#candlelight diaries

[candlelightdiaries]

Hi, my name is Ember and I’m an alcoholic (“Hi Ember”). I’ve been sober for over 2 years now and I still have no clue what the fuck I am doing. The first year was just surviving and the second year was trying to deal with all of the problems of the adult world now that I actually want to live again. Who would have thought?

Year three is going to be the year of self discovery. All of my traumas and past experiences made me turn towards the “victim mentality” and filled me with self-pity, and I don’t want to live that way. Now that I want to live and am not always 10 seconds away from taking a drink I have realized that I don’t know who the fuck I am. I have things that I do, but it never feels like me. I desperately want to know who I am and eventually grow to love that person.

In AA you learn that you have a higher power of YOUR UNDERSTANDING and that can be whatever you want it to look like, as long as it is outside of yourself and it loves you. Growing up catholic was really hard for me. I was an anxious kid who thought that god was going to send me to hell because I forgot to look both ways before crossing the street. It’s been tough for me to divorce those feelings from my new reality—my new understanding of the powers that be—but we’re getting there. I have the willingness to be willing, and that has to count for something.

I’ve always felt a pull towards witchcraft and paganism. It just seemed so cool and beautiful and I wanted to join. Well, now that I’m going through the steps again it’s time for me to really focus on what my spiritual life looks like, because without it I will drink again. I’ve decided that as of right now, witchcraft and our relationship with all that is is where I want to start. Who knows, maybe this won’t be for me. But I really want it to be.

This blog is a place where I am going to record the process of learning new things and unlearning old things. I hope that my journey through this time of discovery of self is fruitful, and maybe all of my ramblings can help someone else. If there is one thing I do have to say about reading this blog: buckle up and get ready for the wild ride and all of the emotional rollercoasters that come with it while I journey through this phase of life and try to get my shit together.

[life-spire]

[ssparksflyy]

shrek the musical has no right to slap as hard as it does

[squadron-of-damned-writes]

Chapters: 1/4 Fandom: Judge Dee Mysteries - Robert van Gulik, 薬屋のひとりごと | Kusuriya no Hitorigoto | The Apothecary Diaries (Anime) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Tao Gan (Judge Dee Mysteries) & Dee Jen-djieh, Lahan & Maomao (Kusuriya no Hitorigoto) Characters: Tao Gan (Judge Dee Mysteries), Dee Jen-djieh, Maomao (Kusuriya no Hitorigoto), Lahan (Kusuriya no Hitorigoto) Additional Tags: Murder Mystery, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions Summary:

Judge Dee and his assistant Tao Gan are left stranded in a town torn away from the rest of the world by a sudden flood. The creeping boredom is cut short when during a theatre play a dead man falls on the stage from above with no obvious fatal wounds - and it seems this is not the only dead body that has mysteriously appeared in the theatre. And if the two unlikely siblings from the capital are not part of the scheme, why are they getting involved?

Likewise Lahan and Maomao are trapped by the flood in the town. When the murder in the theatre happens to be obviously the work of a skilled poisoner, it goes without saying that they take a part in the unofficial investigation. But the two scholars - a lowly bureaucrat who makes decisions above his station, and his shady assistant - seeking alongside them are obviously not who they claim to be...

Oh, and of course, sweet potatoes are everywhere.

[weburnedquietly]

This morning, I saw the mountains.

Just for a moment—between second bell and morning formation. The fog split, and the Dolomites were there. Sharp and godless.

They looked like they were watching the Order. Not with concern. With patience. Like they’ve seen places like this burn before.

And for the first time, I thought— maybe the world isn’t as far away as they want it to feel.

Maybe it’s just on the other side of the clouds.

— Elian

[ghostvvitch]

[hisfavegirl]

Velvet Shadows - Damon Salvatore x Vampire!Reader

Summary : You had been alive for over a century, yet you still remembered the moment you first saw him—Damon Salvatore. The reckless smirk, the way his eyes lingered a second too long, like he could see through every lie you told. He had loved and lost a thousand times before, but something about you brought out the man he buried deep under blood and vengeance. You were his possession, his obsession and his redemption.

Warning : Smut +18 (MDNI), Mentioned of blood (duh of course), Feeding at each other (i guess??), Tits playing, Fingering, P in V, Unprotected sexs, Rough sexs, Edging, Dom!Damon, Size kink(?).

Damon Salvatore Masterlist.

Vampire Diaries Masterlist.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

The man’s blood still pulsed faintly on your lips as Damon stepped back, chest rising and falling with a hunger that hadn’t been satisfied by the feeding alone.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

His eyes—black with desire, with the last traces of bloodlust—locked onto yours, and in the next breath, his arms were around you. One beneath your knees, the other at your back, and you were lifted effortlessly off the forest floor.

Your breath caught, but you didn’t protest. You only clung to his neck as he moved fast—faster than human eyes could track—through the trees, deeper into the woods. The world blurred around you, shadows and leaves streaking past like smoke.

And then, the cottage appeared.

Secluded. Hidden beneath a canopy of moss-draped branches, its stone walls aged and strong, windows flickering with faint candlelight like the place itself was holding its breath. You didn’t have time to admire it—not when Damon kicked the door open with his boot and stepped inside like a man possessed.

He didn’t stop to light anything.

Didn’t speak.

He pinned you against the nearest wall with a force that made you gasp, your back hitting the cool stone, his mouth crashing into yours in a kiss that stole what little breath you had left.

It was savage—hot, frantic, soaked in the taste of shared blood and repressed need.

You groaned, fingers tangling in his hair as your lips opened wider for him, welcoming the desperate slide of his tongue. He tasted like fire and iron, and something only Damon could taste like—ancient, reckless, intoxicating.

Your hips arched into him, shameless, and he growled into your mouth, his hands sliding down your sides with purpose. When he gripped your ass, hard, you whimpered, biting at his bottom lip.

“Damon—” you whispered, already breathless, already gone.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, chest heaving, his hands still gripping you tight.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he rasped. “One look, and I forget everything else.”

“You built this place,” you murmured, trailing your fingertips down his chest. “For us.”

His jaw clenched, and something flickered in his eyes—something deeper than lust.

“You needed somewhere no one could find you. Somewhere I could have you without pretending we’re anything but what we are.”

You cupped his face with blood-warm hands, brushing your thumbs over his cheekbones, your gaze softening for a heartbeat.

“And what are we, Damon?”

He leaned in again, but this time, the kiss was slower—just as hungry, just as deep, but full of something aching. He kissed you like the world had ended and you were the only thing left.

“Danger,” he said against your lips.

You didn’t answer with words. You answered with your body, pulling him closer, grinding your hips against him, making him hiss and slam his palm against the wall beside your head. Your lips moved along his jaw, down his neck, tasting the blood still on his skin.

“I want to ruin you,” you breathed. “The way you ruin me.”

His hand tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make your lips part with a moan.

“You already do.”

And then he lifted you again, carrying you across the room, your legs wrapping around his waist. He kicked open the door to the bedroom—a space lit only by candlelight, shadows dancing across the walls.

The bed was low, wide, sheets dark and soft. When he laid you down, it wasn’t gentle. It was reverent. Urgent.

He hovered above you, his fingers trailing up your thigh, your side, your ribs.

“You looked like a goddess out there,” he whispered. “Blood on your lips. Fire in your eyes. Mine.”

“Yours,” you echoed, fingers tugging at his shirt, baring his chest to your eyes and mouth. “And you’re mine.”

He leaned down, brushing his lips to your stomach, your ribs, the underside of your breast with aching care—contrasting the wildness of his hunger with the slow, worshipful way he touched you now.

“I’ll take my time,” he said, voice dark silk. “I want to feel you come apart. Slowly. Over and over.”

And under the flickering candlelight, surrounded by silence, stone, and shadow, Damon made good on that promise.

The fire crackled somewhere in the background, but your world narrowed to the feel of Damon’s hands on your body—hot, demanding, possessive.

He pulled you into his lap without effort, like your body belonged there, like the weight of you grounding him was something he needed as much as he needed blood. Your legs straddled his thighs, your dress hitched up around your hips, and his eyes were so dark now they looked black—endless and ravenous.

He didn’t speak. He just looked at you for a long breathless second, as if memorizing the way you flushed, the way your lips trembled with anticipation.

Then he struck.

His fangs sank into your neck with a sharp, possessive bite—deep enough to make your back arch and a gasp rip from your throat. The pain was electric, but it melted into pleasure too fast, too overwhelming, and the moan that escaped your lips was pure surrender.

Your fingers clawed into his shoulders before tangling in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him growl against your skin. He sucked harder, his hands moving to your ass, gripping it roughly as he ground you down against him—forcing you to feel the hard, unrelenting evidence of how badly he wanted you.

You whimpered, the friction burning through your core, making your body jerk and tremble in his grasp.

“Damon,” you gasped, your voice shaking. “You’re—”

“Say it,” he growled into your throat, blood trickling down your skin. “Say what I’m doing to you.”

“You’re driving me insane,” you moaned, rocking your hips against him, desperate to keep up with the rhythm he set with his hands. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

Damon finally pulled back, his fangs retracting as he licked the blood from your neck, slow and deliberate. When he looked at you again, your blood was on his lips, his mouth red and glistening.

“You taste like sin,” he said, voice low and thick with heat. “Like something made to ruin me.”

He kissed you again—and you could taste yourself on him, metallic and warm, mixing with his own flavor. The kiss was deeper now, rougher, his tongue claiming yours like he couldn’t bear any space between you.

