Youâre not just a writer.
Youâre a goddamn survivor of your own imagination.
You live with noise in your head that never shuts up until you bleed it onto the page, and even then, it whispers, âMake it better.â -Luna Azzurra
What do you mean âchatâ is now referring to ChatGPT and not twitch chat? What? What? What the fuck? No?
When I address chat I am speaking to a presumed Greek chorus of real human people shitposting on their lunch break, not a machine that devours lakes to covert electricity into slop.
⢠ââ only child. cancer. velvet & pearls. jeff buckley. old soul. antique collector. secondhand books. new orleans native. makeup. tarot cards. red wine. typewriter. balcony gardens. moonlight swims. chronic daydreamer. âpinky promise?â
⢠ââ soulmates. fastburn.
SOULMATE!READER ...
is waiting.
has been waiting, actually, for as long as she can remember.
not the impatient kind of waiting. no, hers is a bit quieter. softer. the kind of waiting that one does when they are sure that something grand and life changing will happen to them.
she pours coffee and feels it. walks through the French Quarter at dawn, the streets still wet from the night before, and feels it. sits on her balcony with a glass of red wine, the moon hanging low and heavy over the Mississippi, and feels it.
something is coming.
someone.
(hopefully).
her grandmother used to tell her stories about the old magic about soulmates, about bonds that transcend lifetimes, about the way the universe sometimes reaches down and decides that two people are simply meant to find each other.
you'll know, she'd say, her weathered hands cupping your face, her eyes gone soft and distant. you'll know because the world will go quiet. and then it will start singing.
you'd believed her, once. when you were small and the world still made sense and you had dreams of this mystery man. back when magic was something that lived in fairy tales and your grandmother's voice.
but then she died, and the years passed, and the dreams stopped happening, and the humming beneath your skin became something you learned to ignore.
you built a life instead.
a small one, maybe. a quiet one. but yours nonetheless.
your cafĂŠ sits on a corner in the Garden District, all exposed brick and mismatched furniture, books stacked on every available surface, fresh flowers on every table. it's the kind of place that people stumble into and never quite want to leave. you open it every morning before the sun is fully up, brew coffee that tastes like chicory and honey and play jazz so old it sounds like it was pressed onto vinyl by ghosts.
you know your regulars by name. you know which ones need silence and which ones need to talk. you know how to read a room the way other people read books. you have multiple friends you love.
you are, by all accounts, content.
you have new orleans after all, which is its own kind of magic.
you have learned to love this city the way you imagine you might love a person. completely, despite its flaws, in a way that makes leaving unthinkable.
you have learned to stop waiting.
or so you tell yourself.
because the truth is, you still catch yourself looking. scanning crowds on busy afternoons, searching faces in the flickering light of a jazz club, holding your breath every time someone new walks through the cafĂŠ door. you still feel the pull of something you can't name, something that tugs at your chest like a tide, something that whispers not yet but soon.
you still believe, even when you tell yourself you don't.
and then one day, he walks in.
and the world goes quiet.
the jazz fades. the rain outside mutes to a hush.Â
he's tall. dark hair, sharp suit, devilishly handsome. his eyes find yours immediately, like he knew exactly where to look, like he's been looking for a very, very long time.
and you know.
you know more than anything youâve ever known before that heâs the one.
and eventually, you fall in love with him the way you fell in love with new orleans. slowly, then all at once, in a way that makes leaving him unthinkable.
you fall in love with him because he's been waiting too.
and he was absolutely, without a doubt, worth the wait.
author's note âhellooo! i need to help revive the originals + vampire diaries fandom on here, so hope you are hype for this series! feel free to send requests for soulmate!reader and i will get to them as soon as possible. check out this series as well as my other works on my masterlist! much love, & i hope you enjoy!
content: my understanding of tvd is akin to that of a fever dream but i thought he was hot so here he is. probably ooc elijah idc. reader is sorta implied to be a ghost and i wrote this prior to googling how ghosts work in the tvdu so just pretend
a/n: i just got off an 11 hour shift and itâs like 1 am so if this doesnât make sense or devolved suddenly iâm sorry
day two of cherâs conversation hearts 2: electric boogaloo
Heâs tired.
Not physically- heâs actually quite well rested today. But heâs exhausted in the way that only a thousand years can make a man.
At the time, heâd been meant to be looking into something- looking into someone, really. And because of that, heâd found himself at your home, and youâd been kind enough- foolish enough- to invite him in.
He hadn't understood, not even a bit, why you'd invited him in. Clearly, you understood he wasnât human, the way youâd been so specific with your wording was proof enough of that.
