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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years

Text

Do Us Part

Warnings: nonconsent and rape; oral, fingering, marital discord, cheating, spousal arguments and mental/emotional abuse, age gap (Peter is 24/25 and reader is 35/36)

This is dark!Peter Parker x 30s/’older’ reader and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You find it hard to accept that not all good things last as you face the changes in your marriage, yourself, and your marriage.

Note: I wanted to write Peter again but also I’ve seen this nonsense about how 30+ writers are too old for fanfic which is dumb af. And I wanted to turn the age gap trope a little so that it wasn’t the reader being the younger one in the relationship. I label it older reader but I don’t think being in your 30s is old tbh (my bf is 36 so pfft). It was all just a conglomeration of circumstances that inspired a deceivingly sweet dark Peter and I hope you like it. Also it’s 7.4k so a bit of a longer read.

Thank you. Love you guys!

Please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

You walked slowly along the transparent shelves set into the pristine white walls of the cosmetics section. The department store was a haze of distant voices and the chirp of scanners as customers milled the aisles and waited their turn to check out. You whiled away your time looking at things you’d never buy as you waited for your husband to return from the men’s department.

You thought of the sparse make-up bag under your sink and the liners and shades you hadn’t used in years. They were likely expired and better tossed in the bin. You hovered along the crystal bottle of designer scents and stopped to test a particular blush-tinted fragrance.

You set the bottle back and peered over at the dark cubbies that housed the men’s scent. Even from there, you could catch a whiff of the heady scents as a younger man with reddish brown hair examined an angular vial of Dior Men. You suddenly felt out of place; a mid-thirties woman in her out-of-season clothes fantasizing about overpriced perfume.

Your husband's voice further cemented your reality as you fingered the golden cap of the Coach eau du parfum. Wesley rolled his eyes and flipped up the little plastic panel that hid the bold prices and huffed.

“I hope you don’t think I’m gonna pay for that shit,” he sneered, “what have you been doing? I was waiting for you.”

He waved a plastic bag as his lip curled and you pressed your mouth shut tightly and swallowed. The day began with another argument as he discovered the seared hole in his shirt and instead of blaming the crappy old dryer, he blamed you. Most of your clothes had been chewed up by the thing but you never complained.

“No, I was just… looking,” you teetered in your flats and glanced around. The young man at the corner display quickly turned to hide his nosy observation, “did you find some new shirts?”

“No thanks to you,” he sniffed.

“Oh,” you played with the hem of your tee and tucked your hands into your pockets nervously. You’d left him to look alone as you only seemed to irritate him and rarely took your advice on matters of clothing, “well, I thought I’d give you some space--”

“Stop acting so pathetic. Start taking responsibility for yourself. For god’s sake, you're almost thirty-six and you don’t know how to hang a shirt to dry?” He spun on his heel and snapped over his shoulder, “let’s go.”

You flinched but followed behind him as he strode away and you stumbled out behind him through the automatic doors. He tossed the bag into the back seat and slammed the door before flopping angrily into the driver’s side. You mirrored him daintily and squeezed your legs together as you tried to make yourself as small as you could.

“I told you about the dryer,” you said.

“And?” he started the engine and slapped his hand around the wheel, “call a fucking electrician or some shit.”

“Alright,” you shrugged as he stopped at the exit of the parking lot and checked his phone quickly.

“Benny wants to do a round of golf,” he peeled out and you grasped the door as your heart raced. You hated how reckless he was when he was angry. You hated how easily he got angry these days.

“Okay,” you picked at the fraying stitching of your purse.

“Don’t start moping,” he sneered, “I fucking work all week and I can’t go out and have a few rounds?”

“I never-- I didn’t say anything,” you murmured.

“You don’t need to,” he turned the wheel sharply as he cut off another car, “you sit at home all day and do what?”

“I work too,” you said.

“Uh huh, sure, if that’s what you call it.”

You ran your fingertip over the bleach stain on the knee of your jeans and said nothing. When he was in a mood, he would latch on anything until he outright exploded. You tried to think of when he changed, when he had stopped being the chill guy you met back in college. It felt like a slow trickle, small things you ignored until it was a mountain you could not see past.

You felt like crying but you’d stopped that a while ago. You existed in a purgatory of acceptance and helplessness. You wanted him to love you again, wanted to believe you could fix things. So you would keep trying. You would do better.

💍

You picked out a large flank of steak and winced at the price. You had a special dinner in mind. It was Friday and the work week was done. You wanted a weekend without a fight and Wesley was always one for a nice big cut of beef. You hadn’t made him one in a while, your dinners were the usual repetitive drumsticks and rice or your homemade mac and cheese.

You continued onto the fish section and grabbed some salmon for yourself. You’d gained some weight and decided to cut out dairy and red meat if you could help it. The pile of produce in your cart reminded you of the extra jiggle around your stomach and thighs. You also grabbed one of those women’s magazines that advertised a regimen to help slim your figure. You only hoped you could stick to it this time.

With your weekly haul in tow, you wheeled up to the check-out and waited behind a young man who looked oddly familiar to you. Maybe that was the passing years. You always felt a vague glimmer of deja vu, more often a sense of forlorn nostalgia of what you would never have again.

As you stared thoughtlessly, he looked over and smiled. He bent in front of your cart and picked up a thin packet of seasoning.

“You dropped this,” he said as he held it out and you thanked him before quickly snatching it and looking away.

He paid for his large bags of chips and over salted pre-packaged meals and packed up at the end as you loaded up your own goods, the cashier sending them down the parallel belt. You swiped your card and tried to calculate the chunk of money from your last check. You thanked the clerk and sidled past the young man as he finished up.

You rounded the counter as he lifted his three bags. You looked up without thinking, the sleeve of his shirt tight around his bicep. You caught yourself staring and looked back down as you packed in the cans.

It reminded you of Wesley; he’d also started being more mindful, he hit the gym after work and you noticed the little pudge that started just after he turned thirty was slimming out. It was that exact reason that made you notice the extra pounds on your own frame, not that you didn’t realise before.

The man left and you unfolded the little buggy you slid under the cart. You loaded your bags into it and dragged the cart behind you as you made an awkward exit with both wheeled trolleys. The compact fabric buggy was easy enough to fit on the bus if you stood.

You pushed the cart into the row of empty ones and continued across the parking lot. You rolled up to the bus shelter and checked the bus times on your phone. You dug out your strip of tickets and ripped one away. You leaned on the thin handle of your trolley and looked over your shoulder as you heard someone approach.

The man who checked out ahead of you put his bags on the metal bench inside the shelter as he sipped on a bright drink from the place just beside the grocery shop. He sent you a smile over his straw and you spun back to crane your head and search for the bus.

When the metal beast barreled up and cranked to a stop at the curb, the man waited behind you and as your wheels caught on the edge of the ramp, he reached around you and helped push it over the lip. You thanked him shyly and continued up. Usually you tried to keep the shop light on weekdays but you hadn’t really been paying attention.

You pushed your cart against the small barrier just behind the accessible seating and stood beside it, conscious not to take up too much space. The man stood just behind you two bags on one shoulder and the other dangling from the opposite elbow as he sucked on his straw. You grabbed the upright bar as the bus took off and watched the electronic banner for your stop.

A sharp stop had you veering back and you were caught by the young man as he chucked, “oop, you okay?”

“Yes, thank you,” you muttered and gave a sheepish smile over your shoulder.

“There’s a seat,” he gestured just behind you, “I’ll watch your stuff.”

“Um, no it’s… fine,” you gripped the bar tighter as the bus shuttled forward, “my stop is soon.”

You looked ahead of you and three stops passed before yours. You exited through the front with your buggy and headed down the sidewalk as the bus pulled away. You were exhausted just from your little sojourn and it wasn’t even two o’clock. God, you felt old.

💍

You had a salad chopped and tossed and the steak and fish laid out and seasoned. As you listened to your old Spotify list, the music dipped and the notification blipped over the screen. You washed your hands and grabbed the phone. You frowned as you read the lone message from Wesley, the only one you got from him all day.

‘Just finished at the gym, getting drinks with Andrew,’ you read and re-read the message as your heart fell.

You typed out a whole angry response and backspaced it all. You replaced it with ‘ok, have fun’ and blacked the screen. You shoved the meat back in the fridge and stretched saran wrap over the bowl of salad. You placed it on a lower shelf and closed the door, quickly swiping a can of the craft beer Wesley kept around.

You shut the light off in the kitchen and ignored the pang in your stomach as you cracked the can. You climbed the stairs as you sipped the hoppy foam. You put it on the night table and changed into the old butterfly pajamas you wore most nights and turned on the tv mounted against the wall.

You turned on Netflix but hardly paid attention to the carelessly chosen movie. You sat against the headboard and down the bitter beer until the can was hollow and your eyelids were heavy. You slumped down so that your shoulders were at your ears and dozed off in the stiff position as the room moved with the colours of the television.

The anger and alcohol shaded your shallow sleep and you hardly heard Wesley when he came in, only waking when your bladder was ready to burst and his snores rumbled in your head. You went to the bathroom and returned, wide awake, and stared at the shape of him in the dark.

You remembered when he used to kiss you when he came home, even when you were asleep, he’d wake you with the little pecks. You remembered when he was happy to come home. You remembered when you were happy.

You swallowed the acrid aftertaste of beer and left him to snore. You went downstairs and curled up on the couch but didn’t sleep. You just stared at the shadows of the furniture until the sun rose.

💍

The next day, Wesley didn’t wake until after noon and when he did, he didn’t say a word to you. He took his coffee and sat at the patio table in the back as you stewed and cleaned the kitchen. You had nothing to say to him even if you felt stupid for being mad.

“Gotta head down to the dealership,” he said as he interrupted your scouring of the stove.

“The dealership?” you said after a moment, deciding whether or not to break your vow of silence.

“I told you on Wednesday, I’m picking up the car--”

“We talked about this. We should wait a little longer--”

“It’s my money and I got a great price,” he sighed, “just because you have to pinch your pennies--”

“We’re married,” you squeezed the foam sponge, “it’s our money. Don’t act like I don’t pay for anything around here.”

“Oh thanks, honey, so wonderful you paid for a five dollar steak,” he scoffed, “I’ll be impressed when you can make a mortgage payment on your own.”

“How dare you!” you turned your back to him and kept scrubbing, “fine, but not a penny of my money is going to that thing.”

“That’s fine, I’m selling the old one, that should cover most of it--”

“What?” you slammed your hand between the burner, “you said we would hold onto it so I had something to--”

“Then you can buy it from me,” he said venomously.

“I’m your wife,” you spun to scowl at him again, “I-- what is wrong with you?”

He tilted his head and squinted as he poked his tongue out along his lip. “Nothing wrong with me,” he shrugged, “what’s wrong with you?”

“Don’t--” you warned as you pointed a finger at him through the bright yellow gloves, “don’t do that… I’ve been trying and you just keep pushing me away.”

“Me pushing you away?” he rolled his eyes, “you were passed out last night when I got home. Maybe if you didn’t fall asleep before nine I could actually fuck you… or at least get it up if you worked on losing some of that cellulite on your ass.”

Your lip quivered and you sucked in a breath. You shook your head and turned around again. You ignored him as your hand shook and you continued your work, scratching at the dried-on food around the burner. His empty mug clinked onto the counter and you listened to his exit.

Fuck him and his new car. You were done trying with him.

💍

Wesley’s new car was shrouded in the shade of the garage as the old black Hyundai sat out on the driveway with a red and white “For Sale” sign on the windshield. Right after he got back from his extravagant purchase, he made the listing online and several perusers stopped by Saturday night but Sunday morning saw the car still there.

You sat by the border of stones around the garden as he drank beer in the garage and approached any interested buyers who appeared; although so far he’d only had two before noon.

You tucked your clippers into your apron pocket and dusted off your gloves as you stood. You were a little dizzy from sitting out in the sun and a glass of water was the perfect excuse to drown out the annoying sound of your husband’s voice.

You ignored Wesley as you trod through the garage and kicked your sneakers off on the mat right before the three steps up to the house. You went to the kitchen and put your gloves on the counter as you filled a glass from the dispenser on the front of the fridge. You’d given up everything but water and the slices of lemon were the only flavour you had.

You took the glass and your gloves and headed back. Wesley waited just at the bottom of the stairs as he glared up at you with arms crossed. You sighed and descended but he didn’t let you pass.

“What is your problem?”

“Are you really asking me that?” you hissed.

“You giving me the silent treatment isn’t gonna fix this,” he snarled.

“You know what you said so… I shouldn’t have to tell you to apologize,” you retorted and he stayed put.

“Is this about the car?”

“The car is just another thing,” you cross an arm around your stomach, “you think I couldn’t use it to get around, to get the groceries maybe? Or, I don’t know, maybe since you have such a problem with my home office, I could go out and get a ‘big girl’ job as you put it so many times--”

“Your mother has a car she never drives. You can just take her with you, two birds, one stone. I need to sell this to pay for the new one--”

“The one I begged you not to buy,” you huffed, “you could’ve waited a few more years until we were a little more comfortable--”

“Oh, wait? Until we have a kid and all my money goes to it,” he snapped, “yeah, I’m sure we’d have the money then--”

“You’d have to fuck to do that,” you stepped down the last step and pushed past him.

As you came into the sunlight and shielded your eyes, a figure stood by the garden, knelt just by your tulips as he felt the soft petals. You narrowed your eyes. You recognized him for sure. It was the stranger from the bus.

“Um, hi?” you croaked as you swallowed the lump in your throat.

“Hey, it’s… you again,” he chuckled softly as he stood, “I saw an ad for a car and… well, I’m getting tired of the bus.”

“Oh, uh, my husband,” you pointed over your shoulder, “you’ll have to talk to him.”

“Okay,” he smiled, “Peter,” he held out his hand and you stared at it. You introduced yourself and shook his firm grip.

“Like I said, it’s my husband selling the car,” you brushed by him and got to your knees by the flowerbed. “Unless you’re looking to buy some wilting pansies.”

“Hmm, I like the tulips better,” he said as he slowly inched away, “thanks.”

You sat back on your heels and he strode over to the open garage. You heard Wesley greet him and didn’t bother paying attention to the same pitch you’d heard all morning. You pulled on your gloves and wiggled your nose as it tingled. You really just wanted to keel over and bawl.

“Sold,” Wesley announced and you heard a clap, “all yours!”

“I’ll just transfer the deposit,” Peter said and a minute passed before he emerged again, the keys hanging from his finger, “Thanks, Wes.”

You hid your distaste. It used to be that Wesley hated being called ‘Wes’ but lately, he introduced himself to everyone as just ‘Wes’. He really had changed. You must have too.

“Hey,” you looked up and blinked as the sun made your eyes water as it shone around Peter.

“You bought it?” you asked as you yanked free a weed.

“Yep, but uh,” he glanced over his shoulder as the old car stereo Wesley used blared out a classic rock tune, “I… wasn’t eavesdropping but I heard some of it and… if you ever need a ride to the grocery store, I usually try for Wednesdays,” he tucked his hand in his pocket, “I don’t live too far and since we go to the same one--”

“No, no, you don’t have to do that,” you looked back to the soil, embarrassed.

“Well, if you change your mind,” he kept the keys dangling from one finger and reached into his pocket. He pulled out his wallet and slid out a card with some effort, “I’m supposed to have these handy but I never really use them.”

He offered the business card and you read his name above the title, ‘senior photographer’. You gave a half-hearted smile and put it in your apron pocket.

“Thanks,” you said, “I can manage.”

“You don’t have to though,” he said kindly, “but I’ll, uh, leave you to your gardening. Sorry if I bugged you.”

“You didn’t,” you assured without looking up, flattered that anyone cared enough to even offer help.

“Hey, Pete,” Wesley stopped Peter as he neared the car, “you can have one before you go.”

“Oh, no, I’m gonna be driving,” Peter argued.

“Pfft, it’s a celebration and one won’t put you over the limit,” Wesley insisted and handed him a dark bottle of craft brew, “come on.”

“I really should go--”

“It’s a Sunday, where do you need to be?” Wesley patted his shoulder and looked over at you, “hey, honey, you wanna see if we have any snacks for our guest?”

“I’m not hungry,” Peter said curtly, “really. Just the beer is fine.”

They disappeared back into the garage and you cringed. You hated that. Wesley only every acted like a husband when others were around.

💍

You waited a whole week before returning to the grocery store. You were short on everything and it was a reason to get out of the house. Your husband had made both your home and your workplace hostile.

It irked you that Wesley resented you working from home when a couple years ago he was so happy about it. Then, he’d been so enthusiastic about starting a family but when it didn’t happen right away, he grew disillusioned and bitter. Now, he seemed to have no interest in being a husband let alone a father.

As you packed up your spinach and bottles of Perrier, your cart rolled just a little as someone nudged it from the other end. You raised your head and hid your surprise and discomfort as Peter smiled back at you.

“I thought you said Wednesdays,” you murmured as you dropped a bag in your cart.

“I forgot eggs,” he held up the carton, “I guess I have good timing.”

“You do?” you asked as you pulled your cart forward and maneuvered around to push it out of the way of fellow shoppers. You bent to grab your trolley from beneath and he caught it as you unfolded it.

“I’ll drive you,” he said.

“I told you--”

“I’m here so why not? Save the ticket for next time,” he urged.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why does it matter? Why do I matter to you?” you asked.

“I don’t know, I… like helping people,” he shrugged, “what if I told you you were helping me? I have this horrible need to be the hero.”

“That will go away,” you muttered under your breath and he lifted a brow, “sorry, I… thank you.”

“Alright, let’s go then,” he collapsed the trolley and carried it easily under his arm as he cradled his eggs in the other, “I got the A/C fixed on the car too.”

“Mmm,” you hummed and walked with him out of the store.

You crossed the parking lot and helped you load up the bags in the trunk. That car should have been yours; you’d made enough payments on it yourself but Wesley was such a stubborn ass.

You sat in the front seat as he slid into the other and started the car. He drove cautiously through the lot and you read the store signs as he came to the exit.

“How long have you and… the old man been together?”

“Um,” you glanced over at him and chewed your lip, “since college so… almost fifteen years now.”

“Fifteen?” he turned out onto the street, “really? I thought he was older than you.”

“Christ,” you scoffed, “don’t flatter me.”

“Really, I woulda said twenty-eight at most,” he said coolly, “wow, I feel so young now.”

“And I feel so old,” you grumbled as you crossed your legs, hoping he didn’t notice the wrinkle in the pink capris.

“Whatever, you’re not even forty,” he said, “and time has treated you well so I can only think in a few years… oh jeez, sorry, that came off weirder than I intended. Not that I meant for it to be weird at all--”

You giggled at his rambling as he rolled to a stop at the sign and peeked over at you in the rearview. You caught his eye and quickly looked away, “what?”

“Just… you have a nice smile,” he said as he turned down a side street, “and a nice laugh.”

“Thank you,” your voice was brittle at the genuine compliment, “you’re funny.”

“Am I? I wasn’t trying to be,” he took the same short cut you took when you walked home from the convenience store which was closer than the plaza.

“And nice,” you said as he came onto your street, “you really didn’t have to drive me. You could’ve dropped me at the corner--”

“No way, I was raised better than that, and if you think I’m letting you carry that all in by yourself--”

“Raised to help little old ladies?” you mused.

“Raised to treat ladies properly,” he corrected, “especially pretty ones.”

“I’m married,” your heart pattered as you dared to flirt back, almost in disbelief that he was humouring you, “and your lies don’t work on me, young man.”

“Not that young,” he insisted as he pulled into the driveway.

You got out and went around to the trunk. He handed you the bag with the bread and other light products, and loaded up with the other bags.

“You get the doors, let me do the heavy work,” he said and nodded you towards the house.

You went ahead of him and unlocked the door. You let him inside and pointed him into the kitchen. He placed the bags on the counter and stretched his arms and hands as you set yours on the other side. The muscles of his arms moved under his skin and you could trace the lines of his torso through his grey tee.

“So,” he took out the bottle of Perrier, “this going in the fridge?”

“What-- you’ve done enough.”

“Fridge?” he ignored you and pulled out the other.

You gave a long blink and threw up your hands in surrender, “yes, please,” you came around and reached in to grab the whole grain buns, ��bottom shelf.”

You finished unpacking your groceries and took the empty bags from Peter and shoved them under the counter. You stood and looked at him nervously as he watched you, his fingers tapping on the granite.

“Do you want a snack? Something to drink? Water?”

“I’ll have a water,” he said and moved to leaned his elbow on the countertop, his side snug to the edge.

“Sparkling or--”

“Regular’s fine,” he answered

“Ice? Lemon?” you pulled out a tall glass.

“Just ice is fine… then I’ll be out of your hair,” he said.

Ice clinked into the glass and you covered it with the distilled water from the fridge. You slid it onto the counter and stepped back.

“Oh, I… actually, it’s a good thing I ran into you,” he said and took a sip, “my aunt, she likes to garden too but she got some bulbs she’s not gonna use, I thought maybe… maybe you would like some to fill in the holes?”

“What kind?” you asked.

“Some daffodils and some crocuses, I think,” he said, “I could bring them over next week after work?”

“That sounds like a lot of work,” you scrunched your lips, “you could probably just give them to a neighbour.”

“It’s not out of the way,” he said, “you want them?”

You stared at him and thought. He was nice. Too nice.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing, I… I’m sure you have a girlfriend you could be spending time with--”

“I don’t. Not anymore,” he interrupted.

“Oh, sorry,” you said, “I didn’t--”

“Like I said, I always wanna be the good guy,” he finished his water and the last of the cubes settled at the bottom, “thanks.”

“No, thank you,” you said as he set his glass in the sink and backed away, “really, you made my day so much easier.”

“I hope your weekend is better,” he said, “but…”

He didn’t finished and you folded your hands together as he hesitated by the hallway.

“But what?” you prodded.

“Nothing,” he shook his head, “nothing. I should go.”

“Okay,” you rubbed the back of your neck, “see ya.”

“Monday,” he confirmed as he turned to the doorframe, “I’ll bring the bulbs. Just after seven.”

“Right,” you slanted your lips and watched him go.

The door marked his departure and you turned to exhale and lean against the counter. You could still smell his rich cologne. Then you felt guilty. It was stupid to think he was doing anything more than being nice, that the flirting was anything but a joke, but still, you missed feeling that way and it should’ve been Wesley making you feel that.

💍

You squeezed the phone as you clenched your jaw so tight it hurt. Your eyes were wet and finally the tears were ready to start falling. The smell of steak filled the kitchen, another meal you wouldn’t eat. At the last minute, Wesley texted to tell you he was hitting the gym. Again. He was already late after a long meeting but promised he’d be home to eat.

So you waited for him to answer your furious phone call but got his voicemail instead. Your eyes narrowed at the bottle of wine and your chest knotted as the tone sounded.

“Wesley, this is it. I can’t do this anymore! I’m your wife. Do you even want to be with me? I can’t go on like this and now you won’t even answer my calls,” you snarled. You knew he had his phone on him as he no doubt had his Spotify work-out list on shuffle, “when you come home, you can sleep on the couch.”

You hung up and grabbed a stemmed glass from the cupboard. You filled it to the brim with Pinot Grigio but before you could taste it, the doorbell made you jump. You set down the glass and walked up the hallway. Just on the other side of the frosted glass was a silhouette. You opened the door and touched your forehead as you faced Peter.

“I totally forgot you were coming,” you breathed, “I’m so sorry. But thank you, you really didn’t have to--”

“Are you okay?” he asked as the paper bag in his hand crinkled.