Your fingers fisted tighter in his hair, pulling again—making him groan into your mouth, his hips bucking up against you in raw, aching need. You could feel how hard he was beneath you, and he wanted you to feel it. He made sure of it with every roll of his hips, every commanding squeeze of your body against his.

“Look at me,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to stare into your eyes. “I want you to remember who owns you when you can’t think straight.”

Your breath hitched.

The way he looked at you—like you were something sacred and wicked all at once—made heat bloom low in your belly. There was no room for fear. Not with Damon. Not when he made you feel like the chaos inside you was beautiful.

“I’m yours,” you whispered, your voice trembling but certain.

He cupped your jaw, brushing his thumb across your bottom lip, his breath warm on your face.

“Damn right you are.”

And then his mouth was on yours again, kissing you until your thoughts drowned, until all that existed was the burning heat of his body under you, the power in his hands, the ache in your spine from how tightly you clung to him.

He didn’t rush.

He made you feel every second.

Every motion was deliberate, every grind of his hips a promise, every kiss an oath wrapped in fire and blood. You could feel how badly he wanted to lose control—but he didn’t. Not yet. Damon wanted you right on the edge, trembling with want, breathless and begging.

And he would keep you there, hovering on that knife’s edge of surrender—until he decided it was time to fall.

Your fangs pierced his neck with precision—clean, sharp, deliberate. The moment Damon felt you sink into him, his whole body shuddered beneath yours. A guttural groan rumbled from his chest, low and primal, as though the act of being fed on by you unraveled something deep inside him he usually kept locked away.

His hands gripped your waist hard, fingers digging into your skin.

But he didn’t stop you.

He wanted it. Needed it.

Your mouth moved greedily against his skin, drawing his blood in slow, heavy pulls as if you were drinking in something far more vital than just his life force. You could feel the way his breath slowed with every draw, how his fingers twitched with restrained urgency.

Then—rip.

Your dress was torn apart in one swift, brutal motion. Damon didn’t care about fabric. He didn’t care about patience. He just needed to feel you, to see you—bare, exposed, and his.

He growled, deep and husky, before his hand shot into your hair, gripping it tight at the nape as he yanked your mouth from his neck. Your lips were slick with his blood when he crashed his mouth into yours again—hungry, bruising, all-consuming.

You gasped into the kiss, dazed and burning, but you kissed him back just as fiercely, tasting your shared hunger on his tongue.

Then in a blur, he flipped you.

Your back hit the mattress hard, and Damon followed, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand. His weight, his presence—him—was everywhere, overwhelming in the best kind of way.

You could only watch him through hooded eyes as he looked down at your now bare chest, his gaze darkening even more.

“Perfect,” he murmured. “So fucking perfect.”

He didn’t waste time. His mouth descended on your breast, hot and demanding, and when he wrapped his lips around your nipple, your whole body arched off the bed with a strangled moan.

Your hands writhed in his grip, but he held you firm, anchoring you in place as his tongue dragged over the sensitive peak again and again, every movement making heat curl low in your belly.

“Damon—” your voice cracked, needy, breathless.

He groaned in response, the sound vibrating through your skin. He moved to your other breast, giving it the same attention—slow sucks, sharp flicks of his tongue—until your body trembled beneath him, flushed and desperate.

“You like it when I take my time?” he asked, voice like smoke against your skin.

“Yes,” you gasped, pressing your hips up into his, needing more, needing him.

“You want more?” he teased, dragging his mouth along the curve of your breast, his fangs just grazing your skin. “Tell me.”

Your lips parted, words caught between pleading and surrender. “Please. I want you. All of you.”

Damon released your wrists, only to trail his hand down your body with reverent, aching slowness. Every touch was fire. Every second, a reminder that he wasn’t just here to take—he was here to own every breathless part of you.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he whispered, his lips brushing your collarbone, his breath hot and sweet with blood. “And you’re going to love every second of it.”

And in the quiet, candlelit dark, surrounded by woods and silence, Damon did just that—bit by bit, kiss by kiss—until your body and soul were tangled in his like roots beneath the earth.

The room was thick with heat, with the scent of blood, breath, and something darker—something that curled in your gut like smoke and sin.

Damon’s body hovered above yours, a low, satisfied smirk playing on his lips. Your skin still burned where his mouth had been, and your chest rose and fell with every trembling breath. But just as you tried to catch one—

You gasped.

His fingers were suddenly there, slipping between your thighs—deft and deliberate, two of them gliding through your folds before plunging into you without warning.

Your body arched immediately off the bed, a startled, desperate moan tearing from your throat.

“God, Damon—”

His groan followed yours like a harmony of hunger. His eyes were locked on the way your body responded—watching your lips part in pleasure, your back bow in need, your thighs tremble under his firm hold.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice rough and reverent. “Already dripping for me.”

He didn’t start slow. He didn’t tease.

He set a pace—one that was punishing, relentless, the wet sounds of his fingers moving in and out of you filling the dark cottage like a siren’s song.

Your hand flew to his arm, gripping tightly, needing something to anchor you as he curled his fingers just right—just right—making your moans crack into near-whimpers.

“Fuck,” you gasped, your body shaking beneath him, your core fluttering around his fingers. “You’re—Damon—”

“I know.” His voice was low, smug, full of dark satisfaction.

He was watching you unravel, and he loved it. He dipped his head lower, trailing kisses down your chest, never once slowing the motion of his fingers as he curved them again, deeper this time—harder.

The angle made you cry out, your hips jerking off the bed, thighs spreading wider to chase the feeling. He took it as an invitation—one he’d been waiting for.

“That’s it,” he growled, his lips brushing your skin. “Open up for me. Let me see just how much you can take.”

You clenched around his fingers, hard, and the growl that ripped from his throat was nothing short of animal.

“Shit,” he hissed. “You feel that? You’re squeezing me, baby.”

Your name fell from his lips between gritted teeth as he pumped faster now, the wet, obscene rhythm a brutal contrast to the tender way his mouth moved across your skin. His mouth and hands—one devouring, the other dominating—worked in perfect sync, building the tension so tight it felt like your body might shatter.

You could feel it coming. That high. That edge. The unraveling.

“Don’t you dare come yet,” Damon said, his voice a velvet threat against your neck. “Not until I say.”

Your breath caught.

That commanding tone—his control, the way he knew you, knew your body better than you did—sent another rush of heat through you. You whimpered, desperate, trembling on the verge.

“Please,” you begged, your voice barely a whisper. “I—I can’t—”

“Oh, you will,” he growled, kissing your jaw, his breath hot. “And when I let you, you’re going to scream my name so loud the damn trees will echo it.”

His fingers curled again.

Deeper. Rougher.

You saw stars. And Damon? He never once looked away—his eyes locked on your every reaction like you were the only thing in the world that mattered and in that moment—you were.

Your cries echoed through the cabin like music made of fire and velvet, each sound pulled from the depths of you—raw, helpless, completely undone by the rhythm of Damon’s fingers as they continued plunging deep inside you.

He never slowed. Never softened.

The pace was punishing.

You were trembling under his touch, hips bucking into his hand without shame, without thought—just raw need driving every movement. The coil inside you had tightened to the point of pain, every nerve alight and screaming for release.

But Damon… Damon was calm. Focused. Watching you unravel with a predator’s gaze, every flick of his wrist deliberate.

His other hand gripped your thigh, spreading you wider, holding you still while he watched your body clench and writhe.

His jeans were still on, but the hard press of his cock straining beneath the denim hadn’t gone unnoticed—by him or you. Still, he didn’t take his own relief. He was entirely focused on yours—and on denying it.

“Don’t come yet,” he growled, voice dark and thick with lust.

You sobbed, arching again, back lifting off the bed as his fingers curled deep inside you, dragging against that spot that made your vision white out for a second.

“I—I can’t,” you gasped, eyes wide, tears clinging to your lashes. “Damon—please, I can’t hold it—”

“You will,” he snapped, his voice a whip of dominance. “You’ll hold it for me.”

You whimpered at the sheer command in his tone, your body shaking with the effort. You were so close—too close. It felt cruel. It felt divine. It felt like him.

He leaned down, his breath hot against your cheek, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“I love watching you fall apart for me,” he murmured, his fingers never slowing. “But I own your pleasure, sweetheart. You don’t come unless I say so.”

You cried out again, your body clenching around his fingers in protest, aching and swollen and soaked.

“Please,” you begged, breath hitching, your voice a broken whisper. “Please, Damon, I need it—I need to come—please.”

And then he smiled.

That wicked, beautiful smile that meant danger—and surrender. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

And with one final, brutal curl of his fingers, he growled, “Come for me.”

The permission hit you like lightning.

Your body snapped tight, then shattered. Waves of pleasure crashed over you so hard you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak—only cry his name as your climax ripped through you, a firestorm of heat and ecstasy.

Damon held you through it, fingers still deep inside, working you through every spasm, every aftershock. His other hand stroked your trembling thigh now, the gesture almost tender beneath the wreckage he’d caused.

“Good girl,” he whispered against your ear. “So fucking good for me.”

Your body melted into the mattress, limbs heavy, chest heaving. The world felt hazy, the high still pulsing in your veins like a second heartbeat.

Damon pulled his fingers from you slowly, watching the way your body fluttered around nothing now, still desperate for him even after he’d wrung every drop of pleasure from you.

He brought his fingers to his lips, tasting you with a groan that was half reverence, half promise. And even though you were boneless, spent, and shaking, you knew this night was far from over.

The air between you crackled—thick with heat, history, and the kind of love that only vampires could sustain for nearly a decade without ever burning out.

You were still panting from your release, the aftershocks making your limbs tremble, your body sensitized and open. Damon hovered above you, shirt long discarded, chest rising and falling with every heavy breath, eyes stormy and locked onto your face.

