fly closer

she/her. 25.

[phoebist]

masterlist ─── cultural pigsty.

⧽ an archive to humiliate the ego. two modernists wrote about the same bruegel, made it work. you regurgitate the vomit of your time and sleep it off.

➛ the vampire diaries

damon salvatore┆enzo st. john

➛ american horror story

zoe benson┆madison montgomery┆harry gardner

.ᐟ do not plagiarize or feed my shit to ai or i will kick your spine so hard it fractures & shoots out of your mouth. glad we had this talk

[phoebist]

"not x. not y. just z." STFU

[wonderfullyinlovewithlife]

Love me tender

The Buick breathes frost. The dashboard light washes you both in a sick, underwater blue, the kind that makes everyone look haunted. Kai turned off the radio about two miles back. There was something floaty about the silence, like all of the particles that made up this moment were unreal. You took another drag, slow, letting the smoke fill your chest before pushing it out the cracked window. The night outside was like any other. No wind. No movement. Just the dark outline of your house, like it was watching,

Kai watched you instead.

“You’re gonna set off the smoke alarm in your lungs,” he says, tone clipped, like he’s correcting a child. He doesn’t look away from your mouth. Doesn't really blink.

You rest your head against the seat, eyelids heavy. “You sound like a reddit mod."

"I sound like I'm right."

"Barely." You smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes. "You know, Kai, you didn't have to come."

“Right,” he turns in the passenger seat to completely face you. “Because I’d miss all… this.” He gestures toward you—your slouching shoulders, the cigarette, the quiet tremor in your knee, the guilt in your frame. The fear. The sickness. The grief. The quietly overwhelming fact that you had taken somebodies life. You had killed.

“Yeah, real fun Friday night.”

You shrugged. “Could’ve stayed home.”

He snorts a little, “And do what? Sit alone, stare at walls, contemplate the meaning of life? The weight of my soul? I don’t have one, remember?” He leans a little toward you now, over the beige console. “Besides, you texted me. And who am I if not a man of the people."

“I said I couldn’t sleep.”

“And I’m supposed to leave you alone when you say things like that?” he asks, voice dropping, sharpened with something he won’t name.

You shrug. “Why not?”

Kai leans back, eyes dragging over your face. “Because,” he says quietly, “you might stop answering.”

"Always this drama, drama, with you." You bat your eyes at him, and ash your cigarette in the empty paper coffee cup you'd need to empty soon.

"I don't think small towns are good for you. I think it's time to leave."

You shrug. "I don't know Kai." You let yourself touch the rip in his jeans, by his knee. You push your finger into the hole, fingering the lose threads before touching his leg. "Wherever you go, that's where you are, right?"

He sighs. "Always drama, drama with you." He mimics. "Now, get inside that house before you freeze to death."

[wonderfullyinlovewithlife]

Stiff Upper Lip

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Plot: When you let a stranger into the house, you knew the risk you were excepting, though you never really thought Kai was being serious. In other words, what happens when you disobey.

Warnings: Dark, but more so abusive. Kai slaps reader. Is Kai in the most Kai way possible. Be warned.

Pairing: Kai Parker x Reader

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Stop screaming.” He seethed, throwing the axe to the side. His face was a mix of emotions; you’d never seen him so angry, and yet, at the same time, the corners of his mouth were upturned like he wanted to laugh. The whole of his front was wet with blood.

“I told you I was gonna’, so this is technically your fault.”

You continued to scream, running up the stairs, stumbling on the last one as you rushed into your bedroom, slamming the door shut. Your lungs burned, your heart felt like it was about to burst in your chest. You could feel each thud in your ears. You looked to hide, since the windows had been deadbolted down earlier that week. You dashed under your bed, pulling discarded clothes in front of you so that if he kneeled to look, you would be covered. Only you couldn’t stay here forever, even though you wanted to. So, so bad. 

“What the fuck were you thinking?” He burst into the room, catching your foot and pulling you out toward him. He held it hard, his hands were wet and calloused, and he held your leg up in a way where you couldn’t stand even if you tried. You were crying now, crying hard, heaving and heaving, unable to breathe. “Kai, please.”

“Kai please?” He was incensed. “Please? After everything I’ve done for you? All I told you was to keep that damn door closed. What was the one rule? STAY INSIDE!”

He was in your face now, screaming. You shut your eyes. Tried to stop shaking, tried to make yourself small enough that you could almost disappear, but it didn’t work. It never worked. 

He grabbed your hair and yanked your head back. “Open your eyes.” He screamed in your face. “I said, OPEN THEM.”

You couldn’t, you were petrified. He yanked your head back even harder, the skin of your face being pulled back, unnaturally opening your eyes. 

“Good,” he said flatly, getting close to you. “I want you to see me when I say this.”

His face was streaked with drying blood now, darker at the collar, soaked into the fabric like it belonged there. He looked steady. That was the worst part, like the screaming part was already over for him. He took in a few deep breaths, and suddenly his tone shifted, like he hadn’t just killed someone. Like he hadn’t just been chasing you around the house with the intention of hurting you badly. Maybe killing you. You couldn’t think about that. Couldn’t let yourself. You tried to match his breathing, but every fiber in your body was tearing apart.

“I don’t lose my temper for no reason,” he said slowly, like he was talking to a child. “I warned you. I told you exactly what would happen if you opened that door.”

“I didn’t know—” you tried.

He slapped you. Not hard enough to knock you out. Hard enough to shut you up.

“Wrong answer,” he said. “You knew. You just didn’t care.”

Your ears rang. You tasted metal. You folded in on yourself instinctively, hands coming up to protect your face.

“Don’t do that,” he snapped. “Don’t curl up like I’m abusing you. This isn’t that. This is consequence.”

He grabbed your wrists and pinned them to the floor. Getting right on top of you, grinding down. He was hard.

He leaned closer, breath hot, eyes sharp and unblinking.

“You let him in. You stood there and listened to him talk. You smiled at him. And now he’s dead, and suddenly you’re scared of me?”

A hysterical sound slipped out of you before you could stop it. “That’s sick,” you sobbed. “You’re crazy.” You let out a noise that sounded like a manic laugh, but really it was you coming to terms with what you had done to yourself, letting Kai into your life.

Kai’s mouth twitched. Not offended. Amused.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is. And you still made me do it.”

He let go of one wrist just long enough to grab your chin again, squeezing until your jaw ached.

“You don’t get to be stupid and soft in a world like this,” he said. “Not when I’m the one keeping you alive.”

Your vision blurred. Your whole body was shaking now, exhaustion setting in, muscles burning.

“I’ll listen,” you whispered. “I swear. I won’t—”

“You already said that once,” he cut in. “Didn’t take.”

He released you suddenly and stood, leaving you crumpled on the floor. You didn’t move. You couldn’t tell if you were allowed to.