“Yeah, I’m fine, I… thank you for the flowers,” you looked at the brown paper bag and he handed it over, another bag on his wrist; white with ribbon handles, “what’s that? You headed out for a date?”

“Um, no,” he said, “actually, I was just…” he pushed his fingers through his hairs, the reddish brown locks slightly curled with sweat, “I wanted to talk to you.” He looked past you and his warm eyes returned to yours, “Wesley isn’t home yet?”

“No, he won’t be for a while,” you backed up, “so you might as well come in. I have a steak no one’s gonna eat.”

“Yeah, he wouldn’t be,” Peter said glumly, “and steak sounds good.”

He closed the door behind him and followed you into the kitchen. You put the bulbs at the back of the counter and grabbed the bottle, “wine?”

“No thank you,” he said.

You plunked down the bottle and took a gulp of your wine before you turned to plate the steak and your chicken breast alongside the fried asparagus and roasted potatoes. You set the filet before him as he sat on the stool and climbed up across from him at the long island.

“Thank you,” he watched you slide a steak knife and fork towards him and his gaze lingered on your lips as you took another thirsty mouthful, “this is for you, actually.”

He pushed the white bag over to you and you smelled the subtle floral scent rising from it. You put your glass down and pushed open the top of the bag and peeked inside. You shook your head and rescinded your hand as if you were slapped. It was the same perfume from that day weeks ago.

“You… how?”

“You don’t remember?” he asked.

You thought back on the day you wanted to forget. He was the other shopper in the perfume section, the one who sent you that sympathetic look as Wesley reproached you. You winced and grabbed your utensils. You cut into the chicken and shoved it in your mouth. You swallowed loudly.

“Take it back,” you sniffed, “I don’t want it. I don’t deserve it.”

“You do. He doesn’t deserve you,” he carefully sliced into the medium rare steak.

“Is that what this is? Some perverted joke? A challenge?” you dropped your fork and knife, “you think you can seduce the sad housewife and then laugh at it? Sow your wild oats?”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” he calmly put down the silverware, “I… what I didn’t say when I showed up is I just came from the gym.”

You frowned in confusion and wrinkled your nose. You took another drink of wine as you tried to understand.

“I saw Wesley,” he said as he leaned on his elbow and pulled out his phone with his other hand, “I didn’t wanna say anything but… you’re here beating yourself up over him and-- just look.”

He slid his phone across the counter and you looked at the screen. Your entire body felt heavy and your veins filled with ice. You dropped your head into your hands as you tried to wipe the sight from your eyes; the image of your husband groping a woman in yoga pants, an act she wasn’t deterring.

“I knew it,” you sobbed as the tears burst forth and leaked down your palms, “I knew it. And why wouldn’t he? I’m old, ugly--” you sniffed and pulled your hands away to wipe them on your pants. Peter held out a paper towel and you took it as you avoided his eyes, “thank you but I think you should go. I’m humiliated enough.”

“You shouldn’t be alone,” he said as he climbed down from the stool and rounded the island, “he’s an asshole. He’s blind.”

“Please, Peter, just leave me alone,” you slid off the stool and he caught your shoulders. You looked up at him as you dabbed away the streaks of sadness with the paper towel, “Peter--”

“I’m not leaving,” he said firmly, “he’s out there having his fun, so why don’t you have some of your own?”

“Peter, that’s-- that’s wrong. I’m too old for you. And… I’m fat and--”

“You’re perfect,” he reached up to frame your chin with his hand, “you’re gorgeous,” his other hand trailed down your arm and to your hip, “that’s the first thing I noticed about you…” he pulled you closer and tapped your ass lightly.

“No, I can’t-- I just want to be alone,” you pushed on his arms and felt the thick biceps as he flexed and kept you close.

“Well, baby, what I want,” he turned you so that you were pinned between him and the island, “is for you to put on that perfume… I want you wearing nothing but that.”

“Peter,” you pushed on his chest that time and the hard muscle wall didn’t budge, “Peter, go--”

“Baby,” he bent and scooped you up suddenly.

His hands spread over your ass as he lifted you and crushed his lips against yours. You murmured in surprise and he placed you on the granite countertop. He parted from your lips as you sat up and he shoved your legs apart, inserting himself between your knees. He played with the bottom of the dress you’d worn in hopes of rekindling your dying marriage.

“We can go slow,” he tickled along your thighs and pulled back suddenly, “just a little at a time.”

He leaned in as he reached around you and grabbed the small white bag. He pulled out the perfume and snaked his hand around your neck. He pulled you to bend over him and he kissed your neck just before he sprayed a puff of perfume across your throat. He stood back and took a deep breath. He put the bottle on the counter and his hands went back to your skirt.

“Peter,” you caught his hands as they crept under the fabric, “please.”

You tried to slide forward and he stopped you as he grasped your hips and held you in place. He bit his lip as his eyes glimmered up at you. He drew a hand away and took the glass of wine and held it before your mouth.

“Drink, relax,” he cooed, “forget about him.”

You stared at him and he brought your hand up with his and wrapped it around the full body of the glass. He nudged it to your lips and watched you until you drank from the crystal rim. He smirked and lifted your skirt as he bent to bury his head beneath the folds.

You gulped and choked on the wine as your skirt fluttered down over his shoulders. You felt his finger on the lace trim of your panties and winced. He squeezed your thighs with his other hand and nuzzled the crotch of your underwear. You tried to close your legs but he kept them apart easily.

He curled his fingers under the elastic of your panties and tugged. He pulled until you lifted your ass just enough for him to get them free and he guided them down your legs before quickly parting them again.

You set down the glass and almost overturned it, the last mouthful splashing up the side. You pressed your hands to the granite and peered down at the shape of his head beneath your skirt. You gasped as his cool tongue grazed your warm folds and delved deeper.

“Peter…” you wisped and closed your eyes as you tried to hide from your own shame.

He purred as his tongue flicked over your clit and you twitched. He caressed the crease of your thigh with his fingers as he lapped at your, his other hand pressed against your stomach until you fell back across the counter. You arched your back instinctively and his hand cupped your tit through your dress.

He blindly pulled until your chest slipped out and pushed the cup of your bra as he teased your clit with his tongue. He felt along your cunt with his fingers and shoved his index inside of you. You moaned as he pushed another inside and curled them as he suckled on your bud.

Your core burned to life. Your entire being was set alight after months without affection. You quivered in delight and fear. Your nerves stormed both out of guilt and hunger. It felt so good but you knew it was wrong. The scent of the perfume filled your nose as your skin grew hot.

He moved his hand in time with his mouth as he doted on you. His touch intensified as your legs bent around the side of the island and your fingernails dragged along the granite, your voice rising without thought. He pinched your nipple and you cried out as you came in a wave of sheer pleasure and grabbed his wrist as you tried to steady yourself.

He eased off slowly as you trembled in the afterglow, his lingering touch tickled along your legs as he pushed your dress up. He pulled you to sit up and lifted the fabric over your head and ripped your sleeves free from your arms. He tossed as side the garment and swiftly covered your mouth with his so you tasted your own arousal on his tongue.

He unhooked your bra blindly and slid it off your arms. You were intensely aware of your nakedness and as you brought your arms up to cover yourself, he forced them down and ran his hands over your bare torso.

“Beautiful,” he said as he laid a trail of gentle pecks along your throat and chest, pausing to take a nipple in his mouth as he rolled the other between his fingers and sent a shiver through you.

He kneaded your sides and hips, his fingers danced along your thighs and he followed the path with his mouth, kissing and nipping your flesh. He lifted his head again as he took your hands and twined his fingers through yours. He tugged you gently until you slid off the counter and landed on your feet shakily.

“Baby, you’re so amazing,” he placed your hands on his chest and pushed them down his muscled torso and brought them back up beneath his tee shirt, “go on.”

He let you go and you continued to roll up his tee. He dipped his head and raised his arms to help you and you clung to the tee as it fell limp in your grasp. Dazed, he snatched the shirt from your hands and flung it. He once more pressed your hands to his chest and guided you in feeling the lines of his toned flesh.

He pushed your hands against the top of his jeans and leaned into you. He kissed your temple and whispered along your hairline, “turn around, baby.” He squeezed your ass and purred, “mmmm, please, I wanna see that ass.”

You blinked, dazed, and spun slowly. You caught yourself on the edge of the counter as your legs trembled and you heard the subtle zip. He kicked his foot between yours and pushed your legs apart as he led you back so that you were slightly bent against the island. He ran his nails down your back and gripped your hip with one hand as his other drew away from your skin.

You flinched as you felt his smooth tip against your ass and he rubbed it between your cheeks. You inhaled and held in your breath as his hold on your tightened and he angled his dick under your ass and grazed your cunt. He poked your entrance and pressed his chest to your back as his hand covered yours on the granite.

He slid into you and your voice fizzled in the air as he forced the air from your lungs. You pushed your head back and it met his shoulder as his other hand crawled down your front. He spread your folds with his fingers and swirled another around your clit as he tilted his hips and thrust into you slowly.

“Ah, Peter,” you slapped the counter and he shushed you as his hand left yours cold and his fingers stretched over your throat.

His motion picked up as the noise of him crashing into you echoed around the kitchen. Your eyes rolled back as he rammed into you even harder. You were on tiptoes as he was driven by the weak moans that leaked from your lips and your wet pleasure squelched around him. He pressed two fingers to your bud and rubbed until you squeaked and your thighs quaked around him.

“That’s it, baby,” he growled, “I bet you never cum like that for him.”

You whined and he sped up again. He pinned you against the counter so that the lip pressed into your stomach. He took his hand from your cunt and pushed your head down as he kept his other hand around your neck. He didn’t waver once as he fucked you.

“Touch yourself, baby,” he commanded, “I want you to cum again for me. I know you want to too.”

His thick breath warmed the air and grazed your back as he held you down and his hold on your neck tightened until silver stars rose in your vision. Your feet dangled against the tile and you reached down to play with your clit as it buzzed. It was only seconds before you were murmuring in ecstasy once more.

“Fuck, baby, can you feel that? The way your clinging to me,” he puffed as he slammed into you over and over, “he can hardly fill you, can he? Hmmm? Little man.”

You wheezed as he choked you and his other hand kept your head pinned. You heard a distant creak but could barely do more than keep your fingers moving as your heartbeat deafened you. You came again and croaked as your cunt squeezed him hungrily.

“What the fuck?” the voice broke your lusty trance and suddenly you were pulled away from the counter.

Your head lulled as Peter held it up and turned you around, his pelvis slapping against your ass as you faced your husband. Your mouth hung open as your blurred vision barely registered the scene and the deep grunts only got louder behind you.

“Look who’s here,” Peter rasped as he snaked his arm around you.

“The fuck are you doing?” Wesley sneered as your eyes closed and your ass rang with each thrust.

“What you can’t,” Peter snickered, “doesn’t she look so happy?” He grasped your chin and pushed his fingers into your mouth as he held your head up, “well, you into watching or you gonna let us finish, old man?”

#peter parker #dark peter parker #dark!peter parker #fic #peter parker x reader #dark fic #one shot #dark!fic #do us part #marvel #mcu #spider-man #avengers

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pinoy-culture · 3 years

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Tagalog Gods (Part 2/10)

✦ Diyan Masalanta – Goddess of love, childbirth, and…destruction?

“They had another idol called Dian masalanta, who was the patron of lovers and of generation.”

– Juan de Plasencia’s Relation of the Worship of the Tagalogs, Their Gods, and Their Burials and Superstition (1589)

Original article posted on my blog The Pinay Writer

So there was a question on the Anito: The Precolonial Beliefs, Polytheistic Beliefs, and Practices of the Philippines group I run on FB about the goddess Dayang Masalanta, aka Dian/Diyan Masalanta. The question was, “Does her name really mean “to be destroyed there”? That’s quite the ominous name for a goddess of lovers.”

At first glance, it does seem so. Why would the name of a goddess of love and childbirth be called “to be destroyed there? To be destroyed?” It does seem a bit odd. However, you have to dig deeper into the Tagalog psyche and beliefs to get a grasp of why this possibly is. Now, let me first be clear that this is my own opinion and there is no written record stating the meaning behind the name of this goddess, nor is there anything else mentioned about her besides the small reference in Juan de Plasencia’s Relation of the Worship of the Tagalogs, Their Gods, and Their Burials and Superstition (1589). Sadly this is the case and she isn’t mentioned anywhere else. It could be perhaps, from my guess, that she was a particular anito prayed to by a certain group of Tagalog, but she was not one well known to the entire Tagalog region compared to let’s say Lakapati who is very often mentioned in various historical sources. We will get more into this in a minute.

Now, Dian is Diyang, which means “lady”. Masalanta or Magsalanta is a Tagalog word that means “to be destroyed or devastated“. It comes from the root word, salanta, which in the Noceda and Sanlucar Vocabulario de la lengua Tagala (1754) and the San Buenaventura dictionary (1613) lists the meaning as poor, needy, crippled, and blind.

Generally, masalanta/magsalanta and nasalanta, which means “is destroyed/devastated“, is used when there is a calamity, such as a typhoon and flood. It can also be translated as victimized, damaged, and crippled and basically means someone who has misfortune or will have misfortune.

So, again, why would the goddess of love and childbirth be called Dayang Masalanta, or “Lady of destruction/devastation?”

The word salanta in the Vocabulario de la Lengua Tagala by Noceda and Sanlucar the 1860 edition

Being the goddess of lovers and childbirth, it is quite possible that Dayang Masalanta was prayed to by couples who were not able to conceive a child. This was and still is, considered devastating and could be thought to be caused by angered anito. They may have prayed to her for a child, or a woman may have prayed to her for a safe delivery and a healthy baby. It can also be that she was prayed and honored to prevent bad weather such as a typhoon, along with being the goddess of love and childbirth.

Weather? Where does this come from you may ask? Besides the indication of her name, let’s take a look to the present at a ritual that is said to have survived despite colonization and the church. This ritual that I am talking about is the Obando Fertility Rite in Obando, Bulacan, which was celebrated just recently.

The Obando Fertility Rite is said to predate the arrival of the Spaniards. It is a 3 day festival from May 17-19 that is celebrated every year by hundreds of people and attended by couples coming from throughout the Philippines looking to be blessed with a child and for lovers to find love. It is believed that the ritual was once dedicated to the anito and was replaced by the saints. While the saints and Catholicism have taken over the ritual, there are elements of the older practices still there.

Newspaper clipping from Philippine Daily Inquirer on May 19, 2005

There are 3 saints prayed to and honored during this 3 day festival. May 17 is celebrated to San Pascual Baylon, the patron saint of good fortune. May 18 is dedicated to Santa Clara, the patron saint of the childless and of good weather. May 19 is in celebration of Our Lady of Salambao, the patron saint of farmers and fisherman for a good harvest. Together they are prayed to for fertility, whether it’s of a childless couple hoping for a child, a woman praying for a safe pregnancy, for those who are single to find a lover, and of fisherman and farmers wishing for an abundance of harvest of crops and fish.

One Saint in particular that is prayed to is Santa Clara, or Saint Clare of Assissi. She was a nun from Italy during the 13th century that established the Order of Poor Ladies, officially known as the Order of Saint Clare. In the Obando festival, she is the oldest patron saint and is considered the patron saint of those who are childless and want a child. To her they danced, sang, and offered eggs as symbols of fertility. This fertility dance is said to be the Kasilonawan, an old fertility dance among barren women. Kasilonawan is actually mentioned in the N&S dictionary (1754) as an ancient ceremony, however it doesn’t get into more detail.

The kasilonawan ritual mentioned in the Vocabulario de la Lengua Tagala by Noceda and Sanlucar the 1754 edition as casilonawan in the old Spanish spelling where f is exchanged with s, and v, with w

Now many Pilipinos, especially soon to be wed couples, offer eggs to Santa Clara. They do this not only as offerings of fertility, but also to ask for good weather. It is said she is the the patron saint for good weather because of her name, Clara, which means “clear”. Clara is also the word referring to the white part of the egg. This is mentioned in the entries for the words liwanag and puti in both the SB and N&S dictionaries.

From the Vocabulario de la Lengua Tagala by Noceda and Sanlucar the 1860 edition

“Niyong ako’y magmula sa Kastila y itlog ka pa man din sa tiyan nang ina mo.” = When I arrived from Spain, you were still an egg in your mother’s belly. – (SB 1613)

This idea of eggs representing a fetus and of fertility is why eggs are offered to Santa Clara as a symbolic gesture from women who are having a hard time conceiving in the hopes they will have a child. Together with the ritual dance and chants, they hope to overcome this and be blessed with pregnancy.

Let’s now get back to Dayang Masalanta. We know from Plasencia that she was the goddess of lovers and childbirth. From her name, we have Masalanta referring to destruction/devastation in terms of a natural calamity like a flood. Now, is it possible that one of the anito that the people of Obando once worshiped and prayed to in these fertility rites was none other than Dayang Masalanta? That due to the arrival of Catholicism, the shift from the anito to the saints made the locals refer Dayang Masalanta as Santa Clara?

Both represent childbirth and both have a connection with the weather. Santa Clara being prayed to for clear skies and good weather, while Dayang Masalanta in her name represents a word that foretells misfortune from bad weather and we know she was the goddess of lovers and childbirth. This association of good weather and blessing couples with a child with Santa Clara isn’t practiced anywhere else in the world. In fact the only associations with Santa Clara, aka St. Clare of Assissi, is that she is the patron saint of eye disease, goldsmiths, laundry, and television according to the Catholic Church. So why would the Tagalog associate her with praying for good weather, fertility, and a blessing of a child among childless couples? I explained that they associate the weather because of her name, Clara, but again eggs? What does eggs have to do with praying for good weather? Fertility yes, but I still don’t see the connection between eggs and good weather unless this was because of a something else in the old Tagalog mindset and belief.

There is also the prayer of finding a loving partner if you attend the Obando Fertility Festival. Maybe, just possibly, Dayang Masalanta was once prayed to for love, conception, fortune, and good weather and that she was once the focus of the Obando Fertility Rite among other anito? The other anito which I suspect are Linga, a phallic god, who is often mentioned today to be associated with the rites, and Lakan Pati a fertility deity who was once prayed to for a fertile harvest and also to provide for water for crops. They were also prayed to for an abundance of fish when fishing at sea, according to the Boxer Codex, which again goes along with the Obando Fertility rites of praying for fertility and an abundance harvest of crops and fish.

For me, this is quite the possibility. However, again I must clearly state and emphasize that there is no historical written evidence to connect Dayang Masalanta with the Obando Fertility Rites, Santa Clara, or even her being worshiped for clear, fair weather. One can only assume based on her name, what we know of her from Plasencia, and what we know today of the fertility rites in Obando.

What do you think? Do you think Santa Clara was once Dayang Masalanta? Why else do you think her name is Masalanta when she is the goddess of lovers and childbirth? Let me know, I would love to hear your thoughts.

Illustration Credits from Photoset:

First Illustration (2nd photo): By Kian @morenangmariaclara.

Second Illustration (3rd photo): By Abby @abbydraws

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mrs-bartowski · 3 years

Text

My dudes. My guys. My pals.

I’m about 10 seconds away from going feral.

So, I’m the kind of unfortunate chump whose brain requires continuity. Meaning, when I started thirst watching Supergirl during its mid-season-2 hiatus and came across the realization that it had crossovers with all the other arrowverse shows, my brain tasked me with watching them all. I won’t put you through a recount of this arduous feat, but it does leave me with the certain advantage of having immediate and full-contextual access to any parallels between supercorp and canon CW DCEU couples.

Normally, this is a good thing, because it’s just another crumb to obsess over. But I just finished watching Legends 6x02 and...I. AM. FUMING.

I literally don’t even know where to start, but know that if you’ve made it this far you’re in for a long ride because my entire being is in Scream mode right now and I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop typing until it passes.

OKAY. So.

Meet Sara Lance (lol jk y’all thirsty gays know who she is I mean look at this flawless human)

Next, meet her ******* Ava Sharpe (who is literally the definition of white European beauty standards-based perfection because she’s a clone from the future)

And finally, meet Gary Green. He’s...well, he’s Gary.

Sara started out on Arrow and is now the captain of the Legends. Ava was the director of the Time Bureau and Gary was an agent, and now they are also members of the Legends. Sara has been there (and been the show’s effective lead) since season 1. Ava and Gary both came in at the beginning of season 3.

Gary is (as pictured) an absolute fool, but he is also kind of regarded as the one the Legends Must Protecc. The whole team is considered a family, and, while they are not necessarily labeled as best friends, Gary has been Ava’s longest and most loyal companion, and Sara has a way of adopting him because she’s the best equipped to keep him out of trouble.

So, why is all of this relevant to why I want to go feral? Because it sounds a bit familiar, yes? Member of the team that is somewhat a black sheep, doesn’t get included fully or all the time but often comes in with save-the day type shit (even though with Gary it’s more of a distraction than a save because he’s a mess of a man). Close friend to one of our two main heroes and, subsequently, that hero’s closest companion puts them at the top of their Protecc list. Has little faith in his relationships with the team so he is constantly going out of his way to help in whatever way he can to prove his usefulness. And so on and so forth.

Well, 6x01 marks exactly 3 years since Gary’s first appearance, and what did we find out in that episode? That Gary is an alien. And not just any alien - an alien who was sent (by the woman he was traded to) to get close to Sara because she has been labeled as one of the world’s most dangerous creatures. Not to mention, his species of alien feeds on humans (not him of course, he’s reformed, but nonetheless not a friendly species). And we find out all of this because he and his master abduct her.

Sara finds out in person while Ava and the rest of the Legends solve the mystery on their own. Now, I’ve drawn a lot of comparisons between Lena and Gary to make a point about the time frame and nature of their relationships, but let’s take a look at Sara, shall we? For starters, she’s been “dead” either literally or supposedly about...what, 15 times now? If you think that’s an exaggeration, here’s the link to her fan wiki which says she’s been presumed dead 10 times and actually dead 5. The sg writers tried to sell season 5 as “the fight for Lena’s soul” but Sara LITERALLY LOST HER SOUL when she got resurrected in the Lazarus pit. 90% of Sara’s character development has been based on her certainty that she is too close to death and evil and destruction (getting possessed by a demon, perhaps, had something to do with this?). She was an actual literal assassin and she has left civilization out of anger and pain to go back to that life once before.

She has always believed that she is too dangerous to have real love or relationships or friends. And now she has found and built and led this family through time and space and she’s done so with this goofball by her side that is endearingly attached to the love of her life. So, how does she react when she finds out Gary is an alien? Well, clearly, she goes down a dark path, right? She cries and screams and talks about betrayal because she’s had such a hard time with feeling like she only ever puts the people she loves in danger and now here she is finding out there’s been a human-eating alien in her family for three years that was tasked with observing her and keeping her in check because she is exactly that dangerous?

Yeah...try again. This is how Sara reacts:

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And then there's another scene that apparently no one even bothered to put on YouTube where you can see the pain in Sara's eyes when she asks him “why me?” You can see how hurt she is that after 3 years she’s just finding out that their friendships is based on lies and that she has trouble keeping her faith in it. But in both of these instances where are the “crocodile tears?” Where are the fearful, shaky confessions from Gary about his fear of losing the only people who have ever really loved or cared about him and desperate justifications about how he just wanted to protect them and keep them in the dark so his master didn’t come after them? Where is the outrage from Sara about how everything Gary has reassured her about over the past three years when she was scared to let the damaged-soul assassin inside of her out was a lie and he doesn’t get to tell her who or what she is again? Where is the determination from Ava to make Gary pay for not only lying for three years but for ABDUCTING THE LOVE OF HER LIFE TO HAND OVER TO A FLESH-EATING ALIEN??????

