(Now that’s a mood)
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@evastardust
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(If that's a mood, you might wanna see a professional)
(Writing this scene I had to look up the ways a body decomposes and now I feel sick. This scene makes me sick. A lot of this book makes me sick and yet I still am writing it)
(What's it about?)
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“What’s a girl to do in the love capital of the world without her lover?” He chuckles as I hand him the bowl of ice cream.
“I suppose,” I respond, leaning my left hand onto the counter. “That’s a dollar, Winchester.”
He raises an eyebrow playfully as he removes a crumpled green bill from his pocket. “Winchester, huh? Holden would be proud of you.”
“Speaking of Holden—”
“He’s good too,” Audie cuts me off, handing me the money. “Saw his mom watering her plants last night. Apparently, he’s taking bootcamp pretty well.”
“We knew he would.”
'And all he wanted was for someone to speak to him like he was human.'
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I don't know what I want, but I can't let it be you.
(Love it, Wild.)
(Oh yeah. And Mir. I like your dialogue style.)
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(Danke!)
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“When the murderer saw that he had killed the wrong person and that various other people saw what he did, he did the only thing that went through his mind.”
“And that would be?” The woman asked as she wrote everything the man with the umbrella had just said.
“Running away, obviously.” The man said as he kneeled down and checked the coat of the dead man. “But not before taking something valuable from the man. The secret pocket here isn’t completely closed, and the man would close the pocket before leaving his home.”
A scorch mark left on the wall. The quiet thud of combat boots. A pale pink smirk. Sharp green eyes squinting against the harsh desert sun. One of many Dracs laying dead on the ground.
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@evastardust
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It fell to her and Hemlock to raise Oleander, and Wisteria was determined not to let her son become a monster. There was far too much cruelty in the Court of Darkness already.
“Infósat,” she whispered, clutching her legs tighter to herself, wanting to curl herself around the child who remained the smallest candle in the darkness. Still sobbing quietly, unknown to her, sleep claimed her as its own and all was dark.
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His eyes fell shut and reality faded away to the sound of screaming. With the last threads of consciousness, he wondered if that was him.
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not stupid, Ian.”
“I know.”
That was a little odd. He was normally ready to tease me at any opportunity, and I’d given him an easy shot.
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(First of all, a whole mood–)
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Vankhart blinked, traces of surprise darting over his features before he let go. “Do you want someone else?” He asked mildly (mildly for the Battle God of Aerys Mountain Sect, so more like ‘violently’ for anyone else).
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"You’re weaker than a newborn kitten, Greisling.” Vankhart turned to go, but Greisling couldn’t allow him the last word.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t have claws,” he said, tapping his fingers against the whip at his belt. Traces of unholy fire flickered along its chain at his touch, reassuring him that it was just as lethal even without his magic behind it.
Immediately having to flip off his neighbors was not Nas’ favorite way to wake up, but the fact that it was the most recurring was sad.
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The tallest building on the peak, it was supported by the vast trunks of petrified trees carved in the forms of graceful women, each one representing one of the Nine Arts. Here a dancer, delicately supporting the roof with a single hand as if it weighed less than a feather; there a poet, brush hovering over the page with drops of amber ink at its tip never to fall.