I Can't Believe I'm Turning In Dramione Smut For A School Assignment

The prompt was "rivalry." My OTP (one true pairing... means favorite ship) is Dramione (Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger from Harry Potter) and I write a lot of smut (sexual fanfiction). This is a lime, not a lemon. (Lemon is essentially just erotica, lime is the same thing but the actual sex itself is left out.) I present to you, fine people of Creative Writing, my first Dramione lime because I prefer lemons but for the sake of not scarring all of you with Dramione sex (which I actually write a ton of #sorrynotsorry #noshame) here is my lime:

Hermione awoke to the acrid smell of smoke. Blinking through the haze of heat, she stumbled out of bed and across the Head Girl’s bedroom to the common room she shared with Draco Malfoy, the rich, smug, arrogant bastard. She felt her way through the living room through the deepening smoke into the kitchen. She coughed and noticed flames coming out of the oven.

“Aguamenti!” Water streamed out of the tip of her wand and doused the inferno that was her kitchen. When the smoke cleared, she noticed Draco standing there in his boxers, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“What the hell…?” He glanced at the sizzling remains of the oven. “Oh, shit.”

The flames from the kitchen were no comparison to the fire burning in Hermione’s eyes. “You. Fucking. Asshole!” He flinched. He’d seen her mad before, when she’d gotten a 98% on a Herbology exam, for example, or when Ron tried slipping love potion into her orange juice at breakfast, or when the library book she checked out had dog eared pages, but he had never seen rage like this from her.

“You could have killed us! You could have burned down Hogwarts! You are a complete-” she swung a fist up at him and missed, “fucking-” she swung again connecting with his jaw, “ASSHOLE!” she screamed, shoving him with both hands into the living room.

Draco was taken a little aback by her outburst, so naturally, he said the only thing he could possibly say to make it worse:

“Is it your… you know… time of the month, Granger?” he smirked. Hermione’s eyes bugged out and she reached for her wand. She was going to kill him! How dare he- How fucking dare he ask- How-

“HOW DARE YOU???” she roared. She tackled him and knocked him to the floor, holding the tip of her wand underneath his chin. She couldn’t believe him!

At that moment, the little voice in the back of her head spoke up. “Hermione, you are currently lying on top of Draco Malfoy, in the middle of your living room, breathing heavily. Wasn’t this like that fantasy you had the other night… but you were wearing that new underwear that you splurged on in Hogsmeade, and then you weren’t wearing it…” The voice trailed off as Hermione snapped back to her senses to the struggling boy beneath her. 

Yes, it was true, she had a completely ridiculous crush on him. She couldn’t help it! He was tall, sexy, confident, smart (though she hated to admit it), and the money certainly didn’t hurt. Such a shame he was an arrogant bastard who drove her completely fucking insane sometimes. Like now. She forced her thoughts back to the situation at hand.

Draco lay on his back on the carpet, breathing hard, eyes wide, actually looking rather fearful. She felt a surge of adrenaline shoot through her body. Power rushed through her veins. A wild idea ran across her mind, causing a smirk to rival Draco’s to form on her lips.

“Malfoy…” she purred, raising her wand between his eyes. She watched him swallow, and confusion to flash in those gorgeous grey eyes. Oh, he was going to pay…

“If you want to live, and for me to not hex you into the next century, you must do one thing.” She paused for effect, relishing the look of terror on the poor boy's face. The next words she spoke were slow, drawing out their emphasis. “You… Draco Malfoy… have to kiss me.”

Stunned silence met her declaration, followed by the most devilish smirk Hermione had ever seen on his face. He growled and flipped them over, slamming his lips into hers, tearing an audible gasp from her mouth.

His kisses grew more forceful, causing little moans to escape her lips. His hand wrapped around her neck, and his body rolled repeatedly into the writhing form of the brunette witch below him.