He wiped his hands again, slower this time, like he was calming himself down. That anger was still there. You wondered if it would still be there tomorrow, and the day after that. Would he start locking the front door now, too? Board up the windows on the lower floor of the house?

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said. “You’re going to sit right there. You’re going to stop crying. And you’re going to remember this feeling the next time you think you know better than me.”

He turned back to you, eyes cold. “Because next time,” he added, “I won’t stop at the axe.”

Silence fell heavy and suffocating. He waited until your breathing evened out — watching, waiting. Three months ago, you could have convinced yourself it was because, deep down, he really cared, but now you knew better. He just wanted proof that you were still listening. 

“See? You can behave.”

He stepped out of the room, leaving the door wide open.

You stayed on the floor long after his footsteps faded, too afraid to move, knowing the rule now wasn’t just stay inside—

But something more. You want to die right there. But death with Kai would be the worst thing in the world. He was a monster, and you were trapped now.

[phoebist]

my writing isn't ugly enough. working on it.

[wendichester]

⋆˚꩜｡ empty rooms echo louder,

summary. you choose to leave.

pairing. dean winchest x reader ( gn )

wordcount. 573 genre. angsty

warnings. emotional hurt, unspoken feelings, implied burnout, bittersweet goodbye

The bunker is too quiet tonight. Not the kind of quiet that means peace—this one hums with what’s missing.

Your duffel’s already packed, sitting by the door. A few shirts, a worn flannel, a knife or two. The rest—your mug, your favorite hoodie, your half-finished notes on the kitchen table—you’re leaving behind. You don’t have it in you to take them.

You hear his boots before you see him. Heavy, familiar. Dean doesn’t knock; he just appears in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. The look on his face says he already knows.

“So that’s it?” His voice is quiet, rough. “You’re just… leavin’?”

You nod once. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

It’s such a simple question, but your throat tightens anyway. “Because I can’t do this anymore, Dean. The hunts, the blood, the next monster—there’s always another one. I keep thinking maybe the world will stop needing us for five damn minutes, but it doesn’t.”

He crosses his arms, jaw flexing. “So you’re just walkin’ away?”

You exhale slowly. “I’m choosing to live. That’s different.”

Dean lets out a low, humorless laugh. “Live, huh? Out there? There’s nothin’ out there but motel beds and things that go bump in the night.”

“Maybe,” you say softly, “but there’s also coffee that isn’t reheated six times, and sunlight that isn’t filtered through bunker walls, and people who don’t bleed every other weekend.”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes drop to the floor, and for a long moment, neither of you say anything.

When he finally speaks, it’s quieter. “You could’ve told me.”

“I didn’t know how.”

“That’s bull.” He shakes his head. “You always know how to say what you mean. Hell, that’s one of the things I—” He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. “—one of the things I like about you.”

Your heart aches. You take a step toward him, the echo of your boots in the hall somehow too loud. “Dean…”

He looks up at you then, and it hits you all at once—the exhaustion etched into the lines of his face, the fear buried beneath the sarcasm. “You really mean it, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I do.”

Something in his expression softens, cracks. “You gonna call?”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Probably not as much as you want me to.”

He snorts, trying to hide the hurt. “Figures.”

You walk past him, reaching for the duffel. His hand shoots out before you can, fingers brushing your wrist—just a touch, just enough to stop you.

“Hey.” His voice is hoarse now. “You ever get in trouble—real trouble—you call me. Doesn’t matter where you are, what time it is. You got that?”

You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. I got it.”

He lets go, and you shoulder the bag. For a second, the silence stretches again—so fragile, you’re afraid even breathing might break it.

Then you manage a small, broken smile. “Take care of Sam for me.”

Dean’s mouth twitches, halfway to a smirk that doesn’t quite make it. “Always do.”

You turn before he can see the tears. Your steps echo down the hallway, each one heavier than the last.

And as the bunker door shuts behind you, you swear you hear him whisper—so faint it might as well be a ghost—

“Take care of yourself too, kid.”

The wind outside catches it, carries it off into the dark.

And the bunker, for the first time in years, feels truly empty.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ

[phoebist]

White Wine is Lighter and Less Hurt

How do you reconcile the heart's home with the appropriate context for taxidermy? In the cabin, changeless, you become the Fluxus hare. ⤷ enzo st. john x bennett witch!f!reader. established relationship. 2.3k

It's the kind of place where Hitchcock starts to taste like fast food. Big gray Magnavox VCR. It's the kind of circumstance (none like it, many of the same if you look around; many, many worse) that hits you with the urge to scrape a dirty road Marty McFly style, that screams Surf's up! and lets you drown in helplessness.

Fresh air helps, feels remotely magical in early fall, but it's only February—only or already, or too late—and marcescencent leaves are dry and unsatisfying in the cruelest wind. Is youth supposed to be this crunchy? Shriveled, desiccated, as opposed to sticky, running slow like candle wax? You'd rather will the wilting process into expedition, even if a slower death is more poetic. The prospect of canonization is a bitch. The red oak is promised nothing, at least.

He's already got the fireplace going, so you take your coat off when you enter. The turntable's coiling in a rhythm incompatible with the light spots shifting across the furniture, the shadows emphasized, rather perhaps more fitting for the mantle of a brutish November spent off-road with chain-breaker Zampanò. There's comfort in the nook beneath the staircase, the light looks more willing to embrace you over there—olive oil, red onions and that tomato-garlic blend. More paper bags, emptied, so that you'll have to check the fridge tomorrow for a nice surprise.

You walk over, crossing the narrow space between the coffee table and the couch. He's grating parmesan and lime skin. You drag it out and rekindle that mental exercise of gliding through the room with his eyes instead of yours: a table-top calendar with photos of American natural sites and a VHS of Elevator to the Gallows; Hunter S. Thompson on the armrest, bent-up—you know, soft cover and almost pocket-sized, thicker for it. The details matter all the same. More dust on the machine means you're at another plateau; Enzo's noticed, comes to pick up the trash more often, but thankfully (mercifully) remains neglectful of your circadian rhythm.

The record's going back to front—some trick of his—the way he tends to play them on occasion, says it's sometimes better to get the melancholy out of the way first. It's nothing but melancholy with this one, but you know he knows it, mouthing every lyric of Highway Patrolman, magnetic in the way it invites you to appreciate the movement of his lips, his Adam's apple, even from this awkward three-quarter back angle.

"Have a pleasant walk?" he lilts when you approach, facing away still, preoccupied with the aesthetics of the dish—something he just likes to do for fun.

You tilt your head and hum as if to say: Whatever, decent as can be.

"Must you always wander the woods after dark?"

