that i keep reading it — and don't even feel like dismissing it as just plain bad would be fair. sigh

[wickedzeevyln]

Dubstep

˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆ Beautiful🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ��·˳ I’m not them beautiful peeps, I care about my chances. Plow the fields of paper and harvest every known words. Pour them into a bowl and toss them. I’m not them beautiful peeps. I count to the last cent. Hold on to a gasping minute. I keep a mantra—free or forever wait. Chuckle to your heart’s content, dribble your eyes like Allen Iverson, sneer like a llama at…

[sublime-courage]

Jack and the Beanstalk

Jack and the beanstalk. Jack went out to sell a cow Ended up high on some magical beans High as a cloud He never comes down Jack the legend Adventure video game hero slaying dragons Staying one step ahead of the goblins chasing him Collecting coins  Doing somersaults off vines Jack five years old on the streets of oakland watched his father get shot six times in the chest and one in the…

[rhiyans-writing]

The Laundry Room

[isekyaaa]

I’ve been reading Kono Oto Tomare as of late and am having a good time, but it’s getting me thinking about art and the way things of the sort are commonly portrayed in manga. I never understood the idea of emotion or life being portrayed through art and music. I’ve never once heard or seen anything and felt emotion coming through. That being said, I can appreciate a piece. I can see and feel the skill coming across. I can feel the artist’s style. I can see the mechanics. But I can’t see how the way a piece of music is played or the way art is drawn conveys a part of its creator.

I feel I can relate more to music. I can be moved by music. I can sense the mood. I can hear a muddy sound vs a clear one. I can understand style. But at the same time, I don’t think music played by human beings is better than synths. To me it’s not a matter of emotion, but of feel and technical skill. I feel anything can be recreated digitally to sound authentic.

It makes me wonder if I lack something. Am I too focused on technique to be able to feel and see emotion in a piece? Are my eyes and ears not trained enough to sense the intention of the creator? Do I lack the heart to be able to connect?

[aquasoftware]

★ VANILLA WITH A CHERRY ON TOP 🜼

Desc | Kento Nanami meets you at the library, recommends you filthy books, wears his fancy business suits, and kisses your hand like a gentleman. He’s patient, polite, and sweet. But when you finally give him your body, you realize there’s absolutely nothing vanilla about the way he makes love to you.

Cw | MDNI 18+ Cherry popping, soft/service dóm! Kento, súb! Reader, body worsh!p, óraI f!xat!on (f rece!v!ng,) f**t play, chóklng, brèèd!ng/cr3amp!e, overst!m, pra!sè, tùmmý buIgè, nanami has a Prince AIbert piercing, f!nger!ng, cúm pIay, d!rty tàIk, & aftercàre + ML

“Vanilla”! Nanami is a man who you meet at a library, his gentle smile is so warm your heart completely melts everytime you glance at him and he flashes one, but you ignore the fact that he’s standing in the erotica section, glasses perched on his nose, quietly flipping through each page like it’s classic literature.

“Vanilla”! Nanami is observant to a pulp. He notices how you always ask for help reaching a book on the top shelf, even though he’s certain you’ve worn heels taller than that. He picks up on how you linger after conversations end, eyes dancing between his lips and his shirt that’s slightly unbuttoned allowing his pecs to happily greet you. How your gaze is anything but innocent, yet he never calls you out on it.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who never flirts explicitly—he just speaks in a tone so sultry and calm it makes your stomach twist.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who always has book recommendations for you, and every time they’re a little more suggestive than the last. “This one had beautiful prose,” he claims, handing you something with chapters full of longing, pinning, or toe-curling tension.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who underlines details in his books that remind him of you, then gets shy when you find them. He’ll mumble "It's just good writing,” but won’t meet your eyes when you see what he underlined is the filthiest smut possible.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who gives you his number after realizing you often come to the library just to constantly see him, he slides you his phone like he’s making a business deal with the contacts screen open uttering “let’s keep in touch.”