Panting, Hermione wrapped her legs around him and flipped them back around so she was straddling him. She lifted her pajama top over her head, revealing her breasts as she didn't sleep in a bra and hadn't bothered dressing for the day. His eyes darkened as he saw her in all her beauty. She blushed at the look of pure lust on his face. She had to admit, the sight of him lying below her in nothing but boxers was dizzying.

When she leaned over to kiss him again, she knew exactly where things were headed, and she couldn't want it more. Soon after, her pajama bottoms were strewn across the couch, her panties were tossed to the kitchen, and his boxers were left by the bookcase. They devoured each other, kissing, biting, licking, sucking, and teasing until they were both sweaty and panting. Hands were flying, nails were scratching, bodies pressed so tightly against each other that Hermione couldn't tell where her body ended and Draco's began.

……..

She opened her eyes. She was lying on the kitchen floor naked, the afternoon sun streaming through the common room window. A very sexy looking Draco Malfoy was asleep on the floor beside her, blonde hair tousled and messy. The faint smell of smoke lingered in the air. She looked down at the ash-covered floor and just as she was pondering how to start cleaning up, Draco rolled over and looked at her with sleepy eyes.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he muttered. She flushed bright red. Had she really fucked Draco Malfoy? The voice in her head made a reappearance: “Oh, yes you did. And it was everything you'd ever dreamed it would be… And so much more!”

She giggled. “Morning,” she smiled, standing up to survey the damage done in the kitchen now that the smoke was gone.

Most of the right side of the kitchen was a charred mess. Where she stood, she could see the remains of their blackened refrigerator and microwave, and the melted sink area. She sighed. What was magic for if not for fixing mistakes? Speaking of which…

“How did the fire start?” She glared at her sworn enemy, who was currently lying nude on the tile floor, smugly wearing an I-just-had-the-best-sex-of-my-life expression.

“I was trying to make brownies.” Belatedly, she noticed the empty bowl of batter, egg shells, and carton of milk on the sooty counter.

She laughed. “Why?” Draco mumbled something about trying to impress a girl.

“Impress a girl, huh? And who might that be?” Hermione raised her eyebrows.

“Well she’s this really smart, sexy girl who just saved my dorm room from burning down… She has brown hair, pretty eyes-” He was silenced by a passionate kiss from Hermione.

“How long have you liked me?” she asked.

“Since third year when you punched me in the face,” Draco admitted. Hermione laughed and replied, “I think I’ve always liked you, deep down. You’re my intellectual equal. After all, there must be some reason a bastard like you would get the position of Head Boy..." She looked down between his uncovered legs. “Besides your incredible sex appeal of course.” He smirked in that smug way that only someone who actually is as great as he thinks he is possibly can.

She sighed. “Well better get this mess cleaned up.” Hermione stood up, retrieved her panties from the handle of the microwave where they were draped, and waved her wand. “Reparo.”

I'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG TO POST HERE IS MY STORY :'(

The Almost Biography of Another Troubled Teen

(A novel I will probably never finish by Shoshanah Steinberg)

Prologue

The wind blew with renewed strength and whipped her hair roughly around her head. She glanced around at the emptiness surrounding her. Nothing but tall waving grass and the rocky cliff behind her. The water below called to her, its white-tipped waves coaxing her down. Goodbye. She chuckled; she always did love roller coaster drops the best. This would be her last ride. The final fall. She took a step forward, took a deep breath, and jumped. I’ll see you soon, Dad.

Ch 1 -- 10 months earlier

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

“Ugh, it’s too early.” A moan came from under the heap of clothing and blankets from the corner of the room.

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

“You've got to be kidding me.” A head with shaggy black and blue hair materialized, with yesterday’s eyeliner smeared under her right eye. Another groan, and a figure of a girl emerged from the pile and stumbled across the room.

Beep! Beep! Be-

The alarm shut off abruptly. “Finally.” The girl sighed and flopped down again on her makeshift bed and was just drifting off again when she heard, “SORIAH!!!” She rolled her eyes and sighed. What made her think that this morning was any different? “Coming, Mom!” She walked as slowly as she could down the stairs, avoiding her mother for the longest possible time. “Soriah! Get down here right now!”

