#property when widowed or divorced

[threadbaresweater]

Unexpected

As a recent divorcee, you're eager for a chance to spend a summer alone, finding who you are apart from your asshole ex-husband. Your best friend surprises you with the trip of a lifetime, and you spend a blissful three months walking along the beaches of a quaint coastal town. Enter Nanami Kento, widower of two years, his name on the lips of every woman in town. He's never shown interest in anyone until you come along. What blossoms between the two of you is more than either of you could ever hope for.

The details: 8.5k words, slow-burn romance, NSFW for eventual smut (oral sex, vanilla sex). Reader is divorced and has a child. This is a repost from a collab I did last summer.

The divorce was…well, it was. 

You had married your high school sweetheart– first love, first kiss, first time. Now, you chuckled dryly to yourself while driving from the courthouse, I can call him my first husband.

You had no plans to marry again anytime soon…or, ever for that matter. The freedom you had experienced the past few months was more than wonderful– enough to convince you that staying single was the way to go. You didn't need a man. You were a strong, independent woman with ample free time, a job you loved, hobbies and friends and a beautiful child you got to dote on every other week.

The custody arrangement also allowed for summers spent with each parent on alternating years. The first summer belonged to your now ex-husband, which meant you had three months alone to spend however you pleased.

It was an emotional goodbye with your daughter, who didn't quite understand why you had to leave and why she had to spend the entire summer with her father. You reassured her that you could FaceTime every day, that she would have loads of fun with her dad and his new girlfriend, and that she could write and call anytime she wanted. The poor girl wasn’t convinced in the least, and you watched– tearful, behind your oversized sunglasses– as her father ushered her into the back of his car. The guilt ate at you long after they drove away, but you knew she would be safe with him. A little bored, most likely, but safe.

On the drive back home, your best friend called; all you could hear was excited squealing on the other end.

“What’s going on?” you shouted, laughing.

“I have a surprise for you!” she boasted; you could almost hear her bouncing up and down. You rolled your eyes and sighed, though your grin remained plastered on your face. “Oh yeah? Let me guess: a vacation house full of hot bachelors who are going to attend to my every need, all summer long.”

She gasped dramatically. “How did you know?”

“It’s my wildest fantasy. You’re my best friend, therefore you’re in my head and know exactly what I want, all the time.” You signaled a turn, driving away from the sunset. “But seriously, what’s the surprise? You know I hate surprises.”

“How rude!” she scoffed. “I’ll have you know that you were at least partially correct with your wild guess.”

You raised a brow. “Oh yeah? Which part? Please tell me it’s the hot bachelors. God knows I could use a personal massage with a happy ending.”

“Nope. Sorry, babe. But! My mom and dad said they’re not using their vacation property this summer. I told them about your divorce and they insisted that I give you the key to their house!” She squealed again, and you could hear the patter of her feet on the floor, wherever she was sitting. “Girl, you get a whole summer to yourself in a little house by the sea. Ah, I used to love going there when I was a kid! We used to have the best time, just hanging out by the water every day, riding bikes, eating ice cream…” She trailed off, her voice sounding wistful and far-away. “Seriously, you’re going to love it. Wanna stop by and grab the key?”

“Really? I.. well…” You were speechless. Though you really hadn’t made any plans yet, you knew that most of the summer would be spent practicing some much-needed self care. You had just planned on doing it at your own place, alone. But a vacation house close to the ocean sounded like something out of a romance novel–  a place where you could re-center and learn about yourself again. A place to work through the pain of the past and learn to slow down and appreciate the little things in life.

"You still with me?" your friend laughed.

"Yeah, I– yeah. I'll be over in a few."

The day you arrived was picture perfect in every way. Warm sunlight and a gentle breeze streamed through your open car windows, and you could smell the sea as soon as you reached the quaint little town. Most people walked or rode bikes, and you slowed to a snail's pace, taking in the sights. Everyone seemed relaxed– laughter rang throughout the town, children shouted, bicycle bells rang, and the scent of cotton candy and sea breeze seemed to permeate the air. You knew instantly that this summer would be exactly what you needed, and you told yourself right then and there that you’d spend it in the most leisurely way possible.

The house was furnished, so all you really had to bring was personal effects– clothes, toiletries, a few good reads you’d picked up at the bookseller back home. The cupboards boasted plenty of space for food, and you planned to go grocery shopping later in the evening, as soon as you got everything else settled. You spent a little bit of time exploring the house, then opened the back doors that led directly to a boardwalk to the ocean. The view was immaculate– soft sand slipped beneath your bare feet as you walked toward the shoreline, a heavy wind whipping your hair around your face. Holding onto your oversized sun hat so it didn’t blow away, you took in a deep, cleansing breath and closed your eyes, a languid smile curling its way onto your lips.

Paradise. 

A summer alone wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all.

Later, after a bike ride to the market, you hummed to yourself as you perused the narrow aisles, delighting in the cute brand names and marveling at the freshness of the produce. It seemed that everything was made and packaged locally, which made your heart happy. Focused on how plump and ripe the plums you picked out were, you didn’t notice the man standing in front of the tomatoes and ran straight into his side. He didn’t move– in fact, you don’t think he even stumbled in the least. He just stood there like a pillar and stared at you– expressionless, if not a little bored and annoyed. 

You laughed sheepishly and took a step back, dropping your plums into your basket. “Sorry about that,” you said, looking into his brown eyes that seemed to hold nothing but disdain for your clumsiness.

“It’s alright,” he responded, turning back to inspect the tomatoes. “You should be more careful, though. Some might not be as forgiving as I am.” 

Nodding, you turned to walk in the opposite direction, avoiding eye contact and feeling like a fool. “Right. Sorry again,” you mumbled. Wonder if he’s a local, you thought as you grabbed a few more vegetables and made your way to the cash register. Just as you were finishing up, he came to stand in line behind you and actually gave you a thin, tight smile when you looked back at him. Why did you blush? You turned away quickly and paid the sweet cashier, then hurried out to your bike, your heart pounding. Not out of fear, but for some reason you couldn’t quite explain. You secured your little bag of groceries in the basket on the front of your bike and pushed off, your eye on the sky. It looked like rain, and you needed to pedal fast.

Just as the first few drops of rain began to fall, you arrived home and scurried inside before getting completely drenched, then set about making dinner for one. You were used to only cooking for yourself during the weeks your daughter wasn’t home, but for some reason this meal felt particularly empty. Music will help, you thought, so you streamed some music from your phone onto the little speaker mounted under one of the cupboards and tried your best to quell the loneliness. Tomorrow would be better. Once you were settled in, had a good night’s sleep, and spent some time on the water, the whole idea would be much easier to stomach. You made plans to visit the rest of town tomorrow, to see what it had to offer. 

It was nice, when you really sat down and thought about it. No routine, no deadlines. No rigorous schedule to keep or meetings to attend. It had been a long time since you’d been alone with your thoughts, and while at first it felt uncomfortable, it seemed to be exactly what the doctor had ordered.

You spent the first few days wandering through town, walking on the beach collecting shells, and devouring both books you’d brought along. You discovered all sorts of boutiques, art co-ops, coffee shops, even a pottery studio. It felt like something out of a daydream. Everyone was kind and pleasant, even the tourist families who tore through on weekends and laughed loud and hearty along the boardwalk.  There was also a small library in town, and you spent an entire afternoon perusing the shelves and ended up getting a membership card to keep your appetite for reading satiated.

You found the library to be your favorite place to visit. Of all the little shops and public places, the atmosphere was exactly what you were looking for, what you craved. Quaint, quiet, and full of all the books you could ever want to read and then some, you visited often, especially on days when it rained. 

The summer was one of the rainiest on record, according to some of the locals. You recalled something your grandmother had told you about rain meaning good luck and good fortune, so you didn’t get too disappointed when the weather didn’t bode well for outdoor days. 

The handsome stranger from the market seemed to enjoy it as well. You’d find him in the same corner nearly every time you visited, his nose in a new book, blonde hair hanging over his forehead, an air of importance hanging around him. One afternoon, you perused the shelves near his seat and accidentally dropped the book in your hand. “Sorry,” you offered, sheepishly kneeling to pick up the paperback that had fallen to the floor. 

He responded with a grunt, not even bothering to look up at you.

Well, you thought. Could be worse. He could have shushed me or gotten up to move to another area. 

At the checkout desk, the friendly clerk gave you a conspiratorial smile. “I see you’ve met Mr. Kento.”

“Hm?” You glanced back at the man and found him looking at you, but as soon as you made eye contact, he looked back down at his book, turning the page and crossing his legs the opposite way. “Oh, him? Nah, we don’t know each other.”

The clerk chuckled as she scanned your books. “Honey, he’s here just as much as you are. I’m sure you two have had some kind of conversation in the couple of weeks you’ve been around.”

You shook your head. “I mean, we run into each other sometimes. At the market, mostly. I think I’ve seen him once or twice at the cafe, but–” You stopped short, watching her expression change into something akin to amusement. “Yeah, I guess we do run in similar circles. I don’t know his name, though. We’ve barely spoken two words to each other.” Leaning in, you lowered your voice. “Do you know his story?”

“Oh, honey, he’s a widower. His wife and daughter– bless their sweet souls– passed away in a terrible car accident years ago. He’s been around here ever since. The house he lives in was their family home.” She threw him a sympathetic look. “It’s been a long time, and I never really see him talking to anyone. To me, it’s a little sad. I think he’s still grieving.” 

Nodding, you gathered your books and threw another glance in his direction before heading out the door. As you straddled your bike, you heard the bell on the door and looked up to find none other than Mr. Kento himself, sliding his sunglasses down off his head and onto his face. A brief moment of eye contact gave you pause, and you lifted a hand in greeting, hoping he wouldn’t blow you off.

“Are you a spy?” he called, stepping down the concrete stairs.

You had to laugh. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you!”

“So you are.” He pursed his lips, then stopped. “Tell me something about yourself so I don’t have to keep up this wild guessing game I’ve been playing with myself.”

“Guessing game? Are you really that suspicious of me?” You tilted your head to the side and offered him a small smirk– one which he did not return, nor did he look even the least bit amused.

Nanami crossed his arms and frowned. “I don’t have all day.”

“Fine. I’m a teacher, not a spy. And I’m just here for the summer.”

“That will suffice. Thank you,” he said, then strolled off in the opposite direction. You stood in place for a few moments, watching him leave, then headed home.

In the days following, you saw him in passing several times in town and on the beach. He always looked deep in thought; a dismal melancholy seemed to hang around him, as if he might have been carrying the spirit of his daughter and wife everywhere he went. Perhaps he did– you knew firsthand what it was like to be away from your daughter, but the depth of the pain of losing her forever was something you couldn't fathom, nor did you particularly want to. 

