#mizukishly writes

[indecisive-scribophile]

Raincoat: Prologue

DISCLAIMER:  All characters mentioned in this story DO NOT belong to me. ‘Voltron: Legendary Defender’ belongs to DreamWorks. All rights reserved.

Rating: T Warnings: No warnings apply Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender Relationship: Keith x Lance (Klance) Language: English Originally Written: 15/07/2017

Summary: 'Maybe music isn't the only thing you need right now.' There's only one thing that Lance McClain relies on to cheer him up when he's down: music. But on a particularly difficult night that renders him an emotional mess, his headphones are broken and his phone is close to dying. Amidst a plethora of missed phone calls from people he doesn't want to speak to, there is one he answers to: Keith Kogane's. With the help of the warmth of late-night cafe, Lance wonders if Keith could become the new music he relies on during trying times.

Additional Notes: I'm making no promises to continue this story (as with every other one of my stories), but I really do want to finish it. I'm currently working on the first chapter to this, which should be up sometime soon if I don't lose motivation to write it. This story is loosely inspired by Timeflies feat. Shy Martin's song 'Raincoat', which is a song I've been obsessed with lately. Thanks for reading! <3

If you want something interesting to listen to, step outside. Right now, tomorrow, and forever, the world is and will be your oyster—so head out and put the surround sound system inbuilt into your body to good use.

In the music world, certain sounds are romanticised. Something widely appreciated is when musicians jump back into the 1950’s and use voice samples that are distorted by car radio static. The sound of rain on pavement is used in the background of some chillhop songs; sound effects from golden age video games litter some indie songs. Slow, jazzy beats made from bass guitars and romantic piano tropes often accompany music tracks, and you can just imagine the lingering smile on the singers’ lips as they sing their last notes. Technology has advanced so far as to even manipulate our binaural headphones, having different sounds play in different ears at the same time. There’s something so comforting about hearing these sounds over and over again in different songs, make each one different, but still the same on some level.

These noises all used to evoke one thing: nostalgia—a powerful emotion. It takes us on journeys, taking us back to a time in which everything was simpler.

Countless people fall asleep to jazz songs, and a vast amount of students study listening to soft R&B. The music playing on your car radio? Punk rock. The music in the background of that video? Ambient. The music that band’s producing? Alternative. We laugh, befriend, bond, and sometimes even cry over music. Music is so important to our lives—and some people don’t appreciate that. Those who use their vocal chords to create beautiful melodies and hands to strum guitars and press the ivory keys of pianos…they are gifts to this world. We humans have so much potential to give to the world through sound, so why don’t more of us give back to it?

Out of all things you could be doing right now, you’ve chosen to read this… thing. I don’t know what to call it—a memoir, perhaps, or maybe a mere commentary. Apart from continuing to read this, I request that you do one thing: ask yourself, ‘Am I listening to music right now? If so, what kind? Does it enhance my reading experience?’

Think about this carefully. Maybe you’re listening to music directly through your headphones or a speaker. Maybe there’s someone next to you who’s playing an acoustic guitar. Maybe the drops your leaky kitchen sink produces is making a beat. Unbeknownst to you, the gentle breeze blowing outside or the typing of someone sitting across from you might be accompanying you.

And if you’re not listening to anything, then maybe you should be listening to something.

—Lance McClain

[ao3feed-voltronlegendarydefender]

Baby, it's Cold Outside

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2jiYg6Z

by mizukishly

In which Shiro and Emelia – best friends and roommates who so desperately want something more – spend their first Christmas Eve together on a night out in the city. With Shiro's cousin and his boyfriend tagging along with them, Emelia realises that she's so much more in love with Shiro that she thought.

Words: 365, Chapters: 1/7, Language: English

Fandoms: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M

Characters: Shiro (Voltron), OC: Emelia Orielle, Lance (Voltron), Keith (Voltron)

Relationships: shiro/oc

Additional Tags: Romance, look it's another fanfiction starring my oc and shiro, this is a christmas-themed fanfiction that i was unable to finish before christmas, i'm still writing it but i've got a few chapters finished, this is written from emelia's p.o.v. for the fanservice element, shiro's probably ooc but i hope that's okay, shemelia

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2jiYg6Z

[indecisive-scribophile]

Cactus Boy: Chapter Two

DISCLAIMER:  All characters mentioned in this story DO NOT belong to me. ‘Voltron: Legendary Defender’ belongs to DreamWorks. All rights reserved.