Nowhere. Those things...they’re nowhere. There’s anger. There’s pain. There’s doubt and heartbreak and fury. There’s betrayal and helplessness and desperation. But there is no scene with Sara standing on a balcony and Gary looking up at her longingly because he wants to talk to her about the secret and he knows it will change everything between them. There is no scene with Sara and Ava lamenting over what this means for Gary and the team and the world because he’s no longer the person they knew. There are no romantically-scored scenes of them looking teary-eyed at the pictures they took together or reassurances that the others’ intentions are good and trustworthy now that the truth is out in the open. There is nothing to imply that the last several years of friendship are now entirely suspect (damaged, frayed, clouded, maybe, but definitely not voided) because Gary kept this secret to protect them. And Gary isn’t made to feel obscenely guilty or shameful because his intentions were good and he only did what he felt he had to. But most of all, the world doesn’t feel like it’s going to end.

And I’m not talking about we’re now scared Gary will take his master’s side or Sara will suddenly decide that she never wants an alien to fool her or hurt her again so she’s going to make sure he doesn’t have the choice. I’m just talking about the way they address each other. There are no sobbing tears or laments over the biggest mistakes of their lives - even though it’s quite possible Gary could see this as his. There are no screaming matches over betrayal and mistrust and years of doubt and confusion. There will be no episode dedicated to going back and seeing what could have happened - what kind of danger they could have avoided from the alien(s) controlling Gary - had he told them the truth sooner because that’s the only way to save him and the world. There will be no episode where he has to single-handedly save them multiple times as some example of redemption. There will be no adamant looks and declarations about how the team knows his intentions were good and they forgive him. There won’t be any of that. Because Sara is not in love with Gary. And Ava is not in love with Gary. And Gary is not in love with either Sara or Ava. They’re just close friends. Family. Loved ones who mean a lot to each other but whose betrayal and seeds of doubt don’t bring on emotions whose force and ferocity could be acceptable for finding out the apocalypse is nigh.

I have many, many more feelings about this but right now I’m going to go write things that will make me feel better and not things that make me want to gather every writer from every CW show in a line and run down the line smacking them all in the face while the Legends writers watch and cheer. But I’m fuming. THIS is what it looks like when a years-long, heavily weighted lie is revealed between close friends/family. So, in conclusion, Supercorp endgame or die.

#supercorp #supercorp endgame #cw supergirl #supergirl #the cw #the cw network #legends of tomorrow #avalance #gary green #ava sharpe #sara lance #kara danvers #lena luthor #legends of tomorrow spoilers #Youtube

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twelfth-harbinger · 3 years

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Hello!! I just finished reading your Zhongli piece and it’s so so good! I love the way you write and your descriptions, unlike other writers who just dive into dialogue and feels very 1D, yours is 3-D!! I love it! Do you plan on continuing the Zhongli one with part 2 NSFW?!?

Also, may I please request a NSFW Diluc piece with female reader, who’s his co-worker/bartender who works at angels share with Charles?

Thank you for your hard work!

A/n: Firstly, yes!!! & thank you!!!, ilysm <3. Secondly Diluc is fucking hot & this is something I couldn’t get out my mind once I read your request. Pls Enjoy ^^

Mentions: Master Diluc likes being called...Master Diluc. Don’t taunt him it’ll lead to something spontaneous and igniting! Bar sex.

Warnings: Nsfw! So spicy hehe

The Angel of Angel’s Share

He spotted you on his occasional endeavors to Angels Share, being an outstanding and tremendous help to Charles when it came to cleaning up and serving drinks to the patrons of his humble business. You insisted that Charles let you help out once in a while as a side job — you needed the mora. Upon getting Dilics rather passive approval in a letter you got in! You spend most nights tidying up, wiping down tables and cleaning glasses periodically. Many of the bar patrons converse with you. Calling you the literal Angel of Angel’s Share. Your beauty was no secret, every man and woman there simply adored you. How could they not? You were friendly, outgoing and most importantly, kind. Your smile was as radiant as the sun itself and of course Diluc had to witness it with his own two eyes. Word did not spread around his establishment without him in the loop. Kaeya frequented the bar more often to flirt with see you; he was a regular before, but now? You rarely go a night where you don’t see him, even if it’s for a short while. Charles has to make snide comments about him slacking off to get him to leave.

All it takes is one night for things to burn brightly into something new, a night akin to this one. Diluc stood behind the counter to relieve Charles for the night shift — he had been there all morning and the night before. You walked in as Diluc was speaking to Charles, you wasted no time in maneuvering to the second floor to clear those tables first.

“Enjoy your night off Charles, I’ll take it from here.” Diluc waved him away and well, it left you there with him. Not alone of course, not yet. As the night pressed on you entertained the customers, served them delicious drinks Diluc prepared and made friends with Stanley?? The busy happy hour of Angels Share gave you no time to take a break. Not until it was well after hours and Diluc had locked the doors to Angel’s Share for the night.

“Good work today.” You chirped happily, as you sat at the bar of the counter atop a stool. Diluc prepared you spiked wolf hook juice on the house; it had a bearclaw kind of taste to it. One of Dliuc’s hands held an empty glass whilst the other dried it with a plain off-white dish cloth.

“I should be saying that to you, you overachieved tonight.” He didn’t mean for his comment to come off as brash, even though it did. You glanced up at him over the top to your glass, your eyes narrowing slightly in amusement. He quickly corrected himself with a light clear of his throat. “Not...that, that’s a bad thing. You..did well.”

Talk about awkward, you and he hadn’t spoken much since your employment over the past few months. You were undoubtedly curious about this handsome man with hair the color of fire. All dressed in black and a wielder of a claymore. He had to have some form of immense physical strength to do so and it only made you wonder what else he could do.

“Why thank you Master Diluc.” Your lips curled into a coy smile as you peeked up at him over the rim of your glass once more. His eyes were like flames too, and his gaze made you burn. It’s strange, so many people address him as Master Diluc regularly and yet you were the only person that was able to stoke the fire within him. Intentionally or not he enjoyed the way it rolled off your tongue and he wanted to hear it again. His hand stopped moving in the glass and he set it down neatly next to the others that were lined up.

“There’s no need to thank me, everyone deserves recognition for their hard work.” He played it cool, you’ll give him that. You stood up, hopping off the stool to the bar, only to walk around it and move past him. You were shorter than he was, he saw the top of your head. He was in the midst of asking you what you were doing but you stopped in front of him to drop to your knees. He fucking froze, he watched you completely unsure of what was going to happen next. He prayed to the gods that you weren’t going to do what he wanted you to do. He wouldn’t be able to keep it together otherwise and he doubted he’d stop you. With a cheeky grin you stood back up with a large jug of homemade grape juice in a hand. He exhaled quietly, letting out a silent sigh that caught in his throat. His face remained straight with a hint of a slight irritable frown threatening the corners of his lips. You proceeded to stand in front of him, turning your back to him to pour a glass of his favorite beverage.

“I know you don’t drink and I heard you liked grape juice from your brother. Why not sit and join me for a while?”

His eyes drifted down the back of your figure before he stepped aside shamefully, Kaeya rubbed off on him more than he cared to admit. Even so, he was ignoring any and all signals you were sending him. Or at least he was trying his very best to. Certainly nothing came that easy— a passing thought you both shared. He sat beside you at the bar, it was silent for a little while. You looked at him with a slight turn of your head and moved to place a hand on your cheek. He lowered the glass from his face and looked over at you. Seeing him up close was making you nervous, you thought you had it in you to seduce this man but you began having second thoughts. He stared at you as if he was trying to read you like a book. It only made things more complicated which lead to you doubting yourself even more. Kaeya never made you this nervous even when he flirted with you.

“My brother told you I liked grape juice what a nuisance.” He said, breaking the silence; he had to the cat ripped out your tongue. You looked at the glass jug and then at him and finally smiled, breaking a light sweat from your overthinking.

“O-Oh, yes haha.. he was teasing you quite a bit.” Diluc didn’t find it amusing Kaeya could get under his skin like it was his job. A light ‘tch’ left his lips as he raised his glass. You followed suit needing more liquid courage than you initially thought. “It’s okay,” You sighed out, you cheeks warming from the bitter sweet drink. “Apple juice is superior in any case.” Diluc looked at you and a light smile crossed his features as he shook his head.

“It’s not.” He stated, “At all in fact.” You caught his semi playful gaze, you narrowed your eyes a little at the comment. “Sunsettia juice is even better in all aspects.” You chuckled and lowered your hand onto the table.

“Coming from the juice enthusiast himself why am I not surprised.” Diluc smirked a bit, finding your comment funny. He looked at you and your radiantly warm smile; it really did resemble that of the morning and setting sun. The two of you remained there conversing with each other well into the night, losing track of time. He hadn’t felt this at ease with anyone by his side in a while. Jean was a great friend to talk to but she was so busy he rarely got to speak with her. He was too in his own right, running the wine industry in Monstadt was no easy task.

“Do you enjoy working here?” He asked as you stood up to stretch, the tables in the back still needed to be cleared, a few drinking tankards, bottles and glasses were scattered about. His question made you think, you loved the night atmosphere of the tavern and the people that came with it.

“Of course I do, it’s very inviting I dare say more than Cats Eye.” You looked his way with a grin he stood up along with you a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Though I do have my work cut out for me here.” You quipped lightly before making your way to the back of the bar where a wooden bench table sat nestled in the corner with a small cabinet and barrel behind it. Diluc followed after to aide in an easy clean up you worked hard enough for tonight. With your back turned you bend over the table without fully walking around it to reach for the glasses and tankards. Your arms were quite short given your stature, without thinking too deeply into his actions Dilic stood halfway behind you to grab the bottle.

“It’s fine to take a break once in a while. There is no need to overwork yourself.” He stated plainly as he picked up the second bottle that sat next to the first. Unbeknownst to him you felt his presence the moment he stepped up behind you. He smelled like a freshly lit fire in the middle of the Whispering Woods his warmth drew you in. You stepped back somewhat unintentionally, your backside grazing him lightly as you turned around to face him. Even on your toes you wouldn’t be at eye level, he stared down at you a bit embarrassed by what he believed was his fault. He opened his mouth to apologize, you couldn’t stop yourself from stealing a kiss. When your lips pressed against his in a sweetened and heated kiss, you noticed Diluc tensed up. The bottles he had fell over onto the surface of the table. Upon hearing that you pulled away and stood flat footed against the edge of the able. You avoided looking at him and tugged on the ends of your hair sheepishly.

“Sorry I...don’t know what came over me, I thought maybe...“ With your half hearted apology you trailed off looking up at Diluc who stared down at you with a perplexed look in his eye. With his gloved hand he reached up to cup your cheek and leaned down to press his lips firmly against yours. His other hand moved up to hold the other side of your cheek. He wanted to kiss you the moment everyone left. Your lips moved in time with his, your hands finding themselves holding onto the sides of his coat. Without breaking the kiss, he lowered his hands to your waist and then to your thighs. In one swift movement he effortlessly lifted you to sit you on top of the table. The bottles on the surface rattled upon him doing so, slightly moving the table in the process. Your hands moved up his chest from his sides as his own slipped further down your legs to hold onto your waist. His pants were growing tighter by the second, you were so beautiful and he hadn’t voiced it yet. Not that he was given the chance to, the moment you both came up for air you pulled him into another fierce kiss, you legs locking around him in efforts to draw him closer. You needed him to ruin you on that table top and he wasn’t going to deny you of one of life’s simple pleasures. After all this man made it so that people could drink happily within the safety of Angel’s Share. Your tongue moved past your lips and Diluc gladly glided his own over yours to gain access. His hand moved back up to your cheek only to slip down to your neck to hold you in place as his other hand moved up the side of your thigh to squeeze. His leather gloves felt so good on your skin, you wanted to feel more of him.

Your hands moved from his sides to his pants, fumbling with the belts and buttons to try and get them loose. Diluc moved to kiss your neck, his warm lips trailing hot kisses against your soft skin. He made an audible sound, a muffled moan as he kissed the nape of your neck. You tugged him closer upon finally undoing his bottoms. His hand wandered down your side and moved to hitch up your work tunic, the other pulling onto the string to your top. He yanked it down to reveal your bare chest, as he exposed your legs and thighs. He was going to thoroughly enjoy fucking you on top of that table. A slight smile crossed his features as his index finger and thumb moved down to grip your chin, he tilted your head up to look into your eyes. Never has a man made you this weak with such a simple gaze.

“Is this what you want?” He asked quietly, he wasn’t going to begin without asking you. Your brows furrowed in need and you nodded as your eyes searched his face. His own were a bit complacent when he didn’t move to give you what he knew you wanted; he wanted to hear you say it. He only moved in to kiss you once more before his lips found the skin of your neck again.

“Diluc..please.” You whined, he smiled lightly against your neck and kept kissing. You wondered why he was only kissing you, unbeknownst to you his hand moved down in between your legs and his crotch to free his fully hardened member from the confides of his trousers. “M-Master Di—“ Your breath hitched in your throat and you moaned out the rest of his name, a deep growl moving past his lips as he slipped inside of you. He stretched you out continuously as you contracted around his length in utter bliss. Your legs squeezed around him and his hands gripped your waist and thigh. Pulling you closer to his chest as he bottomed out inside of you. Your eyes rolled back as he pushed himself further; your lips parted in a light moan and your hands tangled in his red locks. Diluc’s hand moved from your thigh to your neck to hold you in place briefly as he leaned back to look at your face. It was intoxicating, if he could get drunk off your facial expressions he would. He pulled back and thrusted hard into you, your body jerked up and the table moved along with the bottles and glasses on top of it.

You cried out in pleasure and your hips bucked against his. He bit down on his bottom lip to surpress a groan, he thrusted once again, finding a hard and steady rhythm that left your body jerking upwards against the table and your chest exposed for him to see. An alluring sight that made him thrust even harder and your loud moans to fill the atmosphere of the bar. Mixed in were his own light goans and mild grunts, even as he laid you flat onto the table he didn’t stop. Though the pace slowed a bit, he became more forceful with his movements which made your back arch into his chest and your legs shake. You were going to cum a lot harder than you expected, you could feel it and so could he, you caught wind of a faint smirk that slipped across his face as he kissed you. A kiss deep enough where you could lose oneself. Your hands tugged at his hair and your face pleaded with a need for release.

The bottles, tankards and glasses had since fell onto the floor of Angel’s Share. Not that either of you could be bothered by it now. As your climax rushed at you like a battering ram Diluc groaned out low into your ear the sound made your body quiver, you were about to milk him dry. Your hands slipped out of his hair and fell back onto the table as you convulsed in an intense high. Diluc held you in his arms and sat you back up, with your legs wrapped around him once again. He turned and sat on the edge of the table with you on top, allowing you to ride out the rest of your orgasm as he filled your depths with his hot seed. The feeling itself made you shutter as he buried his face into your chest and his arms wrapped around you, the moan he let out was something you could never get tired of hearing. The area in Angel’s Share that you two both shared had grown hot, the sweat you broke out was enough to cause your breathing to be ragged.

“Master Diluc...” You mumbled into his hair with closed eyes and a smile, his hands rested on your waist as his head rested on your chest. He moved back to look up at you, his hand moving to brush your cheek. He kissed your cheek as he pulled back to look at your face.

“Yes?” He replied, a smile crossing his features, you grinned at him finding the humor in his answer. You kissed him once more, this time slowly to savor the taste of his lips. He looked up at you, his eyes flickering like fire. “There’s going to be a shipment at the Dawn Winery from Liyue, Charles usually comes to pick it up but, I trust you enough to be there in his stead.” Upon hearing those words you knew you’d see him again.

“I will gladly be there, Master Diluc.”

Bonus

After your visit to the Dawn winery a few day ago, you decided to get an afternoon drink at Angel’s Share. Outside you ran into Kaeya and Diluc sitting at one of the tables outside. Kaeya spotted you first of course and when your eyes met Diluc’s a smile surfaced onto your face and his own softened a bit. Which, caught Kaeya’s attention quickly; being the absurdly perceptive man that he was.

“You’re here early, I thought your shift doesn’t start until sundown.” Kaeya spoke with a smile that was suspiciously sly. Diluc sat there with his arms crossed and a placid frown on his face, you sat with them and looked at Kaeya unamused.

“I thought I’d get a drink before my shift, I’ve been quite busy as of late.” You replied moving a hand to rest on your cheek, Diluc was silent and Kaeya looked between you both before his eye settled on you.

“Have you now? You know, a few days ago I went to the Dawn Winery looking for you and Diluc seeing as Charles said you were going to be there.” Kaeya held up a letter from grandmaster Jean and waved it in the air idly. “I needed to deliver a letter from the active grandmaster to Diluc and hoped I’d run into you there and yet...I couldn’t find either of you.” Diluc frowned deeper and your smile began to fade slowly, your hand moved up casually to cover your mouth a bit and Kaeya’s smile grew as he went on. “So, I took it upon myself to look around given your maids told me you were in his study.” Diluc’s expression shifted from displeasure to pure annoyance. You were a bit nervous though wondering if you two had been found out already. You knew the answer in the back of your mind though. “When I couldn’t find you there I saw a maid walk out of the west wing hallway with blush staining her cheeks so, naturally I went that way and much to my surprise there you two were behind the semi closed doors to dear brothers bedroom-“ Diluc snatched the letter from his brother and narrowed his eyes. He stood up and narrowed his eyes at him.

“You finished ?” He asked, short tempered as always, you were a blushing mess on the other hand, with your face covered in attempts to hide your embarrassment. Of all the ways to be found out, it had to be Kaeya happening across you two at the Dawn Winery! Kaeya chuckled lightly and leaned back in the chair.

“Ah-Ah you interrupted me brother, I was just getting to the good part.” You peeked up at him and shook your head Dliuc let out and irritable sigh and turned his back to Kaeya and then looked over at you, a smile on his face one he’d only show to you really.

“I’ll see you later.” You nodded with a warmth to your cheeks as he walked off ignoring Kaeya all together. The three of you knowing Diluc was working tonight with you again. It left you two sitting there in a painful kind of silence where only one of you were inflicted and the other found it jovial.

“He must like you.” Kaeya sighed raising his wine glass to his lips, you glanced over at him with a slight glare and he smiled your way.

“Your point?” You retorted, it lead to him shrugging lightly as he finished the drink. He stood up, preparing to take his leave, moving to place a hand on his hip.

“None really, it’s just he got to you before I could.” Kaeya wouldn’t admit to him being beaten at his own game, he also wouldn’t voice at how it made him proud and happy for his brother at the same time. You looked at him with a straight face and he chortled. “You’ll make each other happy, especially with the sex you’re having. I’m not worried.” He patted your shoulder before he walked off in the opposite direction of his brother. Leaving you there blushing and with the future to think about, one where both you snd Diluc shared.

#genshin impact #genshin impact imagines #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin impact diluc #diluc ragnvindr #diluc #diluc x reader #I deadass had to open the game to describe the bar and where he was fucking you lmfaooo!!#I feel like Diluc is a great kisser bc Kaeya gave him tips on how to do it right randomly one day #like — Kaeya: You’re awkward with women so let me tell you how to kiss right Diluc: :/ go away #genshin impact x gender neutral reader

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the-broken-truth · 3 years

Note

Howdy! I was wondering if I could request some Yandere stuff from Resident Evil 8? I was thinking the reader is a 👩(female) 👻(Reincarnated), 🏠(Local) who was really close to Alcina before their death. Now back to life she wishes to leave the village and travel the world without Alcina becoming aware of just how similar the reader is to that person. But she gets caught attempted to flee in the end. If not thank you anyways!!

Broken Truth (Looks at the username and eyes widen): Isn't this strange? I was looking at your page when you sent me this ask and followed me. Thank you for both. Now, I shall make an answer worthy of a fellow yandere writer's eyes! Let the words weave together!!!

Broken Truth: Since - as it is told - When a soul reincarnates, they lose their memories of past lives but they tend to look or act the same. I think I can make this work. Also - The Reader Shall me named Antanasia due to the fact the name means 'One Who Will Be Reborn.'

SUBTITLE: Soulful Lavender Eyes

[In The Realm of Dreams]

"Floarea mea de lavandă?" The voice of the taller figure of the 2 sitting on a bench waiting to sunset called out as she turned her shrowd face towards the smaller figure to her right.

"Da, contesa mea?" The smaller figure questioned.

"I know you have said it before but I must know... shall we always be together?" The 'Countess' asked.

"Of course, My Love - not even time shall keep us apart." The smaller figure answered - causing what looked to be a smile on the taller figure's face. The two of them leaned in closer - as if for a kiss - but the light of the sun began to flare and consumed them both in its light, dissolving the dream into nothingness.

[In The Home of Antanasia Frost - Bedroom]

The eyelids that protected the lavender eyes opened - allowing the keeper these unusual color of eyes to gaze upon the ceiling of her bedroom. Closing those eyes again, she groaned as she face-palmed herself and lifted her upper body to sit upright in her bed - letting her head hang in her hands as they wiped the sweat from her face.

'That dream again... That's the 5th time this month. This damn village is driving me crazy; I can't wait to get the hell out of this deathtrap.' The young woman echoed in her mind.

This young was Antanasia Frost - a 35-year-old resident of the village who's dreamt of leaving the cursed village since the moment she lost her mother; who - against her father's wisdom - told her not to go out during the night but she failed to listen and lost her life when she was torn apart by a pack of lycans.

Antanasia's Father - Thomas Frost - worked as one of the village's best apothecaries; when your village is converted with death at every turn, a visit to them at least kept you alive along, giving you a chance to live. When her father died, Anatanasia took over the business and she's been working as hard as she can to save every last Lei so that she could leave this accursed place, and maybe the damn dreams will stop.

Little did she know - She was not the only one having a hard time sleeping.

[Castle Dimitrescu - The Catacombs]

The sound of water dripping through the creaks of the old stone that was illuminated by the light of the 3 candles perched upon the candlestick that rested in the hand of the golden-eyed woman that made her way through the stone tunnel. She walked until she reached a door but this door wasn't like all the others in his hall that were decaying away or already fallen apart into a pile of black wood - this door was fresh & made of fresh black wood with the golden Crest of Castle Dimitrescu right in the center of the door. The woman ran her free hand along the golden crest before she reached into her nightgown pocket and withdrew a small silver key that held her insignia as well. She inserted the key into the hole and turned, listening for the click, and pushed the door open, her long black hair - that would normally be in a black bun - was slight blown back as a cold gust of wind came from the newly opened room as she stepped inside.

The room was around a stone cell - the light of the moon that enter from the caged hole in the ceiling shined upon the crystals that were placed on burners around the room & in the center - was a large glass casket. The golden-eyed woman walked to the casket - her eyes beginning to water as she looked at the frozen figure that rested in the glass box, dressed in a lovely lavender silk gown, her skin ghostly white and her once silky brown hair was losing its pigment. The woman placed her hand on the glass box before speaking in a hushed voice.

"My Love... Forgive me for not coming to visit you for a while - the work with Mother Miranda has been rather time-consuming. She says that she is close to figuring out a way to return her beloved daughter from the grave...maybe she can do the same for you, my love. I've been dreaming a lot about you - about our time together. Could that mean...you shall return to me, My Beloved Flower?" She questioned the eternally silent woman in the glass box before her.