He carried himself with a fatigued kind of poise– like a man who had worked so long and so hard to move on with his life but was still dragged down by his own personal demons that he felt there might be no escaping them. Tall and broad shouldered, you found yourself sometimes staring at him a little too long, thankful for the shield of your sunglasses so he didn't notice. Sometimes, he would find you and look back in your direction, but he'd never smile or wave. Just stare. You wanted to know what he was thinking when he watched you like that. You wanted a chance to talk more with him than just in passing. 

One morning, your neighbor coaxed you into taking a hot yoga class. At first, you had balked at the idea. Yoga was supposed to be relaxing, not sweaty and uncomfortable. She convinced you somehow, touting the benefits and the promise of pure, unadulterated relaxation. Sweating out toxins and stress, letting your body really feel the burn in a climate-controlled studio where they cranked up the heat and the humidity. 

The class was mind blowing. You really felt as if you had transcended to another plane. The instructor was kind and knowledgeable, the classmates respectful and attuned to their own needs. As you and your neighbor were chatting on your way out, using fresh, cool towels to dab at the sweat on your face and chest, you looked up and came face to face with a familiar face.

“You’re here,” he said, matter-of-fact, almost disinterested. 

You raised a brow at him. “Well, um, yeah. I am.” You chuckled lightly and looked at your friend, who smiled back at you with a look that spoke of confusion and intrigue. “I’ve never done this before. Do you, ah, come here often?” The way you said it, it sounded like a corny pick-up line and you rolled your eyes at yourself, puffing out your cheeks in embarrassment. 

He huffed something akin to a breathy laugh which felt strangely out of character, looking between the two of you; you were suddenly distracted by a bead of sweat that ran down his neck and settled into the curve above his collarbone, and barely heard his response. Totally bewildered now, you looked up at him, jaw slack, eyes wide. “Twice a week,” he answered, looking incredibly bemused. 

Nodding, you looked at your friend and laughed a little at yourself. Oh God, this was nerve wracking in a way you felt embarrassed about. It felt like talking to your high school crush– the familiar jolt of adrenaline made your heart pump a little faster and your head tingle. You know your cheeks were flushed bright, and it had absolutely nothing to do with yoga.  “It’s an intense experience. I never thought I’d enjoy sweating on purpose.”

The man offered a thin, strained smile. “How were the plums?”

“I beg your pardon?” you asked.

“The plums. From the market the other day? Did you enjoy them?”

He remembered. Which meant one of two things: he had been thinking of you, or he just had an incredible memory for details. You looked into his brown eyes for the answers but found him hard to read. “I– yes. They were delicious. I bought more the other day but you weren’t there to approve,” you said with a grin. 

By now, your friend had quietly retreated to the shower room, leaving you with this handsome stranger again. An awkward air of uncertainty hung between you, and he nodded once, taking a step toward you. You took a step toward him for some reason, then you both stopped. A sheepish laugh filled the void, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “You know, if we keep meeting like this, people are going to talk."

You wished you could stop laughing at everything he said, but it was a knee-jerk reaction– one that made you sound like a total ditz. The more you did, though, the more he seemed to relax in your presence, as if your teenage girl behavior made him less self-conscious about his own rigid demeanor. “I guess that’s their problem, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is.”

You shrugged and dabbed at the back of your neck with your towel. “I mean at this point, we might as well give them something to talk about and exchange numbers, huh?” A bold move, one you had no idea how it would be received. You knew what you hoped for, but you didn’t want to be presumptuous. You took a step back to reclaim your own space and kept smiling that same nervous smile you’re sure had been plastered onto your face during this whole encounter. 

It obviously took him by surprise, but he nodded once, signaling that he agreed with your sentiment. “I’ll meet you out front after I’ve had a chance to shower,” he said, hooking his thumb over his shoulder toward the bathrooms. 

True to his word, he waited for you at the entrance, leaning casually on one of the support beams outside. After exchanging numbers came another loaded, awkward silence before he extended a hand. “My name’s Kento. Nanami Kento.”

You accepted his handshake and nodded. “I know.” You gave him your name as well, not missing the way his brow quirked and his lip curled ever so slightly.

“You know?”

There went your heart again, skipping a couple of beats as you realized there should be no way in hell you already knew his name unless you’d been doing some recon. “I, well– I found out at the library the other day. The woman at the desk asked me if I knew you and she told me a little bit about you.” There. Blame it on the librarian. 

“Oh. I see.” He pursed his lips and seemed to close off, the little progress you’d made in cracking him all but closed up now.

“She didn’t reveal much.” Lies. “Just told me your name!”

“I see,” he repeated, a little quieter. 

You decided it was best to take your leave at that point and offered him a quick goodbye, followed by an exuberant “Call me!” before meeting your neighbor where she stood waiting by the bike rack, rolling with laughter at the show she’d just witnessed.

Not surprisingly, he wasn’t the first to text or call. You gave it two days and mulled over dozens of possible opening lines, then finally decided to break the ice on a rainy, mid-week afternoon. 

Lovely weather we’re having, huh? 

It took him two hours to text back. You only checked your phone 47 times while waiting.

DelightfulI fell asleep watching the rainWhat’s exciting in your world today besides the weather?You smiled and texted back right away:

A good book and even better wineI’ve been reading most of the afternoon. Not much else to doYou mean to tell me you don’t enjoy long walks in a torrential downpour?

Not particularly lolWhat about you?

You don’t see me out there, do you? 

I’d need an awfully good reason to be walking in this weather

Would be a shame if someone invited you out for dinner

Yeah, I wouldn’t goNot tonight

There was a bit of a pause. A few minutes ticked by, and you stared at your screen with bated breath, wondering if maybe he got a phone call or fell asleep again.

What about tomorrow? Forecast looks sunny 

Are you asking me to dinner?

I suppose I am

Giddy, you covered your mouth and squealed, pattering your feet on the floor before shooting back a response.

What time?

7:00? 

Sounds like a date!

You sent it without thinking, but it was too late. You slapped a hand to your forehead and felt your fingers tremble, waiting for his reply.

YesA date… see you then.

If you had overstepped some kind of unspoken boundary, he didn’t acknowledge it, but that didn’t make you feel any less nervous or worried. You spent the rest of the afternoon putting together an outfit, anticipating dinner tomorrow night with more excitement than you’d felt for anything in a long time.

At seven o’clock on the dot, you arrived at his house, which ended up just being a short walk away from yours. Really, everything in this little community was reachable by a walk or a bike ride, so you weren’t too surprised when only ten minutes into your walk, you had found his address. The main door was open, leaving only a wood frame screen door as a barrier between his home and the outside world. Warm yellow light spilled from the entryway, and you could already smell whatever he was cooking. In your hand you carried a bottle of wine, and he pushed the door open for you before you even had a chance to knock or ring the bell.

“Ah, you’re punctual. I like that,”  he said, lifting his arm so that you could duck under it and step inside. He took the wine from you and headed toward the kitchen; you had no choice but to trail behind, taking quick stock of his house. Tidy, but homey. Touches of seaside decor, a handmade afghan on the back of a rather elegant looking couch. Soft music played on the stereo, and there was no sign of children or pets anywhere.

“You live alone?” you asked, then reprimanded yourself. You sure had grown bold in the type of questions you’d been asking lately. Though it didn’t seem to bother him, because he set the wine down in the middle of his kitchen table and went about his business as you took a seat.

“I do. No children, no pets. No surprise wife.” Turning his attention to the stove, he seemed to find your question amusing and hid his smile. “What about you?”

You thought about your daughter back home. “Ex-husband. I have a daughter, too– she’s eight. Spending the summer with her dad.”

He nodded, then turned to you. Somehow in those few seconds that passed, he’d managed to open the bottle of wine and pour two glasses. Handing one over to you, he studied your face. You wish you could say you knew what he was looking for, but whatever it was he seemed satisfied once he found it. He raised the glass and took a sip of his wine, seeming to mull over the flavor; he swallowed and made a deep hum in his throat, “Excellent selection. You’re a wine lover, yes?”

A little bit of your nervousness began to dissipate, and you took a drink, too, mainly to wet your lips and tongue, which had been bone dry since you set foot on his porch. “Wine enthusiast, foodie, woman who desires a vacation away from her sad life on the mainland.”

He grunted a little at that, then continued his work with food preparation. “Your life doesn’t sound so sad. A child? That’s one of life’s greatest joys, isn’t it?”

Nanami had you there, and you knew it. Nodding, you fiddled nervously with one of the linen napkins he’d set out. “You’re right. She’s really special. Makes life worth living sometimes, you know?”

You couldn’t see it– not with his back turned to you– but pain shot through his gaze and he faltered while plating your dinner. “I do know,” he murmured under his breath.

“Beg your pardon?”

Plates in hand, he turned and set them down on the table in front of you, then slipped into the chair across from you. “I said I do know. About children making life worth living.”

“Oh! So you do have children?” You hoped that the tone of your voice didn't give away the fact that you already knew.

“Had. A daughter. She and my wife…” he trailed off, finding the napkin in his lap of great interest now. 

His expression spoke of deep anguish, of unresolved guilt and overwhelming grief. Out of reflex, you reached across the table to cover his hand with yours. He was warm and soft, his hand trembling slightly. “I didn’t mean to pry,” you said.

“No, no. It’s alright. It’s been two years now. I need to learn to talk about it. Just not right now.” His demeanor shifted again, and he looked up at you with a soft smile. “I’d like to not talk about such heavy things while we get to know each other, wouldn’t you agree?”

“It doesn’t matter to me what we talk about,” you said with a shrug. “I’m just thankful for a meal I didn’t have to cook and some new company.” Lifting your glass, you smiled at him. “To new adventures. May we be fruitful in our pursuits.”

Nanami stared at you and raised his glass to toast. “To new adventures.”

Dinner led to a walk on the beach, which led to another bottle of wine on his back porch, which led to your head drooping onto his shoulder at some point well past midnight. He stiffened at first, the touch of a woman something he didn't feel was right to enjoy. The simple weight of you there made his stomach flutter, and he turned his head, tapping your chin with his index finger.

He said your name and you looked up at him, a lazy, drunken smile making its way across your face. "Don't fall asleep on me. I'm not done talking yet."

You lifted your head, widening your eyes. "What if I'm done listening?" you teased, feeling woozy and silly.

"Then I'll walk you home, if that's what you want. I wouldn't want to bore you any longer than necessary."

"You're not boring me, Nanami. I'm just relaxed. For the first time in ages, I feel like I can finally just rest," you said, turning to look out at the sea again. "For months I've just felt like I was running from something. And I was, really. From my ex husband, from a life that I didn't want, from my fears and my insecurities. I'm so goddamn tired and I just want to lie down and sleep." Tears fell unchecked down your cheeks and you sniffled, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "I'm so tired," you repeated, your voice weary and thin.

