#a scribble on a foggy window

[old-sorry-i-spaced-out]

Sacabambaspis

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

Locations for your Dark Academia novels | For writers

Hi Tumblr! Here is a little list of locations for dark academia settings. This is for anyone doing novels that speaks dark academia.

Ancient Library Dusty tomes, towering shelves, dim candlelight filtering through stained glass windows.

Crumbling Monastery Echoing halls, decaying frescoes, ivy-laden walls whisper of forgotten times.

Victorian Mansion Creaky floorboards, hidden rooms, a lingering aura of mysteries untold.

Foggy Cemetery Obelisk shadows, the scent of damp earth, headstones etched with enigmatic inscriptions.

Gothic Cathedral Soaring arches, the scent of incense, cloistered silence broken by murmured prayers.

Eerie Forest Twisting trails, shafts of moonlight, the rustle of secrets in the underbrush.

Elite Boarding School Echoes of hushed gossip, an ancient bell tower, oak-paneled common rooms.

Candle-lit Classroom Heavy drapes, wooden desks, the quiet scribble of ink on parchment.

Secretive Society Hall Dark tapestries, flickering candelabras, veiled in layers of smoke and whispers.

Abandoned Observatory Dust-covered lenses, constellations dancing above a neglected dome.

Underground Catacombs Narrow passageways, walls of bone, an ancient scent of time and death.

Creaking Attic Heaps of forgotten relics, the soft shiver of cobwebs, an old trunk steeped in mystery.

Archival Vault Temperature-controlled chambers, brittle manuscripts, the soft hum of preservation.

Echoing Lecture Hall Empty rows, the ghost of academic fervor, chalk-dust air.

Dimly Lit Tavern Low ceilings, the aroma of aged wood, a hub of gossip cloaked in people’s shadows.

Haunted Gallery Portraits with watchful eyes, creaking floorboards, the echo of past revelries.

Silent Bell Tower The clang of metal, vertigo-inducing heights, views that stretch into twilight.

Forgotten Theatre Faded velvet curtains, echoing footsteps across the stage, whispers of past performances.

Moody Garden Overgrown hedges, secretive pathways, the rustle of leaves in the chilling breeze.

Dormitory Common Room Warm glow of a fire, whispers in the night, shadows lost in flickering candle’s gaze.

Dark Academia Name List (FREE PDF)

[berilaksl]

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

notes ! pure fluff, lovestruck! remus x reader and teasing from marauders.

warnings ! none really

Part I — The Library Chronicles

Golden rays filtered through tall, stained-glass windows of the library and stretched across the polished wooden tables and worn spines of ancient books, casting a sleepy calm over the castle’s scholarly heart.

At the far end of one row, James Potter and Sirius Black sat across from each other, quills in hand and faces lit with suspicious mischief as they pored over a stack of books titled “Charms of Illusions and Confounding Tricks” and “Advanced Magical Mishaps: A Guide.”

“I’m telling you, if we combine the Disillusionment Charm with a basic Muggle smoke bomb—” James started.

“—and maybe a hovering charm so the whole corridor looks like a foggy battlefield,” Sirius finished, practically vibrating in his seat.

Across from them, Remus Lupin was attempting to read Defensive Magical Theory, jaw tight and eyebrows pulled together like storm clouds.

“I don’t know why you two thought the library was the best place to brainstorm a full-blown prank,” Remus muttered, eyes flicking from his book to his parchment. “Some of us are trying to be productive.”

“Some of us,” Sirius said, cocking a brow, “are clearly just trying not to look over at the other table across from us again.”

Remus stilled, the tips of his ears reddening.

James smirked, setting his quill down dramatically. “It’s true. You’ve been glancing up every three minutes, mate. Do you want me to lend you my watch so you can time it better?”

“I am not—”

“—pining? Brooding? Suffering in scholarly silence?” Sirius grinned. “Remus, your tragic love story is happening live in the library and we’re the front-row audience.”

Remus groaned, pressing the heel of his palm against his temple. “You two are insufferable.”

Just a few tables down, you sat with Lily Evans and Mary Macdonald, parchment spread out in front of you as the three of you annotated your Transfiguration notes in neat, color-coded harmony. Well—at least you tried to.

Because every few moments, without meaning to, your gaze would flick upward. Always toward the same place. Always toward him.

Remus Lupin.

You weren’t even sure when it started. Perhaps in third year, when he’d helped you pick up a stack of books you’d dropped near the Herbology greenhouses, and you’d shared a laugh that made your cheeks ache. Or maybe it was during that Potions disaster in fifth year when the two of you had been paired together—pure chaos, but still, he’d looked at you like you were made of stars when you finally figured out the antidote.

He was clever, thoughtful, and ridiculously charming in that quietly sarcastic way that made your stomach twist. And Merlin help you—he had that broody, cardigan-wearing, chocolate-and-old-books energy that made your brain go fuzzy.

But he was also stubborn. Withdrawn. Hard to read when it mattered most. And you? You weren’t about to throw yourself at someone who clearly wasn’t going to make a move.

Even if you sort of—kind of—maybe wanted to.

“You’re staring again,” Lily whispered beside you, scribbling something into the margins of her parchment.

You blinked, suddenly caught. “I was not.”

“Darling,” Mary chimed in, barely glancing up, “you were practically burning a hole through his jumper.”

You flushed and tried to focus on your notes, scribbling a little too hard with your quill.

Back at the Marauders’ table, James leaned across to Sirius. “I’m giving him a week.”

“A week?” Sirius laughed. “You’re generous. I say three days before he finally admits he’s hopelessly in love with her.”

“Will you both shut up?” Remus hissed under his breath, flipping a page so aggressively it nearly tore. But then—

He looked up.

And your eyes met.

It was just a second. Two, maybe. But it felt like everything else in the library blurred out, like the quiet rustling of parchment and distant whispers turned into static. Your breath caught. So did his.

And then you blinked, and it was gone.

Remus dropped his gaze like he’d been hit with a Stunning Spell.

James let out a triumphant whistle. “I saw that! Moony, you romantic bastard.”

“I swear, if you say one more word—” Remus warned, but the heat creeping up his neck gave him away.

Across the room, Lily leaned toward you. “You’re really going to make him suffer like this forever, aren’t you?”

You bit back a smile, twirling your quill slowly. “He could talk to me, you know.”

Mary smirked. “So could you.”

You shrugged, lips twitching. “Where’s the fun in that?”

And he was, against all better judgment, completely ruined.

Meanwhile, you had noticed the glances too.

How could you not?

Every time you so much as flicked your gaze toward Remus, he looked away so fast you almost got whiplash. He was terribly bad at hiding it — which, truthfully, only made him more endearing.

You leaned toward Lily, whispering just loud enough for Mary to hear too.

“Think I should go over there and ask him if he’s lost something?”

Lily choked on a laugh, hiding it behind her hand.

Mary smirked.

“Oh, do it. Please. The poor boy’s about one compliment away from fainting.”

You shook your head, smiling into your parchment.

As much as you liked teasing him in your mind, the idea of confronting Remus Lupin — whose clever, tired smiles made your stomach somersault — was frankly terrifying.

Back at the boys’ table, Sirius and James were plotting.

“We need to do something,” Sirius said, stage-whispering. **“At this rate, he’ll pine himself into an early grave.”

James leaned in conspiratorially. “Operation: Push Moony Off The Ledge?”

“Brilliant.”

Remus caught the look exchanged between them and narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Who, us?” Sirius said innocently.

Before Remus could argue, James and Sirius had both loudly and obnoxiously dropped a very heavy tome on Remus’s half of the table, conveniently open to a page titled:

“Twelve Foolproof Ways To Impress The Witch of Your Dreams.”

Remus turned a shade of crimson that would’ve impressed a Weasley.

He slammed the book shut and hissed: “You absolute prats—”

And that was the exact moment he glanced up — and caught you looking at him, amused, eyes sparkling with barely hidden laughter.

He froze.

It was like someone had floored him. Like time slowed.

Your mouth curved into the faintest, teasing smile before you turned back to your friends, whispering something that made Lily snort into her sleeve.

Remus sat there, heart hammering against his ribs, quill forgotten entirely.

“Smooth,” Sirius said, voice vibrating with laughter. “Real smooth, Moony.”

“I hate you,” Remus muttered.

James patted his shoulder sympathetically.

“We’re doing this for your own good, mate. You’re hopeless.”

Meanwhile, across the library, Lily and Mary were also plotting.

“You have to do something,” Lily urged you. **“He looks like he’s going to pass out if you so much as wave at him.”

Mary added, grinning: “At this point, it’s cruelty to leave him hanging.”

You rolled your eyes, though warmth crept into your cheeks.

“Maybe after we finish this essay…”

(You both knew you wouldn’t wait that long.)

Across the library, two separate operations had been launched — each with the sole mission of pushing two stubborn people toward the inevitable.

And neither of you had a chance.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Sum of All 4

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Steve Rogers

Part of the mob drabbles au

Summary: you are given an unexpected assignment.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Your legs feel empty, like there’s no blood flowing beneath your waist. You walk beside Rogers, feeling as if you might fall on your face at any time. That’s probably not a good idea seeing as you’ve already knocked out twice within the last hour or two. 

He stops and steps ahead of you. He points to a door before he pushes it open, “in here.” 

You enter as he waits. For a moment, you worry it could be a sinister trick. That he’ll slam the door and lock you in. But why would he do that? Well, why would he beat a man in the middle of the street? 

Thinking of it again, you feel nauseous. 

You look around the room. There’s a desk with folders stacked on it. The chair looks like it was manufactured during your great grandfather’s war and the rug can’t be much newer. The curtains are damask and the walls are real hardwood. 

“It’s... nice,” you say, “vintage. Looks like the floor’s been refinished.” 

“You’re not here to discuss the decor,” he retorts. 

“Of course,” you agree as you twiddle your fingers. “What exactly am I here for, er, sir?” 

“You’re an accountant.” He states. 

“I am.” 

He sighs and crosses to the desk. You cautiously follow. You could tip over all over again. 

“Sir, do you mind if I sit?” You ask. 

He just waves a hand toward the chair. You thank him and gratefully claim the seat. Who knew fainting was so exhausting? 

“Man named Warren. I need you to tally it all up. Tell me what you find.” He explains.  

“Alright, so I’m balancing his ledger,” you nod. 

“Sure,” Rogers sniffs and tucks his hands into his pockets. He backs up and paces across the end of the rug. “You need some water? You gonna check out again?” 

“Oh, I have some,” you put your briefcase on the desk and pull out your water bottle. “Thank you. That’s super kind. I can, uh, start on all this.” 

He turns back to you, “fine.” 

You smile as best you can as his hand runs up his lapel and draws your attention. Again, his knuckles fill you with queasiness. The bruises are the cherry on top of this whole messed up situation. 

He pulls his hand back and looks at it. You realise he caught you staring. You clear your throat. 

“Looks pretty bad,” he remarks. 

“Um, yeah. Pretty bad,” you agree softly. “Look like they’re swelling. Could probably use some ice.” 

He examines his hand further and clicks his tongue, “probably.” He drops his arm. “Well, get to work. Don’t got time to waste.” 

“Got it,” you assure him and reach for a folder. 

He goes and you glance up right as he disappears through the door. He might be gone but your anxiety lingers. These are dangerous men, this is a dangerous place. 

While you wouldn’t want an old lady like Geraldine caught up in all of this, why did it have to be you? It’s just like Mr. Brenner to be tangled up with criminals. And now you’re looking through promissory letters and gum wrappers with scribbles on them. This isn’t going to be easy, especially without a computer. 

Rogers returns. He sits in the leather armchair near the window. He holds a bundle wrapped in a cloth against his hand. It must be ice. 

You pull out a receipt. Half of it is illegible beneath the crimson stain. Little droplets trail over the numbers you can kind of make out. Oh. 

“Is that blood?” You ask out loud, then feel yourself plunging forward. 

Your head hits the desk. You’re a bit foggy but still awake. You gurgle and push yourself up. You fall stiffly back against the chair and it lurches with your weight. 

Rogers appears across the desk from you. You stare at him as you grip the armrest and blow out between your lips. He squints as he comes around to your side. 

“Hey, sweetheart, stay with me,” he grabs your chin and you whimper. “Eh, don’t--” 

He taps your cheek with his fingers. It’s a gentle gesture. His hand is cold from the ice. 

“I’m good,” your murmur. “I just... I’m not a violent person.” You carefully touch his wrist and he lets you go. “Not that I’m saying anything about you. Or what happened earlier. I’m just... look at me, right? Just an accountant.” 

He nods.  

“You think I overreacted,” he intones. 

“I didn’t say... it’s none of my business, right?” You move aside the bloody receipt and wheel closer to the desk. “Numbers are my business.” 

He hums, “sure.” 

You concentrate, or pretend to, on the folder before you. There’s a lot to sort out, and you mean, more than the clutter. Your mind is racing and you can’t quite decipher anything you’re reading with the fear coursing through you. 

“I’ll be back,” he says abruptly as he backs away. “Don't leave this room.” 

You don’t need him to give the command. You wouldn’t dare wander around this place on your own. You nod, “I won’t, sir.” 

He spins on his heel and struts across the office. You only look up as he gets to the door. He leaves and you lean back in the chair. You can’t let your panic take over. The quicker you get through this, the quicker you can get out of here, and hopefully, never ever come back. 

