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galaxiepoupeafropuff · 1 year

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"Mama didn't raise no impolite witch" Vincent Griffith Fanfic Ep 1

Mélisse

The rush had simmered down about an hour ago. I skimmed through the last batch of orders from my desk at the soap shop, the amber lights attuned to the rainy day we were having in New Orleans today. On the radio, a potpourri of Haitian music from the sixties played in rotation bringing me back to those joyous moments growing up with my parents, all of it a memory now with a sour twist.

The room smelled sweet, of cracked stems, and wild herbs picked from our garden outback. I carefully placed a rosemary leaf on the brown wax paper enveloping the order of soaps a client bought online earlier, and tied a string around it with my business card and a coupon which all were inscribed with the same cursive letters spelling Jardin de Mélisse.

A knock at the door brought me to a halt. Standing at the door was Simoli, my cousin, who's been helping me run things around ever since he decided to stay in the states permanently. " Sa pou m fè avè w? What am I supposed to do with you?"

I rolled my eyes and tcheupsed, resuming the monotonous cycle I've been repeating for the three hours since we opened. I placed a series of glass bottles from my hibiscus and okra hairline into a shipping box and stuffed it with bubble wraps. Thank you note, close, tape, and repeat.

"I'm almost done"

" Yeah you said that about an hour ago when there was still a line at the register"

I looked up at him, his face seemed refreshed, despite the long hours we've been pulling. He's wearing a coca cola red t-shirt, jeans and leather flip flops, his hair a tapered fro around his scalp. I think the change of pace and environment has been good for him. My shoulders relaxed a bit. The scissors in my hands suddenly weighed heavy, the piece of lavender between my fingers limp and awkward. I've been stuck in this room for far too long, my eyes were so adjusted to the darkness I could feel them disappearing into their own sockets, I needed a change of pace.

" Fine" I slammed the metal scissors on the wooden desk. " i'm gonna go get lunch" i said, rising from my seat and scanning the room for my belongings. Wallet, umbrella. It was impossible for me to find anything in there, with all the pillows, the tapes, the boxes and endless inventory on the floor. The place was a fucking pig sty. I needed some fresh air, that's for certain. I scratched my head, gathering my things as I went and fighting Simoli's scrutinizing stare while he watched me rummage through my life like a raccoon digging through a pile of trash in the quarter. If he had any judgments, he said nothing.

I threw my jean jacket on, and smoothed my hand over my tapered dress " do you wanna come with?"

He snorted, as if I had insulted him, then threw his hand up " Mélisse, I got it from here, go". He shooed me away with a gesture of his hands, from the office, to the main floor of the shop. I stopped at one of the vintage mirrors on the wall, a fascinating relic i bought at a yard sale over two years ago, and was frightened by what i'd seen " jesus fucking christ" i muttered, digging through my bag for some lip balm. I glided it over my big lips, smoothing the layer of cracked skin that had been there before. I was immediately invaded with the scent of brown sugar and anise. Another one of my creations, not yet on sale anywhere, I was still doing a trial run on the product and was clearly failing. I sighed deeply. Simoli leaned on the counter, resting his chin in his palms

" The AC company called. They wanna know if they can come in monday and take a look at the unit"

I fiddled with my keys " Did they send you a price quote yet? "

" Well, technically they have to come in and see what's wrong with it before we know how much all of this is going to cost"

I exhaled " i uh, i don't know, let me think on it i'll get back to you"

" Before monday" Simoli supplied, not a request, but a statement.

