#EmotionalWriting

[seraisyre]

i wanted more than just a glance,

more than a tired, half-meant chance. i dreamed of touch that made me melt, not empty words i’ve always felt.

i pictured hunger, aching slow, a love that builds, a need that grows. but when i spoke, he bowed his head no passion sparked, just guilt instead.

he said “i’m sorry” like before, then left me lonelier than before. no fire, no ache, no healing kiss just me, still waiting… not for this.

[s-soulwriter]

Writing Angsty Scenes Without Making Them Cringe

Alright, so we all love a good angsty moment, right? That scene where everything feels like it's falling apart, emotions are running high, and your character's world is just burning around them. But… writing those scenes without slipping into "oh no, not this again" territory? Yeah, it can be tricky.

Angst is powerful, no doubt, but it can get cringey fast if you’re not careful. So, how do you make your readers feel the hurt without rolling their eyes at the drama? Here are some thoughts (because we’ve all been there)

1. Keep It Real No one—and I mean no one—has perfectly poetic, life-altering thoughts while they’re in the middle of an emotional meltdown. If your character’s going through it, make sure their reactions feel raw, maybe even messy. Show us their confusion, anger, and fear in a way that makes sense for them. Don’t just throw in a monologue about the meaning of life or have them collapse in a rainstorm. (Unless it’s really necessary. Then, okay, fine, but be careful!)

2. The Little Details Hit Harder Sometimes, it’s the small, unexpected details that pack the biggest punch. Instead of a dramatic sobbing fit, maybe your character’s hands shake as they try to make a cup of tea or they notice a tiny crack in the wall that they never noticed before because they’re spiraling. It’s those little, relatable moments that make the angst feel real, not overdone.

3. Embrace the Quiet Moments It doesn’t always have to be yelling or crying to show that your character is struggling. Silence can be loud. Sometimes it’s the things unsaid that carry the most weight. Maybe your character withdraws, or they’re stuck staring at the ceiling for hours. A pause in the conversation, a long sigh, or a blank stare can be just as gut-wrenching as full-on breakdowns.

4. Avoid the Obvious Clichés (If You Can) Okay, this one’s a bit tricky. It’s not that you can’t ever have rain scenes or broken mirrors (I see you, “symbolism”), but if you’re gonna go there, give it a twist. Maybe instead of staring out a window during a storm, they’re in a brightly lit, overly cheerful room that just doesn’t match how they’re feeling. Play with contrasts. Make the environment work against their mood rather than mirroring it perfectly.

5. Let the Angst Breathe Don’t feel like you need to dump all the angst in one scene. Let it stretch out a bit. Give your characters space to process (or fail to process) over time. A lot of times, readers will feel more for a character who’s quietly unraveling over several chapters than one who explodes all at once. It makes the eventual breakdown hit harder when it does happen.

6. People Are Weird When They’re Hurting They joke at the wrong times. They say things they don’t mean. They shut people out, or they get way too clingy. Don’t be afraid to make your characters react in unexpected or contradictory ways—people do that when they’re feeling too much. Let your characters be complicated, because real people are.

7. Subtle Can Be Stronger Not every angsty scene needs a screaming match or someone running away dramatically. Sometimes, a single line of dialogue or a character’s slight change in expression can hit like a freight train. Try letting things simmer. Hold back when it feels like you should go big, and you might surprise yourself (and your readers) with how much more intense it feels.

[slientstories]

Vows with Crossed Fingers

One day, I would walk down the aisle to someone who isn’t you.

I would wear the dress I imagined you seeing me in.

I would stand on the alter which I pictured you and me.

I would dance with him while the music meant for us is being played.

I would look at him and try not morph his face into yours.

I would cross my fingers at my back while I say my vows,

Pretending I didn’t remember promising you forever at 16.

I would block memories of you out of my head while I kiss him .

My dream wedding would unfold,

Expect he would be the groom not you.

© Princess 2025. All rights reserved.