And then—you saw it.

The moment he slid his jeans down and freed himself.

You gasped, just like always.

No matter how many times you’d been here—beneath him, around him—you still felt your breath catch at the sheer sight of him. Your thighs instinctively pressed together, a nervous tremor running up your spine.

Damon’s hand was wrapped lazily around the thick length of his cock, and he gave himself a slow, deliberate stroke, groaning as he watched you take him in.

“Still gets you every time,” he muttered, a crooked smile pulling at his lips, that signature Damon smugness softening into something more reverent as he saw the way your eyes widened.

You licked your lips unconsciously. “It’s just…” You let out a small, shaky laugh. “I forget how… big you are until you take your jeans off.”

He chuckled, voice rough and deep. “Ten years and you still look at me like I’m going to break you.”

You swallowed, gaze flicking between his face and his cock again. “You do. Every time.”

That made something primal flash in his eyes.

He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, before dragging his lips slowly to your ear.

“Yeah?” he whispered. “And yet you always beg for it.”

Your skin burned, and your body—despite how wrecked it already felt—ached again.

He nudged your legs apart with his knees, settling between them, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His cock rested against your inner thigh, heavy and hot, and the way it twitched against your skin made your breath hitch.

Damon stared down at you now, no smirk on his face, just intensity.

“I’d never hurt you,” he murmured. “Even when I make you cry from pleasure. Even when I’m deep enough you forget your own name. You trust me, don’t you?”

You nodded instantly. “More than anything.”

That got you a kiss—slow, deep, a claiming.

“Good,” he murmured into your mouth. “Because I need to feel you around me. I need to hear you fall apart again. I need to remind you that no matter how many years pass, your body still belongs to me.”

His hand guided himself to your entrance, rubbing the thick head of his cock along your soaked folds, teasing—not out of cruelty, but because he wanted to savor it. To make you feel every second.

You shivered beneath him, already gripping his arms, your breath catching again as the anticipation built.

And Damon, ever the one in control, simply smiled.

“Deep breath, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice low and dark. “Because I’m not stopping once I’m inside you.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before Damon was there—inside you.

He sank into you with one long, slow, devastating thrust that filled you completely, your body arching up into his, a gasp tearing from your throat.

“Fuck,” Damon groaned, his voice gravel and thunder, fingers digging into your waist like he needed to anchor himself or he’d fall apart. “You’re still so goddamn tight.”

You whimpered, head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut at the overwhelming stretch, the way he split you open like the very first time. He was always too much—too thick, too deep, too perfect—and yet you craved it more than blood.

“Ten years,” he growled low in your ear, hips still pressed against yours, unmoving for a moment as he let you adjust. “Ten years of ruining you—and you still fit around me like this.”

He kissed you hard then, like he needed to take your breath just to breathe himself. Your lips opened for him, instinctual, needy, and the moan you let out was swallowed by his mouth.

And then, without warning, he pulled back—and slammed into you.

You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders, body jerking with the force of it. He didn’t give you a second to recover. Another thrust. And another. His pace was brutal, purposeful, setting a rhythm that had your mind spinning and your body shivering beneath him.

He grinned wickedly, loving the way you came undone so easily for him, even after all these years.

“Take it,” he rasped, voice strained from holding back. “You know you were made for me.”

You tried to answer, but the only sound you could make was a broken moan.

That’s when his fingers came—two of them, slipping between your lips. “Open,” he commanded.

You obeyed without question.

He slid them into your mouth, deep onto your tongue, groaning at the sight of your lips wrapped around them. “Suck,” he ordered, voice low and dark. “Pretend it’s my cock.”

You whined around his fingers, eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, your whole body moving with every hard snap of his hips. His rhythm didn’t falter—deep, punishing, claiming.

“Look at you,” he muttered, staring down at you with reverence and heat. “Still my perfect girl. My good slut.”

Your heart stuttered at the words, and your mouth sucked harder on his fingers, your body responding to every thrust, every growl, every touch like it was coded in your blood to obey him.

And maybe it was.

Because no matter how many nights passed, how many times he pulled these sounds from your throat—you were always his. And you always wanted more.

Your vision blurred as Damon drove into you, again and again, never faltering, never slowing. Every thrust was brutal and precise—intentional—his cock hitting that devastating spot inside you with merciless accuracy. You cried out, loud and desperate, the sound echoing off the walls of the cottage as your body convulsed around him.

Your hands clutched at his shoulders like lifelines, but your grip kept slipping, your mind too hazy to hold on to anything but the way he felt. You were unraveling beneath him—bones trembling, breath caught, brain unable to focus on anything but the rhythm of his hips crashing into yours.

“Damon—” you whimpered, but it came out broken, drowned in the thick, overwhelming pleasure that had taken over everything.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t ease up.

Instead, he growled—low and rough, a sound so predatory it vibrated through your chest—and looked down at you with eyes blown wide and wild.

“That’s it,” he hissed, watching your every reaction like he was drinking it in. “Look at you. Falling apart on me.”

Your eyes fluttered back, mouth slack around his fingers still resting between your lips. Your tongue reflexively swirled around them, still sucking, obedient and wrecked.

“Fuck,” he groaned, a shudder ripping through him as he saw your eyes roll back, pupils blown wide with pleasure. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me right now.”

He thrust harder—deeper—and your back arched sharply, your moan muffled by his fingers. Your thighs quaked around his waist, your body so tight around him it drove him half-mad with need.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. You were completely consumed—by him, by the fire he lit in your veins, by the love that pulsed through every rough thrust, every growled word.

“You love this,” he murmured, voice thick with dominance and something dangerously close to awe. “Being under me. Taking me. Letting me ruin you.”

You nodded weakly, mouth still full, and he smirked at the sight.

“My perfect slut,” he muttered, pulling his fingers from your lips only to replace them with his mouth—kissing you hard and hungry, tasting the heat he’d built in you like it fed him.

You moaned into his mouth as he drove forward again, harder, unrelenting.

“You’re gonna fall apart,” he growled against your lips, a promise and a warning. “And when you do, you’ll say my name like it’s the only thing you’ve ever known.”

And the terrifying, beautiful thing was. He was right.

Damon didn’t let up—not even for a second. His rhythm stayed merciless, a brutal, pounding cadence that made your body tremble beneath him, your breath catching on every harsh, perfect thrust. But then—he shifted. A growl rumbled deep in his throat, and before you could register what was happening, he hooked his arms beneath your thighs and lifted—bringing your legs up to rest on his shoulders.

The new angle made you scream.

Your eyes flew wide as his cock drove deeper, impossibly so, hitting a spot inside you that made your entire body seize in pleasure.

“Fuck yes,” Damon hissed through clenched teeth, staring down at you with dark, stormy eyes. “Look at you.”

You barely could. Your hands clutched at the sheets, your back arched high off the mattress, mouth open in a silent moan as your brain struggled to process just how deep he was now.

Then his eyes flicked lower, to your belly, and his expression darkened with something that looked dangerously close to reverence.

“Look at that,” he whispered, and you followed his gaze.

There—pressed firm against the skin of your lower stomach—was the clear outline of him.

The sight made Damon groan, a raw, almost unholy sound. He slid one hand down, spread his fingers wide, and pressed lightly on the bulge. “You feel that, sweetheart?” he murmured, voice rough with wonder and possession. “That’s me. Deep inside where no one else will ever be.”

You whimpered, eyes glossing over from how full you felt, how overwhelming the pressure was—how much you loved it.

He didn’t wait.

He leaned forward, your legs still trapped against his shoulders, and slammed into you. You cried out, body arching hard, tears welling at the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity of it.

“Damon!” you gasped, breathless and breaking.

“I know, baby,” he gritted, jaw clenched, the muscles in his arms flexing as he hugged your legs tighter against him. “I know. But you can take it. You always take it.”

His pace turned feral—deep, rough, relentless. Every thrust sent shockwaves through your body, lighting you up from the inside out. You clung to him in any way you could, needing something to ground you as your thoughts scattered and your vision blurred.

“You were made for this,” he growled, staring down at where your bodies joined. “Made for me.”

You couldn’t form words anymore, only broken gasps and his name over and over—like a prayer. And Damon? He kept going, kept slamming into you like he was trying to bury himself in your very soul.

Damon’s breath caught in his throat the moment he felt you start to tighten around him—so impossibly tight, pulsing, clenching, dragging him deeper with every desperate flutter of your walls.

“Shit,” he hissed, his voice raw and shaking with restraint. “You’re—” he groaned through his teeth, hugging your legs tighter around his shoulders, as if grounding himself through your body, “—milking me, sweetheart.”

You could barely hear him through the ringing in your ears, your body burning from the inside out as the pleasure built with terrifying force. His hand slid down again, fingers splayed wide over your lower belly, pressing just enough to feel every inch of him moving inside you.

“Right here,” he whispered darkly, staring down at the place where your bodies met. “You feel me? Deep inside. That’s mine.”

Your eyes rolled back as he gave a slow, hard thrust—just one—and it sent a shock through you like a lightning strike. But then he changed.

Without warning, Damon picked up the pace—savage, brutal, breathtaking. Your scream ripped from your throat, a sound that wasn’t just pleasure, but surrender. Your hands clawed helplessly at the sheets, at him, at anything that could keep you anchored.

“Damon—!” you sobbed, breath broken, chest heaving. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, leaning forward until your bodies were pressed flush, your legs crushed between your chests as he kept thrusting, kept chasing that place where you shatter. “You always take me. Every time.”