You set yourself straight, fixing your posture, and set to your mission. You might not have the most experience, but you’re determined and you do know what you’re doing. All those places that never replied or sent you those template rejections, they have no idea. 

You hunker down, filling the margins in the ledger, row by row. You are enthralled the more you do. It’s like a story unfolding before you. Dates, amounts, locations. Huh, well, this might be some bad news. You really don’t want to be the one to deliver it. 

Don’t be too eager. That’s only the first folder. You scratch down another number and flinch as something lands on the desk. 

You sit up and stare at the paper bag. Rogers watches you across the desk. Your brows twitch in confusion. He huffs and opens the top of the bag. 

“Figured you might not pass out if you eat something,” he takes out a wrapped bagel and holds it out. “Cream cheese, sesame seed.” 

“Oh, yum, I mean, thanks,” you accept it. “That’s really... considerate.” 

“I can be,” his eyes narrow. 

“Of course, I wasn’t saying... anything. Just thank you,” you slowly unwrap the bagel. 

He takes out his own and sits in the armchair. You peel back the paper and take a quarter of the bagel. You bite into it, careful not to get any crumbs on the desk. 

It might not be the best day, very close to the worst, but you can’t complain for a free meal. 

[noirsdoll]

-> in sickness and in health

pairing: james x nurse!reader

words: 2.8k

tags: rape, abuse, mentioned snuff, cheating, forced orgasm, james is a perv, this is almost straight porn

notes: nurse!reader trope and title is overdone but idc. nothing else to say other than i need this man and i want him to beat the shit out of me!! yay!!

inspired by magdalene by rimqueen!!

read it on ao3

Is her sickness contagious?

It’s the first question James asks when he receives the diagnosis. A selfish one, he knows that the second it leaves his mouth. He whispers it to the nurse outside Mary’s hospital room, who looks at him with nothing but scorn.

Of course, it isn’t. Why would it be? He has no reason not to touch and hold Mary. His Mary. The sickness hasn’t taken her. It won’t, not ever. James can’t bear to see her go.

James stays sedentary by Mary’s beside as the days stretch on. He watches the light in her eyes fade, the lines of her face grow hallowed. He watches her wither, emotionally tied to every wax and wane in her condition. The push and pull loosens the assuredness of his empathy, he starts to rot alongside her.

He trudges through life, Mary’s well-being rooted to the forefront of his mind. He pours everything into her, his love, his worry, his savings. James just wants her to get better, so things can go back to normal.

A year passes, and then a second, and then James becomes tired. Exhaustion weighs down every limb, it takes energy to look in Mary’s eyes. He knows it shouldn’t, he shouldn’t force himself to meet his lover’s gaze, but they haven’t been lovers, not since Mary started to corrode.

It’s always the same questions— Mary sprinkles them through every visit to keep James on his toes. A call and response of sorts, to see if he’s still an obedient dog.

A sordid comment on the nurse’s outfit as she leaves is the first one. Mary turns to James, trying to provoke him, to see if James will defend her. James just slumps further into his chair and nods along to what she says, eyes glazing over the foggy windows.

Fog, always fog, never rain or sunshine. James has nothing to distract himself from his lethargy. His eyes drag along the shallow planes of Mary’s body, barely disguised by her thin cardigan and cotton dress.

Mary sits against the headboard, her lips curl into a frown. “Stop looking at me like that, James,” she says. Her tone betrays her exasperation.

James straightens up. “I’m sorry, honey. I spaced out.”

She looks away, sighing. The sleeves of her cardigan are frayed at the edges where she picks at the fuzzy yarn. “You don’t have to be here if you hate it so much.” Mary bites down on her bottom lip. “You think I’m ugly, don’t you?”

The second question, each time Mary asks it with more disdain. James won’t tell her the truth, because he doesn’t know it. His Mary is somewhere in there, buried deep in her sallow chest. But there’s something else there too, something that poisons her sweetness, dilutes her. Fear.

“No, no, I don’t think you’re ugly.” And I don’t think you’re pretty either.

At his next visit to the hospital, James approaches you at the front desk. He clears his throat, peering over at you as you scribble something in a log.

“We’re busy, Sir. Just a moment.” You glance up at him once, then twice. Your eyes linger for a second, and something shifts in your expression, James can’t place it. “Anything I can help you with?” You smile, sweet and saccharine.

James clears his throat again, staring down at the counter. “My wife got moved to a new room. Do you have the number?”

After a few more questions, you find her name in the log. You decide to escort him personally, James follows you down the wooden halls. He ignores every timed swing of your hips in that nurse’s outfit that is much too short to be practical.

You glance over your shoulder at him, your eyes cloying. “How long have you two been married?”

“We’re high school sweethearts,” he answers, short and clipped.

The visit goes with its usual hitches, James ends up learning more about you. You’re coquettish, got a thing for married men, something about wanting what you can’t have. It’s not like he went looking for this information. There’s barely any gossip at the care home, so anything will spread like wildfire.

You’ve gotten chewed out by your boss about it, but there’s no definitive proof. So far you’ve done nothing but maybe look at someone in a provocative sorta way, they don’t have anything concrete to get you. Not like they want to. You’re proficient, good at your job despite it all.

Plausible deniability. He could learn a thing or two from you. You’re something fresh, intriguing. James finds himself dipping out of Mary’s room for the washroom and instead looking for you. You’re like a ghost, only around when he can’t talk to you alone.

He’s not sure why he wants that, or what would happen if he finally got it. That would require self reflection, James is much better with acting on urges.

So he settles for your glances across the room, the way you brush shoulders when you pass him in the hall. He stares down the neck of your uniform as you give Mary her pills— her eyes are closed so she can’t berate him.

Maybe you’re aware of him, maybe you aren’t. But he knows you know him and he knows what you are. James turns the thought of you over in his head, smoothing over the divots and imperfections till you become this monolith of escape, more idea than person.

Then time passes. Mary withers into herself, the light in her eyes turns to ash. She no longer speaks more than a few words, there’s something glassy in her stare. It’s like she’s already dead, like she’s preparing for the role. James was so used to the yelling, he even stopped flinching at it, but now Mary is just there. Nothing but the echo of all the words she flung so that James could feel an inkling of her misery.

(James did, he always did. Every decline in her condition broke him until there was nothing left to break, until he needed something to instill even just neutrality within him again.)

That’s why he trails after you into the wing that’s been closed for renovation. God knows why you’re here, he follows you anyways. You pull a lighter from your dainty little pocket, followed by a cigarette— the ones that aren’t even that good, more about making your hands look pretty.

Oh, and you are pretty. The silhouette of a pin-up girl, leaned against the wall, the only visible parts of you are what hits the light. You raise one leg up to plant your heel, and James swears he sees the hint of a garter belt wrapped around the fat of your thigh. He salivates.

You’re on your smoke break and James is just watching from around the corner. The heady smoke from your cigarette travels through the narrow halls, it covers up that nice perfume of yours. You dispose of your cigarette by stamping it out on the hardwood floor, smearing the tobacco with your shiny pumps. That perfect image of you starts to crack.

James rounds the corner and walks up to you, his palms are sweating. You turn to the sound of his footsteps— there’s not much else to sense in the dim hallway.

“Mr. Sunderland! It’s good to see you. This area is for staff only.” You push yourself off the wall, tugging down your dress and trying to maintain that aura of professionalism. Not like you really can after what he’s seen. Is the lace of your garter belt rough or soft? Does it blend into your plush thigh? James could only dream of touching you.

“Hmm, seems I got lost.” James wonders if your mascara runs. He wants to see it run. Are you pretty when you cry? “You smoke?”

“You noticed?” You laugh, more to displace your evident tension. “Yeah, it’s more of a nerves thing than anything.”

“You’ve got nothing to be nervous about.”

“I’ve got a lot on my plate. You’d be surprised.” You smile. “Mary’s been doing well, if you’ve been wondering. No decline in her condition.”

“I’m glad.” He doesn’t care, not really.

“Must be hard, having to watch your wife fade away like that. I noticed you stopped bringing her flowers.” Something sparkles in your gaze, James wants to rip it out of you.

“She doesn’t like it when I do.” I’m not a corpse, stop bringing flowers all the damn time! You wanna see me dead? Kill me then!

“Yeah, Mary doesn’t seem to like a lot of the things you do. The staff hears a lot of it. Walls are thin, y’know.” You look away, towards the window that’s taped over with builder’s paper. Some of the moonlight makes it through. “Makes you wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

You pause for a moment, letting your eyes drag down, letting him see. “What life would've been like if things were different.” You turn to leave. “See you around, James—!”

He grabs your arm, tugging you back against the wall. You yelp, he slaps a hand over your mouth. This is all or nothing, he only has one chance to get what he wants. “Don’t make a sound, alright?”

You say something, but it’s all muffled into the back of his hand. James starts to pop the buttons of your pretty little uniform and fuck, you’re shaking like a leaf. Your eyes water, you look like a picture. Nothing but smooth, creamy skin, he presses his lips to your pulse to feel your heartbeat.

Your bra unclasps at the front, your tits sit just as pretty as you do. They feel just as soft as he imagined and he gropes them just the way he’s been wanting to. Your skin is so full of life, it gives when he presses. You’re not a bag of bones that bruises at the tiniest thing.

He finishes taking off your dress and he laughs to himself. What kind of slut wears lingerie to work? You don’t need a garter belt to hold up your stockings or those sheer panties. Maybe you do fuck married men during working hours. Must mean you’re a pro.

James wants to put his mouth on your pussy. He swore Mary’s always tasted off from the medications she was on. That was either placebo or an excuse to get out of bed— it’s been so long that James doesn’t remember which it is.

He’d kiss you too, but you just smoked and James hates the smell of cigarettes, the taste even more so. He gets to his knees, grabbing handfuls of your thighs, spreading you open.

You’re free to speak now, you could scream for help, but all you can do is quietly cry and watch him. Seems you do want it. James pulls your underwear to the side, his nose bumping your clit as he sinks his tongue into you.

The noise you let out is anything but quiet, you squirm but there’s nowhere to go with how tight his grip is. Your hips shift forward, you grind the meat of your pussy along his face. You taste good, the way pretty cunts like yours should taste— shaved and smooth, with fat lips that he spreads open with his tongue.

Once you start dripping down your thighs, James stands back up, one hand over the bulge that’s straining against his pants. He got hard the moment you started crying. Blackened tears are running down your face, you do cry pretty.

“Shh,” he wipes the tears from your face, smudging your mascara further. “I’m not going to hurt you.” James would tack on your name, but he doesn’t know it.

That seems to relax you, just a bit. He pulls his cock out, pressing the tip to your leaking pussy. James slips a couple times, but he finally pushes up into you in a way that has your nails digging into the wall and your face screwing up with pain.

James splits you open, much too big to feel good, bigger than you were ready for. He’s rusty and not too sure about how to make this good for you, he’s more concerned with the fact he’s stuffed himself in you and he finally gets to fuck something other than his hand.

He pulls out just to spin you around, squishing your tits against the wall and slapping a free hand over your mouth to muffle your sobs. Then he pushes back in and your back arches so far you fold in half.

Your ass ripples with each thrust into you, you start to like it. Saliva drools from the hand that’s covering your mouth, dripping syrupy strings onto the floor. You’re a cockslut, aren’t you? He spreads your ass to see how your cunt pulls him in, gaped all pretty around him.

You look over your shoulder at him, your gaze is one part fear and another part arousal. Your moans transform to a squeak when he wraps his other hand around your throat, leaving your mouth free to gasp out choked moans.

James can feel your pulse thrumming against his palm. You’re real, virtuous and idealistic, a creation that he carved out of his brain matter as a form of escapism. He sinks his teeth into your shoulder to feel your flesh, buried up to the hilt in your pretty walls.

Everything is so pretty about you, fat tits, fat pussy, the way you choke is pretty too. It was so hard to remain faithful to Mary when you were right there, a siren beckoning him off the deep end, knowingly or not, it doesn’t matter. It was a compulsion more than a choice, the urge to rape you clawed up his throat until all he could think about was your fat tears dripping down your face and your blood on his cock.

He digs his fingers into the column of your throat, he wants to see you bruise, he wants to see you bleed. Something murderous grows in him, it scares him but he can’t bring himself to stop. All he can think about is smashing your head against the wall till you stain the stucco pink, because everything is pretty about you, even your blood.

Your nails drag against the walls, splitting and cracking as you try to speak through his grip. Every squeeze of your throat pulls you tighter around him. James can’t take it, his hand slips between you and the wall and rubs harsh circles on your clit.

You shake your head, your tears are running clear now. He slaps your clit and you yelp, hips drawing back, pressing yourself deeper against him. You don’t get to say no, he needs this, you have to let him have this, he has nothing else.

Each time the head of his cock jams into your cervix results in a trembling whine from you. You squeeze him like you’re trying to take his dick clean off, he’s going to cum soon. And it’ll be your fault.

So he makes you cum, rubbing your clit with such intensity that it’s the only thing you can do, shoved up against a wall. And you moan and you sob and you plead no, but it’s too late and James is already fucking your cum back into you.

When James cums he makes sure it hurts. It’s your fault for tempting him, for fucking you while Mary’s waiting for him on her sick bed. He presses so hard against your cervix he almost pushes through, you let out a noise of pain that is halfway between a scream and a sob.

And then he pulls out of you, tucking away his dick and getting a good view of the aftermath.

