WH

alive.

"Yes, we’re still alive!" I say, feeling like I am shouting into the void. My friends perk up at my voice, looking at me with surprise. I had spoken without considering what I was going to say, my outburst inspired by sheer frustration, but seeing my friends gathered around me makes the words come easy, like they had been in my mind this whole time. "We’re still alive—so don’t forget it! Don’t forget this feeling, this fear that is driven by our desire to see and be with our loved ones again, to feel love and give love, again and again and again. Even if it feels like we’re losing, we aren’t lost! Not as long as we remind ourselves over and over—we must live for this love."

#writing#do i even know what i'm doing anymore#i'm crying i'm awful#story: bound

life.

I laugh, wiping my cheeks and the water I feel dampening my skin. “The last words from your mouth would have been my name,” I say. “I figured you wouldn’t have wanted to leave it at that.”

The way he looks at me makes me laugh again, his eyes so soft and sweet and his smile is like napping in the shade on a hot summer’s day, all relief and comfort with just the perfect amount of warmth, everywhere. “No,” he says. “Your name is the first thing I would say, and everything that would follow after would take a lifetime to finish, and that’s exactly how long I plan to be with you.”

#I write all these lovey dovey parts and then I CUT THEM ALL because I want the romance to be ambiguous#also his line was supposed to be a lot smoother but i couldn't figure out how to write it#something along the lines of there are still so many things i have to say and most of them start with your name and end with i love you#but either way my last words would start and end with you#HAHAHAHAHAHA#tell me i'm not a hopless romantic and i'll tell you you're a liar#i'm crying i'm such a sap#writing#story: bound
I’m a writer and an English major don’t touch me

I’m a writer and an English major don’t touch me

#personal#writing#it's called a mortar and pestle#i knew this very deep in my heart#but it was too deep for me to access without help#writing probs man

paperwork.

She’s stretched across the sofa when he gets home. With a popsicle in her mouth and a newspaper held above her head, she greets him with a hum. He grins, taking off his jacket, and makes way for the sofa. She lifts her legs, allowing him to sit, and the props her feet on his lap.

"Anything interesting today?" he asks as she hands him the paper.

She pulls the popsicle out of her mouth with a pop, closing her eyes. “Not unless you find the installation of a new streetlight interesting,” she says.

He does, actually. He place a hand on her ankles, holding the paper up with the other. She wriggles her toes as he reads.

#soft dreams#think of the future#sometimes i forget how much small moments like these make my heart beat fast#writing

day 24. love me tender.

lanosta:

“You know I’m not one for taking the easy way out,” I say, and lean down to kiss the crown of her head. It’s a common gesture among the royal families. Lennon used to do it all the time to the immediate members of his family, myself included. The day we left them, Lennon took his father by the shoulders and kissed the crown of his head. He looped his arm around his mother’s and kissed her. He cupped his sister’s face in his hands, gave her a fierce look and whispered love, before he kissed her head, too. And as we left the estate behind us, he wrapped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me into him. Before I could protest, he kissed my head. “That’s it,” he said, letting me go as I ruffled my hair, like that would get rid of his germs. “That’s all of you.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of it then—still not sure what to make of it now—but in the quiet moments between Lennon and me, I think about that exchange and the tenderness he used to pull me into him, how I didn’t deserve it, still don’t deserve it.

The gesture might be common among royal families, but here in the tunnels, it is out of place and uncomfortable. As I move away from Meron, though, her eyes are dim, her smile not quite a smile so much as a show of force.

“I’ll see you later, Meron,” I say, holding the notebook up. “And thanks again.”

“You are welcome, Misha,” she says, and as I turn to leave, I catch the pull of vowels against her teeth.

—————

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#writing#story: tunnel vision#i love lennon so much#i should get my act together and give misha more credit#but in part I think it's because misha idolizes lennon that I appreciate lennon so much#how can you not admire someone who misha admires as much as lennon#queue

summer in the city.

The summer between my sophomore and junior year of college, I replied to a house-sitting ad on the Internet that promised a high salary and an opportunity for travel. It seemed too good to be true, and with my limited house-sitting experience, it seemed unlikely that I would get it. But I turned out to be a better liar than I thought, with reliable friends who acted as my fake references. Not a week later, I got an enthusiastic response from the homeowner telling me I got the job.