It's just concern, lovesick and therefore justifiably unreasonable. You wouldn't cross over the boundary he's set, the threshold of safety, a minimal amount of ground you can cover outside the confines of the cabin—for him. In the same vein, the truth would hardly soothe him; wouldn't do you any good either: you told yourself not to soften up too much, not for survival, but for the sake of the justice you deserve. So you avoid the casus belli—rhyme, yes, without the reason. Otherwise he'd feel he has to reshape the awful tug of the nightmare, that throng of flames your sleep-sick mind conjured in the late morning, which you could not extinguish till half your grimoire had arched, flexed and twisted, then crumbled into ash before you. Hey, I dreamt that the only record of my existence burnt to a fucking crisp while I could only watch and rot—doesn't work like that.

"I wander at all times of day, you're just not here to see it," you settle for replying. "Besides, I thought the area was safe, smartass?"

He hums low in his throat, unfazed and affectionately warm, annoyingly aware of the effect it has on you, how it melts away the tension you accumulate down to your bones. "It should be. But I'd rather not take any chances, love."

You take a seat at the tiny kitchen island across from him, as he adds fresh parsley to top it all off and turns to face you, holding a plate in each hand. Somehow, the sight stirs up an ache. You're unprotected, all because he vowed to be yours, because he's all you ever need anymore.

You try to trace the simple desire of otherworldly experiences to easily-explicable extensions. Science and witchcraft coexist somehow. There are things you want to ask, but know are more delicious in that weird ontological space some would dub Meinong’s Jungle. Why two hours early? Why this cadence when you say my name, why the taste of margarine on toast instead of moldy wood filling up our lungs at impromptu karaoke takeovers en route to Dallas, hot and ignorant of the historical implications? Nothing fun is ethical. We should be there, in the loamy sand and sturdy leather, my shirt half-unbuttoned, your accent trailing after Brando's "polack". Leave it to me, I'd romanticize the contour of your shoulder in the side-view mirror. Pure intentions clashing, call me 'pressure', electric guitar riffs approaching in the partly cloudy hippodrome, I can't make it back; you fly after me like Damiel in black & white and love me in every language time can buy.

He serves it right here, on the counter, because you've told him so—that the table feels so formal, too solemn in this context, and that amuses him.

"Voilà," he declares, setting a plate down in front of you. "Penne alla bettola."

"Should I play some Morricone?" you offer jokingly, fond smile in tune.

"You flatter me, Ms. Bennett."

It's delicious and you needn't even vocalize it; he steals glances up at you between bites, you catch them expertly and wordlessly admit how much you've missed him. He looks at you like there's nothing certain, and those are the things that leave the deepest imprints; one of those moments that reminds you of the potential: you, stormy, hungry, and the only man who's ever wrangled the thunder-thumped, humid funnel of accelerating condensation-dust you develop under the cloud of your brow, the only one who does it again and again, who holds you through it and drives you up toward the cliff where you can both dive in without a care for the lack of visibility.

He's gallant in that classic Aramisian way, ruthlessly tender and as dreamy as Hardy. The sleeves of his shirt are still bunched up at his elbows and you can't help but wonder if the muscles in his forearms strengthened up this much, if the arteries there are so blue and prominent because of all those hours in the workhouses, the excruciating industrial trade-off. It's never been about pity with you two.

A shaky gust outside, pleasant and enticing, pulls your attention in, appeals to your nature; almost like the elements refuse to realize you can't respond anymore. You peer in its direction and focus on the dreamcatcher hanging off the window pane instead, oddly placed but sweetly idiosyncratic to you. There used to be a time when everything was new and weird in a way that wouldn't even let you catch your breath. Even when it was bad, worse and worse by the day, when it felt so doomed, when all your friends were on the chopping block and cheering for the Timberwolves became a haunting reverie—still, then, it was good. Still, you had Jeremy's jacket over your shoulders on chilly evenings, Tyler's dusky gaze, earnestly somber when he thought no one was looking, you had Matt, that cheeky smile and sneaky discounts at the Grill. You had Caroline. Elena.

He's reading that DeLillo you used to think was brand new, now tipped back and resting atop your legs. It's your fault: you distracted him, abandoning your own book of choice for the time being—because when it comes to history he's certainly more qualified. "You're telling me you only passed because of your aptly timed fascination with Isabelle Adjani?" he reiterates, somewhat impressed. "And you know what?" you beam. "The movie's actually quite good." "Well, look at that. Lucky little witch." It makes you smile in a manner that gives it all away—so naively enamored. His fingers trace featherlight patterns over the skin right above your knee, comfortable with your legs in his lap. You lean your head against the couch cushion at your side and Enzo seems to sink a little further in too. "Consider it my retaliation against Reformation-era theologians," you quip. "Ah. Divine retribution," he says through the stretch of a smirk. You raise your eyebrows once, playful before the bitterness of reminiscence fully hits its mark. You pretend to pick up from where you left off, flip the page as if you've read it. Except you're back in class, Elena's stifling a snicker at the concept of an "astral vampire" and Alaric is pretending not to notice, just expands on the early variations of the legend, on Lévi-Strauss and the mythemes, on Slavic folklore and the plague after the plague. You used to draw the line at the Magna Carta; now you agonize at the remnants of his voice, would sacrifice the Balance just to hear him describe the Wars of the Roses just one more time. They're better off this way. What's the word Tyler likes to use? Right, a cesspool—that's Mystic Falls these days.

"Still insist on taking care of that?"

You grab the sponge without a second thought and shove your hands into the sink, leaving no room for debate: "You know it."

Because it's all you have: washing the dishes, rearranging shelves, strumming awfully until the melody straightens out. Because it gives you something, anything to occupy yourself with. It's why you never fail to ask him to get you a different brand of shampoo, a differently scented soap each time, why you change the lightbulbs before they've even blown sometimes.

He goes to switch the record, asks you what you think and you give him nothing—it's more about watching him listen to the music than the music he listens to.

You make him coffee, which he drinks more slowly than he needs to. When you play the tape he drapes an arm around you, the steel of his ring pressing against your tricep, and you can't help leaning in until he's molded himself around you, till you feel the weight of a gentle kiss on the crown of your head and Miles Davis kicks in against the backdrop of Parisian sidewalks.