You collapse in a heap on the floor. The creampie he gave you leaks out of your pussy onto the floor with streaks of red. You curl in on yourself, trying to pull your trembling thighs together. But you can’t. James has reduced you, he has broken you.

—

James watches you finish off your cigarette and wishes he was the one being stamped out into the floor. That fantasy of having you would never happen. As much as he dreams about it, he could never cheat on Mary. He’ll have to employ different tactics.

[pankowcrumbs]

It's you X Elizabeth Olsen (Fem Reader- Requested)

MasterList

Marvel MasterList

The bell above the café door jingled softly as I stepped inside, escaping the crisp autumn air. My fingers, half-numb from the chill, wrapped gratefully around the warm mug of hot chocolate I’d just been handed. The familiar scent of fresh coffee beans, pastries, and cinnamon took me back years back, in fact.

This little café, nestled on the corner of our quiet high street, hadn’t changed one bit. The same mismatched chairs, the chalkboard menu with smudged lettering, and the barista with the wild hair and tattoos still manning the espresso machine like he was creating art instead of drinks.

I smiled to myself and made my way to my favourite corner table the one next to the foggy window overlooking the street where we’d all once spent hours after school, laughing and scribbling song lyrics onto napkins. Nostalgia settled over me like a soft blanket. It had been years since I’d been back home, and even longer since I’d let myself sit in memories like this.

Just as I pulled out my phone to scroll aimlessly, a familiar voice rang out behind me. One I hadn’t heard in what felt like a lifetime.

“Y/n?”

I froze. No way. That couldn’t be... I turned slowly, and there she was.

Elizabeth. Standing right there in the doorway, wool coat wrapped tightly around her, a coffee cup in one hand, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. Her eyes widened in disbelief as our gazes locked.

“Lizzie?” I breathed, standing up.

We stared at each other for a long second, both of us frozen in the moment before everything caught up and suddenly we were laughing, colliding into a hug so tight it knocked the wind out of me.

“Oh my God,” she said against my shoulder. “Is it really you?”

“I should be asking you that,” I laughed, pulling back to look at her properly. “You’re actually here? In this tiny town?”

She grinned, cheeks flushed. “I’m visiting my parents. Just for the week. I needed a break from LA.”

We stood there for a second longer, both still a bit stunned, and then she nodded towards my table.

��Can I join you?”

“Of course,” I said quickly, heart racing with happiness. “Please, sit.”

She dropped her bag onto the chair opposite mine and peeled off her coat. It felt like no time had passed at all.

“So,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “what are the odds, huh?”

I shook my head, still in disbelief. “If you’d told teenage me that I’d run into you here after all these years, I wouldn’t have believed it.”

She smiled softly, her gaze flickering down to her drink. “Yeah… it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Nearly six years, I think,” I murmured. “Since you moved to LA.”

Elizabeth nodded, sighing. “Feels longer and shorter at the same time. Life just… swept me up.”

“It does that.”

We both paused, the years suddenly stretching out between us like a tightrope we were about to walk. But then she reached across the table, placed her hand on mine, and said, “I’ve missed you, you know.”

My throat tightened.

“I’ve missed you too,” I whispered.

From there, the conversation flowed effortlessly. We traded stories like old records scratched at the edges but still beautiful. She told me about the chaos of film sets, the nights spent learning lines, the weird loneliness of being surrounded by people and still feeling a little adrift. I told her about staying in our hometown, working at the gallery, painting when inspiration hit, trying to figure life out one day at a time.

We talked about old teachers, ex's, sleepovers where we’d stayed up all night whispering about what our futures might look like.

“You always said you’d end up in New York,” she teased, sipping her latte.

I chuckled. “And you always said Hollywood was overrated.”

“Touché,” she grinned.

We laughed until our cheeks hurt. Somewhere between the second and third cup of coffee, she leaned back in her chair and said quietly, “I was always scared I’d come back and things wouldn’t feel the same. That we wouldn’t.”

I looked at her for a long moment. “But they do, don’t they?”

She nodded, eyes soft. “Yeah. They really do.”

The light outside had started to dim, casting a golden glow across her features. She looked older, of course we both did. But the laugh lines near her eyes, the familiar tilt of her smile… that was still my Lizzie.

We walked out of the café together, bundled up in scarves and coats, the crisp air biting at our cheeks. The street was quiet, just like always, and we wandered aimlessly, passing the bookshop where we used to sit in the window and read poetry to each other.

“Remember when you tried to convince me to audition for the school play?” she laughed.

“You would’ve made a brilliant Juliet.”

“I had the emotional range of a damp sponge at sixteen,” she smirked.

I bumped her shoulder gently. “You were brilliant even then.”

We paused at the old park, its swings creaking in the breeze.

“Everything feels smaller,” she said quietly.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “But you know… maybe we just got bigger.”

She looked at me then, eyes shining. “Can we do this again before I leave? Maybe dinner? Or God, even just a walk like this?”

I smiled, heart full. “I’d love that.”

“Good.” She looked relieved. “Because I meant it I’ve missed you. And I don’t want to go another six years without talking.”

“You won’t,” I promised.

We stood there a little longer, two girls who had once shared secrets under starlit skies, now grown and weathered by life but still tethered by something unshakeable.

Finally, she hugged me again tight, warm, familiar.

A week later, I found myself at the same café, heart thudding in anticipation. The door swung open, and there she was smiling like no time had passed.

We spent the evening in a booth tucked in the back, trading stories, dreams, and the kind of laughter that only comes when you're truly at ease. At one point, she pulled out her phone and showed me a photo from years ago us, seventeen, arms slung around each other, ridiculous hats on our heads.

"Look at us," she said, eyes glinting. "We had no idea."

"No idea where we'd end up," I agreed.

"And yet here we are. Still... us."

[riaki]

sick days ! gojo x reader ‧˚ - take a soda break…!

the rain outside your window is incessant.

it slides down the foggy glass panes in small rivulets that merge together and break apart, like the people outside on different paths of life. a sea of umbrellas moves like liquid in the streets below; a school of fish in a rainy city, under those fluorescent neons that shine like vibrant coral in the puddles of rain on the concrete.

there’s beauty even in the humid showers of tokyo, reflected in the broken lights and flickering signs; those food stalls full of warm life and fancy clothing stores that you always go in just to not buy anything, and best of all— the vending machines that dot the map.

watching raindrops race was one of your favorite hobbies as a kid. even now, you find yourself absentmindedly tracking the movements; the erratic nature of the blurry droplets as they slide down the glass makes you wonder if there’s hidden ridges on the panels that guide those watery paths.

your train of thought is rudely interrupted by another bout of coughing; that dry, itching feeling in your throat that you just can’t get rid of. drinking water to quell the cough has the same effect as telling your study buddy to stay focused for longer than five minutes. gojo is playing something on his phone again; a rhythm game, by the way he curses under his breath every time his fingers stutter and miss a beat.

you cover your mouth with your elbow, trying to expel the ghost dust that makes your breath hitch every time you try to speak, and he glances up at you, shifting in his seat. his lanky legs are cramped beneath the desktop; his frame doesn’t fit in your room. he has to duck when he enters, lest he hit his head like the first time he came over. like you, he has his head resting in his elbows. unlike you, he isn't ill with a fever so hot it burns cold and the stuffiness in your voice, and he also isn't studying.

"you sure you still wanna be reviewing? this exam doesn't really matter, y'know." gojo remarks, peering up at you from his arm pillow. "you should probably take a break, ’cus you look like shit."

he grins cheekily, pushing a pile of his papers and notes to the edge of the desk, where eraser shavings and broken bits of lead from when he couldn't solve a math problem are crammed. there's scratches and ink stains on the desk, a reminder of how you'd accidentally scribbled past the page’s edge in a sickness induced delirium. it’ll leave permanent marks; at this point you’re convinced you’re writing yourself a secret letter to the future. have you confessed to gojo yet? that’s what it’ll say. right now, it just says something unintelligible.

hopefully you’re still literate in the future, but you’re half-convinced you’re getting dumber every moment you spend caged in with this dunce of a genius.

you lean back in your chair, pulling your knee up to your chest. your pencil falls to the desk with a faint clack, soft yellow lamplight washing your faces warm as gojo scoots closer and peers over your shoulder at your progress. he has a pandora’s box of knowledge in that blue-tinted brain of his; he just refuses to apply it. it’s cocky, spoiled ego in the finest. you should hate him for it.

he snickers. "you're dumb."

"you missed forty-three notes." you countered, shooting him a glare as you point at the disappointed looking character next to a review of the stats from the song he was playing on his phone. gojo grimaces, pulling back like a sad little dog, floppy white hair covering his eyes.

"i was playing with my thumbs."

you ignore him, leaning against the wooden desk before hiding your face in your elbows again and letting out a long sigh. your hot breath curls up in the confines of your body, making you recoil slightly; uncomfortably. heat is the last thing you need with the fever you’re pretty sure you’re running.

"i hate being sick. and i hate studying. can we please give up?" you complained, glancing up at him out of the corner of your eye. your hair obscures your vision, so you can only see a faint glint of amusement in his azure irises as he studies you for a moment before scooting his chair back and standing up. without another word, he leaves the room.

wow. okay.

a moment of silence passes as you sit there, lamenting over your runny nose and the way you sound like you're about to cough a lung up every time you breathe, until you hear the soft sounds of his feet padding on the floorboards coupled with what you presume is ice clinking against glass, signaling his return. you lift your head, blinking blearily. each time you breathe in through your nose, your nostrils burn like dry ice pressed against your skin, only adding to your misery. the dreary weather outside isn't helping much, either.

the cold glass leaves a dark stain on the table, an uneven circle of condensation that soothes the aching in your fingers when your sick skin makes contact. gojo pops the can open, and you watch as he picks the glass up, tilting it to the side to pour the soda in.

“why are you holding it like that?” you asked curiously, a small yawn escaping your lips as you lean against the table. he glances down at you, a cheeky, tiny smile gracing his lips. the sound of bubbles fizzling and popping fills the cozy, cramped room; that cool, sweet liquid seems like the only thing that’ll cure your nasty cough.

“pouring it like this prevents the bubbles from escaping. you like it fizzy, don’t you?” he grins.

condensation clings to his fingers like morning dew upon flower petals as he sets the glass down. you watch the ice cubes bobble about in the soda, clinking against the cup like a mini wind chime. you’re sore from sitting in the same place with terrible posture for three hours, and there’s an ache between your fingers from gripping your pencil tight while you write.

you take a sip from the glass, letting out a contented sigh as the refreshing liquid drains down your scratchy throat. it’s not lemon honey tea for a cold, but it certainly helps. next to you, gojo takes his seat again, grabbing the throw blanket on your bed and tossing it over his legs before he grabs his pencil again. he’s using one of those short pencils, shaved down to a stub from months of use. you always offer him a mechanical pencil, but he refuses.

you sit there, waiting for him to get back to work before you realize he’s staring at you, legs crossed beneath the fuzzy blanket.

you frowned, shifting to face him as you lean against the desk. “what?”

“you’ll take care of me if i get sick too, right?” he tilts his head, like a curious bird.

“why would you get sick?”

you’re too relate to react when he makes a mad grab for your glass of soda, holding it out of your reach. a few droplets spill out and spatter onto your notebook, forcing a sigh from your lips.

“gojo…” you groaned, rubbing your temple with your fingers and praying for strength.

he just smirks, taking a lengthy sip. you watch his adam’s apple bob as a bit of condensation builds on his chin and trickles down his throat.

“you know what? i dont feel like studying either.” he announces, setting the glass back down on the wooden table with a loud thunk.

“so? what do you wanna do?” you huffed petulantly.

“download project sekai, and we can do a co-op live.”

“…you’re kidding.”

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 54 (12.1)

part 1 | part 53 | ao3

cw: angst

Chapter 12

Steve drives to Chicago.

He wakes up to an empty bed and a sticky note by the kitchen phone, words scribbled over so the only legible thing left is the word sorry underlined in jagged black, and his breath sticks in his chest and he can't be here anymore. Epiphany ringing like a gong, sending ripples through his marrow, because the walls are closing in and Eddie decorated those walls — splattered himself over every inch of this place, and now he's just the newest haunt in a line of ghosts that Steve can't shake. He thought he’d gotten rid of them, but now he hears them louder than ever. In the hiss of the faucet, in the buzz of the fridge; they’re moaning in his bad ear and rattling his bones, and he can't be here alone with them he can't be here he can't—

So he drives.

Gets in his car with nothing but a spare jacket and a crumpled pack of cigs. If ever there was a time to pick the habit up in earnest. Eddie’s van is gone, and Steve’s heart is bruised; it's bleeding out inside him, pumping fresh hurt with every beat, so he lights a cigarette with shaking hands and heads north. Takes the back roads to the on-ramp of I-65, drives for hours; drives for years, speeding down empty stretches of highway with nothing but roadkill for company.

At some point he rolls the windows down until the icy wind makes his cheeks burn, but he can't really feel them. Can't feel his face, or his fingers, or his heart.

All the world is snow and asphalt, and Steve Harrington is alone.

He tries to drown it out with music. The radio mocks him with swooning quartets love songs — 'put your head on my shoulder' and 'life could be a dream' — and all the tapes he can reach belong to Eddie, so he pulls over on the narrow shoulder of an overpass bridge and screams and screams and screams while he chucks the cassettes over the edge.

Fuck Eddie.

Fuck him.

"FUCK YOU!!" he shouts to the foggy nothingness.

The words dig in sharp; pocket knife twisting in the space below his kidneys.

