a functioning trash fire who sometimes writes

prompt 3: a pocket's contents

a crumpled up piece of paper, a note.

It's funny how light paper feels in the pocket, no matter how heavy the words it holds. This paper holds a secret—an unraveling of a heart, a mistake made tenfold over. It may not be his darkest (no, actually, it is his brightest), but it is one he knows can never be found.

In the chaos of a crowd, he spots her, alone: a radiant burst of sunshine, illuminating his every shadow. And in that moment, he realizes he isn't breathing. Barely a second has passed. In just one more swift moment, he drops the crumpled paper in front of her, hiding the movement behind his leg.

And so this is his moment, what will he say?—he grabs her arm firmly (softly?) and his touch breathes a million possibilities, a million secret memories. [He hates how soft she makes him.]

"You dropped something." A pause, he reaches down and picks up the paper, hands it to her. "You know, you should really find a better way to discard your trash."

And he turns on his heels, although his touch lingers one second more. As he leaves the classroom, he wonders what will go through her head when she sees it—what will she feel [will she feel the last place his lips touched her skin?], what will she think [will she think of the sounds she made the last time they rendezvoused?].

It's funny how light paper feels in the pocket, no matter the weight of four little words:

prompt 2: trope parallel

the magician.

There is an irony in magic, you think—irony in rituals and conjurations, irony in the supernatural. As you sit atop your mountain throne, you imagine your counterpart: where you sit with class, with dignity, what are they doing? Hunching over crudely painted symbols by candlelight, suffocating under their shoddy robes and hoods?

The irony lies in the idea that you are against magic, when reality lies in the fact that you are magic. The True Magician—creator, manipulator of worlds. You pity them and the grandiosity of their performance, as you know such extravagance isn't needed to accomplish the unthinkable. All one needs is cunning, a little charm, some wit, and the willpower to make it happen. (a chiseled jaw wouldn't hurt, either, you laugh.)

Magic is an illusion, an artform. You paint a picture, build details upon each other. A misshapen sculpture of odd pieces, but it wouldn't matter anyway—when you snap your fingers, the sculpture is Adonis. Magic is all about perspective, and the human mind is weak. People see what you tell them to, even without a wand or incantations or sigils.

castor apollo marceau.

25. law student. carnelian.

old libraries, old money / stylishly loose white dress shirts, unbuttoned half the way / black slacks (cuffed at the bottom), black dress shoes, everything is black and white / a mightily pretentious air of perfectly disheveled douchbaggery / crushed black velvet / whiskey on the rocks / a lit cigarette, hanging lazilly from the mouth / the devil is a gentleman / generational curses, fulfilling a legacy, living up to the legends of your father and his father and his father / old books with worn, faded covers, tucked under one arm / pointedly rolling up the sleeves of a dress shirt when its time to get to work / the distinctive art of raising a single eyebrow / living on coffee, always black

age: 24

pronouns: she, they

star sign: cancer sun, aries moon, scorpio rising 👁👄👁

favorite piece of gothic horror or dark academia: ok so i am but a baby aesthete and have not opened my Third Eye to the classics yet, but for the vibes: old books with pages that seem to be different sizes when you look at it from the side; brick roads and old historic downtown buildings; driving through a small town with eyes that watch you from slightly parted curtains; generational curses, following a path started by your ancestors; insert other generally typical vibes

favorite spooky movie/show: !!! nbc hannibal (squad), netflix the order, netflix chilling adventures of sabrina, the craft!!!!!