#PROSE.

[likeorpheus]

Francis lingers near the counter, their attention flicking between Cee and the restroom door down the hall. The smell of French toast—spiced, buttery, almost absurdly indulgent—seeps into the weariness clinging to them like a second skin. It’s unexpected, this display from Cee. They never gleaned of her as the type to cook, let alone churn out what looks like a small mountain of food. A flicker of admiration stirs somewhere deep within their exhaustion, though they don’t let it show.

Their sharp eyes scan the chaotic state of the kitchen—the flour-streaked counters, eggshells scattered like careless punctuation. It matches Cee, dusted and frazzled, but undeniably focused in her strange, jittery way. She doesn’t miss a beat when they enter, barely reacting to the weight of Alo’s presence or Francis’ carefully constructed calm. Francis respects her for that, in a way.

Cee’s voice cuts through the haze. “Are you hungry? Either of you? I made too much.” She gestures with the spatula, and the faint scrape of metal against the pan sets Francis’ teeth on edge.

They glance at Alo out of the corner of their eye. He still stands in the doorway, looking like he might fold in on himself at any moment. Francis can’t bring themselves to address him, not now, not when every instinct screams to either give him space or push him out. Their focus shifts back to the closed restroom door, where Claire’s absence looms like a shadow. The shower is still running. Claire always stays in too long when she needs to think, the water a temporary barrier between herself and whatever mess waits on the other side.

Francis exhales through their nose, the faintest sigh slipping free. They don’t want to stay—don’t want to linger in the tension pressing against their ribs—but the smell of the food and the fact that Cee has somehow managed to pull this off despite everything… it softens something in them. Just a little.

“Yeah,” They say finally, their tone quiet, almost reluctant. “I’ll take a small bite. Don’t think I’ve eaten yet today.” It’s not a half-truth. They haven't been feeling so hungry lately. They’re not sure when they last ate. Days are blending together lately.

Francis pulls out a chair, and even goes to pull a second one out for Alo, hesitating before sitting. Their eyes dart once more to the hallway, uneasy, before settling back on Cee. “Didn’t know you could cook,” They add, a hint of dry amusement breaking through their fatigue. “Where’d you learn?” Their gaze moves, somewhat settling on the bass guitar that had been gifted to her.

Everything was continuing to happen at a pace that Priscilla could scarcely endure.

Vicente is dead.

She was in her head about it still. Trying her unsteady hands at making breakfast for herself and Claire — French toast, as it were. She'd been so into it this morning that there is already a hefty pile of browned bread heaped upon a place. She hadn't noticed at first, but she weas nearing the end of the bread loaf and almost four sticks of butter were gone.

Vicente is dead.

The hiss from the nearby shower sounds. Claire had been out all night. Cilla knew that, because she had been awake all night — unable to sleep, practicing her gifted bass guitar to keep her hands busy. She thinks to call Claire, to call Lex. She does call Kerry but doesn't get through to his home line or his cell phone. She thinks to call Claire, and Lex. And she can do none of those things.

Her fingers throb, flushed from the heavy steel strings. Cee doesn't know how long she practiced for, but eventually — Claire does come home. She comes home with Alo.

Everything was wrong. But Vicente is dead. So she doesn't ask questions immediately.

She gets up, sets her bass guitar down, and goes about making French toast. She got the recipe from the back of a baking powder box. She was overdoing it on the French toast. She has two plates heaped with browned bread now.

The front door opens. Cee's staring out the window, metal spatula gripped in hand. The kitchen's quite a mess as Francis appears — batter, eggshell and flour coating nearly every surface of the small kitchen. And Cee looks no better herself.

Flour-dusted, sleep-deprived. She doesn't appear to be surprised by the Highmore's appearance at all, pale blue eyes flickering from Francis — to Alo — who stands uneasily in the doorway.

And he looks bad. Worse mess than her kitchen. If the circumstances were not so obvious and awful then the other might have felt compelled to ask what happened. But in a lot of ways, she knows what happened. So she doesn't ask immediately. Cee snatches a damp dishrag from the counter and cleans off her hands.

"I don't mind." Cee replies, fidgeting — tossing the rag away and flipping the two slices of toast cooking on the pan.

"... Are you hungry? Either of you? I made too much." Prods at the browned bread in the pan with the edge of her spatula.

[likeorpheus]

Francis’s hands hover over the mess of scattered sheet music on the coffee table, trembling as they clutch a pencil. The lines and notes blur together, the smudges of graphite trailing like ghosts across the paper. Nothing fits. Nothing makes sense. Every attempt to piece the melody together ends with another crumpled page flung toward the overflowing trash can.

