fact: blaise zabini’s mother is an icon, a quintessential femme fatale. emerald colored liquid satin dresses stretching tight across her hips, black birdcage veils, tinted nylons, and poisoned hollywood red lipstick have become her standard attire for funeral parlors, collection of life insurance payouts, and sunday service. her musky scent intoxicates every suitor when she leans close. her head tilts sideways with interest as she traces her nails delicately along the pulse points of a flushed neck, and her signature bee sting kisses leave mouths swollen and trembling. she has perfected the craft of making admirers feel loved without the asphyxiating word ever dripping from her lips.
every authority that questions the tragedies surrounding her, promptly falls victim to her seduction. they are left drowsy and speechless upon hearing her purr in a silky, lightly accented voice that she is merely a grieving widow.
evenings are spent reclining on a divan beneath a swarovski crystal chandelier, velvet robe open just enough to reveal the curve of a heaving bosom and the swell of a soft thigh. her deep rich skin glows in the candlelight and dark curls tumble over a sharp shoulder. she dips candied cherries into a glass of champagne and hums along sweetly to the record player’s smoky crooning. vengeance and sadness glint in her eye as she plots how she will dispose of the handsome businessman slumped near her freshly polished toenails.
The first challenge came almost immediately. Natalie had auditioned in her natural hair color, which is blonde, fully expecting that if she got the role she would play Anne as a brunette. She knew her history, and it never occurred to her that the executives at Showtime would have anything else in mind. She was concerned, in fact, that her strong physical differences from Anne—including her blue eyes—would disqualify her for the part. She reassured herself about the eyes—“they aren’t the right color, but just like Anne, I’ve been told they are my most becoming feature” (actually, there’s not a feature on Natalie’s face that isn’t dazzling.) But she knew the hair would have to be changed. So after she received the phone call telling her she’d won the part—largely on the basis, Hirst told me, of the “physical chemistry” between her and Rhys Meyers (Natalie describes it as “a lot of heaving bosom stuff”), after becoming “hysterical with joy,” she immediately dyed her hair. When she arrived on set, Dee Corcoran, chief of the hair department, who won an Emmy for her work on the show and was “almost like an Irish mother” to Natalie, took her aside. “Okay, we’ve got a really serious problem—you dyed your hair. They are really unhappy. Really unhappy.” “They” were the Showtime execs. “So they sent me back to the hairdresser and they tried to dye blonde back in. But any hairdresser will tell you that it doesn’t work to put peroxide blonde on jet black. I looked like a badger! I was terrified that I’d lose the role. I mean, what did they have planned, now that I was multi-colored—to put me in a blonde wig?” Dormer wasn’t sure she could accept that. “Anne’s hair color is such an important detail! For one thing, it was the basis of a lot of nasty labels—Wolsey calling her the “night crow” and so on. And also, in being a confident brunette she was defying the ideal, of what it meant for a female to be attractive at that time.” “So we’re all barely cast, and I went to Bob Greenblatt with my heart in my mouth, and told him how important it was that Anne be dark. ‘Bob, I have to play her dark. It’s so important. You have to let me play her dark!’ Some might say I was being melodramatic and self-important. But I thought it would just be a direct betrayal of Anne. Of her refusal to step into the imprint of the acceptable norm at the time.” “Greenblatt, who is a very shrewd man, just said ‘I’ll think about it.” I assumed I’d lost the job. I felt completely and utterly depressed. But then I got a phone call a few days later, telling me that Bob had decided I could be dark.”
I need to talk to someone about how beautiful Sam is
FRIEND I AM HERE FOR THIS CONVERSATION
would you like to talk about his squishy little nose and the way he scrunches it when he’s confused?
do you want to spend time discussing his perfect profile? (look at the line of his chin AND DESPAIR)
What about the way that he smiles when he’s flirting with Dr Cara in Sex and Violence? (we could probably spend the whole time discussing that one episode, LET’S BE REAL)
It’s definitely worth dwelling on the cheekbones and their chiselled improbability…
… or pondering the beauty of each individual hair of his eyebrows (to say nothing of the starburst eyes).
Lizzy Bennet’s heaving bosom ain’t got nothing on Sam’s
and sometimes he can be extremely distracting with his tongue.
As Dr Cara so wisely observes,
Also a problem? His back
and the staggering size of his hands.
This of course is merely scratching the surface. I haven’t mentioned his moles, his dimples, the beautiful stubble along his jawline or the lustrous beauty of his hair. I haven’t discussed his long long legs or the way that his T-shirts swing around his waist because of his inhumanly broad shoulders. Nor have I mentioned my particular obsession with his bare feet, when we’re lucky enough to see them. I haven’t been able fully to discuss the agony provoked by his smattering of chest hair nor by the rare and oh so delightful flash of his smile. And I haven’t even begun to deal with the beauty of the booty.