"Tell me," you breathe out into the humid air. He's leaning back onto his hands, sprawled atop the makeshift picnic blanket you brought over to your newfound hangout spot on the roof of the cabin. Tail-end of July. You split a fig. Barely any movement and a whole lot of pretending that you remember Castor and Pollux's story. He looks worn-out. You run your fingers through your hair and delude yourself that it's the breeze. "Well," he sighs, "their numbers keep growing by the minute, it appears. Alex decided to dispatch more of her 'goons' after me today—new blood, inexperienced, but stupidly persistent. Led them on for a while, admittedly got a tad too frustrated by time we pulled into Louisville, so I stopped to wrestle myself another car... from a Lowe's parking lot of all places." "Couldn't evade them otherwise, huh?" you tease, ushering the levity you think he needs. He huffs, the way he always does when you're going back and forth like fools who've yet to drop the act. "I'm gonna pretend that doesn't hurt my pride." Even in this mess, he is a black star. There is no way to really break the ice with Alex, distant cousins alongside vampirism and all. Just more proof you'll never be strong enough. She doesn't owe you shit, but you've fallen from grace one too many times to let it go, assuming you can even recover from the pills at all. Either way, the truth isn't satisfying anymore—you need more room. And him. More patience of the heart. "You know," you try, leaning closer, "it's Master of Reality's anniversary today. Forty-three years." Enzo laughs weakly, returns your gaze with tired eyes. "Trying to distract me, love?" "Is it working?" He pretends to think about it. "You're getting there." You roll your bottom lip inward, tucking it between your teeth, as you take a second to consider him. Then, without allowing yourself the time to question the instinct, you close the gap and press your lips to his. There's no commitment there, except the one that lasts forever—you let him ease into it, make it short and fig-nectar sweet. There is an intermission, a moment after you pull away, in which your mingling breaths spell out an enchantment you can't find in any book on witchcraft, one you can't procure on purpose. You lift a hand up to caress his cheek and lean in for the second time, stealing one more kiss for good measure. "How about now?" you ask quietly, playfully innocent. "Hm?" he manages in the form of a low sound, eyebrows drawn slightly together, eyes fixated on your lips like he can't help himself. "What are you thinking about?" "You," he husks, gaze flicking back up. "Just you." And what are you if not two unoriginal, melodramatic killers? You stare at him till all you see is black walnut, full and rich and chewy and not dry or crunchy at all. "Good," you murmur. "Keep doing that."

You wake up on the bed. He carried you over to it in your sleep, of course, it's what he does. It's the kind of thing you do to spite the postmodernists. When you step out into the clear daybreak cold you become doubly aware of the empty space between your fingers. Maybe you can try to fill it up with borrowed air. You leave the door open for the day. Enzo won't be back for another week. It's a guarantee that lulls your senses. Until then, you'll live. Even if you forget to change the water filter when it's time. Even when the isolated wind chimes at the end of Solitude blur into the draft.

[smllvlle]

#LOVESHOT 🏹𓂃₊ ⊹

𓏵 (NAVIGATION HERE)

🌿 ──── summary: just some general and (mainly) specific dating headcanons for ollie because NOBODY writes about him so i'm taking this into my own hands (wc: 265).

notes: "my love" nickname mentioned, no real warnings other than ollie most likely being ooc (i don't read ga comics sorry guys </3), i tried to make reader as gender neutral as possible, i hope you enjoy everyone <3

was gobsmacked when he first met you, like he had a blue screen moment kind of gobsmacked

manages to make the corniest flirty marks sound suave, you don’t know HOW he does it, he just does

lets you help him trim his beard and stache, you two have made it like a sacred ritual of sorts since he’s usually busy with league or arrow duties

#1 gift giver, you mention something that you like in passing ONCE and it’s on your bedside table when you wake up a few days later

also insanely good when it comes to date ideas, he’s creative instead of doing the clichés all the time (think axe throwing, laser tag, etc), but he won’t deny having a fancy dinner or movie night if you ask

the type to draw shapes on your arm with his fingers subconsciously while you two are watching a movie, in bed together, etc

usually calls you “my love” or your name, i can’t really see him using pet names too often unless he’s being ironic or making a joke

speaking of jokes, he makes couple pop-culture references and jokes ALL. THE. TIME, like it's non-stop 😭

has you dubbed as “peeta” in his phone because you burnt yourself making bread

he’s known as “katniss” in yours because of the whole arrow-shooting superhero shtick. 

sings a love song totally off key for you when you first wake up every valentines day, last year it was my heart belongs to u by jodeci; you can’t tell if you’re excited or scared for this year’s serenade (hint hint)

⭑.ᐟ © smllvlle ²⁶｡𖦹°‧

[phoebist]

Dental Tautology

You plan to circumvent his lymph nodes. He shows up in the skin you wear. Ocean pulp is raw, not deli. He needs more. You're feeling generous. ⤷ harry gardner x muse user!f!reader. 3.1k.

He arrives on time. Knocks five times in quick succession. Not particularly well-mannered. Impatient. Or apprehensive. You open the door and peep through the narrow gap restricted by the chain lock.

"Hi, I'm— I'm here for the books," he says, sounding brittle through the pretense of naive friendliness. "We talked over the phone this morning."

He's shriveled into himself, slightly jittery and focused on his breathing, trying not to let the cold affect him. His hands are in the pockets of his coat, but the leather's tough to hide and easily justifiable in this weather anyway. Your jaw tightens, but experience saves you from giving away much else. Plans change. He seems to fully take you in after a moment, looks a little flustered, like you aren't what he was expecting out of a Craigslist listing link-up. It makes him straighten up. His lips thin out in a tense line of casual civility and you sense an underlying nervousness disguised by the thickening early-evening layer of frigid mist.

Plans change—because Sommers and that bitch Noir like playing god. This one could be promising: in his early 30s, if you had to guess, and inexperience is easier to spot when that's the case. He shifts stiffly but doesn't look away, letting his crystalline eyes, sharp chin and charming set of smile lines do the work. It's always nice to see them shiver. You make up your mind, wordlessly shut the door and unclasp the chain. When you open it again he lifts his head from where it was evidently hanging in those seconds, all 90s heartthrob locks—dark and glossy, wind-whisked: the innocence and earnest ambition of a teen with boyband-level confidence—but doesn't make a move. Smart enough. Or queasy. Either way, you find him somewhat precious. He thinks himself the undetected predator tonight.

"Come on in," you offer, quick and simple, detaching from the entrance and turning your back on him carelessly.

He steps inside and shuts the door behind him. Hesitates, but follows you into the kitschy living room. You offer him a drink and catch him eye the 2019 Bardolino bottle on the coffee table. He politely declines. Ariel is there too, off to the side, on the hardwood edge, and so is The Colossus. You watch him read the titles on the spines from a distance. What's funny is you really wouldn't mind them gone. He looks like he listens to Leonard Cohen and doesn't have a solid grasp on dad jokes quite just yet.

"Poetry aficionado?" you ask. "Or is it just the Cape that tends to make us melancholy?"

"Yeah, um, a bit of both, I think," he says, awkwardly sticking out amidst the antique furniture. "It's mostly for research, actually. I'm a writer too."

You stop by the cherry-colored chesterfield and give him a once-over.

"Not that kind," he's quick to clarify. "I write for TV."