The anniversary of Alexandre’s death looms over them like a storm cloud, suffocating in its weight. It’s the same every year. The relentless memories that refuse to let them sleep. The nightmares that twist their chest into a vice, their mind replaying that phone call over and over, the raw panic in their voice as they screamed for help. The feeling of Alexandre’s body—cold, lifeless—still lingers on their skin, no matter how many years have passed.

And the reanimation. Francis swallows hard, their throat tight. They tried everything. Too much, maybe. Things they shouldn’t have. Their hands shake as the memory surfaces: the desperate spellwork, the way the air seemed to warp around Alexandre’s body. And then the horrible sound, the way his eyes didn’t look right when they snapped open for those fleeting, horrifying seconds.

Their pencil snaps in their grip.

“Shit,” they mutter, tossing it onto the table. Abra’s in the other room—probably giving them space, but Francis knows she’s worried. She always is, though she tries not to show it. They hate being like this around her, chaotic and broken, but they can’t stop. If they stop, it’ll all catch up with them.

The front door creaks open, and @sunmad 's voice pulls Francis away from the endless spiral.

“I can give you some pills to help you sleep,” she says. Her tone is matter-of-fact but not unkind, her sharp gaze scanning the chaos of papers and Francis’s disheveled state. “They aren’t healthy, but this—” She gestures at them, at the mess. “This is even less healthy.”

Francis lets out a hollow laugh, running a hand through their hair. “What’s the point? Sleep doesn’t help. It just ...puts me back there.”

[bloodwr4th]

@maxmoffs, required a witchy woo starter.

there were a lot of things people didn't know about the mikaelsons. like, some of esther's children who were strong in magic. kol, being one of them, thanks to his mother who often took him with her during the little reunions with the other sorcerers of the village. something he was proud of. especially when he was one of a kind. also why hope was an hybrid in the first place. sharing a bound with his niece and then with others people was something that he wanted. especially when it doesn't actually concern his bloodlust or anything of the sort, but magic. something he wanted to perfect for himself. wanting to be a part of a group that wasn't only his owns.

that's why when he meets someone who had powers, he couldn't help but be interested in their story. this is what he was doing with wanda at the moment. watching her perfect a spell she had learned with the others, he couldn't help but look as he admired a stone that had a lot of energy while turning to the red witch, adding,

"is this the first time you shared this with someone? i mean, someone like me of course?"

[s0fias]

@rubycaped said: ❛ may i have this dance? ❜

When Sofia fills a room, the crowd parts for her presence. In the age old adage of whether it's better to be respected or feared, she has only achieved the latter. Fear. It's the wide look in people's eyes. It's the sour taste on their skin. It's the tremble of their bones. She struts nearer and they scatter, some not as subtle as the others. She embraces the reaction, because what else is there for her to do? They all think she is a murderess, all think she is more than capable of taking life in the grasp of her hands and ending it. Sofia allows them to think it. No more crying like a lost little girl about her innocence. No one cares. Why should she, anymore?

When Kate Kane makes way towards her, Sofia smiles, a look that is deadly. As if she has poison laced on her lips. Taking a glass of champagne, Sofia lets out a snort of a laugh. ❛ Dancing? That's an awful dangerous request for you to make. ❜ Doesn't Kate know the horrific things they all accuse Sofia of? How the blood of innocent women is piled atop her dainty hands? Allegedly. Emptying the glass, she places it on a random surface then takes Kate's hand. Seems to say, sure, you can have this dance.

[likeorpheus]

Francis winces at that, the words landing strangely in a way that they hadn’t braced for. “Feeling like a woman after all.” It scrapes against something raw inside them, a quiet, persistent ache they rarely let surface. Their jaw tightens, but they don’t respond right away. What could they even say to that? The words twist into their ribs like a blade, pulling out a mess of shame, confusion, and resentment they’ve carried for too long.

They glance down at their hands, studying them as if they might find answers in the lines of their palms. But all they see is inadequacy—a body that doesn’t belong, that never felt whole or coherent. But maybe they just simply understood Madonna's perspective in those ways. That feeling of having a body but it feeling like the wrong one. A body that doesn’t know where it fits in the world, that shifts between too much and not enough. Intersex. Strange. Damned.

Not a full person, their thoughts are unbidden and cruel. Francis straightens up, arms crossing tightly over their chest to shield themselves from their own deafening emotions.

