#tree surgeons Staines

[alvinbing]

Tree Surgeons Ascot

Braywood Tree Surgery are tree surgeons in Ascot, providing tree surgery in Ascot, Windsor, Maidenhead, Bracknell, Egham, Staines and throughout Berkshire.

[penecruis]

Tree Surgeons Bracknell

Braywood Tree Surgery are tree surgeons in Ascot, providing tree surgery in Ascot, Windsor, Maidenhead, Bracknell, Egham, Staines and throughout Berkshire.

[vanilleandclove]

playoffs; jack abbot x f!trauma surgeon!reader

pittsburgh has a vibrant pub scene, being of true east coast fashion. when it’s playoff season for the steelers, that can only lead to bar brawls and broken tooths, most times. sometimes it’s bloody knuckles and misogynists. + as jack’s 49th birthday is around the corner, you book him a solo-vacation. 

warnings: violence, harassment towards women, misogyny, alcohol consumption, language, comments on body image/weight by others, talks of the menstrual cycle, trauma induced infertility, postpartum depression symptoms mentioned (non-reader), age gap: reader is 33, jack is 48. word count: 4.7k notes: these are based on two different anon requests! i merged the ideas :) — anon transcript at the end. cenote = natural watering/sinkhole, i’m from the bajío lands of mexico, michoacan to be exact- my family is purely purépecha, and have only been to a cenote twice once in michoacan & cancun. 

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Winter dawned onto Pittsburgh with an iron fist, near subzero temperatures, black ice, alcohol flowing into everyone to keep their blood warm, tree lighting ceremony, and most importantly, the Steelers made the playoffs. 

It became a tradition for the Pitt’s senior employees to pass the grunt work off to anyone R3 and under for the night shift and have the new attendings run the emergency room, all to gather around and watch the first game of playoff season. 

You and Heather stood at the bar, patiently waiting for the bartender to serve the three pitchers of beer. She knew you both were regulars, you thank the entirety of 2015 and 2021 when you had Abbot troubles and she had Robby issues, all around, it made for good conversation and excessive gratuity. 

It was crowded, gross, and musty. You almost wanted to scream “Go Pac, go!” just for the shoulders of the blue collared men to stop piercing into your spine. 

“I’ll get you ladies next, as well as those fancy cherries you like hon” Sara pointed at you as she walked into the back to grab the pitchers. You loved maraschino cherries, mostly because you wanted to prove you could tie the stems with your tongue to Jack who doesn’t believe you. 

“I thought boarding was worse, Sara must be swamped” Heather spoke up, yelling a tad from the loud noise around you both that could drown out her words. 

“I know her paycheck is fat during this time of the year” you shouted back, resting your hands onto the bar, glancing down at your engagement ring. 

It's been a long year with Jack, you couldn’t wait for it to be over with just so you have the false sense of a new era starting with your lover; it made for good motivation. 10 years he’s been in your life, a decade, now that made your lower back feel as stiff as a board. 

“Care to explain why we were left out of this?” Dana scooted between both of you, Bridget already occupying the extra chair you brought out for the booth. Dana’s husband was bulky and tall, like a lumberjack- pure midwest, he beelined his way to the bathroom as Dana conversed with you and Heathers

“Since when did you let the girls out to play?” you commented, giving her a hug with your outside arm, it’s been awhile since you’ve had day shift so seeing Dana was sparse. 

“Honey it’s date night, my kids are fast asleep with my eldest babysitting, the girls get to come out” she responded, giving Heather a hug before making her way to the booth. 

You smiled as it filled you with hope. Despite all of the years, kids, stressful jobs Dana and her husband had, they still had time for themselves.

“Can I buy you ladies a drink?” a stranger's voice peeked through, you could smell the alcohol seeping from his pores, his T.J. Watt jersey stained.

“No we’re good, thank you” you responded faster than you could think. 

“Really not even one?” his voice was nasally, grosser than the fact that his hot breath was directly in your face, “Could make y’all have a good time” he got a little too close to your ear. 

Jack made you carry a Swiss Army Knife- specifically the Swiss Champ on you at all times, he even gave you a 30 minute lecture on how to use it, even though you were mainly concentrating on his biceps and triceps flexing at the movement. He clipped them to your car keys, when you wore your jeans he put them on a carabiner with your keys and clipped them onto the belt loop.

“What about you darling? Want a drink with me, I know the perfect way to do jell-o shots, start at the cli-“.

“Okay, I already told you no, just go dude” you cut him off, sensing Heather’s uncomfortably from behind you, “Seriously you reek” you didn’t care for the fact that he towered over you, if he was bulky and the fist he started to make could land you in a worst spot than Dana in August. 

“You have no say for your friend missy” he pressed, anchoring his next to be at eye level to you. In your peripheral, you saw Jack straighten his back, sticking one leg out of the booth, ready for anything if you needed him. “Who knows, maybe I could take both of you”.

You made sure Heather was behind you, beginning to shield her with your arm slightly just so he wouldn’t fully register. “I bet your pussy is tight, soaking from all the attention you’re getting”. 

Within seconds you clocked his jaw, the act leading him to push you by the chest into Heather hard, getting the wind knocked into. Jack and Robby immediately got up and made their way in between you, just before you pounced onto him to throw another punch directly to his nose, the punch only making him more angry to the point where the punch that was supposed to land on your abdomen missed as Robby shoved him and led the punch to land directly on Jack’s arm that shielded your chest. 

You felt the blow nonetheless, cushioned, you still heard a groan leave Jack’s mouth. Just as Jaime, the bouncer, put the man in a citizen's arrest and quickly threw him out, Sara didn’t charge you for the pitchers or cherries, even threw in espresso martinis for you and the girls.

You all sat around the booth, Bridget in the chair, watching the Steelers versus the Packers, it was barely the second quarter. “How’s your arm?” you nudged your elbow lightly into Jack’s waist as his arm draped over your shoulders, holding your free hand and playing with your engagement ring.

“It’s fine, nice punch” Jack complimented, gaining a peck from you in response, “What even happened?”.

“You don’t wanna know” you responded, his eyes not leaving yours. He took your word for it even if it did bother him of not knowing. 

“So Rambo, I guess we should add Rocky onto your list of nicknames” Robby joked, his arm draped around Heather’s shoulder. 

You chuckled, taking a sip of Jack’s beer that you swore always tasted better, “I ain’t from Philly Robby” you deadpanned sarcastically.

“What about Rocky Marciano? He's a pure Masshole” Dana’s husband budded in smoothly. 

You nodded, “Brockton ain’t Boston” you shrugged, refusing to have another nickname of a Sylvester Stallone character, “On the other hand, we could go has Rocky and Adrian for Halloween next year” you added looking at Jack.

“I’m not putting on a red beret”.

“You’re breaking my heart Adrian” you feigned a Stallone voice only for Jack to shut you up with a kiss. 

“Do you guys have a date set?” Bridget popped the question everyone was dying to ask for the past two months since he proposed in October- after three back to back surgeries and while you were eating pizza from the same place your old apartment was next to.

You half-loathed the memory as your hair was greasy and disheveled, the makeup you had on was haphazardly wiped off with the spare makeup wipes you left in your glove compartment, your reading glasses on, and you had just pounded down a Dr. Pepper and needed to burp. 

“Not yet, I’d get married to her in the damn courthouse tomorrow but this one’s insistent on a ‘longer engagement’” he mimicked you. 

You sighed, “I want to get married in Nantucket- or Rhode Island, heaven forbid I want both our families there except his brother” you breathed the last part.

“What’s wrong with Abbot’s brother?” Heather inquired, Dana nodding as she wanted to know as well.

“You wanna tell them about Thanksgiving or do I?” you pressed, looking back to Jack.

He exhaled, “My brother made a comment on her ass- told her she must be pregnant ‘cuz her hips were wider than normal”.

“Not just that!” you added on, “He told Jack’s mom only for her to touch my stomach and ask if it was a boy or girl, it was a complete hazing ritual!” you laughed as you recalled the memory.

You did take a pregnancy test that night, only for it to be negative. Jack did assure you it’s probably just your ovulation coming, he had a bad- well good habit of knowing your cycle just by your body. 

During follicular, your nipples would darken, skin become a bit firmer than usual and you felt at ease from the in between of your period to ovulation. Luteal, especially the few days leading up to your period, you craved salt, and sex- a mix of the two and you’d have him laying down as you sucked him dry, you were insatiable during the time, your breasts heavier. Your period came during the night most times, so you’d wear a pad just in case the day before, sometimes you’d beat the hormones and start first thing in the morning, he noticed your hair would dry faster after the shower and you’d sleep more peacefully with his hand right onto your bare lower stomach. Ovulation sent him on a frenzy, truth be told he didn’t care about where in your cycle you were, if you wanted him, you had him. Your breasts were fuller, you felt more energized and sure enough, your hips widened. 

“Yikes” Robby broke the silence as they all digested what was told, “So, Nantucket?”.

“He wants Martha’s Vineyard but even for both of our salaries and older families, all that accommodation may just send us straight to the gutter” you elaborated, “Should’ve gotten married when I was 30 and we weren’t on the verge of a recession” you joked. 

“Just for that, no wedding ‘til you’re forty”.

“Speaking of big birthdays, what y'all doing for your 50th?” Dana smiled and nodded towards Jack.

“Nasty sex and barbecue?” you joked, Jack pointed at you just as he was about to speak up.

“And that is why I’m marrying her” Jack laughed, “It’s in a year, we’ll figure it out”.

The Steelers ending up advancing in the playoffs, you did eventually prove to Jack the cherry tie, only under a different roof. The next day, you all were swamped during the night shift as it approached 10 pm. 

You couldn’t lie, the engagement led you to be far more touchy. At any given moment, you wanted your hands on Jack. 

“40 year old male, TMGSW, he was stable upon arrival but during transport he kept crashing, gave him 50 of fent” the EMT ran over, it was an odd night to be running the trauma rooms.

Jack loved seeing you work, technically, you were his boss after Greene handed over the trauma department to you. He got a kick out of it as he claimed it made him a trophy husband. 

As the EMTs left, you and Ellis took over as you did an exam, only to realize his blood wasn’t circulating to his legs. “Blood flows unstable, can you call and see if there’s an OR available?”.

“They’re all filled, three with general, four with peds, I think a couple are ortho” an intern responded, only gaining a ‘tsk from you. Gloria gave a briefing to the surgical department earlier this week on maintenance in the operating rooms, leading for several of them to be closed.

“Fuck it, gown me, authorized personnel only, Parker you with me on this?” you shook your head.

“Want me to get Abbot?” she clarified as the nurses gowned and gloved both of you. 

“No- I need all the interns and med students to go to Doctor Abbot or Bridget, they’ll place you on a different case” you announced, clearing the room. “Have you ever seen a thoracotomy?” you asked.

“You and Abbot did one together my intern year,” Parker responded. 

“Good, so you know I’m not bullshitting” you replied, “I need a surgical tray and rib spreader”.

It took 30 minutes for you and Parker to complete the patient’s thoracotomy, never before have you seen her that intrigued. She held a heart in her hands- a beating heart.

“Excellent work Doctor Ellis” you told her, removed your gown and gloves as you sent the man to the ICU for observation and comfortability, you forced them to give him a bed. 

“I don’t know who’s more badass, you or Abbot”.

“He’s got the combat medic thing to bring to the table, I have the magic hands” you joked, dismissing her to do her own work as you met up with Jack at the nurse’s station.

“Your future wife just did a thoracotomy successfully with Ellis” you lightly bragged, your hand finding its way to his bicep, giving it a squeeze. Jack smirked, removing his eyes from the charts. 

“You know our shift isn’t over until 7 right?” he teased.

“I’m on an adrenaline high, sorry for being so needy for my insanely sexy fiance” you breathed, only to hear the beloved voice of none other than Myrna.

“I hear congratulations are in order for the happy couple!” you both haven't seen Myrna since before the engagement, she usually spends her times with the day shift.

“Not married yet Myrna, he’s still all yours” you responded to her, your hand finding itself resting on his forearm as he continued to chart. 

“Honey, lock him down, there’s patients all over the place ready to take him” she smiled at you, “If you guys have a daughter what will her name be?”.

“Haven’t decided yet Myrna” Jack intervened, “Might just have to get those baby name books from the gift shop” he looked into your eyes as he said the last part. 

Myrna wheeled off, leaving you two to yourselves. Jack was still doing yours and his charts which he seldomly enjoyed, took the heat off him while it could. Your hand caressed up and down his forearm, a bruise was forming on where the punch landed.

“How’s the arm baby?” you whispered to him.

“Fine, a little sore, nothing I haven’t felt” he told you, “You know you’ve gotten exceptionally clingy” he added, only for you to remove your hand when you noticed, “It’s not a bad thing, the amount of years I resisted, I’m surprised I haven’t taken you in a spare room”.

“I don’t know… It just feels good” you confessed, “You’re all mine and I got something tangible to prove it”.

“Me being around all the time wasn’t tangible enough? Or the nurses gossiping about our dirty talk that’s enough for a HR complaint if this department was anyway normal?” he quirked a brow.

“Give me your children and we’ll have another tangible thing” you teased.