“Oh, is it! And who do you think saved your miserable life for you, anyway? Did it all by yourself, did you?” I grabbed his arm to steer him back to bed, but he jerked it away.
“I didna ask ye to, did I? I told ye to leave me, no? And I canna see why ye bothered to save my life, anyway, if it’s only to starve me to death—unless ye enjoy watching it!”
This was altogether too much.
I drew myself to my full height, and pointed menacingly at the cot. With all the authority learned in years of nursing, I said, “Get back in that bed this instant, you stubborn, mulish, idiotic—”
“Scot,” he finished for me, succinctly. He took a step toward the door, and would have fallen, had he not caught hold of a stool. He plumped heavily down on it and sat swaying, his eyes a little unfocused with dizziness. I clenched my fists and glared at him.
“Fine,” I said. “Bloody fine! I’ll order bread and meat for you, and after you vomit on the floor, you can just get down on your hands and knees and clean it up yourself! I won’t do it, and if Brother Roger does, I’ll skin him alive!”
I stormed into the hall and slammed the door behind me, just before the porcelain washbasin crashed into it from the other side. I turned to find an interested audience, no doubt attracted by the racket, standing in the hall. Brother Roger and Murtagh stood side by side, staring at my flushed face and heaving bosom. Roger looked disconcerted, but a slow smile spread over Murtagh’s craggy countenance as he listened to the string of Gaelic obscenities going on behind the door.
“He’s feeling better, then,” he said contentedly. I leaned against the corridor wall, and felt an answering smile spread slowly across my own face.
Hi alex! I dont know if you take prompts and if you dont thats ok. If you do can you write a scene in your bth verse where emma tells killian about her ability to spot lies please? Thank you and dont worry if you dont have time to write it i understand.
So, this is one of those things where it’s clear that at some point in Beyond the Horizon, Killian finds out about Emma’s superpower, but I never wrote the actual scene where she tells him. Then I got carried away and wrote 4,000 words once I started thinking about how it would have come out. Unlike the other BtH extras, this isn’t a single scene, this is some missing bits and pieces that take place over several chapters of the main fic.
Also on ff.net here as part of my Interlude at Sea series.
(and yes, there’s smut)
Something was nagging at him.
It was a faint but insistent tug at the back of his mind, a lurking shadow in the corner of his eye.
“Women on ships are bad luck.”
Killian Jones was superstitious - all sailors were, to some extent. He wore charms around his neck to guard against the cold grasp of Davy Jones (no relation) and never dared to challenge the wind by absent-mindedly whistling on deck. He steered well clear of the flocks of albatrosses soaring about overhead in search of dinner and avoided the sleek schools of mermaids below - treacherous, untrustworthy creatures they were, but he’d never held much stock in the old belief that a woman aboard a ship was bad luck. He certainly didn’t think that his golden-haired treasure had brought him any ill since he’d stolen her away for his own, the single storm (that they’d forded with no casualties and no cost save a lost day or two on repairs) aside, he’d had nothing but astonishingly good luck with Princess Emma by his side.
In his arms.
In his bed.
But still, there was something about her that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Some mysterious quality about her that had nothing to do with her more obvious, feminine charms, like the tilt of her lips that practically begged for his kisses or the curve of her waist that seemed to have been made for his hands to circle and pull her close, lovely and dreadfully distracting whenever he tried and failed to get to the bottom of exactly what was bothering him.
Just You Wait - Alfie Solomons One Shot O/C (requested
“Only me, I have a request for a one shot… you probs know what
involving haha. If poss I don’t want no
full sex in it, just lots of his hands and beard over her (o/c) body n her touching
his hands I know it’s very specific haha thank you.”
Wait (part 1 of 3)
The daily rush was finally slowing to a more manageable pace,
as Y/N leaned against the counter and blew a pale wayward strand of hair from
where it clung to her damp face. Blazes it was hot in the bakery today. The ovens working overtime to keep up with
the demand. Eyes the colour of a summer
sky scanned the store and quickly counted the number of customers in the queue.
Less than five - that wouldn’t take long. Now as long as another rush didn’t sweep
through the doors, she might just have time.
Plucking her blouse from the sweat that had gathered between her ample
breasts, her pert nose wrinkled in distaste.
Perhaps she was not in any condition to pay a visit after all. What she needed was a mirror, a brush and
just the right shade of gloss to pull herself together. With a quick glance towards the front of the
store, noting that the line had dwindled to only two customers, she yelled to
the bakery Manager, Ms. Shannon that she was finally taking her break.
After five minutes to pull herself together, she was walking
down the passageway that connected the store bakery with the real heart of the
business of one Alfie Solomons. Her
heart began thumping madly within her chest as a vision of the man swam before
her eyes. She could conjure every
detail in vivid fantasy; but her mind was always prone to linger on his strong,
hands and that glorious beard liberally laced in ginger tones. Her stomach flipped just imaging both of
them all over her body. Thus far, despite some not so subtle hinting,
she had not felt the pleasure. Yet. Sure, he was technically her boss, but God –
the man was just too much man too resist.