You gasped, overwhelmed, your release crashing into you like a tidal wave you never saw coming. It was blinding, searing—so intense it almost hurt.

Your body convulsed, trembling violently beneath him, every nerve ending exploding as the pleasure wrecked you. You cried out again, voice hoarse and cracked, barely breathing as Damon held your body still with a feral kind of strength.

“God, look at you,” he muttered, voice trembling. “Falling apart under me—so beautiful, so perfect when you come for me.”

His hand didn’t leave your belly—still pressing, still feeling how deep he was even as you convulsed around him. And all he could do was curse again, jaw clenched, eyes burning with something deeper than lust—something close to awe.

Because even after a decade of having you—ruining you, worshiping you, loving you—he still broke with you every single time.

And in that moment, as he watched your body twist in pleasure under him, he knew. No matter how many times he took you apart— He’d always be there to put you back together.

Damon didn’t stop. Not when your body trembled beneath him. Not when you gasped his name, already undone. And certainly not when your lashes fluttered, dazed and barely focused, your lips parted and glistening with the echo of your last cry.

He was chasing his own release now—driven, relentless, his movements wild and brutal as if something primal had snapped loose inside him.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he rasped, voice heavy with grit and smoke.

You couldn’t speak. Only nod, barely. A breathless, soundless moan escaped you as his hips snapped into yours again—deep, fast, and devastating.

He glanced down at you, his lips curving into a dark, possessive smirk.

“Look at that face…” Damon chuckled low, his voice like gravel and silk. “So cockdrunk and sweet—like you were made just to take me.”

You whined when he shifted his hips just slightly—and then slammed into that spot again, that devastating place inside you that shattered every thought you had left.

Your scream echoed through the cabin, high and helpless. “Damon!”

That name—your voice—broke him.

He grunted, hard, and his hands tightened their grip on your hips like he needed to anchor himself or risk flying apart. “That’s it,” he groaned, slamming into you again, and again, every thrust faster, rougher, more erratic. “Scream for me.”

You couldn’t stop. Couldn’t even think anymore. The pressure, the rhythm, the heat—it was too much. Your body shook beneath his, too sensitive after your last release, your cries dissolving into choked sobs of pleasure.

Damon leaned closer, forehead pressed to yours, sweat-slicked skin trembling.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he growled, almost like a threat, almost like a promise. “You want that, don’t you? Want to feel me deep—ruining you.”

You nodded frantically, lips brushing his. “Please…”

And that was all it took.

With a groan torn from the depths of his chest, Damon buried himself to the hilt—thrust once, twice—and then stilled, his entire body trembling as he spilled into you, deep and hot. His head fell against your shoulder, fangs grazing your skin as he exhaled your name like it was the only thing anchoring him to this world.

You both lay there, trembling, tangled, ruined.

And as his fingers traced your cheek—gentle now, reverent—he whispered into your skin: “You’re mine. Always.”

Tag List : @danytar @julessworldd @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @giirlinblack @searatarg @vaelry @callsignwidow @hayleythecannibal @ceoofglytchell @ashblooddragons @laedeviour @venusbyline

[writingpandagoth]

Oh my...I don't know who was the anonymous that requested the diary story but it brought happy tears to my eyes 🥺 It's such a beautiful story, favourite already.

If it's possible I want to request too a fluffy and romantic story please?

Reader and Severus, both professors. At the start of their dating, Severus doesn't show much affection to not draw attention but sometimes not even when they are alone. Reader just wants simple pure things like holding hands, kiss his forehead, etcétera. at least when they are alone. The idea came to me because I was listening to a song called 'Simplemente Tú' by Cristian Castro that my mother was listening :3

Of course! This actually came quite easily almost like a deep breath.

I hope you like it.

Something Small

It started with a shared library table.

Not in some grand, candlelit way. Just two professors passing each other in the Restricted Section enough times to eventually stop pretending it was coincidence.

You taught Defense. He taught Potions. Your hours were opposite, your syllabi unrelated—but the subjects you read overlapped in all the right places: obscure counter-hexes, lost potion formulations, wartime field research.

The first few weeks, it was only glances. Then nods.

Then one evening—late, long after dinner, when the library was quiet enough to hear parchment shift—he spoke.

“You’ve been working through the Jessen archives backwards.”

You looked up from your notes. “So?”

“They make more sense chronologically.”

You tilted your head. “Not if you’re trying to trace which principles were disproven. Reading the failures first is more efficient.”

He stared at you. Then blinked.

“Hm.”

And that was the first time Severus Snape sat down beside you willingly.

From there, it became a rhythm.

He’d grumble when you took his usual quill from the supply tray. You’d roll your eyes when he restructured your marginalia. He never corrected your logic, though—just challenged it. And he always returned your books in perfect condition.

He was sharp, of course. Brilliant, difficult, constantly skimming five steps ahead. But he listened when you spoke. Reallylistened.

It became easier. Comfortable, in the way that only happens when someone matches your mind instead of your voice.

It wasn’t until the first frost of the year that it changed.

You’d just returned a stack of shared research to the library when he appeared beside you in the corridor—silent as always.

He looked... uncomfortable. Not angry. Just like he was preparing to walk into a fire of his own making.

You waited.

“I—” he started, then stopped. Glanced away. Back again.

“I was wondering if—” He cleared his throat. “If you’d like to... have dinner with me.”

The pause was brutal. His expression didn’t change, but you could feel how tightly he was holding himself still. Like he’d already decided this was going to end in humiliation.

You smiled. Just a little.

“I’d like that.”

He didn’t breathe for two full seconds. Then a tiny nod. Almost imperceptible.

“Good,” he said, like it was a spell he’d just successfully cast for the first time. “Good.”

The first dinner was strange, in a lovely way. He was stiff, awkward, clearly more comfortable with cauldrons than candlelight—but he tried. He brought a book he thought you’d like. He sat close, but didn’t touch you. His hands stayed in his lap the whole time.

You thought it was endearing.

You thought: this could become something.

And it did.

Weeks passed. Meals shared. Late-night conversations that began with theory and ended with silence that wasn’t uncomfortable. The kind of silence that settles.

Eventually, he kissed you.

It was late. You’d walked back from dinner. Neither of you had said much. But at your door, he hesitated—and for once, didn’t retreat.

He kissed you like it was something he’d never done before. Or maybe like he had, but never when it mattered.

You kissed him back. Softly. Slowly.

And when he stepped back, his voice was almost a whisper.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You nodded. Smiling. Heart full of quiet hope.

But in the days that followed, that hope started to strain.

—

Dating Severus Snape wasn’t a whirlwind. It was measured. Cautious. Quiet.

He always knocked before entering your quarters, never assumed physical closeness, and never touched you unless you initiated it first.

Not that he was cold—he wasn’t. Not really. He listened when you spoke. Remembered things you said, even in passing. When you joked about craving blackberry jam, there was a jar of it on your desk the next morning. No note. Just there.

But touch? Affection?

It stayed locked behind the same walls he always kept around himself.

And at first, you didn’t push.

You told yourself he needed time. That he wasn’t used to this—being wanted for more than his mind or his title. Maybe he didn’t know how to be vulnerable. Maybe you just had to wait.

But waiting started to hurt.

Like the night he walked you back from a faculty dinner. The moon was high, the castle quiet. You were tipsy on wine and warmth, and when you reached the door to your quarters, you turned to him with a hopeful look.

You reached for his hand and he stepped back.

Not in fear. Not even discomfort. Just... distance.

“There’s a journal I meant to finish,” he said, already retreating. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then he was gone.

You stood in the doorway with your hand still half-raised and something inside you wilted.

It wasn’t about sex. It wasn’t about passion. It was the little things.

You wanted to hold his hand while reading. Kiss his forehead after a long day. Tuck your fingers into his hair while you talked about students and syllabi and the thousand little things that made up your days.

You didn’t want grand gestures. Just... presence.

And he didn’t give it.

Even when you were alone, he seemed to resist being touched. You brushed his fingers once while reaching for a book and he jerked away—muttering something about ink smudges.

You laughed it off but that night, lying alone in bed, your throat felt tight.

You didn’t cry.

But you stared at the ceiling and thought, Is this enough?

--

It happened late one night in his quarters.

You’d been grading beside him, your legs tucked beneath you on the old sofa he never quite made comfortable. The fire had burned low, and your eyes were starting to blur from too many red quill marks.

He hadn’t spoken in a while—just scratched notes onto a parchment in that sharp, efficient script of his.

You yawned. He glanced up.

“You’re tired.”

You shrugged. “So are you.”

He didn’t argue. Just set his quill down with a soft click, leaned back into the cushions with a long, quiet sigh. His eyes closed, head tipping slightly toward the armrest.

And then—then—he reached out.

His hand brushed over your knee. Hesitant. Light. Like he didn’t quite trust himself to complete the gesture.

But he left it there. For maybe ten seconds.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. You just breathed, afraid that even shifting would scare it away.

You turned toward him slightly, ready to thread your fingers through his—

But his hand slipped away.

He stood abruptly. “I need to check the cauldron,” he muttered. “I left it steeping too long.”

He was gone before you could say a word.

You sat there alone, blinking, your skin still tingling where he’d touched you.

It was something. A crack in the armor.

But it had closed again before you could see what was behind it.

—

The silence between you had grown too loud to ignore.

Not angry silence. Not tense. Just... hollow.

Like a room where something used to live.

You hadn’t touched him in three days.

Not for lack of wanting. You still looked at him the same way—still met him for tea in his quarters, still spoke about staff meetings and students and potion mishaps. But every time your hand drifted near his, every time you leaned in just slightly—he pulled away.