No, she thought. She turned around and was going back to her room when she heard the cabinet slam. Fuck. She’s been drinking. Having an alcoholic mother was a truth that Soriah had long since accepted. She didn’t know what to do about it, so she tended to just avoid her. Dad would have known what to do. She went back to her bedroom and blasted her music into her ears, knowing the longer she stayed away from her mom, the better. Who cares if she was late to school again? It was Monday; still the weekend in her opinion.

She stretched out on the floor and looked around her room. There was a bed covered in boxes and old notebooks and other miscellaneous stuff. Her closet, half open, revealed a few clothes hung haphazardly on hangers and more clothes lining the bottom. The rest of her wooden floor contained the jeans she wore yesterday, her favorite combat boots, and the black beanbag chair in the corner, covered in blankets and yet more laundry. This was where she slept. Soriah’s mom always asked why she never slept in her bed when she had a perfectly fine one already. Soriah always gave the same response: “I’m practicing for when I’m homeless.” Her mom tended to roll her eyes and ignore that.

Soriah’s gaze landed in the far corner by her lamp. Her notebook. Writing was her only joy, aside from her music. The surrounding floor area, including a shag rug that used to be purple, was covered in small pieces of paper with scribbles, doodles, poems, lyrics, and ideas. On the wall above her bed was a black and white photo of her dad’s old ranch. She remembered those days fondly. Those were the last happy memories she had left. Her happiness had died with him after the accident.

Soriah thought back to the previous night, after another one of the many fights she got into with her mom. This one was the worst in months, probably the worst since her father’s death. Her mom had been scolding her for being so isolated, only listening to “weird bands” and asking, "Is that even music anyway?" Her old favorite, “Why do you never do your homework?” recently gave way to the latest one, “A girl your age should have friends, where are yours?”

Soriah got this most nights and usually ignored it, but that night something inside her snapped when she heard, “Your father probably raised you like this. He was a damned bad influence, that ass.” A choked cry escaped her throat. “What did you call my father?” Soriah cried, knowing that whatever her mom said, Soriah would never forgive her. Ever.

The sunshine licked her skin and the smell of earth and horses filled her nose. This was home. Her Daddy was brushing Cinnamon’s coat and Soriah was washing the red horse’s legs and belly.

“When I get big I can reach her face! I almost can now!” Soriah exclaimed. She lifted the brush with soapy water and continued scrubbing.

A strong arm lifted the little girl off the ground. Squealing, she raised the hand still holding the brush and began to brush the animal’s nose. Cinnamon whinnied. “Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades,” her Daddy remarked, tightening the strong arm around her waist.

“She likes me, Daddy!” The man in the blue flannel shirt laughed.

“One day you may have to lift me up to brush the horses,” he chuckled. Soriah giggled.

“Silly Daddy, you’ll be here forever.” She smiled at him. “You're Daddy!”

She snapped out of her memories only find herself crying softly on her favorite shirt, the same blue flannel her dad had worn all those years ago. She never wore it, but kept it anyway, a small token of her childhood that had yet to be taken from her.

Soriah sniffed, and went over to her mirror. It was still cracked in the corner where she’d thrown her phone at it a number of weeks ago. Somehow the phone had survived, but then again that phone had been through a lot. It had been dropped, stepped on, thrown, submerged in water, screamed through, cried on, left at the beach, and lost in a taxi. And here it was again, though now with a broken case, shattered screen, and the letters fading off the buttons, but regardless, it could send a text message and place a call and that’s all her phone really needed to do anyway. She always felt like she could relate well to her phone, as she had gone through a fair amount of destruction as well. She sighed.

“Soriah!” A shrill screech made its way up the hall. Soriah turned up her music in reply.

"Soriah Ashley James you have five seconds to get your lazy spoiled ass downstairs or your only hope of–" The music pouring out of her earbuds drowned out her mother's ranting. Fuck you, Mother. She yanked aside her curtains and opened her window. She nimbly climbed out, landing on the ground beside the garbage cans.