[The Next Week - Monday - The Awaited Day]

Map - ✔

Warm Clothing - ✔

All the chests packed onto the cart - ✔

2 Horses, well-fed - ✔

Horse food for 2 weeks - ✔

Small chests of Lei - ✔

Frost Herbal & Elixir Book - ✔

Lily's Locket - ✔

The Frost Family Photo Album - ✔

"That's everything." The lavender-eyed woman smiled as she checked off the last item on her list. She was finally ready to leave this place and never look back. She just closed the deal to sell her father's shop & her home for a hefty fee, it was the last little bit she needed to get everything she needed to the trip to the nearest major sit in Romania & buy a small home or a room at the inn.

Antanasia smiled at the cart of stuff before she walked over to her horse and stroked their manes - both of them snorting in glee.

"Don't worry, guys - packing took a lot longer than I thought but we still have some daylight to get to a safe place to get to before the sun goes down all the way." Antanasia looked at the setting sun with a smile, "We're gonna be free, guys. Now, let's get a move on; we've been here long enough." The girl said as she closed her eyes with a smile and began to board the carriage's driver seat when the horses began to freak out. Antanasia looked around with wide eyes to see what could have scared her horse when she saw 3 clouds of flies that seemed to be coming from 3 different directions - the bugs stood before her and gathered...into 3 bodies.

The Bodies of the Castle Dimitrescu's Heirs - The 3 Daughters.

"What do we have here, sister?" The eldest one - Bela - asked as she tilted her head like a cat.

"I don't know - it looks like a sheep is trying to leave the herd and we can't let that happen." said the middle child - Cassandra.

"Wait." The youngest - Daniela - said as she looked into the eyes of the woman before her & her sisters, 'Doesn't she look...familiar?" Daniela asked.

"What are you going on about, Dani?" Bela asked, confused at her sister's words.

"It's...I feel like I know her - something about her eyes making the back of my brain itch." Dani said without taking her eyes off the woman.

"You have a brain? When did you find it?" Cassandra chuckled - Bela was about to tell her off but something unexpected happened.

"Cassandra Dimitrescu - what have I don't you about disrespecting my dandelion?!" barked out Antanasia's mouth - causing her to slap her hand over her mouth when she realized what she said and the daughters - mainly Dani - got wide-eyed at those words.

"Dandelion? That's what... That's what Mama used to call me." Dani began to tear up, "I knew I recognized you... It's really you - you're back, Mama!!!" Dani yelled out with a smile but the woman before her shook her head.

"No, you have me mistaken for someone else! I am no mother of yours!" Antanasia barked out again as she backed away, bumping in her cart but it was for not when the daughters looked at each other, nodding and charged her.

[A few minutes later - Castle Dimitrescu - Alcina's Study]

"Mother, we have something for - something that you lost a long time ago," Bela said as she walked over to her mother sitting in her chair while her sisters held the struggling woman in their drip. The Lady of the Castle rose to her feet and turned to look at her daughters holding an unknown woman.

"What is the meaning of this, daughters?" Alcina asked.

"Mother, we have reason to believe that..." Bela began but Dani - in her excitement - her off.

"IT'S MAMA, MOTHER! SHE'S COME BACK BUT SHE WAS GOING TO LEAVE THE VILLAGE BUT WE CAUGHT HER BEFORE SHE DID!" Dani yelled out.

"LET GO OF ME! I'M NOT YOUR MAMA! I'M NOTHING TO YOU!" The woman yelled out.

'That Fury...'

It was indeed familiar.

"What makes you think she is my lost love when my beloved sleeps for eternity in a frozen glass box?" Alcina asked as she walked over to the struggling - looking down at her but couldn't see her eyes as they were closed in the struggling.

"Mother, she called Dani 'Dandelion' when Cassandra made fun of her." That name made Alcina's eyes widen and she looked at the woman before grabbing her face to keep it still but the woman still had her eyes closed.

"Open your eyes." Alcina demanded.

"Let me go!" Demanded the woman.

"OPEN YOUR DAMN EYES BEFORE I SLICE YOUR THROAT!" Alcina roared and her demand was met.

Gold Met Lavender.

Amber Met Amythest.

And the Dragon of Dimitrescu smiled again.

"MY BELOVED ANTANASIA, YOU HAVE RETURNED TO ME!" Alcina yelled as wrapped her arms around the woman and held her close, lifting her off the ground.

"Hey, let me down! How the hell do you know my name?" The lavender-eyed woman asked with a glare.

"My dear, are you well? Surely you remember your own wife?" Alcina questioned.

"I don't have a wife and even if I did, it damn sure wouldn't be you!" Antanasia yelled as she struggled - Alcina was stunned at her words but didn't let go.

"My love, what is the matter with you? Why are you like this?" Alcina asked.

"I'm not your love! I'm not their Mama! I just wanna get back to my cart and leave!" The woman yelled.

"Cart? What cart?" Alcina asked.

"As Dani said, Mother - she had packed a cart that was being pulled by two horses and was going to leave the village, she was going to leave us." Bela explained. Alcina looked wide-eyed as she returned her gaze to the glaring woman.

"Antanasia, my heart - does our daughter speak the truth? Were you really going to leave us?" Alcina asked.

'FOR THE LAST TIME - I'M NOTHING TO YOU, EITHER OF YOU! I DON'T KNOW HOW YOU KNOW MY NAME OR WHO YOU'RE CONFUSING ME WITH BUT I'M NOT HER AND I DON'T WANNA BE HER! I JUST WANNA LEAVE THIS HELLISH PLACE AND LIVE MY LIFE!" The lavender-eyed woman yelled and began panting to catch her breath.

"You are not going anywhere." Alcina's voice came out as a growl.

"What?!" Lavender eyes widened again at anger bleeding in gold.

"Do you know how long I have been waiting for you to come back to us? To make our family whole again? To light these dark halls with your love and life? Too long. Far too long. I lost you once - now your soul returns to me in this new form but I'm glad you retained your lavender eyes; the eyes I fell in love with." Alcina purred.

"I'm not the woman you fell in love with!" She pleaded.

"No, you're not, but give it time & you will be again. It doesn't matter how long I have to wait - your soul has returned to us and I shall rekindle that love. As you said before I lost you - Not even time can keep us apart." Alcina smiled a dangerous grin.

[End]

#resident evil 8 #alcina dimitrescu x female reader #bela dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu

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alldayangst · 3 years

Text

gold rush (Tom Holland)

All of my fics are LGBT and PoC friendly. Inspired by gold rush by Taylor Swift. Everybody wants Tom, but you don’t like a gold rush. WC: 2.7K words.

“Y/N, I just wanted to say again, thank you for coming in today and doing this for us.” Tom’s dad, Dominic, said as he displaced papers across desks, earl grey swaying like an angry lake in his mug. Approaching footsteps hinted that the star of the show was soon to be hold. In other words, Tom was running behind.

The door creaked and light from the corridor crept through like Sun peeping through curtains of the Night. It refusing to shut after Tom budged and pushed was maybe divine punishment for him being so late, and maybe provided the bit of laughter you needed after rolling out of bed at 6am for this, for him. When the door eventually did close, Tom turned around and saw you in all your glory; much taller than he remembered, more assured than he’d imagined, and more gorgeous than drowned out and half forgotten memories of you could ever fabricate.

You and Tom ran in the same social circles, but hadn’t seen each other since Tom’s career imploded when you were both nineteen. As much as Tom felt he owed his heart and soul to the UK, he maintained an almost permanent fixture on the States. It started to feel like his trips back to England were in fact actual holiday. At one point, you were in love with Tom, but meeting became a constant battle of ‘here, not there’ and your heart grew tired of the duck and goose chase. The gravity of the situation was too much for you, whom hadn’t even tasted their twenties yet.

“Y/N!” Tom launched at you and held you in tight embrace. You let go of the hug, but he didn’t. And his dad watched on in momentary awe as you wrapped your arms around Tom once again, who breathed in every part of you with unwavering adoration.

“Tom!” You rubbed along his back as he hummed. “When I was told we were gonna have a ghost writer, I had no idea it was gonna be you.”

Tom and his dad (being an author) were collaborating on a book, a million dollar idea that’d been years in the making. Tom had stalled it, his dad told you out of simple insecurity. Now that the world was a stage, he was worried people would criticise his dyslexia with every line he wrote, that every stroke of his pen would reveal him as a rare type of monster that lacked intellect, he pondered that he wasn’t insightful enough in some way. His dad may have written a book about Tom outfaming him, but Tom felt like he’d always live in Dom’s shadow in this respect. Fresh from Oxford with an English Bachelor’s degree, Dom employed you to get grease on the gears to commence writing. Tom had always come out of his shell when you were around.

Your writing session lasted from 8 til noon, when Tom had promo with LadBible or Entertainment Weekly or whoever had bid the highest from his presence that day.

The door swung open and three men in all black and mics saddled around their waists called for and led Tom out of the room.

“Tom, session’s over. We need to get you to your BBC promo in 30 and we’re already running behind schedule.’ One cloaked Tom in a jacket you were sure was more expensive than your own home and another whispered something into a walkie talkie: “Holland is on the move. Check the back entrance is clear.” With that, Tom rose to his feet and left completely opposite of the way you came in. Without a word, no goodbye.

You and Dom left the building together around ten minutes later, where ten men with large cameras stood, lenses focused on you, glaring at you, not sure what to make of you. One of the men screams “Hey! You dating Tom Holland” and after that all you hear is clicks and all you see is bright flashing lights and Dom clenches your hand and leads you to your taxi cab.

The next time you see Tom is sooner than expected. The Hollands were hosting a last minute dinner party and you found yourself sitting opposite Tom, feeling his hard, hot and heavy gaze on you. The tension in the room was so thick not even a chainsaw cut through.

“Next topic,” You picked up a card from the deck and read it aloud. “Politics!” You said devilishly as you sip on what was left of the white wine in your cup, and now that your thought process is blurred; Tom’s longing gaze puts you at dismay.

“Fuck!” Harry exploded, and you hear their mother hiss. “Fuck I hate politics, there’s no making it out alive!” he remarked as he drummed on the table cloth, drunken excitement brewing a new energy in the room.

You go on like this for hours until dinner party is dinner party no more. And while Dom, Nikki and all of Tom’s siblings have chosen to exit stage left, it’s 1am and you and Tom have yet to leave the scene.

Tom sets down your deck of debate cards in favour of a genuine moment.

“What are you doing these days, Y/N?” Tom’s not looking at you, he’s looking at your knee as he rubs circles on it. You want to look down there too, see what he finds so intriguing; but you decide against it in fear you might spontaneously combust. You don’t know if this moment’s supposed to be intimate or innocent and you’re not sure if you want to find out.

So you put up a wall.

“I should be asking you the same thing, Holland.” You say sarcastically. “What have you been doing these days? I haven’t seen you around.” Your eyebrows scrunched up together but you’ve got a big, idiot grin on your face that’s more than telling. Tom giggles at your facetiousness.

Tom scratches his head in mock thought. He never clocks out, always putting on a show. “I don’t know - uh.” You’re laughing before Tom has even told the punchline, ‘cause I guess anything’s funny when it’s said by the one you love.”I’m kind of -” He snatches an old Spiderman comic off the floor. “I’m kinda doing this acting thing at the moment. Playing, y’know, this guy.”

“Well I wish you better luck in the future.” Tom has stopped rubbing circles but instead places his two hands on your knees as you rock back in laughter.

“I’m serious, Y/N. What do you do now?”

“Um.” You suddenly forgot your entire career as Tom, with no shade of subtlety, stares right into your soul. “I got my degree. I write like little stories, y’know? Have you ever heard of folklore?”

Tom shook his head.

“They’re like these little, old beautiful myths. And I write them for a living. And if I’m lucky, they get published in The Times. If I’m even luckier, I get to work with my old best friend - ” You feel your world stop temporarily as you call Tom your ‘best friend’ and you pause for all of 0.3 seconds to register Tom’s reaction but his face doesn’t flinch. “-Writing a book with him and his dad.” And that makes Tom smile. So he doesn’t have to tell you he missed you, you just know.

‘Undivided appearance’ and ‘undivided attention’ don’t necessarily mean the same thing in Hollywood as they do in real life, and you learn that the hard way in your writing session.

Tom may have been sat right next to you, but he was miles away. He was doing press with Cosmo, who hadn’t stopped tagging him with blue hearts on his Instagram, Twitter and Snapchat stories, causing his phone to go off every two seconds. You looked at the phone and then at him who then got the hint and put it on silent. Then there was a knock on the door. Tom rushed to open it, expecting that Dom had sent down a food delivery to egg you on finishing this chapter. You rehashed his childhood like a million times - in fact, you were part of it - so when it came to writing the parts that hurt, where you took a more supporting role in his life, you needed his help. The fact is, the knock at the door had come from one of Tom’s men (Tom liked to call him Man In Black no. 3) who hadn’t said as much as a ‘hi’ before he made his announcement. “Tom, you’re on the line with Cosmo in 10.” The man stepped back and pulled out his walkie talkie, “Holland knows he’s on the line with Cosmo at 10.” And then continued to pace around the hallway.

Cosmo called as he said they would and you almost felt for. second like tom might enjoy an entertainment magazine’s company more than yours. The interviewer made glaring comments and passive flirts at Tom who just blushed and chuckled and sipped his water like the woman on the phone calling him ‘hot’ was just too much to handle. At one point, she says: “What must it be like to grow up that beautiful, Tom? With your hair falling into place like dominoes.” You’re not expecting it when Tom tilts the phone so you’re in view. “Well I’m with the most beautiful being on Earth right now so..” Tom looks at you as if to ask ‘is this okay?” and you know it’s too late for these kind of questions, because that moment is headline fodder, so you smile not to make him feel bad for opening Pandora’s box. But Tom is merciless and likes to rub salt in the wound. “This is Y/N! Y/N’s helping me write the book with my Dad! We go way back.” He covers his mouth as soon as he says it. “Shit! They’re not supposed to know about the book yet.”

This is the moment, you think, where you believe when they say your first love is the one you never let go.

And you can’t think of anything purer than the love you have for him.

Tom thinks being on land is boring. He likes being strung from chords 30 feet in the air, and drowning in despair through scenes of emotional turmoil. You want to tell him you’re an arrow from Cupid’s bow about to reach him, but you couldn’t recover from the splinters if Tom shut you down. After all, Tom was a gold rush. A treasure that everyone had discovered but nobody owned. How precious is a jewel that anybody could take home with them?

Tom had invited you to a visit to Brighton with him, a city near the coast, for some inspiration on writing his section of the book.

You accepted. And because you did, you found yourself at the beginning of the end, on Tom’s boat in Brighton. “We don’t have to talk about the book right now.” Tom throws a stack of blue tinted paper on the floor. His dyslexia meant that spelling and reading was so much easier when done on blue pages, and you could only guess that was the reason the body of water around you brought him so much peace. So when you saw that something might compromise your best boy’s happiness, you point it out. To give Tom a little bit of time to exit before things got ugly.

“Tom, I see someone in the bushes.”

“Yeah. It’s a pap.” Tom mumbled nonchalantly.

“They’re here to get pictures of me,” He turned to face you. “and you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, the fans ship us. Think we’d be a good couple after that Cosmo stunt. We would have been a good couple when we were like, 18.” He laughs.

“Huh, yeah.” You look down.

“The best one around.” And you can’t tell if he’s serious.

You rip off one of his blue sheets. “I’m coming. I got hit with inspo.” And you trail to a different section of the boat. A very obvious click of the camera from a shrub nearby coaxes your pen to write without a second thought, How is he so accustomed to this? Fake private moments, protected by sheer glass curtains?

You scrunched your paper, well his paper, into a ball.

Your mind had turned his life into folklore. You weren’t sure if that was crossing a line, so you just put the ball into your bag and hide it until he hits you with the spark again.

“Let me see it.” Tom says.

“No.”

“You ran off to write it and won’t let me see it?”

You held your bag at your hip in defence. “No, Tom. Drop it.”

Tom’s face drops a little bit, but then he reaches into his own bag and reveals a deck of your debate cards. “I know what will cheer you up, good ol’ Y/N.” He sets a card on the wooden table between you two.

“Do you believe in a higher power?”

You toyed with the pendant around your neck which revealed your faith. “Do you?”

“I don’t. But I believe in soulmates.”

You look to the left to really ponder on what Tom is saying, and a paparazzis captures another photo of you in the corner of your eye.

“And you don’t think there’s a higher power that manufactures our souls to make our soulmates?”

Tom feigns a scowl. “That’s ridiculous.”

You scoffed. “How very contrarian of you.”

“What the fuck does that mean.”

“It means you contradict yourself, Thomas.” You laugh as he holds his chest in fake hurt.

“Are you implying I’m anything less than perfect?”

“Never.”

Never. Because you didn’t believe that to be true.

“Good. Cause you’d have to be punished.” Tom picks you up and throws you in the water below before jumping in with you.

On your way home you stop at the yours and Tom’s writing booth, scavenging through your bag to drop off Tom’s notepad, some scrunched up blue and white papers you and Tom thought could still help you write his book. You’d made an addition to your love-hazed scribblings about Tom and reckon you’d die if he found it. You managed to throw the other in the water, excusing yourself with “It’s utterly awful.”, to which you and Tom agreed you wouldn’t throw any more paper in the ocean cause the poor fish already had it hard enough.

You and Tom had a session the next day. Tom was excited for the day, and you could tell because he’d given his phone to one of his big babysitters for the time he had you.

“I think that’s all of yours.” You and Tom made a business out of unscrunching your paper balls to see if they had any useful ideas. You were certain you reached the end of Tom’s. All of his notes had ‘T.H’ written on the back in big and were scribed on blue paper. When it came to your little ‘secret admirer’ notes you weren’t worried - you had an English degree and were quick to think on your feet and was ready to make something up when it came to opening it.

“No, this one’s mine.” He’s confident, so you let him have it. He goes to pick up your tea and then realises it’s nowhere near warm, and was the one you made for yourself when you crept in yesterday evening. Tom has a smile on his face, and then he doesn’t. Before he goes to read it aloud, his eyes tell you he’s reading it again and again and again. “At dinner parties, I’ll call you out on your contrarian shit, and the coastal towns we wondered round will never see a love as pure as it.”

The look on Tom’s face gives you the splinters. He tries to look at you but you know he can’t. You don’t blame him. You can’t look at him either. “I really thought this was a good friendship.”

You hum and nod your head in agreement, pull your lips into a thin straight line as streaks of tears abandon your eyes. This was worse than Tom rubbing salt in your wounds. He’s rubbing dirt in your painful fucking gashes and you are reminded of why this didn’t work before, why it will never be.

And you wouldn’t dare to dream about him anymore.

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acklesterritory · 3 years

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Bad Ideas_Ch. 1

Hey guys, I'm back with a new story.

*First*: I want to apologize if I tagged you in case you didn't want to. Unfortunately I mixed up my tag list so please even if you don't read this story let me know if you're on my blog's

1. Dean tags or 2.series tags or 3.oneshot tags.

And reblog so the others see this post too. Thanks

**Second*I'm planning on finishing this story in 2 parts but sometimes it can take longer so no promises.

Dean x Reader

This chapter words~4k

Series Warning: +18, a/b/o relationships, Dom/Sub(No details. You know I hate spoilers), Angst, Smut, Unprotected sex (You're wiser that that), Cheating, Language, Hurt reader

Summary: She was supposed to get married and imprint her beloved wolf but what happens when a dominant hunter shows up to hunt them?

This chapter song: Wild by John legend feat Gary Clark Jr. Listen here

And I stole @jay-and-dean 's divider *sorry*

Happy reading and may you leave me something cause feedbacks are writer's fuel.

Mad, Sad, pretty, savage, seductive, crazy!

An obvious alpha.

I knew it from the first time I laid my eyes on her.

Couple of weeks ago I was at a luxury restaurant in my Fed suit to meet a businessman who could be involved in our new case. Doing that random investigation, I was getting convinced that there ain't any useful information and he was nothing but a waste of the time. So I excused myself and left the table to call Sam in the lobby. He had to know it was a dead end. But just when I was putting my phone back in my pocket, someone grabbed my arm from behind and pushed me against the wall out of blue.

"Say your name."

Wasn't my first time to face a seductive woman but for some unknown reason her whisper sent a shiver down my spine and I couldn't stop my eyes from gazing at her curves in that elegant black outfit.

"Listen. I got myself into this awful situation where I had to face this filthy woman announcing everyone in my birthday party that she was sleeping with my fiance. So before he show up to stop me, I need you to help them realizing something very important about me. And that help will be appreciated. So make your mind. You can just simply say your name and mention your price or I will kill you to make a scene and skip everyone's pitty looks part." She told me, running her right leg up, between my legs. To make me feel the bulge of her thigh holester underneath her dress: *She had a gun*

Wetting my lips, I looked down into her eyes for a second. She had some make up on but I knew enough to be sure that wild look couldn't be fake. She was a werewolf who probably had no idea what she got herself into.

"Name's Dean." I bit on my lip. Why I let her know my real name? I had no idea. I didn't want to think about it either. I just wanted to hold my gaze there, Letting myself to catch on those burning flames in her eyes.

"And sorry sweetheart. I'm off the sale."

I brought my lips closer to her ear so she could hear my whisper. However I hadn't to bend so much. Even without those elegant highheels, she was taller than a normal chick.

"What do you want, then?" She almost hissed on my lips before I pushed her back.

"Maybe I want you to be even more angry. Who knows?" I joked, distracting her for a second by my intentional smirk.

"You are a hunter, aren't you?" This time she surprised.

"What?" I narrowed my eyes and peaked out the tongue to wet my lips when she turned around for a second to catch a glimpse of whoever was approaching us.

"Just save my honor and then I'm yours. Kill, rape, torture. I don't mind anymore." There was no regret, shame or sorrow in her tone. She just stated it like a random proven fact. No hesitation, no hard feelings, no doubts. She was speaking like a smart commander in a war field, negotiating with her enemy to just save the day.

And to be honest I was stunned by that behavior. I know that I could resist her when she right away reached out but the thing is I didn't want to. As soon as she snaked her arms around my neck, her smell surrounded me like a trap. A captivating one. So pleasant! Then her lips were on mine in a shameless open-mouthed kiss. With her tongue dancing with mine.

I closed my eyes and immediately blood started to run wild in my veins. Every fiber, every cell were reacting to her warm body against my cold existence. It felt strange. I never was aroused by a kiss this fast. Not even when I was just a virgin teen.

"Y/n?!" A gruff voice called her. So she had to draw an unintentional groan out of me to break the kiss.

"That's him." She murmured on my lips. And I opened my eyes to look at a tall man in his fancy tuxedo. He was handsome. But not as much as he was wealthy. His watch could cost the whole hotel itself!

"What are you doing?" Eyes burning, he stared at me. Like he was watching the most terrible scene ever in his life.

"Well, ..." She smiled mischievously, getting out of my arms to stand next to me.

"Just enjoying my heat with a man who actually can handle it." She stated, smiling with her head up, radiating power.

"What..." The man's gaze shifted between us in disbelief.

"What do you ... what does ..." He was getting red by anger. And it seemed she couldn't care less.

"This is a break up, Jamie. I'm done with your endless excuses. I'm done with you, sleeping around while you can't even satisfy my needs in the bed. I need a better man."

