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Crack fic for Maru- Iggy Mochi and FrancisDisturbing laughs that could only come from one certain Frenchman resounded against the dirty walls of the back alley. Iggy-Mochi slowly made his way out from under the dumpster he was handing behind and suddenly stopped in his... erm tracks (or is it hops?). Staring up at the one person he was trying to stay away from; France. Tears started pouring from Iggy-Mochi's eyes as he tried to inch away.
Suddenly the ally burst apart at the seams disappearing into the bright tie-dye that now swallowed everything whole. Francis' laughs became the main ambiance, echoing over and over. Then he swooped down and claimed his prize, as the British Mochi squealed, struggling against France's iron grip. A white flash blinds the readers! Slowly, their vision returns to Iggy in the flesh wearing a neon pink dress with matching heels and make-up. Francis with his rape face still plastered on, had his hands on Iggy's waist, also wearing a neon green pleated dress with hooker boots, a feather boa, and make
Gone - RussiaxReaderYou shivered at the absence of the warmth that was usually beside you, eyes threatening to let the tears fall once again from your reddened face. You clutched the sheets where he used to sleep, face buried in his pillow. It smelled faintly of vodka and what could only be described as him.
"I miss you." You mumbled, "Please... please come home soon, Ivan"
Just a Scenario (Kingdom Hearts)"Oh? So Xemnas didn't tell you then?" You looked around the circular room, gracefully turning to look at every single member of the Organization 13 while a small, almost sadistic smile on your face. A quiet, deep giggle escaped your lips, "So your, oh so great and powerful leader didn't tell you how he had such an extensive knowledge of things? Or how he even had the power he did?" Your giggles turned into a full blown laughing fit, and the members looked at you as though you were crazy.
"Please, excuse my rudeness. Hehe, It's just that I would have thought he would have at least told you something. Heh, well, in any case, I guess the time has come for you to finally meet me. I am (Name), Number 0, and the true leader of this organization. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance." You ended with a slightly dramatic bow.
-very-Slight!IzayaxReaderStanding there in front of the infamous informant broker's desk, you gazed at the person before you, the deep depths of your eyes barely betraying the immense amount of intelligence you held. A slight smile played across your lips as listened to this informant. Letting out a short laugh, you drew a breath to speak.
"Y'know Izaya," You looked down to the Go board on which this said man played his twisted game and reached out to one of the seemingly random pieces, the named stopped his words and watched you as you moved the marker, "checkmate." With that you smirked at him and turned on your heel, walking out of the room while his gaze followed you. Izaya frowned a bit as his dark eyes flicked back to his game, more specifically, to the piece you had shifted.
BittersweetI don't want it to be up to me.
So much emotion and meaning, conveyed in just nine short words.
So little, and yet, so much.
But, do you truly understand?
I do not understand myself, my emotions, or why I have this daily façade.
-such is this, a fake life-
So how can you?
-a mask of falseness-
I do not think you do.
Because, have you ever let your mind wander,
Wondering what it would be like to kill or to be killed?
To feel a knife carve through flesh and bone of another being?
-Ripping the tissue and vessels of their muscle-
To see the crimson lifeblood of another drying on your own skin?
-the drops splattered all across you-
Or perhaps, what it is like to feel flames lick your body leaving a twisted and charred path in their wake.
Or to experience what it is like to have your lungs fill with water, suffocating every cell that holds you together?
What about our society?
Or Humans in general.
Have you ever let your thoughts drift, realizing how we are paras
It's always like this.
Can't you see?
I just want someone to be there.
You say that they are proud of me.
But how do I know that is true?
How am I sure it's not a ploy?
I'm tired of the uncertainty,
I'm sick of the masks.
I want to belong.
I want to be me.
But I don't know me.
This bitter-sweet logic.
I can't even put my feelings to words,
let alone this poem.
Sometimes I wonder.
Who am I truly?
You say I know the answer.
But truth is, I don't.
Depressing Poetry --Can't you see through the front I put on every day?
Don't you realize it's just a façade?
The me that is true is broken,
I'm not insane, but I'm not exactly sane either.
Caught in between,
A me I'm not sure of,
A me that I don't even know.
Who am I?
What do I represent?
Questions like that fuel my thoughts each day.
I need help, I can feel it.
The me that you know,
It's not real.
A fictional character from the back of my mind: -----.
The dried salty tears that ran down my cheeks sting,
the sensation dull.
I push through the sadness,
the hate of me,
fictional pixels lifting my spirits like no-one I know can.
Heh, It's stupid isn't it?
Fanfiction Dump 1Here are the reader insert ideas that I haven't finished yet, there will be just ideas then those that I actually have something written.
CanadaxReader - Hockey
AmericaxReader- "American Trash" based on this song: (and yes it's an English band) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZgivUPa-QD0&feature=related
ShizuoxReader story (Durarara)
PrussiaxReader- Reader is sick with head cold
RussiaxReader- its blizzarding out and Russia ends up having to go somewhere. Reader insits on going with despite the weather and Russia protests.
AmericaxReader- has no name yet
That day started just like any other day. It was a Tuesday, and a world meeting at that. Alfred was up to his usual antics, yelling things about him being the "Hero" and such, though, as his assistant, you had to put up with it every day rather than just at the meetings. Sometimes you thought the others were a bit lucky for that. Everyone was fighting as usual too, their yelling echoing ab
Music to meCalming, these captivating melodies,
The rhythm has me swaying,
and pushed keys,
and blown flutes,
The harmony of the orchestra,
In tune to a clear voice.
Transport me to another place,
Away from the troubles,
The worries and stress,
To a place where the sound washes over me.
Relaxing my mind,
Soothing my soul,
A harbinger of peace
In my own little sanctuary of bliss.
For each beat has me moving,
and each verse has me singing
as though it's a trance.