“Playing with fire Doctor L/n” he responded.

“Oh you love it Doctor Abbot”.

Since August you and Jack had some instances where you thought you were pregnant, ever since Heather told you about her miscarriage, you refused to see a fertility doctor until you’ve run out of every possible option. However, your gynecologist said you were in good shape fertility wise, she made the claim that the more you expect it, the less chance it’ll happen.

Nevertheless, Jack got his labs done, perfectly normal, if anything, his sperm count was high. His therapist was shocked when he brought it up last session, thinking the trauma of his job and past were enough to shock his nerves and stunt fertility. Maybe it was all just timing.

Until Jack got even more panels done, only to reveal that his therapist was correct, he was the problem. Not having the heart to tell you, he saved it for a better day to come, hoping it was all temporary. 

The shift continued on, bar brawls and black ice, in true Pittsburgh fashion during football season. He drove you both home, seeing you dozed off in the passenger seat, he loved the days he worked with you. 

Jack enjoyed carrying you, though his back would hate him for it later, came with the job description. Your bags on both sides of him and you asleep in his arms as he made his way to the bedroom.

You groaned upon him sitting you down on the living chair. Remembering the one nonnegotiable rule.

Never take work to bed- physically and metaphorically speaking. He took your scrubs off, almost ready to give you a sponge bath because you gained clarity and consciousness. You did the rest, after extensive nights, you both settled for showering together, he washed you, you washed him. He gripped onto the support bar and you, it was a routine. He loved it. Gave him a chance to feel you all alone, he loved sex with you, just as much as he loved being nonsexually intimate with you.

The man would cut your toenails if asked, when you get sick once a year he’d gladly discard the tissues filled with snot, and didn't mind a single thing about living life with you. 

As he brushed his teeth while sitting on the stool, you took it upon yourself to massage his shoulders. 

“You know when you get lab work done it gets sent to my work email?” you brought up, kneading the knots in his shoulders as your comment made him anxious. He chose to remain silent and you understood, “Baby” you honestly didn't know about the labwork until you had to contact a patient to see if she could come in for a follow up.

He spat out the toothpaste, feeling your sensitivity towards him, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath before finally choosing to speak. “It could be temporary, maybe I just need to lower my stress levels”.

You looked at him through the mirror before crouching down to be at eye level with him in your eyes, staring into his eyes. “You know I love you regardless of if we have kids or not” you told him, “Don’t beat up yourself over things that are minuscule”. 

“I want them just as much as you do” Jack sighed, resting his forehead on yours, gripping the nape of your neck, “I have an appointment on Monday, gonna see what’s going on with me”. 

You sighed, “Maybe it’s a sign for an extended vacation” you hinted, “Get away for a few weeks, come back home to me…”.

“Like I’d go anywhere without you” he scoffed, only to realize the look on your face was sure “You’re not serious are you?”.

“Babe, we're together 24/7, it’s good to have your own time. Away from sperm tests, OB-GYNEs all up in there, fuck and work, Jack Abbot you’re not a soldier anymore sir” you told him, lightly joking, “For the past month you’ve been working on adrenaline-infused autopilot. I love you, but you can rest sometimes you know?”.

When you were met with silence you decided to speak up again, handing him an envelope with a plane ticket to Tulum that you hid in your gym bag. “Take a break, relax. At least sometime in the near future, I’m not going anywhere- hell I might just have Heather fill in for you so I don’t sleep alone” 

“Baby..” he opened the envelope, “Weren’t we saving this trip for Fourth of July?”.

“Already cleared it all with Bridget and Dana, I’m taking your caseload” you shrugged, you had the idea of him going on a vacation alone since last year, knowing he needed it. “You leave in a week from today” you smiled at him as relief washed over him, “It’s only for a week but when you get back maybe you and Robby can have something together, regain your groove”.

“Honey, I have my groove” he nodded, “I can’t go to Tulum without you”.

“Eh, we’ll do Cancun during the summer, a couple weeks, go exploring” you shrugged, “Have poolside sex in the private pool, fuck me proper” you whispered in his ear. “Oh! And the food”.

“You have quite the dirty mouth”.

“I wonder who influenced me”.

Truth of the matter was, you wanted to surprise him for his birthday. Wanted to throw a bigger get together than what you both originally planned and the only way Jack wouldn’t be at home or in Pittsburgh is if you were both on vacation or his brother convinced him to spend more than 2 hours with him.

“That 400k a year really does work wonders” he commented, “You can’t just go with me?”.

“Then it wouldn’t be alone time would it?” you told him, helping him get up from the stool holding him secured by the elbow. “Let me do this for you”.

He nodded, “You sure you can handle both our caseloads though?” letting you lead the way to the bed. “It’s just a huge ask hon”.

“Nothing I haven’t had before” you shrugged, letting him sit on the edge of the bed, “Don’t worry about baby” you noticed his sense of worry, “Plus when you get back, birthday sex”

“Oh god” he groaned, smiled from the thought but also realized he will be 66 at the kid’s graduation if you guys have a kid now after doing the math.

But that would certainly be a miracle. 

“49 isn’t that big of a deal” he spoke up, placing you between his leg and stump, planting kisses on your lotioned stomach.

“It is with the year we had” you ran your fingers through his grey curls. Hands never leaving him. You weren't wrong, with Pitfest and your near breakup, this past Halloween when you got alcohol poisoning after a stressful week, the week after Thanksgiving when Jack had inconsoble back pain from stress and work. Everything positive was a big deal.

The rest of the week passed, you had dropped Jack off at the airport Tuesday night, telling him to text you when he made it to Denver for his layover. He didn’t wanna leave you, but you knew it would be best for his own sanity. 

It was an interesting week without Jack. He got hooked on facetiming you every single night, sometimes twice a day, before and after he showered. Most of the time you were swamped at work, trying to not show your stress visibly. He knew it beyond the screen, could see the stress lines form between your brows, the lack of sleep prevalent under your eyes.

“Baby just go home” he sighed, he knew Gloria was on your ass the entire week and since you were already working overtime- 2 hours to be exact, the surgical department had separate scheduling most days. The logical decision would be to book it. Jack was awake bright and early for a tour in the cenotes of Tulum, it was 7:30 for you and 6:30 for him. 

You nodded, holding your phone towards the ceiling as you talked to your patient Sadie, she came in with a kitchen knife lodged in her wrist. She was a new mom and the sleep deprivation and postpartum only led to her lack of concentration while cooking. 

“Babe, I’ll call you back when I get home, gotta check up on my new mom” you told him, he looked calm and tanned through the phone. Couldn’t deny your mind, your future husband looked perfect. He understood you better than anyone, understood your job and life. 

“Okay, stay safe, I love you” he told you over the phone, he knew you were tired to the point where it didn’t register and you just hung up, your brain on autopilot.

“Hey hon, everything okay? Want me to get you anything? Any questions?” You asked lightly, checking her I.V. and antibiotics. 

“Do you know when I’m getting discharged? My sister’s at home but she’s leaving at 6:50 before my husband gets off work” she muttered, her throat dry from the intubation tube during surgery. 

“The knife was poking near your ulnar artery, a centimeter closer, you’d be in grave danger in a matter of minutes. Your body took a considerable amount of an adrenaline boost that led your blood pressure to skyrocket and your heart to go into what we call a silent heart attack” you told her, “Thankfully we caught it as it occurred and were able to reverse any damage but two operations in less than 24 hours- especially a strenuous one in the heart, I morally and medically can’t discharge you for at least two days” you looked at her in the eye, “I’m going to ask Bridget, my charge nurse, to transfer you to the post-op wing, it’s a bigger room and more comfortable- if not, I’ll go there myself to get you a bed”. 

“You’re a godsend” she sighed, her eyes swelling up with tears, “Do you have one?”.

“Hm?”.

“A baby” she clarified. 

“Oh no- not yet” you smiled at her, standing at the edge of her bed.

“You’re going to be an amazing mother” she complimented. 

“Thank you” you breathed, “Day shift staff will be coming in a few minutes. I’ll ask my resident Doctor Mohan to check up on you, she’s a really smart and kind person, very easy to talk to” you smiled back at her. You needed a coffee, swearing you would pass out behind the wheel.

It took a few minutes while you were back at the computer ready to clock out to realize you hung up on Jack without saying “I love you”. That was enough for you to start crying at the computer, tired and overwhelmed, and just in time for Gloria and Robby to walk up to you, greeting you with a good morning.

“You okay Rocky?” Robby quirked a brow, placing a coffee cup right next to you.

“Doctor L/n, go home, you’re almost 3 hours overtime” Gloria spoke up, earning a concerned look from Dana, Heather, Robby, and Samira.

“Do you want me to drive you home?” Whitaker blurted, the poor kid, heart in the right place except his shift was going to start in 5 minutes.

“Nah it’s okay kid, I’m fine” you wiped your tears, they couldn’t tell if your eyes were bloodshot from the tears or lack of sleep.

“I’m going to ask if Emery can fill in for your surgical cases, Jamie can take Jack’s workload” Dana told you, “Now get the hell out of here before we call your union rep”.

You chuckled, getting your bag from the corner of the desk, letting your hair down for the first time in hours. “Doctor Mohan, I have a new mom, accidentally stabbed herself with a kitchen knife- the adrenaline triggered her BP to boost and she had an MI while on the table. She’s in South 3, I told her you’d be the perfect doctor to talk to when I clock out. Please check up on her?” you spoke to her as you walked off.

“No problem!”.

You made your way to Jack’s truck in the parking lot, choosing his truck over your car because it smelt like him all over. 

He'll be back soon; you mumble to yourself. Made all the exhaustion and stress feel a little bit tolerable. 

dividers by @cafekitsune

anon #1: Jack Abbot x fem reader. Everyone at the Pitt is having drinks at some bar after the shift. Until some assholes got touchy and angry when one of the girls and she just defended them despite having the boys over too. Jack only observe since he knows his gf can handle it. He would interfere when things got out of hand. Badass gf, asshole, violence. Do however you want to. Thanks!!! :)))

anon #2: Hey!! Love all your fic for Jack Abbot❤️❤️ Can I request Jack Abbot x fem reader? Whoever loves language is touched and Jack just accepts the fact that she is. Especially when she visits the Pitt, she would be close to him, hold his hand/arm/back/every where she could touch and Jack just let her despite everyone who knew him, that he's never letting anyone touch him like that. Just something cute, soft, kisses, suggestive. Thanks!!! :)))

[starlitunicorn]

Scar Tissue, Chapter 1

Zayne x Reader. University AU. Reader is not MC. Slow-burn. Angst!

When you begin your university year with an accidental collision with her new professor, Dr. Zayne, your world is thrown into awkward chaos. What starts as a simple mishap spirals into a tense dynamic between you and the former surgeon. Word count - 4.3k Chapter 2

A/N: I was really inspired by the wonderful @eelliotss and their story "Borrowed Time". It made me want to try writing something, for the first time in my life. It was definitely a hard challenge, since English is not my first language, and I don't have a writing style, but I really wanted to create something as wonderful as them (please check out Borrowed Time, it's literally a masterpiece). I would be more than happy to hear criticism or suggestions, just be gentle, I'm really new to it. ♡

Throwing a playlist I used while writing, hopefully it will help you immerse yourself in the story.

The fresh, slightly cold air tossed fallen leaves, lifting them from the ground, forcing them into a bizarre dance mid-air. Slightly cold autumn air is pushing its way through the tops of the trees, carrying careless talks and laughs of the students, who are slowly approaching the big, towering building. 

The start of the new academic year is always worrying in anticipation of new acquaintances, new friendships, and new experiences. But the least exciting part here is probably the lectures, a bunch of homework, that will keep you away from going out with your friends, and tests. Fixing the loose strap of your backpack, you slowly walk along the stone pathway, tossing the golden leaves with your shoes. The lingering summer memories are flashing in your mind, making you miss hot sunny days and carefree time away from the town. Approaching the big, open glass door, you look up at the large building with the flashy name of your university. Covering your mouth with your hand, you yawn, stepping over the doorstep. Even though you promised to go to bed earlier last night, you stayed up too late, like usual, playing games. It will be hard to get back into the “normal” schedule after three long months of going to bed at sunrise. A loud laugh and hustle behind makes you turn your head. A group of students, walking inside the building, was laughing and talking loudly, sharing some funny moments from their summer vacation. They were so loud that it was hard not to hear what they talked about. You huffed, turning your head away, when suddenly, you bumped into something. Or someone. 

A strong smell of cologne and coffee enveloped you when your nose touched the soft fabric of a coffee-colored coat. Base notes of wet moss and amber with light heart notes of jasmine and pine hit your sense of smell, leaving a transparent cocoon around you. A loud gasp escaped the lips of the person you just walked into. You slowly looked up with your guilty gaze, but you underestimated how high you had to lift your head. Your gaze stopped first on the steaming brown blotch staining his chest: a fresh splash of coffee. Then, higher, to meet a pair of deep hazel eyes burning with irritation. 

