look like stars

Under the cut are 30 angsty prompts. Send me “Gimme Angst!” and I’ll generate a number to see what we get!

Warning! Triggers are throughout these plots (such as rape, suicide, ect.)

He has a tendency of bluffing when he’s unsure of how to handle a situation or how to respond, and perhaps in this case he should have just kept his mouth shut. Of course, he truly meant his words, and had only meant well with them, but they clearly were of no use to her. And honestly, he isn’t quite sure why he ever expected them to be, because despite being of similar class and familial background, they’re far from the same. He doesn’t understand her problems, nor does she understand his own, and trust is practically a nonexistent factor in their relationship. For good reason, of course.

Gabbana never, ever whines about feelings. In her point of view they make her weak, and as he apologises she merely shrugs. There’s no point in acknowledging an injury that’s better left alone. If possible she’d have cut her own heart out by now, but she’s still only (sadly) human, and there’s nothing she can do against any of the things the treacherous organ brings forth. The tone he takes with her makes her feel pathetic, and again another proverbial layer of ice makes her demeanour even colder than the sudden chill around them.

Be rude to yours 

Become your character’s enemy

Be willing to attack/fight yours in a plot

Develop a bromance or platonic relationship 

Have or receive UNreciprocated feelings with yours

Team up with your character against others

“The burden of this world is too great for one man to bear, and the world’s sorrowtoo heavy for one heart to suffer.” —Oscar Wilde

         Doctor Han Sunhwa, cardiovascular surgeon at Myeongwoo University Hospital

[ text to: bbanana ] HOW. 

A really, really, really dumb one. I'm surprised you managed to last this long.

[ text : dumbass ]

Nope. Not when I charm my way out of it. 

[ text : dumbass ]

minusregina

Brand. Designer. Fashion. 

He can appreciate fashion for what it is. Even Robbie recognizes that fashion is an art form, and one Helluva an asset once you start getting in the upper circles of the socialite kingdom. But when fashion is put in the context of him — like designer clothes on his body — then Robbie couldn’t give a single flying fuck. It just doesn’t make sense for someone like Robbie to wear clothes where each fiber of a single shirt probably costs a limb. He’s a stunt man, a teenage boy. He spends a good majority of time jumping from rooftops, and getting into fist fights. He ends up with torn denim knees, and dirt stained Batman t-shirts. So, what’s the point of Robbie wearing clothes made out of gold? Anyways, dressing nice inevitably calls for attention. Robbie hates attention. Being a stunt man means that you work in the shadows, and only step out into the light when you are under the guise of someone else’s character. He’s just not used to being watched all the damned time. Not to mention that Robbie doesn’t believe himself to be attractive, so why dress to draw eyes towards him?

Hence why Robbie is at this event looking like he’s ready to walk into Wal-Mart (or the Korean equivalent of Wal-Mart). Not that he’s a supporter of horrendous American capitalism, but a flannel, t-shirt, jeans, and Chuck Taylor’s are more suited in a multi-store than a upper-class social gathering. He’s even got a snapback twisted on backwards. That’s as close as you get to Flipping the Bird in a public setting like this without actually raising it. His legal-mother has already given him shit, but Robbie doesn’t care. He wants to bail out of this joint fast. He can’t fucking stand the superficiality of the rich and powerful. Just when he’s ready to jump out the window, Robbie sights a familiar face. Robbie knows he’s going to get serious shit for how he’s dressed, but he can’t help crack a grin nonetheless. If there’s anyone he’s willing to take shit talk from, then it would be—

Nonetheless it unsettles her not having her delicate arm curled around its leaner, more muscular counterpart. There’s something about driving herself home that sets her on edge, especially when she knows she’ll get somewhat drunk tonight with how things are going. Unlike Dolce she’s quite concerned about her driving etiquette, and although she does go past the speed limit from time to time she doesn’t do it as often as he does (it’s been said once or twice that she’s wasting a fast car on slow lanes). But she manages to smile past that, as she’s been doing for the past few weeks – has it been months? She can’t keep track anymore – and shakes a few wrinkled hands and loses herself in the cool surfaces of bejewelled fingers curling around her own in a display of civility.

Smiles in these settings are just beautified monsters baring their teeth at each other and hoping to shine brighter than the rest. Gabbana knows that the whole pursuit is fruitless if chased after for too long; in her case, it’s a race she’s been forced to run ever since she can remember, tiny feet walking along the winded tracks of a ballroom floor. Years later here she is, finishing another dance with a middle-aged man whose palm has lingered around her waist longer than she would have liked, and she feels like setting his skin on fire. Then again, she can’t blame him; she always looks too good to be left alone.

She couldn’t lie though, she wanted to see this other side. Maybe she wouldn’t feel so inclined to shake this attitude out of the other. Unless of course, the nicer side was an act. Then forget it.

That, in itself, was all the generosity she could extend without being pushed to do so by some pressing obligation. Besides, she liked the girl enough to keep from hurling insults in her direction every few seconds.

 ”I have not been living in a different century but a different world.” He speaks flatly, thumbs typing away at the keyboard upon his phone, trying to figure out what username he should use, he figures it may as well be something simple, easy to say and easy to remember. After a moment Joonhyo glances over at the woman, his glare less intense then before yet still present, “Are there any more ‘unspoken ’ rules I should know about?”

  He asks simply because it seems the woman knows everything or at least pretends to know, and he simply wishes to test her knowledge, he too is very knowledgeable, at least in regards to the information that regards the universe and other subjects most wouldn’t find ’ interesting ’ in this day and age. 

“First of all,” she begins, index rising as she rested another over its tip, “you don’t talk to strangers. Didn’t you mother tell you that? Second of all, you don’t say weird shit like ‘Imugi’ and ‘I have been living in a different world’, you fucking creep. Take that to some other convention with your weirdo weaboo friends.”

Evidently, this isn’t the first time she’s publicly berated and insulted a total stranger. Being extremely critical of others comes naturally to her, and often is a source of trouble. Gabbana’s making an honest effort, really, but it seems that the weather itself is working against her nerves as the day continues to grow hotter still, especially with frayed nerves.

He's asking for your number.

[ text : T ]

Pfft, you have nothing to worry about. He's gay.

[ text : T ]