"This must be where I go 'Anything I might've seen?'" you quip, a tad heavy on the delivery in a way you hope he doesn't recognize as too vixenish just yet. Then again, the game you're playing is the same. You take silent pride in having him beat already.

He lets out a puff of air. "Probably not. I've done a couple of network procedurals. Just signed a sort of a big, uh, streaming service deal, though."

"Mm," you acknowledge neutrally. "Not big on subscription services."

He breathes out a chuckle. "Yeah, I don't blame you."

His stance is unobtrusive and you can tell he's questioning your reserve, but a writer's ego is impossible to muzzle, so he gets himself to loosen up, stands tall and secure in his imaginary (in his eyes: discernible through cultivated taste, an urban bourgeois sort of angle; in actuality superficially appreciable, pop culture zeitgeist palatable, not yet even realized—just like yours) prestige. The beauty of the pill is the way it unveils that scorned superiority complex. He's getting there. You relish his need for reassurance.

He looks around, clearly stalling. Scans the room and takes a gloved hand out of his pocket to readjust the gray bag hanging from his shoulder. You pour yourself a glass of red, unhurried. The smell of currant feels like EBM synthesizers and drum machines turned into vapor, dry and crunchy, softer to the trained ear. The presence of the other bottle on the table—a brown glass onion, heavy liquid and not a lot of it—sitting pretty just behind the wine, exhilarates you more than you can afford to admit. Something obvious catches your guest's attention and he takes a step, small and almost involuntary, toward the metal rail by the south wall. Galvanized steel, hangers holding up chiffon, silk, calfskin, lace and paper. Organic matter you mostly deem recycled. One should avoid sounding too similar to Jean-Baptiste Grenouille.

"Are those—" he lifts a hand and points in the direction of the impromptu rack, "yours?"

You hum flatly. "Work in progress."

He approaches slowly, as if magnetized; momentarily distracted from the demand for brutality that brought him here: that pressing, insistent thirst. You take a sip—raspberry and black pepper blend, easier to recognize by the minute, and observe him from the side.

"Graduation collection," you explain after a moment, because it doesn't really matter what he learns about you. He doesn't know it yet, but he's no threat. He glances at you briefly, searching. Must be the question of your age. "Master's," you add, toneless, to give him at least that crumb to latch onto. It's just about enough, and he turns back to examine the garments more closely.

"It's looks..." he breathes out, "incredible." You let yourself enjoy the praise, the genuine appreciation in his tone. He hovers, right beside them now, looks to you for more. "May I?" So you nod. Goes to show how he goes about manners, about morality when he deems you're of equal standing. You like what this could mean for potential exhibitions, those excerpts you might get to read on The MET's webpage in ten years, with a foreword by Andrew Bolton.

He traces the pads of his fingers along a shoulder seam, as if he could feel the material through the glove. It's a jacket you could see him in, a tighter fit that would accentuate his lean physique—something to file away for later.

"It's—" he hesitates, trying to find the words. "It's very..."

Grotesque?

Intense?

Morbid?

Hungry?

"...poignant." He says instead.

You study him with tame curiosity, swaying the wine glass in languid, subtle little circles.

"It's the posthuman. A glimpse into the future, if you will. Or the present," you expand, deliberately measured.

"The posthuman," he repeats, tasting the words. You can only see his profile from this angle, barely in a position to catch the miniscule twitch along the line of his brow. "Non-human hybrids. Dystopia after the end of humanism."

"That's the one."

He drags his hand over to another piece, grazing the hardened ripples of the structured beetled linen sleeve. The mask hanging over it—deconstructed medical influences and a dash of 80s body horror—goes to show you've set your course after the British avant-garde tradition. You sit down on the upholstered sofa, crossing your legs as you contemplate his candid fascination.

"It's jarring, isn't it?" you muse, testing. His head slants in your direction, instinctively leaning into the sound. "Facing it directly. Anthropomorphic, yet so... inhuman."

He shifts—hardly noticeable tension in his spine—but keeps his eyes on the rack.

"We never quite imagine it lurking like this, in broad daylight," you continue, suppressing a bourgeoning smirk. "Clinging onto remnants of the little humanity it has left. Sharp-toothed... insatiable."

It does the trick. He goes rigid—like the molded fiberglass you manipulate to mimic rigor mortis. You lift your chin.

You hear the inhale, see the pretty panic in his eyes when he turns to face you, swift and alert. His expression tells you his brain has gone into overdrive. You hold his gaze. The suspense spreads, a charade he was not privy to lands atop his shoulders in a way that looks to weigh him down and make him lighter, snappier, at the same time. He licks his lips and the way his face unknits the next second seems to mean he's put the puzzle pieces together.

"I'm not here for the books, am I?"

"Books?" You tilt your head and draw your eyebrows together, slightly lifted at the inner corners—amusedly sympathetic, like you pity his distress. "Is that really what you came here for?" you coo sweetly.

He stills under the invisible charge of your inflection, your scrutiny; alarmed; reaches for his pocket. The terror of the unexpected ambush. You let it unnerve him for a moment.

"Relax," you say eventually, lowering your chin. It's cute, the way he's masking being startled, how he's bracing to defend himself (to attack first, if needed), and you graciously provide the answer to his confusion in the drapes of a question, voice laced with a teasing sort of composure. "You think I'd pull this trick on one of ours?"

The confirmation sinks in fast. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, breathes in with his whole chest. You're in no rush.

"How did you know?" he asks, quiet and unsure.

"I could smell it on you," you say, plain and a little sly. "From the moment I saw you." His features tighten, so you probe in a way that forces him to reconcile himself to the discomfiture. "Still debating going for my throat, screenwriter?"

He shakes his head. "No, no," then exhales sharply. It sounds like guilt, adrenaline and the kind of uncertainty that makes your blood pulse in your neck. "No, of course not."

The hazel in his eye has warmed over in the dim low-level light of your living room. You know he's half lying, half convincing himself—a protective mechanism, a nervousness that makes the pink tissue of your gums buzz with a pleasurable thrill.

"Funny where we draw the line," your voice drops lower.

You take another sip and move to set your glass down. "Sit," you beckon him over without another glance.

He wavers. A second. Two, three. Four. You pretend to miss the way he fiddles with whatever's in the pocket of his coat, until he finally decides to drop it. His steps thump atop the wooden flooring, then soften to a dull thud on the carpet.

"What's your name?" You turn to him again as he takes a seat on the armchair just beside the sofa, clutching his bag strap with both hands. "Your real name," you clarify. "We both know how this works."

"Harry."

You prop your elbow on the upholstered armrest—tall enough to allow you to hold two fingers at your temple as you lean into your hand. He draws another hefty breath and meets your eyes.

"Look, I wasn't—" he starts.

"Yes, you were."

His lips stay parted for a beat, taken off guard, as he rummages for something in your expression, then closes his mouth, jaw tense. You remain motionless—easier to keep him on edge.

