i_will_seek_for_you_there

agoraphobia /ăg″ər-ə-fō′bē-ə, ə-gôr″ə-/

Just the mental image of Carl watching Grace get transported after being sedated. A man, who prior to that moment, his most vivid memory consists of them finding world changing discoveries with plywood, duck tape, and copious amounts of sour skittles. A man who he associates with the exhilarating feeling of wonder and life. A teacher teaching, a scientist finding, a man living.

But suddenly, that's not his most vivid memory. Suddenly, what first comes to mind when he thinks of Dr. Ryland Grace is the image of him running away, of chasing him through the compound, of the look on his face when they do inevitably catch up to him. He can't hear the excited laughter of the previous memories without them eliciting the desperate pleas for life.

I wonder if he ever gets to see the videos. How would he feel if he knew that his name was the first one that Grace remembers. Foggy like the thing he misses most about earth.

I was just thinking about you, Kraven.

this is a reference to my all time favorite starstruck fic, "would you come here and spin with me? i've been dying to get you dizzy" by @sseaworn, in which tom wears these fugly ass yellow glasses and the "overworked & underfucked" shirt, like a god damn icon

AO3: Otaku_girl | Fics only blog: @otaku_girl_fics | ATJ: Aaron Taylor Johnson masterlist | Masterlists list: Otaku-girl-ao3 masterlist

Title: What dreams may come Fandom: Nosferatu Wordcount: 15.6k Summary: Friedrich turns to England to find himself a new wife. You, a young lady in your Uncle's care and about to debut in London, are the perfect candidate.

Warnings: Dark Friedrich, post-Nosferatu (alt ending), dark romance.

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Read the full fic on AO3

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“Herr Harding? May I introduce you to my niece.”

It’s not his smile that catches your attention, though it is polite enough for a gentleman of his standing to be introduced to nothing but a slip of a woman, barely old enough for your first social season. Nor is it the cut of his jacket – something far more fashionable than the majority of your Uncle’s guests, and of far finer fabric. It should be the black cambrick cravat around his throat, as clear a sign as any that this is a man who has already experienced a great loss. No; it’s his eyes that draw you in.

A bright, cold, dazzling blue. They remind you of stormy waters and cold winter skies. The smile on his lips reaches nowhere near those beautiful, cold eyes, as he bends to press his lips against the back of your hand, murmuring words of greeting falling from his lips. Not a single one registers with you as he stands, neat and tall, back straight, turning just enough away from you to know that he intends to return to his conversation with your Uncle without so much as thinking of engaging with you.

“Charmed.” 

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I had to turn this off, but it's something that allows Windows and anyone using your device to generate text/images.