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#writing#not sure where this is going but I had an idea and I'm going with it#summer in the city

day 25. rewind.

I smile at Lennon’s hopelessness, at the way he starts to collapse the next table without me. Despite his royal blood, Lennon has worked hard for us ever since we defected from his family. He has worked hard to make sure we have food and warmth, and when we joined the society, he worked hard to make sure we were able to establish a place in it and become invaluable to Mel. Since I’ve been able to carry my own weight, he’s stepped back a bit, but—he still gives us everything and makes sure we have everything.

“Are you just going to stand there,” Lennon says, scowling at me over his shoulder, “or are you going to help expedite this process and collapse the table over there? Like you said, we are here because of you.”

“And I also said you don’t have to be here. But thank you,” I say and Lennon pauses. His head quirks to the side as he listens to me say, “I was tactless earlier. What I said was insensitive—”

“Forget about it, Misha,” Lennon says and my heart plunges into my stomach the way it always does when he says, “Forget about it, Misha,” because I am twelve again, crying after Lennon finds the stash of his father’s jewels beneath my pillow, the jewels his father was sure some of the staff were stealing and had subsequently fired because of it. I am twelve again, hiding behind Lennon and crying into his shoulder blades as he replaces the jewels and tells me, “Forget about it, Misha. It will all be fine.”

And it is fine. In the next few days, the servants that were fired are rehired and not another word of the missing jewels is spoken.

#misha#lennon#writing#so many little scenes of misha and lennon#they are best friends ok#story: tunnel vision

day 22. override

lanosta:

“Whether you agree or not, I’m coming with you,” she says, and presses her nosta against mine, syncing the mission report. I try to pull away before it can download, but it’s too late. Her nosta dings in confirmation just as I jump away and Dem holds up her wrist, triumphant.

What happens next surprises us both. Lennon lurches forward, grabbing both her wrists, and presses them together in a cross. She yelps, more out of surprise than pain, and shoves her heel into Lennon’s gut to get him off of her. I catch him by the shoulders as he stumbles, but he is quick to regain his footing and right himself.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she demands, rubbing her wrists. She freezes, then, her eyes flicking between both hands then to the ground. She twirls in a circle, searching, before her glare pinpoints Lennon and she hisses, “You—”

Lennon holds up her nosta, the device gleaming as he turns it back and forth. “Tell me why it is so important that you join us,” Lennon says. “If your reasoning is sound, I might be kind enough to leave the details of the mission on your nosta. If I suspect ulterior motives, however, I will erase everything.”

“Nostos are fleshlocked,” she says. “You can’t make changes without my skin sample, so good luck with that.”

Lennon’s head tilts as though he can’t be bothered to put forth the effort to deal with her anymore. Undeterred, he says, “I haven’t spent the past two and a half weeks in technical just sorting mission reports. There were things to learn. And overriding fleshlocks was one of them. Now tell me why you want to come with us.”

One of my favorite passages that I’ve written for my story so far. Lennon is secretly the best thief in the society, despite his reluctance to actually thieve. But he has deft hands and brilliant instincts. His body just moves right. There are no two ways about it.

#writing#story: tunnel vision#posting this here because idk cross posting is just something i do with my life#len is SUPER protective of misha#he's just like#ok frick you guys like#if you do a n y t h i n g that could even POTENTIALLY hurt misha i will DEFINITELY hurt you#lennon is not a violent guy#he can't even handle being a witness to violence#but gods forbid misha or ash get hurt#he will be at their side with so much malice in his body you would wither from his glance alone#older brother syndrome i think#older sibling syndrome generally#he just can't handle his younger sibs getting hurt!!!#(even though he and misha are roughly the same age)

day 16. for every atom belonging to me

Lennon is normally a stoic, dry-humored personality, but at this moment his solemn manner makes me uneasy.

“What’s gotten into you, Lennon?” I say as he ties his hair back, exhaling so sharply that his breath hikes up the hem of his shirt. “You’re not usually so interested in this kind of stuff.”

