put down your sword and crown, chapter eight-teaser (and numerous others)
LET'S DO THIS.
everyone should go read DJ's fics now right now right now now now now now now now because she's a ho who hasn't been ho-ing around lately. may i present to you flesh and bone telephone, giving people complexes from canada since feb '12 yo.
fantastic fics right here:
ON WITH THE TEASER:
put down your sword and crown
viii: so stay there, ‘cause i’ll be coming over / while our blood’s still young, so young it runs
As soon as the words leave her mouth, Elena immediately regrets it. Caroline seems to be swelling up, her face flushing and her eyes shining and it’s all levels of creepy, especially with the emotions flitting past her face faster than Damon can file nails-which is pretty fast, judging from the way he’s pushed his pens aside and is deftly filing Stefan’s nails now, since apparently the younger Salvatore had decided to go all hipster on them and forego showering-
( “Stefan?” Elena begins hesitantly, cautiously. I’m not sure, but I think there’s a… mushroom in your beard.” She pauses, letting this sink in, but Stefan just stares back blankly.
“Did you kn-?”
“He knows,” Damon says primly, blowing on Stefan’s nails.)
-and had just given up all free will to Damon, who had been grooming and dressing him for the past few days. Which would explain the neon green t-shirt from the 60s and electric-blue skinny jeans.
Anyway.
After shock, betrayal, rage, hurt and numerous other emotions (of which Elena’s lost count) flashes across her eyes, Caroline finally settles for scandalized. “Elena Gilbert, are you… intentionally trying to ruin my prom?”
“Woah, Care-that’s not what I meant. Not at all!” Elena glances at the Salvatores for support, but they’ve conveniently looked away.
“Elena,” Caroline says again, but with considerable calmness (she doesn’t look like she wants to set her hair-or her own hair-on fire, at the very least).
Elena holds her breath.
“Walk with me,” Caroline finishes, pushing back her chair and looking expectantly at her best friend.
Well then.
x
x
and days die young when you're gone-the sequel to ' love is like a sin, my love'.
The sheets are always cold.
As much as his skin slides across the Egyptian cotton and as far as her golden hair spills over his pillows, by the time the sun rises the bed feels like a wasteland-empty and bare and so very cold. His hands searches and his mind yearns, but the ache in his chest isn’t enough to make her appear before him when he opens his eyes.
He runs a hand down the spot where she usually sleeps and tries to imagine her smooth hips and lithe legs warming up the sheets, conjures a memory from the far corner of his mind of the one time he’d woken up and she was still lying there next to him. Golden and bare and beautiful. Soft hair curling against her pink lips. Dark lashes shadowing her porcelain cheekbones. He wants to rest his head against her soft stomach; reaches a hand to touch her, but then she’s gone-just a memory, just a dream.
Where his breath mingles with hers, where her hair falls across his shoulders as she whispers his name above him, where lips touch and hands meet, aren’t enough to make her stay. He’ll go to sleep with his hands always tracing patterns on her hip, hovering around her waist; never quite touching, and when he wakes his hands hover around nothing.
The sheets remain cold.
everyone should go read DJ's fics now right now right now now now now now now now because she's a ho who hasn't been ho-ing around lately. may i present to you flesh and bone telephone, giving people complexes from canada since feb '12 yo.
fantastic fics right here:
ON WITH THE TEASER:
put down your sword and crown
viii: so stay there, ‘cause i’ll be coming over / while our blood’s still young, so young it runs
As soon as the words leave her mouth, Elena immediately regrets it. Caroline seems to be swelling up, her face flushing and her eyes shining and it’s all levels of creepy, especially with the emotions flitting past her face faster than Damon can file nails-which is pretty fast, judging from the way he’s pushed his pens aside and is deftly filing Stefan’s nails now, since apparently the younger Salvatore had decided to go all hipster on them and forego showering-
( “Stefan?” Elena begins hesitantly, cautiously. I’m not sure, but I think there’s a… mushroom in your beard.” She pauses, letting this sink in, but Stefan just stares back blankly.
“Did you kn-?”
“He knows,” Damon says primly, blowing on Stefan’s nails.)
-and had just given up all free will to Damon, who had been grooming and dressing him for the past few days. Which would explain the neon green t-shirt from the 60s and electric-blue skinny jeans.
Anyway.
After shock, betrayal, rage, hurt and numerous other emotions (of which Elena’s lost count) flashes across her eyes, Caroline finally settles for scandalized. “Elena Gilbert, are you… intentionally trying to ruin my prom?”
“Woah, Care-that’s not what I meant. Not at all!” Elena glances at the Salvatores for support, but they’ve conveniently looked away.
“Elena,” Caroline says again, but with considerable calmness (she doesn’t look like she wants to set her hair-or her own hair-on fire, at the very least).
Elena holds her breath.
“Walk with me,” Caroline finishes, pushing back her chair and looking expectantly at her best friend.
Well then.
x
x
and days die young when you're gone-the sequel to ' love is like a sin, my love'.
The sheets are always cold.
As much as his skin slides across the Egyptian cotton and as far as her golden hair spills over his pillows, by the time the sun rises the bed feels like a wasteland-empty and bare and so very cold. His hands searches and his mind yearns, but the ache in his chest isn’t enough to make her appear before him when he opens his eyes.
He runs a hand down the spot where she usually sleeps and tries to imagine her smooth hips and lithe legs warming up the sheets, conjures a memory from the far corner of his mind of the one time he’d woken up and she was still lying there next to him. Golden and bare and beautiful. Soft hair curling against her pink lips. Dark lashes shadowing her porcelain cheekbones. He wants to rest his head against her soft stomach; reaches a hand to touch her, but then she’s gone-just a memory, just a dream.
Where his breath mingles with hers, where her hair falls across his shoulders as she whispers his name above him, where lips touch and hands meet, aren’t enough to make her stay. He’ll go to sleep with his hands always tracing patterns on her hip, hovering around her waist; never quite touching, and when he wakes his hands hover around nothing.
The sheets remain cold.