"I didn't want—" he tries again. "I don't want to hurt anybody."

"No," you drawl sympathetically, syrupy and ambiguously comforting. "Still getting used to it, aren't you?"

He readjusts his posture, letting go of the bag and inclining forward, forearms resting on his thighs; faring better, it appears—accepting of your awareness. "Do you ever? Get used to it, I mean." His timbre's gone breathier, slightly dispirited and earnestly desperate. You find you'd quite like to make him fully trusting, hopeful and reliant on you for relief.

"Do you like what you do?"

He cups a hand over his mouth, drags it down heavily, rubbing the skin, stops at his chin and holds it there. "Yeah."

"You want to be good at it," you prod. "More than just good. More than great. You want to be... exceptional."

It's not a question. He falters—long enough to indicate at least an arbitrary attachment to the imposed moral obligation. Good to know he isn't exactly heartless.

"...Yes." He admits.

"Then you don't have a choice."

His shoulders slump downward. "How long— how long have you been..." he trails off, the question fizzling out. You take pity on him.

"It's my second season. Came here last winter to work on the collection. Couldn't finish it in time."

"So you came back."

"So I did."

"For the collection."

"For the lobster rolls."

He laughs, short and sweet, like a weight lifting off his lungs. You roll your bottom lip inward, let it rest beneath your teeth momentarily, and keep your eyes on him.

"You seem... you seem okay," he says in the silence that follows. You raise an eyebrow, prodding him to spell it out. "I mean, it seems like... it's easy for you."

Your forehead melts, expression smoothing out into a simple look of receptive understanding. It gets increasingly more endearing by the minute: the way this stranger's leaning into you for comfort. For validation. For approval, or even for advice. There's a mole—prominent and solitary on his chin—that you frivolously imagine kissing after a kill, after he's ripped open someone else's throat and the blood has trickled down in a thick little stream of dirty maroon. The same fate he had envisioned for you.

"I've made my peace with the end of humanism," you say, tongue-in-cheek. 

"Yeah," he smiles through a sigh, then lets the bitterness take over, full-bodied this time, strangely vulnerable—the gleam of something tender (something scared) flashing in his eye. "I... I have a family."

Ah. All the more fun.

"Poor thing," you mutter attentively. "You like it, don't you? You like it so much it scares you. You don't want to put them in danger. To hurt them. But it feels too good to stop."

"No," he immediately shuts the notion down. "No, I will. I can. I just need to write a few more scripts and then it's done. I'm done."

A knowing smile tugs at your lips, controlled and admittedly arrogant. People never change.

"You went to Dr. Feldman."

He frowns. Exhales heavily, like he's been caught again, a reluctant acknowledgment. You get the feeling this won't take much.

"You're a murderer," you jab, matter-of-fact and silky on the consonants.

He huffs, disgruntled—on the defensive. "That's not fair."

"You like it."

"I don't!"

The veins on his neck strain through the thin skin as the assertion soaks into your shared air, bleeds into the expensive leather seating. You let him struggle through it. His eyebrows twitch harshly, as if to startle himself out of it. His head falls forward and you find wicked amusement in the way he breathes in deeply, facing the floor, and runs both hands through his hair roughly. "I fucking don't," he rasps, quieter this time.

The seconds crawl onward, lethargic in the space between you. Contented with the Phantom Thread-esque approach's success, you straighten up and reach for the second bottle—the one you're glad you refilled earlier.

"The pill doesn't create monsters, you know," you murmur, low and gravelly. "It just unearths what's already there."

Harry shakes his head dejectedly, not looking up, fingers still buried in his hair. You grab a shorter glass—for whiskey—setting it down right next to yours, and pour some of the murky plasma into it.

"You think you're better than them, don't you? The pale ones. You've heard the Chemist's bullshit story," you continue. "Except the truth is that they were strong enough to give up. They let go of their dreams because achieving them meant they'd have to step on others. You and I? We're just the marketable motherfuckers ruthless enough to keep going."

He swallows hard and lifts his head at last, eyes flicking back up to find yours. His brows are tightly creased, like this is something he is pained by, even if he knows already. You nod toward the glass, lulled by his torn-up countenance, the way those ruffled locks fall over his forehead in messy, wavy black clumps. Neatly handsome even when exasperated. He stirs, leaves his bag behind and walks over. You hand him the glass. He takes it and sits down on the sofa, some inches away.

"Drink," you instruct, intentioned but not cold.

He brings the glass to his nose and stares at the shallow pool swirling inside. "Is this—"

"Drink, Harry."

He shoots you a final look—glassy but nervy, floating on an undercurrent of determination and conceit—and takes a swig. You drop your gaze down to his throat and watch it bob with the sip. The tautness of his features dissipates at the taste, eyes widening as they flicker rapidly back and forth between what's in his hand and your face. Antipodal sensations: you see the thirst, unleashed and raging now, the bewilderment and the perturbation. He's so delightfully dazed—like you've broken something in him only to restore it, more vibrant and delicious than before.

"Yeah?" you murmur breathily, unable to help the affectionate lilt—because he's already just so pleasantly receptive. "Good?"

He nearly freezes at your tone, muscles stifling down a shiver. 

"How..." he quavers, clearly affected. You're in no mood to explain just yet, especially considering how difficult it is to get your hands on the fresh stuff nowadays. This one came in clutch before you even met him.

"Let's worry about the how later, yeah?" You recline back against the solid upholstery, sounding thoughtful, somewhat sheltering—as if you've made up your mind now, as if you're saying that you've got him, that you know how much this weighs on him, that he doesn't have to bear the burden of responsibility with you, always the caretaker outside these four walls. "Drink up."

He does, of course—it's not like he can help it once he's had a taste. You wonder how many days it's been. You wonder what Aristotle would say now about the soul, the animalistic side; but he isn't here, so you've taken it upon yourself: the deconstruction of the zoon politikon. The politics of fangless vampires are somehow both Hobbesian and a confirmation that rippers live amongst formal, organized institutions too. For now, you'll coax the hybrid out of the battered stranger on your couch. He keeps drinking and you smile lazily, eyes growing half-lidded as you reach out to gently scrape your nails across his nape. He lets you—trusts you, recognizes your pride.

"It'll be okay," your whisper is a soft rasp.

He drains the glass and peers back at you with the inkling of a different kind of hunger. You encourage him to pour himself the rest as well. He stays until the understanding tethers you together: barbarity is a negotiable malady. You choose to pretend that you can be the boot that stomps.

[vampiredaisiesss]

his love has teeth—and i want to be devoured

— castiel has been ordered to save god's righteous man. but will the angel of god save hell's brand new torturer or will he get saved instead?