Rating: T Warnings: No warnings apply Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender Relationship: Keith x Lance (Klance) Language: English Originally Written: 23/01/2017

Summary: There’s a boy that once shows up at Keith’s cousin’s flower shop. Keith can’t keep his eyes off of him; he’s just so…pretty. Despite not being interested in flowers and more inclined to cacti – heck, he’s never even wanted to officially work at the shop – Keith serves him, not caring that the boy wants flowers for his female date. When the boy comes back a day later, complaining about his date turning out to be a flop, Keith begins to wonder what this boy’s really like beyond his pretty face.

Additional Notes: Hi! This chapter and the next were meant to be one, but then I realised I would be bombarding you all with events, and I personally don't like that when I'm reading stuff. So, that means y'all are lucky because you get an extra chapter earlier than I'd anticipated. Speaking of uploading, I got offered a job that lasts for about a week, so the next chapter probably won't be out as fast as this one. 'Till then.

“Keith. Keith. Keith.”

Upon hearing his cousin’s voice, Keith groaned quietly. Refusing to open his eyes, his position underneath his blanket remained unchanged, the only moving part of his body his socked feet. Perfectly comfortable curled up on his bed, he didn’t see a point in moving.

Keith heard a heavy sigh from the other side of his bedroom door. It clicked open, and the sound of rubber-soled shoes entering the room made Keith furrow his eyebrows. He rolled over onto his side, facing his wall instead of his cousin.

“It’s eleven in the morning.”

Keith begrudgingly parted his lips, slowly forcing himself to pry his eyes open. His grey walls stared back at him hard. “I’m trying to sleep.”

Shiro – completely used to Keith’s morning uncooperativeness – didn’t move an inch. “C’mon. I have to meet with Allura soon, so I need you to man the shop.”

“Again?”

“Yes, again. We have to talk about the shop advertisements.”

“Whose?”

“Both.” Shiro sighed again. “Look. It’s only going to be for an hour this time. You can sleep when I get back.”

Keith slowly pushed himself upright, finally having mustered the willpower to do so. He scrunched up his face as he tried to unstick his gums from his teeth, pawing at his eyes with the both of his hands. Eleven in the morning was too early for him—way too early.

“Well, when you went out last week to Allura’s, you weren’t back until three in the afternoon, and I’m not taking a nap at three.”

Shiro cleared his throat. “We had to talk business. That’s all.”

Rolling onto his right shoulder, Keith noticed that Shiro wasn’t looking at him like he’d expected; instead, Shiro’s gaze lay down at the ground beneath his feet. Keith squinted at Shiro for a moment, eyeing him up and down. His arms folded across his broad chest, having seemingly swapped his black florist’s apron for a white business shirt and navy blue tie. In fact, the only evidence that he worked at – let alone owned – a flower shop were his steel-tipped rubber shoes; other than that, he looked like any other acceptable businessman ready to sell some insurance. His body leaning against the frame of Keith’s bedroom door, Shiro looked like he was getting impatient. Of course, this wasn’t true, for he had copious amounts of patience when it came to Keith. He just had somewhere to go and didn’t want to be late; no wonder he was getting antsy.

“Fine. Just gimme a few minutes.”

As Keith sluggishly tumbled out of bed, Shiro seemingly let out another sigh, this time one of relief. “Thanks, Keith. I really appreciate it.”

With a delayed shrug of dismissal, Keith said, “Don’t mention it.”