Also, she had no shame. More to
the point, she suspected Alfie was the kind of man who didn’t care about
boss/employee protocol, and would likely be pleased even further by her wanton
Y/N had heard enough talk of
the man to know restraint was not his strong suit, and thus she figured it was
just a matter of time before she knew the feel of those long, lean fingers all
over her naked skin. Once she had
trailed a painted nail along the veins that stood out on his forearms and
nearly climaxed from that experience alone.
Pausing outside his door, she could see the man at his desk, booted feet
resting causally on the surface while he pondered the papers he held. Hell, how the man was somehow sexier in
those half-moon glasses, she would never know.
Taking a deep breath, she paused momentarily to silently watch him… and
collect her wits. One never wanted to
approach Alfie Solomons with anything less than a fully functioning state of
mind. Which was a serious challenge
when one tended to hold images of riding that beard while trying to converse. Today she planned on testing the limits of
his restraint. Only a taste though.
Always leave them wanting more was her motto.
Alfie’s jaw had begun to ache due to the amount of beard
scratching he had already accomplished, and it was barely noon. If it was not a dozen things going wrong
today, it was probably twice that amount.
Fucking hell days like this were beginning to take a toll on him. He’d even lost the will to yell at Ollie
anymore. The words of whatever document
he was trying to read were blurring before his tired eyes. Flinging the document back upon the desk, he
lowered the glasses once more and leaned back in his chair, palms swiping over
his aching eyes. He rested his head
against the back of the chair for a few minutes, weighing the merits of a good,
but brief nap. His hands folded across
his chest, but fingers twisted and clenched continuously as a restlessness
coursed through his body despite the fatigue.
His eyes opened and wandered to the ceiling. Then rolled over his cluttered desk, and finally
towards Ollie busy in his own office.
The lad was muttering and Alfie shook his head, eyes rolling… and then
they landed on her.
Even through the distorted plane of glass in the door, Alfie
was forced to admit it was one of the most stunning faces he had ever
beheld. The golden hair that framed it
draped down and curling at the ends. He
knew it had to be worn up while working in the bakery, which meant she had
styled before coming to his office. He smirked slightly. Their gazes held across the room, while she
waited for his summons to enter. Her
sultry, sweet smile not fading while he made her wait, but acting like a siren
call that caused a tightening in his gut.
She looked like summer and cool evenings spent by a fire. The caramel streaks infused among the subtle
waves giving the paleness of her skin a warmth, instead of being washed
out. She was uncommonly beautiful – and
knew it. And therein lay the cause of
his hesitation. That spelled possible
trouble if she thought it would grant her power over him. Thought she could catch him. Alfie enjoyed what a woman might offer – but
Alfie Solomons didn’t get “caught.” Once
again his fingers grazed through the ginger streaked hair along his jaw. Through the glass her lips parted.
Why she was
at his office was another matter; but he could guess it was not likely official
Solomon Bakery Business. She had been
flirting outrageously with him for weeks now.
Certainly he was not opposed to Y/N’s attentions; indeed she had been
the starring role in many of his fantasies of late. He imagined the soft, silky feel of that
wheat and honey hair draped all around them as he took possession of her lithe,
young body. What he doesn’t like is the coquettish
games. How she’d smile and touch him
lightly and then move away. Darting her
tongue out to lick her lips, and then a look of almost disdain would cross her
pretty features. Like he, a Jewish Crime
Boss of humble origins was beneath her; a Golden Goddess. No, he didn’t need that bullshit in his
life. What he needed was a good fuck to
release the anxiety of the day. If she
was game for that – he didn’t give a fuck what this uppity princess thought of
him. Leaning forward he crooked his
finger in a forward motion.
Y/N swung through his office door, eyes set on his own,
breasts thrust forward and hips swinging.
Her mouth spread in a wide smile and he cannot deny that it spreads a
warm, happy glow straight to his loins.
His legs swung down to the floor while he patted the edge of his
desk. A moment’s hesitation before she crosses to only lean against the edge; one leg casually brushing against his
“Lovely to see you Y/N as always. How are things in the bakery today?”
“Just fine they are Mr. Solomons. We’ve had a real good day.” Her eyes dropped demurely to the floor
briefly. “Why I’ve barely had a chance
to catch my breath at all.” Then raised
to meet his own, a subtle woeful shine that was designed to draw forth his
softer nature. “It’s lucky that I’ve had
a few spare moments to come see ya. Ya
know, show my appreciation for hiring me that is.” One hand had reached out to lightly graze
the bare skin of his forearm. Igniting
a spark of lust within him to have those perfectly manicured hands on other
“How has your day been Sir?