The fog doesn't respond.

Back in the car, his thoughts turn to his mom. Because he's driving to her, he knows — knew it in his splintering bones and haunted blood the moment he left town. He's driving back to his first ghost, as if confronting the original will somehow exorcise the rest.

Miles pass in silence, and Steve paints over the canvas of what-ifs again and again, oily streaks in the underpainting as he tries to set the scenes just right: quiet, tearful confrontations in his aunt's formal living room, graceless screaming matches out on the front lawn. In one version he never makes it past the guard at the front gate, and in another he just eggs the stupid lion statues leading up to the house while his mom silently weeps from the top of the stairs.

He doesn't know if his mom would laugh at that.

He doesn't know her much at all.

And that fucking hurts; that sits like acid in his lungs, because his mom was his first friend. When he was little — before the housekeepers and nannies, before his mom started tailing his dad on business trips like a trained dog on a leash — they spent so much time together. Trips to the playground, to the library, to the pool. He'd perch himself on her vanity when she got ready in the mornings, use her hairbrush as a microphone to sing along to 50s doo-wop, and she'd giggle and call him her little superstar, so he'd come up with stupid dance moves just to make her smile more.

He misses that. The script, the routine. How he'd spin around in his socks on the slippery bathroom tile and look up at her with her big hair full of rollers and her big eyes full of stars, and he'd say, "Hey! How come your eyes are all twinkly?"

And she'd grin and pinch his cheek and give the same answer every time: "Because you're the light of my life."

"I wish I knew what you'd say now," he whispers to the empty car.

For a moment he envisions that she's sitting there with him, that she's filling the blank space where the boy who broke his heart should be, but he can't remember her cadence well enough to mimic it; can't put words in her mouth when he no longer knows her lines, and with something a bit like horror and a lot like despair it occurs to him that he can't remember what she looks like. There's an apparition in his blind spot, but it's formless and unstable. The shade of its hair keeps changing; the texture, the length.

When he tries to make it speak, it shrugs and dissipates.

—

part 55

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[your-favorite-overachiever]

types of people as fruit:

blueberry: messy buns, windy bike rides, overalls, warm hugs, freckled hands baking muffins, easy laughter, sunshine, reading by the window, knit sweaters, high waisted jeans, bright smile, scented chapstick, romcoms and popcorn, wildflowers

cherry: leather jackets, hair in her eyes, midnight car rides, lipstick stains, high-heeled boots, dog-eared paper backs, liquid liner, loud chatter, whispered secrets, mascara tears, black coffee, glitter everywhere, smokey eye, scribbled poetry, dark acrylics

strawberry: floral tank tops, lips glossed light pink, soft waves, iced drinks, wispy clouds, shooting star wishes, perfume spritz, 19th century novels, mini skirts, jotting down pretty thoughts, slip dresses, wistful gaze, everything showers, ballet flats

apple: the smell of cinnamon, low rise jeans, yellowed pages, rusty leaves, wind-blown curls, heart ache, foggy windows, scratchy wool, hair bows, wine red mary janes, baking in the autumn, white lace, dark red lip stain, academic validation

banana: dirty converse, jean shorts, the state of hurry, friendship bracelets, pictures of everything, glowing compliments, salt in the air, clear lip gloss, sand in dirty blonde hair, magnetism, blown kisses, iced coffee before school, freedom

[deoreoo]

hi i really like your writing!! i was wondering if you could do like subspace x reader snd the reader is a rivaling scientist or engineer from a different faction like playground or something, i think that would be cool have a nice day!! :3

LITOST

Subspace × Engineer Reader!

Okay so uhm... im not really busy now ish??? BUT YEAH IM BACK!!

Under the dim light of a solitary desk lamp, You were furiously scribbling notes onto a stack of paper the room around you filled with a haphazard array of discarded prototypes and crumpled drafts.

The clock on the wall ticked past midnight, its rhythmic cadence almost mocking the sense of urgency in your movements. Each stroke of the pen brought forth ideas that, while promising in the moment seemed to fall short of the breakthrough they desperately sought

With a frustrated groan You tossed the latest draft into the trashcan, but it missed its mark, fluttering down to join the scattered debris on the floor

The pile of crumpled papers, filled with half-formed theories and abandoned dreams, continued to grow a silent testament to the countless hours spent chasing the elusive spark of innovation.

A few seconds pass before you slammed your own forehead onto the desk with a dull thud, the impact barely registering over the throbbing frustration that seemed to pulse in temples. The room was eerily quiet, save for the soft rustle of papers and the low anguished murmurs that escaped from your lips.

"Maybe this is like karma for choosing engineering..."

As the minutes dragged on you felt your eyelids grow heavier with each passing second. The relentless strain of the long hours began to weigh on them, pulling your own thoughts into a foggy haze

Your poor attempts to stay awake became more desperate punctuated by occasional, futile slaps to their cheeks and half-hearted sips of cold coffee- jumping up in down inside your apartment, and even walking around playground's park

Despite the best efforts, you return back to your apartment the room's dim light seemed to blur and waver as your eyes struggled to stay open.

Soon enough your head drooped slightly, chin resting on the crumpled notes spread out on the desk. Breathing slowed, becoming more rhythmic and even, as the exhaustion began to overtake their frustration The ideas that had once seemed so vital now floated in the periphery of their mind, merging with the dreams of sleep that beckoned irresistibly.

"Maybe just a little bit..."

Amid the scattered papers and discarded blueprints, Your own body finally surrendered to fatigue. Their breathing became a soft, steady rhythm, the room’s quiet now embracing the stillness of their unintended rest

BANG

BANG

BANG

Your deep sleep was abruptly shattered by a series of sharp taps against the window most likely pebbles, thrown with a persistent urgency.

groggily and sitting up properly, the remnants of frustration quickly giving way to confusion. The pebbles continued their insistent patter, echoing through the quiet room.

Groaning, You pushed aside the scattered papers and shuffled to the window. pulling the curtain just enough to peer outside. Only to get flashbanged by the sun making you quickly close the curtain back

"Dear illumina..."

You whisper under your breath before looking back outside again, your eyes adjusting to the now bright sky only to see people... 2 people... people frlm blackrock to be exact- but it did make you think where the other one is-

The unexpected intrusion yanked you fully awake as your mind races with questions and disruption.

"HEY LOOK WHAT I MADE PEASANT"

Was what Subspace yelled at you, you could tell he was grinning behind that mask as he was playing with pebbles on his right hand.... you assume he was the one who threw it on your window...

"What is wrong with you?? Cant you give me some sleep??"

Glaring at him he just let out a snicker before pulling a Biograft infront of him as he booted the robot alive again, that made you a tiny bit curious

"So what-"

"TARGET LOCKED, ENGAGING INTO BATTLE MODE"

Your eyes widen as your breath hitches when you heard what Biograft had said as you make a mad run away- hearing Subspaces manic laugh and the sound of an engine and metal clanking right behind you as you jumped down on a window on the other side of your apartment

"THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE PERFECT SCIENTIST IN ALL OF INPHINITY. DIE"

with Biograft's glowing orange sensors and a deadly retractable blade pursued relentlessly. As it swung its arm, the blade sliced the air dangerously close. You yelped and ducked, narrowly missing the strike. weaving through crossroads your mind racing for a way to out wit a strong tincan-

As You rounded another corner you were abruptly yanked to the side by a familiar figure. Hyperlaser- as he presses a finger to your lips to silence you. They remained still as biograft trundled by, its heavy footsteps reverberating through the alley

Hyperlaser leaned in, whispering harshly, "This is just out of pity. Don’t think too much about it nor expect me to help you ever again."

With that, he stepped back and left you, allowing You to regain footing and organize your thoughts.

"Maybe i do need to move to another city...or maybe just anti-blackrock my house..."

You mumble since you did not want to get your head chopped off... and also did they just walk all the way here to playground-

[heartthrobin]

round and round the garden (1)

sam winchester x fairy!reader

wc: 4.7k

warnings: soulmate!au (partners share scars), fem!reader, limited use of y/n, timeline is foggy but we’re working with s8 sam lookwise, reader is a creature, implied age gap (reader is early 20's), reader is uber tooth-rottingly sweet, highkey dumbification of sam winchester, references to thick reader (everyone cheered) but can be ignored, dean being dean, destiel is canon, animals, canon warnings (child kidnapping, violence ect.)

an: literally just wanted to write something fantastical and cutesy so here it is !!! this is part 1 of (probably) 4 :))) let me know if you want to be added to taglist <33 love y’all

summary: the case was bizarre, but no aspect more so than the “witch” at the end of town with the prettiest goddamn face Sam had ever seen and the long pink scar up her arm that matched his own.

part two part three part four

The house wasn't big.

If Sam could really call it a house.

It was more like a cottage, reminding him of children's illustrated stories he never had the childhood to read. Of picnics and fireplaces.

The cottage dazzled like a water colour painting: green shrubbery seeping into every corner of the canvas, with lush pink and orange and yellow fruit speckled across the page.

Creeping around it, wrapping it's branches over the house like an arboreal hug: was the largest tree Sam had ever laid eyes on. The trunk was almost as wide as the street they were parked on and it's leaves draped low over the windows peeking from inside. It stood like a monolith against the backdrop of the forest leering behind it.

The line of trees were inched back just enough to almost convince Sam that this tree, the one engulfing your cottage, made them nervous.

A stone footpath lead to the door.

"I-- looked away for just one minute ..." the woman was inconsolable.

Jenny Perez sobbed into the arm of her couch. Her sister leered in the doorway.

Sam and Dean watched her from the couch over.

"Ma'am," Sam stepped carefully. "We know this isn't easy, but are you sure you didn't see anything in the moments leading up to Manny's disappearance? Even anything ... strange?"

Washington State. Five kids. Two months. Missing.

Each snatched out their gardens where they played.

Sam and Dean had been in Illinois on the tail end of a wendigo hunt when the news of a sixth missing kid blew far enough across the country to land a tiny column on the front page of the Chicago Tribune.

Manny Perez (7) was taken from the backyard of his home this past Sunday night in Fernglade, Washington.

His mother, Jenny Perez (38), said she heard rustling in the bushes behind their house and her son laughing before going to take some food out of the oven. When she returned, her son had disappeared.

Sure it was a terrible story, but regardless, it didn’t arouse enough suspicion out of either Winchester to make it their problem. To convince them it was anything more than a 53-year old psychopath holding children in his basement.

Not until Dean found the entry. The one in John’s journal.

He’d been looking for a passage he swore was in there on wendigo hunting seasons when the ruggedly clipped article fell from between it’s pages.

“Sammy …” he’d flashed him the clip, “look familiar?”

Several articles actually: eight kids missing from the little town of Fernglade. Every Autumn, every twenty years out of some poor mother’s backyard. John had only scribbled one lonely note amongst all the newspaper staining: THE TREES

“No! It’s like I told the police … I just heard him laughing.” Her voice came out as broken shards between the heaving and the hands clutched close against her chest. “I thought I heard another child’s voice, but that was—”

“Jenny, enough.” Sandra Perez piped up from the doorway, clearly enflamed. She turned from her sister to face the brothers on the couch. “What my sister is refusing to consider, and what the rest of us know to be true, is that Manny was taken by that witch.”

“Hermana … she isn’t a witch—”

“A witch?” Dean’s calibre had twisted to intrigued.

“She lives on the edge of town. By the forestline.” Sandra’s arms were crossed tightly. “Jenny always used to let Manny go afternoons out there, God knows why—”

“A lot of the neighbourhood kids did too.” Jenny interrupted, desperate in her approach: hands outdrawn. “She’s not a … a witch. She’s a bit strange but the kids loved her and she was kind to them—”

“And now look. All those children are gone, Jenny.”

The woman deflated back into the couch again, her tear-soaked sleeves came up to find purchase against her cheeks again. They muffled a sob.

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. Dean shrugged with a look that said “maybe?”

Dean turned to the sister, “What has you convinced that this woman is a witch?”

Sanda Perez looked affronted by the question. Like Dean had slapped her clean across the face.

“Oh! Well she’s … there’s always things burning at that house and people have said they’ve heard … like, chanting at night over there.” She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, grasping at the straws of gossip that had dripped down to her willing ears. “And her house is strange and she’s always in the forest at night when it’s unsafe. Who knows what … what rituals she’s doing out there!”

The brothers nodded. “Sure. Would you mind giving us that address?”

Now that Sam was faced with the house, getting his first view through the grimy passenger side window, he’d stray from the description of “strange”. He might have agreed that “enchanted” or “mystical” fit the description of the cottage better if he didn’t resent the magic clichés.

Dean’s finger pressed into the open journal page, tapping along the stained ink of John’s nearly illegible handwriting. THE TREES.

“Now that’s a tree if I’ve ever laid eyes on one.” He leaned over so his eyes could find the top of the tree from under the cover of the car.

Sam nodded. Something felt off when he watched the house, his stomach was twisting up past his other organs in his throat.

“I don’t know man …” his finger reached up to tug at the collar choking him at the neck. Maybe the fed suit wasn’t helping. “Something feels weird about this place.”

Dean scoffed loudly. He picked up the takeaway cup from the centre console, coffee long cold, and slugged the last of it down in one long sip. He surfaced again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Every place we go to is weird.” It was clear he didn’t share the sentiment. “I’m sure we’ve faced worse.”

He unbuckled his seatbelt.

“Well, come on. Let’s go meet this witch.”