Ch 2

The bus smelled like cigarettes and feet. She watched morosely as her school’s street approached on her right. She ignored the shouts and cries of the crowd of teenagers, most plagued with acne, some with braces, and all with unnatural enthusiasm for a Monday. Soriah hated school. The kids, the teachers, the lockers; it all seemed so superficial and fake; a cardboard cutout of what reality was supposed to be. It was like painting Times Square at midnight in pastel.

Sitting in the belly of the yellow monster, Soriah heard the screech of centuries-old brakes and smelled the dust as it drifted in through the dirty window. Whee, thought Soriah unenthusiastically. School. As the mob raced off the bus, Soriah waited behind in her seat to add to the doodle she had started a few weeks ago on the back of the seat in front of her. It was a dragon. Or was it a flower? The bus driver called for anyone left on the bus, so Soriah grabbed her black backpack and strolled off the bus onto the campus of Oakwood High.

Instantly, she was hit with immense regret for not ditching the bus. Girls in shorts too short and tops that barely covered anything strutted in sandals, flipping blonde, clearly dyed hair out of heavily made up eyes. Guys with gelled hair in shorts and tees greeted each other with chest bumps and cheerfully exclaimed choruses of "Bro!"

Soriah rolled her eyes. I hate Mondays.

It was August in Oakwood, a suburban Nowheresville surrounded by trees and not much else. The weather was a "wonderful" ninety one degrees, but to Soriah, it was too hot. The black skinny jeans and hoodie that she wore made it hard to stand the heat. She lurked in a corner of the quad, waiting by the door to the classroom that she would inevitably have to waste her morning in. A shrill ringing blasted through the stifling air and with that invitation, students began to fist bump their friends good bye and file into the air conditioned jail cells with desks and whiteboards.

It was time for Math, but Soriah didn’t care. She never paid attention in Math anyway, so today she decided to ditch. She had better things to do besides memorizing the quadratic formula.

She passed her classroom and kept walking to the path she knew led off campus. Because she had never learned to drive, nor had she any interest, she walked to the bus stop near her school. She slipped onto the bus and turned up her music. She didn’t know where she was going, and she didn’t care. Anywhere would be better than school.

When the smelly brakes screeched the bus to a halt in front of the shopping center in town, Soriah hopped off and blended into the crowd of shoppers. Her stomach growled and she realized she never had breakfast. The coffee shop at the corner was always busy, but she went there anyway, knowing that no one would see her in such a crowd.

There, she pulled out her phone and sighed. Sixteen new messages from her mom. The first few were just jumbled letters, then they started forming words, like, “Sorrrijiaahjk youu stipppuid girlkl” and “Wwillliamn gddammnit. Fuckk uu” Soriah turned her screen off. Her mom must be really drunk. She only called her dad William when she was completely wasted. Oh well.

At the front of the line, the overly cheery barista asked Soriah if she wanted anything. She declined because she didn't have any money. Instead, she turned to leave, but before she could walk out the door, she heard a voice that made her blood freeze in her veins.

“I kn-know she was in her room thish morning! Then I go upshtairsh, her window is open, and sh-she isn’t at shchool!”

Damn, thought Soriah. I always forget to close the window.

Before her mother could notice her, she ducked out the back door of the shop, grabbing a partially eaten donut off the counter for breakfast. Whoever had bought it wouldn’t miss it. She stepped into the blinding sun, and thought of a day when everything would be better.

Back outside, she crossed the street to get to the park nearby. She saw a young girl in the sandbox and a group of teenage boys on the rocket-shaped jungle gym smoking cigarettes. One of them started picking at the peeling paint on the monkey bars, and Soriah had to resist the urge to tell him to stop. She remembered when the park was brand new.

She could hear the laughter from the car. A brightly colored playground shaped like a giant spaceship protruded from the sandbox. Two little boys were playing on the tire swing.