Is there anything ya need for me to do?” A delicate brow raised, the hidden meaning
not so well hidden at all.
Alfie studied her, a look of mild amusement only registering
on his face. He slid his chair upon the
floor closing the gap between them, holding her gaze with his own penetrating
stare. She sighed, heaving her bosom
high and ran a finger along the outside curve of her hips, before shifting as
though she was about to make her leave.
“Well, I’d best be getting back. I just wanted to see you…”
A hard glint entered his gaze and she stopped mid-sentence;
eyes wide and wondering. It was at this
moment Alfie decided he had tolerated enough of these games and it was time to
take her in hand. Literally.
She made to move away again, but a strong hand reached out and
locked about her slender wrist.
“Well love, I won’t lie to you, it’s been a hell of a
day. And come to think of it, there is
something ya can do for me.” His gaze
didn’t leave her own as he yelled across the office space. “Ollie, take a fuckin break.”
The lad darted from the office without a backwards
glance. She shifted nervously
wondering if she had bitten off more than she could chew with this man feared
by so many. Even though the way he
commanded so easily was making her nether regions quiver. She drew a shaky breath, but was determined
to not falter. Trying to regain the
upper hand, she leaned forward, fingers light upon his chest while she removed
the glasses from around his neck.
Nails briefly grazing through the longer length of his hair above his
shirt collar. The smile she cast hinting
at untold promises. Promises to be
bestowed at her fickle will. He smiled
back, the stillness of his body suggesting he was powerless to her magnetic
pull. His one hand reached for her own
smaller ones, a gentle squeeze and she felt sparks burst within her entire
body. She began tracing that vein again…
Suddenly he exploded in raw power and sexual energy pulsed
through the air, as he gripped her firmly about the neck and bent her back over
the desk. He paused briefly to give her
a chance to voice protest — her eyes were wide and her chest heaved, but she said nothing. Those lean fingers made short work of her blouse
buttons, eyes never leaving her own. His
rough hands a light graze across the exposed flesh at first. Her skin shivered in the coolness of the
office though being overcome by the power he exudes over her has sent a hot
flush coursing through her veins. Then
it’s all business of his mouth, beard and hands everywhere. He never kisses her – just glides his warm
mouth over her skin, the soft whiskers following. Granting her a taste of what might be and
she bites her tongue to keep from begging him to go further. The contrast of his warm flesh and the cool
imprint of his various rings almost sending her over the edge.
Pushing her further back, his hands reached beneath her skirt
and slowly slid up her legs; gently spreading them apart. Her breath hitches when his head dives
between them, while the light touch of a finger traces the outline of her
panties. He goes no further, but drags
his beard scratching along her inner thighs before moving to cover her
mound through the thin cotton material with his warm mouth. She’s writhing, no longer able to keep from
begging for more and pushing her pelvis into his face as his mouth moves over the
soft cotton covering. The strong grip
of those hands squeezing her thighs and her mind is tumbling, wondering what
his tongue might feel like. Abandoning
all pretense, she boldly reached down and tried to move her panties aside. Alfie doesn’t stop, but gripped her hands
and held them tightly pinned to her sides.
A growled grunt vibrates against her centre and a moan escapes against
her will as she almost comes right there.
The wetness seeped through and he pressed his tongue briefly against her bud. Moving up, he rubbed his beard against the
soft roundness of her stomach and his large hands grazed over the sensitive
skin covering her ribs to grab a handful of breast. His eyes watching her closely; head tipped
back, jaw slack and panting with need.
Her own eyes squeezed shut so she missed his slow smile of
As suddenly as he started, he pulled away; leaving her limp
and wanting him more than ever. Her
eyes liquid pools of unquenched desire, while he seems barely affected. Save
for the satisfied smirk and hard gleam in that stare he fixed upon her. Waiting.
Watching her reaction. Testing
her further, his hands slowly slide up her body and once more he bent his mouth
to skim along skin already showing the red rashes of his attention. Lightly he skimmed along the delicate fair
surface, his hot breath and the tickle of his beard spiraling her arousal
further. Y/N reached shaky hands to
hold him closer, but he doesn’t allow her touch and pins them above her
head. Bending his face so close she thinks
finally she will know the feel of those full lips upon her own. She smiles softly back and they hold the
moment. Alfie merely brushed the corner
of her lips with his own, whispering against their fullness; his voice deep and
low. But she can detect it’s also thick
“I say when, where and how it fuckin happens sweetie. Now get back to work.”