I nodded. My stomach rumbled. " Do you want me to get you anything?" I interjected, moving the conversation towards something more fun, because all this AC stuff was making me anxious. I couldn't afford it, but I didn't know how to say it without causing my cousin to freak out. We were already behind on rent. The last thing I needed was for the two of us to pace around this place like anxious chickens. Leave it all to me to worry and figure out a way, Simoli deserved to just relax for a little while and not have to dive head deep into the travesty that was "the american dream"

The boy flipped through pages of a messy white binder absentmindedly " No"

I cocked my head to one side " Here i was thinking i was the only workaholic around here"

His light brown eyes shot back at me, from this angle I could see how grandma's features have carved his cheeks, his forehead and fierce glare to be like hers. He sneered " Ou toujou ap pale kaka ou menm, you' re always talking shit"

After agreeing on a meal for him, I walked out of the store, umbrella in hand, dodging the disgusting sewer water flooding the streets and made my way to Rousseau's. Not necessarily the idea of fresh air i had in mind but oh well. The small bar was situated in an old townhouse, with shuttle doors and peeling paint, identical to quite a few buildings here in New Orleans. A slow trepidation of old times amid the rise of modern, more expensive new developments. My sandals clattered on the wooden floor, the sight of dead leaves and debris clinging to my soles and feet, causing me to frown. I shook the water off from my umbrella and took a seat at the bar, on one of the stools that was designed far too small for people with big butts and thighs like mine. After a few trials and errors I finally felt comfortable enough to rest my bag on the metal hook beneath the bar. I pulled my now wet and frizzy orange coils on top of my head, tying them and fluffling the ends into a pineapple bun.

A white man with blue eyes and an irish accent strolled through the swinging doors, noticed me and brought over a menu. " How ye doing? can i get you anything?"

I ordered an IPA while I read through the small menu he had handed me. People sat in groups, some alone, all around me the room boiled with small chatter, rocks glasses knocking over wood, forks clicking and salt shakers clattering against beer bottles, hot sauce and so on. On my left was a mail lady, having a small cup of coffee and reading a newspaper, on my right was an old man slurping on a bowl of chicken soup, on a stool a few feet from him was another man, this one i had seen before, of about 6 feet tall, with umber skin and a bird tattoo clawing at his skin , having a bourbon, a small plate of french fries in front of him.

The bartender slid a coaster in front of me and handed me my beer. The handsome man with the claw tattoo coaxed a book over his face. I can recognize a cover of Marcel Proust anywhere. He read with laser interest, his index finger bejeweled by a plain silver band, tracing his lips.

" Miss…"

" Yes" I blinked, " sorry long day" I laughed. When he didn't smile back, i cleared my throat and proceeded to say " i'll have a jambalaya to go, and uh " tapping my fingers against the hard menu cover, i quickly inspected the appetizer list "the pulled pork natchitoches and a small soup for here"

He nodded, his expression solemn and bored as he took the menu back and shoved it inside an obscure shelf behind him. "Cash or card? "

" Card" i thrusted the blue card in his hand

" you want to keep the tab open?"

My eyes shifted to the man again, this time he was brushing his beard, his eyes still glued to the pages of the book. I must've been staring a little too intensely because suddenly his brows knotted and his round eyes, two pools of deep brown, shaped so sensually looked back at me. My heart thudded. The bartender noticed, shifted his body to the left side of the room. I squeezed by glass, letting the chillness kiss my fingertips " No i'll close out"

The bartender pursed his lips and nodded

" very well then"

I sipped on the orange brew in my glass, letting the tangy flavor flood my taste buds and slowly closed my eyes. Everything else around me, the pressure at the store, Simoli, the people inside the bar faded into the background.

Vincent

" People do not die for us immediately, but remain bathed in a sort of aura of life which bears no relation to true immortality but through which they continue to occupy our thoughts in the same way as when they were alive. It is as though they were traveling abroad. "

I stumbled upon this quote at some point while reading a shriveled copy of The captive/ the fugitive which i found at the clearance section of my local bookstore earlier this week. I haven't sat down and read for pleasure in a long time— not since college which felt like ages ago— A capsule in time where i was young, an eager witch, stupid and burning with love for Eva. There was a time where i would hear that name and would automatically feel the pull of guilt, the hollowness of losing someone, by my own volition, my own ambition creeping up inside my chest, sinking me away from this reality into one where Eva's ghost was seeking vengeance for my wrong doings.