"Daddy! Come on! We're gonna miss our flight!" yelled the eight-year-old in the pink tights. Her pigtails slapped against her face as the giant rocket grew closer.

"Daddy!"

"Soriah, honey, I'm coming. I'm coming. Your old man’s knees ain’t what they used to be.”

As Soriah ran up the steps to the ship, she grabbed hold of the steering wheel.

“Daddy! Hurry up!”

Panting, her father reached the deck. “Where are we going, sweet pea?”

“To a new planet! Just with us! And nobody else!”

A smile slowly crossed his face.

“Three, two, one, BLASTOFF!!!

“Honey, it’s time to go!” Soriah’s head snapped back, thinking she heard her father, but it was a balding man in a faded tee shirt calling to the girl in the sand. Soriah sighed. Nothing would ever be the same.

Ch 3

In the sea of legs, Soriah felt small and lost. They had only been at the market for a few minutes, but already she had gotten separated from her mommy. She looked for the crisply ironed skirt that her mom always wore, navy blue with the gold buttons. There! Soriah followed the skirt around the corner to the baked goods, yelling, “Mommy! Mommy!”

When she reached the skirt, however, it wasn’t her mom after all, but a young blonde woman with a baby in her arms. Her eyes opened wide when she saw Soriah, a young girl with dark hair and tears in her eyes.

“Mommy?” But Soriah knew better. Mommy was gone. Mommy was always gone.

The sea of faces and backpacks swallowed Soriah as she pushed back on campus hoping to avoid Marge, also known as Ms. Sullivan, or as kids liked to call her, Ms. Satan. Nine out of ten detentions given at Oakwood High were just Ms. Sullivan telling off kids when she was in a bad mood. Luckily she ran into Pete, a large middle aged man who cleaned up the campus and let people sneak off at lunch. Pete was the unspoken hero of the school.

“Thanks,” whispered Soriah as she slipped by his cart into the crowd. Pete winked and turned away.  

As the bell rang for lunch, Soriah made a note on the back of her hand to go talk to Miss Foster, the school counselor. She was a young woman in her late twenties who had long blonde hair, usually with flowers twisted into it, who wore long flowy skirts and tye-dyed tops.

She was one of the coolest faculty at the school and a lot of boys liked to flirt with her, especially Dustin Harley. He was the only kid in school who had already gotten tattoos, and he had two of them. One was a set of gears on his collarbone and the other was a raven on a skull on his right hipbone that he liked to show off by lifting his shirt, usually in the presence of girls. He would flirt with anything that moved. He was the guitarist in a local garage band called Fyx. He, Nikki Bender, Azura Anderson a.k.a. Z, and Nate Lincoln were the go-to band for any party held by Oakwood students.  

Nikki was a short ginger girl who always wrote song lyrics in the margins of her papers and blew everyone away singing Monster by Paramore at last year’s school Halloween event. Z was dating Roxy, a butch girl who everyone thought was a guy for the first month of school. Z was also known schoolwide as the girl who shaved her head freshman year. She currently had short hair dyed dark red and buzzed up one side. Nate was a quiet guy with messy black hair that hung in his bright blue eyes, who was never seen without a black hoodie and earbuds. Dustin and Nate were in English with Soriah and her best friend Melanie, who had been dating Nate since sophomore year.

The four band members always ate lunch together, and Melanie and Soriah tended to eat with them because Nate and Melanie were constantly attached at the hip, and usually mouth. This left Soriah and Dustin no one to talk to but each other, and they had become rather close. They compared opinions about song lyrics and what they thought they meant, Dustin would go on long tirades about the guitarist in Ghost Faction, the most popular band these days, and how he could play so much better. Soriah had heard this rant enough times and usually tuned him out. They also complained about Mrs. Sullivan and made up limericks about her and the other faculty when no one else was listening.

Melanie and Nate were oblivious to their laughter, as they were too into each other. Soriah always felt a little jealous of her best friend, but she would never say anything. She wished she could have someone like that in her life. She ignored their daily makeout sessions and just hung out with Dustin.