Just like that he released her and strode away in that swagger
that makes a woman want to abandon pride and chase after him. He
doesn’t even look back as he exits his own office. Confused and mildly affronted, she fastened
her blouse and returned to the bakery on wobbly legs. Visibly shaken as she resumed her
duties. Ms. Shannon takes one look at
her dazed stare and raised red rashes upon her throat and upper chest, and
shakes her head knowingly. As the hours
slip by, her excitement dwindles into a sweeping embarrassment that infuses her
cheeks with a heated blush. Did she entirely misjudge the man? Or worse,
her own powers of seduction? Suddenly
she’s not so confident regarding their next encounter. Her nerves a tangled mess as the hours pass
slowly by. Just before closing, Ollie
strides purposefully into the kitchen office where she sits at her desk
gathering her personal affects. Not
meeting her gaze, he simply hands her a note,
“From Mr. Solomons, Miss Y/N.”
She accepted the note, trying to search his face for some sign
of the contents, but faithful, stoic Ollie reveals nothing of his employer’s
intent. Nodding his head, he took his
leave. Y/N opened the note to discover an address and
a time scrawled in his neat handwriting.
A PS “wear that polka dotted dress, and don’t be late.” A slow smile of satisfaction spread across
her face as a warm glow pulsed through her entire body. He’s played his hand, and now the play is
hers. Will she take a risk and up the
who says when and where Mr. Solomons.
She’d wear the polka dotted dress as per his request. It wasn’t like she had not seen his glances rake
over her curvy form whenever she wore it.
But she wasn’t above making any man – even Alfie Solomons - wait
a little. Her smile and confidence were
back in place as she closed the door on her office and left the bakery with her
head held high.
EDIT: DUE TO POPULAR DEMAND, THIS FIC WAS EXPANDED TO THREE PARTS
“In all ages, one has taken beautiful feelings for arguments, the heaving bosom for the bellows of divinity, convictions for a criterion of truth, and the need of an opponent for a question mark against wisdom. These falsehoods permeate the whole history of philosophy.”
—F. Nietzsche, The Will to Power, §414 (edited excerpt).
Genji still has a soft spot for the Sentai shows he watched when he was a kid. Lowkey he still keeps up with all of the reboots and comics and sometimes if no one’s looking, he’ll do the poses to psych himself up for something. His self-insert fanfiction he wrote when he was 14 is still floating around the internet somewhere and one of these days, Hana or Sombra is going to find it. Also video games, but we already know that.
Angela tries with all her might to resist this, but you know those terrible romance novels you see in drugstores and airport newsstands? Every once in a while, one of them calls to her. And sure she’ll spend the majority of an Orca flight going through correspondence from other scientists and reading about new theories and studies, but she has a handful of them hidden away on her E-reader. She also has a couple paperbacks hidden around her apartment. Also Abba songs. Mercy is secretly your embarrassing aunt.
Mercy: …where did you find that book? Genji: What book? This book? This book titled, The Adventures of Hildegarde the Lusty Viking Queen? Mercy: Genji please… I’m begging you… Genji: I don’t think I’ve been reading enough… Genji: *opens book* Mercy: Don’t you dare. Genji: *reading* “Hildegarde’s bounteous bosoms heaved as—” Mercy: *tackles him to get the book away*
“What distinguishes moral philosophers themselves is a complete absence of cleanliness and intellectual self-discipline: they take ‘beautiful things’ for arguments, regarding their ‘heaving bosom’ as the bellows of divinity.”
—F. Nietzsche, The Will to Power, §428 (edited excerpt).
Naluweek 2017 bonus prompt: Sharing ~ I just wasn’t feeling it for the actual prompt ^^ Setting: Modern AU Title: Indecent Delicacies Word Count: 480 Rating: teen
Summary: When neither you nor your boyfriend have a lot of spare time, dating is often one of the last things you get to do; so spending time with each other is a hit or miss proposition. But small things can mean a lot, and it’s all in how you look at the situation. For Lucy and Natsu, sharing is always the best component of their time together.
Muggy and hot, the side-walk steamed; late spring in the city felt more like deep summer. A chattering group of teens stampeded past a couple deep in conversation over their conflicting schedules.
“Aw, Natsu!” Pouting, Lucy clung tightly to his arm. “Don’t you dare tell me you have to go in early! Do you know how hard it was for me to get this afternoon free?”
“Duty calls,” Natsu apologized, “I’ll make it up to you.” He grinned at Lucy, “It’s a damn shame too,” his eyes glided over her from head to toe, “today’s outfit is stellar. You still gonna be wearing that when I’m off shift?”
“Maybe.” Amused, Lucy winked at Natsu. Her voice a low sultry purr, she then batted her eyelashes. “Buy me a treat before you have to go and I’ll think about it.”
“Anything for you Luce.”
“Then let’s get ice cream!”
Minutes later they exited an ice cream shop. Natsu laughed as he held both cones aloft in one hand, keeping his girlfriend at bay with the other. “Careful! This is dripping already. You gotta keep it clean!”