Despite Sandra Perez’ less than convincing account of the “witch” at the end of town, it was still worth a visit to know who the townsfolk had decided was guilty in the matter of several counts of child kidnapping. How evil and vile of a person they must be.  

The air was crisp outside the car and the further they ventured up the path, the more delightful the aroma became. There was a thin string of smoke curling from behind the house, it carried a warm woody scent and the tussles of flowers lining the bannister of the porch was making Sam’s head spin happily. He managed a small smile.

“Nice garden.” He whispered offhand.

Dean seemed unconvinced, eyes flashing over the shrubbery with skepticism. “Yeah, well don’t get too close to anything. And don’t touch anything either.”

The door was tall, intimidating and clearly made of some fancy wood. It was slot between the white brick on the face of the house. The feeling from the car had only tripled on the walk up and Sam had his hand against his stomach. He could feel his blood rushing past his ears.

“Dean, I’m really not sure about—”

Dean’s fist connected with the door three times. Curt and professional, like a fed’s would be.  

There was an obvious shuffle behind the door, by then each beat of Sam’s heart was like a foghorn against his vibrating ribs and for a moment he was sure he was going to be sick.

Suddenly, there was sniffle by the foot of the door. A dog? And a voice, caressed gently by a giggle, ushering the animal away.

Sam’s brain was swelling too large for his head, the doorknob creaked from inside – his fists grew ice cold – with a soft grunt, the door was pulled ajar …

It stopped.

With a smile that knocked the wind clean out of Sam’s lungs, you greeted. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

Warmth flooded back in to his palms and the thumping of his head cooled to a dizzy buzz. The nausea subsided to a hot bubbling.

Your frame took up the doorway. It seemed to fizzle around the edges, glimmering like light off a rippling pond.

Sam’s eyes slipped down your body like warm coffee down his throat. Your face was gentle, eyes round and wet beneath a set of suffocatingly black eyelashes. Wide-set thighs rippled all the way down to soft calves and pink painted toenails.

A cream crochet top reached over the expanse of your shoulders, sloping down where the rugged sleeve edges hung off your palms, a sparkling green skirt flirted at the top of your thighs. It’s silk ruffles shivered with your every breath.

If he was momentarily able to lift his eyes from you, which he most definitely was not, maybe he'd notice how Dean didn't seem even moderately as amazed as he was. That might have been the first sign if he did.

"Good afternoon ma'am, I'm agent Alice. This is my partner agent Cooper." Dean dug out the FBI identification from his jacket pocket, flashing it casually. "We just have a few questions regarding some recent--"

"Oh please," you waved your hand airily, "No need for the semantics. I've been expecting you, lunch is out in the garden."

The sound of your voice was sending waves of warmth through his stomach. Like he was sipping hot cocoa at your every syllable.

The ID in Dean's hand wobbled, his face clenched in confusion. "I-- sorry, what?"

In the shift of Sam’s gaze back up your form, he came to find your eyes set on his.

You smiled again. His tongue felt heavy and half-formed words gurgled at the back of his throat: begging to be spat out.

“I-I’m–“

“I know who you are.”

Your eyes flickered back to Dean and Sam felt hollow at the loss of their warmth.

“Not every day you have the Winchesters at your door, now is it.” You finished, stepping aside to allow them in.

“You know who we are?” Dean’s cadence dropped warily, clearly spearheading the conversation where Sam was finding difficulty. But your figure was already disappearing into the darkness of the house.

Despite his sceptic tone, Dean stepped in quickly after you. Sam trailed behind.

The cottage was warm. At least that was Sam’s first thought.

It was quickly ribbed out the way by the sheer visual of the interior.

There wasn’t a single blank wall or spot on the floor uncovered by carpetry.

Rows of paintings and stacks of photographs lined the space between wooden countertops and cherry red couches. Persian rugs and indoor plants spilled from a technicolour mirage of pots.

Desks were cluttered with books, paint supplies abandoned still wet. A dusty chandelier.

But more striking than the portraits and the vinyls and the rugs and the botany textbooks, were the creatures.

“Just watch for Goose,” she waved vaguely at a moving creature that was quickly nearing Sam’s feet, avoiding Dean’s question. “He won’t bite but he will try lick you—”

For a moment, Sam connected that this had to be the dog at the door. But the dog, Goose, was hardly a dog at all. Only once he was licking a stripe up the strip of bare skin at Sam’s ankle did he realize that … it can’t … that’s a fox.

And that wasn’t the start nor the end of it.

Draped over the couch was the largest snake Sam had ever seen. It was curled into the red frilled cushion, fast asleep. On the countertop, two ferrets were dipping in and out of sight behind the fruit basket. A gecko bathing in a sunspot on top of a stack of books. A flock of white budgies perched between the crystals on the chandelier. Three pairs of brown twitching rabbit ears peeking out from a basket of laundry.

It seemed Dean had also taken stark notice of the menagerie that was the cottage, so distracted that he’d forgone mentioning that his question had gone unanswered.

His finger pointed weakly at down at the white boa on the couch. “That’s … that’s a snake.”

You laughed again and Sam was sure he could get drunk off the sound.

“Nothing gets past you boys, hey?”

You kept walking, motioning for them to follow through another arched door out into the garden behind the house.

“Her name is Lydia. She’ll come join us when she’s awake.”

“I sure as hell hope not …” But it was muttered and Sam gave Dean a stern look for his comment. You didn’t turn back.

The garden behind the house was impossibly even more beautiful than infront. Vines creeped up the outer walls, a lemon tree grew along the underside the of the bigger tree engulfing the house. Shrubs and bushes and stark purple flowers. Your whole patch of land seemed untouched by the fingertips of Autumn that was reaching over the rest of town.

In the middle of it all: sat a small white painted table. You’d lined it with sheer cloth and platters of pastries, sandwiches and cakes.

There were three chairs around it.

“Sit, sit, sit.” You were wringing your hands, a light waft of nervousness fluttering off you. “I didn’t know what exactly you hunters eat or don’t eat … so there’s a little bit of everything–“

“Oh, hell yes.” Dean’s initial skepticism seemed to dissolve at the prospect of food and his ass was in the chair before you had chance to say anything else.

You seemed pleased. 

Sam’s face flushed red. He remembered that he still has yet to say a full sentence in your presence.

“Uh,” you turned to the sound of his voice. “T-Thank you.”

The speckles of light through the canopy of the trees drifted over your face. Sam had never noticed that on a person before.

He’d also never paid much mind to people’s hair. Not before yours. It looked like something ripped off the cover of a fashion magazine from the 70’s.

“You’re so very welcome.” Your voice was kind. “It’s more of an indulgence. I haven’t had guests in a while, not since …”

It faded off. “Well, not for a while.”

Jewels jingled around your neck, crystals wrapped in black string: dipping low down between the swell of your breasts that was just visible above the hemline—

Sam quickly swung his gaze back to the table where Dean was scarfing down an icing covered puff pastry.  

His brother was making wildly animalistic groans over the taste. For a moment, it was the only noise filling the space against the shiver of the trees in the midday gust.

Sam didn’t know where to find his tongue. He couldn’t get himself to step away from you.

“Coffee or tea, boys? I have it inside warming on the stove.”

“Coffee.” Dean responded blurrily around a mouthful. You turned to Sam again.

“I—just, I’m—coffee is good.”

You nodded. “Sure. I’ll be right back.”

He watched your figure retreat towards the house. The nausea was bubbling back into view.

“This is some fucking good cake.”

When your frame had disappeared back into the house, Sam turned back to his brother who was cleaning remnants of a second pastry off his plate with a tiny fork.

He quickly neared him, pulling out the chair across from him hastily.

“Dean, have you even considered the possibility that this food is poisened?”

Dean’s face twisted to a grimace, but only for a fraction of a moment before shrugging. “Hey. Worse ways to go.”

But Sam was shaking his head. The dizziness had returned.

“Do you feel sick? I’ve been feeling like … like off since we first step foot on this property.”

Dean watched him with hooded eyes, gaze flickering between his brother and the sliced ham and cucumber sandwich resting at the top of a nearby plate.

“Is that your explanation for the fool you’ve been acting since we walked in the door?”

Looking up from wiping sweaty palms down his trousers, Sam stalled. “W-What?”

“Exactly.” Dean gave in, reaching for the sandwich. “You haven’t been able to string three fucking words together since we got here.”

“I—she’s a witch, Dean.” Sam pressed. “I think she put like a … a spell o-or a hex on me!”

“She couldn’t have done that in the five minutes we’ve been here.”

“She knows who we are, she could’ve hexed our motel room.”

“Looks to me like someone has a crush—"

But Sam’s face was earnest. And maybe turning a little cherry red at the accusation. “Dean.”

Dean huffed. “Fine, fine, we’ll interrogate her and see what she says. If she’s a witch, we just gank her. Problem solved.”

“But—”

The sound of footsteps were reapproaching. The brothers fell quiet.

“Here we go.” Ringed fingers clinked against the side of an ornate red pot where you leaned over Sam’s shoulder. Steaming black liquid slipped into the teacup resting against it’s matching saucer in front of him.

His breath caught in his throat.

“You like the sandwiches?” You aimed at Dean.

He nodded, “Yeah, great stuff.”

You rounded the table and Sam worked hard not to make eye contact with the expanse of thigh peeking up at him as you moved.

“I have to admit, I really wish you’d brought along your angel.” You poured into Dean’s cup.

His head flickered up at the comment. “Cas?”

“I’m a big fan of his.” Your voice buzzed with eagerness, “The whole rebellion against heaven thing. I thought it was really cool.”

To label Cas "his angel" was a fair assessment. The matching fleshy red handprint on each of their chests had confirmed it a long time ago.

Dean nodded slowly. “I’ll be sure to pass on the message.”

You smiled and it made Sam’s stomach contents bubble again. He was starting to worry that maybe you really had cursed him.

The chair grumbled against the grass where you pulled it out. “Right, so I’m assuming you guys are here to question me? Kill me maybe?”

Awkward silence fell. Dean and Sam exchanged glances.

“Uh—”

“Well—”

Between another bout of laughter, you poured your own cup. “Don’t worry. You’re not the first, probably not the last.”

Dean took a long enough break from scarfing food down his gullet to look up at you. “Yes. To question you, for now.”

You nodded. Eyes finding Sam.

“What about you, Bigfoot? Here to kill me?”

Sam reached deep to find his voice again. “Uhm, just a few questions.”

Smiling, you sat further back in your chair. “Great. Go right ahead then.”

“How do you know who we are?” Dean leapt right in, repeating what had been previously left unanswered.

“Someone like me’s gotta know when hunters are moving in and out of town, don’t you think?”

“Someone like you?”

“Yep.” You nodded, seemingly unwilling to offer more than what was being asked.

Sam leaned forward. “So you are a witch then.”

You chuckled under your breath, leaning forward to stir your coffee as if he hadn’t tossed an accusation in your lap. “I see you’ve been speaking to people around town.”

Nobody answered.

So you filled the space again.

“No, I’m not a witch. Slimy bunch them, but then again, I guess you’re not too far off.”

“So what then?” Dean’s voice held that rough edge that dripped through when he was growing annoyed.

Grinning, you shrugged.

A chime, like a ringing sleigh bell, filled the space. Sam’s eyes were drawn just past your shoulders where a tall pair of opal pearlescent wings had appeared behind your head.

“No fucking way.”

Sam choked around nothing. There was a long pause, interjected with a long stare between the brothers across your table.

“Fairies don’t … they don’t exist.”

You reached for a sip of your coffee, looking unperterbed. “Dryad, actually. Give it a google.”

The wings shivered against the movement.

"So what," Dean's glare was heated over the set table, "Evil fairy godmother is that it? What did you do with the kids, eat them?"

For the first time since he'd lain eyes on you, Sam could make out a shine of something unkind crossed your features.

You set the teacup down slowly and your eyes met Dean's with the same heat of the sun glaring down into the garden: "I had nothing to do with those children going missing. I loved them."

Sam wanted to interject, but his chest was tight ... a straining grip of guilt was tightening his throat. She's cursed me, she's cursed me, she's cursed me--

"A couple of the parents said their kids used to come visit around here. Visit the witch at the end of town. That true?"

Gathering a breath and another sip from your cup, your face distorted from indignant to disconsolate. Sam could feel the tightness in his chest ebbing.

You nodded.

"Yes. That's true." From behind your seat, accurate to your predictions, the wide white outline of a snake-- of Lydia-- was creeping through the grass.

Dean's eyes fixated on her approach, all way up until she bound the foot of your chair up into your chest. She rested her head there like a lap dog. You stroked a hand over her head like one too.

"They used to come visit," you continued, "after school some days. I'd make them tea and cupcakes, and they'd come to visit my animals. I taught them about the trees."

A fond look had crawled onto your features. There was another tinkle of bells and the wings behind you disappeared.

"Now nobody comes. Parents are scared. They think I'm ... hiding their children in my basement or something."

Dean surveyed you for a few moments, seemingly deciding you were of little enough danger to dare another piece of white chocolate cake.

"Yeah, you can spare us the pity party sister." He muttered around his fork.

Sam sent him a short lived look. "Well, then if it's not you--"

"We haven't yet decided that it's not you, just by the way."

"--then what is it? Surely you have some idea?"

Lydia was curling up around the back of your neck now. Your eyes found Sam's - he momentarily felt like he was melting - and you sighed softly.

"I've heard some things, nothing definitive." Your hand stroked over the section of the snake still draped in your lap. "It's coming from the forest."