"I know what you mean," They say, their voice quiet. They can’t meet her eyes. Instead, they look past her, momentarily disillusioned. The mere mention of her "cruelty" doesn't mark them much. In a lot of ways, Francis was jaded by other's actions put upon them. For a long time, they felt nothing but spiraling bitterness. Crazed over the ways in which the cult had shaped them, created them. And even more than that, the ways in which they were no longer human but instead an object in the face of it. “My mother wanted me to be a boy, I think. To name me like a boy, to gesture to me like a boy. To have sons and not have daughters might have been a blessing to her. Considering what you've been through it would make sense. Considering what she had been through, the damned woman, it makes sense..." They didn't have any love thinking about their mother. She was a horrible memory.

"I don't know what I am, though." And that was the truth. They were genetically different. They were born to be different.

"I don't think I can have children."

What's to say it wasn't your magic?

Chord struck. Madonna's dark head tilts against the armchair, their words striking a peculiar sense of both unease and bitterness that she had not anticipated.

Maybe she had potential, but no magic. You discovered yourself to be a witch, didn't you? If things were so cut and dry, if things were so simple — maybe she would not have found herself in such circumstances to begin with. Maybe she wouldn't be condemned to lose the very baby that she wanted with such ferocity. Maybe things would be different, if the magic traced back anywhere else but the Highmores.

"... I discovered that I used to be a Witch." Madonna murmurs without looking at Francis. Her eyes set on the window, the endless stream of traffic that could be seen from just outside the apartment window.

She doesn't say anything else. No sense in elaborating — in some sense of the word, they must have known they were deflecting. Something weak and ineffectual like Madonna could have no real power to create miracles. Not like Francis did, anyway.

No. This was creationism. This was making something out of nothing. That was what Highmore magic did to her.

At their words, a small laugh catches in Madonna's throat. They were too good, weren't they? Able to ignore the fact that she had been cruel, first — that she did, ultimately, deserve whatever fate befell her now.

"No more than what I've given you." Madonna's head turns, black eyes lock onto Francis's. She doesn't want to hear that she doesn't deserve it. In this existence, there was nothing but earning what one deserved.

She holds their gaze. Bitterness, unmistakable bitterness burning in the backs of her eyes. She loved them once. Unfathomable now — she'd like to assert, she'd like to sincerely believe.

"... It was nice, for a moment. Feeling like a woman after all."

[punkzombie]

@sunmad asked:

"I'm - I'm calling an ambulance -"

Kerry wipes at his face, smearing blood across his cheek like war paint, and squints into the headlights disappearing down the street. West L.A. is quiet in the way only a big city can be at night—muted and sprawling, humming with distant sirens and the occasional rush of a car speeding where it shouldn’t. The air smells faintly of exhaust and the ocean, and the streetlights flicker overhead. He’s slouched against a lamppost, his hair almost luminescent in the glow—so blond it’s practically white, but stained red now from the streak of blood that came dripping from his nose.

Miriam’s voice cuts through the haze, panicked.

Kerry glances at her and then down at his arm, which is bent at an angle it shouldn’t be. He grits his teeth, braces it against his knee, and with a sickening pop, shoves it back into place. The sound is spectacular and the pain isn't so tolerable. But he doesn't yelp, he doesn't flinch. Maybe he's used to that sort of pain. He shakes his arm out out experimentally, wincing as the joint snaps back into something resembling functionality.

“Don’t bother,” He says, his English accent deep and hoarse but casual, like this is just another Tuesday night. “It’s fine. Happens all the time.” He flashes her a smile, all teeth, the kind that would almost look charming if he didn’t look like he’d just clawed his way out of a grave.

“People can be bloody animals out here.” He gestures vaguely down the street, where the offending vehicle is long gone. Hit-and-runs. He had seen some pretty bad one's in his time. Unfortunately for him, he could survive a car.

“Some people really don’t know how to share the road, huh?” He laughs, immediately regretting it as it sends a sharp pain through his ribs. He leans back against the lamppost, grimacing. He immediately goes palming around for his cigarette case. “Come on, the night's still young.”

[fr4sell]

" four bingos? i think the concert is a deserved first date. would take my whiskey-eyed boyfriend anywhere if he asked me to. "

okay, but he is already in deep shits with stiles. be ready boy, because he's going to deliver lot of gifts with his power. even when he's away, he's going to gift him the thing he needs most. even himself for cuddles.

[n0velaes]

@lightcreators, thomas required a starter from amelia paige.