His pale face looked irritated. His refined features were nicely framed by the dark, short hair, which looked shiny and well-styled. His thick eyebrows were furrowed, making his eyes appear even more piercing. Scarred fingers were clenching the half-empty cup of coffee as if waiting for something. An apology, perhaps. You quickly snap back from observing the man, nodding your head in a guilty gesture. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to.” Your hands searched your pocket, getting out a clean handkerchief, and handing it to the man in front. He swiftly grabbed the cloth from you, rubbing it on the wet spot, seemingly making it worse, smearing the coffee around the white shirt. Mortified, you murmured another apology and turned on your heel, rushing toward the stairs to escape the heat of his gaze—and the burning embarrassment tightening in your chest.

Swearing under your breath, you quickly move up the stairs, hoping this encounter won’t cause any trouble for you. Your palm slightly tapped your forehead, as if punishing yourself for not being careful enough. He didn’t look like a student. Maybe the way he wasn’t rushing anywhere, like other students, or the fact that he looked older than all the boys around, made you think he was the new lecturer, or someone with a higher position. What can make it worse? 

The morning encounter disappeared from your mind really fast, in the rush of the day. Running around the halls, trying to find the correct lecture hall, and meeting with classmates quickly took your thoughts to a different place. Your phone was exploding with new group chats and new contacts, trying to keep up with everything. The buzz already made you miss the quiet of your room and the comfort of your bed. Quickly unfolding the piece of paper with your schedule, you glance at the sign with the room number. Making sure it’s the correct one, you step inside, looking for an empty desk. Your gaze fell on the empty desk near the window in the room's far corner. You never liked sitting right in front of the teacher's face. If you took the front row, it always made you feel more supervised. This could take away the pleasure of doodling when the lecture gets too dull. Just as the bell rang, the door slowly opened, and the sound of footsteps echoed in the spacious room. Weirdly punctual, you thought, tapping the pen on the empty page of your notebook. The teacher's arrival time tells a lot about their teaching and their temper. Someone who is constantly late is usually laid back and a really easy-going teacher, letting students slack, or will try to blend in and joke around with them. As for someone who arrives with the bell.. It can be a tough one. Meaning, no relaxing in their lessons. 

It was enough for you to see the coffee-coloured coat that flashed in the doorframe, as your head sank into your shoulders. Soon, his tall figure was standing next to the teacher's desk, as he carefully put the cup of hot, fresh coffee on the table, next to the pile of files. He didn’t seem to rush, slowly taking off his coat and placing it on the back of the chair, exposing the faint coffee stain on the white shirt. 

Arms crossed, as the gaze of his hazel eyes carefully studied the room. It stopped on you for a second too long, forcing you to look away with a hint of guilt, once again reminding you of the incident in the morning. You slid down the chair, grabbing your notebook and hiding your face. It seems like he didn’t forget about the spilled coffee as fast as you did, since it ruined his outfit for the day. And it’s the first day of the new year, what a look to show up in a stained shirt. He finally stopped drilling your notebook with his eyes, slowly walking in front of his desk and leaning on it. “I hope you all had a nice summer, but it’s time to get serious and put a great start to your new academic year,” his voice, calm yet loud and clear, filled the room. It didn’t sound as you imagined it would, and there were no angry notes, so it made you relax and brush off the embarrassment once again. “I’m Zayne Li, a former awarded Cardiac Surgeon from Akso hospital, and now, your new anatomy teacher. You can call me Doctor Zayne. Hopefully, we can all work well together and achieve great results by the end of the year.”    

A wave of whispers rumbled across the class. Zayne Li was a well-known surgeon in one of the most prestigious hospitals in the town—the person who conducted tons of scientific research and was even awarded for one of them. Students seemed to wonder why he quit his job to teach at the university. Giving up something you've built for a long time isn't logical. “You have a lot of questions, I see. You can ask,” he lets out a quiet chuckle, turning around and grabbing the files from the table, opening them, and scanning through the text. The voice from the first row yelled out first, “Dr. Zayne, why did you quit your job as a surgeon at Akso hospital?” Zayne stopped, tapping his finger on the hardcover of the files. “You can ask anything not related to my dismissal.” Other students started asking questions about his work. Some had questions about his research, while others said he inspired them to enter this university. Zayne graduated as the best student from this exact university, which many think made the place special, and studying here could open many doors in the future. 

As for you, your inspiration to enter this university is your parents. They insisted, you didn’t complain, since at the time, you didn’t have any ideas for your future direction. The physical therapist wasn’t that bad, and your grades allowed you to get in. Still, his answer left you wondering. What could make such a successful doctor leave his position to be a teacher? You trailed deep in your thoughts, doodling some chaos on the pages of your notebook. You didn’t notice how the conversation shifted from questions to introductions. Your name was called twice, before you finally came back to reality, lifting your head up, and getting up. “Sorry. Uh, that’s me. Nice to meet you, Dr. Zayne.” Still struggling to keep eye contact with the man, you stare at the coffee stain on his shirt. He seems to notice, letting out a quiet hum and ticking your name in his journal. “You seem very windy today. Not the greatest first impression,” he murmured, looking down at his shirt. Some students turned their heads around to look at you. Annoyed, you don’t say anything, swiftly sitting back in your chair. Embarrassment burns in your chest, but it goes away fast. It must be the payback for his ruined outfit. Quickly wrapping up introductions, Zayne starts the lesson with some literature recommendations to get into the subject. Writing down the necessary books, you feel Zayne’s heavy gaze on you as you glance up. His unblinking hazel eyes, as if looking somewhere past you, make you feel cold shivers on your back. So much for wanting to stay “unnoticed”, that’s why you chose the furthest desk, but it seems like there’s no hiding in this class. 

After the bell rang, class ended. Everyone collected their scattered belongings, leaving the classroom. Zayne, on the other hand, wasn’t rushing to pack. His files were standing on the table in a really nice pile, placed on top of each other. He tried to be precise even in the way he put things on his desk. You were leaving last, since the way from the corner of the room to the exit door was the longest, but just as you prepared to step out of the class, you heard a clear call. “Hey. I think I should give this back to you.” Zayne reached into his pocket and handed you the handkerchief from earlier. Now, stained with coffee and shriveled, it was saturated with the smell of Zayne’s detergent, sitting in his pants pocket all day. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not mad. But you should be careful spilling someone’s hot drink like that. Others might not be as forgiving.” His strict tone echoed in your head, like a parent lecturing the child about putting on the hat before going outside. Your fingers slowly grab the handkerchief, shoving it into the open backpack. Your lips curve into a smile, which you usually give someone when you mess up, showing a barely visible dimple on your cheek. It seems that in that exact moment, Zayne froze on the spot. His fingers dug into the edge of the table, and his mind shifted somewhere far away from here, deep in his memories. Noticing that his consciousness left the walls of this room, you quietly smacked your lips, rocking back and forth. Maybe he tried to remember something, to tell you about an assignment, or something else, so you just decided to give him some time. But it didn’t look like he was about to return anytime soon, so you slowly started backing up from the class, looking all around the place in a silent embarrassment. “Soo-oo.. I think I will go, I need to find another lecture hall. Have a nice day, Dr. Zayne,” you murmured, quickly turning around and disappearing from the classroom, like the wind. You heard him say something in return, but you couldn’t understand it, since the sound of his voice was drowned in the crowded corridor. Blinking several times at a loss, you shake your head, trying to eliminate the feeling that your new teacher is a weirdo. After a tiresome first day, your next destination was the university library. You decided to grab all the literature needed for your new subjects while you were at it. The library hall was in the farthest corner of the building, so reaching a big room stacked with books took some time. A library assistant handed you a little piece of paper with blanks, so you could write down all the books you’re taking. You ran your fingers through sparkly clean shelves, which were polished before the start of the new year. Your hand stopped at the “scientific research” section for the correct title. You scoffed under your breath, fingers closing around a book with Zayne’s face staring back at you from the cover. “Recommending your own research as class literature,” you muttered. “What a braggart.” But the smug satisfaction barely had time to settle before a low hum sounded behind you. Your arms instinctively wrapped around the book, clutching it to your chest. You didn’t dare turn around. The scent of coffee hit your nose, sharp and unmistakable. A sigh slipped out of you, heavy with dread, as you slowly turned, already picturing the furious expression you’d seen that morning when you'd spilled his drink.

“I mean… that’s wonderful. You must be really proud of it.” The corners of your lips twitch as you force an awkward smile. He doesn’t react, just rolls his eyes and takes a slow sip of his caffeine-heavy drink. Your ears burn. No way you’ve embarrassed yourself twice in front of your new teacher on your very first day. And to top it off, insulted him to his face.

“I just wanted to see who would actually stop by the library to get the books,” he said, pausing to lick the bitter remnants from his lips, “so I could maybe point them out as dedicated students next time.” Then his gaze flicked toward you, sharper now. “But I wouldn’t mention you. Since you already think I’m bragging, you should go ahead and read all my research.” He tilted his head with clear irritation, then set his coffee cup on the nearby table. 

Zayne stepped forward, closing the distance between you in one long stride, never once meeting your eyes. Your fingers dug into the book’s hardcover, but your legs refused to move. His chest stopped just in front of your face when he finally closed his eyes and exhaled—a long, heavy breath, like the weight of the entire day had just dropped onto his shoulders.

“Move.” The word came low and calm, almost a whisper scraped from the back of his throat. It cuts through your trance like a blade. You jolted, stepping aside without a word. His hand brushed past you, reaching for the book you'd unknowingly been blocking. 

Finally, lowering the worn research in your hands, you feel another heavy weight pressing down on your arms. Zayne places a thick, glossy book on top of your little pile. He moves past you, calm and deliberate, retrieving his coffee from the table. He said nothing, leaving you in the quiet of a library, staring at his light smile from the book cover. You lift your head and furrow your eyebrows at his echoing presence. Shoving books in your backpack, you try to fit everything without damaging your belongings. You quickly fill in the book registration paper and leave it on the desk at the exit, sprinting out of the library and soon out of the building. In your thoughts, you are already home, leaving the heavy day behind the university doors. The trip home doesn’t take long. The bus ride almost lulls you to sleep, but you manage to jump out of your seat before missing your stop. Entering the small apartment building, you climb the stairs, dragging your feet behind you. Stopping in front of your apartment, you slowly open the door, yelling, “I’m home!” from the doorway. You hear the quiet hustle in the kitchen when a dark-haired girl peeks out of the corner. Seeing your exhausted face, she offers you a warm smile. “Oh, hi. How was the first day?”. She finally leaves the kitchen, wiping her hands with a stained towel. It’s been the second year you and your friend Simone have been renting an apartment together. Living with her was not draining. She was a great roommate, and it took some weight off your shoulders regarding payments.

“They already loaded us with a mountain of books to read, and I’ve managed to get on my new teacher’s bad side. Wouldn’t be surprised if he fails me.”  You flopped onto the couch, grabbing a pillow and pressing your face into it, trying to bury yourself in the soft, forgiving embrace and shut out the world. Simone laughed, perching on the armrest and promptly stealing the pillow, your only line of defense, exposing your face to the light. “No one’s going to fail you,” she said with a grin. “Just get your teacher something nice. A bottle of wine, some fancy chocolate—boom, apology accepted. Who wouldn’t love that?” She flashed that radiant smile again, the one that always, without fail, made you feel a little better. “I was just cooking. Food’ll be ready in ten. Go wash your hands.” But you were already sprung to your feet, yanking open your backpack and dumping the books onto the couch to make space for something else.

“You’re a genius! I’m getting an apology gift.” You were halfway out the door before you finished the sentence.

“You can start without me!” you shouted back. Simone didn’t say anything, but her smile lingered. Somehow, she always knew exactly what you needed—even when she didn’t realize it. 

The late afternoon air hit your face the moment you stepped outside—crisp, laced with the distant scent of city exhaust and someone grilling down the block. You didn’t slow your pace. You zigzagged past the corner store, dismissing the sad stack of mass-produced chocolate bars in the window. 

No, this needed to be thoughtful. Personal. Maybe even charming. If Zayne was the type to wear expensive cologne and carry himself like a walking thesis paper, he probably wasn’t a fan of cheap sweets or mugs that said #1 Professor.

A small boutique caught your eye, tucked between a flower shop and a bookstore. Its window displayed neatly wrapped gift boxes, jars of imported honey, artisan teas, and a pyramid of dark chocolate truffles that looked sinfully expensive. 

A soft chime rang as you stepped inside. The place smelled like cinnamon, cedar, and vanilla—like December wrapped in tissue paper.

A woman behind the counter looked up with a warm smile. “Looking for something in particular?”

“Yeah,” you said, breathless. “Something for a… teacher. As an apology.”

Her smile widened knowingly. “Tough start to the year?”

You nodded, laughing a little under your breath. She guided you toward a velvet-lined shelf of truffles—dark, decadent, and neatly boxed with subtle gold accents. One label caught your eye: Dark Chocolate with Whiskey Ganache. You picked it up. Rich. A little bold. Slightly dangerous. Just like the man you were trying to appease.

“This one,” you said, nodding. “It feels… honest.”

“Excellent choice,” the woman said, ringing you up. “Strong enough to say sorry without groveling.”

You left the shop ten minutes later, the gift bag swinging gently at your side. In it was your olive branch—boozy, bittersweet, and slightly impulsive, just like you. Simone was right. You couldn’t undo the mess, but maybe you could sweeten the aftermath. 