Within a few moments, Shiro hurried out of Keith’s room. Keith managed to rub away the majority of the sleep that clung to his face. Lazily sitting up, he threw a quick glance around his room. Everything was in its place…if you count the floor as ‘its place’. Clothes, old high school textbooks, game cases, and magazines were strewn all over his wooden floorboards. His bookshelf and closet were the same in the sense that both had random articles of junk stuffed into them. His desk was no different, for papers littered its surface. The grey walls only added to the room’s faded, outdated vibe. Shiro hated how gloomy Keith’s room was, and swore that one day, he’d convince Keith to re-paint his walls. If Shiro couldn’t manage to do that, then he’d do it himself.

The only spot of colour dotting one measly part of the room was Keith’s collection of potted cacti. The succulents’ colours all stood somewhere on the extremely vast spectrum of bright green to forest green. Some were round; some were essentially mini tree trunks with branches extruding from them. Some were those fluffy kinds of round cacti that looked safe to touch; others were the spiky, dangerous-looking ones that looked like overgrown pickles.

There were heaps of them, all lined up on his white windowsill in some kind of order only Keith understood. Keith’s gaze trailed over them, and after making his bed, Keith sat on it, facing the little, green succulents with his back slouched and legs crossed.

He counted them all, just in case he’d accidentally knocked one off with his arm in his sleep. It was quite easy to do so, for his bed was parallel to his wall. (He’d done it once before during a night of presumed nightmares and wild gesticulating. Worst of all, he only noticed one was cracked and on his floor a week later.) One, two, three…twelve, thirteen, fourteen…seventeen. All seventeen cacti intact and accounted for. So he hadn’t knocked over any in the night after all.

Keith nodded gently in approval. He reached out to the cactus nearest him: a relatively large one that was tall and flat, much less round than the others. Its colour danced on the border of muted green and yellow, reminiscent of a forlorn desert. Instead of spikes, it had small, brown nubs dotting its surface, almost as if they were the precursors of spikes that could have been. The cactus’ pot was like the rest of the cacti’s spread along Keith’s windowsill: made out of clay, its colour orange and, when scraped with long nails, would make one’s skin crawl because of the stippled surface.

“Platypus.”

The word left Keith’s lips as a faint whisper. That was its name: Platypus. Why? Because after having Googled the cactus’ species soon after he bought it, he discovered that its shape was often described as ‘like a beaver’s tail’. But naming the cactus Beaver would be too conventional and boring, whereas Platypus reached just the right level of uncomfortableness and seemed just right. Besides, he’d most likely never go to Australia to see one, and platypi were close enough to beavers, anyway.

In the grand scheme of things, yes, Keith knew that Platypus was a stupid name for a plant, let alone a cactus. But nobody besides himself knew that he even named them. Like, come on—naming plants? That’s something only kids do. Keith just…didn’t want to grow up, even if his constantly annoyed disposition said otherwise.

After stretching one final time, Keith cracked his neck and rolled off of his bed. Expertly finding and stepping on pockets of floor in the mess he’d never bothered to clean up, Keith clumsily tip-toed out of his bedroom and into the apartment hallway.

“Shiro?” he called out flatly.

“Kitchen,” Shiro replied a few doors down.

Keith trudged his way down the hallway, stifling a couple of yawns into the back of his wrist. When he reached the kitchen, he noticed that Shiro had already prepared his breakfast—or, at least, the ingredients for it. On the black breakfast bar sat the half-full box of Kellogg’s cereal (that Keith may or may not have snacked on the night before) as well as a carton of almond milk. Keith collapsed onto one of the breakfast bar stools and grabbed the milk. After shaking it around, opening the lid, and peering inside it, he narrowed his eyes at Shiro’s back. The damn thing was about ninety-eight percent air. What the hell was he meant to do with about two tablespoons of milk? He sighed. At least he didn’t pour the cereal in his bowl first. He put the bowl as well as the spoon Shiro had provided him with back into their respective places, settling for snatching the cereal box itself and shoving handfuls of that into his mouth instead.

“Hey, I—Keith.” Shiro heaved a disapproving sigh. “Why don’t you just pour some into a bowl?”

“There’s no milk left.” Keith’s voice was muffled by the chewed-up bits of cereal in his mouth.

“Yes, there is.” Shiro grabbed the carton of milk on the breakfast bar that Keith had quickly abandoned. He shook it, unscrewing the lid and showing it to his cousin. “See?”