There was a beat of silence, then you felt his weight shift beside you and he stood up, extending a hand to you. "If you're tired, let's walk," he said.

He wasn't ready to take you home. Not yet.

Another hour of conversation and you felt like you'd known him your entire life. The alcohol began to wear off and you found yourself more coherent, if not experiencing a bit of that weird, hollow feeling of being drunk and sleep deprived at the same time. At some point he held your hand, and you didn't remember when or how– just that it felt right and good, as natural as breathing. 

Your walk took you to your own back porch, where he lingered for another hour saying good night. The sun peeking over the horizon brought you back down to earth and suddenly ready to go inside and try to catch a few winks of sleep.

"Thank you for your company," he said earnestly, picking a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. "It's been a long time since I've indulged in the company of a woman." Guilt flashed through his eyes, glassy from lack of sleep. "Since my wife passed, if I'm being totally honest. I– I've avoided getting to know someone… because I still love her," he said, his voice thick and quiet. 

You squeezed his hand and watched as a single tear escaped from his left eye, daylight filling the space between you with each passing moment. "I understand," you whispered, unsure of what else to say.

"I'd like to see you again. Whenever you're free." It wasn't a question. He squeezed your hand this time and watched you closely as if calculating the odds of you saying yes.

"Sure, I'd love that." How about tomorrow? "Maybe the weekend? There's a little restaurant on the pier that I'd like to try. There's live music, too, if you're keen on dancing."

For the first time, he smiled. Genuinely, a bit uncomfortably– but a smile nonetheless. Nanami nodded and let go of your hand as you walked side by side up to your back porch. "I would enjoy that. I'll meet you there, say…seven thirty on Saturday?"

Dinner on the pier was a dream. Of course there were drinks as well, so by the time you finished eating, you were more than ready to take to the dance floor and finally move to the lively music the house band had been playing all evening. Namami surprised you here, too. For all of his stoicism and uptight demeanor, he was a skilled dancer. You struggled to keep up with him at times, but his broad hand at the small of your back and his confident steps kept you from making a total and utter fool of yourself. Even during the slower numbers, he held you with poise and confidence, and though you knew in your heart he wasn't interested in a romantic connection, you couldn't help but hope for something magical to happen tonight. 

"You dance well," you said, halfway through one particular song in which you could feel the bassline pumping through your veins. That soft, barely-there smile of his made a delightful reappearance, and he studied your face with those deep brown eyes.

"My wife was a dancer," he said, spinning you out, then back in to fold his arms around your waist, your back to his chest. "She had students, one of which was the man you're dancing with now."

A moment passed, and you felt his warm breath on your ear, stirring a wisp of your hair as he exhaled. "I see," you breathed, trying desperately to quell the desire you felt building from the pit of your stomach. Though you wanted to live very much in the present with him– here and now– you found yourself thinking about what his life must have been like before the accident. A million and one questions came to mind, but you had no idea just how much or how little he wanted to talk about her. "She must have taught you well."

He chuckled, low and thoughtful, and the sound of it vibrated against your back. "I'm just a good student. Observant. Intuitive." He spun you around so that you had no choice but to look up at him again, nearly nose to nose. "I've always been very good at predicting people's behavior."

Your breath hitched. He was so close, yet you still felt some kind of invisible barrier between yourself and him. You imagined his wife, disappointed to know that the two of you were dancing like this– so close, so casually intimate. 

"She would want me to live a happy life without her," he said, as if he'd read your thoughts somehow. Startled, you looked straight into his eyes and knew that this was your moment.

Your body seemed to move of its own accord and before you knew it, your lips met the plush softness of his. Eyes closed, you breathed him in, the heady taste of wine a subtle backdrop to the taste of his kiss. Dancing all but forgotten, you opened your mouth to deepen the contact, tongue touching just beyond his teeth until he made a low, soft moan and pulled back suddenly, drawing in a deep breath. 

"I– "

"I'm sorry, I–" you began, only to be cut off by a firm press of his mouth against yours again. This kiss was a little more hungry, a little more insistent. You threaded your fingers through his hair and held him a little closer. The music seemed to stop, the world around you stilled, and you lost yourself in him. 

You couldn’t remember the last time your ex-husband kissed you with so much reverence and care. In fact, you couldn’t recall a time he had kissed you, period. Nanami’s lips seemed custom made for slotting over your own mouth, however, and the longer you kissed him, the more you realized that you’d been starved of affection for so long it had begun to harden your heart. Somewhere deep inside, that shell began to crack, and when his lips fell down along the line of your jaw, you positively melted against him, mouth open in a breathless expression of pure pleasure– something you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel in months. 

He walked you home under the pale moonlight, stars blinking overhead to further light your way. You’d swear you could hear the whispers of some of the women in town, but you paid them no mind. Tonight would be all about you and Nanami sharing yourselves with one another in the way you craved– the way you needed him and he needed you.

In the soft light of his bedroom he kissed and kissed you as if he couldn’t possibly get enough. He didn’t attempt to take off your clothes, nor did you try to undress him. The contact was enough, though you could feel the heat from his body radiating against yours, the energy of a man who had been two years without the touch of a woman. He took his time, though you could sense that he wanted more, so you took one of his hands and pressed it tentatively against your breast, looking him deep in the eye as you did. 

Nanami broke the kiss, watching you intently as he pressed tentative fingertips into the soft flesh beneath your dress, a long exhale issuing from his kiss-swollen mouth. “It’s– I…” He found your nipple, taut and firm, and rolled it between his thumb and finger before pressing a reverent kiss to the skin just above your cleavage. You pressed a kiss to the top of his head and held him there, encouraging him to explore further. 

Perhaps it was the wine. Perhaps it was the festive atmosphere you’d just spent endless hours enjoying. Perhaps it was a pure, unadulterated need that you felt for one another, but you knew then that he wanted you as much as you wanted him. You didn’t want to push, though. Not in the least. You wanted him to explore at his own pace, to find his way around your body and map it out, inch by beautiful inch.

“It’s been so long,” he whispered, pushing one of the delicate straps of your dress down off your shoulder to drop a kiss against the now exposed skin. You closed your eyes and breathed deep, already blissfully aroused, careful not to move too fast lest he decide this wasn’t a good idea.

“Take your time. There’s no rush.” Your voice was calm and reassuring as you felt his mouth pull in the skin just above your nipple, sucking a tiny mark before he pulled away again, stormy eyes drinking in your features, your reaction, your flushed face and glistening eyes. 

Nanami backed you up to the bed, and when the back of your knees hit the blankets, you sat down, lifting your arms around his neck to pull him down into another kiss. He shifted his weight over you and lowered himself, lips trailing down across your jaw, down to your neck, tongue laving across your collarbone as he pulled down the other strap of your dress. Somehow, you worked your hands between you to begin undoing the buttons of his shirt, one by one. He allowed it, and you heard his heart begin to pick up its already frantic rhythm as you lifted your hips to graze his, desperate for friction between your legs. 

He pulled away fast, panting, standing at the edge of the bed with a hand carded through his hair and his eyes wild. You sat up just as quickly, a little dizzy from the rush, and reached out a hand, your own eyes filled with concern. “Did I do something wrong?”

Nanami shook his head, a nervous laugh escaping his already open mouth. He took a few deep breaths and a step backwards, his legs visibly trembling. "No, you did everything right. I just– I need a moment. I'm sorry." 

You didn't understand why he felt the need to apologize, and you told him so. "You’re fine. It’s fine. We don’t have to do this,” you cooed, crossing your legs under you and fixing your hair a little. 

His eyes welled with tears and he looked away from you, his face flushing bright red as he inhaled sharply, pressing a tight fist to his mouth to quell his sadness. Before he spoke again, he seemed to center himself, then sat down beside you, resting his hand on your knee. “I haven’t been with a woman since my wife and daughter have been gone, and I don’t– I don’t think I should. I carry around far too much baggage to ask anyone else to help me shoulder it. And if we were to be intimate, I…well I know it sounds strange, but I’d feel as if I was betraying her somehow.” Nanami sighed heavily afterward, unable to meet your tender gaze.

“You said before that you think she’d want you to live a happy, fulfilling life. I’m not asking you to do this– we don’t have to do anything besides sit here and talk, but…consider that happiness might mean moving on with someone else, eventually. Doesn’t even have to be me–”

“But I want it to be you,” he blurted, startling both of you. He lowered his voice and took your chin between his thumb and forefinger and repeated it, softer this time, more intentional. “I want it to be you.” 

The rest of the night, you held him in your arms while he told you the story of his wife– the love of his life– their daughter, their picture perfect life together before tragedy struck and took them away from him. You learned that he was out of town the day they were killed and harbored so much guilt and still hadn’t forgiven himself from being away on business. It took him two days to get back to them– between delayed flights and traffic patterns, he slept little and grieved painfully, thoughts of what he would possibly do without them pervading his mind. He told you that his wife had just been promoted in her line of work and his daughter was about to enter the third grade, that she was the brightest student in her class and had a talent for dancing and eating ice cream. 

Nanami talked himself to sleep on your shoulder as the sun rose, his voice raspy and thick with exhaustion and raw emotion. He kissed you just before he succumbed to his dreams, appearing more content than you’d seen him in the short weeks you’d known him. You slept with him, in his bed, your own mind laden with the story of his lost love and with the hope that he could find it again.

~

You slept well past noon the next day, waking to the sound of sizzling bacon and the smell of a strong brewed coffee. At first you were a little disoriented, waking up in a bed that wasn’t your own, but you soon realized as you looked down at your disheveled dress that last night, you’d slept next to Nanami. The thought alone made your head spin, and you sat up slowly, stretching on your way down the hall into the kitchen to find him at the stove with a pair of tongs in his hand, humming along to a song on the radio. 

A far cry from the vulnerable man you cradled in your arms last night, he turned to you with a soft, sleepy smile, the bags under his eyes looking a little less burdensome than before. He offered a quiet Good morning and handed you a cup of coffee, which you graciously accepted before sliding into a seat at his little table.

“I need to thank you,” he said, cracking an egg into the same pan where the bacon was frying.

You sipped your coffee, then tilted your head. “Thank me? For what?”

“For listening to me. For allowing me to release all that I’ve been holding in. I…I’ve never confided all of that in anyone before, and I have to admit– it feels good. So thank you." He sat down in the seat across from you and offered you a plate, which you graciously accepted. "I did want to ask you, though, how long you're going to be here. In town, I mean. I assume you have to leave at some point."