*well, shit*

"You're … how you … can …" The man stuttered, shaking his head in disbelief. I looked around and found out people were gathering around us slowly. From the corner of my eyes I spotted two hunk in suits in front of the main door. They were definetaly bodyguards.

"That's it. We are done." She announced while everyone held their breath; watching her taking off her ring and throwing it toward her newly "ex".

"Y/N! …" The man took a step forward. His eyes were on fire and rage. Still his tone was soft, unlike his rough voice. "You can't do this. It's just a misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding?" She laughed, tilting her head. Everyone could see how her fangs looked perfectly white and sharp: Ready, challenging, threatening!

"Is that so, Jamie?" She mocked before bringing out her phone out of her tiny clutch, throwing it to the guy after playing a video on it. By the noises I could hear, it was a sex type that made the man sweating bullets in no time.

"Now get the fuck out of my way and out of my life." She retorted, grabbing my hand. And as I was planning to win over the two bodyguards who mightly would stop us, we just reached to the main front door.

"Miss Y/l/N …" To my surprise, one of the bodyguards approached us politely. looking cool, calm, and all in control.

"You two can go home, Mark. I'm gonna spend the night with …" She hesitated and shut her eyes for a second to remember my name:

"… Dee. We probably need some private time for the next few days. I'll call you when I feel I need to get back home. But til that, I don't want any interruptions." She declared and by her steady and sure tone I could say she used to talk with them.

"But …"

"Just don't let Jamie get close to me ever again." She cut the bodyguard's word carelessly and then turned her face to look at me.

"You got any car?"

"Of course I do." I gave her my most proud smile.

"Ok then. Let's go out of here. I don't want to even take one more breath in here anymore."

I watched enough movies and read enough comics and slept with enough women to know that Y/n was a whole different savage alpha.

She was on the baby's seat in just her one single layer fancy dress that barely covered her body while it was freezing cold outside. To the point I could feel the chill in my FBI suit and coat the moment we walked out of the hotel. And still she protested me when I turned on baby's heater.

"She was pregnant." She said bluntly, a few minutes later, looking out of the window like she could see anything in road at that dark night through baby's steamed up glass.

I looked over her and catch a glimpse of her tears before she could wipe them.

"I can't believe he did this to me. Out of all the people, Jamie was the last one I expected him to betray me." She was hurting but her voice wasn't shaky. She still sounded more angry than sad.

"Maybe he didn't. Maybe the chick misused the hit of a moment to trick him."

*Why I'm defending him? He is a freaking werewolf!*

I had no idea! Maybe I was trying to soothe her pain. But Why?

"Yeah, maybe. But after all he is the one who let the devil in!" Her sound wasn't more than a whisper but it woke the old screams of my guiltyconscience in my head:

*How many times I had let the devil get in me?*

"Screw him." She said through her clenched teeth. Then she threw her head back and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. "Screw him. Screw dad. And screw the whole royal pack. Screw everything!"

I sighed, knowing she will be angry for a while. So I turned on the radio, changing the stations to find something that might distract her. I just didn't need to watch that lady's upcoming tears.

I … wanna take you so far.

Out past the Saturn rings

And into my heart

The rhythm catched my attention immediately. It sounds like a nice song. A comforting one.

I wanna drive you

Wild, wild, wild

I wanna love you

For miles and miles

I chuckled, patting Baby on the wheels.

We can go slow,

we don't need to rush

I'll take the wheel,

make you feel every touch

I wanna drive you

Wild, wild, wild

"Where is the lie, Baby? I always do." I chuckled, enjoying how the song perfectly suit us.

"Are you talking to me or to your old ass car?"

I was so ready to make Y/n regret that harsh remark, yet when I turned to give her my deadliest frown, she got me almost chocked on my tongue.

"Wha …"

A lace black lingerie hanging around the right knee, she had her legs wide open on my passenger seat‌, playing with her bare core with her delicate fingers while her left foot was using dashboard to support her weight.

Lay on the passenger's side

Tell me how fast you want

We'll get there tonight

Her right strap dropped when she jolted in her sex fever, almost revealing whole of her bare chest. And all of this was happening while she still had her eyes closed, panting in pain. I felt like I lost the ability to even form a God damn sound.

Oh, fire, you set me on fire

I swear you're the only one

I'd take on this ride

"What … are you … doing?!" My voice sounded horrible, scratchy and far. I darted my tongue to wet my lips but my mouth was already dry by watching her. It was no surprise that she didn't noticed my question. She was already lost in her body. Her neck was glistening under road's occasional faint lights and now all I could feel was her warmth in the small room of the car, already surrendered to her astounding smell, in middle of a freaking winter night.

… Oh, oh

Yeah

Wanna love you

Wanna touch you

Wanna drive you

Wild, wild, wild …

I jumped out of my skin when a sudden honk drew my attention out … to the road and I finally noticed the truck that could crash us to hell if I couldn't rotate the wheel just on time.

*Dang* Something beside me hit the windshield the moment I stepped on the break. Then a shattering sound cut the air.

"Y/N!" I screamed, trying to pull over without making any other mess.

"Hey … you hear me?" I asked as I turned to see her face buried in her hairs on the dashboard. A part of the windshield was broken in an oval shape, broken pieces scattered mostly on the passenger side while the rest of it had some cracks on.

"Y/N!" I called her again but when I couldn't get any answer, I get out of the car to circulate baby and open the passenger door.

"Hey … look here, can you hear me?" I pulled her carefully back, to rest her head against the seat, securing her neck between my hands. That was when my eyes catched on the sight of a deep cut on her forehead, right under the hair line. And it was bleeding.

"Y/n?"

She moaned, goosebumps raised on her skin everywhere around my fingers.

"I think I need to lay down on the back seat." She said, before opening her eyes.

"Are you in pain?" I couldn't help myself, not knowing why I suddenly would care that much?

She smiled and I reached to wipe the oozing blood on my thumb.

"I got a first-aid box in my trunk. Just wai…"

Before I could finish my saying and right as I started to withdraw, she grabbed my arm to hold me still.

"No, help me to the back seat." For a second I got lost in her eyes, feeling an odd fultter in the dip of my stomach, pulling me like a meaningless swarf toward the magnet of her wondrous touch.

"Please."

Mostly humans know that drinking sea water or getting hit by a gunshot can cause their death. But could that knowledge stop them from exploring oceans or fighting for their honor in the war fields?

"Dean …"

"Alright."

Well, I was a human too. A human who could be attracted to unknowns, being aware that it could be very dangerous. Or maybe more marvelous.

"You ok?" I asked as soon as I had her on my back seat, gazing at the sweat running down on the side of her face while one of my legs were resting inside of car, the other: still out, planted on the ground.

"I think I've hurt my back." I spotted a tremor in her voice as she avoided my puzzled look and stared down to her lap like she was hiding a secret there. Was that weapon still hidden there in that holster?

I checked my gun to be where it should've been. If she (as a werewolf) was up to kill me (as a hunter), I knew this could be her best shot. And honestly if It was me, I would've used the same trick.

"Are you gonna wait there for the rest of the night?" She raised her eyebrows and instantly hissed as the deep cut on her forehead got wrinkled with this simple move.

Taking a deep breath, I pulling myself completely in and closed the door behind. Well, I was aware that without any way out, she could've killed me much easier. But what kind of human could touch the moon without taking any fetal risk?

However I still didn't want to hurt her. So I hoped she wouldn't do what an enemy should do.

As I was all ready to confront her attack, she slightly turned her back to me. Then she grabbed her long hair and put them aside, giving me the access to her spine.

"Can you check it for me?"

Well, if she wanted to play, I was game too. In the end, I had killed enough werewolves to know how I could manage an alpha one like her. But … it was about something more. Something way stronger: A wild need and an ancient desire to touch her bare skin on my fingertips, tongue and teeth. A perfect example of a hunter and his prey. And yet … I was feeling like the first man who was about to discover the fire too.

"Do you want me to unzip it?" I asked to be sure. Never wanted her to feel like I would hurt her honor just because we were enemies. Even when touching her was all I could think about at the moment.

"Yes, please." She whispered and I noticed the same burning wish in her soft tone. So I couldn't help my fingers run their way on her back and touch the velvety fabric of her outfit.

She inhaled loudly as I unzipped the dress, watching the goosebumps raising on her skin as I was tracking down on her spine.

"I don't think you got any wound here."

"Then why I'm in pain?" She asked, leaning back to me. And I subconsciously pulling her dress down, not knowing why my everything wanted to touch her more?

"Hunter." Her breaths got quickened and as she rested her head back on my right shoulder and nuzzled her nose in my neck, I could tell she was still burning up.

"I'm in heat." She said, panting. And that was the moment I realized she was already lost by just imagining me inside of her.

"Y/n …"

"Dean ..." She whined as her hand found the side on my head.

"Dean, I need you." With that she pushed me down to claim my lips in a lustful kiss.

I could be a caveman or a scientist, or even an astronaut but for sure she was more than a thunderstorm or the electricity or even the mars itself.

"Ah … " She whimpered, her body twisted in my arms, like an angry wounded animal that was seeking for a remedy. From her owner.

"This is such a bad idea." I said as my hands grabbed her waist, trying to control her moves when she started to roll her hips impatiently.

"That's what people always say. To Galileo, To Da Vinci, even to ..." She claimed, taking my fingers with her delicate ones, to guide my hands up on her body.

" … to whoever with … " I stole her breath as my hands reached to her soft breasts.

"With the …"

She took a shaky breath to keep herself together. But I was that man who just had landed on the moon and now wasn't able to stop trying. So I grazed my teeth on the skin of her neck, marking her with a hickey right as I squeezed her breasts, giving her aroused nipples the special attention they deserved with my thumbs. Well, she fought to not fall apart and I had to fill her blank spaces:

"Best ideas?" I asked before biting on her lips, feeling the burning heat that was coming out of her skin. Could moon ever be the sun too?

"Hunter!" She almost cried as my left hand travels down on her belly and hips to find her already swelled bud and part her labia. "HUNTER!"

This time she really screamed as my thumb brushed her bud again while my other two digits sank in her warm core. Her walls sucked on my fingers.

"OH GOD!"

I was still rubbing her nipple with my other hand when she dug her nails in my arms.

"No!" She gasped.

"No? I thought you said it's not a bad idea."

I whispered before taking her earlobe between my teeth and pulled on it as her back fought hard to arch against my body. She got speechless, drown in whatever the black hole we both had fallen into. Now time and place were lost for us so I tightened my arms more around her body.

"Shush, alpha. Take it easy." I said as I removed my fingers from where I was making her weak. And that was out of the bare truth of a human's nature. We love to possess and we love to own. Even if it's the moon and the sun or maybe a lost star in the Infinity of the universe.

She jolted forward in ecstasy and I had to grabbed her wrists firmly before she could end herself: "No."

"Please! … God." She whimpered. Thighs shaking with need and thirst. But I knew better.

"My name is Dean."

But what else could make a negligible creature like me feel like a God more than this wolf of women during her pleasure?

I kissed her shoulder and hugged her from behind, letting her cool down as our warmth were mixing in the small room of the car. She was panting again.

"Come here."

I turned her chin toward my face, tasting her lips in an open mouthed and yet tender kiss, taking my time to draw some deep moans out of her chest.

Til she was nothing more than a pounding heart or a throbbing mess and a mind which had already got blind by lust.

Somehow I wanted this prideful moment to last forever.

"Deeaaaan!" She rubbed her thighs against each other, trying her best to control her wild necessity to come. I could tell it was making her mad cause now she couldn't even sit up in my lap.

"Lay down, sweetheart" I encouraged. And as she did, I got rid of our clothes as soon as I could. When I was done, I noticed her passionate gaze on me.

"You'll be the death of me!" She admitted and I bent to lick her along her jaw.

"No, I need you alive. We still got some dirty work to do."

My whisper made her shiver. And moan. Again and again.

Looking down, I watched how her body were twisting under me, once more rubbing her thights together as I was holding her wrists up beside her head.

"Open up, alpha." I commended, reaching to her core, making her pants in pain as I mercilessly squeezed her bud.

She took another shaky breath, as she parted her legs for me. So I take the advantage to lube myself with her juice as she was already dripping.

"I said don't come yet." I slapped her breast and bent to bite her hard on the other one, sliding myself in her velvety heaven.

"DEAN!" She cried and her eyes rolled. And I tried to freeze this image in my mind. Could a God be more proud of himself?

But It was just the beginning. I decided to start my favorite rhythm to slam into her. And kept watching her bliss and how her soft and round breast were bouncing every time out hips met.

"You're doing good, sweetheart. I know you can." I could not stopped my smile when I realized she'd almost fainted, fighting against her mad orgasm.

"Aa…ha." She tried to answer but it sounded more like a painful moan which I muffled it in a kiss. Sweet and sore. Wet and shameless. We now were a part of one another. The mystery was solved. The cold God was melting in the arms of the sun. The man kind had won the moon.

"Come." I groaned and her walls clenched around me, sucking me inside of her.

Her back arched violently and I had to clutched at the leather seats to keep myself up when an unstoppable rush of pleasure hit both of us.

And just like that, we made the big trouble. The gravity that could swallow our futures all together …

"To be continued".

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qqueenofhades · 4 years

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hilary listen the old guards slayed me. I mean the plot the pacing the writing the acting?? the diversity that didn’t feel like lip service? tHAT ENDING??? Charlize Theron also knocked it out off the park. like the bone weary fatigue that comes with seeing too much and for too long could’ve been played as that snarky cynical and jaded god. but she dIDNT. and it was such an impactful and nuanced performance. Agh I’m running out of characters gdi moving over to another ask (1/2)

ALSO BOOKER. I fucking love when they make a characters actions reasonable. like the man is clearly depressed. he’s tired and he wants some sort of agency back in the face of devastating loss over and over again. like waiting for your friends to heal themselves each time they die?? my god that amount of stress has to get to you at some point. which also lends to this self-awareness and surety among all of the characters (especially Nicky omg Nicky you beautiful cinnamon roll). GDI no space (2/3)

RIGHT. Nicky! what a compassionate but ruthlessly efficient solider (also that part near the end where he puts the gun over his shoulder for joe to take was kinda hot ngl). the juxtaposition is so interesting and compelling and we see it throughout the movie with all of the characters too. even their relationship as a team. it’s odd because they’re really professional with each other but still choose to be a family from the get go. it’s even more profound when you think about it (NO SPACE Y) 3/4

because that’s the one thing they truly have a choice over. they’re going to see these 4 people for the rest of their long longgg lives and they can very easily say no. I’ll find others and lose them but I refuse to be forced to get stuck with you instead of someone else. they don’t though and such props to the writer who didn’t go down that traditional path of conflict. aggghh I could on about how andy didn’t die either but I’m running out of space Again and have spammed you enough lolollll

LOOK.

It was as if ye olde Netflix Powers Thatte Be said “look we know 2020 has been a flaming hellpit dumpster of Why God Why, so we’re gonna give the gays everything they want”

There was world-weary ancient Greek warrior short-haired lesbian Charlize Theron (that scene with the hot French pharmacy lady tenderly patching up her shoulder in the bathroom and the obvious sexual tension was SO UNNECESSARY BUT ALSO COMPLETELY NECESSARY GOD BLESS THE FILMMAKERS!) She has lost her equally hot and badass wife and there was Angst and Feelings and now we have Drama with said wife returning from the sea floor and I don’t know what’s gonna happen but my body is ready and I need the sequel immediately.

There were Joe and Nicky, the most beautiful devoted interracial/interreligious mlm immortal husbands who are still completely gaga for each other after hundreds of years, there are absolutely no gay “jokes” or even any calling attention to their status, they whup ass and they make out in front of stormtroopers because why not get you a man who can do both. We have already discussed the fact that I am Deep down the rabbit hole for them.

There was Nile (NILE! I WOULD DIE FOR YOU!) the most PRECIOUS immortal bean, who is a Black woman who literally cannot be shot down, who takes the hits from the military (DON’T THINK I DID NOT NOTICE THAT THE US ARMY WAS ALSO GOING TO PUT HER IN A CAGE/INSTITUTION ONCE THEY FOUND OUT ABOUT HER) and from the white supremacist violence but GETS BACK UP EVERY TIME BECAUSE THEY CANNOT STOP HER WITH THEIR USUAL MINDLESS STATE SPONSORED MACHINE GUNS. She gets to rescue the whole team like a BADASS and go into the lab with the action-hero angles almost ALWAYS received by the Hard Bitten White Man, she gets to tackle the main villain off the top of a goddamn skyscraper and walk away from it while he’s dead, she is nonetheless Sweet and Vulnerable and in need of Protection so she gets to be BOTH the damsel in distress and the hero and I just... I have a lot of feelings about Nile okay.

Even the Hard Bitten White Man we did get, i.e. Booker, is the guy who makes painful choices and is driven by the pain of having to watch his children die and yet also still displays emotions and cares for his other family and awfully regrets what he did to hurt them (and when he realizes Andy’s not healing he PANICS) and now he’s met Quynh and oh the dramaaaa.

I VERY MUCH NOTICED THE CIA AND BIG PHARMA/AN INSUFFERABLE KNOW IT ALL RICH BRITISH WHITE MAN BEING THE VILLAINS UNDER CLAIMING TO DO “GOOD.” THANK YOU. (And good on you Chiwetel Ejiofor, I knew you wouldn’t let Dudley Dursley actually get away with it)

THE ADVENTURES ACROSS HISTORY TO BE! GOOD! PEOPLE! NOT GRIMDARK POINTLESS ANNIHILATION! THEIR HEROISM MEANS SOMETHING IN THE END!!!

THE FOUND FAMILY OF IT ALL. As you note, they completely avoided the “oh no they all hate each other and snipe over petty things and try to kill each other” and went “nope they are a family and they watch football together in their loud church in France where they like to live and all sleep in the same bedroom” LIKE UP YOURS MARVEL CINEMATIC UNIVERSE oops

And Andy DIDN’T die and is gonna see her wife again and now has to reckon with that and has to figure out how to fight when she’s no longer completely invulnerable and has to mentor Nile and figure out how to be part of the team in a different way and and and

(I CAN’T BELIEVE I ORIGINALLY FORGOT TO MENTION IT WAS DIRECTED BY A BLACK WOMAN AND A LOT OF WOMEN WORKED ON IT)

/breathes deeply

Anyway I liked it a normal amount.

#the old guard #tifipants #ask

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redvoid-40 · 3 years

Text

A Game for a Kiss

Don’t ask me where this came from. I’ve watched BSD a couple months ago and of course I got the hots for the feral rat-man. -.-

Anyway, slowly I came up with a little plot for an arc with some OCs (weird calling them OCs, when they’re all named after past writers but oh well) and even thought about developing it, but since I’m not in the mood to write a whole multi-chaptered fic, I decided to just write this interaction between Fyodor and my main OC for the BSD-universe, Mary Shelley. You know, as a treat. >.<

I know the fandom is super small, but I thought someone might enjoy this, so here it is! :)

Also, Fyodor might be OOC (it’s hard to get a full understanding of his character) but I see him as creepy-pretty, with no qualms in manipulating women in ways that border on dub-con. So... TW: some making out; Fyodor’s thoughts making it clear his morals are more twisted than a pretzel.

Anyway, enjoy! :)

Part 1 / Part 2 (NSFW) / Part 3 (NSFW)

“How about a game?” Fyodor proposed, smiling from ear to ear as he moved a chessboard from the side table to the coffee table in front of them. It was small, with tiny and expensive crystal pieces that had a purely decorative role, but he had never minded playing with valuable and irreplaceable things before, so why start now? Much worse to die of boredom than to shatter a hundred-dollar pawn. “I heard you had quite the reputation at the Chess Club in Oxford.”

“It’s been a few years since I last played,” Mary admitted as placed her glass of anise-infused gin on the coffee table and reached out to touch the white king, as if she was caressing a long-lost lover. “Not sure I’ll be a worthy opponent to you, Mr Dostoevsky.”

“How about I give you some impetus then?” Fyodor asked, raising a sole eyebrow as Mary’s eyes shone with interest. “If you win, I’ll give you something. Something I know you want from me.”

Mary quickly pulled back, like a child caught with her hand in the cookie-jar. “You’re already doing so, and I’m eternally grateful for it. Helping me retrieve Adam and right my wrong is all I could ever hope for and more, Mr Dostoevsky. There’s nothing el-”

“A kiss.”

Fyodor’s smile widened and his eyes darkened as a pink dusted over Mary’s cheeks. Her dark eyes made it hard to discern her emotions, but if he were to guess, Fyodor would bet her pupils had doubled in size at his indiscretion.

“I can feel your gaze on me, Doctor Shelley. Every time I walk in a room, your eyes peruse my figure like I’m an appetising treat,” Fyodor spoke, feet planted on the floor as he projected his body forwards, elbows on spread knees and the fingers of his hands intertwined. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you are interested in me in a way that’s not entirely professional or proper.”

Mary reached for her lowball glass and quickly brought it to her lips, downing the rest of her gin in a way that also wasn’t professional or proper. Fyodor watched her throat move, amused and admitedly a bit impressed at the pace at which she was draining her gin, wondering if maybe he should have proposed a drinking game instead. Who would fare better, her with her gin infusions or him with his chilled vodka?

“... and if I lose?”

Fyodor blinked, lazily trailing his eyes up her chin, passing by her pouting lips, blushing cheeks and up to dark eyes that stared at him so attentively. Lips curled at the corners, he raised a single eyebrow, urging Mary to continue.

“If I lose the game, what would you demand as compensation?” She clarified, and Fyodor exhaled at how she pressed her thighs together beneath her knee-length, black skirt.

“I’m not sure,” Fyodor said. “Why don’t you let me decide later? If I win the game, that is.”

Mary’s eyes turned away from his, moving down to gaze at the empty glass in her hands as some luster in her eyes darkened into distrust. “I think I’ll pass on your offer, Mr Dostoevsky. A kiss for an IOU? Your proposition doesn’t sound fair to me.”

Fyodor retreated, letting his spine fall comfortably against the back of the sofa as an airy laugh left his lips. The woman wasn’t as foolish as he had expected, at least; despite admitting in all but words she was enamoured with him, her shackles remained raised, certain she couldn’t trust him as far as she could throw him.

Must be a woman’s intuition, Fyodor thought, remembering the looks he so often received from the fairer sex throughout his late adolescence and adult life. So many inviting smiles were thrown his way, only to morph into barely veiled jitters when he got close enough to touch. For all his years of manipulating the brightest of the brightest to have his way, Fyodor still hadn’t figured out how to lull women into unravelling themselves for him without promises of money - or some other stimulant - as reward.

“If I win I vow not to abuse my freedom, and will only ask for something of equivalent value to what I offer,” Fyodor proposed, lips relaxing in a smile he hoped Mary deemed trustworthy. “And if you feel I ask too much, you can deny me and I’ll give up my reward altogether. Does that sound fair, Doctor Shelley?”

Mary looked at him through lowered lashes and he could almost hear the gears turning in her head, lust and reason rotating in opposing directions in a struggle to decide.

“Fair enough,” Mary spoke at last, and placed her glass back on the coffee table. Her hand then moved to the chessboard and spun it around so the white pieces were close to her. “But I play white.”

Fyodor almost protested, but the smile Mary threw his way demanded enough endearment that he’d allow her this little bit of despotism just this once.

He found he rather liked it.

---

To Fyodor’s surprise and satisfaction, Mary proved herself to be a worthy opponent. For the first time in years, Fyodor stood over a chessboard with furrowed eyebrows as he macerated the pad of his thumb between his teeth to the point he could taste iron on his tongue.