Arriving back home, you realize that Simone has already vanished from the apartment. You notice a little note on the fridge, with her pretty, neat handwriting: I’ll be late, don’t forget to eat something. You look around to notice a small plate of pasta with meat sauce on the table, served with cheese, and even cutlery laid out for you, like a quiet invitation. 

A warmth spreads through your chest like a blanket. You didn’t need grand gestures. This was enough. This was Simone. Thoughtful even in something so simple as making dinner. 

You scooped up the plate and made your way to your small but clean room. It was lined with bookshelves, scattered with little figurines, and glowing softly from a tangle of LED lights. Nothing extravagant—just yours. 

Devouring the still-warm pasta, one hand already hovering over your laptop’s trackpad. The screen lit up as you opened your browser, fingers hesitating for only a second before typing: Zayne Li. The search bar flickered, loading results almost instantly. Articles. Publications. Academic praise. But nothing, nothing about his sudden departure from Akso Hospital. 

You leaned in, scanning the titles again. If someone like him, arguably one of the best surgeons in the country, had walked away from such a high position, shouldn’t that be front-page news? 

You even found his social media profile, though it felt sterile, curated, like a gallery where only the right parts of a life were displayed. Polished. Untouchable. Whatever happened… it was hidden. Intentionally. A soft sigh escaped you as you leaned back in your chair, pushing the empty plate aside. 

If the truth was hidden five feet deep, you weren’t curious enough to grab a shovel. At least, not yet. So you decided to get your mind off it by launching your favorite game, slightly glancing at the gift box, in anticipation of tomorrow.

The morning was quiet, cold but fresh and welcoming. You arrived earlier for the possibility of meeting up with Dr. Zayne and giving him your apology present, that you so thoughtfully prepared yesterday. The university halls are half-empty, still sleepy from the quiet night. Only the most dedicated students roamed these corridors at this hour. Those chasing scholarships, high honors, or simply the peace in the quiet of the library. 

You look through the schedule sheet, scanning the list of classrooms and lecture slots, stopping on the ones marked with his name. First period. It has to be the chance. But, arriving at the destination, you’re met with silent, empty walls. Your stomach twisted. What if you can’t find him before classes start? What if you lose the moment, or worse? What if the chocolate melts? You run around the halls, mind racing with possibilities. Where would Dr. Zayne go this early? What is the first thing he does in the morning? Then it hits you. Coffee. Of course. Without hesitation, you pivot towards the side exit to find a small coffee corner in the university garden. And there he is. Sitting alone on a bench, a paper cup cradled in his hands. He’s not on his phone. He’s not reading. Just sitting. His eyes are distant, as if he’s entertained by some unspoken deep thoughts. The rising steam curls around his face in soft spirals, making his glasses fog. He didn’t have those yesterday, but chose to wear them while drinking a hot drink. 

You slow your step, heart thudding from the sprint. Finally, taking a deep breath, you walk closer to the bench, figuring out how to start your heartfelt apology, since you didn’t think it through before. Your fingers clench around the pretty red box as you slowly nod, clearing your throat, trying to grab his attention, as he seemed not to notice you.       

“Good morning, Dr. Zayne.”

He glances up, brows faintly raised. You push through the knot forming in your throat.

“I know we had a… rough start.” You try to keep your tone light, but the words already feel like too much and not enough at the same time. “And I realize we’ll have to tolerate each other for the rest of the year, so—”

A pause. Your mind races ahead of your mouth, tripping over everything you didn’t rehearse.

“I just wanted to apologize for yesterday. I wasn’t careful and didn’t mean to sound rude or disrespectful. Especially toward your work.”

You extend the box toward him, almost too fast, and squeeze your eyes shut the moment it leaves your hand, bracing for laughter, or worse, complete dismissal.

“I don’t like alcohol.” He cut as sharp as a blade, making you freeze on spot. Somewhere in your mind, you could almost see a black Game Over screen flashing across your vision. 

Of course, you managed to mess up again, and how did that even happen? There’d been no way to know his preference, but that didn’t make the sting any less brutal. Pulling your hands away, your face darkened. Your shoulders dropped, the heat rising in your cheeks, as you were already prepared to leave without saying a thing, because it seems like a silent retreat is better than taking the embarrassing hit in the gut. 

“But you put in the effort,” he murmured, voice low and edged with something unreadable. “I appreciate that.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“I accept your apology. Though you should know. I was never mad to begin with.”

You blink, caught off guard.

“I’ve had worse from first-years. It takes more than spilled coffee and a stray comment to make me hate someone.” 

Zayne’s long fingers grasped the box, tucking it neatly under his arm as he rose from the bench in one smooth motion. His height loomed for a second before he gave a small, deliberate nod—an understated gesture of gratitude. Then, unexpectedly, his hand landed on your shoulder. Firm. Measured. His gaze locked onto yours, eyes scanning your expression with unsettling precision, making you feel like after a carrot, there will be a stick. “You really are.. windy.” 

It wasn’t quite an insult. Not quite praise either. But it lingered in the air, and for some reason, it felt like he wasn’t entirely wrong. With that, he disappeared from your view, behind your back, entering the building, leaving a somewhat bitter aftertaste of your failure. But at least you know your teacher is not holding a grudge, so there’s nothing to worry about. Right? 

[szarina]

Hiiii!

I was thinking, what if reader was terrified of having kids. Personally, I am (even before I had seen the whole "reasons to not get pregnant" list), I always thought of adopting if I had ever wanted them.

How would zayne react to finding out about this after he got reader pregnant? Would he feel guilty or would it be something else?

❆ ₊⋆ content warnings. implied noncon + fear of pregnancy + implied abuse + not proofread.

“No.”

The surgeon hears you sobbing from the other side of the room. Those tiny sniffles and the cracks of your voice tears through his heart. The same cries he heard many times in the entirety of his childhood spent with you.

Shedding tears under the same oak tree that was your shelter when you needed a good cry behind that ancestral house of your family. It was for different reasons. A family pet died, the teasing remarks from your older siblings that your sensitive heart can't take and another scolding from your mother who had never learned how to raise and love her daughter.

You always keep a facade. Mastered the art of keeping your tears at bay even it threatened to fall and when the coast is clear — you always ran at that tree. Taking cover while you cry your heart out until it's only the dried tears that stained your round cheek and the red, puffy eyes.

At heart, you were still the scared girl who were good at pretending but at the confines of his household with only you and him — it's another kind. Allowing you to be weak and cry your eyes out without judgement. The safety he always wanted for you.

Though it did more than harm and worsen what you felt towards your current condition.

He was supposed to know after the years spent with you but perhaps being sidetracked with his profession and towards her condition, he neglected you and he will carry the guilt for the rest of his days.

When he entered the room, the sight of you curled up and your shoulder shakes while you cried. His steps were measured before slowly sinking into the softness of the mattress. Brushing the strands of your hair covering your face and to reveal glassy eyes and your trembling lips.

“I didn't want to be a mother, Zayne. Did you know that?” You hiccuped, your tears are like dew drops when you meet his gaze.

The look on his face is something you can't forget when you said that. It was like he missed a vital organ when operating and only for the patient to end up dying on his hands. His brows were lowered, his gaze soft and the undeniable tightness in his jaw upon your confession.

“You never even asked me if I wanted to be a mother...... you could have at least asked me while you did that to me.” Your voice cracked at the end. As if it was the least damaging thing he can do to you. Taking control over your autonomy cause you were too weak to resist.

You remained motionless clutching your stomach with every passing second the little ones grow inside you.

He didn't have the reasons to say to you — for no comfort will it bring to you but he's trying or he could be quiet while he make the same calculated response he always did when being asked questions. He sighs like he was controlling his emotions and choosing the right words.

“You were going to leave me. It's only the decision I could make at that moment to have you.” Is what he said but the words were lead in his tongue. He remains unfazed without ever changing the expression on his face. Always the cold emotionless that you once love. Cold is beautiful but this coldness nipped at your bones and trapped you.

“Have me?” You asked unsure. A pained smile etched in your face.

“I was always been yours, Zayne.” Pausing briefly to breath. “You ignored it for her favor and when I wanted to leave cause I still have a little respect for myself. You took it away from me.” You continued and your heart breaks into the most tiniest of pieces. This is the time you only knew that a broken heart can still be broke.

“How cruel can you be?”

He didn't need to brace his self for the words were harsh and cruel but it can never measure for what he did to you. No need to defend cause he can't justify his actions. In his own warped calculated thinking — it was better. You were still on his bed.

It was supposed to fill him with guilt. Gnawing at his insides for what he did to you — of forcing to carry his child without your permission but as soon it faded that it was the decision that it can truly bind you to him.

“It was never meant to happen.” The thought of you dying in the hospital keeps replaying in his mind. The sheer terror of losing you haunts him. It was the assurance that you were alive and within his reach he have you.

“I was selfish. I thought it was better for you to be with me. No harm will come to you as long you're with me but I hurt you.” It's unforgiving. He says to himself but you being harmed outside weighs more than him hurting you by doing this.

It's clear that he regrets it. Every time you flinch or how your eyes slowly loses the light and replaced with grief that once looked at him like he hung the stars and moon.

“I couldn't lose you again. I won't ask for your forgiveness but know that it was necessary.”

He hesitated to reach out for you and keeps his hands to himself. It was already damaging for you.

“You said you had enough love for the three of us but will it be enough when I have no love to give for the two inside me?”

You stare at him. Studying his expression — still the same.

“Yes.” He says without indifference. Clear and concise. Always his ways.

You didn't need to hear another answer for it was enough. Another word and your path towards darkness will stretch into a longer one. A nightmare you couldn't escape.

[otkuhotgirl]

─── 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐍𝐈𝐀 .

# with trafalgar water d. law.

despite the overextended manner with which law behaved, and the fatigue that crept into his soul due to his tendencies of avoiding a decent rest, sleep could not find him in the slightest. when his insomnia lurked around the corner, law could always count on your mouth to tire him out.

⎰ & smut (mdni!) gn!reader. oral (male!receiving). deepthroating. praise kink. no y/n used.

W.C: 2K.

the incessant ticking of the obstinate clock on the wall had the opposite effect of what was meant to be soothing. law had quit on writing the reports that dwelled on his mind, finding that his grip on the pen was unusually harsh — and enough to split it in two. law wasn’t against the vision of black ink on his skin — the tattoos on his body were enough proof of that — yet, when the ink that stained his palm was born from the destruction of one quite expensive and favored pen, pleased was the last adjective he’d use.

he scrubbed his eyes with the cleaner fingers, shutting them with a sense of bubbling rage born from intrinsic exhaustion. the strained muscles of his back began to ache an hour ago. he failed to concentrate on even the smallest of details, his synapses so lethargic he’d probably end up writing their instead of there in his paper. law clenched his jaw; stressed, sleep-deprived, and frustrated.

bepo had knocked on his door ten minutes prior — for the fifth time that night — with the same advice prepared. law’s answer remained equal, empty promises and meaningless deadlines that he had no intention on following. it was but a matter of time until the navigator pulled out his secret weapon, or that was, at least, how you were called under that context.

law sent a piercing gaze towards the closed door, fidgeting and quietly begging for your intervention, as though a religious fool who placed his trust on the force of manifestations. he thought of seeking you out himself, hours prior. yet, during instances drawn to his duties, law was but a rooted tree lost amidst a vexing fog, incapable of moving even one miserable inch; hence the urge to have you. his refugee; his medicine. the surgeon of death — more than a billion-worth bounty hovering over his head —, had succumbed to both the plague and blessing of love. with his head nearing the table’s surface, a weary sigh past his lips, law pictured your face and found that he would have fallen victim to such a feeling a thousand times over, so long as that meant claiming you his.

he heard the scratch of the door against the ground, and perked up upon the knowledge of, at last, having you in his office — for no other crewmate was allowed to barge in without a warning knock.

you walked towards him — slowly —, your hips swaying, malice-filled eyes. law felt but a prey under the gaze of its hunter; one left with a sense of gratitude upon the approach of the searing and delicious taste of death’s kiss.

you sat on the edge of his desk, careful as not to meddle with his papers, and softly removed his hat to caress the disheveled locks of black hair. law surrendered to your touch, sighing with relief.

“it’s getting late,” you stated, drawing circles on his cheek. law intertwined his fingers with your own, pressing his lips to the back of your hand.

“can’t sleep,” he answered, chasing your scent; drowning his nose on the skin of your wrist.

law glanced up at you, enamored. you tilted your head to the side, gears turning as you deconstructed his sentence and stance, figuring the innuendo underneath. there were moments in which his restlessness was a product of his past. from the plague, to the death of cora-san, nightmares hunted him down as though starved beasts aiming at a dying creature. however, in other instances — such as the current one — law was but too overworked to fall asleep. whatever the context of the disease, the cure remained the same: your touch.

you moved to the back of his chair, massaging his shoulders. law relaxed, leaning his head back with a low groan. your lips hovered above his jaw, the tip of your tongue darting out to lick a stripe on his skin. your fingers lost themselves under the fabric of his coat, re-drawing the patterns of the tattoo on his chest.