[inkneverdies]

[athenanfaymont]

A Peek Into My Latest Superbat Fanfic: Secrets, Emotions, and the World I’ve Built ✨💫

I’ve thrown myself completely into my latest Superbat fanfic, and I’m not sure how to explain just how deep I’ve gone into this. I’ve entered this world so fully that it feels more like I’m living it than just writing it. The clarity with which I see it—it’s like reading a comic, but it’s not just any comic. This one’s mine, and it’s unfolding in front of me, frame by frame, with details so sharp I can almost touch them. And it’s alive: a film, a memory. 📖🖤

In my mind, Bruce isn’t just Bruce Wayne. He’s wearing the most incredible brands—luxury suits and watches, expensive tastes in illogical cars. His life feels so full of wealth, privilege, and sophistication. But also? Alfred is there too—tending to his garden, knowing every flower’s meaning like it’s a secret that only he understands. He cares for the plants as much as he cares for Bruce. There’s so much heart in this place, even though Alfred doesn’t even show up there.

And Clark? Clark is so much more than the superhero I knew. He’s got this calm, gentle smile—tired but full of love—and he’s the type to place a hand on the Robins’ shoulders, grounding them, offering support even when he’s carrying the world on his own. When he’s Clark, there’s this quiet strength that is almost... fragile. He lets himself be small in those moments. He’s human too.

I’ve even gone so far as to map out Wayne Manor, down to each room, each door. I can feel the space. I can smell Alfred’s cooking—the rich aromas of comfort food that fill the halls. Seasonal vegetables, fresh bread, the smell that tells you it’s safe. It’s the kind of world I can’t help but want to live in.

The emotional moments hit hardest. I get nervous as I struggle with Bruce’s silence when he can’t find the right words. I feel Clark’s fear, because sometimes he is fragile. These scenes, these moments, they mean so much to me. Every word matters. Every breath feels like it weighs something.

And here I am, sharing this with you. A little secret about what goes on in my mind when I’m writing. I hope when you read it, you’ll be able to see this world the way I do. I want you to feel the weight of every emotion I’ve poured into these pages. To see the luxury, but also the vulnerability. To understand the bond between these characters, to feel everything I feel as I write.

This isn’t just a fanfic. It’s a world I’ve built with my own hands, and I can’t wait to share it with you.

[titaniaqueenoffairie]

Tamlin week: day 4: Powers

@tamlinweek

"Rise, Spring Beast"

Summery: Tamlin, broken and forgotten, stands on the edge of death, haunted by his past mistakes and losses. When even death refuses to claim him, he realizes the land still sees him as its High Lord. With nothing left to lose, he embraces the beast within and rises—not to be forgiven, but to reclaim his court with fury. Spring awakens, not with beauty—but with vengeance.

Trigger Warnings⚠️ : Suicidal ideation and attempt Self-harm (jumping from a cliff) Emotional trauma and PTSD Parental abuse and neglect Grief, abandonment, and betrayal Dark themes involving death, rage, and magical violence

Acknowledgment: The idea that Tamlin’s father knew Amarantha’s interest in him and used it as a political move was inspired by a brilliant theory originally shared by @booksnwriting

The forest is silent.

Tamlin stands still, unmoving in his beast form, his massive body hunched beneath the ghostly light that filters through the bare trees. He does not watch the woods—he merely faces them, as if waiting for them to speak. As if waiting for them to condemn him.

His mind is far away. Buried in memories.

He sees his father’s face—cold, violent, cunning. The same man who used him like a bargaining chip, who sold his strength to Hybern, who offered his own son to Amarantha as if he were no more than a token. He remembers his brothers—vultures in velvet—who would have killed him without a blink had they learned what truly brewed in his veins.

He remembers the night everything was torn away: his mother’s scream. The blood. The fire. The crown thrust onto his head like a curse.

He remembers fifty years of darkness beneath the cuuse. The cursed silence. The friends he’d sent to their deaths. The endless guilt.

And then… Feyre.

Feyre, who he loved. Feyre, who he believed would save him. Feyre, who took everything.