“Did you finish your essay?” Dustin asked, snapping Soriah out of her thoughts.

“Not quite, but I’m almost done. Just need a conclusion.”

“Oh I totally get that. Summarizing is stupid, though. I mean, I already said everything in the essay, why write it all again, you know?” Dustin shrugged. “Whatever.”

Soriah laughed and picked up her backpack as the bell rang and the four friends walked to English.

Ch 4

Miss Silver had just walked in when Cade stumbled into the room, his hair a total mess. He was a relatively popular guy who was pretty nice as long as he wasn’t around his friends. He ran his fingers through his hair and shrugged. "Sorry I'm late, guys... I was busy... uh... doing something." A few eye rolls met his response, and as though on cue, Katie, a blonde girl in a crop top and shorts who was rumored to have slept with every guy on the football team in the same week, stepped through the door out of breath with her lipstick smudged onto her cheek.

"I think we found the 'something'!" called Charlie from the back.  Alec whistled and the two best friends high-fived, met with an exaggerated eye roll from Deja. Deja was a typical grouchy goth with raccoon eyes and black lipstick. She sighed loudly, looked away, and continued drinking her gigantic cup of coffee.

"Seriously you two. If you guys are gonna fuck, do it somewhere else. We have a class going on here."

"Like you care about class," Melanie muttered. "The only class you care about is the senior class and the only senior you care about is Nate and he's mine. Bitch." Soriah snickered. Deja had been after Nate since seventh grade. Today, Deja was wearing all black to match her attitude, while Melanie was wearing jeans with more patches than denim with an old faded grey shirt that said "My pet dinosaur is cooler than you." Melanie’s wavy brown hair was in a messy bun with a few small braids hanging out.

“Settle down, everyone,” called Mrs. Silver. Mrs. Silver was an older woman with hair to match her name. She was the sweetest person Soriah knew, and was to her the mother figure she never had.

Soriah slid into her desk next to Melanie “What did I miss last class?”

“Dustin and Katie left early…” she whispered, raising her eyebrows up and down. “Katie? Really?” Soriah sighed. “Wow.” What am I going to do with him?

“Dustin has to get some standards.” Soriah whispered back. “One of these days he’s going to-”

"Settle down, class," Mrs. Silver requested again, interrupting Soriah. "Today we are going to start a project." The whole class groaned. "Don't be like that. You'll be writing memoirs!"

Charlie and Alec pretended to shoot each other and Charlie dramatically fell out of his desk onto the floor while Alec clutched his chest and made gasping sounds.  Deja turned around in her seat and glared at them.

Memoirs. Soriah smiled. I'm probably the only one here who's looking forward to this.

"Turn to page 327 for the chapter on memoir writing."

The sound of paper flipping echoed throughout the classroom. Soriah grinned. This is going to be cake.

She opened her tattered textbook with decades of vandalism declaring everything from "Nick is gay" to "Megan = whore" to a scribble in the corner of page 286 with a phone number and two stick figures having sex.

Sighing, Soriah focused on the page in front of her. "Write about an event in your life that shaped who you are today." An event that shaped me? I don't know... My dad dying? My mom drinking? The release of Ghost Faction's latest album? She shook her head. This is harder than I thought.

Before she knew it, the bell had rung and the crowd of teenagers spilled out of the room. Soriah stayed back.

"Mrs. Silver?" Soriah walked slowly to the older woman.

"Soriah! Honey! How was your weekend?" Mrs. Silver beamed at her favorite student.

"Actually kind of miserable," Soriah sighed. "Mom went on a drunken rant when she found my dad's old yearbook I kept under my bed and she ripped it up. I didn’t even get to save his picture before she threw it out."

"Oh honey, that sounds awful!" Soriah nodded and wiped away the tears that were forming against her will.

"Anyhow, I was wondering, can I write more than the assignment asked for? I have a lot going on in my life."