That feeling is dead now, my love for the woman dead with it. The only thing left is the empty space that once blossomed—Healed shut—-At least i was trying to heal. Camille had put me in touch with a friend from school who ran her own practrice now. For the last two years since the Mikealsons been gone and Marcel took over as king, i've been sneaking weekly sessions with Judith on the other side of town, trying to unpack all the shit that went down. She's suggesting medication for the insomnia and nightmares, but i'm not gonna lie, i am a bit apprehensive. I wish Camille was still with us to discuss this with, i wish my friend was still here in general to breath in the peace we've been fighting so hard for, i miss her smile.

I wetted my tongue with some of the bourbon in my glass, now watered down. I signaled to Declan to spin me another round and went back to reading my book, hunting the wisdom the renowned author penned centuries ago, when suddenly i felt a prickle at the back of my neck, the knowing sense that someone's attention was on me. I swallowed the lump in my throat and raised my eyes. I noticed a woman sitting at the other end of the bar watching me. Instictvely her gaze veered towards the content in her glass, downing it halfway like a pro, then rested it on the coaster in front of her. There was a particular nervousness about her that didn't quite travel to her round face. Her cheekbones glistened not from sweat, but rather from the products she used to maintain her appearance— she looked like she really took care of herself. Her skin was deep as a harvest moon night, as if calla lillies themselves lived beneath it. Her hair was dyed serpia orange, fixed on top of her head in a way that complimented her features.

She was striking. Was she a witch??? I don't think i've ever seen her around here before. With the new leadership and reforms i've implemented as regeant, i wouldn't be surprised if news traveled to neighboring states and was bringing outside witches into our walls. A weird sensation sliced through my chest, and managed to somewhat buzz around my shoulders and legs. I inhaled, exhaled, i needed to get my shit together. With this new awareness therapy had provided me with, it was hard at times to know if the sensations living in my body was weariness or something else—A warning or excitement? —The alertness of a Tremé witch or the fragility of a damaged man. I hung back, balancing this particular dilemma in my head while playing with my beard as though all the answers were hidden inside it. As tempting as this new witch was, i didn't necessarily think introducing myself to this new comer was a good idea. I felt no urge to interrupt her lunch break, god knows this is the last thing any woman needs right now.

Declan rattled the silver shaker in one hand while pouring a golden brown liquid—my drink— into a clean glass.

For the next hour, i've given up on trying to understand pretentious literature. Leave it to some old white man to throw a pile of random shit on the wall that barely make sense, and watch the world revere him as a literary genius. This shit can get exhausting. So i scrolled through facebook instead, when that wasn't enough, i cleared Freya's emails and text messages from my screen. The apologies were getting redundant. I didn't have anymore space for anymore Mikealson guilt, not now, not in the near future. She fucked up and put a teenager's life in jeopardy and now Davina is dead. This is her burden to carry, her shame to live with. I'm done being the errand boy, the witch for hire, the punching bag and everything in between.

Once the woman finished her meal, Declan came back with an order neatly wrapped in a plastic bag and handed it to her. She gathered her things, thanked him, and put back a pocket size book she was reading earlier into her burgundy bag, then her notebook, her headphones. Not once had she turned to look at me since i caught her in the act. The haste in her movements made me rethink a last minute introduction over. Keep it cool, maintain good distance, there couldnt possibly be any harm in doing so right? but before i could make up my mind and muster the courage, she was already charging for the door, belongings in hand, her large hips swaying from here to there rythmically. The gold anklets she stacked around her ankles came to view. My gaze lingered in the poetry that was her curves, my throat felt tight and dry. I snapped myself out of it, averting my attention to the ceiling fan instead. My mama didnt raise no impolite witch. I shifted in my seat, cleared my throat and made sure no one else had caught me looking—-no, lusting over this beautiful stranger. I had a reputation to uphold, that is of a widower, a regeant who wielded strong power, a leader of his community. Do leaders not allow themselves the distraction of entertaining the pleasures of the flesh? Can good leadership coexist with the simplicity of desire?