" i may be a paige but i'm certainly not like my mother. " a mother? how can she call ava mother when she would do anything and everything to have her blood? her blood that was certainly not like hers. she too had passed the tests with flying colors. she was their favorite. she could still hear janson telling her how important she was. bile rose when she thought of the friends she had lost. rage too rose slowly inside of her. the people she had in front of her were no longer those she had fun with two years ago. they had all become pieces of a maciavellian puzzle that she herself had managed to create. " i might have been there and not in that stupid maze, but i watched everyone die. that was my punishement for not telling them what i knew. "

[morefearless]

❛ SO, IT'S THE TRUTH THEN. ❜ She's wide-eyed and mouth agape. She's just gotten into a brawl, but of course she still has time for a friend in need! Or maybe this is just her sating her curiosity. Does it really matter? Blonde pigtails scatter around as she shakes her head left to right. ❛ Your girl just turned into a big ole furry? I mean, obviously we always knew Barbara was a MONSTER FUCKER, but to become one? Now that's method. ❜

@ataviisms

[zweigz]

            ˚            ᵗʰᵉ   ʳᵘˡᵉˢ   ᵒᶠ   ᵗʰᵉ   ᵍᵃᵐᵉ   ˢᵗᵃᵗᵉˢ       :     "        𝚒   𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝   𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗   𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛   𝚠𝚑𝚢   𝚠𝚎   𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍   𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐,     "

            [      ...      ]                 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄'𝐒     𝐀𝐍     𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓     to     relationships       (       or,       whatever     the     fuck     this     is       ),       and     all     the     toxicity     of     tying     himself     to     URL,       that     he     hasn't     quite     mastered.       he     knows     that     makes     @natal7e     tick,       and     how     to     fan     the     fuel     of     her     fire,       but     not     quite     how     to     extinguish     the     flames.       there's     a     gap     between     them     that     will     always     go     unmentioned,       of     a     past     hiding     behind     her     that     he     can     never     quite     poke     and     prod     at.       far     too     heavy,       holding     a     mysticism     that     he's     not     even     close     to     being     mature     enough     to     handle.       they'll     always     be     just     that       :       almost     what     the     other     needs,       but     never     quite     enough.       "       i     don't     know,       nat       ...       you     tell     me.      it's     fucking     tiring     being     the     villain     of     your     life     all     the     time.       give     me     a     break,       yeah       ?       "       worst     part     of     all     of     this       :       it     was     probably     his     fault,       too.       but     when     both     of     them     have     wilingly     tied     blindfolds     around     each     other's     eyes,       and     agreed     that     they     will     only     talk     about     the     stuff     that     don't     matter       ...       reality's     sharp     hit     stings     eternal.       "       ...       you     think     i     like     fighting     with     you       ?       i'm     fucking     tired     too,       "

[shepurrs]

WELL, ISN'T SHE A SLEEPING BEAUTY? Harley's blonde hair frames her face like a halo. But we both know you're no angel, don't we? Drool slips from her open mouth, sullying the pillow beneath her head. Ah, that's more like the jester that Selina knows!

Selina is laying on the massive bed with the familiar black sheets inches away from Harley, head resting on her propped up hand, just watching the other woman breathe and snore and sleep. She resists the urge to pet her hair. Until she decides to do so, anyways. Perhaps it would be a sweet sight to behold. If it wasn't for the fact that Harley is fucking her husband, that is. (Ex-husband, Selina).

Yes, imagine her surprise when she found her friend in her husband's bed, the room smelling like sex and the bedsheets wet with his come. It took everything in her not to slash Harley's throat while she slept. The only reason she hasn't is because she wants to see the look of fear on Harley's face when she does it. Ah, finally, Sleeping Beauty is waking the fuck up!

She plasters a sickly sweet smile on her lips when Harley eventually stirs awake. ❛ I always did enjoy Bruce in blue, ❜ she purrs, referring to the dress shirt Harley wears. It would have hurt less had she just been naked, frankly. ❛ It goes so well with his eyes, don't you think? ❜

@crimeloyalty / starter call.