Manicured hands slid over the crisp uniform covering Natsu’s chest. Lucy batted her eyes and licked her lips. “Really, officer?” She pressed closer and inhaled deeply, satisfied as his eyes were drawn to her heaving bosom. “That’s not what you said last night.”
Natsu grinned and took licks from both ice cream cones before holding them aloft again. “I say a lot of stuff. Wanna refresh my memory?”
Desire woke low in Lucy’s stomach. Grabbing his face in both hands, she hauled Natsu down for an open mouthed kiss. Pushing him against the brick wall of the building they had stopped in front of, she made him moan and gasp.
“Remember now, Natsu?”
“My memory is still a bit foggy,” Natsu ignored the cones he still held, “let’s share another kiss.”
“After we eat the ice cream.” Lucy waved her finger under his nose. “Don’t think you get to hog both of them!”
“Aww, Luce!” Officer Dragneel somehow managed to look abashed and sexy in his uniform. Grinning, he teased, “I’m willing to share my body with you, let me have both cones.”
His mirth died as Lucy took his hand and guided the cold treat to her mouth. Keeping her eyes locked on his she let her tongue swirl over and around the dripping cone. She ended by licking the melted mess clean off his fingers. “Share.”
Mesmerized he nodded, shifting to hold a cone in each hand. Thoughts clouded, he ate his and watched Lucy polish off hers. “I don’t know whether to arrest you for indecent behaviour or buy you another cone to share.”
Lucy winked. Her smile gave Natsu all the incentive he needed. After his shift he’d have to hit up the grocery store and stock up on ice cream.
Summary: AU Tom, set in early 19th c. London. Madeleine and Tom have known each other since they were teenagers (her brother is married to his sister). Can they overcome their fears and choose each other?
Genre: Romance/Angst/Drama (Written as an experiment in the heaving bosom/bodice ripper vein)
Rating: T (non-explicit sexuality/mild violence in later chapters)
Author’s Notes: Friendly reminder that I am not a “W”riter, I always feel like I can’t describe what I see, and your imagination needs to be on High right now. Only half beta’d, all mistakes are mine. I promised I would post it before I went to bed and I’m exhausted, should probably go back and edit when I have fresh eyes.
Summary: Dean deeply yearns for Y/N. But there’s just one problem…she’s not his.
Characters: Dean x Reader
Warnings: Light/Implied Smut, Cheating (Reader)
Word Count: 1,054
A/N: So this is just a little something I whipped up. I needed a break from some of the other stuff I’m working on, and I wanted to practice more sensual writing…you know, for reasons. So please, let me know what you think. Thanks!
Feedback is appreciated. : ) ____________________________________________________________
Y/N and Dean entered the motel room, tired after gathering information for a hunt. Dean slammed the door shut behind him, letting out a tired sigh. Y/N stopped at the foot of one of the beds and turned to Dean.
“You ok? You’ve seemed a little distracted all day.” She asked, removing her grey blazer. She stood in her tight white blouse, tucked neatly into the black pencil skirt. Dean looked her up and down as he removed his own blazer and loosened his tie.
“Yeah. I just hate wearing these suits is all.” He smirked and turned, placing his blazer on a chair. He removed his tie and undid the top couple of buttons from his shirt. Y/N turned and stepped out of her heels. Dean’s eyes wandered over her waist, her hips. He lingered on the slit at the back of her skirt, watching intently as she bent to remove her shoes and place them neatly at the end of the bed.
I just got back from seeing Dead Men Tell No Tales. I have thoughts. Quite a few of them, actually.
I should preface this review by giving a bit of background on my involvement with this franchise. I saw the first PotC movie in the theater seven times. I saw Dead Man’s Chest three or four times and loved it. I saw At World’s End exactly once, hated it with the passion of a thousand burning suns, and never saw it again.
I was–and am–a hardcore Sparrabeth shipper. The canon status of Willabeth only explains part of my disillusionment with the franchise, however. My biggest problem was how Elizabeth had an amazing character arc over three films, going from a prim-and-proper governor’s daughter to the ass-kicking Pirate King, pursuing her dreams in defiance of society’s expectations, outwitting both the EITC and legendary pirates, leading an armada in battle…and then had it all stripped away at the end of the third movie, where she is left literally barefoot and pregnant to wait for her man to come back. I was–and am–livid. I felt betrayed, both as a fan and a feminist, to see one of my favorite characters do a 180 like that.
So I have very strong feelings about these movies. I’ve tried to get over it in the years since AWE, with limited success. Against my better judgment I did see On Stranger Tides in the theater, and thought it was mediocre. Since Elizabeth wasn’t involved I could just ignore its existence, for the most part.
Then the fifth movie was announced, and Will was going to be in it. I had hoped that maybe, just maybe they could try to rectify some of the mistakes (read: character assassination) of the past.