When her hands pressed against the dusty shuttles and disappeared behind it, i mumbled a silent prayer, ever so intimate to the universe, to let me see her again.

Photo credit: Dorcas E Jacob on Pinterest

#black writers #tvd fandom #fanfic #vincent griffith #vincentgriffithfanfic #the originals #black tumblr #writblr #fanfiction #the originals fanfiction #the originals fandom #black witch

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galaxiepoupeafropuff · 1 year

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Vincent Griffith at the farmer's market fanfic Ep 2

Vincent

" Got a fresh batch of spring onions Vince"

the vendor Sagine uttered while walking out of her van. I sped towards her and grabbed the wooden crate packed with a few herbs and radishes, and carried it over to her tent. I grunted from the feel of the heavy vegetables pulling down my arms. Behind me, Miss Sagine's feet shuffled on the grass

" Where do you want em?"

" You can put them on the table, it'll make the work easier with my back and all"

" No problem ma'am" I said , catching my breath and running a hand over my throbbing palm. I've been helping Sagine install her tent at the annual Black farmer's market since this morning—-an initiative the council chewed, argued, made casual threats on behalf of the people it would benefit to make it happen.

With agricultural oppression blowing so much breath at the back of our necks and the blinding indifference of white folks in this forsaken town, there was only one way to effectively pull this off and get everyone on our side— get Marcel invested. Urge him to see the light. Which is exactly what I did. I still remember the gleam in his eyes, that devilish grin that lived beneath his features waiting to be summoned at the right time, for the right ideas. This wasn't just about good will, although for me that would've been enough. Except, being entangled with the supernatural, I've learned long ago that for some, righteousness is hardly a motivator to enact good deeds. Money does, blood and the promise of status —-and dealing with someone like Marcel Gerard? Well, let's just say that the odds were leaning dangerously in my favor. How predictable.

Marcel knew in order to maintain the peace, he needed to apply pressure for every member at the city council to say yes. He knew catering to Black farmers in this city meant preserving the wealth of his blood empire, keep the human factor and witches wrapped around his finger—-which are the demographic this affected the most—-it meant more money flowing into the local economy, depends on how well that went, it meant more curious outsiders seething to get their hands on our local goods, to invest, travel and food influencers coming in. More buzz, more tourists, more tourists, more blood. We gathered 22 ay, only 9 nays at the final vote— My plan had worked.

Dozens of farmers and fishermen traveled from nearby counties to be here. Their laughter glazed over the early afternoon, while they replenished their supplies of cheese, bread, oysters, local honey and a ridiculous amount of veggies—Some I hadn't had the chance to taste myself. My cooking has been a bit rusty these days. Occupying my newest role in the community had its perks and equal sets of downfalls, a haze between meetings, counseling youths, long nights and days relying on takeout and boxed mac and cheese while revising old spells and developing new ones —not for the faint of hearts but the job had to be done. People were counting on me to maintain order not only in the ancestral realm but in the household of people who made up the 9 covens.

Sometimes that included making housing arrangements for those who needed it and making sure they had food on their table, that bills were being paid and their children were safe. I admit, it was at times emotionally draining. The shit going on around here, the housing crisis, the wage gap, stuff the average tourist had absolutely no idea about.

I clenched my teeth then released. Take a breather Vincent, you're good man, shoulders relaxed, your breath is a bundle of rosemary let the scent appease you, your heart your soul, every muscle.in our body. Feet to the ground, feet to the ground

I repeated this mantra a few more times in my head, allowing every syllable to penetrate every fiber of my being like smoke. When I cracked open my eyes, the trees, the clouds and dwellings in the distance became sharper. My feet settled, my heartbeat slowed and i can feel the ground beneath my toes. I was suddenly in the mood for coffee.

" I'm gonna go ahead and grab a cup of joe, miss Sagine can i get you an—"

The old woman waved me away before i could even finish. I grinned, amused by the annoyed expression on her face. She swatted flying mosquitoes lingering on her wrinkled arms " Get outta my face boy, you've done enough, go on stretch those legs, it's good for the health"

I raised my palms up " that's all i needed to know. Doctor's orders then"

" you're damn right" she offered.