"And you heard this where?" Dean's tone dripped with skepticism.

"The trees told me."

Where Sam was sure would normally be laughter echoing from his older brother, instead, his hand stilled over his plate.

THE TREES.

His eyes flickered to Sam. It was quiet. Dad's journal.

"You can speak to trees?" Sam question was clement.

You seemed refreshed by it, watching him for a moment before nodding. "Part of the gig."

Another silence fell. You sighed. Sam could smell Dean's thoughts from across the table.

"Let me get this straight." Dean cleared his throat, leaning forward in his chair. "You're the garden fairy and you're telling us that the trees have something to do with this? Not really working your best angle here, if you ask me."

The garden rustled again. A white duck emerged from one of the bushes followed by a string of ducklings. You shrugged tiredly.

"I'm trying to help." Your voice was soft. Melancholic.

Your hand reached for a strawberry sitting on a tower of others just past Sam's cup, crocheted sleeve slipping back to your elbow to reveal the scores of golden, beaded jangling bracelets and--

Sam's blood ran all the way icy, turning to a slurry in his veins.

"Care to explain that?" Dean's voice came passing over him as if said from the end of a very long corridor.

Twisting your wrist to look, you shook your head. You grabbed the strawberry and brought it to your lips with the other hand.

"Oh, this?" A jagged scar peaked from the edge of your elbow up into the palm of your hand. It shone pink with marred tissue. "You think I got this from kidnapping children?"

Sam's heartbeat was ringing in his ears, he gripped the edge of his seat with whitened knuckles. His eyes chased up to the side of your face, finding the little spot by your eyebrow where ... the end was split with the mark of the edge of a blade in a fight gone wrong.

"Not mine unfortunately." You continued, dissolving the strawberry to pieces between your lips. "My other half's. I swear they're a bull-fighter or a boxer the way they bang me up."

Somewhere a bird chirped. There was a turbo washing machine in Sam's stomach on full blast and he thought he was about to be sick. At the same time, he was washed over by a feeling of inexplicable warmth. Like a cooled stream of bubbling champagne down his gullet. Like how they always said it might feel. Only now he could put a feeling to the talk.

"Listen, if we find out you've got something to do--"

"D-Dean," Sam's voice tripped over pebbles, "We should go."

The hands now released from the edges of his seat were shaking and his palms were scorching.

Dean looked at him, confusion tugging on his hardened face. Sam thought he might argue, but he nodded slowly. Maybe he noticed his brother's red, sweating face. Again, maybe he was just bored.

"Uh, yeah." He started to push the chair out, but his eyes drifted on a ham and cheese sandwich lingering on his plate. He hesitated.

You jumped up quickly, wrapping Lydia like a scarf, all in the same motion. "I've got a box you can take some food, if you'd like? I could just run inside--?"

"That would be great--"

"No, that's really not necessary--"

Your eyes drifted to Sam, waving him off with a smile that buckled his knees now that he was standing. "Don't be ridiculous. Let me go grab them."

Figure disappearing into the house again, Dean surveyed his brother. "What's up with you?"

Sam didn't answer. In fact he didn't say anything at all until you'd returned, Dean had stuffed as many sandwiches and pieces of cake he could fit into the tupperware and you packed Sam a box against his will.

Not as soon as he would have liked, they were standing at the door again out on the porch front.

"We'll be back, probably." Dean quipped officially, but he lifted the box of food all the same. "Oh, and uh ... thanks."

You were smiling again. "Sure. You know where to find me."

Not for the first time that morning, Sam was struggling to peel his gaze off your face. Your eyes were a swirling mess of colour and the light was flickering off of them at him.

"I'll see you around, Bigfoot."

Your shoulder peeked at him from under your top, a deep red welt matching his own left collarbone.

He nodded curtly, turning back down the path even before his brother. His collar was sticky against his neck and his brain was firing off signals the whole walk down, it begged him to turn back.

Dean jogged to catch up.

"What the hell is going--"

Sam slammed the door on him, crashing into the passenger's seat. He began ripping off his suit, the black jacket flung mindlessly into the back of the Impala.

By the time Dean fell into the driver's seat he was already fighting against the button securing the shirt to his right wrist.

"You have been acting all sorts of crazy since we got here, Sammy. What the hell is--"

Sam pried back the sleeve: bunching it at his elbow. He stuck his arm out to his brother.

Dean glanced between his face and his arm only once before pausing. The long jagged scar from his palm up his arm was impossible to miss. The one that sat identical on your arm.

"Oh."

Sam was sucking in deep breaths through his nose.

Dean's eyebrows rose into his hairline. He let off a disbelieving laugh.

"Well, I'll be damned."

-

taglist:

@firstsnowdrop @writerofthewinds @aria1245 @nyx22-blogs @lucysaloser @britishscum @pookiesnatcher @music-keep-me-sane @cryptid-with-a-cane @sammys-concubine @i-live-for-fantasy @grimbunnie @crystalreedwifey

[old-sorry-i-spaced-out]

Leyendecker study with the von Karma/Edgeworth siblings :>

[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — Twenty-three

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: angst, fluff, smut

— WORDCOUNT: 3.7k

— TAGLIST: @esolean @localravenclaw @slytherins-heir

I

He walked her home that evening. They closed up earlier than usual as Ambrogio ostensibly wanted to be left alone. “Still not used to working during daytime hours,” Tom said, “it makes him tired and reclusive and crankier than usual. You know how it is.” He parted from her with a kiss on the cheek. She had felt alright when they said goodbye but as the night advanced she started to get that feeling again, that emptiness in her chest and fogginess around her head and numbness all across her body. She missed him. Missed holding him, and being held…

It came naturally to go to bed early — as if, by magic, she could find him waiting for her in her dreams. To keep her loneliness at bay she put a record on. It hardly helped because when the song called Ne me quitte pas began to play it made her even more yearnful. The pillow was hardly a substitute for Tom’s long, thin body, although it smelled a bit like him by now. And her weighty duvet, no matter how she wrapped it around herself, could not feel like his arms. She buried her face into the pillow and heaved a trembling sigh. She wanted him, she wanted him quite selfishly, and for one mad moment thought about getting dressed and going out to him just to see him for a bit and hear his voice. The record wavered on reciting its sad melody while outside the strong winds that had cleared the sky earlier battered at her window.

She squeezed her eyes once tightly and sighed, then rolled out of bed disentangling herself from everything and went over to the armchair.

“You’re so stupid,” she mumbled as she picked up the phone. “So stupid and needy…”

II

Tom was gloating, albeit privately, about the outcomes of the day. He’d eliminated Oso, gotten the symbolic revenge over the parasite by throwing him into the trash, and found his little secret stockpile too as a result. He was lucky his unwitting partner in crime had found that key in the vampire’s remains, although he’d likely have found it as well if he’d bothered to look. With the rest of his afternoon free he had set to looking around for any place the key could fit. It didn’t look like a normal key, that was for sure, with half its body being cut through with indentations rather than teeth. He looked around Oso’s bedroom, inside his coffin, the auction room — before finally coming upon a little orifice in the desk in the office across from their shared one, which at first glance looked rather like a hole where a screw had gone loose.

In the organised chaos, Tom found lists of all past auctions and what had been won by whom. He also found a few books of curses which he initially thought were part of the collection, but soon realised they were Ambrogio’s own. Most conveniently of all, however, he found details of the security charm Ambrogio had set on the books. Tom left most of his findings back in the undershop to study later, but that notebook, he took with him.

He wasn’t even half done deciphering its arcane scribbles, ancient languages, and profane geometry, when the phone rang.

“Hello?” he answered with a groan, holding the receiver between his ear and shoulder.

“Tom?”

Of course it was her. No one else would call him.

“Sweetheart,” he smiled.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Not at all. And how come you’re still up?”

“I couldn’t sleep…”

“Clearly.”

“I just missed… talking to you. I guess I thought I’d feel better if I heard your voice.”

Tom grinned and put the dry old tome down to hold the phone up properly. “And do you?”

“I can’t tell yet,” she said, sultry and tired. “Talk some more.”

“Is that… sad French music you’re listening to?”

“It’s Belgian.”

“Pardonnez-moi,” he scoffed.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with the French, quit sneering.”

“So you’ve said…”

“And you know I love Paris and want to go someday.”

“Sadly, yes, I remember.”

“What were you doing, anyway?”

“Reading,” said Tom, pushing the notebook away as if she could have seen it. He had to remind himself this was nothing like a floo call.

“At this hour? Good grief, Tom.”

“It’s only midnight. Perfect time for reading.”

She said nothing, but he thought he heard her giggle.

“What were you doing?” he asked.

“Listening to sad music. And missing you.”

He found himself smiling and asked something rather foolish. “Do you want me to come over?”

“No, no, certainly not. It’s so cold out, and late…”

“Are you sure? I can be there quite quickly,” he grinned. He hadn’t tried it yet, but he was sure he could Apparate directly inside her building if he focused.

“Yes, I’m sure… It’s enough to be able to talk to you.”

Tom hummed thoughtfully.

“Do you want to go to work together tomorrow?” she asked.

“Alright. I can wait for you outside your building.”

“I’d like that…”

“And I’ll be the one to treat you to tea this time. I still have your… large bottle,” he stumbled.

“The thermos?” she laughed. “I forgot all about it… I’d love it if you brought tea. You’re always so good at making it.”

His face fought back a big, proud grin. It felt awkward to be complimented for something so plain.

“I’ll see you in the morning, then,” said Tom, already thinking of what he’d wear tomorrow.

“Until morning, then… Good night, Tom.”

“Good night.”

“Sweet dreams.”

“And stop listening to that whiny music.”

“No.”

He was left with his mouth open when she hung up.

III

She wasn’t joking when she said the night was cold. Tom could see it in the little icicles that formed on the overgrown grass by the road rather than feel it for himself. He had been more than simply cold since his second Horcrux… There was a numbness, even, outside as well as inwardly. He pulled his coat tighter around himself and looked up. Her window was dark. It would have been, at three AM. The decision to visit her came more easily to him than he expected… They were partners in crime for two murders now, and that was more than he could say of even his Knights of Walpurgis. There was a magic in taking a life, of forcing it between the worlds. Magic they had done together even if she was a muggle — whether it applied to vampires was merely a philosophical question.

And while Tom had considered Apparating right to her, he quickly realised it would have cheapened the act. That did not prevent him, however, from forcing her lock open with Alohomora. Her flat was as silent as a crypt and just as dark. He tiptoed into the bedroom and found her sleeping on her front, and on what Tom considered was “his” side of the bed. Moving slowly, he took his clothes off and piled them blindly on the armchair. The only risk to waking her up was when he’d crawl into bed — but to his surprise, she didn’t wake. Tom felt quite smug about his gift at sneaking, and all without resorting to any muffling spells. He’d half looked forward to surprising her and hearing the shift in her voice when she realised he was there… But that could wait until the morning. For now, he allowed himself to enjoy sliding beneath her blankets and wrapping an arm around her to warm his naked body.

IV

Everything felt quieter than usual, heavier, like a dream pulling her back. She really didn’t want to wake up but she knew her alarm would start ringing in a moment. She stretched and her feet peeked out of the blanket, but when she tucked them back inside they came across something hard and cold and smooth. It took her a moment to realise it was a body.

“AAAAHHH!”

“Ow!”

“Tom?! W-what are you doing here?”

“Surprise,” he mumbled while he held his nose.

“Oh no, did I hit you?”

“No, you just have very sharp elbows…”

She giggled and moved a little closer, lifting the duvet to cover them both up to the neck. “Let me kiss it better,” she said, reaching out to cup his cheek.

“No thank you.”

“You’re so adorable when you pout… Like a little kitty. My own Tomcat.”

He mumbled something but didn’t protest when she eased his hand away and pecked a kiss on the tip of his nose. It was only a little red.

“Who did you expect?” he grumbled.

“Nobody! That’s why I was scared. What are you doing here?” she asked as she parted from him, stretching toward the bedside table to check the time.

“I thought you’d be happy to see me…”

“And I thought we agreed to see each other in the morning.”

“It is the morning.”

“Tom, it’s six thirty AM.”

“Exactly.”

She fell back onto her pillow and sighed but soon she started laughing. One look at Tom fussing over his pretty face, his hair a mess and eyes all bleary, was enough to calm her heart and put a smile upon her face.

“You really did scare me,” she said as she curled up beside him. “How did you even get inside?”

He paused at her question then answered plainly, “I picked your lock.”

“Tom!”

“I locked it back up afterwards.”

She frowned and shook her head but couldn’t stay upset with him for long. “Did I hurt you badly?”

“It’s nothing.”

“You’re cute when you’re trying to be manly. Let me kiss it again.”

“No.”

“So you slipped into my bed why…?” she asked with a cocked brow. “Fine then. No kisses for you.”

Tom sighed and rolled his eyes then leaned forward to cage her in his arms. He tried to frown menacingly but she gave him that calm, confident look she had when she guessed exactly what he wanted. It didn’t happen often, as Tom was quite unlike everyone else she knew, but in those moments it was like she spoke his secret language and saw into the heart of him. And while signs of motherly affection were foreign things to Tom he responded well to other kinds of love. He leaned down slowly and kissed her lips. She sighed — he was so much softer in the morning. She laid back and smiled into the kiss, keeping her eyes closed and her hands nice and warm beneath the covers, and let him taste his fill of her. When his lips travelled to her jaw and neck she couldn’t help but giggle.