“I’m not about to eat cereal that has, like, no milk in it.”

“Isn’t…that what you’re doing now?”

“This is deliberate. With that amount of milk, it’s kind of like trying to pass a test they didn’t study for.” Keith’s voice had a salty edge to it.

Shiro stared at him for a moment then shrugged, turning back around. “Suit yourself,” he said as he downed the rest of the milk straight from the carton.

“Gross.”

“You’re the one eating dry cereal.”

“It’s deliberate!”

After having stuffed several handfuls of cereal into his mouth, Keith begrudgingly folded the cardboard box’s flaps inwards and got up to jam it back in the pantry. When he closed the pantry door, Keith was startled by Shiro, who was standing behind it. He held out a mug of black coffee to Keith. Keith took it gratefully, murmuring a “thanks” before sitting back down at the breakfast bar.

However, Shiro clearly had different plans for Keith and his mug of coffee. “No, no, nope. Put on some sweatpants and grab your apron. You can do that downstairs while you watch the shop for me.”

Keith groaned, rolling his eyes. He stood up. “Why can’t I wear what I’m wearing now?”

“Because boxers aren’t professional, Keith.”

“You can’t say anything about being ‘professional’. Your shop doesn’t even have a uniform besides an apron and work boots.”

“If it did, I know boxers wouldn’t be a part of it. And…is that your Pokémon shirt?”

Keith crossed his arms, tugging the hem of his oversized Pokémon shirt. “Yes, Shiro, it’s my Pokémon shirt. And because you didn’t tell me to change out of it, I’m going to wear it.”

Shiro shrugged, turning his hands upwards towards the ceiling. “You do you. It’ll be covered by the apron, anyway.”

Keith skulked back to his bedroom to change, much to his chagrin. He hastily threw on a pair of comfy maroon sweatpants he’d bought at some Boxing Day sale, immediately feeling a little more relaxed the moment the soft material came into contact with his toned thighs. After taking a quick glance at himself in the mirror in his bedroom, he ruffled his bedhead a little and smacked his cheeks a few times before deeming himself at least a little presentable. Thankfully, the bags under his eyes weren’t as bad as they used to be; he no longer looked like a racoon, unlike a week ago. His faded Pokémon shirt hung loosely on him, doing absolutely nothing to outline the lightly defined muscles underneath it. Keith looked around his abomination of a room, searching for the black apron Shiro had given him on the day Keith first moved in with him. Spotting it on his swivel chair, Keith leaned towards it and snatched it. Around his head went the neckpiece, and around his waist, he tied the frayed ends of the cloth into a cute bow. Shiro was right; you really couldn’t see the Pokémon details of his graphic tee anymore except for the bulb of a Bulbasaur peeking out the top of the apron.

Perfect.

Whilst walking down the apartment’s narrow hallway, Keith bumped into Shiro, who had just turned into it from the kitchen.

“Hey,” Shiro called over his shoulder, “if you happen to like sitting there today, maybe—”

“I don’t want to work here.” Keith immediately interrupted Shiro. They’d already had this conversation a billion times; he didn’t need to sit through it again.

Shiro turned into the bathroom and opened some drawers. “C’mon, Keith. Why not?”

Keith walked into the kitchen. He sunk into the same seat he sat in before, wrapping his hands around his mug of coffee once more. “I’ve told you already.”

Keith could hear Shiro sigh even from a few rooms away. He took a sip of his coffee. It was strong – very, very strong – because of the lack of milk. But that was the way he liked it: black and bitter. Diluting it with milk would only delay the speed at which the caffeine would reach his brain and actually wake him up. Keith knew that most people don’t like black coffee; initially, he didn’t really like it, either. But after his high school exams hit him like a truck, he had no choice but to start downing the stuff so that he could pull all-nighters and pass them.

Not that it always worked, but that’s not the point.

“I know you don’t like flowers,” Shiro began, to which Keith rolled his eyes at. “I get that. But I thought you found them fascinating.”

“The key word there is ‘found’.” Keith took a gulp of his coffee. He let the warmth emitting from the mug envelope his cold hands, like a candle’s flickering flame to an ice cube. “They were pretty interesting, but not anymore.”