The aroma of caramel and roasted coffee beans rocked me into an unusually good mood. I stirred some brown sugar into my americano with a wooden stick, examining the scene before me. Pedestrians carrying bags wandered, pointed and ate samples on paper napkins and plastic ramekins as they went.

Across the street a tent with bouquets of some of the healthiest eucalyptus i had ever seen sat in white buckets. They were wrapped in clear plastic sheets and pulled the attention of anybody that brushed past them. Adjacent to the aromatic plant was an installation of small jars filled with whipped butters I had seen Eva use around the house, soap bars and other toiletries laid on a riverbank made of colorful satin cloths. A woman with a flowy black dress cut to her upper thighs engaged in conversation with her customers. The matron I suppose, the woman with the orange hair I saw at the bar just last week. Her hair was wrapped in a bright purple headwrap today and she wore a series of earrings along her earlobe that flowed down to meet her bare shoulders. I don't think she could ever look any more stunning than the last time I saw her. Oh but she did. The frothy drink moved down my throat, to my chest like a warm and cozy hug.

The woman picked up a product on the table, showed it to the interested parties before proceeding to demonstrate the pasty substance on their skin . The golden bangles at her wrists moved up and down as she rubbed the product in and watched it melt. Whatever she was doing, had her focused on trying to make this thing work. That charisma alone was enough to make any customer fold, I know I would. Passionate people always had a way about themselves, I can recognize them from a mile away. That flame had once burned within when it came to my gift, the magic running in my blood. I'm not sure when that changed but sometimes i feel myself hovering on the edge of that void.

The woman's brows knitted in dedication, bringing a kind of intensity to her face that seemed foreign—her features struggled to adjust, not knowing what to exactly do with it but it looked good on her. I found myself admiring the dip at her cupid bow, particularly the bubbles of sweat piling up in there from the Saturday heat and labor. She reminded me of old books, a craft table smeared with old paint, suggestions of geranium leaf and metal still pungent in the room, more importantly she reminded me of dragonflies dancing with the southern sun on a summer afternoon. Something funny awoke in my stomach. I straightened my shoulders, zooming out to look for any sign of Marcel. He wasn't here. At least not yet. As much as I appreciated him vouching for this, I don't think his presence would've necessarily been a good idea. We were not on the best of terms, if ever. Our relationship was strictly business, and tie to a common cause. I avoided places he frequented as much as possible, carving new ones of my own.

So I plumped down on the grass, feeling the weight of the world hesitating to come down with me. This distance that I so often denied myself was perhaps a good thing, a necessary thing.

The woman counted money and pulled change from a fanny pack wrapped around her waist. She smiled and waved at her customers, excited by their brand new purchases. I reveled in their joy. They were a family of three. The little girl with afro puffs was blowing bubbles at her dog's face while her parents beckoned her over. I chuckled. When my gaze left them i was met with something so unsettling, earth shattering or maybe even pleasant. Pleasant? I thought. But that didn't make the woman staring at me any less intimidating. This could end here if I choose to. I could walk away, go about my business and never think of her again—-if i could get my legs to work. That was the power she iminated, without ever touching people . A goddess standing on her own, reeling you in towards her altar. A faint voice—-the irrational part of myself, the untouched, sanctified in innocence —who didn't care about my footmarks in this world wanted to see about this religion, its jubilees, its sacred texts—-i wanted to worship her.

Mélisse

The last thing I heard myself say to Simoli was something about me taking 5. I didn't linger much. I handed him the fanny pack, the car keys and trusted his common sense to hold it down while I was away, on a so-called coffee break. My toes plunged into the bed of grass coursing up the small hill, making my red painted toenails look like ladybugs. Just for a moment, I can pretend the beignet stand is the thing calling to me and not the guy who finally made eye contact with me at Rousseau's just last week.