You nodded while chewing a bite, then swallowed, following it with a sip of coffee. "Three more weeks," you said. I have to go back and reset my classroom. What about you? Is this a permanent home for you, or is there somewhere else?"

Nanami shook his head. "Nowhere else. This is home. It has been since the accident. We used to vacation here as a family, and I can't bring myself to return to the house in the city." He paused to sip his coffee. "I sold it last year, actually. It wasn't home to me any longer."

Over breakfast, you made plans. Tentative plans at best, but plans to reunite in the summers– if not for anything romantic, at least to spend some time together near the water and nurture the friendship you’d built. You helped him clean up, then lingered in the doorway, caught between wanting to stay longer and wanting to go home and change your clothes and freshen up after last night’s activities.

But you found yourself reluctant to leave. Nanami knew it and reached for your hand, thumb running over your knuckles. “You can stay, if that’s what you’re thinking. I have a shower too, you know.”

The next few moments were a blur of lips, fingers, tongue and flesh. He pulled you into his arms and kissed you deeply, lifting you off the floor so that you could wrap your legs around his waist and hang on. He carried you to his bedroom where he took his time taking you apart, memorizing you inch by inch, just like he had started to do last night. 

“I don’t” – he began, hooking his fingers under the elastic of your panties to peel them down and away from your body– “want you to think that I’m doing this out of some desire to forget.” He looked deep into your eyes while nimble fingers spread your thighs apart. You opened them willingly, reveling in the feel of his flesh on yours in such an intimate area. 

“I know you aren’t.” And you did. Though much of your conversation had been about his past, you knew two things: one, he’d been needing to confide in someone for a long, long time; two, he desired you. You knew he did by the way he looked at you, the way he held your hand, the way his kisses felt like summer rain and his fingers between your legs felt like they belonged there. 

“Good. I like you. I like you a lot,” he implored, lowering himself so that you felt his warm breath on the meat of your inner thigh just before his tongue licked a broad stripe right up your slit, making you arch your back clean off the bed and grip his hair in frantic fists. You closed your eyes as he explored you, his nose nudging the curls at the top of your slit, fingers delving just inside to provide extra stimulation in addition to his tongue. 

You cried out his name as he took care of you, pulling him by the hair to hear him chuckle at your enthusiasm. With gentle suction, he pulled your clit between his lips and flicked his tongue over the sensitive bud, causing you to twitch and beg for mercy, please God please oh don’t stop don’t stop. At your command, he hooked his hands over the top of your thighs and dove in for the kill, licking at you like a man deprived of his favorite meal for far too long. Your climax hit you hard and fast, and it took you several minutes to recover, breathing deep, a sheen of sweat across your brow and chest.

Nanami gave you a few moments to breathe before he climbed over top of you, his cock pressing insistently on the inside of your wet thigh. You opened yourself to him willingly, without protest, and he slipped inside with a long, low moan, pushing his face into the space between your neck and shoulder. 

No one had ever touched you the way he did. He cradled your head in his hands as he thrust in and out with slow, controlled motions, his girth stretching you in a most delicious way that had your eyes rolling back in your head and your jaw permanently slack. He pressed kisses along your neck and chest, his breath hot and steady, face never more than a few inches from yours. When he feared he might come too soon, he lifted you into his lap and had you straddle him; down onto his length you sank again, arms linked around his shoulders, each breath a low, wanton moan as you felt his long strokes inside you, filling you to the hilt with his impressive size. 

He was quiet for the most part– a grunt here, a low rumble there, but he didn't speak. He was focused on your pleasure and his own, wanting to prolong it as much as possible until he couldn't hold back anymore. 

The buildup was almost too much for you to bear, and when you felt him begin to twitch and pulse inside you, you came again, this time a more profound sense of euphoria making your head spin and your body tense until you scaled that peak. "I've got you," he whispered upon your ear, one hand at the back of your head and the other grabbing a handful of your ass, pushing you against him with incredible strength despite his own loss of muscle control. 

The room was filled with the lewd sounds of wet flesh, of the evidence of your lovemaking between your legs and his, of breath and hushed voices and tender kisses. He took his time riding out your orgasm, in no hurry to take himself out of you. Nanami gently guided you back onto the now missed blankets of the bed and rolled you both on your side, facing each other so that he could look into your eyes and find your reaction, your look of blissed-out euphoria. No longer did he carry the guilt of moving on, of taking another woman into his bed. You made him feel comfortable and secure, and he wasn't sure words could convey his gratitude.

You spent the afternoon dozing, eating, drinking wine and toeing along the sand, totally immersed in his company. The last few weeks of your visit were spent in his company as well, the days just as magical as the nights.

And when it came time for you to return home, he took you to dinner, a hopeful look in his eyes as you discussed the possibility of returning each summer. You knew that the chances were slim– you explained that the house where you had stayed wasn't yours to rent, that your best friend had arranged the whole thing.

He reached across the table and covered your hand with his. "Come and stay with me." Ah, his way of presenting ideas was direct and to the point. It was something you'd come to admire about him– how no nonsense he was when it had to do with something he cared deeply about. 

Your expression softened when you considered the possibility. You hadn't been hopeful of a love connection when you took this trip, and you had to be honest with him– you still weren't sure you were ready for another full-fledged commitment just yet. The wound of your divorce was still fresh, still painful, and you wanted to spend some more time getting to know the woman you were without your ex-husband, without the baggage you'd carried around for so long. 

And when you divulged this to him, he drew back his hand, taking a long drink from his glass. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do." He threw your own words right back at you, and you had to smile. "I enjoy your company regardless."

Your daughter was overjoyed the day you pulled into her father's driveway. She came skipping out of his house and you caught her in your arms, spinning her around in a tight, tearful hug. Your ex husband stared at you and smiled softly in a way that told you he saw a difference in your demeanor.

"Restful vacation?" he asked, his jealousy barely masked.

"Oh, you have no idea."

#nanami kento x reader #jjk x reader #nanami x you

[half-oz-eddie]

The Widowmaker (Serial Killer! Billy Hargrove)

Warning for slightly graphic content

They call him the Widowmaker. He only kills a very specific demographic. Remarried fathers, particularly over the age of 30. He has traveled to 15 different states, and killed over 20 different men, leaving wives without husbands, turning them all into widows. He usually spends a few weeks in each town, stalking his mark, before killing them all the exact same way.

He strangled them with a belt. The same belt his father used to beat him with. Then he carves PUSSY across their forehead with his earring.

He never stays in any of the towns long, and always does all of his transactions with a fake ID. He could be John from Kansas, Andrew from Colorado, Brian from Maine, but he was never Billy. Billy was left behind in California a long time ago. His father had beaten Billy out of him.

He thought he was never going to be Billy again. Only The Widowmaker. He got a thrill from destroying families. Sometimes he’d spy on the child that clung to the stepmother, or their real mother, proud of himself for doing what he thought was saving a child from a broken family.

Billy enjoyed listening to stories about his killings on the radio, and warning fathers still happily married to the mothers of their children to “watch out, there’s a psycho on the loose.” They would thank him, and tell John, or Dave, or Adam to drive safely.

When Billy was passing through Indiana, there was a terrible storm. The storm caused him to lose control of his vehicle and hit a tree in the outskirts of a small town.

This tree was part of someone’s property. The property owner quickly came to his aid, helping him out of his vehicle, and into their house.

Billy didn’t like to be helped. He didn’t like to be worried about, but passing through a small town will subject you to that tight-knit sense of community. This man brought him, a stranger, a killer, into his home, offered him ice and bandages, and even a cup of coffee.

“We only have one mechanic in town, so you’ll need somewhere to stay until your car’s fixed. I have some extra beds here.”

“Thanks. You live here alone?”

“No. I have a son. His mom and I divorced and it’s my weekend to spend time with him.”

Steve was almost his type—almost. He hasn’t remarried, and he wasn’t 30 just yet. What was Billy going to do?

“You haven’t touched your coffee at all. You a beer guy, maybe?” Steve continued. “I’ve got a few cans in the fridge. Help yourself” he offered.

“Thanks.” Billy accepted.

“I’m Steve by the way. Steve Harrington.”

“You got a nice house here, Harrington. I’m—“

Who was he going to be? John? Adam? Mark? Dave? Pete?

“I’m Billy.” He shook his hand. “Billy Hargrove.”

He decided not to kill him after all.

Part 2 ->

#the widowmaker #billy hargrove #steve harrington #harringrove #harringrove fanfiction #serial killer tw #ivy.doc

[gemsofgreece]

What was women's position in the Byzantine Empire? I haven't searched that much, but it seems like her position wasn't any different from Ancient Greece, where they were expected to be modest, silent and it was generally preferable not to be heard (at least, women from aristocratic families).

Well you won’t find easily a medieval state which did not want women to be modest and quiet.

In spite of that, no that’s not true. The place of the woman in the society improved considerably in Byzantine times compared to the Classical era. As a sidenote, perhaps we should not generalize about Classical Greece either, especially when we apply the reality of Athens to all the Greek world without enough evidence that this is historically accurate, at a time when Athens was extremely obsessed with ¨male perfection¨.

Based on our view of things nowadays, it might seem counterintuitive, however Christianity played a huge role in this improvement. You see, the Bible through its scriptures and also the very example of Virgin Mary, whom the Byzantines (and later the Modern Greeks too) worshipped almost equally to Christ, as well as the church’s acknowledgement and veneration of women martyrs indiscriminately from men martyrs, made it clear that women were spiritually equally capable of achieving “théosis”, meaning resemble the image of God, in other words; sainthood. It was thus deemed important that women would be able to read and study the scriptures. As a result the Byzantine empire had the highest literacy rate of women in the Middle Ages.

Intercepting for those who might wonder: "But the Ancient Greek religion had gods and goddesses alike, so why wouldn't that improve the social status of women?". The answer is because in the Ancient Greek religion there was no concept of théosis, meaning any human's strive to achieve a moral perfection to resemble the image of God. The dynamics of gods and godesses were separate from those of the people, where women were left to be evaluated by and versus men alone.

Women were nowhere as confined as the women of classical Greece. Of course they should be good wives and mothers catering to their household first and foremost but they could participate in social events, festivals, go shopping, lather in the baths and have fun like men did. As wives, their status was also better, as according to Christianity all god-fearing men were supposed to be loyal to their wives and have no concubines. So, if a man really had no intention to be faithful at all, neither to his wife nor to the Christian teachings, he at least did it discreetly, and if he did not do even that, then he did not escape the judgement of the society. Divorce was hard for either spouse to ask, of course waaay more for women, but for example Justinian enforced an iconic law that if a couple wanted to take a divorce then BOTH spouses should go to monasteries and be celibate for life lol So you know, be cruel, but at least be indiscriminately cruel! 😂

Financially, dowries and inheritance remained a woman’s property after marriage unlike in classical times. If the husband died, it was the widow’s choice whether she would marry again or not and she was in charge of her children on her own whereas in classical times women had to marry their husband’s closest relative (to “protect” them and the property that had now passed on their own family). So, really no contest there. Women owned and ran businesses and signed contracts. They were employed in a wide range of professions.

