momebie: (NNoD Caleb smoke)
I wasn't going to write last night, but then I got itchy. It wasn't much when it finally happened. In fact, it was simply this.
Dull smirks can move across translucent skin again and again, but they can’t cut. He’ll never strip his way to the core of you. The red on his lips and teeth is grease paint at its foundation. He tries, with all of hell behind him, to tear at fine capillaries and bruised cells with his tongue or his finger pads or his nails. Nothing that comes from him can cut. Nothing that comes from you is blood.

But does it matter that you’re not bleeding, when restless wings are dropping feathers around dry claws, and all anyone sees is the red at your neck and the red on his teeth as he slowly licks them white again?


Don't know where that's going, but the idea of it intrigues me. I'm calling it The Dramatist for now. Is there anything unexpected happening in your writing world this week?

Today's photo is taunting me, because it is seriously 80*F outside. FLORIDA. WHY MUST YOU ALWAYS DO WINTER SO WRONG?

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