Not with malice. Just reflex. And each time, it scraped something raw.

Tonight, the scrape bled.

You were sitting across from him in his quarters, a mostly untouched cup of tea growing cold between your hands.

He was writing something—of course he was. Always writing, always focused, always just slightly beyond reach. You watched the way his brow creased. The way his hand moved with intent. How he didn’t even notice your silence.

You set your cup down. Softly. He didn’t look up.

“Severus.”

Still writing. “Yes?”

You swallowed.

Then, quietly—too quietly: “Do you actually want this?”

His quill stopped. The scratch of ink against parchment went still.

He looked up at you. Not confused. Not surprised.

Just... still.

You continued before your courage ran dry.

“Because sometimes I wonder if I’m just convenient. If this—us—is something you agreed to but didn’t really want.”

His lips parted slightly, but no words came.

You let the silence settle.

“I’m not asking for much,” you said, voice soft but firm.

“I don’t need flowers or sonnets or some grand romantic gesture. I just want your hand in mine. I want to touch your face without you flinching. I want to kiss your forehead at the end of a long day. That’s it.”

His eyes were locked on yours now. Intense. Unreadable.

“And it doesn’t have to be in public. I know what people are like. But when we’re alone... I want to feel like I’m allowed to love you.”

That last word nearly broke you and it did something to him.

He looked like he’d stopped breathing. Like the truth had finally hit somewhere deep.

“I’m not angry,” you added, almost whispering. “I’m just tired. Of wondering if I’m asking for something you don’t want to give.”

You stood then. Not in a storm. Just... done.

“I’m going to bed.”

You paused at the door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. If you want to.”

And then you left. Again you didn’t cry. Not at first.

You made it back to your quarters, changed into something soft and worn, and curled up on the corner of the bed with a cup of tea you didn’t drink.

You sat there. For hours.

Waiting.

Not that you expected him to come storming after you. That wasn’t his style. He wasn’t one for dramatic reconciliations or impassioned pleas in candlelit hallways. You knew that.

But part of you still hoped.

That he’d knock, just once. That you’d open the door and he’d be standing there—awkward and stiff, maybe, but there.

That he’d reach for you.

Just once.

But the door never opened. The corridor stayed silent.

And as the hours passed, something inside you started to break—not with rage or bitterness, but a slow, heavy ache. The kind that comes from realizing you might love someone who doesn’t know how to love you back.

Not the way you need.

You curled into yourself tighter, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, the fire flickering low. Every creak in the floor made you lift your head. Every shadow outside your window made your breath catch.

But he didn’t come.

And eventually, your heart whispered something you didn’t want to hear.

Maybe he doesn’t feel it the same.

Maybe this was a mistake.

You laid down, face pressed into the pillow, eyes wide open in the dark.

And for the first time since it began, you truly considered the possibility that Severus Snape didn’t want to be loved.

At least, not by you.

—

It wasn’t the next morning.

It wasn’t even the one after that.

You’d nearly convinced yourself it was over—quietly, without drama, like so many things Severus left behind. Not with cruelty. Just... absence.

You still saw him at meetings. Still nodded across the staff table. He gave you nothing to read. No coldness. No warmth. Just the same unreadable stillness you’d once found fascinating—and now couldn’t bear.

By the third night, you stopped hoping for a knock.

And then on the fourth, it came.

Soft. Two raps.

You froze, mug half-raised, blanket pulled around your shoulders.

It came again.

When you opened the door, he was standing there. Drenched from the rain—hood down, hair clinging to his cheekbones, robes dark and soaked through.

He didn’t say anything. Just... looked at you.

You opened the door wider.

He stepped in, dripping and tense, eyes never quite leaving yours. He stood in the center of your quarters like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, his coat, his feelings.

You closed the door behind him.

“Severus—”

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said.

Your breath caught.

He was still soaked. Still stiff. But there was something in his voice—raw, like he’d cracked himself open just enough to let you see inside.

“I didn’t come because I didn’t know what to say,” he continued, voice low and tight. “And the more time passed, the more I thought maybe... it was too late.”

You stepped toward him, slow.

“I told myself you didn’t mean it,” he said. “That you were tired. Or angry. Or exaggerating.”

He looked down at his hands.

“And then I thought... what if you weren’t?”

You watched his throat work through the swallow.

“I’ve never been good at being wanted,” he said. “And I’ve never let anyone love me without a price. I don’t know how to be soft without feeling like I’m going to break.”

You took another step.

“Then let me be soft,” you whispered. “You don’t have to know how. Just let me.”

His breath shuddered.

And for the first time, he reached for you.

Slowly, trembling slightly, he lifted your hand in his—and pressed it to his chest.

Not possessive. Not desperate.

Just real.

His heart beat hard beneath your palm.

You moved closer, your other hand rising to brush the wet strands of hair from his forehead.

He didn’t pull away.

You leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his temple. Then to the center of his brow.

His eyes closed.

And you felt him—truly felt him—breathe into it.

When you pulled back, he didn’t let go of your hand.

“May I stay?” he asked.

You nodded, tears prickling your eyes.

He didn’t say more. He didn’t have to.

You didn’t ask him why he was trembling.

You just pulled him gently toward the bed, guiding him by the hand he still hadn’t let go of. Your fingers stayed laced, even as you moved—like the physical connection was the only thing keeping him tethered.

And maybe it was.

He sat on the edge of the mattress first, eyes scanning the room like he was still half-convinced he didn’t belong in it.

You knelt before him.

Unbuttoned his wet coat. Slid it off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. You unfastened his cuffs, rolled them carefully, your fingertips brushing his wrists.

He watched you the whole time, silent, not tense—but not relaxed either. Not yet.

When you were done, you reached for his hand again.

He let you take it.

You crawled into bed first, tugging him with you, and he followed without resistance. When you lay back and opened your arms, he hesitated just a second—then came down slowly, one arm sliding under your neck, the other draping across your waist.

You pulled him closer.

He buried his face against your shoulder.

And finally—finally—you both breathed.

No words. No apologies. No questions.

Just warmth.

His legs tangled with yours, socked feet brushing against your calves. One of your hands threaded into his hair—carefully, gently, like something sacred. He didn’t flinch.

He sighed.

It was so quiet. But you felt it like a release against your skin.

Your fingers stroked through the dark strands again, over and over, and you felt his body begin to soften. His grip on you loosened—not in fear, but in trust.

You tilted your head and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But his hand, resting on your ribs, gave the lightest squeeze.

“I don’t need much,” you whispered. “Just this. Just you.”

His voice was muffled when it came.

“You have me.”

You closed your eyes.

And for the first time since this began, you believed it.

—

Severus didn’t become soft overnight.

He didn’t wake up wrapped around you like he belonged there. He didn’t suddenly start reaching for your hand in public or kiss you without thought. That wasn’t how he was built.

But the trying was unmistakable.

The next morning, he woke before you—quietly untangling himself from your limbs and moving through your quarters like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to touch.

When you opened your eyes, he was in the kitchen, clumsily trying to figure out your kettle.

He’d made tea. The way you liked it. No sugar, just a bit of cinnamon.

He didn’t say anything when he handed it to you—just watched the way your fingers curled around the mug. And when you reached up, brushed his hand with yours in thanks—he didn’t pull away.

His jaw tensed, slightly. But he let it happen.

That week, he still didn’t hold your hand in the hallways. Still kept a respectful distance when students passed.

But behind closed doors?

You noticed the pauses.

The way he’d hover just a second longer before pulling away from a hug. How his hand would twitch slightly when yours brushed his, like he was on the edge of reaching back—but hadn’t yet convinced himself it was safe.

Once, he brushed your cheek with the back of his fingers while you were reading beside him.

It was so gentle you nearly missed it.

When you looked up, surprised, he blinked like he hadn’t realized he’d done it.

“Was that... alright?” he asked.

You smiled.

“Yes.”

A few days later, you came back to your quarters after class and found something sitting on your desk.

Not a letter. Not a gift.

Just a small bundle of dried flowers—simple, earthy. Not vibrant. Not extravagant.

But intentional.

You picked them up gently, turning them in your fingers. They were carefully tied with twine. Pressed between them, a small folded slip of parchment.

His handwriting was sharp as always. Barely more than a breath.

I saw these and thought of you. I know I don’t always reach first. I’m trying. I want to try.

Your heart clenched.

He didn’t need to say more.

Later that night, he knocked on your door like always. And when you opened it—he reached for you first.

Awkward. Hesitant. But real.

His hand in yours. Just holding.

Not for show. Not for proof.

Just to feel.

And you knew then: this was love.

Not loud. Not easy.

But becoming.

[echantedtoon]

Lmao, so this one is going to be a crazy!

Reader who in fun tries to summon a demon with her friends and ends up proposing a marriage to the demon in joke. Nothing happens. But as soon as her friends left and she is left cleaning there, the demon actually appears and accepts her offer and refuses to leave. The demon is serious about the proposal and considers her his wife. She eventually gives and by time they do adjust and actually end up falling for each other??? (Btw, the demon is only visible to those he wishes to see him. So whenever reader goes to work he accompanies her.)

(you can choose any one between Kokushibo or Akaza to write for this. And I'm sorry if it's too much to ask or causes any issue-)

HERE YOU GO!!

(warning for demon summoning if that makes you uncomfortable. I just made up some stuff for this based off video games where that happened hope that's ok.)

"Let's summon a demon!"

A thunderstorm rolled across the sky that night. The sun was just setting over the horizon with the last few rays of daylight disappearing but it was hard to tell when the dark storm clouds took over the sky and claimed them as their own. Thunder shaking the lanes of the windows and lightning sounded off like an angry whip from whatever deity was angrily stomping around the clouded skies, lighting up the sky and city below for nothing but a brief second.