As for the aristocrats, they had it much better than classical aristocrats. They did not work like lower class women, obviously, so they filled all that extra time by being pampered by their servants (female and male, sometimes eunuchs), who were usually exclusive to them. Depending on the lady’s interests, the servants would keep her entertained by playing music, reading to her, gossiping, grooming her etc Some women hired teachers to improve on their education on their own accord. Wives of important men were usually involved in political and diplomatic affairs and they were very interested in such matters. Educated women could be doctors (for women).

Nuns, who did not have the burden of taking care of the children and a husband, often became studious and pretty educated, with artistic concerns, like Kassiani. And to go back to the ask, there are accounts of Byzantine princesses being perceived in West Europe as “too talkative” and “too concerned with themselves”, so apparently Byzantium gave its aristocratic women a lot more liberty than, say, Classical Athens and also more than Western Europe did.

And then of course the Byzantine Empire was the only medieval state to have ever been reigned by four women on their own, and some of them were very consciously and ambitiously pursuing the throne. But even the empresses consorts, meaning the wives of the emperors, were also expected to be well acquainted with all the matters of the empire in case something happened to the emperor because they had to stand in his place temporarily or even serve as regents. From the 22 pages in Wikipedia about Byzantine regents, the 7 are about women, so one third, at least from the well known ones.

Women were also interested in their appearances and really took matters in their hands. Rich women would have special gardens cultivating flowers and spices to create their own perfumes. Michael Psellos writes about how Empress Zoe had essentially turned herself into a chemist, making the basements of the imperial palace a lab for perfumes and elixirs to maintain her youthful appearance.

And let’s end this with some quotes from Anna Komnene’s Alexiad (inspired by the Iliad she so loved), the chronicles of her father’s Emperor Alexius exploits in war.

12th-century manuscript of the Alexiad

The Alexiad is invaluable because it remains one of the richest sources of information historians possess about the military, social and imperial history of the Byzantine Empire.

Ah I had written before about that stuff and I meant to write something short this time but I just can’t do it when it’s about Byzantium my love adefefajdhhajhf

#history #byzantine empire #eastern roman empire #women #byzantine history #byzantine culture #east roman empire #byzantine greek culture #greek history #greek culture #middle ages #women in history #anna komnene #anna komnene porphyrogennite #anna comnena #attichoney4u #ask #long post #tw long

[cutesyscreenname]

The Last Great American Dynasty: Chapter 1

This Was The Very First Page

Series summary:

Addiction, deadlines, a nasty divorce. In an effort to shed your skin and find yourself again, you pack up and move to a historic seaside home across the country. It's all a blur, you're hurting and spinning your wheels in a big house all alone. Until Frankie shows up on your doorstep.

Pairing: Frankie Catfish Morales x AFAB Reader

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 1709

Warnings: allusions to former drug use, mention of divorce, not too much to warn of yet we just getting started bby

Notes: I hope we all have a marvelous time and I don't ruin everything 💀 I've been gone for a long ass time, taking baby steps getting back into things.

Also much thanks to @pr0ximamidnight for helping flesh this out (aka letting me rant at her until it came together) and @mydailyhyperfixations, @joelsgreys, and @mylostloversbookmarks for also listening to me ramble 😂 lub u 🩵💙

Chapter One Playlist 🎶📻⚓🌊⛵🎶

This was the very first page

Not where the story line ends

My thoughts will echo your name

Until I see you again

It feels pretentious to drive across the country like this when you don't have to. In fact it was a struggle to do so - insisting and arguing with everyone that you wanted, no - needed to. You could feel the eyes rolling behind your back, hear the sarcastic thoughts unspoken.

Who does she think she is, Kerouac?

Truthfully you just wanted the white noise of wind, pavement, and your Spotify playlist of guilty pleasure pop songs, too occupied by operating a motor vehicle to check the deluge of emails and texts that had been pouring in for months.

A Tale of Two Addicts

Best Selling Author Loses Control of Her Own Narrative

Authoring Her Own Disaster: Detox and Divorce

How could you blame them when the headlines practically wrote themselves?

“So let me get this straight. Not only am I not getting new pages, you’re putting this project on hold to move to the east coast so you can - what? - live out some whimsical seaside fantasy?”

You sat in your office chair, surrounded by stacks of cardboard boxes, pen hovering above the signature line of your divorce papers like a memoir you don’t want to take ownership of as your editor sighs at you over speakerphone.

“I’m doing what they told me to do in therapy, Miles. I’m changing the scenery, starting over. It’s difficult to write any pages for you if I’m too catatonically depressed to get out of bed. Take it as good news, a strategic move. Literally.”

The house has a history. That’s the reason you’d chosen it, frankly. You’d discussed the listings with your realtor over the phone, clicking through the pictures as they recounted the amenities and specs of each property.

“And then there’s the Harkness house…”

If her goal was to intrigue you she’d accomplished it tenfold, having you on the hook for every sordid detail as she regaled you with the story of a widowed heiress making a splash of scandal through the coastal town with her extravagance. She leaned into the impropriety of it all, trying to sell you with gossip, but all you heard was the story of a woman who had reclaimed her life after losing love. Perhaps the house held that energy in its foundation. Maybe if she did it there, so could you.

Pulling up the winding driveway you almost feel a page turn, a fresh start. Then the moving van crunches gravel behind you and your phone pings with a missed call from your lawyer, breaking the spell of your daydream.

It’s been a long day already, an endless stream of delays and snafus. Missing parts and tedious tinkering with finicky engines has left Frankie a mess of sweat, grease, and frustration. The sigh of a long day finally finished whistles out as he climbs the stairs to the office, ready to hand in a few leaves of paperwork and drag himself home when the sound of muffled conversation gives him pause.

“She’s ruining everything, we’ve all but flown in the film crew and we hardly have half a film without that house in it!”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Ray, she could be perfectly cooperative. We don’t know-”

“It’s for fucking NETFLIX, Tim. I won’t be made to look foolish by some scandalous, self important, Hollywood-”

“And you won’t. Let’s just give her the packet, for all we know we could have signed papers come Monday morning.”

That’s all Frankie hears before the desire to get out of there steers his body back toward the stairs. I can turn these in on Monday, not worth the hassle...

Before his steel toe can touch the second step, though, the door swings open and a booming voice sounds behind him.

“Ah! Mr. Morales! Good timing, son. You pass the Harkness house on your way out of here, don’t you?”

The question is moot, the offices and hangar located along the coast such that there’s practically no choice but to pass the seaside estate if you want to reach the town and its modest sprawl of surrounding neighborhoods.

“I do, sir.”

“Then it’s meant to be. I’m sure you’ve heard that it’s newly occupied and we have a…welcome packet of sorts…for the new owner but the courier’s service is closed. Would you mind dropping this off on your way home?”

Tim, the more even keeled of the two executives that frequent these offices, hands over a manilla envelope without waiting for an answer, traces of engine grease still clinging to Frankie's skin leaving faint fingerprints on the hefty packet. The man cuts in again before Frankie can open his mouth to speak.

“Is the jet ready for takeoff in the morning? We’re expected in New York by eleven.”

Frankie studies the name on the envelope for a long moment before looking up to meet the impatient gaze of the man in front of him.

“Ah, yeah- Yes, sir. She’s ready for takeoff. Pilot’s ready for you anytime after eight, should you decide to leave earlier.”

He only receives a slight nod before both men push past him and he’s left alone outside the office door, eyes drawn back to the neatly printed label with your name on it. Why does it sound so familiar?

Lost in a daze of curiousity, Frankie’ feet carry him down the stairs, through the hangar, and out to his truck. He’s so distracted by the strange feeling in his gut that he starts his drive with his steel toes still on and the work orders still stacked along with the mystery packet in his passenger seat.

It's been a week and you're still staring at, discovering, stumbling over boxes.

How the hell does one person accumulate this much stuff?, you think as you sit on the sofa and nurse the soon-to-be bruise on your shin from the cardboard cube you'd just rammed into rounding the corner into the living room. The house in LA had seemed so desolate when Trevor had moved out and now you sit surrounded by a sea of what now feels like junk.

Even in this vast expanse of square footage and seaside it seems the walls might close in on you at any moment.

Thoughts manifesting into reality, you begin to feel too hot seemingly from nowhere. Pulling at the collar of your worn t-shirt, you go to crack open the nearest window when a blue pickup truck rounds the bend and pulls up to your gate. Before you can take too long to squint and guess at who the hell would be at your gate on a Friday evening, the driver presses the call button and your phone begins to ring.

“Hello?”

The phone crackles lightly and a deep, dulcet voice answers you.

“Yes, ah- I've got a delivery here. Is this the new owner?”

From the window you can see the figure in the truck cab lift an envelope to read it and he confirms your name.

“Yeah, that's me. I'll buzz you in.”

“Thanks.”

You hang up and press the button to let him through, watching as he winds up the drive and stops in front of the house.

Had you forgotten to sign something? He asked about being the homeowner, so it can't be another addendum to Trevor's many demands attached to the divorce. Your confusion and curiosity gives way to a flustered state when you open the door.

The first things you notice are the rich brown orbs looking back at you, brows, lids, and laugh lines working to form a frame of sincere apology, like he knows it's unorthodox for him to be standing on your front step at this hour. The rest of him is just as entrancing - plush lips beneath a gorgeous nose, a broad frame just as soft as it is strong, and a rueful smile that has your cheeks flushing as he adjusts his Standard Oil cap to lend you a peak of soft brown curls.

“Hi there,” he interrupts your stupor and you wonder just how long you've been staring.

“I'm here to deliver this. It's from the Standard Oil offices, ah…courier service is closed and it's pretty important I guess.” He holds the envelope out for you to take, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck in what seems like a nervous habit. You can see the faint grease marks on his fingertips, a matching set of smears on the paper in his hand.

“Oh, um. Thanks. Any idea what it's for?” You take the packet from him, eyeing it curiously. It's simply addressed to you with no further indicators on the outside.

“Something about the property I suppose, not really clear on the details. Lot of history in this house, ya know?”

“So I'm told.” You smile softly, toying with the metal fastener, more intrigued by the messenger than the message at this moment.

After a brief silence he shakes his head, seeming to come back to the present, and you wonder where his mind had drifted to. “Anyway, I'll leave you to it. Sorry for the interruption.”

“Not at all. Thanks again.” You wiggle the packet lightly in your hand.