Nothing but the symphony resounding around me,
Just like an addiction,
It has me hooked for life.
The Female SuicideTwenty years of nursing
emergency room wounds
and my grandmother
puts down her fork, rubs
her brow and tells me
the female suicide
is a more methodical,
A woman will close
the curtains, cleanse
their apartment of clutter
for the first time in months
and proceed to overdose
in the comfort of their
A woman will do this
because she is aware
someone will have to
discover her like this.
Someone will have to
bury her like this.
My grandmother says this
because when my uncle speaks
paramedic about the male
he pronounced dead from
a house’s television antenna
he never mentions a burial.
A Ball Of CherriesImagine life
like a ball of cherries.
You can't eat many,
Don't rush to eat them!
Some are soft,
Don't go too slow, you'll lose the taste.
storiesi begin and end with stories
where hummingbird hearts play sonatas
against my ribs and i drown in
early morning light and
the girl in me sinks into the sea
like rusting anchors chained to
ships and i sway port and starboard
the lion in me rises like lazarus
from the savannah where dust swirls
and i begin and end with stories
where i swallow the world and all
the rain and girls and lions in it
where i hold it up like atlas,
where i support jupiter with just
an index finger and where i chase
comets and cup them like fireflies
to hang on my bedroom walls
Blooming Through CrevicesBlooming Through Crevices
People are characters;
their personalities are not to be cracked,
but to bloom.
Codes and signals
Setting our sights
On how to see
Through the cipher.
Optics opting for options
As opposed to conscious.
Ardor replaced by harder
To break through exteriors.
But mortality is only one facet
Of the entirety of humanity.
It is a compass of one being,
But merely a piece of the puzzle
That makes up human composition.
let us not break through empathy
with deductive methodology
but rather with the rhythm
of a honeybee whistling along the hymn
of the wind whispering in the leaves.
humanistic, holistic ideologies
is what the standard can be.
it is the notion of being a metaphor
rather than being something to decipher.
because there are more stars and galaxies
in poetry than there will ever be algebraic
expression curls up with ambiance
under the window pain of a picture frame
because we write more about
broken bones and broken birdsdragonflies buzz between
your tangled fingers
seeking nectar under
your chewed nails,
but the bitter burn
of almond acid will
clip their mosaic wings.
you're centered at
nature's core, a
centrifugal force of gravity,
grasping and dragging
lives to your unforgiving
you strangled the wild
whistling hare underneath
the billowing willow, and
your tongue tripped into
compulsive lies and disbelief.
i mean c'mon, clearly,
it was an accident.
if that's the case
the blue-eyed raven
that crashed to earth
after striking a third
degree burn, should
have survived, but you
plucked feathers from its
wings and drowned it.
you have a way with
decaying everything you
touch, your soul, my
heart, a puppy in a
cardboard box, yet
we all keep coming
back to you.
i think we all know
that even though you
bend and break and
bully the world, you
are the most broken
of all, and i just want
to fix you.
I amI am a body of glitches;
one measurement short of perfection
and a lifelong supply of malfunctions,
achievements in your eyes
and defeated failings in mine,
sparks between wires that should never touch
and the defibrillator restarting your heart.
An inconvenience of challenges;
the questions of aggravation
and uncomfortable lack of answer,
sewn seeds of doubt
rising neck hair from toxic green eyes
as teeth are bared in defence.
I am a wealth of chaos;
the first raindrop to condense
and last breath over crackled lips,
in vast, complex patterns,
the whisper of shockwave destruction
creating a chain reaction star birth.
An ambush of strength;
the refusal to give up, kneel or surrender
despite beatings and promises of execution,
stubborn tugs of war
breaking frayed ropes,
a falcon's uncertainly spread wings
in the halted plummet of her first flight.
I am a frustration of absurdity;
hyperactive hysteria bursting seems
and sudden uncontrolled laug
train station souvenirsthe vibrations of the train rumble below me;
the clatter of my teacup on the table creates
an urban symphony that curls through the air,
igniting a flare of nostalgia inside my brain.
it wraps its dark tentacles around my frontal
cortex, pulling me deeper into the distant past
as the train bears me farther into my future.
San FranciscoGood lord, how long I've slept this time!
And from what undiluted dream
full of free space and meadows,
brickless and feral,
lost in terrible infant whims,
streaking from trees to the hazel in the dusk,
have I come creaking to this ancient face?
If I ever find le sens de la vie
writhing underleaf in a crooked line of ants
or rippling in a koan made of cigarettes butts
then I’ll go back to San Francisco
and look her beggars in their pupils
and talk to her gypsy witch doctors,
listen to uningestible trumpet masters,
commiserate with the legless street congress,
revisit the subterranean shrine to urine
that sifts through the walkers at 2nd and Market,
and make love to some lost pearl of the Orient.
I’ll interrupt her philosopher queens as they serenade their oracles,
crawl in wretched street machines, carousel coins in rusty slots
that screech down to the wharf of the seal paparazzi
communing with dead architects of gleaming concrete miracles
IronmanHear me read it
My friends used to call William "Ironman" because the first time we kissed he got a nosebleed and the taste of his blood haunted me for a long time after it. We'd only been twelve years old and apparently the anxiety spiked his blood pressure to the point of combustion... I remember that when we were forced to take sex ed a few years later we were divided into separate classes for boys and girls, in case a diagram of an ovary was too risqué and we became animalistic and started clawing at each other in our seats, but nonetheless when our teacher Ms Jacobs had explained to us what an erection was in my mind all I could picture was the blood rushing to his nose and then the slash of cranberry across my blouse.
With the idea planted in his mind it didn't take long for William's hands to start wandering, but the image persisted. Every time I thought about just letting it happen I wondered what would happen if he got too excite
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More