It would've been absolutely dark if you hadn't lit up a few candles inside the comfy room and placed them on the table to light up the room. The warm light comforting against the scary night sky that just appeared as the last few daylights were chased away. The candlelight was pretty but you might be asking yourself one question. Why are you using candles to light up the room when you can just turn on the light switch on the wall or use a flashlight like a normal person?

Well because it wasn't your idea. It was your friend's. 

If it were up to you, your bedroom light would've been on in an instant and you four wouldn't be sitting here in the dark. But as another thunder clap shook the sky outside, her face had scrunched up into a mischievous grin wide enough to let the other three ladies around her know that she had come up with a devious idea. It started when of your friends said that they were bored during the usual sleep over activities and so you suggested watching a scary movie instead! 

"How about The Death Book?"

"What's it about?"

"It's about this girl who finds this blank diary and everything she writes in it becomes true! It turns out the diary is possessed by a demon who becomes obsessed with her and grants her wishes with horrible twists!"

That's when your most devious friend gotten that look before hijacking the convo. "I have a better idea! Y/n, you have any candles?"

"Only scented candles. Why?"

"That'll work! Go get them all and we'll do something that's actually thrilling!"

You had no idea what she was talking about but decided to humor her and go get them and matches she asked for. You had a few scented candles collecting up space in your closet, most were Christmas gifts you were just planning on regifting that year anyways since you never really used them. But you were curious about what your friend was up too so you grabbed up all the bars, the different scents making your nose snort, and brought them out to everyone watching you take them out of your closet and plopping them down on your bed. Your friend then proceeded to grab a glass jar containing a 'holiday sugar cookie' scented white candle, lit it, and then got up to turn off the lights and ask you to close the curtains. 

Oh! She wanted to do the classic ghost story telling in the dark game! Nope. As soon as you turned around and you along with your other two friends looked at her, the statement left her mouth.

"Let's summon a demon!"

The three of you stared at her and her smile lit up by the scented candle, a nice scent of sugar cookies in the air. The only sounds being the thunder still rumbling outside. Eventually one of you broke the weird silence.

"You mean like...Use a ouija board? That's something everyone does at sleepovers-"

"No! I meant actually summon a demon!," she corrected excitedly clenching a fist!

"Uh..Have you lost your dam mind?"

"Oh come on! We all know that ghosts and stuff don't exist anyways!" She waved a hand dismissively. "We've tried using a ouija board since we were ten but nothing ever happened so why not try taking it up a notch!"

"Because it sounds like a waste of time." You deadpanned raising a brow. "Why go through all the effort to do something when we already KNOW that it's just stupid Hollywood stuff?"

"For the thrill of it!" You three looked at each other. Two of you having bored looks while the third looked worried. "Come on! Just this once! And if nothing happens I'll pay for two pizzas from that pizza place we all like!"

"...Throw in those chicken tenders and a couple sodas and you have a deal," your bored friend bluntly stated.

"DEAL!"

"I don't know.." Your friend that looked worried frowned. "This is how a bunch of horror stories start. What if something really happens?"

"PSH. It won't. If nothing happened when we used a ouija board then we got nothing to worry about!"

"And you just magically happen to know how to summon a demon how?"

"Not just a demon!" Her hand pointed up as she grinned. "A Yokai!"

"A yo-..What?"

"A Yokai! Or oni if you prefer to call it that instead! It's a Japanese spirit!"

"We know what that is! And you happen to know that how?"

"During my culture studies at school I was studying the local folklore and stumbled onto an old legend of the area! They say that a night monster used to roam the lands and strike down people every full moon until a shrine was put up for him. It's still there now! I visited it during a school trip!" She explained excitedly. "I did an interview with the caretaker for my extra credit report and it turns out his family's descendants of the shrine maidens that used to be there!"

"That's good and all but that still doesn't answer my question."

Your friend groaned loudly and slumped her shoulders with an eye roll. "He said the shrine maidens used to have a symbiotic relationship with the specific oni. They'd perform a ritual once a year on a new moon or full moon to summon him and leave him really good offerings. If he liked it enough he might grant you something in return!"

"And he told you how to summon this thing?"

"Yeah because he didn't believe in it. I don't either since ghosts and goblins only exist in books and movies. But what's the harm? If nothing happens I'm buying everyone food and we can have a good laugh if we do happen to summon something we might get a wish granted! Whaddya say?"

There was more silence from you three until your bored friend sighed and rolled her eyes from where she sat. "Fine I guess. Sounds like a win win situation. And I wouldn't mind getting an A on my next math exam."

You sighed. "Alright. Let's just get this over with."

"That's the spirit! But first thing's first!.. Does anyone know if it's a new or full moon tonight?"

Your nervous friend, who still looked nervous, had to pull out her phone and look it up online. The glow of the screen making her face light up in the dark as the thunder still rang out and the first few raindrops began hitting the roof of your home.

"Full moon b-b-but does it count if the storm is blocking out the sky?"

"He only told me it has to be a full of new moon, not that you had to see the moon. We're also gonna  need right white candles to represent the right moon phases, something red to draw the symbols in, and an offering from each of us that has some kind of connection to our wishes!" Her eyes lit up in excitement. "Let's try it out!"

If it got you free food and your rowdiest friend to be quiet, then you weren't going to complain. So you four got to work. A friend found an extra red lipstick when she dug out her bag and like you said before, you had a bunch of scented candles you weren't using....but that begs the question.

"Does scented candles even count?" You gazed down at two white scented candles with the scents labeled 'fresh morning snow' and 'shortbread blast'. 

"He just said that the candles had to be white, not that they couldn't be scented."

"Yeah. But there's another problem. I only have seven white candles. .." Your eyes looked around the mini candle collection. The others were different colors like the red one that smelt like cinnamon and the purplish-black one labeled 'midnight lilacs'. Eventually you found a glimmer of white in the limited darkness with only your phone to see, and pulled out a candle that was half white half brown labeled 'chocolate and vanilla delight'. "I got a brown and white one. Does that count?"

"We're gonna have to make due with it. Well just put the white half facing the center and maybe that'll help."

Well if that's all you had then you four really were going to have to make due with what you had on hand. One friend helped you cleared up space in your room at least a yard and a half clear, while your devious friend drew red lipstick marks onto your floor and the fourth began placing the candles in a circle around her lighting them up as she went until both stepped away and you four were left looking down at the circle of eight candles and three symbols in the center of them. Lightning clashed outside behind the curtains barely lighting up the room but you managed to make out three words written in Japanese kanji in red lipstick.

Upper. Moon. And One.

You didn't know what that meant but it was ominous in your eyes. The room smelt far too heavy with the pretty scents of sugar cookies, vanilla, daisies, and a few other scents. It was overwhelming and one of you snorted from it all.

"Dam. It smells like someone spilt the entire isle of Fabreath from Wallace-Market in here." She waved a hand before pinching her nose and turning to her. "So what now?"

"Now we put down an offering related to what we want to wish for? Like if you wanted to wish for a million dollars you put down like some rare collector coins or something! Just look around and see what you got!"

While the others looked through their bags, you mindlessly searched around the room for something meaningless you could just throw meaninglessly into the circle. Your eyes gazed over at your jewelry box...and you shrugged. Why not? You had a pair of thick hooped silver earrings your uncle gave you for your birthday last year. They were even real silver, just cheap copper ones painted to look silver. You never wore them anyways so they'd be perfect for this. You opened up the lid narrowing your eyes into a squint. Despite the light of your phone, it was hard to see in the dark. Your hand moved things around inside the box. Old necklaces and things jingling until you saw them. Ah! There they were! Right next to your great grandparents' wedding rings. Now THOSE were actually worth a lot. Real gold and studded with real diamonds. You inherited them box along with their old jewelry box but that didn't matter right now. You wanted the useless tacky earrings next to them. Even now most of the shiny silver paint had peeled off revealing the cheap copper hoops underneath.

"C'mon Y/n! Hurry up! I want that pizza as soon as possible!"

You looked around mindlessly just reaching in and grabbing two round things into your hand. "Coming!"

"What did you grab?" Her brow rose as you just rolled your eyes. 

"Just some old jewelry. What about you?"

She held up an ink stone. Probably got it from her school bag. "I was gonna use it for an art project but since I want an A for my exam and I have to write on the test, it was a good enough match."

"Sounds like a good start."

Your other two friends pulled out a book on rare poetry and a small bag of store bought mochi candy. ...Strange offering but you guessed it was the only thing that they could find. Your friend instructed you all placed the offerings on the strange words in Japanese and stepped back without a second thought to look at them....And you four stood there in your pajamas with nothing but the candles to light up the darkness and the rain still pounding at your rooftop.

Silence other than the storm rang out and you four looked around the room exchanging looks sometimes.

".....Is that it?"

"I told you it was a waste of time! Let's just get some food now. I'm starving!"

"Wait! I forgot about the last important step!" She held up her hands as your mutual grumpy and hungry friend turned to go flip on the light switch. "I need to chant the incantation and then we have to say what we want!"

Her arms folded. "Well get on with it! I'm hungry and this is really not fun!"

"Alright, alright! Let me try to remember what the guy told me!"

She stood there staring at the mess of lit candles and lipstick smeared kanji scrunching her brows in deep thought. You and your grumpy friend exchanged mirrored deadpanned looks before she cleared her throat and held her arms out.