His first instinct had been to believe that this was a trick of some sort- that you were an enemy of his family's and that this had been some ruse of any sort.
Yet, as the conversation flowed, it had slowly started to click into place for him: you were lonely.
As much as heâd gathered from the conversation, youâd been lingering here for a few decades.
Something about it eased his tired form, speaking with one who lingered as almost a manifestation of some long past decade.
And yet, it really wasnât that long at all, was it? Not in the grand scheme of things. Not by his standards.
It was almost amusing. Youâd offered him a glass of water, only to discover that your water had been shut off for much longer than you could even recall.
He remembers what itâs like, he thinks, to be so out of time that one day you look around and realize just how much has changed. Although heâd never had his water shut off, much less realized so decades after the fact.
But youâre a breath of fresh air- youâve never even heard of Google or texting or anything of the sort.
So he comes back.
He comes back again and again and again, until he can't shove away the warm familiarity that comes with you.
The way you take your drinks, the way you pay just as much mind to your appearance as he does to his, the stories you tell. All of it becomes so achingly familiar that it practically rots him from the inside, like a fruit left too long.
He's not one to fall in love- a thousand years and he can count the times he has on one finger.
And yet he really, really thinks this is it. That maybe each millennia will pass a bit easier than the last.
And today, his routine visit isn't very routine anymore.
Instead you're straddling his thighs, lips on his, and he's kissing into slow and deep and heâs savoring it because itâs been so much longer than heâs comfortable admitting to you and he really, really, didnât think youâd consider him like this.
His groan tears low and wanting from somewhere back in his throat when your tongue makes its way into his mouth, his hands holding onto your face almost reverently.
He barely recognizes the tenting in his pants, not when heâs so busy occupying himself with the way your mouth fits just so with his. The only reason he actually becomes aware of just how needy heâs become, is when your hips roll down hesitantly against his.
The sound he makes is needy. Any other descriptor fails to do it justice. Itâs simply low and needy.
And he wants.
He wants nothing more than to escalate this- even a thousand years of restraint and patience canât stop the rapidly escalating want he holds for you.
One hand moves to grasp the back of your head, tugging your mouth back to his, tongue trying to get itself deeper into your mouth.
The other moves to his belt, fumbling at the buckle until he can tug the leather off.
He doesnât bother with kicking his pants off, just pushes the fabric down his thighs until he can pull himself out and ease into you.
Oh. Oh.
He canât remember the last time heâs been so overtaken with something- with someone.
And itâs so, so good. Youâre so good.
The feel of it. The way you groan as he bottoms out.
He doesnât think he could ever get tired of this. Not in a thousand more years.
Soft sounds make their way from his lips into yours and then back again from yours to his. He wishes he could last longer. He really does.
But itâs been so long. And youâre so good around him.
And itâs over all too soon, burying himself one final time deep inside you and just letting go.
Decades- if not longer- of pent up emotion empties into you while he grips tight enough that you couldâve bruised in different circumstances.
He stills after that and feels no need to move. All he knows is that he needs more of this, and he needs you to feel it too.
Heâs never been one to fall in love. But he needs you to love him.
You will wonder what I have to tell you and I will have to tell you one very important thing. Don't let others dim your light. Don't let their voices become your own.
Don't believe them when they tell you, you are dumb, stupid, worthless, not able to be an adult when they don't respect your words. When they don't listen.
You are smart, you are worth everything you will accomplish, you will meet amazing people, who see through your mask and tell you that you are worth it, you work hard, you are most likely rather at work than home. Make sure you can get some money on the side to spent on YOU. It is important that you reward yourself for the hard work you did. The hard work you are putting in!
You aren't the Chosen One. The prophecy doesn't even get going for another few generations. But you aren't just going to let some upstart conqueror trample your tulip garden just because the Fates say you can't beat him.
writer culture is reading the most incredibly, breathtakingly, inspiringly written fic ever and you get to the author's notes and it's something like "oh, this is my first fic, i apologise for any mistakes ;-;" or "yeah this is a casual work i bullshitted in under an hour at 2:53 a.m. directly into the ao3 text editor with zero proofreading. sorry it sucks"
accessibility is what keeps stories alive for everyone. happy world braille day â ż !! braille has given generations of blind and visually impaired people the ability to read, write, and share their own stories.
as writers, we know how powerful words are. but words only matter when people can actually access them. so hereâs to braille, to accessibility, and to making sure stories belong to everyone. shoutout to everyone working to keep literature and information inclusive âĄ
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