They say God's righteous man traded his soul like a playing card. And when the night of the reckoning dawned, he obediently let hellhounds tear him open, all to bring his brother back from the cold earth.

What kind of righteous man deals with devils?

The desperate kind.

The Winchester kind.

Hell is a melting pot of everything vile. It claims sinner and saints alike. For thirty years, Alastair peeled him apart — skin to muscle to his psyche. For thirty years, Dean Winchester remembered how to scream his brother's name. Remembered why the pain mattered.

But there are nearly 1.89 billion minutes in 30 years. I don't blame him for forgetting, father. I don't blame him for becoming what he feared.

Does he?

I find him at his rack, picking apart another soul like a child picks the wings off flies.

The righteous man has learned Hell's language too well. His agony has teeth. It bites down hard when I reach out to save him, flesh searing where my hand finds his shoulder. But I am older than teeth, older than this damned pit, older than the first time a creature learned it could hurt another creature.

He flinches when I press two fingers to his forehead, but stays silent as his bones knit back together, as muscle and skin rewrap his frame. He isn't afraid of pain anymore; It is my mercy that terrifies him.

Father, forgive me.

I followed your orders. I restored your creation.

But no one warned me how saving one human soul can feel like swallowing a star, how it burns going down, how you never quite recover from the light.

I have remade him, but I fear he unmade me. Now something grows in me that has no name in Enochian. I can't describe it, but I can feel myself catching it like a fever.

Even his love has teeth, and I find myself aching to be devoured by it.

[phoebist]

vampires who have lived long enough are able to adapt well to colloquialisms but still let idiosyncrasies slip cuz they got massive egos

[phoebist]

it's important to recognize your weaknesses and still never improve on them

[phoebist]

The First Bubonic Bodice of 1619

Pestilence always finds a way. What's it to you? It was War for him. He's gone, his boiling blood exposed him. ⤷ damon salvatore x human!f!reader. 2.1k.

Passcode retention lasts longer than this. You've always wanted the bathtub water displacement story to be true. It is. Always somewhere, anywhere and at times when you might be having the time of your life. Are you justified in the way you let your muscles atrophy, in the selfishness, the self-absorbedness of a sheep with nothing to prove? They never picture the perpetrator, just Marat. Except you're not the voice of the people, so you're doomed to live.

There's so much to write down, but your mind shape-shifts faster than your hand can keep up. It's warm out. There's nothing to write at all. He looks like himself. You won't allow any of it—of him, the real thing—to smudge. You know it's possible. Pain is lovely when you set your mind on holding onto it. If you could just find a way to write it down, to distribute even only a fragment of it, get them to understand it as more than a popular Radiohead association. No, that part is impossible. We all assimilate it differently. It's for the best. Somehow, it's decently universal. You always anticipate it happening to you, crave it morbidly; then it sneaks up on you and doesn't even have the mercy to let you turn into the one who does the haunting.

You used to use the curtains sparingly. It's such a solid movement now, the flick of an arm, the reveal, or the cover-up. Disarray. Nothing worth touching anymore. A ceiling like a cloud that bubbles up and snows. A bedside lamp that's been off since the day of. Maybe it has always been this way. There's no one left to punish you. You realize you're doing the movie-trope thing.

"How long has it been?" he says instead of being mean.

You look up from underneath his chin, drowsy, sleepless. His gaze is fixed on the little packer bottle on the bedside table, jaw tight. It's translucent and his eyes are stern even if his voice betrays the accusation. You've transferred the burden of focus to Damon now; ironic, considering you buried it with him.

"Too long," you mutter curtly, laying your head back down onto his chest. He still smells the same. Maybe even more pungent. Always used to spray the cologne on his shirt instead, the collar and the shoulders—something about the way vampiric skin expels all intruders faster than he'd like, than he pays for.

"Baby..." he sighs, and you imagine the pained knit of his eyebrows. You close your eyes to see it better. "You can't take them this often."

"I don't care," you murmur simply.

He swallows softly, lips parted only slightly, as the crease above the bridge of his nose trembles intermittently. His free arm—the one he hasn't yet folded on the pillow under his head—drifts along your spine, all the way up until he's threading through the hairs at your nape, caressing the back of your skull repeatedly and slowly, rhythmically. Your phone buzzes off, face-down somewhere on the carpet if you had to guess—someone who wants you to repeat yourself again. Caroline must've found a way to get it off DND under your nose. Again.

You bend at the knuckles, scratch lightly at Damon's ribs, make sure the memory holds up. It protrudes, emanates through the layers of foggy grief; cold skin, lean muscle underneath smooth cotton. You feel dizzy even from under the thin skin of your eyelids. He used to put on jazz sometimes. This one was all the rage, he'd say, then drop you off and keep wistful watch until you were inside and the door was shut and locked. The times he let his pulse slow down. There is a vinyl stylus lodged in your left lung, forcing you to breathe in antifreeze and spit out brake fluid. He made blue look safe. A change of associations. You hate that he doesn't care enough to take his shoes off and begrimes the bedsheet every time.

"Take them all then," he rasps. "Take them all and meet me there."

It's him. He said that. He shifts from under your weight, untucks his other arm and covers your restless hand with his; holds it there for a second, then presses his fingertips against yours and lets the gentle pressure lift them off until you're doing that cliché palm-to-palm thing no one dares to depict anymore. It's different, of course, only when it's someone you can't suppress the pain with. Hardly palatable before you met him. You're lenient with Damon. Anyone could turn foolish in a heartbeat, that's your bitter reminder. What you do unto him is undone within yourself. He said that. Yes. He said that.

He keeps his eyes there, studying it from above—the way his palm grazes yours, the slide of his thumb over your whatever-line. You watch too, from the space in the crook of his neck now, soundless exhales sweeping over his Adam's apple. A stupid moment, foolhardily conjured. Or real. The bourbon on his breath is real. Denial and acceptance seem to blend. There is a cavern in your windpipe and all the hot air—unbearable influx—sets the walls of it on fire. The ache ripples through your organs, each one touching another with its fat membrane, threatens to get you crushed under your own weight, to squeeze your insides together so tightly that you become a dense rectangular bale. He used to fill you up like a balloon without a limit, expand you for the world instead of the reverse; now you're just compressed and delirious. A pile of meat with an affinity for torture porn. Damon's lips are always swollen with the taste of nutmeg, toasted oak and toffee. Your bile reeks of acid now.

A quick double-knock thuds across the room. It takes you out of it. Time's up. The door creaks open, slowly and carefully, gradually lets the light flood in with geometric precision at first, then all at once. Elena still makes daily use of your spare key. Her gaze glides across the mess that is your bedroom—curtains sealed, blanket sliding off, dust untouched and clumped into those little grey worms on the parquet, held together with stray hairs and dead skin; not exactly dirty, mostly just neglected, not much action and the worry that a lack of it inevitably causes—but she wrenches it away just as fast, focuses on you. She's getting even better at this.