“Did you get much sleep?” she asked in a pleased and purring voice.

“A few hours,” he mumbled against her skin.

“You should sleep more.”

“Mhm…”

“Toooom…”

“Hmmm?”

“I’m in no mood for that again.”

He sighed. “Went too hard last time, did I?”

“A bit.”

“Don’t worry,” he said with a tilted smile. “I won’t try to convince you to leave with me again.”

And as his kisses travelled lower she felt a little disappointed that he had given up on trying to persuade her, although grateful as well in a strange twist of heart. It made her all the more determined not to tell him that she had already begun to change her mind, to plot her own escape with him.

He pulled the duvet back from her chest then eased her gown away, leaving her skin open to the morning air. She shivered for a moment until Tom lowered his head and covered her with more kisses. His right hand curled around her waist and he covered her body with his, pulling the duvet above both of them. With gentle pressure, his lips began to move. He nipped at the flesh of her breast with a smile, then circled and circled around until his lips landed on her nipple. He affixed his lips to it and suckled. He moved gently with her every trembling sigh and purred when she threaded her fingers through his messy hair. Her head fell back onto the pillow as his tongue began to play, lapping at the underside of her bud until it puckered, greedy to be back in the warmth of his mouth. Tom grinned and flicked it with the tip of his tongue a little more then closed his teeth around it, gently, just enough to hold it still while his lips covered more and more between them as if he wanted to swallow her whole.

“Tom,” she moaned, needy for his name in her mouth.

He smiled and raised himself from her, leaving her trembling and cold, and moved onto the other breast to give it some attention too. Her caressing of his head encouraged him and he suckled on her a bit harder, playing with her nipple like a pebble in his mouth. He pressed it with his tongue against the roof of his mouth and nursed on it, sucking the taste of her skin. His wet and noisy drool dripped down along the curves of her breast. And when she whined, pulling on his locks and arching her back into his mouth he went back to kissing down her chest, its soft undersides and top, moving to her warm neck for a while before going back down again. She was sighing heavily by then and groaning in that airy way she knew Tom understood as pleasure. It only encouraged him to tease her more and he moved from one side to the other with a smile.

“My darling,” she whispered, dizzy with the feeling of her whole body growing hot. “My Tom…”

And just as he was pulling on her nipple, bringing it as high as he could before letting it go from his mouth, a shrill sound cut the air around them, stopping him mid-motion in shock.

She sighed and turned to her nightstand. It was the alarm clock. She reached out and fumbled for a bit until she could turn it off then fell back to the bed and sighed. Tom crawled up and rolled onto his side, looking none too pleased at being interrupted. His lips were still soft and warm because of her.

“Do we have to?” he grumbled.

“It’s seven. We’ll be late for work...”

He sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Well, I’m hardly in a mood to leave while in this state too, you know.”

“Oh? A state of what exactly?” he grinned, his hand slipping around her middle. “Would you care to show me? Perhaps I can take care of it.”

“Bad Tom. You’re a bad, wicked boy.”

“If only you knew just how bad I can be,” he chuckled, covering her once again to kiss her.

She curled a hand around his shoulder and clung to him, revelling in being so completely covered by his body.

“You’re horrible,” she smiled into his mouth.

He only grinned more proudly.

V

The first day of freedom — in the sense of having the undershop all to himself — was spent with an activity that reminded Tom of his school years: experimentation. In the morning hours, with a clearer head and a warm cup of tea, he finished deciphering Oso’s notebook that he found the day before. A large part of it was mere references for brevity’s sake to books and ancient curses. Fortunately for Tom Oso was thorough in his citations, as any antiquary would be. By the time he could go on his lunch break, he had tracked down the most important tomes they stocked there and knew which others to look for.

He didn’t even notice it was lunchtime until his phone rang. That infernal trilling of the telephone never failed to startle him.

“Yes?” he answered, rubbing his forehead.

“Tom? I’m hungry…”

“Oh. What time is— Ah, yes, let’s go.”

The weather had cooled such that there was no outside seating at their favourite restaurant, so they sat inside squeezed side-by-side at a little table in the corner. Even with her warmth pressed into him, Tom ate distractedly, his mind still on those books. He was eager to go back of course and finish solving the mystery of the spell that bound the books to the building before anyone noticed Ambrogio was gone. He hadn’t even found where he’d placed Torchia yet. It wasn’t stored with all the others… Tom distantly feared he’d given it to Malfoy already. If so that was another hurdle he’d have to overcome, one that might make it all not worth it in the end.

But still, he took the time to kiss the corner of her mouth once they were back — just inside the shop, but openly; the scandal! — and brewed another cup of tea for them while she tried to control her blushing. She didn’t ask him where his thoughts went, but then, when he managed to pay attention she seemed a bit lost in her own thoughts as well. He did her the kindness, as she had done for him, not to pry.

After he was back downstairs he thought it might be prudent to build up some hints of Oso’s absence. He went to his room and preemptively Dissapparated several of his clothes, shoes, and a few of the books by his coffin. The coffin itself, he put up by the wall and took the pillows out of it, as if it was just another eccentric decoration.

He didn’t phone upstairs until the evening came.

“Yes?” she answered in a tired, dreamy voice.

“Hello, my sweet. Have you seen Ambrogio all day?”

“No? He should be down with you. He hardly ever comes up here.”

“Strange. I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

“Oh… Maybe he’s back to his night schedule?”

“Maybe.”

“But, since he’s not around…”

“Yes?”

“Do you… maybe want to go home early?”

She asked it in such a guilty and playful voice that Tom could not refuse.

He had enough of the papers at home to keep him busy but he knew he was approaching a breakthrough. It was time to direct his attention to Mr. Malfoy and his “secretary”…

Oso’s allegiance to Malfoy was not something Tom had ever anticipated. One solution seemed now to lead to another problem and while killing a vampire leading a double life among muggles was one thing, doing away with Burke’s best client was another.

Tom was amused, however, that Mr. Malfoy was stuck now with his “payment” to Oso tagging along uselessly… Poor boy.

VI

Halfway through the tram ride home, he noticed she was holding his hand. It was the buildup of warmth that distracted him, that made him feel like something was wrong. He looked down at their hands, then up at her, her drawn face perked up by a mysterious smile.

“What?” he asked.

“I like that look you get when you’re so lost in thought… And that way your lips curl, like a cat up to no good.”

“Ah yes, I almost forgot. I’m your Tomcat, right?” He sighed and rolled his eyes, but kept his hand in hers.

VII

It took three days for the Baron to notice Ambrogio was gone. It came about from a series of telephone calls Tom was only marginally involved with. First, Donatien called the upstairs shop, inquiring about Signor Oso. Tom had to hear about “that pretty French boy” again when she called him asking if Ambrogio was available.

“I can call Frenchie myself and tell him,” said Tom. “What’s his number?”

“No, I promised I would get back to him. So, is Ambrogio there?”

Tom frowned at her eagerness to talk to that boy again. “No,” he said firmly. “He’s missed work today as well.”

“Strange… You don’t suppose something’s happened?”

“It’s Rome, my dear. Anything is possible.”

“Well, alright then, I’ll let him know…”

“Do you think the Baron is informed?”

She paused. “I don’t think so. S-should I…?

“Unless you want me to…?

“Would you?”

“No,” laughed Tom. “Neither should you, in fact. Let Malfoy do it.”

“Tom, that’s a terrible idea! He’s a client.”

“So what? Oso’s being a lout, missing days of work, leaving us to deal with things… Let the old men figure it out between themselves.”

“You have a horrible work ethic.”

She still liked his idea enough to follow through because sure enough within the hour the Baron rang the shop, sounding calm but angry in his typical way. Tom eavesdropped on the conversation by tactfully picking up the phone in his office and listening in.

“I don’t know, sir. Tom hasn’t seen him either.”

“And why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well, we thought he spoke to you —”

“Never mind,” the old man growled. “Come to my office tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

And that, Tom knew, was when his plan could finally be set in motion.

VIII

“Oh my goodness, Tom, he called me in. What am I going to do?! He’ll sack me…”

“No he won’t,” smiled Tom, leaning casually against the desk while she paced up and down. She’d called him upstairs in a frantic summons right after the Baron hung up.

“He’s so mad about Ambrogio…”

“Exactly. And now he’s forced to rely on us.”

“What if Ambrogio turns up again though?”

“He won’t,” said Tom a little too quickly. “And even if he does, he’s already fallen out of favour.”

She kept on fretting, her little shoes clipping on the wooden floorboards as steady as clockwork. Tom pushed himself to his feet and walked up behind her, embracing her to keep her still. Immediately, her head leaned back and rested on his shoulder.

“Everything will be alright,” he whispered. “The Baron will depend on you more than ever, and then you can ask for all the things you’ve never dared to ask before. And he shall give them to you. Because he’ll have no choice.”

“He can just hire someone else…”

“Not in time for the next auction.”

“He has you, though.”

“I will not be a more appealing option to him,” Tom grinned. “Trust me.”

Whether she did or not, she turned to face him and wrapped her arms around him, hiding herself in his chest. Tom embraced her, feeling more sorry than ever that he’d have to leave her behind.

[b0n3d0g]

I'm supposed to be sleeping but something came over me and now I have a short thing of Wesker getting cut open and examined so here's that

Returning to wakefulness after being put down was always a slow and murky process, one Wesker was not used too. Being put under anesthesia was always something she'd avoided, as such a compromising position only put her into the unfaithful care if another. So as her eyes slowly fluttered open when the sedative began to wear off Wesker was left feeling like she was half dead.

A shiver ran up her spine as cold sterile air blanketed her naked chest. Listlessly she attempted to move her arms, only to find them held down to the operating table she was on by thick leather cuffs. At full capacity she could easily tear such a thing off, but as it was she could barely jerk the hunk of muscle she called a limb enough to make the bedsheets rustle.

"There you are." A voice jeered from above her, she hadn't even noticed that she wasn't alone. She tried to focus on the person's face but the bright fluorescents of the room only further obscured her already blurry vision.

She tried to speak, but her attempts to open her jaw where thwarted by a muzzle keeping it firmly shut, leading to her sentence of ire coming out as a pathetic groan.

The figure shushed her, and she felt a latex clad hand touch her forehead before she could even register it in her peripheral.

"Don't worry, I only need you awake long enough to see if you really do have it" They said, a lilt of fascination in their voice that made Wesker squirm.

Slowly she was starting to get her bearings, now able to make out the person's silhouette, enough to see them picking up a scalpel from a table just out of view. 

All of Wesker's focus went on keeping her breathing steady as she stared down at the scalpel. The blade was gently lowered to her abdomen, the inscision starting right below her ribs and dragging down all the way past her belly button to right above her pelvis.

Her jaw clenched but otherwise she didn't even flinch, to foggy-headed for the pain to really register and to stubborn to let it show even if it did.

Blood, a dark wine red, began to seep from the wound the sight of which made her nauseous. In all her years working the only blood that ever made her feel sick was her own. A display of weakness and vulnerability that was unbecoming of her, and the fear of such a thing made her head swim.

The blood eventually halted, and in its stead come a steady flow of little black worms. They bubbled up past the blood, like muddy maggots, and spread themselves over the wound. Once the area was throughly covered their writhing ceased, and they started to melt into a slurry and fade into an off-white interpretation of her skin.

The patch would eventually make itself one with her flesh, but for now it settled on top like a scab. The figure seemed satisfied with this, prodding the hardened patch before scribbling something down out of sight.

Lucidity was just beginning to pull the cotton from her skull. Wesker blinked a few times to try and at least get a look at the layout of the room, but right as the blurry lines of what may be a window began to snap into focus her view was obscured by a grinning face.

"You are going to be endlessly fascinating." They said, a line which sounded straight out of Wesker's own mouth.

Wesker snarled, lip curling as she uselessly jerked her arms to try and reach for the stranger. She tried to commit the face to memory, for when she got herself out to know who to tear apart first, but before she could even register the features the figure was pressing a button beside her head. A few clicks was all it took for a vignette to overtake her vision. No matter how hard she fought to keep them open, her eyelids began to droop and slowly she drifted back under.

[storiesofsvu]

Solace in Solitude Ch 2

Emily Prentiss x reader warnings: language, medical/injuries talked about (i googled, don't come for me if they're not 100% right), hurt, minor anxiety, two buttheads not getting along.

You were right, Emily was exhausted. And she was annoyed. Both that she was so tired and that you had been right about it. Not that she expected to be full of energy bounding around the room, she’d just wanted to pull one up on you, prove that you were wrong, that she could and would do better. Instead she’d ended up sleeping most of the rest of the day, her brain still foggy, not fully able to pick up whatever French programs were playing on the television. With her attention lacking, she drifted off more than once, only waking up when a nurse was back in the room prodding at her body again. Her body ached, even just getting out of the bed and making it the eight steps to the bathroom winded her, which of course just made her more tired and even more annoyed.

This whole recovery thing sucked.

At least you weren’t so early on your rounds when you checked in on her today, she was awake, half paying attention to the television, a breakfast tray on the small table at the bedside.

“Morning Valerie.” You greeted with a smile, “how’re you feeling today?”

“Bout the same.” She grumbled.

“Have you managed to get up at all? Even within the room?”

“A couple of times.”

“Good.” You flipped open her chart, checking any additions since you’d left the night prior, “let’s keep that up for a few days and then we can start with trips down the hall, make sure your body’s up to it.”