"Full moon on the rise. New moon hides from eyes. Abyss of darkness conquering the skies! We summon, summon him from the ground. To our circle lit and round. Oh one who walks the path of Moon, we come once more to ask you soon! Come from slumber, to seek out what we offer! Great one of Moon bound light, we ask for you to once more walk the night!"

Her voice shouted out loud enough that you were sure you'd be getting a complaint from the neighbors tomorrow morning. As she finished her chant, a lightning bolt struck out temporarily lighting up the sky outside as the rain poured out...As you all waited looking around more.

"Would you look at that? Nothing happened again. NOW can we get food?"

"Wait! We didn't say what we wanted yet!," she protested to her, "The wish is a part of the ritual so let's complete it ok?!" Your friend groaned but she quickly excitedly exclaimed. "I wish my mom would finally give me the secrets to famous udon recipe so I can start selling it myself!"

"Um..." You nervous friend cautiously and worriedly looked around the dark room. "C-Can I m-meet my favorite author please? O-Only if that's ok! I'm fine if nothing happens really!"

"Oh what the hell. I want an A on my next exam."

...All three looked at you expectantly. "What?"

"Say something, Y/n." 

"Like what?"

"I don't know. What did you put down?"

You shrugged. "Some cheap jewelry I don't want honestly."

"OOOH. Wish for something good then! Oh! Oh! I see you always sitting by yourself! Ask him to get you a boyfriend?," you friend teased making you laugh.

"Really? We summon a Yokai just for me to ask him for a boyfriend? If he was real, he'd probably think I was crazy."

"Well it doesn't have to be a boyfriend. You can ask for a sign of who you're meant to be with." That devious smile returned again. "Y'know that caretaker guy told me a lot of maidens would pay the shrine maidens to do rituals and summon the onis as offered brides in exchange for good fortune for their villages. Why don't you ask him to put a ring on it? You'd be the first person to be get a real life monster boyfriend. All the monster lovers on the Internet would be so jealous."

"Plus you're beautiful," your grumpy friend added also with a teasing grin. "You made home coming and prom queen in highschool!"

You laughed again. "Looks aren't everything." You could barely contain the giggles. You then rolled your eyes sarcastically. "But sure." Your hands clasped together and pressed against your chest as you spoke. "Oh great Oni please hear my pleas for your heart!" Even your nervous friend giggled along now as you dramatically fell to your knees. "Bind our blood in ceremony and let me share your name." A hand outstretched to no one as you fake acted out processing your love to an invisible imaginary person. "Under the stars of the heavens, I solemly swear, that this hand will always be kind and never cruel. That my voice will only speak truth. That this life is now forever yours." The outstretched hand pretended to take the imaginary person's hand. "Now as yours is mine."

A loud snort went off as one of your friends fell back on your bed where she sat giggling out the cheesy lines you were making up on the fly.

"Bind our souls to infinity and I will promise you love and devotion through sickness and health and beyond the realms of death." You continued to speak remembering some lines from a rom com chick flick you saw last night. "I will love you in all your forms now and forever. Through several lifetimes and back." Your voice was low and smooth now speaking it like you meant it with pride. "From now to infinity. Unyielding. Untainted. Undeniable. With this voice I promise you my love and heart. With this offering, I ask you to be mine!" You then bowed your forehead to the floor as everyone continued to giggle loudly. 

You all continued to laugh and laugh and laugh as you finally broke into laughs again too and sat back up- 

And then all the candles went out at the same time.

Pitch black immediately enveloped the room and at once all laughs ceased. Nothing but silence rang out other than the rain and thunder and occasional strike of lightning. You four stayed silent as you all say there in the dark before your friend became grumpy again.

"Ok. Haha. Very funny, Y/n. Now we can't see shit!"

"That..w-wasnt me," you stuttered out staring at the floor in front of you silently and wide eyed.

"Sure it wasn't. You're literally kneeling in front of them!"

"I don't have the ability to blow out right giant candles at once! Besides some of them were out of my reached! I'd have to crawl over! It wasn't me!" 

"Well it's not me! I'm standing up!"

"It wasn't me!" "I'm sitting all the way over here on the bed."

Silence fell Once Again as you all sat there 

"....It must've just been a draft! There's no such thing as ghosts and demons! Get the light! I'm tired of this game now!"

Someone was heard stumbling and shuffling around in the dark before you heard hands patting along the wall and then a serious of clicks as someone tried turning on the lights. "It won't turn on!"

"No one panic!" Someone finally turned on the flashlight on their phone and lit up the room. "The storm just cut out the power supply. Let's just get some food and call it a night!"

"Wait! The offerings!"

The light shines towards the middle of the circle. One bag of mochi candy, an ink stone, and a book still laid there. Where was your earrings? You pushed the book aside and froze as you realized that it wasn't a cheap pair of earrings that greeted you..but one beautiful gold ring. 

"My great grandmother's ring!" You quickly snatched it up safely into your hands in horror. "I-I must've grabbed them by mistake!" Wait. You remembered feeling two hoops in your hands. "My great grandfather's ring!" Quickly you pushed aside everything else and was horrified to discover that it was gone. "IT'S MISSING!!"

"Calm down. It must've rolled away or someone accidentally kicked it in the dark. It's still around here."

"Yeah. And so is everything else. I CALLED IT! I TOLD you it wasn't gonna work! Now order the food!"

"B-But my ring!"

"It's too dark to look with the power out. Let's just wait until it's day time and then we'll look around. Ok?"

"I-...*sigh* Alright."

"GREAT! Now let's eat. And don't forget the chicken and drinks!"

Little did all of you know that the curtains were moved back on their own. Six eyes staring at your beautiful face and a glittering gold band wrapped around his ring finger.

[gedankenmull]

Let It Be Queer

They say, “Not everything needs to be queer.”

And I laugh, sharp and bitter, because for centuries, everything was straight by force. By fire. By blood.

They scorched the stories clean of anything that dared to kiss differently, to love sideways, to breathe without shame.

They straightened spines with belts and broken bottles, burned closets into coffins, rewrote every story with a boy-meets-girl ending, and called it normal.

They ask why queerness is everywhere now, like it hasn't always been, hidden in margins, coded in glances, murmured in alleys.

As if queerness is an invasion, not a reclamation.

As if we are not dragging back the stolen colors, the fragmented mirror-shards of people who lived and died without names or pronouns that the world would allow.

Why does everything have to be queer now?

Because everything was queer once, before they made us scrub the rainbow from our skin.

Because boys wrote poetry for each other under candlelight, and women kissed in fields when no one was watching, and gods loved all kinds of bodies before monotheism locked the doors.

Because the truth was always there, tucked beneath editors’ pens and straight actors’ faces and censored scripts and redacted diaries.

Because we are still fighting to see ourselves in stories that don’t end with death or betrayal.

Because when a queer character is joyful, alive, complex, we hear the furious shatter of another old rule breaking.

And yes, maybe not everything needs to be queer, but the air feels lighter when some of it is.

When a boy holds a boy’s hand on screen and doesn’t let go.

When a girl finds her softness in another girl’s eyes.

When nonbinary kids see that the world might just be big enough for them, too.

We are not taking over. We are taking back.

They’ve had every story for decades, for centuries— let us breathe in this one.

��T.W.

[candlelightdiaries]

This blog is likely going to have more than one post per day. I just got a lot of thoughts, ya know?

I just had an amazing spiritual experience with a friend of mine who is pagan, and I think I understand a little bit better what serenity feels like. We were drawing tarot cards to see what our topic of conversation should be after our AA meeting tomorrow morning and she pulled a card and I lit a candle on my alter then pulled the tower. At first I was scared because I was like “oh shit, more crazy shit is about to be happening in my life, idk if I can handle this”. I started reflecting to her about how I’ve been having these mini mental breakdowns lately and how overwhelmed I feel about change, and how stressed out I’ve been even just thinking about the concept of my higher power. I told her that I’m afraid I’m not a witch or pagan because I really want to be. I’ve always felt drawn to it. I told her about how I don’t know what is right and what is wrong to believe and while I know there is no right or wrong but I’m scared there is. I’ve had so much stress and change lately but I didn’t realize I needed to get thi out. I feel like she is one of the few people I can talk to about the Powers That Be because there aren’t a ton of pagans/witches in AA, at the very least that I know about in my area. I left the candle on the whole conversation because I wanted to invite the Powers That Be into the conversation. I felt such a sense of peace and continued to meditate after we ended the call. My friend said she would help me as much as she can on my journey into a spiritual practice and it feels so good to know that I’m not alone in figuring this out. I’m so stuck on doing everything “right” that I’m keeping myself from actually practicing my beliefs. I need to start reading the books that I have on witchcraft and paganism and actually figure out my beliefs and what my options are. I like having something organized and structured to go off of when it comes to the Powers That Be but I think I need to accept that I need to make my own structure. That doesn’t mean I can’t have help from those around me but I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I want a sense of comfort from my higher power and to not feel alone in a spiritual sense. I don’t want a “me vs them” attitude, I want a “we’re in this together” attitude with the Powers That Be.

I sat and watched the candle after we got off the phone and the flame remained steady. This made me feel a sense of comfort, knowing that things would be okay and the Powers That Be were and still are with me. Drawing the tower card feels like a blessing. I thought that our conversation tomorrow would have to be about more shit that’s going to happen in my life, but in reality I just needed to talk about the chaos and change that is going on currently in my life, I just needed to let it out today. The right time for the conversation was tonight and I am so thankful to the Powers That Be for guiding me and helping me to be open with my friend, because it has helped me so much. Thank you, whatever is out there.