They didn’t. But they still came up with a pretty good movie. Honestly, I’d even give Dead Men Tell No Tales four stars out of five. I was riveted to the screen for most of it, and it was thrilling to hear the theme music and see the familiar faces. It was exciting and entertaining, the special effects were impressive, and there were some good laughs. Plus, zombie sharks!
Do I have issues with parts of it? Yeah. And I’m going to ramble at length.
**** MAJOR POTC: DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES SPOILERS BELOW ****
Summary: AU Tom, set in early 19th c. London. Madeleine and Tom have known each other since they were teenagers (her brother is married to his sister). Can they overcome their fears and choose each other?
Genre: Romance/Angst/Drama (Written as an experiment in the heaving bosom/bodice ripper vein)
Rating: T (non-explicit sexuality/mild violence in later chapters)
Author’s Notes: Thank you to @i-wanna-be-toms-body-pillow for her continued enthusiasm and assistance. I’m still surprised that people are interested in this story. Thank you for the kind words. I really enjoyed writing this chapter, the beginning kind of had me hot and bothered. ;)
The library was always the first place she went. It was her domain, her refuge, her
kingdom. After time away, her heart would
beat a little faster in anticipation as she made her way down the hall. Stepping over the threshold was to be
transported. No matter the frustration
of things great and small, no matter the pain of life and loss, she always
found respite here. She walked through
the room, sighing contentedly, her hands caressing the spines of her treasures,
shelf by shelf, feeling the binding against her palms, the smooth edges of the
lettering. Deep breaths filled her
lungs, the scent of dust and memories and dried lavender relaxing her. A few favorites, for she had many, were
picked up with reverence and pressed to her chest, embraced as a beloved. Among them were gifts from her parents and
she traced her fingertips over the words they had left on the inside
“I missed you,” she told them. And she heard them all respond in whispers,
each page rustling softly in her ears, the cooing intimate words of a lover
meant only for her.
hi, do you happen to know anything about music in the regency? specifically...when the girls played piano did they learn from the standard "classical" canon that we know today? was there "popular" music of the day? did girls ever learn instruments besides the piano (i guess miss crawford plays the harp, was that common)? dunno if you've ever talked about this before, thanks!
Hello! Certainly there were popular tunes of the time, but what one might hear in a London opera could be a far cry from what one might bash out on a spinnet in the leaky-roofed manor house in a rural corner of the country. Spotify actually has some playlists and albums available for listening which contain music which was played and sung at the time, as we know in particular the pieces of music that Jane Austen herself learned on the piano.
Young women could also learn to play the harp as well as the pianoforte, and while Cassandra Austen did a drawing of a young woman holding a flute, this may have been more artistic than a strict representation of what was usual among genteel girls. Ladies ought not to blow into anything which might cause the face to turn red or any unseemly heaving of the bosom. The harp was a much more ‘fashionable’ instrument, but was a rarer find among musically-accomplished girls, and so most were satisfied with learning the piano.
In Rozema’s Mansfield Park adaptation the Bertram sisters play a duet on a mechanical glass armonica, which would have been a relatively new instrument, having been invented by Benjamin Franklin in the 1760s, as well as being a hugely expensive and fragile instrument for a private family to afford. The violin was considered unsuitable for amateur performers in general due to the necessity of perfect intonation in playing, and the positioning of a lady’s arms in the short-bodiced gowns of the period made it an impractical and ungainly instrument in performance. Ladies were not expected to be musical geniuses–but a competency in harp or piano enough to make them appear an accomplished performer was all that was required or sought. Singing might be a useful addition to these charms, but if a girl had not the voice for it, she would not be forced to learn any vocal technique.
Morphina’s lair didn’t
rise out of King’s College like a nightmare version of Maleficent’s castle.
There was no maze of thorns (not that it would be a problem for Spring if there
was) or dragons to slay and, although Archangel’s exhaustion was grateful for
that, another part of him was just a little bit disappointed at these facts.
Morphina’s lair was a medium-sized, rundown house a few minutes’ walk from
Newmarket town centre. There wasn’t even a spiky fence that they had to scale.
“Ugh,” Spring said. “It
“Did you know.” Sanna in
her radiant invincibility stepped first through the gap in the hedge, eyeing
the overgrown grass. “That in New York a property seller is legally required to
tell you if the property you’re inspecting is believed to be haunted.”
Isaac’s wrist and scanned the building for any signs of life or presence.
“She’s there. Be careful.” He was fairly certain. His headache had sprung to
life again, and there was something in
the house. He didn’t believe in ghosts or hauntings so it had to be her, and
her dreamy and nebulous mind. “Don’t give her time to try anything, and try and
stay calm. Isaac, are you sure-”
“Go anywhere near my
emotions and I’ll walk away and let her have you.” He followed after Sanna,
dragging Archangel with him.
“Your loyalty is
inspiring,” Spring snapped. She took up the flank, her vines rising
protectively around them. She felt exposed, even if Archangel muffled her fear.