I'm starting to think he's a weirdo that one, or a loner of some sort. Somehow, he strikes me as a religious man, or a man bound to a lifestyle that keeps him closed off, isolated and intense. Everytime i see him hanging around these parts he is always by himself. Something about him reminds me of bayou tree barks, incense, and old ancestor songs from the countryside back home. When I imagine safety, to hold someone's hands in the early mornings and being made love to by a running river, I think of him. I can't really explain it but the feeling is equally exhilarating as it is suffocating—-a pulse of peace i can't seem to necessarily wrap my head about. The plush and gentle expansion of it leaves me weary. An ache throbs in my underwear, circling around my needy clit and I am aware of the sweat trailing down my back. Great

When I make it to the small wooden table serving desserts and coffee, I place my order, and try to focus on the powder sugar dusted treats that await me and not the guy sitting a few feet away sipping on his coffee. On instinct i pull one of my coils and starts to mindlessly twist it around my fingers, i arch my back a bit more and start to think Mélisse what the fuck are you doing? Maybe I'm just a fan of the dress I am wearing today, that my ass surely looks good in and want others to notice it as well.

My heart thumps while I think of a million scenarios where me and stranger guy would be talking. I come up with none. Idiot. I bite on my lower lip whirling in this sudden interest I have to speak to him. Gosh I have a crush don't i? I groan, rolling my eyes at my own predicament. It's been a minute since I've had one of those. One forgets how tedious all of it can be, the yearning, the guessing, the tiptoeing at the beginning and knowing me, I hang on to people for a while. Once a person falls under my radar, I obsess over them for months, sometimes years. That's why I chose to be single for this long and try to keep my head down so I can make jardin the best that it can possibly be while i heal some of my shit out.

Doing so has allowed me to discover things that i liked outside of a romantic scope, like cooking, beading. In the past few years i've discovered a liking for dancing, reading, masturbating and oh how could i forget the joy of attending carpentry workshops so i can learn how to make my own furniture— mainly because i was obsessed with interior design and the shop has been my main domain to experiment with it. It would take a special kind of person to infiltrate all of this now. It has taken me a long time to build this nest around me, the heavens would be melting like candle wax out of the Louisiana skies before I ever let anyone barge in and ruin my focus. Maybe this is what i've been reading about, Old patterns is it? Abandoning the margins of my spiritual books to be more than just a theory, a conspiracy that happens to other people. A nuisance, a ghost long buried gearing up to take breath over my life. Fuck this.

"Medium coffee with milk and three beignets"

I jerk up and cease my rambling. I take the neatly folded white paper bag from the young cashier and my cup of coffee. I can smell the vanilla extract and fried bananas concealed inside. I look forward to sinking my teeth into them and forgetting about all of this. I am tossing the layers of temptations over my shoulders, shedding the flashes of his angular face and dark eyes, the thought of a smile meant for me spread across his face. I am determined to forget all about him by tomorrow morning when I hear someone shouting behind me, with running feet following. I pick up my pace, fixating my truck and table ahead. " Hey" the voice a panting mess comes into my periphery, I turn around to meet it ,startled but ready for a confrontation in case this is a catcalling situation.

My brows softened when the stranger came into view " Oh.." It's him. As I feared.

" Didn't you hear me calling you back there?" He says with a reprimanding tone, huffing and puffing. I tilt my head and narrow my eyes . What the hell? " No i…"

" You dropped a 20" he says, thrusting the crumpled bill in my direction. His thick brows shoot up to meet his hairline, his look expectant. I smile and shake my head, flushed with embarrassment. He's just trying to be nice. Be nice. I tuck my guards away

" I'm sorry" I say, grabbing the retrieved item from his hand, our fingers accidently touching the other's, sending a sliver of electricity towards my pussy. " it's been a long day" i chuckle " thank you."

