#PROSE.

[fedgod]

Claire's chest rises and falls with the rhythm of her anger, the weight of the years of sacrifice, of not being seen, of being the one who always bears the burden—her shoulders aching beneath the weight of it all. She hears the words slipping from Alo’s mouth, feels the warmth of his regret, but it doesn’t reach her. Not yet. Not with the haze of rage clouding her mind. He can say he's sorry until the end of time, and it won’t change what she’s lived through. It won’t erase the pain of always being the one to pick up the pieces, to make it all right when she, too, was breaking inside. Maybe she was beginning to resent everyone and everything around her.

She felt it, even in the beginning. She was burdened with the care of the younger Highmore. To take care of them. To look out for them, like a younger sibling, a child, even. How those nightmarish days haunted her. How she loved Francis with every fibrous bruise of her still-beating heart and yet she felt a thousand agonies, a million bloody agonies over being lost to her curse. To be owned, to be undervalued all the same.

She feels the blood trickling down her hand, and for a moment, it’s as if the wound in her palm is the only thing that makes sense. The sharp, stinging reality of it. It pulls her back from the brink of a spiral she doesn’t want to fall into. She looks at the glass—broken, much like everything else. Her hand is curled tightly into a fist when Cilla does enter the room, suddenly. But Cilla does not surprise her. She felt her there, through the door. But it didn't make this horrid circumstance any less gruesome.

But then, there’s that voice. That quiet, gentle thing. Cilla’s voice. It cuts through the chaos and while heavy with accusation or fear it manages to push away the heavy fog of bitterness that had threatened to drown her. The tightness in her chest eases, if only for a moment. Her hand, still dripping blood, trembles. She wants to scream. She smiles instead, her eyes heavy with emotion now darting in Alo's direction.

"Just politics, right Alois? Politics..." A double-edged sword. Her voice is carving like a knife through the air. She speaks with double-meaning for anyone to recognize. Their life was a dangerous game.

She squeezes her bloody fist tighter again, feeling the pain, the reality of it, and then loosens it. The sting grounds her. She looks at Alo, her gaze no longer sharp and unyielding, but softer now, worn down by the weight of everything she’s carried, the exhaustion settling in. She could feel that strain in their relationship now. She had felt it festering for some time. Love made life more cruel. It made the position that they were both in more daunting. Every decision was eclipsed by a loved one. He would have to deal with the aftermath and the pieces of Kerry and what happened at the bar and all of the occurrences that had happened before then.

She had her own love that eclipsed her now. Her eyes glimpse in Cilla's direction.

"I cut my hand, mon cher."

HE IS NOT UNLIKE A CHILD,  shuddering beneath the weight of a mother's disappointment and scorn.  Worse than a beating.  Watching Claire fill up that glass of wine to the brim,  only to drink deeply  —without pause,  the angular nature of her chest rising and falling like a panicked animal's.  Until the wine is gone,  washed down her throat  —rage blazing in the depths of her eyes.  Is she drunk?  Can she even feel it?  Why the hell did he go on and open his mouth?  

Sharp snap of an empty glass shattered against a nightstand  —and Claire's hand,  well,  it's bleeding.  It's cut with glass.  Alo winces at the sound as Claire continues,  unrelenting.  Returning every fragmented sentence Alo manages with an entire litany of bitter realities that Alo always felt,  but apparently,  needs to be reminded of. 

He was hearing too much truth.  Too much brutal honesty.  Dissected,  stretched on a metal tray  —the cycle of hurt,  the snake that eats itself.  The way that they all did it to one another.  It wasn't just their enemies.  He was just as monstrous as the creature staring at him with her blazing,  bloodshot eyes.  Maybe he's worse for the guilt that still gripped tight at the back of his throat,  as if feeling it could absolve him of anything.  What was worse than a lying dog with too-many-teeth?  Alo's chest is rising and falling with that same ragged panic.  He is more doe than wolf now.    He wants to badly to put his hands over his ears so he doesn't have to hear her.  He wants to pick out his own eyes so he doesn't have to see her.  But wants to run,  head-first,  toward the open French doors glowing with morning light behind Claire.  He could get out of the city.  He could run until he met water and keep running until it all stopped.  