He cracks another smile and you're certain his eyes roam over you before he mutters a goodnight and turns to go back to his truck. You stay stagnant for a while, watching as he gets into the cab and pulls out of the gate, and a few long moments after that as well.

Finally closing the door, you pad into the kitchen and pour a glass of wine to sip while you open your mystery packet. As you set it on the island countertop a few stray sheets slip out from beneath the envelope. Picking them up, you notice they don't seem to have anything to do with you or the house. In fact they look like order sheets of some kind, a list of mechanical sounding items listed with costs and quantities scribbled next to them.

Next to a black smudge to match your packet and the stranger's fingertips is a carefully printed name on a line marked ‘authorized by’. You read the name aloud and your stomach flutters at the way it somehow feels familiar to say.

“Fransisco Morales…”

More to come soon, let me know in the comments or my inbox if you want to be tagged for the next chapter 😬

#last great american dynasty #frankie x reader #francisco morales #marry me frankie #frankie catfish morales #she had a marvelous time ruining everything

[yr-obedt-cicero]

Do you think that Hamilton’s children were aware of his illegitimacy? I highly doubt Hamilton talked about his childhood much, but do you think at least one or two of the children suspected something while he was alive? I know J.C. Hamilton skimmed over it in the biography he wrote of his father, so he at least was somewhat aware of it in adulthood.

It's not clear, but my best assumption is that he likely told them if they were curious (Which I'm sure they were, after all they were quite close with their maternal relatives and knew no one from their dad's side) the same story he told William Jackson, which was;

A Dane a fortune-hunter of the name of Lavine came to Nevis bedizzened with gold, and paid his addresses to my mother then a handsome young woman having a snug fortune. In compliance with the wishes of her mother who was captivated by the glitter of the [blank] but against her own inclination she married Lavine. The marriage was unhappy and ended in a separation by divorce. My mother afterwards went to St Kitts, became acquainted with my father and a marriage between them ensued, followed by many years cohabitation and several children. But unluckily it turned out that the divorce was not absolute but qualified, and thence the second marriage was not lawful. Hence when my mother died the small property which she left went to my half brother Mr Lavine who lived in South Carolina and was for a time partner with Mr Kane.

Source — Alexander Hamilton to William Jackson, [August 26, 1800]

Because interestingly, John C. Hamilton tells the exact same story in his biographies of his father;

Hamilton was the offspring of a second marriage. His mother's first husband was a Dane, named Lavine, who, attracted by her beauty, and recommended to her mother by his wealth, received her hand against her inclination. The marriage proving unhappy, she applied for and obtained a divorce, and removing to St. Christopher's, there married the father of the subject of these notices, and had by him several sons, of whom Alexander was the youngest.

Source — The Life of Alexander Hamilton, by John Church Hamilton

The falsehood here being that Rachel never acquired the proper divorce they make it seem. Additionally they had James Hamilton Jr. in 1753, and in 1757 or 1755 they had Hamilton (And whatever other possible siblings), before the divorce in 1759.

Nine years after Rachel left Lavien and was with James Sr., Lavien had found himself in a lot of debt, he had to sell most of his plantation, and rent out his few slaves to make enough. Additionally there was a woman living with him, and cleaning for him, so it is likely that he wished to marry her, which lead to him wishing to obtain a divorce summons on February 26, 1759. Lavien claimed Rachel had; “absented herself from [Lavien] for nine years and gone elsewhere, where she has begotten several illegitimate children, so that such action is believed to be more sufficient for him to obtain a divorce from her.” [x] Lavien also said he “had taken care of Rachel's legitimate child [Peter Lavien] from what little he has been able to earn,” while she had, “completely forgotten her duty and let husband and child alone and instead given herself up to whoring with everyone, which things the plantiff are so well known that her own family and friends must hate her for it.” [x] Lavien demanded that Rachel also be denied all legal rights to his property. He warned that if he died before her, Rachel as a widow would possibly seek to take “possession of the estate” and therefore, “not only acquire what she ought not to have but also take this away from his child and give it to her whore-children.” [x]

But the thing is, Rachel didn't even try to refute the allegations, or show up to court; which meant on the 25th of June, Lavien recieved a divorce that permitted him to remarry—but on the other hand, Rachel couldn't. So then, her children were deemed illegitimate, and she was barred from ever marrying again. There haven't been any discovered court or wedding records to show that Rachel may have tried to marry James before the divorce came up a few years later, so there is still the slight possibility Hamilton was right about his parents trying to marry and eventually when the divorce came up later it disallowed their marriage. But until that is actually proven, it seems like it was something Hamilton's parents told him, instead of the actual reality of the situation (Which definitely would have been a comprehensible lie, because Rachel knew full well she was not properly divorced, and even continued to go by “Lavien” on some of the records on the island). And he may have discovered the truth later on. After all, the records were on the island, and he would have found out about the 1759 divorce, or the 1769 probate record, especially since he was a smart kid and would have questioned their situation after his mother's death. He was pushed through several homes and lost everything, I think something would have noticably not been clicking together and he would have asked. But even so, it is likely Hamilton may have continued to repeat the story his parents told him to spare himself and his family roots. Granted, that is mostly all speculation.

John mentions that his father “rarely as he dwelt upon his personal history”, [x] so I don't think it was an open conversation topic with his kids. Although Hamilton did seem to fondly tell his kids about his mother and his time attending a Jewish school, so it wasn't as though he told his kids nothing. Just probably the sugarcoated truth. But I'm also sure the truth may have bypassed the older ones, especially when you consider how aware of politics Philip was at a young age, he was bound to hear at least a few times from his father's political rivals about Hamilton's illegitimacy. Wether he confronted his father about this, wether Hamilton probably tried to cover it up as mere slander, or wether Philip truly believed him, or may have had lingering suspicion; is all speculation. Perhaps that is why he was quite eager to fight for his father's honor when Eacker slandered the Federalist party. But I also think eventually all the kids would have had to have heard sometime in their adulthood about the illegitimacy rumors surrounding their father, but it's complete speculation what happened after. Did they ask their mother about it? Did Eliza also continue the myth that Hamilton used? Who knows. But it seems the family all followed the story that their father wasn't actually a bastard, but some legal mistakes got in the way.

Hope this helps!

#amrev #american history #alexander hamilton #historical alexander hamilton #rachel faucette #rachel faucette hamilton #rachel faucette lavien #johann lavien #john church hamilton #history #hamilton family #hamilchildren #hamilton children #hamilkids #hamilton kids #queries #sincerely anonymous #cicero's history lessons

[emmxthanson]

Name: Emmit Hanson Age: 34 Community Job: Teacher & Supermarket Keeper Job Before: Former Actor, Retired Reside in: Small home close to the Supermarket How long have they been in Redwood?: Newly Arrived Family: Darian (Husband, deceased), Jean (cat) Status: Widower Faceclaim: Chris Colfer

From an early age, Emmit wanted to be a star. He loved music, he loved movies and he loved plays. When he was five his mother took him to see Les Miserables and he was head over little tiny Converse shoes in love with the lights and the show business. While his mother was incredibly supportive and did her best to get her son into acting lessons and music lessons, his dad was a real man’s man. When Emmit was eight his father left, having moved to Florida from Vancouver, but not before leaving signed divorce papers on the kitchen counter. Honestly, Emmit was fine with that. He never really got along with his dad so it was no skin off his back. His mother was worried, though, and had put him in counseling to work through his father leaving but even the therapist said that Emmit was a well-adjusted kid.

In middle school he got the star role in his first production. It was almost too perfect. Every production after he was either the lead or one of the main cast. The older he grew the more he started to really develop who he was and discovered his sexuality. To the surprise of no one, really, Emmit came out his freshman year of high school as gay. For the first few weeks he was bullied about it but much like the kid he was, he didn’t let it get to him. He was a tough kid and no one was going to get to him. After a while they gave up. It also helped that he became one of the most influential people in the Drama Club and his senior year, he was scouted by a talent agent who landed him in a few small movie roles.

Now Emmit loved the spotlight and he loved the movie business but eventually the fame started to become a bit too much. He took a break from acting to help with his mother who had suffered a heart attack. That’s when he met the handsome nurse who had been tending to his mom, Darian. The two hit it off rather quickly, although Emmit was somewhat new to relationships. Well, real relationships. He found joy in the romance and the dating and the sweet little things. They dated for a few years until Darian finally popped the question. The engagement was a lot shorter as they married in five months. Everything was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

People were starting to come in sick and Darian had been working overtime at the hospital to help out. Emmit, having left the spotlight to support his husband, had been at home watching the news. That’s how he learned about the zombie outbreak. He quickly called the hospital to make sure Darian was okay. He was - thankfully. Darian came home and immediately the two began to plan on how to survive this. For a few months, everything was okay, but as the world changed and began to shut down, they knew they had to move. They couldn’t just hunker down and wait for everything to be okay. So they packed a few bags and began their trek South into the States after hearing about survivor settlements. Eventually they found a small group that had been out hunting for their settlement and they took Darian and Emmit in. Everything was great, but eventually the settlement fell apart. The leaders were getting a little too totalitarian for their liking. So they left. Darian had a plan - they were going to head to the coast, find an ocean side property and build their own life together where they could grow old together. At least, that was the plan. A few weeks ago while on the road, Darian got bit by a Walker. Emmit stayed with him until he transitioned and when he did, he put him out of his misery. Now on his own, Emmit didn’t know what to do so he figured he would head further South and live the dream that he and Darian always wanted.

Headcanons:

Despite being quite adamant that his father leaving didn’t bother him, the more it bothered him. He never told his mother this but he tried reaching out to his dad a few times - once on his sixteenth birthday and once to invite him to his wedding. Both times his father never answered. 

A month before Darian was bitten, Darian found a young cat and gave him to Emmit as a gift. Emmit named him Jean. He was the last gift Darian ever gave him.

He has Darian’s and his wedding rings on his necklace and never goes anywhere without them.

Some of his more notable roles were in Music Camp as Kurt McKay for all six seasons, two seasons of Boston Hot as Tony Marks, Eye of the Storm as Carson Hale and Absolutely Gorgeous as Corey Dawes.

#bio

[minim236]

The Miriam and Matthew used to be married AU based on this post lol

@matthewsblue @dreamofme9 @xxskycrystalxx @spitefularmand

Diana knew Miriam and Matthew and Marcus were close. The three were colleagues and Marcus was Matthew's son.

It was Ysabeau, who referred to Miriam as 'her dearest daughter' and would look to her son with a pointed look that informed her something was happening between them.

It was Marcus who confirmed it and it explained his reluctance to get too close. In the woods behind her childhood home, he explained.

"She's my mother." Marcus said, his eyes more serious than he had ever been, "She and Matthew were married."