“and how should i cure your problem, doctor? hands or mouth?”

law breathed out heavily upon the hearing of his title, sounding oh-so-sinfully on your tongue. he cleared his throat. “mouth. doctor’s orders.”

you hummed. law watched through half-lidded eyes as you knelt and crawled under the table, the brief sight of your ass enough to harden his neglected cock. he unzipped his pants, not having the patience for the teasing you, for sure, had in mind.

“getting hasty?” you teased, and law moved in his chair, pressing his crotch closer to where — he guessed — your face was.

“get on with it,” he bit back, searching for the back of your head.

when law did find it, he froze. under his palm was the familiar texture of his hat. the thought of having you wear it, with your face stuffed with his cock, made him desperate. a shambles followed-in-suit to a room, and the desk that had once hidden you from his glance was moved to the other side of the office, papers and pens and books falling over. law ignored the sound and the chaos, forcing your face against his covered erection, eyes trailed to that damned hat.

you pushed his underwear enough to free his cock from its cuffs; your hand gripping it before it had the chance to meet his abdomen. law all but shuddered, one hand gripping his chair as the other bruised the skin of your nape. your movements were slow at first. your thumb rolled over the tip and smeared his pre-cum over his shaft, causing his hips to buckle ever-so-slightly. before law could repeat his command, you moved forward, licking the essence coating his tip and encasing it in your mouth. law gasped, keeping his palm on your head and gritting his teeth at the warmth of your tongue.

“shit,” he cursed, biting the inside of his mouth to avoid louder noises, tasting the metal of blood.

your eyes narrowed, and he could see the resolve in them; the utter determination to tear him in pieces. you sucked, savoring the salty taste before beginning to slide down; another hand clawing down a clothed thigh. law huffed at the sight of you. your eyes had rolled with pleasure when you swallowed him down to the base, his hat secured on your head. with a jolt of overwhelming desire, law rolled his hips up to make you gag.

your head moved on its own, a futile attempt to free itself and retreat. he pushed it back, forcing your nose to brush against his pubes, witnessing the tears pooling in your eyes.

“you can take me,” he stated, hissing for a second at the swirling of your tongue. “you always do— ngh. take me so well, love.”

you hummed, relaxing for a second. law’s glance met yours, and his grip laxed at last, allowing you to take over. you popped off his tip with a gasp, mouth open, briefly regaining the lost air. your hand jerked his shaft, replaced by a sudden lick that traveled from the base to the head in one long stripe. you teased him with the sight of your cock against your hanging tongue; allowing his eyes the grace of his pre-cum latched on the warm muscle.

law trembled, his chest heaving at the swirling movements around his tip. “so gorgeous, make me wanna stuff you so bad, love.”

a whimper spilled from your lips before claiming his shaft yet again. law buckled his hips mid-shout, reprimanding himself for the sound. your hand gripped one of his balls, and the settled pace — with the bobbing of your head —, had him gasping.

he shoved himself down your throat, gripping the edge of his hat. saliva dripped down your opened mouth; hollowed cheeks increasing the pressure around his cock.

“that’s it,” he moaned, rolling his hips as his tip hit the back of your throat.

law felt the muffled whimper around his shaft, transfixed on the sight of your stuffed cheeks; the watery eyes that stared back into his. the room was filled with the erotic, borderline sinful, sounds of your gags; the constant bobbing of your head coating his cock with saliva. law buckled his hips, and your nails dug on his thigh, fingers tugging at the fabric of his pants as you audibly choked. with a harsh grip, he pulled your head back, giving you a few, precious seconds to breathe.

“look at you,” he voiced out in awe. “willing to empty your lungs for the sake of my pleasure.”

law guided his cock closer, fingers curling under his hat and nails digging into your head. “open up, love. just like that.”

your tongue darted out, and he slapped your cheeks with his tip, struggling to drown the urge to cum at the sound of your whimpers; the sight of you, following the movements of his cock with desperate-filled eyes, as though you could not wait to take him again. law placed himself at the entrance of your awaiting mouth, breathing out a moan.

“so pretty like that, all fucked up,” he mused, groaning once your lips claimed him yet again. “fuck, that mouth was made for me.”

the responding moan resonated around him, and law arched his back against the chair, feeling hot under the layers of his coat. his head latched itself on the back of your throat, and the harsh grip on his balls had him on edge. law’s voice sounded pathetic to his own ears when your tongue teased the underside of his dick, his movements growing hectic.

“i’m gonna cum,” he warned through a grunt, struggling to keep his eyes open and glued to your face.

you let out a muffled whimper, begging for it; your mouth nothing but a ruthless lover, swallowing him whole, yet demanding more. his hat fell from your head, and law lost his sense of self, whimpering at his release; his cum painting your throat white, stealing the breath from your lungs. law held you there, spasming with weakened and hectic thrusts throughout his orgasm, crumbling down to ruins as he bore witness to droplets of his essence escaping past the gaps of your stretched lips.

“let me see,” he mumbled, exhausted at the expanse of his own height.

with a teasing, edging suck, you pulled your head back with a pop. a stripe of saliva and cum connected his tip to your lips, and when you opened your mouth to spare him a sight of your whitened tongue, law’s fingers weakly gripped your chin, beckoning you closer.

dried blood lingered on the inside of his mouth, and mingled with the taste of his own seed. his teeth clashed against yours. a meek note of the coffee he drank priorly settled in between. yet, it was one of the best kisses he ever had.

“thank you,” law mumbled, an exhausted and dangling man nearing the edge of a lethal cliff. a soaring feather that remained tethered to the earth as a consequence of your tender grip.

you hummed, pressing a loving kiss to his cheek while zipping his pants. “cured enough to sleep, doctor?”

he smiled — enamored; sweet —, the particular showcase of teeth, born from the devotion directed towards you. the spark on his chest whose light was born from your mere presence. his hat clung to your figure, and law had half the mind to use his devil-fruit to teleport the both of you to his bed, before crumbling against the mattress, blindly searching for your chest.

law pressed his thigh against your core, lazily motioning for you to rub yourself against the fabric. a small giggle echoed through the walls, a sound he wished to steal and seal; a selfish shell of a man who had no desire to share a single thing related to his lover whatsoever.

“there’s no need for that. sleep,” you whispered, caressing his hair. law hugged your waist; drowned his face in your chest.

“want you to feel good,” law insisted, sleep-drunk, drooling on your bare flesh.

“too tired,” you voiced out matter-of-factly. whether he was the subject of such a statement or not, he failed to tell. law fell under the influence of slumber the second thereafter, sheltered in the confines of a loving dome whose barriers were sealed from the looming insomnia outside.

— 🐈‍⬛ : IT’S FUCKING LAW STUPID FRIDAY LET’S GO.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Thirsting Grail, Outergod of Wants and Wounds

Artsource

Adventure Hooks:

While travelling the party encounters a once famed surgeon who seeks their help in undertaking pilgrimage to the distant shrine of a death god. When pressed on her motivation, she reveals that through some curse or divine act of cruelty, those she operates on can never die, but also cannot heal. 

There is a tree that grows in the ruins of the old braon’s castle, said to have sprouted from the chopping block upon which he had his wife’s lovers executed. The tree grows no leaves, only flowers, and it’s said that if you make a tea from its blossoms, you will receive a vision of your one ture love.  Beings of woven thorn are said to guard the tree, but there are those who would pay desperately to drink of its boughs. 

A once peaceful kingdom dissolves into a generations long civil war, any hope of peace drowned beneath a tide of violence, ruination, and grievance that none can hope to escape.

Among the outergods there are none more eager to engage with mortals than the entity known as Thisting Grail. It is a thing of violence and appetite, and seems all too eager to lend its power to those most likely to misuse it, whether they sought it’s aid in the first place or not. 

Scholars and madmen have long debated the Grail’s motivations, what goal or ideology it is trying to achieve with the visions and often horrific miracles it bestows. In truth, Thirsting Grail has no goal beyond the pursuit of violence and longing, it is a means without an end, ready to lend itself to any cause that would make the world a bloodier, hungrier place. 

The god is formless, an ocean of boling blood that takes on the shape of whatever “vessel” its followers imagine for it, borrowing their cultural iconography and birthing itself anew each time. There are litanies of these avatars, hundreds more likely forgotten by history;  blood saints and baleful red stars and heart hungry blades. Perhaps because of blood’s ubiquity in ritual and occult practice the Grail’s influence can “seep” its way into the worship of other entities, divine or demonic, and it’s not unheard of for otherwise upstanding and dogmatic worshippers of banal gods to accidentally begin practising the grail’s bloody rites. 

Sanguimancy and other forms of blood magic are the most obvious of Thirsting Grail’s gifts, but it has other more esoteric offerings: smoke from sacrifices or incense mingled with the formless god’s essence can grant visions of desires made manifest, though often twisted through a disturbingly carnal (in both senses of the word) lens. All too often worshippers ( and the cult leaders that encourage them) see these visions as prophetic, leading to the outergod being sometimes called “the mother of truth”.  It can also manifest the objects of desire: succulent fruits, unearthly lovers, weapons of inordinate power, but there is something fundamentally wrong with these creations as they cannot grant true satisfaction, and often leave those that partake of them wanting more than when they started. 

Those who fall prey to Thirsting Grail’s influence can become warped as their own veins become polluted by the entity’s ichor: becoming feral creatures of endless cruelty and appetite, or having their wounds open wider and wider until there is nothing but wound remaining of their swollen flesh. Those so overtaken grow and warp and merge with others until new horrors are birthed from them, a permanent seedbed of 

Titles: Mother of truth, formless mother, font erubescent, the bloodstar.  Symbols: A red grail or fountain, cultural iconography stained with blood.  Signs:  Wounds that bleed but do not heal, plants overflowing or cracking open to expose their innards. Unsettling red dreams.  Worshippers: Those with bloodstained hands be they doctors, butchers, or murderers. Vampires, occultists, and other sanguiphiles. Instatiable gourmands and unfulfilled lovers.   

Inspiration:  I wear my influences on my sleeve with this one.  I’ve been turning the Elden Ring mythology over in my mind for some time partially because I think there’s a lot of fun ideas there but also because I felt like (in typical Fromsoft fashion) there wasn’t enough shown to really scratch my itch for discovery. 

The formless mother/bloodstar was chiefest among these elements: A killer aesthetic with lore that was a little too thin to use as inspiration. After a while that thinness turned into a feature, the idea of an eldritch entity of pain and violence that conformed to the needs of those who worshipped it, granting power to those who would go out and make the world more violent and painful.  I liked the idea that “mother of truth” was a misnomer, and that cultists would ascribe meaning and intent and iconography to a god that didn’t care one way or another. 

Another strong influence is the Grail from Cultist Simulator/Book of hours ( SERIOUSLY, play book of hours you fools), an eldritch entity/aspect of reality that presides over hungers and births be they literal or figurative.  The Blood + Mother connection was obvious here, but the Grail provided some more texture and esoteric aspects to fill out my version’s storytelling potential.

[statmaddox]

𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌: dacre montgomery.

𝐀𝐆𝐄: thirty three | nov 6th, 1991 | scorpio sun, virgo moon, sagittarius rising.

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: manhattan, ny.

𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: cardiothoracic surgeon at lexington university hospital.

𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓: a heartbreaker in more ways than one . . sharp scalpel, sharper smile. born with too much expectation and not enough affection, he clawed his way through med school with a jaw set like concrete and something to prove. arrogance tailored into every stitch of his scrub top, but he earns it; the kind of surgeon who talks fast, works faster, and leaves the room before anyone can say thank you. smells like expensive cologne and bad decisions. drinks whiskey like water. flirts like it’s second nature but lets no one too close. he fixes hearts all day - but refuses to let anyone touch his.

𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨 | 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 | 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐃:

jett maddox was born into a world where achievement was oxygen and affection was currency - rarely given, always earned. his father, a gifted but ruthlessly ambitious cardiothoracic surgeon, ruled the household like a high-pressure operating room: silent expectations, exacting standards, and no tolerance for error. his mother, equally brilliant but emotionally withdrawn, mirrored that cold detachment. jett and his older brother, luke, were raised not with warmth, but with performance metrics. when luke rebelled . . choosing freedom over perfection - he was quietly but completely banished. jett was still young, but he understood: failure meant erasure. he’s never stopped wondering if luke thinks he abandoned him too.

his only real glimpse of what family could be came through nia. her home was warm, loud, forgiving . . everything the maddox household wasn’t. their fathers were best friends once, and so jett and nia were inseparable as children. they grew up side by side, carved initials into trees, shared dreams and fears. but all of that ended when his father committed a deeply unethical betrayal: leaking confidential surgical research from kingsley hospital to lexington in exchange for a high-ranking position. the scandal ruined reputations and fractured lifelong bonds. the fallout was swift and merciless - jett was abruptly torn from nia’s life, from the only family that ever felt real.

he still dreams about that loss. still wonders if he inherited his father’s capacity to ruin the things he loves most.

𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃:

despite the emotional wreckage of his upbringing, jett was brilliant . . infuriatingly so. he got into one of the most prestigious medical schools in the country, where he quickly became infamous: the top of his class, sharp-tongued, uncooperative, and devastatingly talented. he drank too much, partied too hard, slept around and showed up to rounds with red-rimmed eyes - and still, no one could touch him academically.

he had a long-term girlfriend during those years - kind, steady, genuinely in love with him. he cheated on her. not for excitement or revenge, but because in his mind, abandonment was inevitable. “everyone leaves,” he told a friend later. “i just beat her to it.”

his residency was no less chaotic. he alienated some mentors, captivated others. he made enemies, saved lives, pushed boundaries. then came the scandal: a reckless, emotionally entangled affair with a department head. she pulled strings to fast-track his promotion, and when the truth came out, jett was suspended. the fallout nearly ended his career . . but not his hunger.

𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐃𝐀𝐘:

at thirty-three, jett maddox is an attending cardiac surgeon at lexington hospital. he’s regarded with equal parts awe and suspicion. a man of contradictions: scorpio-born, emotionally repressed but occasionally devastating in his sincerity. he’s razor-sharp in the OR and reckless outside of it. his name still carries the stain of his father’s sins - and sometimes, jett fears he’s just continuing the cycle.

he doesn’t let people close. most of his relationships are short-lived or transactional. his dynamic with noemi was cold, volatile, doomed. his bond with nia is layered with unspoken grief, unresolved tension, and a loyalty that never quite died.

he avoids talking about luke, but he thinks about him constantly - especially when he sees siblings in the waiting room, or hears a patient ask for someone who’ll never come. he wonders if luke would recognize the man he’s become. he wonders if the man he’s become deserves to be found.

dr. jett maddox is brilliant, broken, and walking the thin line between redemption and repeat offense - and part of him is still the boy staring at the front door, waiting for someone to stay.

𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒:

@2hcnds ⸻ childhood best friends, torn apart by a scandal they didn’t cause but still bleed from. once inseparable, jett found warmth in nia’s home when his own offered only pressure and coldness. after his father’s betrayal shattered both their families, the bond fractured - but never fully broke; not in his eyes. now reunited under the sterile lights of the hospital, their connection simmers with unresolved history, complicated loyalty, and a love that never quite had the chance to begin.

@psychiaatry ⸻ post-shift drinks, quiet nods across hallways, a bond forged over whiskey and war stories. archer beckinridge is everything jett wasn’t lucky enough to have: steady, respected, good. something between mentor, older brother, and the ghost of the man jett’s own father could’ve been. he listens without judgement, advises without ego - and jett, for all his pride, trusts him. maybe too much. in a world where trust is rare and earned, archer holds a space jett thought was long abandoned. where luke left a void, archer quietly filled it.

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒:

✦ jett sleeps on his stomach, arm flung over a pillow he pretends isn’t his favorite. he claims he doesn’t cuddle - he absolutely does.

✦ owns a 1971 chevy impala that’s always slightly dusty, always smells like tobacco & bergamot.

✦ wears tom ford tobacco vanille and it clings to everything he touches. people associate the scent with heartbreak.

✦ naturally sharp jawline, narrow eyes, a cleft in his chin he got from his father . . much to his dismay.

✦ he has a small scar on his right brow from a childhood bike accident nia patched up.

✦ rolls his sleeves up habitually, bites the inside of his cheek when deep in thought.

✦ smokes when he’s stressed; has tried to quit six separate times.

✦ drinks his coffee black, takes it like a challenge.

✦ listens to 90s alt rock & obscure instrumental jazz. his playlist swings violently between rage and melancholy.

✦ favorite films are prisoners, drive, and good will hunting. emotionally stunted men? relatable.

✦ has a surprisingly soft spot for animals. would never admit it, but he once took in a stray cat and still secretly feeds it behind his building.

✦ minimalist style . . navy, black, and greys. expensive shoes. cashmere when he wants to feel in control.

✦ can never quite shake his older brother’s shadow; haunted by the fallout of luke’s banishment and the silence that followed.

✦ he rarely celebrates his birthday. usually picks up an extra shift instead.

[blossomhcir]

— 𝐆𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐂 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄.

bold what applies to your muse,

italicize what sometimes applies to them.

repost, don’t reblog.

WUTHERING HEIGHTS. the wildness of open spaces. withered trees with limbs like spiders.  abandoned homes. two souls that are the same. dying young. the ghost of a girl. revenge that does not satisfy.  tapping at the window.   knowing too much of the pains of others.   cruelty that doesn’t fade.  an unresolved past.  marrying, but not for love.   rolling hills. hair flying in the blustering wind.  sudden illness.  disinterment.  the deep pain of loss. carrying a namesake that is not your own.  facing a storm head on. an accent thick upon the tongue.  a figure on the horizon, shrouded by mist.  aging walls and rotting floorboards.   intruding upon the wake of destruction. wasting away. together in death.

JANE EYRE.   the madwoman in the attic.  candle-flame and burn stains.  soft laughter. a fire roaring in the hearth. silence in the halls. folded hands over modest skirts.  the pain of being wronged. a wedding interrupted at the altar. dark brows. a horse riding up the path.  the isolation of a church.   gray skies. landscape as bleak as your soul. finding sanctuary. a bird flying free from its cage.  discovering your worth.  returning to a place that feels like home.  falling in love in spite of yourself.   schoolyards full of children.  lying in bed while clasping a loved one’s hands in yours.   hopeless prayers. hiding in an alcove to read.  timid but strong.  being true to oneself above all.

FRANKENSTEIN.   grand prose. the glory of nature.  playing god. the spark of madness that drives creation.  stripped down to shirtsleeves.  the gritty streets of the city.  staying awake too long.   snow-capped peaks.  retreating from society. innocent recollections that become twisted. a lost paradise. lightning across a dark sky.  to be destined for one alone.  shouting from the top of a mountain. strewn corpses.  the implements of a surgeon scattered across a surface.  a bride on her wedding night.   books left open to gather dust, pulled from shelves. dark circles beneath the eyes. the deathly pallor of a corpse. things alive that shouldn’t be. desiring a love of your own.   feeling your soul restored with a bliss that cannot last. icy terrain.  unsatisfactory endings.

THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA. the long, fatal crack across a mirror.  unearthly voices echoing through the dark.   a duet.  snow falling against statues of angels. the lament of a violin’s strings.  resurrected hopes. the sensation of being watched.  candles blowing out on their own.  masquerade revelers. unrequited love.  the snapping of a noose. an obscured face. the scintillating light of an ornate chandelier.  mysterious and inexplicable catastrophes. watching your dreams shatter.  curtains drawing back from a stage. devils that are angels.   a soft kiss on the forehead.   scratches of red ink.  long capes and gloved hands.  retreating to the rooftop.  being led in a trance.  love as your undoing and your salvation.

NORTHANGER ABBEY.  the turrets of a gothic mansion made of stone. portraits looming above the stairwell.  suspicion of all around you. dreaming of grandeur, awaking to normalcy.   the sound of a carriage coming up the street.  top hats and fine suits. dancing at a ball. the lavish throes of society. the thrill of being introduced. a mystery that goes ignored. chests that harbor secrets.  old love letters.  thumbing through the pages of a novel.  disappointing the one you admire.  the appearance of indifference.  having your heart played with.   grand rooms housing past memories.  mistaken first impressions.  affluent personages.  kissing in the garden.

DRACULA.   your life draining out of you. a castle on a lonely precipice.  fog spreading through woodlands. dutifully kept journals.  enthusiastic correspondence with one you love.  blood dripping down the chin.  a tongue stroking sharp teeth.  the howling of wolves coming closer.   wreathes of garlic hung about the room. rosary beads and crucifixes. violence that spans centuries. tall figures that cast long shadows.  disturbing the silence of a grave.  the sensation of leaving your homeland.   not dead, only sleeping. last wishes. a long and arduous journey.  an ominous ship at sea.   the sound of shovels in the basement. eerie lights that obstruct your path. goblets of blood red wine.  a stake through the heart. to be at peace at last.

T𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲: @dioica ( thank you ily <3 ) T𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠: @ladyruled @sigilsongs @dariaryz @vhgr @clubf8ed and anyone else who would like to!!

[tapedupheadphones]

Waiting Room

Wednesday’s POV of the time between Episode 4 and Episode 5

TW: Aftermath of Eugene’s Hyde Attack

Title could be a reference to the Phoebe Bridgers song if you want it to be :]

Also posted on AO3

She should’ve gone with him.

Wednesday knew she wouldn’t enjoy The Rave’n, but she thought that corny music would be the worst the night would get. She was angry with herself. How could she have been so foolish? Of course he would go out on his own. She should’ve known! What good were her psychic abilities if she can’t even predict her best friend’s attack until right before it happens?

She had been allowed to ride in the ambulance, Miss Thornhill insisting that Wednesday would be better suited to handle the sight of all of the blood. In reality, she probably knew that Wednesday would force her way in anyways. Instead, Miss Thornhill promised to follow them in a car with Principal Weems.

Wednesday had a lot of time to think in the back of the ambulance. She thought about how she failed to protect Eugene. She thought about how disappointed Tyler must be that she vanished. She thought about how concerned Enid must be that she wasn’t back at the dorm yet.

Her thoughts were, thankfully, disturbed by an EMT asking about her state, paling at the sight of her red-soaked figure.

“It’s paint,” she informed the man, not too interested in conversation. He asked her something again, she couldn’t hear him the first time, asking for a repetition of the question.

“How do you two know each other?” The EMT asked, gesturing to Eugene.

Wednesday looked down at the body lying on the gurney. He seemed so small against the bedding he was on. His face was coated in smeared blood, wiped quickly to get a better view of the injuries rather than to fully clean them. His layers of clothing had been completely torn through, jagged cuts peaking through the holes in his shirts, staining them red with blood.

Despite knowing how bad of a sign it was for him to be asleep, she was glad he wasn’t conscious. At least there was some chance he wouldn’t be aware of the pain.

She snapped out of her thoughts to the EMT giving her a small nudge. “You okay?” He asked, his eyes showing his concern.

She looked back to the body again.

“He’s my best friend.”

——————

Wednesday had never liked the hospital. She had entertained the idea of being a surgeon as a child but ultimately she decided the environment was not for her. There was a strange feeling of unease that crept into her soul whenever she was in a waiting room.

She always avoided going to the doctor’s. She rarely got sick or injured, but when she did she would still try her best to avoid the doctor’s office. It’s not due to any kind of fear or trauma, she’s simply disturbed by the atmosphere.

Perhaps it’s because she knows that whenever you’re at the hospital, it’s never for a good reason. She’s not one to turn away the idea of misery, but something about sitting in a waiting room makes her stomach churn with discomfort. Especially when she’s in the waiting room.

Thankfully, on the few occasions she has been to the hospital, it was never for a truly bad event, not where someone’s life had been in danger. There was the birth of her brother Pubert, where she had to listen to an incessant rant from another girl who was also awaiting a new sibling. Something about a storm and a Diamond forming a baby for her parents. She found the look on the girl’s face comical once she revealed the truth on how children are conceived.

There was also the time when Pugsley had gotten a concussion. He had fallen from a tree outside. He was fine, he just had memory problems for a few months after.

But now, she was sitting in the waiting room in a formal dress soaked in red paint, and the boy she had grown to view as another younger brother was halfway to death’s door.

He had been whisked away as soon as the ambulance had parked, while Wednesday had been directed to a bathroom, told to clean herself up and given reassurance that the principal was on her way to come collect her.

She was alone in the bathroom, it was nearly midnight, and she allowed herself a rare moment of weakness. She felt sick. Incredibly sick. She swallowed thickly and took a drink of water from the sink, against her better judgement. Bathroom sink water was not usually ideal to ingest, but she was desperate, a very unfamiliar feeling for her. She washed the paint off her arms and face, but made no move to clean the rest of her body, despite the uncomfortable way the paint was stuck to her skin and cracking.

She left the bathroom, finding a nurse who directed her out to the waiting room, which is where she found herself now. Weems and Thornhill had yet to make an appearance, meaning she was, once again, alone with her thoughts.

She sat there for some time, waiting for someone to come disturb her. She knew it would be a nuisance to her, but she would rather not be alone with only her mind at this time.

Thankfully, Thornhill and Weems showed up soon after. She took notice of how they had both taken time to change out of their red clothes and wipe the paint off of their faces. Miss. Thornhill was also carrying a bag with her, which she held out to Wednesday with a smile.

“I thought you wouldn’t want to stay in your current attire, so I had Enid pick out a change of clothes for you,” she explained.

Wednesday took the bag, finding one of her jackets and a shirt inside, as well as a thick pair of pants.

“Sorry we took so long, we had to get everyone back to their dorms after the panic from the Rave’n,” Principal Weems added. “Have the doctors said anything to you?”

“Not about his condition,” Wednesday answered. “I’m unaware of anything about his state right now.”

Miss Thornhill made a sound of pity while Principal Weems looked at her with a sadness in her eyes. “Go ahead and get changed, we can wait for the doctors in your place, I’m assuming you don’t want to leave.”

Wednesday nodded, looking at her clothes again. She looked back at the two women, who both flashed comforting smiles before sitting down beside her. The teenager stood up and walked back to the bathroom without another word.