" No big deal, we all have our days" he says with a plain shrug. My toes wiggle for more room inside my leather sandals. For a brief moment he looks at the paper bag still clutched under my arms. Then back at me. We wait for one another to speak, for someone to break the ice, but none of us do. I'm too busy averting my eyes, focusing on the things around him, the canopy of trees, the cloud patterns in the sky, the lint on his shirt, the way black beads adorn his neck, anything other than his thin umber lips that i so want to be claimed by. His gaze runs across my face with something like staggering awe ,caressing my cheeks like a florist examining a delicate flower. I swallow, my mouth dry. " w-well um i have to get back….thanks for this"

I flash him the now sweaty bill. He nods, clasping his hands behind his back " it's my pleasure"

" Kay. See you around… i'm gonna " my thumb darts towards my truck, my legs taking slow strides backwards

" of course…" he replies. I turn to leave.

" You're a regular at Rousseau's right?" His words bring me to a halt. The hairs at the back of my neck rise, the air suddenly crisp against my forearms. So he noticed. " I go there sometimes. You know the owner or something?" He smiles, tiny wrinkles creasing at the corner of his mouth and eyes. It's so contagious I can't help but smile too.

" No…but we go way back" he hesitates, then continues " a close friend of mine bartended there for what feels like centuries ago"

" That's nice. Friends are good, God knows I forgot how to make those " i supply rocking on my heels. It's true. The older I get the more difficult connecting with others has become, like a dormant muscle I can't seem to make flexible again. I quickly recover, biting my bottom lip " and you're the regular who has a habit of stuffing his face with french fries while reading shitty classics… very neat"

" Excuse me?"

I click my tongue, resting a palm at my waist.

" So was it not you?"

" W– well, technically yes, yes…. minus the shitty classics part"

" Oh! So you weren't diving head deep into some of the most boring volumes literature has ever seen?"

The space between his brows knits with tension, his lips curling up in amusement. He licks his bottom lip " You seem to have strong opinions about Marcel Prousts"

I take a sip of my drink, anxious that it might go cold amidst this conversation but more than anything I could use all the reinforcement that i can get. My heart lifts at the coffee's warm touch " There's no beef there at all, i just find your talent to skip over the good stuff fascinating" i drawl.

" Fascinating huh" he replies seeking comfort in the pockets of his jeans " i guess i deserve that. And the criticism over my reading habits is on behalf of?"

I smirk. Oh he is smart, more reason for me to give him my name. " Mélisse" .

He nods, trying to collect the name with the woman standing before him. " Mélisse" he repeats " Beautiful name…very botanical"

" What can I say, I have a green thumb!" I beam

" Mmh"

" I didn't catch your name?"

" Vincent" he responds with eagerness. Vincent, Vincent. " Nice to meet you Vincent"

" Pleasure is all mine Mélisse"

Not once have I ever seen him smile at that bar, not when he's alone or with friends and yet standing here talking to me, he couldn't help himself but do just that. I have a hard time associating this jovial side of him with the one I've previously been exposed to—- Intense, removed and always pensive as if measuring the weight of the world on his shoulders.

I cut the conversation short, making an excuse to rejoin my cousin, despite every part of my body instructing me not to. I was a bit disappointed when he stood behind and didn't fight back. I wanted him to, to insist more, to impose himself against my better judgment. I wanted him to ask for my number, invite me out for a drink, and I wanted to have exchanged more than a few words with him.

Throughout the remainder of the afternoon I searched for him, to no avail. When we pack I scout the perimeters one last time, hoping to say goodbye, but my assumptions tell me he had already left. What a shame.

Later that night, when I came home, took a shower and scrubbed the day off of me, I summoned him from my memories. His gentle fingers washing my hair, the stream from the shower head cascading over us, his beard oil and the scent of tree moss dissolving from the steam while we swap stories and long kisses. When I finally reach my bed and melt within the sheets, the aftershocks of my orgasm are still reverberating through me. I sigh, and close my eyes, Sade's voice serenading on the radio, weaving along the lace curtains. I drift into a peaceful sleep, knowing full well soon enough this man would become a delicious problem.

Photo credit: pinterest

#black writers #black tumblr #writblr #writerscommunity #the originals #tvd fandom #vincent griffith #black witch #the originals fanfiction #vincentgriffithfanfic

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