“Don’t do that. You’re hurting yourself.”

Fyodor had just moved his knight when a hand seemed to appear out of nowhere and gently wrapped around his wrist to guide his thumb out of his mouth. Purple eyes narrowed, shooting up from the board to Mary, but his scowl melted into something almost benign at finding the woman hunched over the board, positively pouting. Her hand released his wrist, leaving an imprint of heat on his flesh despite not touching skin, and floated back to her, fingers twitching as they hovered over her pieces, debating their next move.

There was a brief knock on the doors before they opened and in walked Ivan, pulling Fyodor’s attention just in time to see the narrowing of his silver eyes as they fell on the back of Mary’s head. The glare disappeared as soon as it came, so when Mary turned around to greet the newcomer with a polite smile, he responded with an enormous grin and flamboyant mannerisms.

“I’ve come to check upon you, see if everything was alright,” Ivan announced as he stood behind Mary, silver eyes fixed on Fyodor with adoration. “It’s almost midnight.”

Mary’s eyes widened in surprise as she reached for the phone she had forgotten on the cushion by her side. “Oh my, there are twenty calls from Jane. I really should take this thing off silent mode.”

Fyodor’s jaw tightened as Mary’s focus shifted from their match to her phone. “Ivan,” he called with a firm voice that demanded to be the centre of attention again. “Please, let Doctor Shelley’s companions know she is safe and sound with me, and that we’re both occupied at the moment. Also, would you be so kind to have someone bring us something to eat? Something sugary would be best. I will have a drink as well. Vodka, chilled but no ice,” then he lowered his eyes back to the woman in front of him and smiled as he motioned to her empty glass. “Doctor Shelley, would you care for another?”

“Ah, I-”

“A gin for the lady, Ivan. Thank you.”

Ivan’s smile didn’t falter as he bowed his head. “Of course, I’ll have someone bring your drinks. As for sweets, I believe there are a few strawberry shortcakes in the fridge. Would that be to your liking?”

This time, Fyodor remained silent as he stared at Mary, giving her the illusion she had a say in this whole matter, that she could choose her treat in the way she couldn’t choose to refuse a drink.

Mary’s eyes were glued to his and once again he noticed how her thighs rubbed together at his attention, leaving her phone forgotten by her side. Blushing, she craned her neck to glance at Ivan and nodded. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

“Very well. Someone will bring everything here briefly,” Ivan said, moving his eyes back to Fyodor. “If you need me-”

“We will be fine,” Fyodor dismissed, purple eyes fixed on Mary as he gave her a smile that showed too many teeth. “I believe it’s your turn, Doctor Shelley?”

Mary nodded, turning her gaze to the chessboard. Her hand hovered while her brain readjusted to their match, reviewing the last rounds as it calculated the best moves she could make. It took her only a couple of seconds to review their entire game and make her move.

“Good,” Fyodor said, right hand rising to his lips out of habit, only to stop midway as he felt an intense stare on him. When he looked up, Mary was giving him a look that quickly morphed into a smile when he aborted the movement. He snorted and smiled back. “Worried about my delicate fingers?”

“You’re the one who said you have an anemic constitution,” Mary replied, eyes dropping back to the board. “You shouldn’t hurt yourself; it might take longer than usual to heal.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Fyodor said, letting his eyes move up and narrow slightly at finding Ivan remained still behind Mary, staring at him with a doll-like smile on his face and wide eyes. “Ivan, our drinks?”

“Oh, of course! My apologies,” the man said before bowing theatrically. “I’ll leave you to your match. Good night!”

Fyodor nodded as Mary turned back to Ivan, throwing a polite “Good night, Mr Goncharov”, before once more focusing her attention on their game, waiting for Fyodor to take his turn. He grinned, purple eyes fixed on her as he made his move, enjoying the way Mary’s lips pouted as she concentrated.

He really was having fun playing with her.

---

The game came to its inevitable conclusion hours later, just as the sun was peeking over the horizon and the birds chirped outside the window. After a couple slices of strawberry shortcake and a few refills of vodka and gin, Fyodor let his body fall back on the sofa, smiling from ear to ear as he stared at the pouting woman in front of him.

“Check-mate, Doctor,” Fyodor purred, purple eyes darkening in satisfaction.

Mary stared at the board for a couple more seconds, as if a solution to her defeat would present itself to her. But when none did, she sighed in acceptance as her forefinger gently laid down her king.

“Don’t beat yourself, Doctor. It was a splendid game; the best I had in years,” Fyodor commented.

“Thank you, Mr Dostoevsky. But your words don’t make defeat taste any less bitter.”

“I guess not,” Fyodor said. “Especially since I have to claim the spoils of my victory from you.”

Fyodor didn’t miss the glance Mary threw his way, clearly torn between enticed curiosity and rational diligence, clearly still wary that he hadn’t made his wants known before their game despite his guarantees. Those intelligent eyes clouded with lust made him lick his lips, and her breath hitched in response.

“I want… a kiss.”

Mary’s eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

“I promised to ask for something reasonable, didn’t I?” Fyodor mused. “What’s more fair than to ask for the very thing I offered?”

“But then… why did we play?” Mary asked, head dropped to the side.

“Well, I don’t feel like moving at the moment,” Fyodor said, letting his knees fall open as his eyes ran over the woman in front of him. “So, since you’re the one owing me a kiss, you come here and give it to me.”

Fyodor had never seen someone’s skin change colour so rapidly before, and he couldn’t help but chuckle at the bright red that bloomed all over the pale skin on Mary’s cheeks and neck. Without thinking, he brought his left thumb to his mouth, nibbling gently on the soft flesh as he regarded the woman with his own sort of unprofessional and improper interest.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” she said, eyeing the contour of his lips around his digit.

“Come and stop me,” he replied.

Mary swallowed his words with the same relish she swallowed her gin as she stood from the sofa, taking a moment to straighten the fabric of her pleated skirt, before walking towards him with soft, elegant steps. She came around the coffee table, sparing a glance at her toppled king before her eyes fell on his widespread knees and ran up his body until they reached his face. And while Fyodor was used to such appreciative looks, he didn’t expect the soft smile she gave him when their gazes crossed; it was usually at this moment that women stepped back from him, frightened by the intensity in his eyes.

Mary sat down by his left, so warm against the side of his body, and reached up with both hands to pull his thumb away from the abuse of his teeth. She brought his hand down to her chest to examine the damage, pouting when she saw the pad of his thumb was red and swollen, with a small laceration that had just barely crusted over and still threatened to bleed.

Fyodor watched her through half-lidded eyes, exhaling deeply when she glanced up at him. From such close-quarters he could make out the limits between the black of her pupils and the brown of her irises; just like he imagined, her pupils were dilated to extremes, wary of and eager for him. The red on her cheeks subsided, leaving a light pink colour in its place that enticed him to run his lips over the skin.

With a small quirk of her lips, Mary glanced back at his hand and shook her head at the damage on his thumb, before bringing it to her mouth to kiss the wound. The touch was soft as a rose’s petal but still knocked the breath out of Fyodor’s lungs. His warm breath gusted over the top of her head, then hitched as a soft, warm hand laid on his cheek.

“That was not what I had in mind when I asked for a kiss,” Fyodor spoke, smiling down at the woman.

A chuckle escaped Mary and once again she gave him that soft look he was unfamiliar with. Before he could taunt her further, Mary tilted her head and guided his face down, letting her lips ghost over a corner of his mouth before moving to the other, soft and sweet. Hypnotised, Fyodor’s eyelids fluttered shut as he relaxed into these teasing touches that, despite being feather-light in their delicacy, made heat rush in his veins like molten metal, erupting out of his heart to his cock and leaving a trail of feverish desire in his veins that demanded more. More contact, more kisses, more pressure.

Fyodor pushed forwards, folding his body over Mary as his hand reached out to grab the back of her neck, only to freeze mid-air as her cold air took the place of her warm flesh. Somewhere he heard an unholy sound, and only after he opened his dark purple yes to find startled brown staring back at him he noticed he was the source of it. He was growling.

In a fraction of a second, Fyodor wondered about the stage he had set for them. Had he misjudged her interest? Hadn’t he offered her enough drinks? How much did she need his help? How much did he need her and her companions? How far could he push? Was everyone in the house still asleep? If she screamed, would anyone come to help?

Brown eyes narrowed slightly and Fyodor swore he saw a glimpse of himself in them; of something aware, astute, and artful. It was there for a moment so short he wasn’t sure he had projected the connection, so before he could let his brain process it, he was once more being subjugated to that look. That nauseatingly soft look no one had ever given him before, and that he did not know what to do with.

Without words, Mary bent the rules of their game and took his turn from him, cancelled aggression with tenderness as she pushed him back against the sofa gently before swinging her leg over his lap to settle herself on his thighs, pulling a pleased hum from deep inside his chest.

“May I?” Mary asked, hand playing with the flap of his ushanka hat.

Smiling, Fyodor nodded, and Mary pulled the hat off his head. The motion left his hair messy, drawing a giggle from her lips as she combed the knots away so gently he couldn’t help but shut his eyes and relax against the caresses.

“Your hair is so soft,” Mary murmured, letting Fyodor smell the gin and strawberries on her breath. He felt her fingers dance on his face, collecting his long fringe to push it back and away from his features. “And you’re so beautiful.”

Fyodor’s eyes opened slightly, just enough so he could stare at the rosy lips hovering so close to his. His hands twitched by his sides, unsure where to go or how to touch. He was used to grabbing, pulling, bruising and scratching; not to soft lips or delicate touches dancing over his skin like her hands ghosted over the chess-pieces only minutes before.

Mary’s lips let out a delicious, trembling breath before moving towards him, avoiding his own mouth altogether to give a kiss on his cheek before moving to whisper into his ear: “You feel so tense. Relax.”

Easier said than done, Fyodor thought, turning his head to bury his nose in Mary’s long, black hair and breath in the scent of her shampoo - something citrusy and common that made him light-headed in a way he only felt when his anaemia got the best of him, causing him to black out and wake up stretched on a hospital bed, with an IV bag of O- blood connected to his arm.

Still, he couldn’t possibly lose consciousness now, not with Mary’s warm body grounding him so sweetly, not with her breasts pressed against his chest and the heat between her legs trapping him against the sofa’s cushions in the best possible way. Gently, like everything she did, Mary finally laid her mouth over his, allowing a whimper to escape the back of her throat when he pressed against her, not as much as he would have liked, but enough to hold back the most violent aspects of his desires, for now.

At the contact, Fyodor’s passive hands took action, sneaking up Mary’s thighs and hips, before slipping under her blouse to rack his short nails over her naked back as he used his hold over her to press her heat harder against his cock. He half-expected her to pull back again, startled at his boldness, but Mary surprised him by letting out a delighted gasp as she tightened her grip on his hair and arched her back, pushing her breasts even more against his chest.

Fyodor took the opportunity and shoved his tongue inside her mouth, groaning as the taste of her invaded his senses. One of his hands danced over Mary’s skin, causing her to shudder as it tickled by her ribs before moving up to her-

“Oh, Dos! Are you in there? Why is the door locked?”

Nikolai’s happy-go-lucky voice breached the door’s barrier, causing Mary to pull back from their kiss, panting. Fyodor’s nails tensed over her skin before his hands relaxed again, dropping to her waist as he sighed and dropped his forehead against her collarbone.

“I guess your debt is paid, Doctor,” Fyodor spoke against her skin. “There’s work to be done.”

“Of course. I have my mission in a couple of hours as well,” Mary agreed as she pulled away to stand up on shaky legs. “It would be best if I got a couple some sleep before it.”

Fyodor glanced down at himself, at the wet spot on the crotch of his pants, and looked up at her through half-lidded eyes with a devil’s smirk. “Think you need a shower too?”

Mary blushed as she straightened her clothes in a modicum of decency. “I guess.”

Fyodor chuckled, but before he could tease her further, Nikolai’s loud voice invaded the room once more, making his eyes roll upwards in exasperation.

“Quiz time! How long until I force the door open? Two minutes? Two seconds?”

“I will leave you two alone,” Mary said. “Excuse me, Mr Dostoevsky.”

Fyodor nodded dismissively, but the look in his eyes was anything but uninterested. “I will see you later… Mary.”

The woman’s breath hitched at having her first name spoken with such heavy desire before she quickly made her escape, almost slamming against Nikolai when she unlocked the door.

“Good morning, Mr Gogol,” she said with a polite smile.

“Good morning, Mary!” He replied enthusiastically, pulling one of her hands to his lips. “What a treat to see your charming figure so early in the day! Don’t tell me Dos has summoned you at such ungodly hours to talk business?”

“Oh no, we were just having a match,” Mary said, pointing to the chessboard on the coffee table. “He wiped the floor with me.”

Nikolai took a few moments to examine the board and what he saw made him raise an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Really? Looks like a tight match to me,” he said, before turning to Mary. “Next time you should invite me so I can cheer you on! Gods, what I wouldn’t give to watch Dos lose a game…”

Mary chuckled and opened her mouth, but Fyodor beat her to the punch. “You wanted to talk, Nikolai?” He called, smiling tightly at the other Russian. “Come in and close the door behind you.”

“Hmm, grumpy,” Nikolai whispered, sharing a conspiratory smile with Mary as he once again kissed the back of her hand. “Lovely to see you, my dear.”

“You too, Mr Gogol. Have a good one,” Mary said before walking away, throwing one last smile in Fyodor’s direction.

Nikolai waved at Mary’s back as she walked away, closing the door once she turned a corner.

“You know,” Nikolai began in Russian, spinning on his heels to face Fyodor. Both men smiled, but the emotions they showed were something dark, almost cruel. “I believe this is the first time I see a woman in a room alone with you leave without tears in her eyes.”

Feet planted on the floor and knees spread, unashamed of his hard-on or the wet spot on the fabric of his pants, Fyodor hummed a little song as he reached for his hat and adjusted it back on his head. Satisfied, he reached forward and grabbed Mary’s fallen king from the board.

“Honestly, my friend,” he said, bringing the piece to his smiling lips. “I do not know what you’re talking about.”

#bsd fyodor #fyodor x reader #fyodor x you #fyodor x oc #fyodor dostoevsky #ivan goncharov #bsd #bungo stray dogs #nikolai gogol #does this piece of self-indugent writing classify as an one-shot?#even when it's so clearly part of something way bigger that will never be?#anyway i wrote what i wrote #you can't tell me fyodor doesn't give out some creepy vibes #that anime smile is a panty-dropper but also creepy af

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shireness-says · 3 years

Text

Seeking Shelter, Seeking Solace [1/3]