“Why?”

“Dunno. I just…lost interest in them. Plus, you know, you were getting stressed out over them because of your university exams, so I guess that rubbed off on me.” Keith tucked his long, messy fringe behind his right ear so that he could see clearly. “I guess there’s only so much pollen you can take before getting desensitised to the stuff.”

“Then how do you explain me taking it up in university? And getting through those exams?”

“You’re just one of those people that actually enjoys looking at heaps of colour every single day of your life. You don’t have an allergy to pollen, you’re naturally good at retaining information, and you…” Keith sighed. “You’re patient.”

Shiro reappeared in the kitchen, the rubber soles of his work boots monotonously thudding against the wooden floorboards. “And you’re saying you’re not?”

“No, not really,” Keith simply said.

Shiro chuckled. “Well, when you’re stuck in that bedroom of yours all day, it’s no wonder that you shrivel away at the sight of colour.” When Keith glared at him, Shiro held his hands up in defence. “Sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood.”

Despite saying, “None taken,” Keith’s voice still had an offended edginess to it. However, his voice took on its usual quieter, more reserved tone when he spoke again. “I like my room a lot.”

Shiro walked around the breakfast bar and to the kitchen sink where, for some reason, his car keys lay. “I know. I’m not holding you against that.” He shoved the keys into a pocket of his black business pants. “You have your cacti there, and as long as you’ve got plant life in there, then that’s okay. Besides—” Shiro’s grin was wide. “—you even having plants in there means you’re a step closer to being my next employee.”

Keith’s ‘yeah’ died on his tongue as he took another sip of his coffee.

[indecisive-scribophile]

Cactus Boy: Chapter One

DISCLAIMER:  All characters mentioned in this story DO NOT belong to me. ‘Voltron: Legendary Defender’ belongs to DreamWorks. All rights reserved.

Rating: T Warnings: No warnings apply Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender Relationship: Keith x Lance (Klance) Language: English Originally Written: 21/01/2017

Summary: There's a boy that once shows up at Keith's cousin's flower shop. Keith can't keep his eyes off of him; he's just so...pretty. Despite not being interested in flowers and more inclined to cacti – heck, he's never even wanted to officially work at the shop – Keith serves him, not caring that the boy wants flowers for his female date. When the boy comes back a day later, complaining about his date turning out to be a flop, Keith begins to wonder what this boy's really like beyond his pretty face.

Additional Notes: Hi, all! I'm making no promises of finishing this fic, but I really want to because the prospect of having this completed excites me to no end. Anyways, have a cute multi-chaptered Klance fic in celebration of season two's release! 'Till then.

Keith likes cacti more than flowers.

Sure, having lived above his cousin’s flower shop for the better part of his life, he may be a little biased against the bundles of petals and leaves sprouting out of the ground. But, honestly, could you really blame him? After all, living with a botanist cousin obsessed with the pungent pollen producers could only bring you so much positivity—especially after having done so for twelve years. It was only inevitable that Keith would eventually drift away from flowers’ sweet scents and instead have his interest piqued elsewhere.

That being said, Keith definitely didn’t expect that that elsewhere would be cacti. Neither did his botanist cousin. But after being gifted one for his birthday, he discovered that he loves the fact that he can own real plants without the hassle of having to give them extensive attention. He supposes that’s why his interest in flowers dwindled so quickly: maintaining their pristine condition is too much work for him. On the contrary, the cacti Keith has only need to be watered a very minimal amount, and he assumes they don’t need special soil or fertiliser to survive. (His obsession hasn’t extended so far as to ask his cousin what’s the deal with the growth of his cacti—yet.) Their pots don’t need drainage holes, so they never make any mess on his desk. They’re the perfect plant for someone like Keith, and he knows it.

Soon after being gifted his first cactus, Keith bought another one of the same size. Then, he bought a slightly bigger one, afterwards a teeny-tiny one. Soon, his bedroom’s little windowsill became lined with some spiky, some soft succulents, all of which varied in size. He became quite fond of them, actually. He named a few of them, though he never told anyone. He would never be able to live that down.