His court… His people... Lucien.

Even Lucien left because of her.

A cruel voice echoes in his head. Rhysand’s words—cutting, unforgiving: “You deserve to die alone.”

Tamlin’s claws dig into the damp earth. Rhysand. That bastard. If it hadn’t been for Tamlin, Rhysand would have been dead. Tamlin had every reason to not revive him and yet he did… he helped him—for Feyre? For Prythian? For what? So he could be mocked, pitied, scorned?

Maybe Rhysand was right.

Maybe he should die.

His court is in ruins. His magic falters. The land itself barely alive because of him.

He’s not just forgotten.

He’s useless.

He lowers his head. “Maybe the next High Lord will do better,” he mutters. “Maybe it’s time.”

A flutter of movement.

A tiny pixie lands gently on his antlers. Delicate, bright-eyed, curious. She stares at him as if he’s not a monster—but a part of the forest.

For a moment, he forgets how to breathe.

Slowly, painfully, he shifts into his fae form. The weight of his beast sheds, revealing ragged skin, hollow cheeks, eyes dimmed with years of agony. But the pixie does not flee. She stays. Now on his hand.

Then she takes off, fluttering through the trees.

She was leading him somewhere.

Something tugs at him. Curiosity, perhaps. Or the last thread of what was once hope. He follows.

Through the broken forest, past dying streams and silent glades, she leads him.

Until they reach it: a lake.

Pixies. Nixies. Goblins. All gathered around the water. And there—on the edge—a single, blackened tree. Burned during the Hybern attack. A reminder of all he failed to protect.

The pixie perches on the tree’s charred branch.

Tamlin stares.

The smallest of his people stayed and didn’t left.

She was asking him to fix the tree. She knew he was the high lord of this land and asked for his help.

Tamlin lifts his hand. A flicker of green light dances from his fingers.

The tree breathes. It groans. It blooms. Its branches stretch, wide and warm, sheltering the lake once more.

He breathes out. “At least I did one thing before I die.”

But the world… they won’t remember this.

They’ll remember the beast. The failure.

He walks.

Barefoot.

Aimless.

He finds a cliff. High. Jagged. Silent.

He doesn’t think.

He jumps.

To his death. To his peace.

The wind howls past him.

And yet—

He lives.

He crashes into the rocks. His body should have broken. But his power, his magic surges. Healing him. Binding him.

He screams.

“Is that what you fucking wanted?!” he roars to the skies. To the land “Is that why you chose me?! I ruined you! I destroyed you! What are you waiting for?! Just END ME!!”

Silence.

And then, a whisper—not from the wind, but from the land itself.

“You are not finished.”

The land won’t let him die… not until he fix all of that.

Tamlin realise

He staggers to his knees… Rage of years and years burning in his eyes.

Years of suffer and lost and betrayal !

“They think I’m a monster,” he breathes. “Let me be one, then.”

His voice steadies. “Let me be the beast they already believe I am.”

He rises.

“I’ll die. But not now. Not like this.”

“I’ll die with a sword in my hand and my enemies on their knees.” he decide

“If this land wants a High Lord…” His hands clench into fists. “Then I’ll be one.”

A pulse surges through the earth, once he finally trully accepted his fate as high lord to this land.

The trees shift.

The wind halts.

The land answers.

“I command you: rise, and take your place.”

The earth cracks open.

Vines slither.

Monsters of bark and bone crawl forth from burrows long-forgotten.

Spring magic roars.

Not gentle. Not floral.

Wild.

Deadly.

The Spring Court awakens—not with love, but with rage.

Tamlin lifts his face to the sky, his voice a whisper of ancient power: “You chose me. I never wanted this. But now—I accept.”

And power surges.

He stands at the edge of his court. The Night Court’s spies cross into Summer.

Rysand’s puppies wainting his fall.

He lifts a hand.

To protect this land.

Vines twist upward. Thick. Thorned. Beautiful from afar—terrifying up close. A wall forms.

A wall that no monster, no lover, no traitor shall cross.