“Vanilla”! Nanami is the type that easily falls in love with you, your conversations over the phone nearly lure him in over the screen, your voice is so saccharine he’s desperate for a glass of wine to calm him down, he’s almost embarrassed at how weak in the knees he is for how intelligent you are, your shared hobbies and how your personality is just as attractive as your face.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who sends you photos of his open books along the cozy spots he reads in with captions like “Wish you were here.” (You wonder if he means the reading with him or his lap.)

“Vanilla”! Nanami officially takes you on a plethora of dates after a long while of talking and he’s this huge gentleman, he takes you on real dates. The kind with linen napkins, dim lighting, and soft jazz in the background. He pulls out your chair without thinking twice, gently wipes sauce from your cheek with his thumb, and feeds you bites of dessert with his fork, as his eyes never leave yours.

“Vanilla”! Nanami chuckles when he eventually meets your best friend and she mutters into your ear “I didn’t know you were into squares Y/n.”

“Vanilla”! Nanami who goes quiet for a moment when you tell him you’re a virgin—not because he minds, but because he suddenly feels the weight of your trust.

“Vanilla”! Nanami becomes careful with his words when he finally speaks “I just don’t want to overwhelm you,” he says nervously, placing a loving kiss on the back of your hand. “You deserve someone who’s patient with you… who makes it feel right.”

“Vanilla”! Nanami who tries not to become too emotional when you tell him that someone is him, his ears are tainted a rose pink. His eyes gloss over you as if you’re only someone he’d be able to find in his dreams.

“Vanilla”! Nanami tries to make things perfect for your first time, wanting things to be so memorable that he (unknowingly) ruins you for any other man. He lights coconut scented candles, decorates the entire room with rose petals and there’s a tray of two wine glasses waiting for the both of you afterwards.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who isn’t so vanilla after all, especially when you makeout with him, you’ll understand exactly why he was in the erotica section. Your cherry flavored lip gloss is only an excuse why his lips keep chasing yours for more, he holds your jaw with his fingertips like he’s unworthy of being able to touch you.

“Vanilla”! Nanami takes a deep breath when you tell him you’re finally ready, asking “Are you sure about this?” He presses a featherlight kiss to your forehead once you eagerly nod.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who bites his lip trying not to laugh when you apologize for not wearing anything sexy underneath your clothes and he undresses you to reveal a matching SpongeBob set. He reassures you by saying “You’re sexy in whatever you feel comfortable wearing.” And he gently rubs your back.

“Vanilla”! Nanami unclasps your bra, carefully planting kisses on your bare chest as if it's a delicate flower waiting to be picked. At first he acted as if he had all the time in the world, twirling your bud between his fingers, but then he instantly gave in when you pleaded for more—latching onto your nipple, while suckling as if it could produce sweet nectar.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who preps you for hours eating you out, and if you’re insecure about how you look down there? It’s just an excuse for him to eat you out like his life is on the line, sucking your clit until your thighs are shaking, until his head is practically being crushed to death by your thighs, or until you’re desperately humping his face like a needy slut.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who preps you with another hour of fingering, going painfully slow, refusing to rush things at all. His fingers are thick, so when he curls up and hits that g-spot each stroke? You nearly drool, throwing your head back into the flood of pillows, swearing it’s better than the smut you read.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who shocks you when you learn he has a prince albert piercing and you quickly learn what those hours of prepping was for. When you tell him “I would’ve never guessed you’d have a piercing there!?” He responds, shaking his head “I got it in my youth, but couldn’t bring myself to remove it.” If he notices any concern on your face he tenderly kisses your jawline and lets you hold his hand.

“Vanilla”! Nanami eases in but he goes feral when you cry “Kento, fuck! N-need you faster baby, please.” He throws your legs over your shoulders and can’t help but to suck your pretty white manicured toes, causing you to gasp out of shock, yet pure pleasure.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who thrives off the erotic books he reads, knowing it ingrained the words in his head on what to say, he feels like he won a medal each time he evokes deafening moans when he praises you murmuring “You’re doing so well for me sweetheart,” or “take all of me, mmmh, just like that.”