The older woman fixed her gaze on the girl in black, and Soriah felt like her teacher knew more than she let on.

"For you, yes. But make sure you only focus on one topic."

Soriah groaned quietly. "But that's impossible!"

Mrs. Silver nodded sagely. "You can do it. I believe in you."

The bell rang again interrupting their conversation. At this point Soriah was sure to be tardy to History, but she tended to sleep though it anyway. She slid into her desk just as class began and put her head down on her desk. She couldn’t wait for school to be over.

To be continued…

Word Count Wednesdays- Second Attempt

Word Count week 2/1/17-2/8/17:
The "Here's What Happens When I Wake Up At 4am Inspired To Write A Poem: A Poem In Several Parts" post is 1136 words. I also wrote 3 other poems  that are rather long as well and a song too, but they are all handwritten in a notebook  so I'm not going to bother counting the words... At least another 1000 in total. I definitely got well over 2000 words this week. Hope I can keep up this pace.

What am I working on?
Songs, poems, journaling, and dealing with an increasingly complicated love life. The heart does not listen to logic, unfortunately, and I am trying to keep myself sane in this rollercoaster of emotion. Ugh :/

How do I feel about the process?
Writing process: A+
Love life process: C- (Not quite failing, but certainly not top of the class... Only time will tell where this will go I suppose...)

What am I reading now?
Actually I am finding myself rereading old journals and it is quite entertaining. 10/10 would recommend.

Here's What Happens When I Wake Up At 4am Inspired To Write A Poem: A Poem In Several Parts

Started 2/3/17 4:34 am

Finished 2/4/17 12:58 pm

(copied and pasted from Google Docs typed on my phone)

Happy Ending Boy
I swear I try so hard to think about anything else. I try to distract, spend my nights fantasizing about my lips on his, how he would taste, the feel of my fingertips running through his hair... but every time in my mind he turns into you again. The sweetness of your kiss, your hands against my sides, the gentle scratch of your cheek on mine. Oh, if only I'd felt this way about you when I'd kissed you! But it's too late. In the book, she always has to choose, the happy ending boy or the one that makes her heart race. You are so wrong for me, and boy, don't I know it, but everything about you feels so right somehow. How can I want him so badly when when every thought of him turns to one of you? Your danger is enticing, and wrong or not, I want you.

I Can't Sleep At Night And It's All Your Fault
I can't sleep at night and it's all your fault. The feel of your lips lingers on mine weeks after… I never felt like this toward you before but now that I've tasted it, I want more. More and more… And more… You are the choice I know I'll regret, a passion so great I know it has no choice but to explode, a self destructive time bomb ticking with every heartbeat I feel pulsing through me as I lay against your chest. The smell of you intoxicating… Wish I could bottle you up, shoot you into my veins when I am alone. You make me feel dangerous… Sexy… Alive. You make me miserable and desperate but I want you so bad. What curse have you placed me under, what spell, what sorcery is this to make me need something so wrong… But need you like I need air? I need you. I need your lips against mine, softer than I'd ever dreamed, your kiss against my neck, mouth open against my racing pulse. To feel that fire again is all I want. Eyes half shut in blissful desire, you are a magician and I am every bit of your magic. Play me like an instrument, roll your fingertips over my heated skin, chords of low moans meant for only you to hear. Drive me crazy again. Whisper your dirty thoughts into my ear, your breath a tease against my nerves. You are bad. Very bad. But so good, so right, right in the wrongest way. How can you make me want you like this? I am your marionette, you a puppeteer knowing exactly how to pull my strings to make me dance. Kiss me one more time, and I will kiss back with everything I have. You haunt my dreams, you are my dreams, and I can only kiss my pillow wishing for your lips once again.