She did not know that.

"She's his wife?" Sarah asked sharply. Her esitmation of Matthew had gone down even further.

"My father has a knack for secrets." Marcus continued walking, and she walked with him, Sarah and Emily close behind intruiged.

"They were married until 1878 when they divorced." Marcus said, "Or rather, my brother and I asked them too."

"Does he love her?" Diana asked quietly.

"Of course, they still love each other." Marcus said frankly, "But not like that. Not anymore. Not for a long time, I do not think."

Matthew and Miriam were two halves, so alike which is why they had worked so well and why they fell apart.

They saw the two speaking in a hushed language Diana did not understand. They stopped when they sensed the group. Marcus smiled at the two of them, waving. They both raised their hands and waved back to him.

She felt like some sort of intruder in an intimate moment as if she was not with Matthew now.

"Hey, Miriam." Diana greeted awkwardly. She had used her magic on Marcus' mother.

"Dr Bishop," Miriam said stonily.

"Why did you not tell me about the tea Marthe had you make?" Matthew demanded sharply.

"Because it didn't matter." Diana protested, "There was no harm done."

"You mean the contraception tea?" Emily asked.

Matthew looked to Miriam, who remained unbothered, her eyes bored as he pulled out his phone, and marching away.

"It was not your business to get involved." Diana hissed, angry with the ancient vampire.

"I'm already in it, Diana. Your relationship with Matthew puts every creature in this property in danger. It will change everything, whether you two have children or not. And now he's brought the Knights of Lazarus into it." Miriam was as furious as Diana was, if not more, her brown eyes alit, as her eyes darted to Marcus.

"The more creatures who sanction your relationship, the likelier it is that there will be war."

"Don't be ridiculous - war?" Diana scoffed, believing she was being overdramatic.

"Your and my ex-husband's actions could get my sons killed," Miriam said sharply, "Since you walked into the Bodleian, he's lost control of his senses. And the last time he lost his senses over a woman, my first husband died."

Diana was taken aback by that.

"What happened?" Sarah asked, sympathy and interest clear. She already did not trust Matthew.

"Umi..." Marcus said quietly. He was by her side as if wishing to stop a fight.

"Would you like to know how Matthew and I' 's marriage began? It was because my husband was executed in his place the last time he was so obsessed with a mortal woman - Eleanor. He accidentally killed her when he and Lucius got into a fight. Someone one had to pay, and because Matthew was a grandmaster, he could not. So Bertrand did."

"I am sorry. I am. But I am not Eleanor, and this isn't Jerusalem." Diana said.

Miriam nodded, a look in her eye that reminded Diana of a lioness protecting her prey, "It is yesterday to me. Matthew likes wanting what he should not have, and he will always kill for it. Now, I have two sons to keep alive whilst Matthew obsesses over you. And I do still love him. But I will not hesitate to eliminate any threat to them."

"Wait, so you still married him?" Saraha asked,

"A brother must take care of his brother's widow." Marcus said as if it was simple, "And besides, they got me!" He grinned at Miriam, whose eyes softened at him.

"Get a haircut, Thoams." Miriam simply said to him and he pouted, running his hands through his messy brown hair.

#matthew x miriam #miriam x matthew #au #all souls au #adow au #marcus whitmore #Matthew Clairmont #miriam shepherd #all souls trilogy #adow fic #a discovery of witches #diana bishop #sarah bishop #emily mather #book 1: A Discovery of Witches #diana x matthew #if i'm obsessed with this ship you all have to suffer

[quill-of-thoth]

Letters From Watson: The Noble Bachelor

Published: April 1892 Set: October 1886 [Baring Gould] which is a ludicrous date. By my count it should be fall 1888, 1887 at EARLIEST. It should also be after The Sign of The Four, which is in text confirmed as 1888 and which Baring-Gould places in 1888. I have no idea why Baring-Gould crams these three cases into the first three weeks of October 1886 but it makes his timeline a mess. Watson’s Marriage / Marriages Here is where we first get into major Baring-Gould tomfoolery: he has arranged the timeline so that Watson marries three separate times. Despite the fact that an entire novel is written about Mary Morstan (and Watson himself, and Sherlock Holmes) we have no names or other information on the other two alleged Mrs. Watsons. Two of these marriages are, according to Baring Gould, occurring between 1886 and 1890. Divorce did exist during the Victorian era, but it did not have today’s no-fault legal framework: keep in mind that while women could own their own property and control their own finances it was not something they were automatically entitled to do. (See my previous post regarding inheritance in The Speckled Band.) There was also a greater stigma surrounding divorce. To marry twice in four years Watson would either need to divorce quickly after his first marriage or swiftly become a widower.  Baring Gould has no grounds that I could discover in the original text of this story to set this in 1886. I have not been able, in the week-ish that this post has sat in my drafts, to locate a pdf of Baring-Gould’s The Chronological Holmes, which is I believe where he outlines his rationale for his timeline, as opposed to his later publications. I remember reading somewhere, nearly a decade ago, that Baring Gould based a large portion of his chronology, where years were not immediately obvious, on weather records in London during the years in question: this leads one to wonder why the hell he places The Resident Patient (month confirmed in text, year inferred from current events) and The Noble Bachelor (date referenced as approximately four years ago in the 1892 publication) two days apart. Yes, the weather can change a lot in a couple days. I too have experienced weird autumn weather. But Watson has gone from contemplating buying a new frame for one of his portraits, to be hung long term in Baker Street, to anticipating his marriage in a few weeks, when he would be moving out to start a new household with his wife. 

While the publication dates of Watson’s stories, compared to how long ago he says something happened, are less credible than when he lists actual years, since he’s working off old notes, (See timelines for The Speckled Band, where he claims to have been chronicling Holmes’ exploits for eight years: pointing either to an attempt at chronicling SPEC in 1888, or indicating that he started chronicling in earnest about eight years ahead of either the 1892 publication date or the 1891 date of his first Holmes-related short story) they’re usually plausible ranges. A marriage in late 1888 to Mary Morstan also agrees with dates referenced in The Final Problem regarding the eventual establishment of Watson’s medical practice.  Conclusion: Based on the text, we can conclude that Baring-Gould is wrong and that The Adventure of The Noble Bachelor takes place in fall of 1888, or, at earliest (once again subject to adjustment as we continue to read) 1887. It is also possible, though not probable, that it could be 1889. While Watson may be (intentionally or not) vague about dates in the pursuit of client anonymity, the longer ago a case actually was the less likely he is to ruffle anyone’s feathers.  Also, we have absolutely no reason to invent an extraneous first marriage for Dr. John Watson.

#Letters From Watson #The Noble Bachelor #timelines

[a-deranged-soul]

The Wives of King Henry the VIII.

His marriage were marked by varying degrees of happiness and tragedy, with several of his wives being executed for treason or adultery.

Henry Tudor VIII

Henry the VIII

Henry VIII was the King of England from 1509 until his death in 1547. He is perhaps best known for his six marriages, as well as his role in the English Reformation.

Henry VIII was born on June 28, 1491, in Greenwich, England, the second son of King Henry VII and Elizabeth of York. He became heir to the throne after the death of his older brother Arthur in 1502.

Henry VIII married his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, in 1509. However, after many years of marriage and several miscarriages, Henry became convinced that his marriage was cursed, and he sought an annulment from the pope. When the pope refused to grant the annulment, Henry broke with the Catholic Church and declared himself the head of the Church of England, which allowed him to annul his marriage and marry his second wife, Anne Boleyn.

Henry's subsequent marriages to Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleves, Catherine Howard, and Catherine Parr were marked by varying degrees of happiness and tragedy, with several of his wives being executed for treason or adultery.

In addition to his personal life, Henry VIII is also remembered for his political and religious actions. He oversaw the dissolution of the monasteries in England, which led to the redistribution of their wealth and property, and he established the Church of England as a separate entity from the Catholic Church.

King Henry VIII of England had a total of six wives:

Catherine of Aragon (1485-1536): Devorced for Bearing No Son

Catherine of Aragon

Catherine of Aragon: Henry's first wife, married in 1509. She was the widow of Henry's older brother, Arthur. Catherine and Henry were married for 24 years but were unable to produce a male heir, which led to their divorce in 1533.

Anne Boleyn (c. 1501-1536): The Union That Sparked Reformation, Beheaded

Anne Boleyn

Anne Boleyn: Henry's second wife, married in 1533. Anne was a maid of honor in Catherine's court and became Henry's mistress while he was still married to Catherine. Anne was unable to produce a male heir and was accused of adultery, incest, and treason. She was beheaded in 1536.

Jane Seymour (1508-1537): The only one the King truly loved

Jane Seymour

Jane Seymour: Henry's third wife, married in 1536, shortly after Anne Boleyn's execution. Jane was able to give Henry the male heir he had long desired, Edward VI, but she died from complications following childbirth.

Anne of Cleves (1515-1557): Strategic, Six-Month Marriage.

Anne of Cleves

Anne of Cleves: Henry's fourth wife, married in 1540. The marriage was arranged by Thomas Cromwell, but Henry found Anne unattractive and the marriage was annulled after just six months.

Catherine Howard (1523-1542): Valued, Then Executed

Catherine Howard

Catherine Howard: Henry's fifth wife, married in 1540. Catherine was accused of adultery and executed in 1542, just two years after her marriage to Henry.

Katherine Parr (1512-1548): The Queen Who Outlived Henry

Katherine Parr

Catherine Parr: Henry's sixth and final wife, married in 1543. Catherine was a widow and a well-educated woman who acted as a mother figure to Henry's children. She outlived Henry and later remarried.

In conclusion, the king's desperate quest for political unification and a healthy male heir drove him to annul two marriages and have two wives beheaded. His chaotic love life caused an unstable succession, foreign policy implications and even led to the break with the Church of Rome.

[dreamwritesimagines]

Hi since Lavinia is a former duchess like she was technically a widow she would be a really really rich so does she still have the property of money of her ex husband when she married uncle Duncan and do her children know about her past ? Also is her relation with Percy somewhat strained after his divorce since she says that she has not visited him in London in years does Percy like Duncan ik that he loves Lav as does she him but they’re definitely not as close as Elias and chiere

Hiii! ❤

Oh nope, one of the many MANY bad things about Regency England was that, the moment a woman got married, her wealth went to her husband 😶 So she's not allowed to have her own wealth if she's married 💔

Her children do know, but Iona refuses to believe it while Kenneth is like "Sure, why not?" 😂

Percy definitely likes Duncan! ❤ He has seen how in love they are with each other, and Duncan adores and respects Lavinia, so Percy has no problem with him😂❤

[whitepolaris]

The Curse of Griffith Park

Until 1896, when Griffith Jenkins Griffith bequeathed 3,000 acres of what is now Hollywood Hills to the city of Los Angles for us as a public park, the area was a trail of blood and bad luck for anyone who owned it. 