Summary: 1895. Emma Swan answers an ad in the paper from a man looking for a wife in order to flee Boston - only to arrive in rural Storybrooke, Minnesota and discover that her intended husband is dead. Left with no other options, Emma takes a position at the local tavern alongside the sullen, dark-haired barkeep with demons of his own. But what will she do when the forces she’s worked so hard to escape reappear in the new life she’s building, forcing her to turn to this unlikely savior for aid? ~8.6k. Rated M for suggestive content. Also on Ao3.

~~~~~

A/N: Every year, my mother insists we watch “Sarah, Plain and Tall” because she thinks it’s a great tradition and doesn’t quite understand that she’s the only one that loves it. So last time, I plotted this in my head instead of watching: CS fic inspired by that story.

Thanks, as always, go to my wonderful beta, @snidgetsafan.

Tagging the interested parties (and let me know if you’re one of those!): @welllpthisishappening, @thisonesatellite, @let-it-raines, @kmomof4, @scientificapricot, @ohmightydevviepuu, @profdanglaisstuff, @thejollyroger-writer, @superchocovian, @teamhook, @optomisticgirl, @winterbaby89, @searchingwardrobes, @katie-dub, @snowbellewells, @spartanguard, @phiralovesloki, @initiala, @revanmeetra87, @quirkykayleetam, @captain-emmajones, @hollyethecurious, @officerrogers, @lfh1226-linda, @jrob64, @therooksshiningknight.

Enjoy - and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

Emma can’t help but fidget in her seat as her train tears across the Midwestern landscape. Though this was her choice, she still can’t help but be nervous; after all, this is a very different world from Boston, the only home she’s ever known. She’s used to bustling streets and the lap of the waves against the docks at the harbor, not these miles after miles of plains and crop fields. It’s almost enough to make her second guess this whole thing.

It’s not a mistake though, she knows. She’d needed to get out of Boston, as quickly as possible, and this had been the best of a variety of bad options. Emma has never been particularly romantic, even as a little girl, but in the few imaginings she’d allowed herself of her future, answering a newspaper ad for a wife had never factored in. Then again, her fantasies had never anticipated the particular situation she’s trying to escape: a man who wouldn’t hear no, who was willing to pursue her relentlessly, from city to city, always a threat on her tail. The security of marriage, and of distance, had only made sense. And then again, she’s never been sentimental ; true love isn’t something she anticipated in a union, or even particularly believed in, for that matter.

The man she’s travelling to meet seems kind, she consoles herself with knowing. Emma hadn’t been particularly picky in selecting a man from the handful of querants in the paper, but Graham Humbert seems to be a good one. He’s the sheriff of a small town in Minnesota, who found himself lonely and wanting companionship.

I can darn my own socks and cook my own dinner, though neither with any exemplary skill, he had written. I’m not looking for someone to look after me in that way, regardless of what my friends’ wives think; I’d hire a lady to do the cleaning if that was the issue. I’m searching for someone to speak with at the end of a long day, someone to listen and to laugh with. I don’t believe myself to be a sweeping romantic, but I will be happy to give and receive a kind of gentle affection. Maybe we can come to love each other in time; I would be happy with that too, though I am not counting on it.

She’d liked that about him, that amiable practicality so evident even in his letters. It’s what had made her agree to travel to Minnesota with the intent to marry him, really - the feeling that they viewed a union in the same way. There will be a trial period, of course, a month during which to decide whether the two of them will suit each other before anything is formalized - but Emma is determined to make it work. What other choice does she have?

The train will be pulling into Storybrooke soon - a tiny dot on the map, where Emma doubts anyone else will be alighting. All of her belongings have been tightly packed into two measly carpetbags in order to, hopefully, start a new life. Maybe it’s foolish, but Emma had splurged on a new, sleek jacket before she’d left the city, a cheery blue to pair with her navy skirt and white blouse in an attempt to impress. Mostly, she wants to look neat more than anything else: a capable woman, one who won’t be afraid to adapt to a new life with a minimum of fuss, one who won’t make Sheriff Humbert’s life more difficult. Pretty is of secondary concern.

She sees the town coming long before the train pulls into the tiny station, roofs and chimneys rising above the flat landscape and copious corn fields. Somewhere in this state, she knows, are hundreds and thousands of lakes; however, they’re nowhere to be seen here. Storybrooke itself is a bare cluster of buildings seeming to group around a single main street, with homesteads and farm plots doubtlessly stretching out to the surrounding area. It’s a whole different world from what she’s used to, but that’s the entire point, really; no one will think to look for her here, in the rural midwest as the wife of a sheriff.

When the train finally pulls into what passes for a station, a single cramped building with barely enough room for a ticket office and a luggage closet, a man is waiting on the platform, sheltered from the late-spring sun by an awning off the station roof. The star-shaped badge on his coat and the way he shifts nervously from foot to foot make Emma think this must be the anticipated Sheriff Humbert. His hair is rather more golden than the sandy blonde-brown color Mr. Humbert had tried to describe in his letters, but Emma supposes that’s to be expected. She likely didn’t give a perfect description of her appearance either.

Quickly, she gathers her bags and alights to the station platform with the assistance of a young porter. The man waiting quickly doffs his hat, playing with the brim in another nervous gesture. “Miss Swan?”

Carefully, Emma arranges her face into something she hopes passes as an amiable smile. “Yes, that’s me. And you’ll be Sheriff Humbert, I presume?”

“I - well, no,” the man who isn’t Graham Humbert stutters out. “I’m David Nolan, actually. One of the deputies here.”

Unexpected - but there are countless excellent reasons that Deputy Nolan might be sent instead. Trouble can happen even in a small town, dozens of minor disputes that can somehow only be settled by the sheriff himself. “In that case, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Nolan. I must admit, I was expecting Mr. Humbert. Pardon my mistake.”

“About that —” Deputy Nolan cuts himself off, looking curiously uncomfortable. It sets Emma a bit on edge, but there’s no way to dance around it - not when she doesn’t have all the information.

“Yes?”

Deputy Nolan swallows heavily, visibly, his fingers tightening around the brim of his hat again before he drags his eyes to meet hers. “I’m sorry to tell you, Miss Swan, but Graham - Sheriff Humbert - died two days ago.”

Of all the things she thought he might say, all the ways she imagined this might go, that certainly wasn’t one of them.

———

“It wasn’t anything violent, or related to his job,” Deputy - well, now Sheriff Nolan tells Emma once he’s led her to a seat in Storybrooke’s one and only bar, the Sherwood Tavern. Emma finds herself grateful for the glass of dark liquor the man behind the bar slides to her without asking; after this shock, she could certainly use it. “He just collapsed. Graham had been bothered by periodic chest pains for… as long as I can remember, really. We figure it just finally caught up to him.”

Emma nods at the words, not sure what to say. It’s all jarring, really, sad for the loss of who she believes had been a good man, but it’s hard to muster much emotion. She had only known him through letters, carefully crafted missives in which they had doubtlessly both tried to show the best sides of themselves; she doesn’t have the same attachment to the man as Nolan, and everyone else in town, understandably did. Her grief is for plans and possibilities never realized, for the idea of a man instead of the genuine article.

“We know you came out here specifically with the intent of marrying Graham. There’s not much other reason to come to Storybrooke,” Sheriff Nolan comments with a laugh. “Graham’s savings and property are set to go to the town, but we’d be happy to buy you a ticket back to Boston. It’s the least we can do, when you turn out to have come all this way for nothing but disappointment.”

It’s a kind offer, really. There’s no reason for Emma to stay, after all, and Storybrooke doesn’t have much to offer. But even if Emma hadn’t needed to escape Boston… there’s nothing there to pull her back. No family, and only a single friend. She isn’t even attached to the city, though it’s all she’s ever known. Returning to Boston would be returning to a sparse boarding house room and a life spent looking over her shoulder. Here - well, there’s no promises, but Emma would be willing to bet it’s not any worse.

“If you don’t mind,” she responds carefully, “I’d prefer to stay. There’s nothing for me back in Boston either, believe it or not. This may not be permanent, but… for the time being, I’d prefer to stay.”

“Then we’ll be happy to welcome you.”

———

And they are. Sheriff Nolan takes her down the street to the boarding house run by a Mrs. Lucas and her granddaughter over their family’s pharmacy, where both women welcome her with open arms. Ruby Lucas, the granddaughter, is tall and willowy, every inch of her full of personality, and her grandmother is a gruff old lady poorly hiding an enormous affection for her loud-spoken granddaughter. Emma can practically see the moment Mrs. Lucas - “That’s Granny to you, girl, only strangers and enemies call me Mrs. Lucas” - absorbs her into their little fold. The room they provide is small, but clean and bright; Emma is more than agreeable to the small fee she’ll owe to rent the room each month, especially knowing that breakfast and dinner are included in the rent.

Storybrooke is exactly the quiet little town it appeared to be from the train. Besides the bar and the pharmacy and the sheriff’s station, there’s a general store and a post office, a bank and a rudimentary library. There are a handful of other buildings too - Emma’s been told that one houses the doctor’s office - but she hasn’t had cause or need to learn them. Perhaps in time, she’ll learn all the ins and outs of who belongs where in this little place. It seems inevitable; after all, that’s small town life, even when so many of the so-called residents live further out on isolated farmsteads.

As much as Granny seems to immediately see Emma as her ward, Ruby Lucas seems to view it as her duty to introduce Emma to Storybrooke’s small social scene, and attacks the task with gusto. Even if it’s just a small circle - Mary Margaret Nolan, Sheriff Nolan’s wife; Belle Gold, the town librarian; and Elsa Jones, whose husband operates the general store - Emma finds herself somewhat overwhelmed by the attention. She’s never had this before, not really; there hadn’t been much of a chance to make friends, growing up in an orphanage. There’d only really been August, who she’s come to view more as a brother than anything else. It will take some getting used to, having this number of people eager for her company and opinion.

(There’s an argument to be made, Emma supposes, that Neal had been a friend, too - but he’d been a lover, more than that, and then he’d been gone. It’s hard to justify counting him, even in her pathetically brief list.)

“It’s so nice to have a new face about town,” Mrs. Nolan - Mary Margaret gushes as she leads Emma arm-in-arm down the street to the library. “Not that there’s anything wrong with the familiar faces of course - oh no, of course not! But it is so nice to hear new perspectives and meet new personalities, you know? Oh, I’m just so thrilled you’re here!”

It is exhausting and touching, all at once - and just another thing Emma will learn to expect in this little town, she’s sure. She’s determined.

———

When Emma decides to stay, Sheriff Nolan offers to put some of Sheriff Humbert’s assets towards paying her room and board, but Emma refuses. It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate the offer; it’s a nice change to have someone else trying to look out for her, even if she gets the sense that David does this for everyone. However, she never even met Graham. They’d exchanged letters, had come to a rudimentary understanding, and that was all. She has no right to lay claim to any of his money on such a flimsy connection, no matter how obligated Sheriff Nolan feels to look out for her.

Emma resolves to get a job instead, to pay her own way, and only accept the help if she’s forced to. It’s not a particularly big deal; Emma has been working in one way or another since she was a teenager. She’s worked in factories, and shops, and more recently as a secretary in a bank and then a law office. Her favorite had been the stint as a companion to a wealthy invalid. Ms. Ingrid had had a sharp tongue and had loved to turn her quiet, yet cutting comments on passersby outside her townhome’s windows, often leaving Emma in fits of laughter and the older woman with a satisfied look on her face. She’d had a fondness for Emma, too; privately, one of Ms. Ingrid’s nieces had once told Emma she had lasted longer than any of the previous companions, a small compliment she couldn’t help but treasure. She’d ultimately left, shortly before the old lady died; one of Ms. Ingrid’s sister’s husbands had been making ever-more-insistent passes Emma had been struggling to dodge, and she hadn’t been needed much as Ingrid had slowly slipped away.

(She thinks about Ms. Ingrid often, still, and the year she’d spent in that house; sometimes, Emma thinks it was one of the only times she’s ever been purely happy.)

Her opportunities for employment are limited. The general store doesn’t need additional help, and the library is barely big enough to justify one employee, let alone two. She’d played with the idea of helping out at the Sheriff’s station; with the way Sheriff Nolan seems desperate to be of assistance, for Graham’s memory if not her own sake, she’s certain he wouldn’t mind. But the fact of the matter is that this is a tiny town, with a tiny sheriff’s office to match. What would there be to do? It’s not like Boston, where there’s enough crime to produce enough paperwork to keep her busy. Sheriff Nolan himself had said that they didn’t deal with much more than petty disagreements and the occasional barfight. Even the local pickpocket had reformed and was working at the post office, running the telegraph machine.

Instead, she turns to the Sherwood Tavern - the one place in town she’s certain gets enough business to need help. Making inquiries, she discovers that it’s owned and operated by a pair of friends: Robin Locksley, who spends most of his time just outside of town at the horse stables he runs with his wife, and Killian Jones, the sullen, dark haired man who’d been behind the bar that first afternoon when Emma had arrived. They’re an interesting pair; Mr. Locksley is all smiles and sunshine, even with that slightly roguish grin, and happy to talk about anything, while Mr. Jones barely talks at all and smiles even less. Still, it’s obvious that the two men are friends, watching the way they work around each other in the space behind the bar. Maybe that speaks well of Mr. Jones, or poorly of Mr. Locksley; Emma thinks it’s likely the former, just based on Sheriff Nolan’s own reaction to the two men. Somehow, she doesn’t think he’d allow her to take a position at an establishment run by men he didn’t trust.

Mr. Locksley is immediately amenable to giving Emma a position as barmaid. It’s Mr. Jones who has more questions, and evidently more hesitance. Emma isn’t sure what to make of him; he’s an attractive man, objectively, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes, but his silence and moroseness are jarring, even if he seems to be a beloved member of this little town. There’s a story there, somewhere, maybe related to the scars that dominate the skin of his left hand.

“This isn’t a glamorous job, you know. It’s messy, sometimes even rowdy,” he says, studying Emma carefully where she stands in her neat skirt and shirtwaist.

It only makes her draw up taller. “I know. I wasn’t expecting it to be. You run a bar, not a tea room.”

That gets her a faintly approving nod, at least. “Pay won’t be anything to write home about either.”

“Will it be enough to cover my room over at Granny’s?”

“Aye, it ought to be.”

“Then that’s good enough for me.”

When Jones finally gives his nod of approval, Locksley beams across at her. “Well, Ms. Swan, it looks like you have a job, and we have a barmaid. Welcome aboard.”

———

It is not remotely the life that Emma expected to find herself living, but it’s nice in its own way. There’s a pleasant routine to it all, of Granny fussing over her at mealtimes and Ruby dragging her out to socialize and keeping busy at the bar in the afternoons and evenings. It’s almost… cozy, she supposes the word is. The citizens of Storybrooke seem determined to absorb her into the fold and make her feel at home, and Emma even finds herself becoming fond of the regulars at the bar. There’s something constant and reassuring about Leroy’s complaints and the way Mr. Marco comes in for exactly one beer each night, no more than 30 minutes after sundown. Will Scarlet might be her favorite; he’s a mouthy bastard, a former thief who now inexplicably runs the post office and operates the telegraph line, but his particular brand of attitude amuses Emma and keeps her on her toes.

(It takes her approximately a week and one passing observation in the street for Emma to realize that he’s head over heels for Belle Gold, wife of the man who owns half the town, and most likely reformed his life for her. A brave man, too, then - or maybe just a fool. From what Emma understands, it’s a bad idea to get on the wrong side of Mr. Gold; he’s a manipulative man who always needs to be in control of everything and does not tolerate people standing up to him or encroaching upon his perceived territory. Emma imagines that Gold’s wife is very much included in that inventory.)

It’s usually just her and Jones and the other barkeep, Mr. Smee, working at the bar every day. Emma thinks Mr. Locksley - “Robin, please, I’m not the formal type” - might have been involved just as a favor to the other man; he’ll put in appearances every so often, especially when his business partner requests it, but he mostly seems happy to stay out at the horse farm he operates with his wife. There’s a story there, Emma’s sure - but she’s certain that she doesn’t yet have the right to ask.

She doesn’t know what to make of Jones, really. He’s a meticulous man, and she thinks even a good one, based on the way he takes care of his establishment and is willing to patiently listen to various gripes from patrons at the bar as they work their problems out themselves. The sullen, quiet demeanor doesn’t seem like his natural state; sometimes, she catches his eyebrows twitching or the sides of his mouth trying to quirk up when one of the regulars says something suggestive, like it once would have been instinct to reach for innuendo or even jokes in the same way. She almost wonders if this is something of an emotional shield, an affectation he’s worn for so long that it’s become comfortable. Regardless, there must have been something in his past that led him here - something that’s emphasized by the careful way that Robin and Sheriff Nolan - David, now - treat him.

Jones’ brother, Liam - who operates the general store and is Elsa’s husband - seems to be the only one that doesn’t indulge Killian’s reserved state. It intrigues Emma, and really reinforces her feeling that the younger man must not have always been like this. It’s somewhere between a matter of the elder Jones not having a tolerance of it, and trying to purposefully provoke the younger.

“Is everything alright?” she dares to ask one afternoon after Liam Jones storms away from a discussion carried on in angry, hissed tones.

“Fine. Liam’s just trying to control everything again.”

It’s probably a wonder she managed to get that much out of him.

It’s hard, though, to be expected to spend so much time with a person and barely trading ten words in any given day. It makes the day longer, and the work harder. On a particularly slow day, when there’s barely a soul in the place and no longer even any cleaning left to do, Emma finds herself scrambling to break the silence, just to cut the boredom.

It is a mistake.

There’s a tattoo on his right forearm, usually covered by his shirt sleeve and just barely allowing hints of dark, swirling ink to peek through. Emma usually only sees the edges in flashes, when the sleeve of his shirt shifts just right as he reaches for something, but his sleeves are rolled nearly to his elbows tonight, revealing the whole work. It’s a detailed piece, one he must have gotten in Chicago or Minneapolis or some other city big enough to have an artist of talent. There’s certainly not a tattoo shop in Storybrooke, of all places. The swirls of black she’s caught glimpses of frame a heart with a jagged dagger through it, with a single word on a tattered scroll at the forefront.

“Who’s Milah?” she asks, instead of wiping down the tables for the twentieth time this evening. “On the tattoo.”

It’s like his whole body seizes - spine straightening, eyes shutting down, every inch of him infused with tension. It’s obvious she’s struck a nerve, one that affects his entire being.

“Someone from long ago,” he finally mutters, before stalking off to scrub imaginary grime off already-spotless tables.

It would be stupid to wonder what she did; that’s obvious to anyone with eyes. What she’s more confused about is why that particular question set him off. It’s obvious there’s a story there, one she doesn’t know but that must be central to the man he is.

Robin is there that day, taking care of something in the small office at the back; without Emma even asking, he slides up next to Emma with an explanation.

“Milah was his fiancée,” he explains quietly. “She died, several years back, in a freak accident. He was driving her to town and the horse startled, flipping the whole wagon. It’s how he injured his hand, too.” Another question answered, then; Emma can see the way the scarred limb still pains him, seizing and spasming in ways that make him scowl deeper with irritation.

“He wasn’t always like this,” Robin continues. “He used to be the most charming man you’d ever meet, always with a smile and some saucy comment. You’d have barely recognized him back then. It’s funny, and awful, what grief does to a man.”

And that explains a lot too - the way she sometimes sees his eyes flash or mouth pull like some half-forgotten instinct. That’s the look of a man who was broken, and who forced his pieces back together with the weakest glue, where things no longer fit together in the same way as they did before, even if all the fragments are there.

It is just another piece of the puzzle that is her silent coworker, but maybe the bit that makes it all make sense.

(Emma has never been much for guilt - but she can’t help but feel some small guilt for this.)

———

The thing about living in a small town, for better or worse, is that there are expectations. Despite its small size, there seem to be a million and five social functions in Storybrooke - church picnics and sewing circles and, tonight, a social and dance in Mr. Clark’s new barn. Emma could decline to attend, technically; it’s not as if she’s contractually obligated to make a showing. But Storybrooke is a tiny town, and Emma is the new face, and she’ll be thought of as unfriendly, even odd, if she doesn’t at least put in an appearance. Besides, everyone is going - and Ruby would never let her hear the end of it if she didn’t at least make an appearance.

So she goes. She stands with Mary Margaret and David and lets Ruby pull her along and compliments Granny on her contributions to the potluck spread. She even takes a turn around the dance floor when asked, even dares to enjoy herself a little bit.

That doesn’t mean that it doesn’t get to be too much, however. The residents of Storybrooke are all so welcoming and well-meaning, but Emma’s spent so much of her life alone, and suddenly being inundated with all this good cheer is a particular variety of overwhelming. It’s not their fault - it’s entirely hers - but Emma can’t resist slipping out the barn doors to creep around the side, seeking a quiet and solitary moment.

It’s not to be found, however; as Emma rounds the corner, it is easy to see Jones in the light of the nearly-full moon, leaning against the wall with his head tipped back and clearly avoiding the festivities in the same way. There’s half a thought of just retreating, creeping around the other side instead, but he turns his head to meet her eyes before she has the chance.

“I’m so sorry,” she tries to apologize. “I’ll just leave you be —”

A brief smile without much feeling twitches across Jones’ face. “Hiding from the party?”

“Yes, but I can find somewhere else —”

“There’s no need. Stay.”

Emma stays. What other choice does she have? She isn’t exactly eager to spend this time with Jones, but it would be blatantly rude to insist on leaving after he had made such a generous offer. Carefully, she props herself against the wooden wall, ignoring the way that stray splinters try to poke through her dress.

She assumes they’ll just stand there in silence - they aren’t exactly friends, for all the time they spend together, and after the other day she’s sure he isn’t much fond of her - but Jones surprises her by breaking that silence after only a few minutes.

“I owe you an apology, Miss Swan,” he says softly, but clearly. “I’ve been less than welcoming these past weeks. I am sorry for that.”

It’s the last thing she expected him to say, and Emma has no idea how to respond. “Thank you,” she finally settles on. “I appreciate it.”

She thinks that’ll be it; that he’ll have said his piece, and they’ll go back to a more-or-less easy civility. It isn’t. “I suppose Robin, or one of the others, told you about… about Milah?” Emma nods. It’s clear this is difficult for him to speak about; she wonders a little why he’s bothering to tell her, of all people. “After she was - after she passed, I rather fell to pieces. She was gone, and the accident all but mangled my hand so it seemed like I couldn’t do much of anything with my life, and it was easier to fall into a bottle than to face my grief. Robin helped a lot, giving me something to do at the bar and eventually letting me buy into the place, but some days I still feel like all those pieces are still barely held together.”

“I understand,” Emma tells him softly, almost too softly to hear. And she does; she’d felt something of that despair when Neal had left, like she’d never find anyone or anything to compare again and there were a whole host of feelings and experiences she’d never reclaim, never experience without him. She can only imagine how much deeper that pain must run for him, when his fiancée had died and not just run away.

“Thank you,” he says, but she can tell he doesn’t fully believe her. That’s alright; she hasn’t given him any reason to. “Anyhow. It’s been five years now, and I’m… acceptant, I suppose. I don’t anticipate being that same man I was ever again, or being able to truly move on and find someone else, but I’m not actively trying to drown all my feelings anymore, which most agree is a significant improvement.”

“Most?”

“Most,” he repeats. “I believe you’re acquainted with Mary Margaret Nolan?”

“Ah. Yes.”

“Exactly. Ah. Mrs. Nolan is a very kind woman, of course. She truly does mean well, and she and David are wonderful for each other. But she is… unbearably optimistic, if I’m being blunt. Mary Margaret is of the opinion that now that I have reached an acceptance of everything that happened with Milah - everything that I lost with Milah - that it’s time I move on, and find a new ‘happy ending.’ So when you came to town - a new face, lonely, needing help…”

Emma sees exactly where this is going. “You assumed she would immediately start trying to play matchmaker.”

“Precisely. Well, not quite assumed; I’ve known Mary Margaret long enough that it was more like knew.”

“And you decided to head it off before it even started.”

“Aye. Again, I do apologize for how it means I treated you. You didn’t deserve that kind of hostility. But I didn’t want her getting any ideas about fixing us up together.”

“Then I forgive you.”

Killian stares blankly at her for a moment, clearly not quite processing her words. “Just like that?”

“You forget - I’ve met Mary Margaret too.”

His lips twitch in that almost-smile again, and Emma could swear she hears him huff out the hint of a laugh. “She is nothing if not persistent. A second chance, then?”

And Emma finds herself surprisingly happy to agree.

———

They’re still not friends, exactly. Jones isn’t exuberant, and that doesn’t change just because they had a chance to reset things behind the barn. But they’re… friendly. Amiable. Companionable. A whole host of other almost-type words. She no longer feels like he resents her very presence in his place of business, and even makes sure to make her life better in little ways, like helping her wipe down glasses and handle more belligerent patrons. She appreciates it, truly; it makes her life easier, knowing he’ll back her up, and that’s more than enough. Despite the small town-big family feel of Storybrooke, she’s still a city girl at heart who’s fine not to make best friends with everyone. She’s more than satisfied to be his employee, and nothing more; in fact, it’s a welcome change after some of the jobs she’s had.

(That’s what landed her here in the first place, after all: a man who doesn’t much care about her many, many denials.)

Even if they’re not friends, she spends enough time around the man to recognize some of his reactions, the slight variations of “sullen” that still play across his face if you’re watching closely. And as soon as Belle Gold walks in with an older man Emma can only assume is her husband, Emma sees the way that Jones’ entire body tenses up. The tension in the air is palpable between the two; even Belle shifts uncomfortably as they approach the bar.

“Could I have a small glass of beer, please?” she asks Emma softly. It’s a relief to reach for the glass instead of just waiting for whatever this is to explode. “It’s so terribly warm out there today, I found myself needing a little something to cool down.”

Beside her, her husband hasn’t broken eye contact with Jones. Emma doubts he’s fully aware of what she and Belle are doing right next to him. “You’re still here then, Jones?” he asks in an icy, sinister voice.

“Aye.” Jones’ face is just as stony when he responds. Emma can practically see the way he vibrates with suppressed rage.

“I suppose you don’t have anywhere else to go, do you, or anyone else to chase after. No one really wants to take on a man with only one functional hand.”

“Let’s go, Robert,” Belle urges. Her beer is barely touched, but her refreshment seems forgotten as the encounter turns increasingly hostile.

Carefully, Jones sets the glass he had been holding back on the bar as the rest of the room holds its breath. Emma can see the way he flexes his scarred left hand, though she doesn’t think anyone else is playing close enough attention. “That’s true,” he says in that deadly quiet voice, “but you’re stuck here too, Gold. And we both know you’re the one who trapped me in this town.”

“Strong words from a weak man —” Mr. Gold starts to say, but his target has already stalked away towards the door Emma knows hides a staircase. Jones keeps an apartment above the premises; doubtless he’s gone there to lick his wounds.

Belle quickly ushers her husband out after that, leaving the barely touched glass on the counter. Emma takes a long drag, not one to waste the beverage; she can’t help but hold some bitterness towards Belle for this altercation, even though she knows the woman is otherwise lovely and kind and even something like a friend to Jones. She must have known this might happen, bringing her husband in here. The man has a reputation, one that makes it hard to believe that his wife is so kind - and married to him. Besides, the whole exchange reeked of an unknown history between the two men, of so many words and actions leading to today’s explosion.

Behind the bar, Mr. Smee - a timid man by nature, a predilection not remotely helped by these dramatics - looks anxiously between the room half-full of patrons and the door through which Jones had disappeared. It only takes a moment to realize what needs to be done - and that Emma will have to be the one to do it.

With a nod toward the bar floor for Smee, Emma quickly climbs the stairs, a glass of rum in hand. She’s noticed Jones taking a shot of the stuff when some customer is drunk enough to buy a round for everyone. If there’s ever been a time when a drink of something biting would help - well, this is probably it.

It isn’t hard to find Jones. He hasn’t even made it into his apartment proper, instead sitting propped against the wall in the hallway with his head hung between his upright knees. He looks up at the sound of her boot heels clicking on the stairs, happy to accept the proffered spirits, only to hunch back over the glass once it’s in his hands. Emma waits patiently for the explanation she knows is coming; she’s long since grown used to silence sitting between the two of them.