The only thing that upsets Keith when it comes to his cacti is the fact that his cousin’s flower shop doesn’t sell them. According to his cousin, there’s no space left in the shop to start selling a couple of potted cacti. Keith understands this perfectly, for whenever he stumbles downstairs each morning, he almost always slams into a cluster of flora his cousin conveniently places right in front of the staircase simply because there’s nowhere else to put them. After having lived with him for twelve years, Keith still doesn’t know how his cousin manages to arrange everything in a way that it all fit in the shop yet is simultaneously pleasing to the eye.

But Keith, sceptical as always, constantly raises his eyebrows at this whenever it crosses his mind. Couldn’t his cousin find a little spot on the cash register counter and sell one or two? Yes, he knows orders don’t work like that – it’s either in bulk or none at all – but still. He had the mindset that if he could buy and collect a couple dozen of cacti, then his cousin could, too.

Despite his scepticism, the whole thing doesn’t bother Keith too much. As long as he has his cacti and doesn’t have to constantly look at flowers for his entire life, then he’s perfectly content.

[indecisive-scribophile]

your eyes.

[ originally written on the 27th nov, 2016 ]

your eyes so blue they make me think i’m still in love with you

[indecisive-scribophile]

sigh.

[ originally written on the 17th of nov, 2016 ]

“stop sighing,” they said “but i’m dying,” i said “you’re lying,” they said

[indecisive-scribophile]

doesn't matter.

[ originally written on the 25th of nov, 2016 ]

it doesn’t matter about whom you love – what gender what race what mindspace – as long as you feel your heart race when they look at you with their beautiful eyes when they smile with their beautiful lips when they laugh with their irresistible voice when they say your name with their heart in it all

[indecisive-scribophile]

Turning Point

DISCLAIMER:  All characters mentioned in this story DO NOT belong to me. ‘Voltron: Legendary Defender’ belongs to DreamWorks. All rights reserved.

Rating: T Warnings: No warnings apply Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender Relationship: Keith x Lance (Klance) Language: English Originally Written: 1/01/2017

Summary: N/A

Additional Notes: I won’t be writing a summary for this one, nor will I be editing it and uploading it to FanFiction.net nor AO3. I’ve made a new year’s resolution to upload a little piece of writing every day to at least my Tumblr using a prompt, so I guess this is it for today. This isn’t too great, but I’m tired and it’s 11:29PM. Hope you enjoy.

Do you ever fall in love with someone so, so hard that it hurts?

You don’t know when or why or even how it happened, but one day, you find yourself waking up at three in the morning and the only thing you can think of is the way another person makes your heart soar. Like a song stuck on repeat, their laugh, their smile, their voice, that one time you hugged—they all replay over and over again in your head, and you can’t stop it. When you realise the fact that you’ve been hit by a lightning bolt of aggressive affection, you want to slump against a wall and hold your head in your hands, muttering ‘Crap,’ again and again.

Sometimes, you don’t even want to fall in love with the person. You’ve already contemplated somewhere between midnight and one in the morning what would happen if you hypothetically got together with them. The cons outweighed the pros for sure. You knew you would eventually get hurt if you did; you knew that crushing on them would only manage to crush you in the long run. You dismissed the flyaway thought as just that: a thought. Nothing more.

You see, I’ve done all this. I’ve fallen in love with someone so hard that I didn’t know if I was even happy with doing so. Reading that, you probably think I’m some indecisive lunatic who doesn’t even know what to do with their life. And you know what? You’re right. But the fluttering in my chest whenever I saw him, the way my stomach dropped when he talked to me, the hitch in my breath whenever he playfully ghosted his hand over my shoulder—they were all signs that solidified one fact: that I was head-over-heels in love with him.

His name was Lance.

Lance was only meant to be the stupid Cuban-American exchange student whom I was obligated to make sure got around school safely. I was only meant to help him with his schoolwork. I wasn’t supposed to do anything with him except answer his questions and point him in the direction of his classes.

I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with the damn guy.

