#𝑊𝐴𝐼𝑇𝑆𝐿𝑂𝑉𝐸 .  𝑠𝘩𝑒’𝑠  𝑝𝑜𝑖𝑠𝑜𝑛  &  𝑠𝘩𝑒  𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤𝑠  𝑖𝑡.     private  &  exclusive  writing  blog  for  𝐺𝐼𝐿𝐿𝐼𝐴𝑁  𝑂𝑊𝐸𝑁𝑆  of  𝐴𝐿𝐼𝐶𝐸  𝐻𝑂𝐹𝐹𝑀𝐴𝑁’𝑆  𝑃𝑅𝐴𝐶𝑇𝐼𝐶𝐴𝐿  𝑀𝐴𝐺𝐼𝐶.     book  based  &  movie  inspired.     medium  to  low  activity.     timezone  gmt-3.     by  aggos  ( she / her . 21+ ).     minors will be blocked. 

#DOCS  —  #PLAYLIST  —  #PROMPTS 

❛     i      love      you ,     but      you’re starting    to sound      real      dumb      slurring your words      like that .      go to bed .     ❜

he      looks      at     her .      thinking ,        the small parts of me ,       they like to think so .    yet ,      in reality ,    from another perspective ,       they’re dark          and cavernous          and difficult to find .       and for seconds ,      as they breeze on by ,   he has trouble seeking them out      in order to find any sign of good memories .            good answers .          after years ,      he now wonders ,     where are they  ?        left with no benefits ,  but the smirk on his face .         how it wrinkles on wryly       like the fear of some cement wall ,      as if one’s anticipating some unwarranted demolition           it never had control of     in the first place .             nothing more       than the expression of an ebbing man .        when he asks her ,       ❛     what     kind     of     question     is      that ?     ❜       he wonders     where    it    even    comes    from ,     wonders the level of sincerity       behind her voice          —           whether it grows from pure curiosity           or the impulse of doing whatever it pleases ,        wherever it decides to go    …           he blinks ,           and the smirk magically disappears .            ❛     i mean ,        what’re      you     tryna     get     at     with     that   ?     ❜

❝    isn’t  it  obvious?    ❞    there’s  a  strange  calmness  in  her  voice,  sometimes  she  hears  herself  speak  and  doesn’t  recognize  the  sound  that  comes  out.  she  recognizes  her  aunts,  and  even  her  sister,  but  it  doesn’t  sound  like  herself.  her  loss  of  youth  is  reflected  in  how  genuinely  soothing  gillian  is  now  able  to  make  herself  sound,  even  if  accidentally.  

he’s    underwhelmed    infinitely    through    moments ,      the    first    rumblings      of bedlam’s thunder      to what    can    now      be considered     the lull      resting after lightning .      when he peeks      out of the corner of his eye ,      perhaps      that summons the final bout     of noise ,      distantly resounding      in lieu of any sign    of    breathing .      he’s    never    titillated    by inconveniences ,      but there’s      something      still       mildly   pleased      echoing      from the back of his throat      when he tells her ,      ❛     sure looks like it ,    ❜      when he knows    he    could’ve    stopped    her .      when he knows      he didn’t      deliberately ,      for he’s never     once     been     fooled      by his own instincts ,      aware      he wouldn’t have refrained      from     taking     matters into    his    own    hands      —      no mercy .      letting her do it    all     by herself      was    more or less   charity .      though ,      it appears      she’s as competent      at it      as he guessed her      to be .      two seconds flat .      barely had time to pick his head up .      good .      now ,      he can continue to relax .      ❛     you    probably   know    how to get rid of a body    too ?      ‘cause     it’s not my responsibility now .     ❜

𝙼𝙾𝚁𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙻𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 𝙿𝙾𝙾𝙻𝚂      𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚜      𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚑 ,      linen and silk ,      layers of thread      that trace      the outline       of      serenity ,      rare in its form ,      as it lays sparingly      idle      in the illusion of solace .      sleep dismays him      with help of warmth      while it radiates      from the talons      of fair ,  nimble limbs ,      something of a duvet in itself ,      lulling him irresistibly      into      a much needed slumber ,      no matter      how much      he      tries      to      fight      it . 

when he is awoken ,      there is a quiet      unbar      of his eyes      as they lift ajar .      no jerk     or startle      in spite of the tendency      to anticipate      surprise      when he swiftly eases      to recognize     illuminance      and how the welcoming sun      decorates itself      across the ceiling .     how he stares at the ceiling      like a piece of artwork ,      as if eggshell brush strokes      are apart of a familiar landscape painting ,      and he’s seen it from this angle      many ,      many      times before . 

𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚗𝚝 ,      but somehow ,      that fails to make him happy ,      seeing as the face      is deficient      in its spirits ,     strays away      from the delight      of      what could’ve been    an afterglow ,     now only a phantom ,      having departed      from his pneuma      long ago .      it doesn’t register warmth ,      nor does it relish in it ,      until warmth      is bone chillingly cold      in the sharp hush of a whisper .

in the corner of his eye ,     he looks ,      but only to look away ,      as quick and quiet      as he was awakened .      and just as fast ,      in that moment ,      he realizes      how intense      the pain       is      of      a throbbing headache .      ❝     why would i ?      i’m sober .     ❞      absorbing surroundings ,      he looks again      and catches the glint      of another’s gaze ,      nearly as sharp as hers ,      staring right back at him .      yet ,      𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙰 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳       —-      averting once more      deems a mental note       as underwhelming      as the feline       that meanders      across the dresser    (  …  )      in the palm of his hand ,      the      soft ,      low      hum      of a lament ,      he figures      he’ll worry about other concerns      for now      –      like this headache .      ❝     did you put      𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐      in my drink last night ?     ❞

a  soft  whimper  escapes  from  plump,  rosey  lips,  and  it  shatters  the  illusion  of  everything  soft,  and  sweet,  and  delicate  about  gillian.  it  falls  apart  in  tiny  shards  so  quick  and  sudden,  as  if  it  were  sunflower  petals  bathed  in  liquid  nitrogen  coming  in  contact  with  the  slightest  of  touch.  

she  should  not  have  expected  anything  other  than  his  disdain;  the  question  as  to  why  she  would  keep  pursuing  his  attention  (  affection?  )  was  one  gillian  failed  to  find  an  answer  to  every  time.  deep  within  her  soul,  anchored,  rested  a  connection  to  this  man  she  could  do  without,  but  it  would  whisper  ‘  find  him  ’  every  now  and  again,  and  she  could  only  be  compelled  to  do  so.

that’s  not  really  a  competent  explanation,  now,  is  it?  gillian’s  shoulders  dropped,  and  the  knife  dancing  along  the  lines  of  bare  legs  stopped  abruptly,  fingers  curling  in  tight  grasp  on  the  handle.  it  was  never  fun  when  he  didn’t  entertain  her  hunger  for  the  dramatics.  he  seemed  unbothered,  and  that  bothered  her.