Impossible
I finally understand why they say there's a fine line between love and hate. I don't know whether I want to beat the shit out of you or make out with you. You're unbearable and you're driving me fucking crazy. Fuck you. The way you can set me on fire without even touching me… It's really not fair. The fact that you have this control… This invisible rope around me… I wish you would let go, but at the same time I wish you would reel me in closer, ever closer, until I was wrapped once more in your arms. You are a drug. A bad habit. Nicotine in my lungs, forced deeper into my bloodstream with every inhale of you. Fuck! I hate you! I hate that I want you and I hate that I can never have you because we're impossible. You're impossible. But somehow that only makes me want you more.

The Ramblings Of A Foolish Girl
You are poison. A liquid snake swimming in my veins, a venomous adrenaline making my vision blur and my eyes cross. My skin wants to separate from my skeleton, drawn magnetically to your touch. But these are just the ramblings of a foolish girl, the fantasies of a dreamer who wants only to be wanted with the strength and desire of how much she wants you. I will never learn. I will make the same mistakes again and again and again and again and I will keep wanting you until I can no longer breathe. The effect you have on me is too strong. I need to detox from your electricity, remove your lightning from underneath my fingernails and pull it out from between my toes. I need an antidote… Almost as much as I need you.

Superman
Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. That is why I sit so close to you. Not because of the striking green of your eyes, nor because of the way you somehow always know exactly what to say, and certainly not because of the masculine scent of your cologne wafting over to me across the table. No, I need to keep you close because you are a villain, the bane of my existence, you drive me insane with your games and gentle teasing, so very subtle. But you are my Superman, saving me from late-night run-ins with depression and hopelessness, because you seem to sense exactly how to make me feel better. I don't know if I can keep you as a friend without my desire clouding my thoughts, but I will try if it kills me. You are a good friend. A dirty-minded sleepless-fantasy-provoking friend. And, friend, you are a dangerously good kisser. But I must keep us platonic, tectonic plates shifting causing ever-increasing tension… But I will survive, friend. I will survive if it kills me.

Kidding Myself
I awoke this morning to find myself kissing my pillow, waking from a dream about him. You left my thoughts alone for once, let me imagine myself with him without interrupting my daydream with lust-soaked memories of that day. Thank you. Just once, I appreciate being able to want someone else, want him, and not constantly be thinking of your fingers on my skin, your breath on my neck. I can want his lips, his smile, the delicious way I kid myself that he looks at me… not so different from how you looked at me. You were a delicacy… He is almost if not equally tempting. Leave me alone… I pick him. Or so I tell myself… I can kid myself just as well.

Word Count Wednesdays: First attempt

Word Count week 1/25/17-1/31/17:
242 (need to count journal)

What am I working on?
Songs, poems, journaling, and trying to find meaning in life (wow that sounded really emo).

How do I feel about the process?
So far so good..... I hope

What am I reading now?
Harry Potter and the Cursed Child WHICH I FINALLY BORROWED FROM SOMEONE SO I CAN READ IT OMG SO EXCITED *explodes in puff of sheer joy*




uh ok so i stopped counting mid-week then totally forgot i saved this post as a draft so i'm posting it now... oops... i definitely hit 1000 because i was journaling constantly but i'm not going to go back and count so i'm posting this as is. better luck this week...? :/

What is Dark Blue Voices, Bright Red Voices?

An excerpt from one of my original songs, called "Cyanide," written August 2013:

"These dark blue voices
Calling softly
Take me away

These bright red voices
Screaming at me
Listen to me now, don't wanna hear you..."

There are many voices in my head, in your head, in our heads. Some are yellow, smiling, enthusiastic. Some are grey, dull, drab. Some are fuchsia, lime green, gold, lilac. All speak at different volumes, send different messages, have different personalities. Dark blue voices are slow. They creep though your brain, whispering sweet nothings to lure you into their grasp. Some call dark blue voices depression. I call them fair-weather friends. Bright red voices are loud. Fast. Screaming through your veins, flying in and out of your eyes, lighting fires, igniting barely-containable explosions. Some call bright red voices mania. I call them the high at the top of a roller coaster before the drop. Dark blue voices, bright red voices. Some call this bipolar. I call it my life.