I feel like I could write forever about this. I have so many feelings and thoughts but I think it might be best to just have a quiet night to reflect. I feel like I’m in this meditative and spiritual state and I don’t want to lose it because it feels amazing. My friend and I are going to meet sometime soon one-on-one to talk more about this and I’m actually really exited to. I want this to be a fun journey of learning and finding my beliefs.

What I’ve learned tonight is that I am not alone with my thoughts and there is so much value in sharing them with other people. I am so grateful for my friend and I’m grateful to whatever is out there that I will come to believe in. It’s okay to not know what’s going on and it’s okay to talk about those things. I have a taste of peacefulness and comfort and I want to keep it around. I got this, I am going to be okay. Maybe this is what I need to help give up control and follow the will of the Powers That Be. Goodnight.

[zablife]

Lee congratulations on 2.5K!!!

🎉👏🏻🙌🏻 for your celebration, can I request a story with this gif? 🥰xxx

Thanks, Mar! I love the GIF you chose! Even in profile his baby blues are striking 😍 For this one, I chose to write about a young Tommy going to pick up his gf. As promised, the blurb took a naughty turn which I hope you'll find entertaining.

18+ MDNI

Just a Peek

Tommy held his breath until his lungs burned for oxygen, listening for the sounds of your household to quiet for the evening. When he finally heard your father's rumbled snoring reverberating through the wall, he knew his time had come. With crisp blue eyes eagerly darting back and forth, he ventured a hand between the lace curtains at your window to beckon you away for a night of revelry.

Ready to hoist you over the peeled and cracking windowsill as he'd done many nights before, he hesitated at the sight of your nakedness. Suddenly his mouth went dry, a lump anxiously forming in his throat, as he found himself unable to announce his presence. He knew a gentleman would look away, but somehow he couldn't stop himself from having just a small peek. Stepping back into shadow, he watched you move about the room in silent awe.

The way the flickering, orange candlelight illuminated the soft curves of your body made his heartbeat quicken in his chest, pulse rising steadily as you shifted to reveal the pebbled flesh of your breasts, nipples hardened from the cool night air. A slight breeze carried the notes of jasmine in your perfume toward him, filling his senses with a desperate need to hold you close, feeling those stiff peaks press against his shirtfront.

With every toss of your hair, he imagined gathering fistfuls in his hand as he took you in his lap, a languid fuck that would make you moan in sweet, breathy gasps. The pleasure so overwhelming you might shed a tear onto his shoulder. Thinking of you in the throes of passion made his breathing grow irregular, made worse when you decided to bend forward to retrieve your dress. Tommy gulped harshly at the sight of your glistening core, a throbbing ache growing in his trousers as his fantasies ran wild. He couldn't help but picture himself behind you, fingers clutching your hips as he buried himself in your tightness.

Despite the chill outside, he felt heat rising in his cheeks as he remembered anyone could find him there leaking into his pants like a schoolboy. Leaning down to rearrange himself, he heard the distinct lilt of your voice and his head shot up to find you leaning out to greet him.

"Have you been here long?" you asked nonchalantly, toying with the buttons of his shirt.

He cleared his throat, wondering if he should say. Shifting his weight nervously, he finally asked, "Did you know I was watching?"

Stroking a manicured hand down his face, you flashed a wicked smile. "I wanted you to."

Zablife Sleepover

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

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[coqxettee]

February༄₊🍓♡⋆🍰✿

Lipstick stained love letters, cups of warm coffee, red splashed everywhere, winter bleeding into Spring, slow evenings by candlelight, dark chocolate and rom-com movie marathons. Early Sunday baking, pyjama days, writing in your diary about your latest crush, romance novel reading, candy hearts and pink skies at dusk ༄₊♡⋆

[lazy-nae2]

Peak into Dracula’s story as promised…

Goes in hand with the Gabriel x Black!reader.

Author’s Note: I slightly wanted to go be for a Haunted Mansion vibe, 2003 version to be specific with the Edward Gracey and Elizabeth vibe. A dead man still walks the earth, searching for a long lost love, which ends up being reincarnated/ or rather becomes a nightwalker as well searching for the one who their heart calls for.

Count Vladislaus Dragulia ~ Aka ~ Count Dracula

———-/-/——————-

Location: Transylvania, Modern Day

You never imagined that you would be halfway across the world, away from your home’s comfort, with your friends on a journey to Dracula’s castle. You truly didn’t believe it, and begged their white horror movie character thinking behinds not to go, but in the end, they persuaded you because of your slight infatuation with vampires.

You know that they might have used it against you due to your constant rewatching of Sinners, The Originals, The Vampire Diaries etc. You might learn about them and watch ‘em, but that don’t mean you wished to be turned just like ‘em….

Unless that Vampire is Michael B. Jordan (Shoutout Ryan Coogler) Showed you something you didn’t even know that you were missing.

You all got settled into your rooms of a countryside inn before taking naps as the jet lag hit you harder than Klaus did Elena. You later woke from a peculiar dream….

A dream of soft classical music in a ballroom, with soft candlelight hanging from chandeliers shining softly on you, a bronze colored ballroom dress that matched your skin and showed some cleavage, and white heels and gloves included. Your masquerade mask was the finishing detail. Yet your outfit wasn’t the focus of your thoughts in the dream….

Your dance partner was… his thick and heavy Romanian accent similar to the ones you heard earlier as you arrived, but a richer tone, more…elegant and older.

You waltzed in his arms, a feeling that felt familiar yet so foreign as he was, similar to a distant memory. Your footwork matched along with his as a pattern that you’d written or seen a thousand times. In his arms you felt lighter, as if gliding across the dance floor as the softness of the dress twirled lightly with you.

“At long last, you’ve returned dragă (dear/darling)… how my lost soul has yearned for yours to return and fill what was lost with you… We shall be together… soon, as long as you give what was always mine.” He whispered sensually for only your ears to catch, as it seemed only you two were in the ballroom.

He stopped waltzing as he dipped you in front of the mirror with a soft gasp leaving your parted full lips, your neck bared and vulnerable to him as your heart once was, yet that wasn’t his target.

His soft pink lips, lightly trailed from your neck to your collarbone as it ignited a lost yet familiar warmth beneath your skin. It scared you slightly as you didn’t know who he was, or even if you did, you didn’t remember..

He laid a final kiss to your chest….where it lay beneath, what he truly desired to have once again…

Hope you enjoy the small snippet that might end up a one shot, See ya darlin🩶🤎 Lazy-Nae

[chshiresgrin]

THE SPIDER IN THE WEB. —valentine palmer diary entries whilst in the wilderness. / cw & tws—minor spoilers, cursing.. that's it!

dear diary, we were fucking robbed of our innocence—childhood, nationals that we deserved to win, for all to see, that vacation we all seemed to seek but was from our grasp—the crash, the flames embracing my sister—it was like a switch in me had flipped that day. i only had her—who else would give a fuckin' damn about me? i would like to think i could count on tai as well? yet, i think she only tolerates me since 'm literally her girlfriend's sister. i mean i did soccer with my sister, so—i wouldn't feel so out of place in the world as is? to what? to feel less lonely? make friends? i knew that this wouldn't be like a lifeline as it has been for her. i was the one in the background for most part—watching, hoping—that maybe, one day that i will be able to talk to the team besides just lurking in the dark. i wasn't a glowstick. but, rather, a candlelight at best. xoxo, val.

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𐙚 dear god, why do i feel like this? why couldn't i just be like, the fuckin' straight one from the palmer siblings? why did we both have to be gay? fuck my life! laura lee, if only, you could've been here right now; you literally would be my saving grace. oh my god. i am so fucking screwed. natalie scatorccio, count your motherfuckin' days. once as i am over you, it's game over! xoxo, val. 𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𐙚 dear diary, some might think it's stupid to be comforted by a child's book in the middle of the wilderness but i grew up with it—better than losing it, totally. a spider who weaves webs to ensure a pig lives—feels rather fitting in this current situation. rereading lines does help soothe that anxiety, not always—but it does help. what else cured the dread in the pit of my stomach was van's storytelling too, not because she was my sister but rather—she was good at it—at compelling others' attention with just her quips and tales. xoxo, val. 𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𐙚 dear diary, these girls are apeshit! guess it is true what they say about leaving others be for a little too long and that their true colors begin to shine through, eventually. where's cyndi lauper when you need her, y'know? i don't blame coach ben for abandoning us. i mean, shit. dealing with a load of fucked up kids in the head especially if you were one? the cycle either repeats or it's broken by you. xoxo, val.

[hrrtshape]

your trademarks???

- chanel.

- kitten heels

- vintage romance movies

- but also tragedy movies

- the entire gossip girls series if chuck fell off a roof in the first ep.

- orchestra performances

- very specifically pouring wine for aphrodite in the candlelight while listening to lana del rey

- that one image of a blonde girl with 60s makeup on in a bathtub smoking a cigarette while crying

- dramatically sighing while being interviewed before saying how hard it is to be so smart but in a sexy way not an obnoxious way

- lipstick marks on cigarettes

- lipstick marks on teacups and wineglasses

- romantic academia actually

- LANA DEL REY

this is art.

this is a mirror held up to my soul.

this is the stolen diary page read aloud in a courtroom where i stand accused of being too much and yet not nearly enough. like, yes. yes. i am a walking tragedy framed in rococo gold............ a gossip girl episode reimagined by tennessee williams............ a cigarette smudged with lipstick left on the rim of a philosophy major’s espresso cup. the only misstep here, chanel, no. i am miu miu’s firstborn daughter. miu miu’s chosen one. miu miu kisses my forehead before battle.

but otherwise, ate. devoured. carved my essence into stone. pour the wine, light the candle, put on norman fucking rockwell! i have been perceived in 4K.