Thinking of Lance makes me want to wrench my heart out of my chest. Visualising the way he’d smile at not just me, but everyone around him never does me any good. But I still do it—and it hurts so, so much.

Do you want to know what my name is? It’s Keith. Keith Kogane.

That’s right. I’m gay.

The thing is, Lance wasn’t. I knew it from the moment he tried to flirt with our female teacher. (He failed miserably.) He had a kind of passion in his eyes and a hot smoulder going on that I could never pull off, and his eyebrows danced up and down on his forehead. Honestly, the whole thing was an atrocity, from his terrible pick-up line to the way he immediately got shot down.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: ‘Keith, this is bisexuality/pansexuality erasure!’ No, it’s not. After somehow befriending the guy and platonically hanging out after school a couple of times, Lance asked me – yes, he asked me – if I ever found other guys hot. He told me that it was okay if I did, so I grumbled a ‘yeah’ and tried to not make eye contact with him. When I asked him how he figured it out so quickly, he said he saw me ‘gazing like love-sick sap’ at the guys in their gym classes whenever we passed by them together. Without letting me get a word in, he then proceeded to tell me that he was as straight as a ruler, afterwards pointing at a ‘hot girl’ that walked past us.

Ouch.

The other day, I was browsing through some sort of website, and the question ‘What was the turning point in your life?’ caught my attention. It took me by surprise, and I spent the next fifteen minutes in a ball on my bedroom floor thinking about it. When my answer hit me, though, I knew that it was definite.

The turning point in my life was when I realised I had fallen in love with Lance.

[indecisive-scribophile]

fridge.

[ originally written on the 3rd of july, 2016 ]

She looked at the girl in the reflection of the pitch-black fridge. She saw a girl with dark hair and dark eyes, the only thing remotely bright on her head the orange hair-tie keeping her short fringe out of her eyes. Her body seemed to melt into the fridge, her usually navy-blue school jacket and plaid skirt seemingly black in the reflection of the way-too-expensive hunk of cold metal. In her hands was her phone coated in a thick, rubber case that shielded its screen from cracking when dropped. It was absurd to think that that girl was her. She knew what she looked like, but she felt like a different person entirely when she saw her normally pale skin and light hair simply melt away into the surface of the fridge, along with her jacket and shoes and stockings and hands. She felt like barely within a moment’s notice, she would snap, and she would through her phone at the fridge and cackle maniacally, kicking the smooth pieces of metal and ripping their doors apart. She could feel it in her bones; she could feel it in her blood. All it took was a simple scream, throw, and a kick, and the bubbly, happy girl everyone knew and loved would suddenly disappear, a destructive and dastardly girl whom nobody but herself knew taking her place with the click of her fingers. And that, she concluded, was truly terrifying.

[indecisive-scribophile]

normal

[ originally written on the 13th july, 2016 ]

she’s a nobody with nothing to her name. all she wants to be is somebody who actually matters. she laughs in class and she smiles a lot just as a normal girl like her should, but nobody understands her struggle of wanting to be a person who’s worth the life she’s been graciously given. she’s a completely normal girl with a normal face, and everyone she knows is aware of everything that encompasses her normality. but in all honestly, being normal isn’t enough for her; being the token ‘ordinary girl’ in her circle of special friends isn’t enough to make her happy.

[indecisive-scribophile]

for him.

[ originally written on the 26th nov, 2016 ]

he has the kindest eyes and kindest smile i guess if it’s for him then i can bear to stick around for a while

[indecisive-scribophile]

humans.

[ originally written on the 17th of nov, 2016 ]

Humans. We’re not easy puzzles to crack. We’re about as complicated to solve as the Enigma Code yet in movies we’re portrayed as people who will spill the beans about their entire life when they meet someone special for the first time on one night. Though the idea of it is romantic, the truth is that not many people would like to expose their entire life to someone they just met, as that would make them feel too vulnerable to function. In stories, there’s the cliché of people meeting their soulmate for the first time and immediately telling them all their woes. No–that’s not how I want to write. I want to write about character development and progression. I want to create and write about characters who, at the end of the stories, are different to their self when they first started. I want to VOW to create and write about characters who are human and let people take off bits and pieces of their masks and facades, not rip them off in one stupid night they won’t remember after having three drinks and a rough make-out session.