"Hey," she greets, voice hushed and tender, stepping inside. "Morning, sleepyhead." A term of endearment that's easily laid on anyone—her attempt at regaining a sense of normalcy. You both know you aren't it, haven't slept at night in months; it's just easier to see him then.

She crosses the expanse of the room in a few measured strides, stepping over crumpled balls of paper and a gray Varvatos shirt, stops at the foot of your bed. You can't find the strength to find yourself repulsive anymore. Your phone is always fully charged, the pages of your diary bent at the corners.

"Brought you waffles from the Grill. Steaming hot," she offers, lively and inviting but still calm for your sake—for the sake of the vulnerable sunrise-kissed hour. She makes the tide recede a bit; sits on the edge of the mattress and looks at you with patience rather than pity. "Maple syrup?" She tries again when you don't quite react. A beat, then she sighs through her nose, quick and docile. "Stefan's here."

Better than food. His heartstrings are split into a thousand copper fibers too; the closest thing you get to relief. The closest thing that isn't Damon.

"Yeah," you manage through the boulder in your throat, "be down in a minute."

"Take your time," Elena reassures with that comforting, husky lilt you've grown to appreciate. A bit maternal, as Care would suggest, were you not her peer. Always there to soften the cruel blows of supernatural tempests, even those that gash deep enough to fester permanently. Elena, who takes care of her friends while bleeding from within. "Though I wouldn't wanna let those waffles get cold if I were you," she adds with a feeble smile and doesn't press any further. Controlled solace might just be the fix in the long run.

You're good enough to strain through it, to at least pretend you don't reject their help. So you only take five, just about the time it takes to brush your teeth, get a change of clothes and tame the nest atop your head. Then, you're heading down. Yesterday was Tuesday. Today is Tuesday too. Tomorrow's Thursday. You're not nuts. The sun leaves citrus juice stains on the walls these days.

You slow to a near-stop in the middle of the staircase, ease your steps and quiet down, tense to listen in on the hushed whispers coming from the kitchen right below.

"—since the... She was in love with him, Stefan, you of all people—"

"No, I do. You're right...I just don't—"

There's muffled melancholy, the rustling of a paper bag. Drawers opening and closing. Cutlery clanks. Pangs of conscience—or perhaps you've got the tone all wrong. You descend a little lower, as silent as can be, trying not to disrupt the peace, a domesticity you can't afford to lose.

"—just needs more time—"

"Hold on."

He knows you're there.

It's no use tiptoeing around vampiric hearing at this point, so you hasten your step to join them. Waffles and chocolate chips, as promised. Smells good. Not convincingly real enough. They both look good, too. A little tired on the human side, but still pretty; more charming, even. Still the It couple, ironclad. Safe. Friends who refuse to let their loved ones bloat with decay.

Elena tells you Matt's been asking, calling. You miss him, but maybe he can wait another day. You can only hope; it's the thing that never dies, after all. She plates your breakfast and heads back up to tidy up your room, doesn't give your guilt the chance to argue for you. You gulp two bites and migrate to the floor next to the living room couch. Stefan teaches you the Grünfeld, lets you take the lead, then crushes you again. You're grateful for the brutishness of his white rooks. It's proof he's hurting just as much, that the distraction is mutually approved of. You like that you can help each other for a change.

You catch him—he never left—from the corner of your eye even in those moments sometimes, still. Leaning against the archway, washing dishes after lunch, dishrag thrown over his shoulder, or leering from the tall stool beside the kitchen island. The curse that keeps you going. He hates carrying an umbrella. The water seeps through the leather, the black of his hair, so you take a towel and he lets you dab it dry. Sits perfectly still at your command and peers at you with that salty blue until it drenches you in droplets too. You wish you could be at the beach at times like these, you and Damon and the crushed shells, the sea foam, Romaine lettuce and radishes for dinner. You never tell him—he'd just say you've been watching too much Sorrentino. You wish you had confirmed it. You wish it didn't chomp at your fucking heart. You wish you could prod into your throat, push your arm the whole way inside, swallow like a good girl until your hand reaches all the way down into your chest cavity, till you can feel around the spongy, lubricated tissue and press your fingers into the tooth marks there. We tend to supplement this kind of misery with physical throes, you've always known that from an armchair point of view. Now it's just in reach. Damon made all your wishes come true.

Stefan knows what it's like. But you're not a junkie. You just need to be able to see him. Just one more day. One more day and you'll let him go. One day. Today. Tomorrow. It'll be scorching hot tomorrow. You just need the day. His voice, just one more time. Tomorrow is the final one, you're ready. Then he will be gone and you'll remember. Just let me say goodbye. Let him convince me.

They always talk about you hushedly. Never scheming, just aware. No compulsion. Elena is perceptive, knows the tendency well by now, well enough to be extra careful with the interruptions, lest she break the dam. Stefan needs more movement—to move on. For her. You're just bracing for the intervention now, the moment they forcibly take away that little bottle. You won't blame them too much. You think you might be able to see him even then.

[phoebist]

too baroque still. very kitsch. it's all tacky golden putti combined with garbage pop culture stylistics. i need to strip it down, not down to béton brut but something on the way there

[atlabeth]

unadulterated loathing masterlist

pairing: fiyero tigelaar x fem reader

status: complete!

summary: you are forced to pair with up fiyero for a history project. things don’t go as you imagine.

featuring (one sided) rivals to lovers, constantly stressed reader and constantly flirting fiyero, and a sprinkle of angst in a lot of fluff with even more banter

overall warning(s): reader is insecure and stressed to the max bc she is an academic weapon! but this is basically all fluff

total wc: 15,311

part 1 ↳ 5.5k words | doctor dillamond pairs you and fiyero together for his midterm. you promptly decide that you hate him.

part 2 ↳ 4.9k words | turns out you have to spend a lot of time together to write a ten page essay. maybe you don't hate him that much.

part 3 ↳ 4.7k words | things come to a head between you and fiyero in more ways than one.

[phoebist]

𝓗.𝓖. ⟶ ❝You know, creepy can be beautiful.❞

⟢ Dental Tautology ╰ harry gardner x muse user!f!reader. ✈︎ impromptu atelier, 2021

⟢ soon ╰ harry gardner x wife!reader. ✈︎ p-town guest house, first winter two years in

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[phoebist]

𝓜.𝓜. ⟶ ❝I need a cigarette.❞

⟢ Alkaline ╰ madison montgomery x witch!f!reader. ✈︎ a room for you alone (intruders paint the walls), 2013

⟢ A Stein Poem, that's something Frankly ╰ madison montgomery x reanimated!f!reader. ✈︎ Robichaux's, amidst the new order

nav.