Alo never got so lucky.  The greatest joke of his life,  sometimes,  was that he must continue on.  While Claire spits at Alo to fix it before bringing the dark bottle of wine to her bruise of a mouth.  She drinks with too much gusto,  as if desperate to drown out whatever riot rattled in the chasm of her chest.  He can feel her disgust with him.  Her shame.  He was unworthy of being by her side because he could not fight the guilt that reared its head whenever he acted within his nature.  If there could ever be such a thing  —unnatural as he was,  useless as he managed to be. 

His knees feel weak as he watches Claire finish off the bottle.  There are tears in his eyes,  stinging,  but he'll wipe them away with the back of his hand because he can't afford to have Claire see him cry.  She's torn him apart at the chest.  He's bleeding here,  standing in a growing pool of his own blood.  And she was right for it.  Claire was right,  Alo was wrong.  He could not deny it no more than he could deny himself. 

And she speaks,  and it hurts more than all of the shame  —all the embarrassment,  disgust.  She speaks and it just about fucking breaks his heart.  And he hates himself for it.  He hates how much he cares about her.  The fact that it's her words alone that inspire his bottom lip to quivering,  shaking hands rubbing at the sides of his face.  He makes a noise  —a small one.  Strangled in the pit of his chest. 

❛  I ... Okay  —okay.  You're right.  You're right.  ❛   He manages in a thick voice,  rubbing at his glassy eyes to quell the constant sting of tears.  He looks at his own feet.  He should have just walked away,  left her to her bottle of wine and cruelties.  But she was right about everything.  And he was wrong.  He missed the goddamn mark.  Grappling with a vicious urge to throw himself on the ground and beg for forgiveness.  But who does Alo really want to be forgiven by?  Where would it actually count?  His own frustration with the endless knot of feeling in his chest makes it difficult,  near impossible,  to speak.  But he does.  He does.    

❛  M'not tryin' to make you tired.  I just...  ❛   I'm scared.  I'm so scared,  Claire.  What do I do. Tell me what to do.  Tell me what to do!  Alo's trembling hand smooths over the tremble of his mouth.  Glassy eyes stare ahead,  at nothing but his own grief.   ❛ ... I'm sorry,  Claire.  I'm sorry.  ❛ 

Like clockwork,  a hard knock at the door.  Concerned.  Impatient.  Before anyone can respond,  Alo hears a little mutter of: "fuck it" before the bedroom door is swinging open.  Cee stands in the threshold,  bewildered pale blues darting from Claire to Alo  —the broken glass on the table,  the blood staining Claire's hand wine red.  Her broad hands grip the doorframe.  When she speaks,  she cries out.  Panicked. 

❛  —What's going on?  ❛

[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.

[boyeats]

"Jen, you can't just say 'I hope the whales die because they're fat.' Whales are super important. Saving the whales is, like... the ecological equivalent of whatever your favourite band is. Like, Lone Shoulder, except way bigger and more important. I even read a book about them once. Did you know -- they have super advanced centers of the brain. If they aren't around people who love them - or like, other whales who love them - their bodies collapse. Their fins droop. Their neuro-pathways degrade. It's like, really sad. Actually."

your neuro-pathways just degraded listening to that. the documentary guy drones on and on in a voice to rival every self-obsessed male teacher with nothing truly meaningful to say you've ever had, describing all the intimate secrets of the overgrown fish swimming across needy's television right now. watch your only best friend from where you lay on your side across her bed like a string of diamonds, twice as expensive and five times easier to attain. even demonstrate something like patience as you listen to her speak over the documentary she thought would make such a great study backdrop. patience like a wolf in disguise. patience which keeps your gaze on her mouth as you wonder, wonder, wonder.

❛ does science ever make you wet? ❜ smile something weaponized and defensive when she flashes a shocked expression your way. ❛ what? sorry, bill needy the science guy, i was just wondering if you actually get something out of knowing so much about the ocean's ugliest mermaids other than high fives from the nerd table and virginity. ❜ tap your pen against the notebook you've done little but doodle in, an overly detailed eye watching you from the page. ❛ come on. does it ever make you horny? does talking about sperm whales make you want to take a load yourself? ❜

[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.”