[indecisive-scribophile]

theatrics

[ originally written on the 23rd of sep, 2016 ]

Analisa burst out of the theatre doors, her skin on fire from the angry rage that had been building up inside of her for the past few minutes. Her hands came into contact with the door loudly, a pronounced ‘THUMP!’ reverberating through the corridor at the contact. The hot, fiery ball of fire in the sky projected rays of sun as hot as the depths of Hell on her, but she couldn’t help but make the connection that her rage was about as intense as the sun. Salty tears glazed over her eyes, inevitably hazing over her usually perfect vision. She pulled her arms and legs faster and faster with every passing second. She needed to get away from everything: away from that theatre, away from that stage, away from that damn judge who thought he could say whatever he wanted about her body just because he was in control of the panel, away from the classical music taunting her, away from the blinding lights, away from EVERYTHING. The judge’s words were the grains of salt rubbed in her wounds as she continued to run further and further away from the establishment. Fat. Thick. Shapely. Sausages. Plump. Rolls. Cellulite. Logs. Blobs. Unfit. Unattractive. Pudgy. She could perfectly picture the disgust in his eyes as she finished her routine despite the tears now running down her cheeks. Those icy eyes pierced their way through her skull and into her brain, the patronising, disapproving stare engraving itself into her memory for forever.

[indecisive-scribophile]

same song.

[ originally written on the 29th july, 2016 ]

“You’ve been listening to the same song for years yet you’ve never cared to learn the lyrics!”

[indecisive-scribophile]

someone.

[ originally written on the 28th of july, 2016 ]

It’s a little-known fact that there’s a difference between ‘someone’ and ‘anyone’. Out of all people, it’s safe to say that I know this better than anyone else I know. When you call out to anyone, you’re literally calling out to every single human being on this planet. When you call out to anyone, the kind-hearted, the strong-willed, the brave could answer. But, at the same time, when you call out to anyone – for help; for advice; for a prayer; for a wish – the dirty-minded, the evil-spirited, the foolish people could answer. And, though you intend for a genuinely nice person to respond to your calling, the chance of having a dastardly person reach out to you instead is just as even – if not, higher – as the chance of having the opposite occur. But, when you call out to 'someone’, you’re asking for someone specific. Though it may be subconscious, when you call out to someone, you’re searching for someone who can cure you of your ailments – or at least, reduce their severity; someone who can lend you a supportive shoulder to lean on and a supportive chest to cry on. Out of seven billion people in the world, you’re asking for someone – not anyone; someone – to help you. You’re asking for someone special to be your bungee cord as you leap off the edge of a cliff. You’re asking for someone to be your helping hand and pick you up when you fall off your bike. You’re asking for someone to be there for you–to care for you. I once called out to anyone to help me with my problems. I called out to anyone, hoping that literally anyone would answer. I was desperate for any one of the seven billion people in the world to acknowledge me and ask if I was okay. As I dangled off the edge of a cliff in a place so devoid of care and comfort, barely hanging on, I yelled and screamed and shrieked in hopes that anybody would hear me. And they did. But instead of kneeling down at the edge of the cliff, pulling me out of that helpless place with all their might, they stood up and watched as my burning, red eyes called out for assistance, my tear-streaked cheeks redden in embarrassment, and my fingers that were slowly losing grasp of the cliff that was keeping me alive. They stood on them and laughed as I cried in agony, falling deep into the deep, dark abyss beneath me that I’d been dreading to even touch so much. Now, I know better. I’m asking for someone to help me. I need a hero to come save me. I need someone to be there for me. I need someone. Someone.

[indecisive-scribophile]

re-branding!

hi! my name’s eira, and this is my writing blog. i used to be mizukishly, but i changed usernames because i can. here’s my other blogs if you’re interested:

www.indecisive-voltron-stan.tumblr.com/ : fandom blog (mostly voltron)!

www.indecisive-studier.tumblr.com/ : wannabe studyblr blog!

thanks for reading! <3