Roses try to bloom.

They wither.

Only thorns remain.

Epilogue:

The sky above Spring Court is bruised with dusky light. The air hums with an unnatural stillness.

Lucien walks alone, through twisted paths of thorns. The trees whisper, alive with secrets.

He reaches the wall.

Massive. Towering.

Alive.

And yet—it parts for him.

As if the land itself remembers him.

He steps through, heart pounding. The forest watches him. No birds sing. Only rustles in the brush—green glowing eyes, bark-armored wolves.

The manor is barely recognizable. A husk of what once was.

In the main hall, Tamlin stands facing a shattered window. Broad shoulders. Straight spine. Still as stone.

“Oooh... So the land still sees you as a loyal citizen, after all,” Tamlin murmurs.

Lucien tenses. “What do you mean?”

“What is that wall? This magic? What happend exactly”

Tamlin turns. Slowly.

Eyes like no longer shining but instead dark green like emerald feeled by rage.

“That wall?” His voice is low. Calm.

“It stops those who carry ill will. Who no longer deserve what the land once gave freely.”

“What the hell happend Tamlin !”

The glamour drops.

The forest behind him moves.

Monsters—spirits of bark and vine, creatures older than any court—loom behind him, pulsing with life. Bowing to him with deep loyaltie.

“This,” Tamlin says, “is the true nature of Spring.”

Lucien staggers.

He doesn’t see the broken man anymore. Not the ghost, not the failure.

He sees something ancient.

Tamlin’s voice is quiet. Deadly.

“This is what it means to be the High Lord chosen by the land.”

And in Tamlin’s eyes— his friend’s eyes

Lucien sees it.

Not sorrow. Not love.

Rage.

Rage so deep it could reshape the world.

And gods help those who stand in its way.

[monthlywritingchallenges]

🎵 Coming Soon: January Song Challenge! 🎵

Start the new year with creativity and inspiration! Different song will guide your stories, drabbles, or poems, focusing on themes of new beginnings, hope, and growth.

✨ Prompts inspired by meaningful lyrics and melodies.

✨ Open to all genres, fandoms, and original works.

Stay tuned for the song list and get ready to kick off 2024 with creativity! 🎶

You want a song on the list? Send it via Ask!

[sinderblogs19]

In Another Universe, You Loved Me Right

When you approach me, drenched in loneliness and wanting to hold the hand of the soft voice which used to comfort you. Your mind is in a haze because slowly the alcohol is taking over, and you slide into your feelings more — you're not sane anymore. The sane you take care of, takes control of you. The sane is a mask you wear daily — of not caring about anything or anyone — and you keep working to gulp down the ocean of unfulfilled emotion and the bitter hurt and wounds that you carry through your life every day.

At a point where you want to relax, you move towards the poison of alcohol. It’s the poison of giving your mind a chance to breathe, to let your emotional door open, and do the things you would never do when sober — like messaging me "Hey" or saying you miss me a lot, that it hurts. But you pushed me too far away, love. Too far away. You threw me in a deep black pit where it was hard to breathe, when you had promised to fly together to a quiet place with lovely birds around us, holding hands with a big smile. That was the picture you drew.

Then how come the darkness of hurt and pain is not as much affecting my heart as this filthy smell of lies and betrayal?

I climbed up — which was nearly impossible — and cleaned myself in the rivers of self-resilience, love, and care of my family and friends. I tried to find the pill — which, no matter how hard to swallow — could help me forget you, but your traces were everywhere. Your shadow was behind every tree I tried to hide myself from.

So, I became brave and learned to walk the path even with your shadows on the side. I was determined to face you if your cowardly self ever decided to show up — but it never did, nor ever will.

Though your pathetic, lonely self finds its way back to me when no one is there to look at you at your worst or ask about your day — when you can cry about your exhaustion of life and take a moment to breathe and relieve yourself on someone's shoulder.