[ki11eraes]

@blccdshed required a starter.

" you know what could be a good journal title?  two masks, one motive:     double the terror, zero escape. "

[fr4sell]

take what you want from me .

tryst six venom prompts

he knew about the werewolves. when he was old enough to learn about magic and the creatures they might encounter, vampires were already a thing, when he found out that emma was a werewolf, well, it didn't put him off. his parents told him that witches and other creatures should never come into contact. because these species only wanted one thing from them, protection and someone who would be willing to give their life for them. that's what he wanted to do with her. he was willing to give his life if it was to protect her little secret and her person.

so when she told him that, a surprised look appeared on his face as he shook his head. " i can't take powers from other supernatural beings. especially if they're not witches like me. the fact that you want me to… " he paused as he looked her in the eyes. " i think you didn't understand the role of sorcerers compared to other supernatural creatures. " he didn't liked that word, creature. they were human first and foremost.

" if i'm here, and i have to serve a purpose, it's for protection. not the one where i want to protect you from everyone, even if that's what i want to do, but rather to find ways to control it. so, no. i won't take anything from you. but you can always ask me and i'll be the first to give it. " / @lupaeus.

[baarra]

INT.     A  STERILE  HOVEL  MADE  PRODIGAL,  FRESHLY  FITTED  WITH  WONTED,  SOFT  SNORES.  SAFE  IN  THE  CONFINES  OF  KNOWN  AND  ALONE.  THE  WOLF  WATCHES  A  CROSS-LEGGED  GOLDFINCH’S  NEST.  BARE  NOOK  OF  A  CABINET,  SHELVES  OF  LITTLE  MEMORY,  WHERE  DIRT  ISN’T  WELCOME  AND,  THUS,  MAUNDERS  LIGHT-FOOTED. CLOSED  STARTER  FOR  SHOSHANA  ‘SHAW’  LIEBOWITZ.

In this room,   the background surrounds him,   permitting undisturbed sleep and the shadow’s encroach:   whispered turning of year-sullied pages.     You stay your hand,   to feast with gaze and mind.     Something of their slant in this book.     How a fire lingers in its rocked pit.     Soot on your elbows:   angles to their brow and bone,   echoes in their cadence.     A light that can’t predate shadow.     Even in sleep;   especially there,   where I becomes most prominent.     The final sip of oneiric wine:   rind of I and nothing of you.     Reduced to the barest sight,   retaining the strongest tang.     Stiff to the skin.     Pine-needles for pores.     He decides this is enough.     The book   –   inanimate and obliging to hands’ wants,   as such bearing their full name   –   knocks against the gritless shelf’s edge.     There is a sound that he needn’t identify nor entreat.     It is silence and static melded into one.     Bleating peals of morning light that wake and hush at once.     They will be too much,   and then nothing at all.     Like a deep splinter in a severed finger.     Soundless,   like him,   and incensed,   unlike him.     He can already feel a glare in his periphery.     Teeth rolling his bottom lip from left to right and then,   posed sighing,   his train of thought.     ‘   Where did you get that?     Your name,   Lie-bo-witz.   ’     This time,   in their accrual of times,   his voice stays.     Beholden to the quick banquet of syllables,   wherein oblique and errant coalesce into a single name.     Unto you,   the musts fall.     Pearled trinkets for an incarnadine maw.     Nick doesn’t look at   @solidgrovnd,   still tracing the front page with his pointer.     He doesn’t want the book to close.     Yet.     ‘   From your mother,   or your father   ––   or yourself?   ’

[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.

[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.

[s0fias]

Harlow's fingers are in her hair. They're resting, waiting, tempting. Sofia considers it. She is meticulous with it, with churning over the facts in her mind.

Harlow's fingers curl. Something breaks inside Sofia. Breaks so much that she could scream. ❛ Don't. ❜ Her words aren't unkind. But her voice, and her eyes, are.

@starrstained ) starters.