[ofchaotics]

               it’s all rather unsettling - he’s never been one to mesh well with such drastic changes , but he tells himself that this is all for the better . stripped from a city he knew as if the map was etched on the back of his hand , he almost feels stripped of his confidence . watching the chicago skyline fade and facing the open road was almost cathartic . a bittersweet moment where he feels he may find himself , but in the process , lose himself . a celebration and a mourning , all in one . 

it’s different here , this tiny town in washington . it doesn’t feel right , until it does . why he’s picked somewhere across the country to settle in for college ? he’s not so sure . initially , he’s all nervous and soft spoken . it dissipates with time , and he finds himself a group of friends that lessens the blow of feeling so alone . isolation is never good for him , and he’s sure that’s presented itself to this new group of friends . their pushy demands to come out tonight , and how he dreads it because they’ve made a nasty habit of calling him out for the very apparent crush he now possesses . she’s never paid him any mind , and , if anything , she’s actively avoided him . they’ve crossed paths a few times before , and he’d offer a smile - to which , she’d scuffle off as far as she possibly could .

it’s a blow to the ego , but he makes an honest effort to brush it off . at least , that’s what he assures himself . as if he hadn’t mulled over what to wear and analyzed his awkward posture and inability to conjure up some witty one-liner . exasperation aside , he settles into this dreaded house party nursing his red solo cup full of vodka and red bull . he sees her there , and their eyes catch for a short moment . there’s something different this time , and he’s not sure on how to really describe it . a gentle prod to his ribs , his friends urging him on . all the words are caught in his throat , but he pushes pass all those superficial anxieties .

approaching her , he’ll offer a smile . there’s that tinge of nervousness that’s hidden within it , but he’ll try not to think of whether his nerves are visible at the surface . “ hey , i’ve got you in some of my classes , right ? i’m mateo   .   .   .  i don’t think i’ve gotten the chance to introduce myself yet  .   .  .   “   /   @sewninto

[golden-letters]

bitch this is all you’re gonna get. this life, this face, this body. you better not ‘maybe in another universe’ your way out of everything. sit your ass down and face this. go make tea and have a picnic and read a goddamn book. kiss your loved ones, send that damn text, and hug your siblings. this is all you’re gonna get.

[likeorpheus]

@nocityfolk asked:

"what are you reading ?"

The brewery patio is quaint, a small corner tucked into the shade of an ancient live oak. The smell of hops and woodsmoke lingers in the humid New Orleans air, mingling with the faint notes of Zydeco music wafting from inside. A few picnic tables are scattered across the stone-paved yard, half-filled with locals and tourists nursing their beers and plates of crawfish. Francis had been on tour for some time and oftentimes, they couldn't help but find a local spot and people-watch or in this case read.

Francis sits at a far table, shoulders slightly hunched, a tall glass of amber beer in one hand and a black composition notebook in the other. The notebook is worn, the edges curling and the cover softened by time. Inside, the pages are a chaotic scrawl—maddening statements, fragmented thoughts, and intricate sketches of occult symbols that seem to almost move in the warm evening light. It used to belong to Alexandre, their brother. The realization still feels jagged, the weight of its significance pressing against their ribs every time they thumb through it.

Their eyes flicker across a particularly dense passage, their lips moving slightly as they read. They don’t notice the figure approaching until a voice breaks the spell.

Francis looks up, softly startled. A man stands a few feet away with an easy smile on his face. He’s dressed casually—jeans and a white t-shirt—but there’s an effortless charisma about him. It takes Francis a moment to place him, but then it clicks. Jesse. Jensen Arrow Knox Miller. The country singer whose face had been plastered across billboards and album covers for the past few months. Francis had a good thing about faces.

Francis blinks, feeling a faint buzz of surprise. “Oh. —just some old notes…,” They say softly, their voice betraying an old spanish accent as they close the notebook, resting it on the table. “Nothing too interesting.”

[bloodwr4th]

sabrina vc dad what if i told you i'm dating someone, and that certain someone's name is stiles?

kol knows there would be a time where sabrina would come to him and says that there is someone who is interested in her. would that make that desicion of letting go of his daughter right away that easy? no. he isn't going to let her go that easy. especially when she brought up miezcylaw name. though, he know stiles was a good guy and that he would treat kol's daughter right, this doesn't meant that there isn't any rules that he will have to deliver to them.

that day was today though, and he knows he had it coming his way. especially when his wife, and her mother, was listening to him as he could see her and feel her eyes on him and heard her thought. damn bound. no, he loved it and would never change it from the world.

looking up at the girl, he couldn't help himself but adds, jaw tensing a bit but eyes and ears open at what he has heard from her. he knows he had to accept it. and he will. especially if this is for sabrina's sake.

" is he treating you well? if he is not, he better watch his back. i'm not going to go slowly because you are interested in him. but there is rules. first one, bedroom door stay open, if i so dare, or your mother, so dare seeing that door closer, i will remove it and never letting you have one. clear? "

@lovefit with mention of @humanchewtoy and @wickedslip.