“Vanilla”! Nanami purposefully presses a big hand on your tummy bulge as he slows down his pace just so you can feel his piercing nudge deliciously against your weak spots.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who tries not to cross any boundaries with you but when you guide his hand to your throat it’s practically testing him, he remembers from a guide that teaches you should start off with small pressure. When you squeeze his cock at the light pressure? He considers putting a baby in you on the spot.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who makes you orgasm for the ninth time that night, when he reaches down to rub your clit while you're spasming around him. As soon as you finish, he doesn’t last long asking “Where do you want me princess?” His eyes nearly roll back when you say “I want your cum inside me baby.” He cums so deep, you’ll feel it in your womb the next day.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who watches as his cum oozes out your swollen cunt, and eats you out one last time, “for good measure.”

“Vanilla”! Nanami who has insane aftercare he cuddles with you, constantly asks if you’re okay, feeds you grapes like he worships the ground you walk on, and holds up your wine for you to drink.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who is anything but vanilla.

Divider/Boarders produced by uzmacchiato & dollywons

Song written by Koi’lani/@aquasoftware.

‹3 Masterlist!! | more nanami smut?

REBLOGS, COMMENTS, AND LIKES ARE HEAVILY APPRECIATED!! THANK YOU < 3

[jello12451]

Wonder

I’ve laughed for a variety of reasons. Most often, it’s humor - my friend says something funny, an entertaining video pops up on my feed, or I read witty dialogue on my screen. Maybe someone says something out of pocket. Maybe I find myself in an awkward situation.

I’ve never been as fond of laughter like that. Humor is entertaining in the moment, and it’s just that - beyond inside jokes within a group of friends that somehow make their way back over and over again, I could not tell you why I laughed on particular days at particular times. It is, for the most part, unremarkable.

But I could still swear, amid lack of long term memory and the rewriting of time, that once upon a time, our laughter was more than that.

Sometimes, I forget how precious laughter was to us, once. We didn’t have the social knowledge to laugh at jokes or sarcasm, back when everything was new. We didn’t develop enough attachments to spark laughter from fondness or exasperation. We didn’t care enough, yet, to know that something was strange or awkward.

Once upon a time, our laughter stemmed from wonder, and I think it’s a shame that we’ve lost that.

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve laughed in wonder in the past five years. And I just don’t understand - why? We’ve never ceased in our capability to wonder at the universe around us. What happened to the joy that used to underpin it?

Even when I’m actively seeking out that precious feeling of joy and wonder I used to feel constantly as a child, I can rarely ever find something that satisfies this. But I think I get it, now: because of all things, the thing that would make us laugh in wonder was magic.

And I think it’s a shame that we’ve lost the feeling of magic being real.

Some things I see on the screen and I really think: wow. That’s magical. I get laughed at, sometimes, for being so easily tricked by onstage methods of creating atmosphere for performances, but I can’t help it - and I see no shame in letting myself be pulled into a magical world when it’s so hard to come by nowadays. It’s easy to focus on what’s hidden and dismiss the magic outright - but there’s joy in being led to believe things, too, if only for just a moment between one breath and the next.

I was at a Chinese supermarket earlier today with my mother and we were looking for groceries. But as the essentials piled up in our cart, I began to notice more and more things my mother added that were not strictly necessary. Things like decorations. Snacks. Comfort food. She tried to convince me to buy a dragon plushie for the New Year’s - I had to tell her that I had entirely too many sitting on my bed already.

This was the first time I could remember pulling my mother away from the candy stall, instead of it being the other way around.

I don’t know what it was. But it’s so hard to happen upon something that gives us the same joy as it did when we were a child nowadays, and as much as it is a shame… I don’t think we have completely lost it. Not yet. And that’s worth celebrating, too.

We do end up buying the candy. It’s sticky and too saccharine sweet, and my mother complains about the supermarket not making it right, but she’s smiling through it all. Eating it with my mother doesn’t feel like a victory, exactly - more like an homage to our past childhood glee.

Enough that somewhere, I can find it in myself to wonder again.