“I didn’t think you meant it when you said I’d be this tired.”

“Yeah, anaesthesia can be a bitch like that.” You commented, checking a few of her vitals before you eyed the still full tray of breakfast, “not to mention your body needs fuel if it’s going to heal.” You moved back to the foot of the bed, scribbling into her chart, “you need to eat.”

“They’re withholding coffee.” She grumbled, sinking back into the bed.

“And you thought that warranted a hunger strike?” You huffed a laugh, “without a spleen you’re going to need to limit your intake of coffee, among other things. Didn’t a nurse drop off those pamphlets?”

“Yeah.” Her gaze drifted over to the bedside table where they sat untouched, she figured her life was already altered enough she could go another day without knowing every other change she would have to accommodate just to survive.

“Then eat.”

“Would you touch that?” She gestured toward the tray, wincing at the pain in her side as she did and you let out a soft sigh. The tray had a container of applesauce, a banana, a couple pieces of bread, “who eats jello for breakfast?”

“I would if I had just had my spleen and part of my stomach removed and it was advised and instructed by my doctor.” You cocked a brow in her direction as you continued to update her chart, she simply scoffed at you.

A nurse wandered in to check on a couple of things and make sure there was a large fresh bottle of water left on the table. You seamlessly swapped over to French while they were in the room, continuing to check in with Emily about how she was feeling, getting more specific on details and you checked over the stitches on her incision before the nurse finally left.

“Your French is really good.” You commented, readjusting her gown back down and loosely tucking the bedding in before peeling off your gloves, “you speak anything else?”

“I dunno.” She grumbled, rolling to face the window, “am I allowed to talk about that?”

“Ah.” Your lips pursed, holding back a sigh, “well, I’ve got some other patients to see. They can page me if you need anything and I’ll check on you before I leave. And you better have eaten something by then.”

Emily didn’t dare move; she didn’t dare breathe until she was certain the door was shut behind you before she suddenly let out the choke of a breath. Tears welled in her eyes and she couldn’t help as they rolled down her cheeks, not bothering to wipe them away, this didn’t just suck, this was absolutely horrible.

*

She’d barely managed to calm herself down by the next time a nurse came into the room, this time they seemed to be focussed on her breathing and heart rate. Whatever panic soaring through her was being reflected by the machines she’d forgotten she was hooked up to. The nurse talked her down until she felt like she could breathe again and Emily curled up on her side with her back to the door when it was suggested she try to eat something. There was a pit in the deep of her stomach, heavy and lingering, almost creeping through her body with waves of nausea and she was certain that food wouldn’t help with that, no matter what medical professionals said. Reaching out she hit the button to send more pain meds into her IV, the stifled cries and deep breaths sending shooting pains through her side, her hand gingerly clutching where the stitches were, moving to rub softly at the ache in her ribs. She didn’t want to be doing this, didn’t want to be here especially not like this, without someone by her side. The longer she was conscious the more memories she found were coming back to her, she could see the haze of Derek hovering over her as he pleaded for her to hang on. Penelope’s voice strangled with sorrow on the voicemail she’d left. If it hadn’t been for you mentioning a blonde she would’ve thought she was going crazy, that her mind was sending her some kind of guardian angel in the form of JJ while the ambulance sired blared, she could almost feel her hand in hers.

It had already been over three weeks and she couldn’t help but wonder if her team was already beginning to forget her. If she would be nothing but a long lost memory to them by the time she was finally able to get out of here. She caught herself spiraling, wondering if she ever actually would be allowed out of here, if she’d ever get the chance to go home, maybe this was supposed to be home permanently now.

*

You spent the majority of your day switching between the ER and the OR, there had been a couple of call ins of other doctors so you were actually kept relatively busy. A handful of smaller injuries, stitches to be done, tests to run to rule out worse conditions before sending them back home or off to a different specialty, an easy appendectomy to spice up your day with a little bit of surgery. You got outside for your lunch break, thankful to breathe the fresh air without the smell of hospital for an hour, it always helped you relax a little bit more. You’d been thumbing your way through a novel with the intention of getting a chapter or two in over the break but the words were all starting to blend together. After countless amounts of paperwork in French your brain was starting to not want to comprehend it anymore, practically begging to revert back to English. So you let out a soft sigh and closed the book, hopefully your afternoon would involve more cutting than paperwork.

Reluctantly, you returned back inside the hospital, checking through a few charts before you got called off to another surgery, thankful that you could immerse yourself into that and not have to worry about anything else for the next few hours. There were no issues, the patient pulling through perfectly before being sent off to recovery and you headed back to the nurses station to finish up on a few things. You made sure the chart was updated with details from the last surgery and assigned a nurse to keep watch on them overnight in case anything popped up.

The day was winding down and everyone could feel it, the extra excitement buzzing through the air thanks to it being Friday, chatter of weekend plans, date nights, family outings all around you. You were going through your patients charts to see how everyone had faired through the day and if there was anything you’d need to check up on before taking off, adding in notes here and there, signing off that you’d seen them. Across from you a few of the other doctors were wrapping up their own things, asking if the others were doing something that evening. When the resounding answer was no there was an invite for drinks, one that extended to another nurse as they walked up to the desk. Your eyes flitted up briefly but the group was so wound up in each other they barely even glanced your way and you huffed quietly. While everyone here was professional and approachable enough, they’d help out if you had questions or needed something but there was absolutely no interest when it didn’t happen within the four walls of the hospital. You’d been rather friendless for the past three weeks and you highly doubted that was going to change anytime soon.

Emily’s chart was the last one in your pile, the last thing you had to go through before you achieved freedom. Naturally, that became a bigger obstacle than you’d been hoping for. As you read through the updates from her day and checked through things you let out a frustrated groan, letting the chart fall shut before you tossed it back into the rack. Just as you pocketed your phone you heard someone speaking French but this time, actually directed to you.

“Your VIP girl?”

“Yeah.” You grumbled back in the same language, “turns out the ‘p’ is for pain in my ass.” They chuckled,

“Sucks. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

Gracing them with a friendly smile and a small wave you turned from the counter, wandering down to Emily’s room. As per usual, the door was shut, thinking maybe killing with kindness would help you gently knocked, waiting a moment before slipping into the space. Emily’s eyes flicked up from the book in her lap, practically glaring you down as the door swung shut behind you.

“Great. What’d you want?” She grumbled, looking back down to the book.

“You to realize that dumping your uneaten breakfast in the bathroom garbage doesn’t go unnoticed by the nurses.”

“Maybe if they weren’t so nosy.”

“Valerie you need to eat.” You let out a quiet sigh, folding your arms onto the table at the foot of her bed, “I know you might not be hungry yet but your body needs nutrients to heal properly, even if it’s just a couple of bites at a time.”

“Whatever.”

“You know, we see this a lot in people who have gone through traumas, that’s part of the reason I pushed for someone to come down from psych today.”

“That was you!?” Her gaze shot up to you, cutting you off instantly as she glared you down, her voice hardening as she spoke, “you sent in the shrink? Why would I need a shrink?! You’re being ridiculous.”

“I get that you’re upset, but you really don’t need to be mad at me about following hospital policy. It’s standard procedure for patients like yourself. At the very least, just let me make sure the paperwork reflects that we’re doing the right thing?”

“Paperwork said he was here, he was here. Believe me.”

“Okay.” You held up your hands in submission, “normally we do wait a week or so depending on everything else but considering the whole food thing I thought it might be worthwhile. Clearly I pushed too soon.”

“Yeah. You did.” She glared, “I’m fine.”

“Well… for what it’s worth I do think it’s a pretty good idea for you to talk to someone.” You stated, readjusting your stance against the table.

“Oh? So what, now you’re gonna shrink me?”

“Not my specialty.” You shrugged, “but if you decide to open up to me then so be it. Otherwise I can put the call in to psych and have someone come down again when you’re ready.”

“You want me to open up? Really?”

“That’s the general idea of talking to a shrink, yeah.” You nodded and her eyes narrowed in your direction, you could see the tension building in her body as she spoke.

“And how exactly am I supposed to do that when I’m supposed to pretend that I died a month ago? You want me to talk to someone about what happened that night but half my medical records are redacted, destroyed or simply don’t exist. When I woke up this morning? I couldn’t even remember the name that was on my hospital band, and you want me to be able to twist up some weird fake stories to help my mental state?!” Her voice shook, the raw emotion starting to break her cool façade, and she took a heavy breath, dropping back into the bed, “you say it was a car accident, it was a car accident.” She held up her hands to signal that that was it, “I clearly had a head injury, I don’t remember the details and I’m not about to do a cognitive interview on myself, okay?”

She picked up the book again but you could tell her eyes weren’t focussing on the words and you could see the shimmering of tears in them, knowing just how frustrated she felt. Emily truly didn’t understand how this was supposed to be helping, she just had to keep shoving everything down until this was all over, she was good at that, she could do that, but not if you kept prying into her life and shattering the illusion that it was going to be okay.

“Well,” you let out a sigh, “then I guess if you’re ever ready to talk, you really are stuck talking to me.” She didn’t reply, keeping her gaze on the book as she did her best to ignore you so you pushed off the table, “if you’re not gonna talk at least do me a favour and eat something. If you haven’t by the next time I see you I’m putting in a feeding tube, understood?”

“Sac a merde.” She muttered and you let out a small laugh.

“I’m fluent, remember?”

“Vai a fotterti.”

“Ah, Italian, now we’re getting creative.” This time she did look up, a glare still on her face as you pulled the door open, “eat your dinner.”

With that last warning you were gone from the room and Emily was left to let out an angry growl, tossing the book onto the bedside table. There was still a pit in her stomach but this one was beginning to gnaw away at her and she was starting to think maybe it was hunger related. She picked up the bottle of water to take a couple of sips, her eyes landing on the brochures one of the nurses had brought by earlier. Maybe if she read through them she’d understand what was going on with her body a little better, maybe it would make this easier.

*

Unlocking the door to your apartment you let out a sigh of relief, kicking off your shoes as you entered the code for the security system. You’d picked up dinner on the way home, you couldn’t be bothered to cook, not now, not with the limited amount of mental energy you had left. You needed a drink. A stiff one.

Keys were dropped on the counter along with your bag and dinner before you disappeared into your bedroom to change out of work clothes. Once you were cozy in a pair of shorts and a tank you padded through the apartment, tidying up a couple of things you’d left out during the busy work mornings. You pulled down a wine glass, filling it higher than usual with merlot, scooping up your phone and food to take out onto the balcony. This was one of your saving graces, the nightly ritual that had been to unwind out in the cooling air, taking in the views of the city as the sun sunk in the sky. It calmed you down after long days at the hospital and you certainly needed it tonight. This entire project had been one you’d been apprehensive of from the start but you’d at least had time to let things sink in, to get used to the new routine in a new place. It had been considerably easier when Emily was still unconscious and you let out a groan at the thought of having to deal with her again in the morning.

A chorus of laughter burst from down in the street below and you felt a wave of melancholy shoot through you, thinking about the others from work out on the town tonight. You understood being on the outside and you understood why you were, but it would be a lie to say that some nights it didn’t get a little lonely. You’d thought that maybe you and Emily would’ve bonded over that, being trapped in a life that you didn’t necessarily want. That you’d be friends, have each other’s backs until this whole thing was over. You took a hefty swig of wine, shaking your head at yourself, at how naïve and ridiculous you’d been. She wasn’t going to be your friend, that was for sure, it was almost like she blamed you for waking up in Paris, like you had personally made the call and lugged her halfway around the world yourself. Your gaze drifted out onto the horizon, watching the last few rays of sunlight dancing through the sky as you let out a small sigh. You’d let her keep playing the victim card a little longer, after all, she did have the reason to be miserable. You knew she’d tire out of it eventually and come around, it would just be a test of willpower to see how long it would take her to cave.

At least you weren’t trapped in a hospital bed. You had some sense of freedom around the city, a freedom she was likely jealous of and that certainly wasn’t helping things. Hopefully things would change once she was discharged.

________________

@mickey-gomez @momlifebehard @daddy-heather-dunbar @maybe-a-humanbean @rustyzebra @ilovemycrayons @mandy-asimp @leftoverenvy @kades95 @dextur @supercriminalbean @daffodil-heart @its-soph-xx @just-a-torn-up-masterpiece @hopelesslyfallenninlove @peanutbutterprincess @emilyprentisssluvr @lex13cm @zizzlekwum @emobabeyy @riveramorylunar @s1ut4nat @scorpsik @prentiss-theorem @strongsassysexysloane @happenstnces @sapphicprentiss @geekyandgay98 @pagetboobstarcomments @onmykneesformarvel @inlovewithemilyprentiss @desperate-gay @amypoehlfey @overtrred28 @theclassicgaycousin @regalmilfs4me @kalixxh @ara-a-bird @five-bi-five-mind @niyizh @inlovewithmiddleagewomen @tommyriddleobsessed @hotchs-bitch @ollysmulti @iluvsreid @kmc1989

[charming-fawn]

✨ twee Girl Moments 🍎

Reading in a café scribbling notes in a vintage notebook. Walking in mustard tights, a beret slightly askew, indie music playing. Buying a vinyl just for the cover, dreaming of dancing to it. Falling for a tiny trinket and giving it a home on a cluttered shelf. Reciting poetry to the rain on a foggy window!!!! Wearing an oversized coat, sipping tea, enjoying soft melancholy journaling over a cappuccino, feeling like an indie film lead.