“He killed her,” Jones finally says, draining the remains of his rum in one swallow. “Milah. My Milah. He wanted her, but she wanted nothing to do with him, and she chose me.” He smiles softly in remembrance, a foreign look on his face from what Emma has come to know. “I could never prove it, of course. But he hated that she chose me, hated me for supposedly stealing what was his by pursuing the woman who pursued me first. And that wagon… it never should have tipped. It was sturdy, not even a year old, and the road was even. But there was a shot, fired someplace close that I could never pinpoint, and the horse startled, and the axle was apparently so weak or damaged that it broke, and by the time it was all over…”

“She was gone,” Emma supplies softly. Somehow, in the middle of all this, she’s found herself on the floor next to him. It seems like what he needs right now.

“It was quick, at least. She broke her neck and died instantly. I just… I could never prove it, but I always knew it was Gold. The sabotage of the wagon and the shot to set everything in motion.”

It makes horrifying sense; maybe Jones is wrong, but from everything Emma has heard and seen of Mr. Gold, she wouldn’t put it past him. “And now you’re forced to see him all the time.”

“We had plans, you know,” he tells her, staring into his glass like he can make it refill by will alone. “We were going to pack up, move to Duluth or Chicago - somewhere along the Great Lakes, where I could get a job on one of the ships. But she was - she was dead, and my hand was barely functional, and when Robin offered to let me buy into the bar instead of just doing my damndest to drink myself to death… I took it.”

“And you lived.”

He snorts. “Or close enough to it.” His head falls back against the wall heavily as he sighs. “He’s gone, I imagine. I’ll come back down in a moment, I just…”

“Take all the time you need.”

(Emma knows she didn’t do anything more than listen, but there’s still a satisfaction in seeing the way he has started to pull himself back together as she traipses back down to the bar.)

———

They’re still not friends, but knowing those bits of another’s soul bonds two people together in a way that’s hard to describe. Jones is still sullen and quiet, but it’s less off-putting when Emma knows it comes from a place of pain. What matters is that Emma feels comfortable and safe here in Storybrooke and at the tavern, in the midst of these kind - and yes, in some cases morose - people.

That all changes when a telegram arrives unexpectedly, marked urgent and portending dangers Emma had hoped she had finally escaped.

She opens it right away, of course; there’s only one person outside of this town who knows how to reach her, and August is too busy for needless correspondence. He hadn’t even responded when she’d wired him back in Boston that first day in Storybrooke just to let him know what had happened, and that she was still staying. Him sending a message can mean nothing good.

Emma sinks onto a barstool as she reads the stark letters. Even without a mirror, she can feel the blood draining from her face as her nightmares resurface.

Be aware Oz sniffing around STOP Hired private detective STOP Be on alert and do what you must STOP Will keep apprised STOP

Emma doesn’t know how long she sits there, staring at the little slip of paper. Somewhere, the yellow envelope it was delivered in has dropped away; she hadn’t noticed. She only comes back to herself when a firm hand shakes her shoulder.

“Swan!” Jones all but barks, jerking her back to attention and to meet his eyes. It’s evident he’s been trying to get her attention for a while; thank god there are only a scant handful of people in the bar at this early hour, though she’d rather Will Scarlet hadn’t had to see this either. “What’s the matter?” he presses ahead. “Are you alright?”

What an absolutely absurd question to ask as she sits here, white as a sheet. As much as Emma would like to deny it, claim everything is fine, she can’t. “No,” she barely manages to gasp out.

It’s like everything around her has become a blur, like her mind can’t focus on anything but impending doom. Jones and Will Scarlett must have corralled her into the little back office; she has no memory of how she came to be sitting in the padded chair. Jones crouches by her side, his shoes lost beneath the edge of her skirt, wearing a surprisingly tender look on his face.

“This is about what you’re running from, isn’t it?” he asks in as gentle a voice as Emma’s ever heard from him. It snaps her to alertness, eyes blown wide; it’s not remotely what she expected him to say.

“How did you know that?” she demands. Emma hasn’t told anyone in town the underlying reason why she came to this little nowhere town, and yet here Jones is talking like it’s obvious to see.

“I recognize the look of someone with demons to hide, and to hide from,” he says softly. “You’ve met mine, Swan.”

Faced with that kind of understanding, it’s like all the pride, the reticence, the fight seeps right out of her. What’s the point? He seems to see right through her front anyways, for some reason she can’t pinpoint.

“Yes,” she says, carefully making sure that neither her voice nor her hands tremble at the admittance. “It’s about the things I ran from in Boston.”

“Tell us.”

And she does. As Will Scarlet stands by the door and Jones moves to lean against the desk, Emma lets the whole tale unravel: about the law office in New York she’d been a secretary in, about the junior partner, Walsh Oz, who’d taken a sudden interest in her, about the way she’d left that job when he wouldn’t stop pressing his attentions on her. About how he’d found out where she lived, and forced her to move three times. About how she’d finally packed up and moved to Boston, only for him to track her there as well, showing up in the department store she worked in. How she’d gotten more and more desperate, finally seizing upon the idea of answering one of the marriage ads in the paper.

“It seemed like the perfect solution,” Emma explains. Against her will, tears have begun pooling in her eyes, and she blinks furiously to dispel them. “It’d take me so far away from Boston and New York that Walsh Oz would never track me down - and besides, I’d have a husband. It didn’t matter that I probably wouldn’t love him, I’d be safe. He wouldn’t be able to bother me anymore if I was already tied to another man.”

As Emma has told the whole sorry story, Will Scarlet has become visibly more upset in his stance by the door, bordering on fury, but Jones has remained implacably, unshakably calm. Emma appreciates it, in an odd way; it’s something stable to focus on, to keep the panic from overcoming her again. “And then you got here, and there wasn’t a husband to marry,” he says softly.

Emma nods. “I thought it would still be enough - rural Minnesota is so far from New York or Boston, you know? But now…”

“But now.” There’s something horribly ominous about his agreement.

“At least I have August to watch out for me - my friend, almost a brother. He works for a private detective agency.” Jones probably doesn’t much care about that, but talking and explaining keeps her in the moment. It only works for so long though, as the reality of the situation sets in. “If Oz comes here… where else can I go? What am I supposed to do?”

The silence sits for a moment, Emma trying not to cry, Scarlet and Jones looking at one another as if coming up with something. The question hovers in the room, threatening to suffocate them all.

“You came here because you thought a husband could protect you?” Jones finally asks.

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll marry you instead. If you like.”

It’s an absurd proposition, not least of all because Emma knows Jones may never get over his late fiancée. Beyond that… they barely know each other. They’ve worked together for two and a half months, and Emma has shared little bits of herself along the way and learned pieces of his own character, but that’s not enough to base a marriage on. But wasn’t that exactly what she was trying to do with Graham Humbert? To marry him, even though she barely knew him?

The difference, of course, is that Emma has worked alongside Jones for months, and knows this is not remotely what he’d ever planned for himself. It is much harder to go through with this when she knows that it isn’t something that both parties actively want.

“You don’t have to. I would never ask that of you,” she hurries to protest - but he’s already shaking his head.

“I know I don’t,” he tells her. “And if you don’t want to, that’s fine, and we’ll try to figure something else out. But I think it might be your best option.” Jones pauses, and his face softens. “Graham was a good man, and a good friend of mine,” he tells her quietly. “He waited a long time for me to be a better man, and do something with my life. Let me do this for him.”

And Emma agrees.

———

It is a small wedding - not that the occasion warranted anything different. They’re two people who barely aren’t strangers anymore, who hadn’t planned for this remotely or had even imagined such a possibility two days ago.

(Technically, it’s the second time since Emma arrived in Storybrooke that two days have abruptly changed the course of her life. Maybe it’s an omen, of some sort; Emma doesn’t have the energy, or the opportunity, to pay heed to such a thought.)

They make as much of the occasion as they can when Mary Margaret and Ruby only have two days to fuss. Emma wears her nicest dress - a summery, pale blue confection that makes her look a lot more girlish and innocent than she actually is - and there are fresh flowers along the pews of the little church that match the small bouquet in her hands. Only a small number of people attend to witness - the Nolans, Jones’ brother and his wife, Robin and his wife, and Granny with Ruby - but that’s alright. Emma may not know what her soon-to-be husband’s favorite color is, or his favorite meal, or even his middle name, but she does know that they’re both somewhat solitary creatures. Neither needs a crowd, or would be comfortable with one.

There’s something oddly comforting about his presence at the end of the aisle, waiting for her in front of the reverend. He isn’t dressed particularly elaborately, but he’s taken the effort to put on a tie and coat and comb back his hair a bit, even if pieces keep popping up again. Most of all, Emma appreciates that his hands don’t tremble when they take hers. She’s terrified out of her wits about the foolishness they’ve both agreed to, but he manages to be so calm; so certain. It’s like he’s found an odd kind of purpose in doing her this favor beyond thanks, beyond reason. He’s calm when she meets him at the altar, and calm all through the short ceremony, and still calm when he slides the thin gold ring on her finger. It feels like some kind of blessing.

Before she knows it, the words are all said, and they’re moving to sign the paperwork and make this legally official. And that’s it: some of the most momentous minutes of her life are over and done, and Jones - Killian? - is leading her back down the aisle of the little church with her hand tucked into his arm, still that pillar of stability and reassurance.

She’s married.

———

Eventually, they find themselves back in the little apartment above the bar. Emma’s pretty flowers have been set aside, her hat carefully extricated from the pins holding it to her hair, and Killian has worked off his jacket and tie. Silence stretches between them as they sit, she in the armchair by the fire and him at the kitchen table, but it’s not yet comfortable. They don’t quite know each other enough for that. It’s like they’re in a holding pattern, both just waiting for something to give, for the other to break or break through.

“I never expected to get married,” he finally says. Emma jerks her head to face him, but he carefully looks anywhere else, staring towards the opposite wall, fiddling with his fingers. “After Milah died… I expected I never would. That that would be it for me.”

It is not a good way to start a marriage - hearing that her new husband never wanted to get married in the first place. “I’m sorry, then. For trapping you in a marriage you never wanted.”

But he shakes his head at the words, finally meeting her eyes. “No, no, that’s not what I mean, Emma. I’m not trying to - I don’t want you to think I regret this. It is its own kind of honor, doing this for you and for Graham. Makes me feel like a better man than I’ve been in a long, long time. What I’m trying to say, I suppose, is…” He pauses, as if collecting his words. “I suppose I don’t have… expectations, so to speak, of our marriage. We get along. I think you’re a good woman, and I’ve appreciated the help in the bar. And that can be it. I’m not expecting anything more. I’m perfectly happy to have a paper marriage, companionship and nothing more, because that’s already more than I ever expected for the rest of my life.”

Ah. He’s alluding to sex. It’s kind of him to dance around this, but entirely unnecessary; delicacy has been out of the question for 8 years now, since she still thought Neal was her forever. It never really mattered for an orphan from the worst of Boston anyways. As kind as it may be, it’s unnecessary, and frankly too chivalrous for her purposes. In return, Emma chooses her words just as carefully as he did; at the beginning here, setting the stage for what may become the rest of their marriage, it seems important to do so. “Thank you, Mr. Jones —”

“Killian.”

“Killian.” He’s right; they’ve already traded vows, such as they were, after all. “Thank you, Killian - but the fact of the matter is that I need this to be a real marriage. If our marriage is to protect me the way I need it to… then I need there to be no reason for anyone to claim otherwise.”

———

They consummate their marriage that night.

It is not making love by any means, and it is not even particularly good - it’s been too long for either of them to be in practice, and too little feeling between the two of them - but there is no denying that it is a real marriage now. Emma can smell the shot of rum he drank for courage as Killian determinedly avoids her lips. His body is warm and firm above her, inside her, but there’s no feeling to it, except in the apology he mumbles against her ear when he finishes before she’s even close to satisfaction.

It is fine. It is no more than she expected.

But at least it is a union, in almost every sense of the word.

———

(She had been anxious about this - the idea of giving her body to a man she barely knows, no matter how much she knows it to be necessary - but as mediocre as the act itself is, Emma can’t help but feel… connected, afterwards. Despite everything, he had been gentle with her, considerate. She doesn’t quite feel an affection for him - not yet, though she hopes she might one day, if this is to be the start of years to come - but it’s the first link in a bond that they’ll strengthen with time. Consummation had been a fraught decision for both of them, an emotional minefield in many ways, but they’re truly in this together now.

All things considered - she’s glad she’s in it with him.)

#captain swan #cs ff #cs fanfiction #captain swan ff #marriage of convenience #my writing #Seeking Shelter Seeking Solace #independent!Emma #grumpy!Killian #and a bar

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saturnsummer · 3 years

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law school: love and goodbye letters

notes: i would like to give out love letters to the amazing cast, our 8 students from hankuk law school. like what the director said, i’ll support them in their journeys as they take a step into their new chapter, wherever they go. their stories continue and live on. it’s been an amazing journey, although I was initially hesitant on starting it. while i will definitely be suffering withdrawals and probably think about it too much, i’m thankful i started watching.

the finale has left me with so many thoughts, I want to send them off right. also, writing these letters have helped my process my feelings towards the show and stop me from getting so withdrawn. so, shall we begin this court hearing?

over the next couple of days, my inbox will be open to requests! i may not write the fastest, but I’m willing to fulfil any of your desires about law school now that it has ended.

(skip please, if you don’t want to see my personal reflections.)

HAN JOON HWI// KIM BEOM

you have been a pleasure to watch, a seasoned actor indeed. you brought life to joon hwi, depicting the student that is smart, aloof, but is actually caring for their friends alike.

joon hwi, when you entered law school, you wanted to be a prosecutor. now, you finally got your dream. you were broken, sad, betrayed by your uncle. you remind yourself that you cannot be your uncle. but at the end, you’re happy, aren’t you? you’ve been through hell, yet somehow you told yourself to hang on. believe it, samchoon is proud he raised a noble nephew to fight and correct the flaws in the law.

you have taught us the black and whites, yet seeing the greys of law. and with that, as you continue your journey as a prosecutor, remember to judge fairly and make sure no one suffers unjustly.

you’ve done well, kim beom. thank you.

KANG SOL A// RYU HYE YOUNG

hyeyoung, you’ve brought so many emotions across the screen. as kang dan and sol, you had the challenge to play polar opposites, the moon and sun. you were feisty, you were soft. yet, you brought the humane qualities out of sol, conveying it to us.

kang sol a, you represent that majority of students, or even adults alike. you’re single parented. you come from a broken family. you have an estranged sibling, one you try so hard to find. you are barely making enough to live by. on top of that, you are on a scholarship, yet scoring grades that skim the pass. you represent so many students in the world. yet, you didn’t let these weights hold you from feeling your passion into law. you fought tirelessly for your friends and family, and stayed grounded in your morals and values.

this is why you are my personal favourite. that you love and strive for something so much, you work on it endlessly and still rigorously put in hard work. your passion for law inspires me to be equally passionate for my future degree as well. the fact that you went to law school seeking an apology, I hope you have gotten your apology. your zeal for justice will live on.

as a lawyer now, i hope you will remember your endless nights. i hope you know your worth. i hope that everyday, you trust yourself and be bold and courageous, like how you are when defending for your professor. you will excel, and you will be a good lawyer.

so thank you, for speaking up for the students who find it tough to get through school. for telling us and giving us faith that we can survive.

KANG SOL B// LEE SOO KYUNG

sookyung, you are far from your character of solb. yet, you were a perfect representation. you were elegant, classy and held that prestige whenever you acted.

solb, you represent that group of us that are pressured. when the society pressures us, it is nothing compared to our family’s pressures. you held your mom’s pressure to heart, studying endlessly, trapped in a cage that you couldn’t get out of. you isolated yourself to break free, acting cold.

you finally broke free, with your consultations with your therapist. and i hope you know just how proud i am of you for standing up for yourself. your unnies and oppas will always be supporting you, and wherever you are now, whether you are training to be a judge or not, i hope you never forget that you are supported. you are a free bird, and you should do things for yourself.

thank you, for being the solb we have learnt to love, the student we aspire to be. solb, you are forever an A+ in our eyes.

SEO JI HO// LEE DAVID

david, you are the man backstage always goofing off. your character hates goofing. yet, your simple eyes and acting brought so many emotions. you didn’t have many emotional scenes, but your expressions were so well done.

jiho, you started law to fight for your dad, for justice to be served. but over your journey, aren’t you glad you have made so many friends? your 3 years there have proved that you have earned justice, but you earned friendships that you will never experience anywhere else.

wherever you are, if you are at a law firm working and earning lots of money, cherish the friendships. justice is served. learn and let go, and maybe you will enjoy your life a bit more.

JEON YE SEUL// GO YOUN JUNG

youn jung, where can i start? your acting was phenomenal. you played the cheery girl so well, yet at the same time you empathised with the victim of a domestic abuse. your scenes blew me away.

yeseul, I hope you carry this on your heart. you are loved, you are right. you are not wrong. you speak up for those abused, because you were once them. with the power of the law, I know you will go on to defend for them and fight for them. you will bring justice, and you will be the woman of power in the courtroom.

leave your immature self behind. you have matured to be a woman of confidence, boldness and most importantly, knowing you are not wrong.

you will be the woman of the courtroom. your kindness is your strength. wherever you are, defending abuse victims, thank you for speaking out for the millions of women who victimise themselves, still. you have inspired the generation of women to provide support for them.

MIN BOK GI// LEE KANG JI

kangji, your goofiness on set and in the show plays out especially well. you were lively, yet at the same time the right support we needed.

bokgi, you will forever be remembered as the boy who comes to classes with a head band. you were casual, easy going and the extroverted one in the study group. you brought life to them, taught them to live and take things easy. you supported yeseul regardless, and always stop by her side. you are unafraid to be defensive over your friends.

for that, we thank you for being the character that is loyal. that regardless of what happened, you stayed with your group even though you could easily walk away.

JO YE BEOM// KIM MIN SEOK

minseok, you were fun to watch on set, yet a more fun character to watch grow with your actor friends. yebeom had many iconic lines, yet you did well in them.

yebeom, I will not understand why you were a spy. i however, will empathise your situation. what could you do? regardless, all that is useless now. you were sidekicks with your bestie bokgi, and together, you were both the life of the group that reminded them to breathe.

you made a good choice to be honest when sol a confronted you. and you should be thankful that the group still kept you even after all that. I hope that in your law career, you will remember the codes of law, and remember what is right. you stand for truth, you stand for justice.

YOO SEUNG JAE// HYUN WOO

hyunwoo, you had lesser scenes, yet each scene you had was a turmoil of emotions each time. you conveyed your emotions so well, and I’m so impressed.

seungjae, you are the oldest of the study group. you’ve been through a lot, haven’t you? you’re permanently suspended from law school, and with a kid now. I hope things are going well for you, whether you are a doctor or a computer guy now.

thank you for being the bigger man, to admit to his mistakes and asking for a bigger punishment. you have deep regrets, but I know you will grow and learn from them. you deserve your happiness.

to my law school fam,

thank you for this beautiful journey. you have taught me to be righteous, to be bold and to be confident. you taught me the results of tenacity. you taught me how to upload my values. you taught me the reasons to be lawful and that I should stand by my morals. you taught me confidence and courage.

truth and justice, only by the law.

it’s been a journey, my graduates. I close the hearing as make my final decision. i will close my case.

thank you, directors, pds, writers, staff, editors, musicians, make up and stylists. I hope you will meet again on another shoot.

goodbye, thank you. we’ll see each other again.

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henryholmesacademia · 4 years

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Predilection Chapter One

A/N: ahhhhh....I’m so nervous and excited! This isn’t my first time writing and publishing something on tumblr, but it is the first time I write for this guy. Hope you like it, and hope you stick around but please don’t feel obligated too. I don’t like doing synopsis or previews because I feel like it gives the story away, so you’ll just have to feel this one out. Enjoy! Or not, I can’t tell you how to live your life <3

beta reader, co-writer, motivator, and all around love of my life: @lost-aesthetic-of-past

This isn’t a special story.

Might not even be a story at all.

But rather a telling of events that happened in a certain order and have been strung together to create a tale that could cure the boredom of the mind and indulge the land of fantasy.

We won’t start from the beginning. I’ll spare you the boring details and let you come to your own conclusions.

We’ll start our telling of tales in a humble tearoom.

The famous detective Sherlock Holmes had just finished having a somewhat futile conversation with Edith in the search for his younger sister. Come to think of it, it was not much of a conversation as much as it was a reprimanding of sorts. It might even be considered educating him on a subject he knew nothing of and needed a good slap into reality.

“You said she was traveling with a boy?” Sherlock inquired as she was making her exit from the room.

She stops at the doorway. “A useless boy, she called him. I couldn’t help but be reminded of a woman who traveled through here yesterday. We were about to close when she came in. She was wet from rain, but she didn’t seem to mind it at all.” She turns to look at him. “She said you would be here today, and it seems her assumption was correct. She told me that she would be waiting for you at 6 o'clock, Mr. Holmes, and that you had better dress nicely.”

“She left no name?” He raises an eyebrow.

Edith shrugged. “She was very certain that you would know who she was and that you would know exactly where she wanted you.”

Sherlock Holmes has always been talented at keeping his cool. Demonstrating no emotion. His face, some compared it to the likeness of a statue with how unmoved he was in situations.

This would be no different. It had been years since he had last seen the woman who was beckoning him.

And yet, she was always able to pique his curiosity.

“I see you received my message, Mr. Holmes.” Her voice was only accompanied by the sound of her heels. It had seemed that all sound in the bustle of society had come to a stop. No clinking of glass. No servers rushing passed them. It was just her. “And you dressed for the occasion.” Her eyes zero in on his attire. “I do love a man in a tie, as I’m sure you are aware." Oh, how she loved to tease him.

The detective knew basic manners, he was taught right from wrong, how to be respectful toward women, not to mention he had observed enough of the body language and cues of people. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to stand up and pull out a chair for her.

"I thought sending you a message would better prepare you for this, but I see it made no difference.” She sets her bag on the table and sits down on her own accord. She both loved and hated etiquette. There were so many rules and guidelines to follow. However, it did work to her advantage at times. “Tell me, Mr. Holmes, what adventure are you on right at this moment?”

“When did you return from overseas?” He manages to find his voice, though he never meant to lose it.

“I’ve been told that you are looking for someone. Could it be that marquee from the papers?” She stirs the spoon of the tea that a server had set down in front of her.

“You are avoiding my question. Mycroft is not aware that you are back, is he?” He lets out a deep breath. There was never a chance of getting a straight answer from her. She only knew how to respond in teasing and quick wit. Every smile devious, and every word was calculated.

“And you are very rudely avoiding mine.” Her smile, that teasing smile of hers. “Would you like help with the case of the marquee? If you ask nicely, I’ll go with you. Finding people who don’t want to be found is a specialty of mine.” She lifts the teacup from the saucer to her mouth innocently enough, but he knew better.

“But dealing with the damage you leave in your wake isn’t?” His words stop her drink and she places the cup back on the saucer.

“What a pity.” Her face forms a small pout. “I was rather liking our game.”

“You always think of things as some kind of game. There is going to be a day when you will find not everyone wants to join in. Not everyone is a toy who is vying for your attention in hope that you will play with them.”

“I will learn that the day you learn that people are more than answers to riddles.” She challenges. “Indulge me for a moment, why did you come here? You knew it was me who sent for you. You remembered my favorite restaurant, my favorite tea, and if they did not give you this table, I will forever assume that you were the one who asked for the table that was in the farthest corner of the room.”

“You do not want Mycroft to know you are here.” He tries to gauge her reaction and steer the conversation. Like always, she gives a grin. A true Cheshire cat smile.

“No. And you forget, Mr. Holmes, nobody knows anything until I want them to know.” She gathers her purse and stands up from the chair. “Here I was, hoping that we would have a nice dinner. It’s been…” she trails off as she looks for the right word. “Refreshing to see you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Why waste your time having dinner with me?” He can’t help but ask her. Just from observing her, he remembered how she would do nothing if it did not have a motive that she would find useful.

She pauses for a moment as she considers his question and gives him a genuine smile. A rare, but beautiful sight. “Is it so hard to believe that your company might be missed?” As she walks past him, she leans down close to his ear. “As for earlier, this isn’t a game to me, Mr. Holmes. But if it was…you were always my favorite player.” She whispers and leaves him to dwell with the aroma of sugar and spice in the air.

The great detective takes to his pipe that night as he stares into the fire. If you were to see him, you would think that he would be calculating his next move or contemplating his own life. That he would be entirely concerned for the welfare of his sister or mother that has vanished into thin air.

No.

He was thinking about his encounter with that woman. Not even the one from this evening, but all the previous ones he had with her. Each one is more memorable than the last. But none shall ever haunt his memory as much as when he first met her.

He never expected such a woman of high society to be standing in the same room with Lestrade right next to a crime scene. Her voice floated melodiously through the room as he walked through the front door. The smell of spice and sugar leads him to where a woman had her back turned to him while answering the Scotland Yard inspector’s questions.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes this is-” Lestrade begins.

The woman turns to see him, the ensemble on her hat was grand and elegant, but her striking eyes that hide the mischief behind them and her smile, which seemed to match the sentiment, was not hidden or dimmed. They were…quite beautifully complemented by it, as he recalled the words his mother said to him once as a child. She extends her gloved hand. “Miss Harrison.” She finishes for Lestrade with a pearly white smile. “And you are?” She inquires.

He was shocked for a moment as her hand was extended toward him. Society would not have allowed it to happen as a young woman should never extend her hand, and she did not seem to be married. Her glove did not have an outdent from a wedding ring.

“This is Sherlock Holmes, we ask him for consultation, and he comes when he’s bothered to read a telegram from us,” Lestrade adds when Sherlock remains stoic and silent.

The corners of her mouth seemed to turn up even higher at that. “My oh my, Mr. Holmes, the papers do not do you justice.” She looks straight at his eyes when she speaks again. “Tell me, has anybody ever told you how incredibly blue your eyes are? Why, I keep finding myself stopping to admire them.”

“No, miss, I can not say that I have.” He releases her hand and clears his throat while stepping forward to examine what Lestrade had originally summoned him for a routine theft. But from what he could tell, the jewelry stolen was not the woman’s jewelry. For she seemed to not wear any. Women who could afford such jewelry never left their households without displaying a few pieces and any fortune she might have clearly was being spent and invested in their extravagant garments and perfumes.

“I apologize. He’s not - well he does tend to act like that sometimes.” Lestrade finds himself in a very awkward position at the moment.

She turns to see him examining a table, observing his side profile. “There is no need for an apology, inspector Lestrade. He’s exactly as I imagined him to be. He’ll do nicely for this case. My employer would be pleased.”

“Who is your employer again? I never caught the name.”

“Oh, I didn’t say. They would prefer it if they were not associated with what happened at all.” She pauses for a moment. “Is that any problem, Mr. Holmes?” Her voice is a little louder to get his attention.

He ignores her question.

Just as the inspector is about to apologize again, she gives him a grin. “I quite like him, Lestrade. I might just keep him on.”

And keep him she did.

Sherlock takes out her handkerchief that she had slipped into his pocket when she was whispering in his ear, embroidered with her initials and the outline of her lipstick. A color that was almost as bold as she was. He held it up to his nose and, sure enough, it was the scent of sugar and spice.

#henry cavill!sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes x reader #henry cavill x reader #henryholmesacademia

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