———���——

When Wednesday returned, she saw the doctors talking to Principal Weems. Miss Thornhill spotted her and approached her cautiously. “Hey Wednesday, come with me to the vending machine, I need to get some water after tonight,” she lied, trying to hide the scene behind her from the girl’s vision.

“What’s happening with Eugene?” Wednesday asked, trying to get past her.

“Nothing for you to worry about right now. But it’s confidential and should remain between the principal and the doctors until Eugene’s mothers arrive.”

“I’ll find out anyways. There’s no use in hiding it from me,” Wednesday snapped, secretly, she hoped Thornhill wouldn’t hear the concern and slight fear in her voice.

“I know, but you’ve been through a lot. You don’t need more bad news tonight,” Thornhill explained. She turned to find that the doctor had left, and Weems was standing beside her.

“I think you should take Wednesday back to the school while I wait for Eugene’s mothers,” Weems said, sending some kind of signal to Thornhill.

“No. I want to know about his condition,” Wednesday argued, glaring at both women.

“He’s…” Weems hesitated, and for a moment, Wednesday feared the worst. “He’s in a coma, and they’re not sure yet when, or if, he’ll wake up.”

Wednesday’s heart sank. She experienced different feelings, things she’d never felt before. Remorse, guilt, and more familiar emotions, sadness, and most prominent, Anger. She was mad. At herself, the monster, and Eugene.

“I told him not to go alone. Why didn’t he listen?” Wednesday muttered to herself.

“Take her home, Marilyn,” Weems ordered, the woman nodding in affirmation before wrapping an arm around Wednesday’s shoulder. The girl was too deep in her head to realize.

“Come on, Wednesday, we can come back tomorrow,” She whispered, trying to soothe girl as she guided her out to the car.

——————

The drive back to Nevermore was spent mostly in silence. Wednesday sat in the passenger seat with her red dress in her lap while Miss Thornhill hummed from behind the wheel. She seemed too cheery, and Wednesday could tell that she kept throwing glances her way. She was trying to distract both of them from what had happened.

“So, what did you think of the dance? I think that Tyler kid is a little cutie, don’t you agree?” Thornhill asked, trying to start a conversation to fill the uncomfortable silence.

“I shouldn’t have gone,” Wednesday answered, staring at the road ahead. She clutched the dress in her hands, uncomfortably more aware of the flakes of paint that lingered in her hair and on her skin.

Thornhill looked at her sadly, making a sound of an emotion Wednesday couldn’t name. Still, she hated the way it made her feel. “What happened to Eugene is not your fault.”

“It is. I should have known he wouldn’t stay put. I should have known and I should have gone with him instead of going to the dance,” Wednesday explained, growing slightly frustrated, whether at herself or Miss Thornhill she wasn’t sure.

“You had no way of knowing what was going to happen to him-“

“I did. I have psychic abilities. That’s how I knew where he was in the first place,” she swallowed thickly, the weight of the night hitting her. “I had a vision at the dance. But I had it too late, I couldn’t do anything to save him.”

Miss Thornhill stayed silent after that.

——————

Wednesday didn’t enjoy beekeeping as much without Eugene. She was taking notes of everything she did so she could inform Eugene later, the distraction keeping her mind from focusing on the absence. Even the bees seemed aware that he was gone.

She was alone in the Hummer’s shed for the first time since she’d been at the school. He had always been there with her, or she was with Enid, never alone though.

The loneliness didn’t last long, as a crashing outside alerted her to an unknown presence.

She opened the door to find Enid outside, having tripped onto a stack of empty crates. “Who leaves crates right there?”

“That’s where they always are. What are you doing here, Enid?” Wednesday asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

“Making sure you’re not alone,” the blonde girl answered. “I know you’ve been through a lot and you must have a lot on your mind. Plus, you usually have someone else here with you.”

Wednesday’s breath hitched slightly at the mention of her absent hummer before she turned back into the shed. Enid seemed to take notice of this and followed her in. “Are you ready for your parents to come? Its parents weekend.”

“It must have slipped my mind, I’ve been fairly preoccupied with other, more pressing matters,” Wednesday replied, sealing a jar of honey.

“How is he, do you know?” Enid asked, seeing through the walls of her friend.

Wednesday paused. Last she knew, he was in a coma and his condition was uncertain. She hadn’t seen Principal Weems since she had been shooed away from the hospital. “I don’t know.”

Enid frowned. “Well, maybe we can go visit him sometime, I’ll need to get away from my parents at some point or another.” She picked up the jar of honey as she spoke. “Maybe you should bring this to him. However he’s doing, I think a familiar taste would be good for him.”

Wednesday wanted to respond with a snarky reply on how people in comas can’t taste, but she wasn’t too sure of both if that was true and if she was opposed to the idea.

Either way, she placed the jar in her bag as she left the shed to follow Enid to the quad to greet their families. She made sure she had all her notes to read for Eugene during her inevitable visit when she needed an escape from her parents.

All she could do was hope he was able to it to see the progress for himself.

[mariacallous]

Beneath an intricate stained-glass window, I am sitting next to pastor Jeff Wilder, talking about lonely men. The clergyman is the first to say he looks a little different from your average Protestant preacher; his thick beard and arm tattoos might not instantly place him leading a flock here. But his assessment of the presidential race is insightful and nuanced – not least because his church is in Middletown, Ohio, where Trump’s vice-presidential pick JD Vance grew up.

Middletown, a small city in the rust belt, was thrust into national prominence after Vance, by then a Silicon Valley-based venture capitalist, published his memoir, Hillbilly Elegy, in 2016. The book would pave the way for his move into politics.

Vance is of course a polarising figure in this election, in part owing to misogynist comments targeting “childless cat ladies”. But pastor Wilder takes exception to something else, too.

“The Republican party right now is doing a really wonderful job of faking relationships,” he says. The emails he receives from the Trump campaign – which he signed up to for research purposes – often start with exuberant personal messages such as “I need you” or “I can’t do it without you”. “It’s ingenuine,” Wilder says, recognising that some in his congregation – which splits about 50/50 on party lines – have “fallen into the trap … Men’s health is something we overlook in America. Men want to be part of something – to feel like they belong.”

Increasingly, this election looks set to be defined by an entrenched gender divide. This is particularly evident, according to recent polls, among white men without a college degree, who favour Trump by a margin of 70%.

Naturally, what the pastor describes forms only a fragment of the reason white men are attracted to Trump. Some in the cable news commentariat chastise the Harris campaign for failing to connect with men, overlooking the reality that swathes of them continue to carry so much gender and racial bias that connection is impossible. Throughout this election I have heard many voters describe the vice-president of the United States with vicious misogyny, often in line with remarks Trump himself has made.

But America’s lurch into a loneliness epidemic is long established. It’s the subject of Robert Putnam’s seminal work Bowling Alone, which is set in towns not too far from here and observes the decline of the civic organisations, from bowling leagues to trade unions, that buttress a strong democracy and social fabric. Last year Joe Biden’s surgeon general categorised loneliness as a public health crisis. Vance acknowledges it in his book: loneliness, he writes, has led to “a peculiar crisis of masculinity in which some of the very traits that our culture inculcates make it difficult to succeed in a changing world.”

After my visit to Wilder, I drive towards Ohio’s border with Kentucky, along streets lined with large maple trees turning a magnificent orange as autumn sets in, for a canvassing event with a group of “Rising Republicans”. They tell me (to my relief) that they define youth as between the ages of 18 and 40, meaning they can proudly declare that Vance himself could still belong.

The gender divide that defines this election is even more pronounced among younger voters, according to recent polls. Some 67% of young women support Harris, compared with 28% who support Trump. And 58% of young men favour Trump, against 37% for Harris.

Before we set out to walk the streets, I ask the group if they think the very definition of masculinity is on the ballot this year, too. Some nod in agreement. “The conservative’s definition of masculinity is hard-working blue-collar man, who works hard to support his family, his wife, his livelihood, his home and his community,” says one young man. “Those on the left, I don’t think they know what a man is.”

I ask the group’s president, Grant Bagshaw, whether he has concerns about the dozens of women who have accused Trump of sexual assault, and of the jury decision last year to hold the former president liable for sexual abuse. “It’s an uncomfortable subject. I don’t know. I don’t think any of us know, so I won’t make a judgment on whether they are telling the truth or not,” he says, adding: “Republicans and most Americans in general … they just don’t believe the media most of the time.”

He has a point on the last part, but neglects to mention that distrust in legacy media has accelerated in the Trump era of misinformation. The Republican campaign this year has done much to engage with alternative rightwing media targeted at young men in particular, as a range of subcultures such as cryptocurrency and online gambling bend towards conservative values. A testament, perhaps, to how Americans are no longer just bowling alone, but posting alone.

I head back to Middletown for some Friday Night Lights – a high school football match where the city’s beloved “Middies” are facing off against their arch-rivals Hamilton Big Blue, from the neighbouring town (the Middies get thumped 42-7). Given where we are, I’m expecting to hear full-throated support for the Trump-Vance ticket and its turbocharged male identity politics.

But the reality is perhaps surprising. I sit in the bleachers – cheap open-air seats – with families, couples and young adults from across the region. Many do not even know that Vance grew up here, and their political persuasions are as mixed as their allegiances to the two teams. An older man stares down our camera and describes Donald Trump as “an idiot”. A younger man says “men are the main issue” behind the political failures in the country, but says he will not vote in November.

It’s a stark reminder that while the polls may be extremely close, nothing is a foregone conclusion in this election.

[taggedmemes]

SENTENCE MEME ⟶ SORROW-SCOPES FROM TWITTER (PART ONE) always feel free to tweak the sentence to fit your muse.

"Some consider your star sign the most evolved of the zodiac. Because they don't know you."

"This week brings you a lot of luck and it still won't matter."

"Some people march bravely into the future, but not you. It's clear you're only slouching toward oblivion."

"New friends are waiting to meet you. Good luck finding out where."

"Sure, your life choices will ultimately be your undoing, but you're the type of stubborn that makes fate weep so there's that."

"You've always been creative, which is why we know you'll have a good story to tell when the Senate subcommittee calls on you to testify."

"You will need to take some 'me time' this week to deal with your evil clone."

"You will finally find a plant you can keep alive long enough for it to decide you're a little needy and leave you."

"You've always been able to make friends easily, so the demons knocking on your door shouldn't be a surprise. Let them in, don't be rude."

"You will become fluent in the language of the trees, and you will learn that they hate you too."

"The best things in life are free, and you still can't afford them."

"Will you just pick a fucking lane already."

"You have no idea when you'll meet the person of your dreams. It could be today, might be tomorrow, probably never."

"The entire world will seek your opinion after your house is named the 51st state."

"It turns out you are the Messiah. We're fucked."

"Your body is a temple, an ancient temple to be precise. It's crumbling edifice is a metaphor for the spiritual decay of a long-forgotten society."

"The moon has been talking about you again. You know what to do."

"You will have the opportunity to exact a terrible vengeance. Take it, treat yourself."

"It's never too late to open your heart. The surgeon will wait."

"Go down to the track and place your life savings on Soup Janitor in third. It's a lock."

"Go over to [name's] house tomorrow and buy all his stuff for half price."

"Things are going according to your plan. A terrible, awful plan that everyone hated. Thanks a lot."

"There isn't one good reason why you can't achieve your dreams. There are two: limited skills and an unpleasant personality."

"Please stop touching the Amulet of Unceasing Regret. It's not a toy."

"Your home will be filled with the sound of laughter. Maniacal, unceasing laughter."

"That mysterious dry cleaning van parked outside your house really is a dry cleaning van. You're not that interesting."

"You'll finally master the perfect risotto, but you'll have to ask yourself: was it worth kidnapping Gordon Ramsay?"

"What's your fucking problem?"

"In an infinite universe, there are an infinite number of you out there and all of you are infinitely disappointing."

"Your dentist has always admired your two front teeth. They must have them. Lock your doors."

"The ghosts of your past will continue to haunt you this week as you struggle to get the spaghetti sauce stains out of your favorite tupperware."

"Things are looking up. You stop. Things fix their eyes on you. Things begin climbing steadily toward your position."

"Your metaverse avatar is writing checks your ass can't cash."

"You'll wake up tied to a wood stake; strangers in goat masks are dancing around a bonfire. We'll be honest, things don't look good."

"Stop being weird about everything, jeez."

"If you had one chance to do it all over again, you'd make the same fucked up choices."

[containatrocity]

HC; The Last Crossroads Rockstar

"Oh, no... these are just... the tools of my trade, baby. Now. Who're you takin' your chances on?"