Half of their team was still out for the count and what could Sanna’s pain do
against a nightmare? And what could a telepath do against a mindless horror?
No nightmares scuttled
out to greet them and the only stirring in the grass was the light breeze. The
door opened easily. It all seemed too easy.
Pale shafts of sunlight
filtered in through the front door, catching the edges of a coat stand and
stairs leading up to the second floor. There was no dust. The air smelled
stale, a little chemical perhaps.
Archangel strained to
pinpoint anything – anything – from
They exchanged looks
and stepped further into the building.
The door slammed shut
behind them. The hiss of gas filled the room.
began. He entirely lost his trail of thoughts as he slumped to the ground, head
going cloudy. His body succumbed only too happily, gratefully, to sleep.
“My god, you’re
dramatic aren’t you?”Morphina’s voice drifted over him. She looked around herself with interest.
Archangel jolted –
well, presumably not awake. His wrists caught on unforgiving metal straps.
“I suppose I should be
pleased that you don’t have me in a skin tight leather cat-suit, complete with
a window for my heaving bosom.,” she continued. Her lip curled. “That’s one
good thing about a gay superhero. Less of the god-awful straight male gaze
stereotypes.” She stopped next to the table he was pinned down to, like a
specimen to be dissected. “Or maybe me in a cat-suit is a nightmare for you –
you’d rather it was Isaac.” She gave a cheery little shrug. Her eyes, as dark
and cavernous as they were in the photographs, stayed cold.
She wore a billowing
black ball gown, lavish enough to be a wedding dress. He supposed she could
imagine whatever the hell she fancied into existence, here.
The room around him
looked like a mad scientist’s labatory. Cold steel and whirring machines, nothing
living and thinking for Archangel to grab onto at all. His breathing quickened
and his gaze darted back to her.
His head had gone terrifyingly
silent, with only his own thoughts for company. As alone in the world as if the
world had died.
“You have a very vivid
imagination, Gabriel,” she said. As if she was talking to a goddamn toddler. “You
always have done, though of course the room isn’t the scary part. But I thought
you’d appreciate it. I was debating between playing the stereotypical
supervillain for you, or maybe going all Miss Havisham with the ghosts of dead
superheroes past. What do you think?”
Archangel managed to
find his voice. “You knew that we were coming.”
Comic book heroes often are.”
“This isn’t a comic
“No, but you wish it
was. Save the world and get the boy, right?”
Archangel’s jaw clenched.
He didn’t consider himself to be a particularly violent person, but the urge to
smash that crocodile-smile off her lips swelled in his throat like vomit and
itched in his palms like a rash. “Real
people are getting hurt.”
“Real people are always
getting hurt,” she replied. Her smile vanished. “I’m merely levelling the
playing field out again.”
“By murdering children?”
“By ridding the world
of super-powers and presumptuous pricks like you who have the unfortunate
influence to complement their overwhelming saviour complex.” Morphina’s
expression turned earnest, just for a moment. Her fingers curled on the edge of
the table. “Don’t you think it’s bad enough when men created guns and nuclear
weapons? Do you really think the world needs more power in the wrong hands?”
She studied his face.
“Says the woman who can
bring nightmares to life and create whole worlds with her mind,” Archangel
snapped. The goddamn hypocrisy of her! “I’m not the wrong hands.”
shuttered again and she straightened, turning away from him. “The wrong hands
always say that.”
Archangel exhaled a
breath through his teeth, wrists twisting against the shackles. Nothing. Fuck,
he hated his brain – theoretically, he should be able to take control, he knew
he was dreaming after all. But this didn’t feel quite like dreaming as much as
it didn’t feel like reality. The corners of the room fogged when he didn’t
watch them. The fear tightened, helplessly, in the pit of his stomach. “What
have you done with the others?”
“Isaac insists you’re
not a bad person,” she murmured. “That you’re honestly trying to make the world
a better place. Misguided, but good. He asked me to spare you, begged me actually.”
flipped at that.
“The thing is,”
Morphina snapped her fingers, “I really don’t care about your good intentions.” A death ray appeared and whirred
into action, all spinning effects and bad graphics and rather like a punch in
But it wasn’t possible
to actually die in a dream, right?
“What have you done
with my friends?” His voice rose. He scrabbled at the empty spaces of her mind,
searching for any threads or scraps – Isaac, Spring, Sanna. It didn’t end here.
They didn’t die here.
“Just because you have
good intentions doesn’t mean you’re not a horrible person. You’re a telepath,
you must know that.”
“You can’t kill me in a
“No,” she said. “But it’s
a lot more satisfying than just punching you in the face.” She turned to face him again, and her voice had gone quiet. “You dismiss how
scared you make people, Gabriel De Vere. Let me show you. If you like, we can even call it justice.”
And, in an instant, he was five years ago and in their bedroom.