Lennon gives me a pointed look, his hands clenched into fists over his knees. “It has…recently come to my attention that I am not the best partner when it comes to these missions. I am not interested in them, to say the least, and never inquire about them in the first place. That being said, it was partly my fault that the events at the Yuumei estate unfolded the way it did. If I had followed you to get the artifact—”

“Hey,” I say, prodding his ankle with my foot. “You know I take full responsibility for my foolishness back there. You tried to warn me and, as the thief of the operation, I should have known better. I was just trying to be cool.”

But Lennon shakes his head, says, “We are in this together, Misha. What you assume, I shall assume. Fault included.”

#story: tunnel vision#writing

baby in a corner.

lanosta:

“Lennon…,” I say. “Do you think…I’m a baby?”

Lennon looks up, brow furrowed. He leans forward and squints at me, his mouth opening and closing, trying to form words. He purses his lips and takes a deep breath.

“Misha,” he says slowly and I steel myself for his answer. “You…your face when you said that was so serious. But the words that came out of your mouth didn’t match the severity of your expression.”

“Hey, shut up,” I say with a huff. “I’m being real.”

“Do I think you’re a baby,” he deadpans. “A baby. There are many words to describe you, Misha, but baby is not be the first one that comes to mind.”

posting lots on this sideblog I have for my story, tunnel vision. Visit it if you are interested!! I’m really so inspired by the things I have collected on there for the story, and really happy with the way it’s organized, hahaha. Bust most importantly, this blog makes me excited to write and share this story that I’ve been working on for YEARS now, so if you have time/are interested, please check it out!!!

#writing#story: tunnel vision

about me.

How many times have I heard boys say they like girls with long, golden blonde hair? How many times have I heard boys—no, not just boys, but boys and girls and every gender in between and beyond—say that they are attracted to blue, green, hazel eyes? How many times have I read about characters who are red-headed or tall and milky skinned or characters who are light-skinned, light-eyed, light-haired, and light-souled?

I tried to be poetic, but if you wanted poetry you came to the wrong place.

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#personal#writing

day 10: forget.

“Are you just going to stand there,” Lennon says, scowling at me over his shoulder, “or are you going to help expedite this process and collapse the table over there? Like you said, we are here because of you.”

“And I also said you don’t even have to be here. But thank you,” I say and Lennon pauses. His head quirks to the side as he listens to me say, “I was tactless earlier. What I said was insensitive—”

“Forget about it, Misha,” Lennon says and my heart plunges into my stomach the way it always does when he says, “Forget about it, Misha,” because I am twelve again, crying after Lennon finds the stash of his father’s jewels beneath my pillow, the jewels his father was sure some of the staff were stealing and had subsequently fired because of it. I am twelve again, hiding behind Lennon and crying into his shoulder blades as he replaces the jewels and tells me, “Forget about it, Misha. It will all be fine.”

#writing#story: tunnel vision#i'm way behind from where i need to be#but this writing is the only good thing about my life right now

day 7: simple and smooth.

Dem rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Regardless,” she says, “I never see you around this sector. What are you doing up so late? Lennon kick you out of your love nest again?”

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#writing#story: tunnel vision#I think I'm still trying to get Dem's character down right#I don't even know if I want her name to be Dem#she's hardcore though!!!#thinking about making her this dualistic character#evil? good? evil?#she's very naive still#and she has a lot of loyalty to Mel because Mel saved her and helped her create this amazing life#so that will definitely be an issue that comes up

casting the Enray and so far thEY ARE ALL DIFFERENT NATIONALITIES. Elvie is Korean, Ash is Vietnamese, and Lennon is Japanese???

Honestly, that’s all whatever to me because it’s helping me flesh them out a bit more and I love it. I’ve always been notoriously bad at imagining how my own characters look, so now that I have an idea, I’m INTO THIS STORY.

SIGH, falling in love with the actors I’ve chosen because they are all the most good looking people I have ever seen in my life.

#personal#writing#story: tunnel vision

day 5: intuition.

“Honestly, are you really not in league with Mel?” I say as he gets up and drapes his towel over the desk chair. “You can’t know all these things intuitively.”

“You forget who correctly guessed the number of marbles in the candy jar in fourth grade without having to do any math, whatsoever.”

I scoff, but don’t miss the gleam in Lennon’s eye at the memory.

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#writing#story: tunnel vision#going strong