It is a testament to his ego that October Roulette's kit of death has been on grand display since the early days of his fame. The custom engraved .45 Colt Buntline gifted to him at 17 years old depicting honeysuckle flowers, dead trees and runes along the barrel with a red-stained cherrywood handle is where his nickname "Roulette" came from- the gamble a deadly one, not a monetary one, and this side-arm has featured prominently on the cover of every cover his band and solo career saw released, and is a commonly tattooed reference for fans of Autumn's Gamblers or Odd Revolver. It's regarded fondly, an old friend- the one thing that has never left him high and dry, and despite it's age, nearly 31 years old, it functions like new, and the black tarnish on silver barrel only serves to intensify the silvery engraving and citrine stone inlays along the handle- glittering, bright orange eyes staring from the carved-in face of a fanged goat. But it is not typically a .45 round that ends the lives of those who fall to the Gambler, that honor is attached to the 9-inch blade of the skinning knife similarly customized to October's strenuous wants and desires. Intentionally made to be difficult to place as anything other than a standard hunter's kit and therefore easy enough for any party to get their hands on to perform any host of cruelty with, October's favored blade depicts a nightscape between the handle and business end, and is kept sharp enough he could shave with it. It sits hidden in a holster against his side just the same as its partner in crime, prepared to kill at a moment's notice, and it's blood spilled with this knife that imparts it's clinging, coppery smell to the heavy, custom made jacket that hangs around his massive frame. The coat, intentionally made to further bolster an imposing, towering frame, is more threat than fashion, worn even through hot weather over typical crustpunk fare. Heavy metal fasteners reinforce dirty, stained leather and run through matted brown, black, and red fur, strips of fabric and bits of metal fastened to sleeves to further customize something that even those familiar with his celebrity assumed was a simple costume piece. A wolf's pelt lends itself to the collar, thick grey and black not dissimilar from October's own mohawk and Vitiligo dotted, age-marked beard. It has seen as much suffering as its owner, and in the fabric, fur, and leather, it carries the blood spilled from every offering made to that which handed over his success- bodies made and laid to rest at crossroads with surgeon's precision and an artist's madness.

[enignoema-a]

𝑮𝑶𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑪   𝑳𝑰𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑼𝑹𝑬  .

𝐖𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 .    the wildness of open spaces . withered trees with limbs like spiders.   abandoned homes . two souls that are the same. dying young. the ghost of a girl. revenge that does not satisfy.  tapping at the window. knowing too much of the pains of others.   cruelty that doesn’t fade . an unresolved past. marrying , but not for love .   rolling hills .   hair flying in the blustering wind .   sudden illness .   disinterment . the deep pain of loss . carrying a namesake that is not your own.  facing a storm head on.    an accent thick upon the tongue .  a figure on the horizon , shrouded by mist .  aging walls and rotting floorboards.   intruding upon the wake of destruction .  wasting away . together in death .

𝐉𝐀𝐍𝐄 𝐄𝐘𝐑𝐄 . the madwoman in the attic.   candle-flame and burn stains . soft laughter.   a fire roaring in the hearth . silence in the halls.   folded hands over modest skirts . the pain of being wronged.   a wedding interrupted at the altar .   dark brows .   a horse riding up the path .   the isolation of a church .   gray skies .   landscape as bleak as your soul . finding sanctuary.  a bird flying free from its cage.   discovering your worth. returning to a place that feels like home .   falling in love in spite of yourself .  schoolyards full of children. lying in bed while clasping a loved one’s hands in yours. hopeless prayers.   hiding in an alcove to read . timid but strong.  being true to oneself above all.

𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐈𝐍 .    grand prose .   the glory of nature .  playing god.   the spark of madness that drives creation .   stripped down to shirtsleeves .   the gritty streets of the city .  staying awake too long.   snow-capped peaks .  retreating from society.  innocent recollections that become twisted.   a lost paradise .   lightning across a dark sky .   to be destined for one alone .   shouting from the top of a mountain .  strewn corpses .   the implements of a surgeon scattered across a surface .   a bride on her wedding night . books left open to gather dust, pulled from shelves.  dark circles beneath the eyes . the deathly pallor of a corpse. things alive that shouldn’t be. desiring a love of your own. feeling your soul restored with a bliss that cannot last.   icy terrain . unsatisfactory endings.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐎𝐌 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀 .    the long , fatal crack across a mirror . unearthly voices echoing through the dark.   a duet .   snow falling against statues of angels .   the lament of a violin’s strings . resurrected hopes. the sensation of being watched. candles blowing out on their own.   masquerade revelers . unrequited love. the snapping of a noose.   an obscured face .  the scintillating light of an ornate chandelier . mysterious and inexplicable catastrophes.  watching your dreams shatter.  curtains drawing back from a stage . devils that are angels. a soft kiss on the forehead.   scratches of red ink .   long capes and gloved hands .  retreating to the rooftop .   being led in a trance .  love as your undoing and your salvation.

𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐄𝐘 .     the turrets of a gothic mansion made of stone .  portraits looming above the stairwell . suspicion of all around you.  dreaming of grandeur , awaking to normalcy .   the sound of a carriage coming up the street .   top hats and fine suits .   dancing at a ball .   the lavish throes of society .   the thrill of being introduced. a mystery that goes ignored.  chests that harbor secrets .  old love letters.  thumbing through the pages of a novel.  disappointing the one you admire. the appearance of indifference. having your heart played with. grand rooms housing past memories. mistaken first impressions.   affluent personages .   kissing in the garden .

𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐔𝐋𝐀 . your life draining out of you.   a castle on a lonely precipice . fog spreading through woodlands. dutifully kept journals.  enthusiastic correspondence with one you love . blood dripping down the chin. a tongue stroking sharp teeth.  the howling of wolves coming closer .   wreathes of garlic hung about the room. rosary beads and crucifixes. violence that spans centuries.  tall figures that cast long shadows.  disturbing the silence of a grave.   the sensation of leaving your homeland .   not dead , only sleeping . last wishes.   a long and arduous journey .   an ominous ship at sea .  the sound of shovels in the basement .   eerie lights that obstruct your path .  goblets of blood red wine . a stake through the heart.  to be at peace at last.

tagged by: stole it tagging : take it

[dragonfangs]

GOTHIC LITERATURE.

bold what applies to your muse, italicize what sometimes applies to them. repost, don’t reblog.

WUTHERING HEIGHTS.   the wildness of open spaces. withered trees with limbs like spiders. abandoned homes.   two souls that are the same.  dying young. the ghost of a girl. revenge that does not satisfy. tapping at the window. knowing too much of the pains of others. the cruelty that doesn’t fade. an unresolved past. marrying, but not for love. rolling hills. hair flying in the blustering wind. sudden illness. disinterment. the deep pain of loss. carrying a namesake that is not your own. facing a storm head-on. an accent thick upon the tongue. a figure on the horizon, shrouded by mist. aging walls and rotting floorboards.  intruding upon the wake of destruction. wasting away. together in death.

JANE EYRE.   the madwoman in the attic. candle flame and burn stains. soft laughter. a fire roaring in the hearth. silence in the halls. folded hands over modest skirts. the pain of being wronged. a wedding interrupted at the altar. dark brows. a horse riding up the path. the isolation of a church. gray skies. landscape as bleak as your soul. finding sanctuary. a bird flying free from its cage. discovering your worth. returning to a place that feels like home. falling in love in spite of yourself. schoolyards full of children. lying in bed while clasping a loved one’s hands in yours. hopeless prayers. hiding in an alcove to read. timid but strong. being true to oneself above all.

FRANKENSTEIN.   grand prose. the glory of nature. playing god. the spark of madness that drives creation. stripped down to shirtsleeves. the gritty streets of the city. staying awake too long.  snow-capped peaks. retreating from society. innocent recollections that become twisted. a lost paradise. lighting across a dark sky. to be destined for one alone. shouting from the top of a mountain. strewn corpses. the implements of a surgeon scattered across a surface.  a bride on her wedding night.  books left open to gather dust, pulled from shelves. dark circles beneath the eyes. the deathly pallor of a corpse. things alive that shouldn’t be. desiring a love of your own. feeling your soul restored with bliss that cannot last. icy terrain. unsatisfactory endings.

THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA. the long, fatal crack across a mirror. unearthly voices echoing through the dark. a duet. snow falling against statues of angels. the lament of a violin’s strings. resurrected hopes. the sensation of being watched. candles blowing out on their own. masquerade revelers. unrequited love. the snapping of a noose. an obscured face. the scintillating light of an ornate chandelier. mysterious and inexplicable catastrophes. watching your dreams shatter. curtains drawing back from a stage. devils that are angels. a soft kiss on the forehead. scratches of red ink. long capes and gloved hands. retreating to the rooftop. being led into a trance. love as your undoing and your salvation.

NORTHANGER ABBEY. the turrets of a gothic mansion made of stone. portraits looming above the stairwell. suspicion of all around you. dreaming of grandeur, awakening to normalcy. the sound of a carriage coming up the street. top hats and fine suits. dancing at a ball. the lavish throes of society. the thrill of being introduced. a mystery that goes ignored. chests that harbor secrets. old love letters. thumbing through the pages of a novel. disappointing the one you admire. the appearance of indifference. having your heart played with. grand rooms housing past memories. mistaken first impressions. affluent personages. kissing in the garden.

DRACULA.  your life draining out of you. a castle on a lonely precipice. fog spreading through woodlands. dutifully kept journals. enthusiastic correspondence with one you love. blood dripping down the chin. a tongue stroking sharp teeth. the howling of wolves coming closer. wreathes of garlic hung about the room. rosary beads and crucifixes. the violence that spans centuries. tall figures that cast long shadows. disturbing the silence of a grave. the sensation of leaving your homeland. not dead, only sleeping. last wishes. a long and arduous journey. an ominous ship at sea. the sound of shovels in the basement. eerie lights that obstruct your path. goblets of blood-red wine. a stake through the heart. to be at peace at last.

tagged by: @hellfrze tagging: anyone who wants to do it <3

[arcanaaa]

GOTHIC LITERATURE.

bold what applies to your muse, italicize what sometimes applies to them. repost, don’t reblog.

WUTHERING HEIGHTS.   the wildness of open spaces. withered trees with limbs like spiders. abandoned homes.   two souls that are the same.   dying young. the ghost of a girl. revenge that does not satisfy. tapping at the window. knowing too much of the pains of others. the cruelty that doesn’t fade. an unresolved past. marrying, but not for love. rolling hills. hair flying in the blustering wind. sudden illness. disinterment. the deep pain of loss. carrying a namesake that is not your own. facing a storm head-on. an accent thick upon the tongue. a figure on the horizon, shrouded by mist. aging walls and rotting floorboards.  intruding upon the wake of destruction. wasting away. together in death.

JANE EYRE.   the madwoman in the attic. candle flame and burn stains. soft laughter. a fire roaring in the hearth. silence in the halls. folded hands over modest skirts. the pain of being wronged. a wedding interrupted at the altar. dark brows. a horse riding up the path. the isolation of a church. gray skies. landscape as bleak as your soul. finding sanctuary. a bird flying free from its cage. discovering your worth. returning to a place that feels like home. falling in love in spite of yourself. schoolyards full of children. lying in bed while clasping a loved one’s hands in yours. hopeless prayers. hiding in an alcove to read. timid but strong. being true to oneself above all.

FRANKENSTEIN.   grand prose. the glory of nature. playing god. the spark of madness that drives creation. stripped down to shirtsleeves. the gritty streets of the city. staying awake too long.  snow-capped peaks. retreating from society. innocent recollections that become twisted. a lost paradise. lighting across a dark sky. to be destined for one alone. shouting from the top of a mountain. strewn corpses. the implements of a surgeon scattered across a surface.  a bride on her wedding night.  books left open to gather dust, pulled from shelves. dark circles beneath the eyes. the deathly pallor of a corpse. things alive that shouldn’t be. desiring a love of your own. feeling your soul restored with bliss that cannot last. icy terrain. unsatisfactory endings.

THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA. the long, fatal crack across a mirror. unearthly voices echoing through the dark. a duet. snow falling against statues of angels. the lament of a violin’s strings. resurrected hopes. the sensation of being watched. candles blowing out on their own. masquerade revelers. unrequited love. the snapping of a noose. an obscured face. the scintillating light of an ornate chandelier. mysterious and inexplicable catastrophes. watching your dreams shatter. curtains drawing back from a stage. devils that are angels. a soft kiss on the forehead. scratches of red ink. long capes and gloved hands. retreating to the rooftop. being led into a trance. love as your undoing and your salvation.

NORTHANGER ABBEY. the turrets of a gothic mansion made of stone. portraits looming above the stairwell. suspicion of all around you. dreaming of grandeur, awakening to normalcy. the sound of a carriage coming up the street. top hats and fine suits. dancing at a ball. the lavish throes of society. the thrill of being introduced. a mystery that goes ignored. chests that harbor secrets. old love letters. thumbing through the pages of a novel. disappointing the one you admire. the appearance of indifference. having your heart played with. grand rooms housing past memories. mistaken first impressions. affluent personages. kissing in the garden.

DRACULA.  your life draining out of you. a castle on a lonely precipice. fog spreading through woodlands. dutifully kept journals. enthusiastic correspondence with one you love. blood dripping down the chin. a tongue stroking sharp teeth. the howling of wolves coming closer. wreathes of garlic hung about the room. rosary beads and crucifixes. the violence that spans centuries. tall figures that cast long shadows. disturbing the silence of a grave. the sensation of leaving your homeland. not dead, only sleeping. last wishes. a long and arduous journey. an ominous ship at sea. the sound of shovels in the basement. eerie lights that obstruct your path. goblets of blood-red wine. a stake through the heart. to be at peace at last.

tagged by: stolen~! 8D tagging: @shinebrightlikealion, @freedthedark, @satanclaw, @hellfrze, @hisreveniens & you!