In 1863, most of the land was owned by a wealthy rancher named Don Antonio Feliz. Feliz’s spread covered almost 8,000 acres. Don Antonio never married and lived on his huge tracts of land with his niece Dona Petranilla and a maid named Soledad. When Feliz lay delirious with smallpox that year, Dona Petranilla was sent away so that she wouldn’t contract the fatal disease. 

Don Feliz was soon visited by a neighbor, Don Antonio Colonel, and his lawyer, Don Innocante, to discuss Don Feliz’s will. (No, they weren’t all named Don; it was a title people used when they wanted other people to think they were important, or in rare cases, if they actually were.) Don Feliz was said to agree to the final draft of the will, but another version of events claimed he was nodding in agreement because someone had fastened a stick to the back of the delirious or unconscious head. To no one’s surprise, Don Colonel got the ranch, Soledad made out with a few sticks of furniture, and Dona Petranilla got squat. The fact that she was also blind probably made her a trifle bitter. 

The seventeen-year-old Dona Petranilla reportedly swore out a curse on Don Colonel; it was melodramatic and lengthy, as translated by nineteenth-century California historian Horace Bell: “Your falsity shall be your ruin! The substance of the Feliz family shall be your curse! The lawyer that assisted you in your infamy, and the judge shell fall beneath the same curse! The one shall die an untimely death, the other in blood and violence!” She rants on for a while longer, then says, “Blight shall fall upon the face of this terrestrial paradise; the cattle shall no longer fatten but sicken on its pastures, the fields shall not longer respond to the toil of the tiller, the grand oaks shall wither and die! The wrath of heaven and the vengeance of hell shall fall upon this place!” 

Dona Petranilla might have been blind, but she saw the future pretty well. Don Colonel outlasted many in his family, watching while they died of disease or misfortune. When he died, his widow remarried, only to have her new husband try to divorce her and take her property. The litigation lawyers took almost all that was left. 

The next owner, Leon “Lucky” Baldwin, tried to run a dairy on the star-crossed land, but the business failed, and he was swallowed up by mortgage companies after there occurred a series of natural disasters that were eerily close to Dona Petranilla’s curse. Not-so-Lucky Baldwin sold the land to Griffith J. Griffith, a Welshman who made a killing in gold mine speculation. He donated the park to Los Angles. A few years later Griffith was convicted trying to kill his wife and spent a few years in San Quentin. 

The legend of the curse has long given rise to ghost stories in the park that bears Griffith’s name. Ranch hands working the property in the late nineteenth century said that they had seen Don Colonel howling down the valley toward what are now the municipal golf course and the L.A. zoo. The figure is reported to make appearances at Bee Rock, a granite towering over the east side of the park. 

The curse seemed to abate once the city of Los Angles took possession of the land, and perhaps the only dangers that remain for the weekend hikers are things like bodies dumped onto the fire road, mountain lions, and six-foot rattlesnakes. The park is closed at night, so if the ghosts who stalk the old trails of Griffith Park put in appearances only after sunset, they should walk in relative peace until the land inevitably changes hands again. 

#weird california #type read

[scrollsfromarebornrealm]

🖊 Astrid

Astrid has only ever been married once. She wed a fellow Labryinthos researcher who pretty much turned full cold fish shortly after the ink on the wedding certificate dried. For a year Astrid tried to rekindle the spark, and thought she finally had some success on their anniversary, even more so when she found out she was pregnant. However husband coldly informed her that he had only married Astrid for the 'logical progression for life of a man his age'. He then essentially abandoned Astrid and later on, Roderick for his studies. While Astrid wanted a divorce--she couldn't get one, due to the fact that she had been named her political mentor's successor at that time. Divorce would be too much of a scandal for her still-green self to weather successfully.

However three years later husband would be found dead--an experiment having gone wrong. Astrid was the logical sole inheritor of her husband's property, and from then on was a single parent to her young son.

At the funeral it was commented on by some of the attendees that the young widow looked quite lovely in black!

#ffxiv #ffxiv oc ask meme #astrid deglass #she had red heels on under that dress #legit she didn’t kill him though #the moron killed himself by not practicing proper safety protocol

[joyluckclubproject]

- Post 6: An Mei and Rose Hsu -

After losing her own mother in more ways than one, An Mei makes it her duty to ensure her daughter Rose knows her worth.

"You're just like my mother, never know your worth until too late." - An Mei

An Mei had a good, normal life with her family in China until her father passed away. When her mother goes to the temple to honor him she meets a rich man named Wu Tsing and his wife.

Wu Tsing's wife tricks An Mei's mother into coming home with them to break up the long journey. In the night, Wu Tsing forces himself on her, shaming her and making her break her vows as a widow.

News of this reaches her in-laws to kick her out of the house immediately, separating her from An Mei and leaving her with nowhere to go but back to Wu Tsing's house to live as his concubine. They do not believe that she was innocent and a victim.

When An Mei's grandmother begins to decline in health, An Mei's mother returns to nurse her. She makes a traditional soup that includes her own blood, which is believed to restore her mother-in-law's spirit. She dies anyway, and although An Mei's mother made an incredibly meaningful gesture, she is once again removed from the house.

This time An Mei refuses to stay behind and goes with her mother to live with Wu Tsing. She learns that her mother is Wu Tsing's fourth wife, and is treated poorly by him and the other wives, especially Second Wife.

An Mei discovers that Wu Tsing's only son, whom Second Wife claimed as her own, was really her mother's child that she conceived the night she first stayed at Wu Tsing's house. An Mei's mother does not fight this because she wants to survive to see her daughter again.

When An Mei's mother finds out that her daughter knows the full story, she is so ashamed of her complacency and bringing her into this awful home that she takes her own life.

An Mei curses Wu Tsing and his family for what they did to her mother. She swears that her mother will haunt them unless Wu Tsing honors her as his first and only wife, accepts that his son was hers and not Second Wife's, and honors the both of them as his true and only children.

She leaves China when she is older, remarries in America, and has a daughter named Rose. She hopes that Rose will be independent and fight for what she deserves.

"It's not your fault. None of it. I was the one that told you that my love wasn't good enough, that your love was worth more than mine. I was so full of shit!" - Rose

Rose meets a man named Ted in college. He grew up very rich because of his parent's successful businesses, and Rose is afraid that he will think she's only going after him for his money. He appreciates her for her honest concern, and they start dating.

When Rose meets his parents for the first time his mother corners her, and warns her that she is not the type of woman that Ted would be expected to marry. Coming from a rich white background, she tells Rose that if she continues with Ted it will damage his reputation.

Ted is outraged when he hears this, and although they haven't been together for long, he tells his mother that he loves Rose deeply and will not tolerate the racist idealogy that she is inflicting on Rose. They get married soon after, and have a daughter named Jennifer.

Rose does her absolute best to be a dutiful wife to make sure she doesn't embarass Ted. She never expresses her own needs or wants, only caring about what's best for Ted. He doesn't know how to handle this and begins to lose feelings for her, because he doesn't think there's any passion anymore.

They file for divorce even though they both secretly still love and care for each other. An Mei wants to know what Rose is going to ask for once they start dividing property. Rose doesn't understand what An Mei wants her to take, feeling unentitled to anything they own because Ted paid for most if not all of it.

After An Mei tells Rose her and her mother's story, she implores Rose to consider her own self worth and not back down. She knows that Rose has belittled herself in order to meet the traditional Chinese standards of a good, quiet wife.

Rose decides to confront Ted about this and demand that she gets what she deserves in the divorce settlements. This makes Ted realize that the woman he fell in love with is still there, and that they can save their marriage.

The divorce is cancelled, and Rose and Ted stay together.

"She would rather kill her own weak spirit, so that she could give me a stronger one." - An Mei

#joy luck club #film analysis #immigration

[bisluthq]

She also didn’t please Joe Widows and mourn him as the love of her life because that relationship was half dead and she killed what remained by ending it. The weird thing is the Matty into Travis of it all.

I think the Joe widows as you say and tbh most people too just were expecting her talk much more about a relationship that she framed as being the most special thing ever that she would take so long to move on from and that lasted way longer than any other. Like by all accounts it seemed that she thought of him as the love of her life.

So to see her release almost an entire album about the guy who came next and mourn HIM and not Joe as if he was the actual love of her life all this time felt weird.

And now a lot of people are seeing it as her pining for Matty for years and the whole Joe is my soulmate fairytale was not true. I see a lot of people now thinking Joe was just like a safe option she settled with, because she couldn't have Matty all these years. I think people are taking this album as damn her longest relationship ends and she couldn't have cared less, she was actually devastated by this guy that she couldn't have. As like it was 6 years, a whole life and HE is the one who she felt heartbroken over instead??? So were her feelings for the other guy never as strong???? This one was the one she wanted all along???

but that’s the part I’m not getting like from my own POV or any proper LTR I’ve ever seen break up or heard about the break up of unless it ends badly af (like with betrayal or idk something like that). Even like this woman I know who had the MESSIEST divorce ever - the divorce lasted like as long as the relationship so 5 years divorce for 5 years marriage, besties never do a marriage with no prenup and in community of property lol - when I asked her why she left like she was like “idk I got tired and he was on the spectrum and what was at one point quirky and I could be empathetic about became annoying as fuck and one night I picked up the kids and I left to my mum’s”. That was the whole story. Now, that’s the father of her children and I think in many respects the love of her life (if such a thing can exist) but also after the divorce I doubt there’s any fondness but THAT is because he tried to screw her badly financially. She’d gone into the marriage with her own assets, he convinced her to quit her job and have kids, most of her stuff (eg her car and her flat) were sold so he’d buy her a new one but that was in his name but in community of property so w/e right and then he wouldn’t give her her stuff back and didn’t want to split his assets 50/50 and they also couldn’t agree on custody (that’s still a mess even with divorce finalized). She can talk for HOURS about the divorce but the actual relationship ending was 🤷🏻‍♀️���🏻‍♀️🤷🏻‍♀️🤷🏻‍♀️ shit ends.

whereas flings are exciting and short shit often has a lot of drama (hence it being short) and T/J had a lot going on when they were together but towards the end like… it was just not working for all the same reasons it had struggled to work dude like what else do you want to hear her say??? And of course she felt like she’d never get over him because she loved him a great deal and he obviously loved her and said it right until the end and Matty helped her convince she could love again and then ditched her like OF COURSE that hurts more dramatically than “wow this should probably end at some point but idk for what specific reason or when” 🤷🏻‍♀️🤷🏻‍♀️🤷🏻‍♀️

[svenstrupepstein60]

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[matthewsfoged99]

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