No matter how hard I try to remember the cut on my heart and how much time it took to make that poor thing pump, to make it alive again, it still has space for you. Where it thinks of you as a little kid with big dreams, betrayed by a friend, and turning your whole life goal into a lesson — and you keep living with it without a single person by your side. At times like that, I could only comfort you with words. It was enough for you.

I was happy to be your yellow light shining above your head whenever the clouds seemed too dark and about to rain. I gave even the last of my shine to you to make your world a little brighter.

So why did you do this to me, darling? Was it pleasurable?

Now that you rot in your bed, thinking for hours about how you used to talk with me — and can't sleep nor come to me begging — because how could you? After all of this?

You take your poison and blame it all on it. And I blame this red fist inside my chest — it talks to you soft and assures you I’ll be there as a friend, so the little child who was betrayed and lost all hope, standing alone, would have a hand — a finger — to hold on to tight at a time like that.

Let’s make fools of ourselves in this maze that we are in — and the sins that we have committed — and become one in at least one universe, if not this one.

In that universe, you have never hurt me or used me for your lonely hours. You genuinely care about my well-being and feelings. I will keep that universe in my mind and run to you whenever you knock at my door — forgetting and leaving everything behind — because I am selfish, and I will love you because I loved you. And only you.

I would keep loving you for the selfish love I have for you. May we stay apart — I know you, you're there — seeing the same moon and wishing on the same falling star.

Let me be in my dream of loving you till I die, and the young love we had — I will think of it as fulfilled. That we both were permitted to stay together forever. We swore to God, lived beautifully — and I would become your widow — because I want to be with you even at your last moment, holding your hand, raising it softly, telling you that I am always, always there.

[cerisenoire-html]

City of Love

Shall I recite to you the ways I love you Count you on my fingers and toes Shout so the sun can hear my voice

I might play it in a song Croon for you in do re mi Hear the harmonies ring in the rhythm of I love you

Shakespeare could not dream of a love this grand Hand in hand through space and time Before during and after life

You will see it in swans and pebbles washed up Taste it in the labour of my meals Feel it in water splashes from paddleboat propellers

Oh how I long to hold you and touch you and kiss you and feel you and kiss you and breath you and kiss you and kiss you and kiss you and kiss you and kiss you

Like your immortal cat, I shall live 1000 lives for you Keep up and I will show you all the ways I love you

[seraisyre]

i dreamed of touch, of hunger deep,

of waking love from where it sleeps. i craved the heat, the soft, the bold but all he gave was sorrys cold.

i spoke, not kissed. i cried, not moaned. the truth came out, but not alone. he nodded slow, said he’d be kind but left me aching in my mind.

[slientstories]

Did you wish my death ?

I wondered what hatred was,

until I saw your eyes.

The eyes I thought held love for me,

now cold.

I saw your dark wishes in them

Your desires

Die.

Die.

Die.

Die.

They scream at me,

follow me,

wishing I’d finally hear them.

Your mouth,

once full of words for me,

Now holds silence.

No smiles.

Just stillness.

Never wanting to speak to me again.

I know you hate me,

I see it,

I feel it.

But if you want me to vanish,

Tell me.

Why?

What did I do

to deserve your hatred?

Please…

Tell me.

And if it’s worth it,

I’ll vanish for you

Did you wish me death today too…?

© Princess 2025. All rights reserved.

[inkneverdies]

[uncle-keg]

Untitled Love Poem

Pulling you closer to me, as we melt away in each other's arms; where I could spend– all day.

You make me feel so at rest with your hands caressing my chest...

Looking up into those eyes of rich dark chocolate, puts me in a trance– making me love being alive.

My smile in their reflection never seemed so radiant, credited all to your affection.

[orbitingreality]

Frozen Doesn't Mean Safe

I don’t feel the pain anymore. Not because it stopped— but because I’m too frozen to notice it’s still there. That’s what numbness is: Pain in disguise.

[unspokenp0ems]

I yearn for words never meant for me, so I write my own to fill my heart.

[courtshippingfate]

This is not a book.

It’s a reckoning.

These whispers don’t seek applause—

they only ask that you stay.