#the moon smells like spent gunpowder | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

heavencanbeaprisontoo · 1 month

Text

The Sun and The Moon

(Prologue: Meeting By the Sea) Alfie Solomons x Shelby!OC

Summary: In early November of 1917, you are over a year into your service to the Crown as a volunteer nurse. Following a hollow victory, you make your acquaintance with one Alfie Solomons. WC: 3.1K Warnings: Mentions of war, death, g-re, v-mit, foul language, angst, psychological distress, etc.

November. 7, 1917.

You know you need to hurry. It's almost nightfall; you won’t have much light left to write in. Yet you cannot help but linger at the sight of today’s victory. Before you, there is an ocean. It is a vast sea of gray, thick, and cold. Unfeeling and joyless. An ocean of standing water, crumbling buildings, and miles upon miles of mud. The buildings once housed people, but now they resemble the ruins of a bygone era. A necropolis.

Rolling clouds of dirt and gunpowder float just above the ground like phantoms. It’s the only piece of this that reminds you anything of home. Beckoning to the fog and soot that rolled in the early mornings when you would walk with your brothers to Charlie’s yard. Behind you, white tents flap in the wind, and cloth clings to metal rods that hold the structure in place. A field hospital. The only taste of civilization left for miles.

Rings meant to fasten the flaps down rattle like windchimes against the winds. A sudden updraft carries the stench of decay from the trenches up to where you stand. You press a cloth into a small bottle of peppermint oil. Quickly, you put that cloth on your nose. One of the first things you learned after joining the VADs was to keep your feet dry and to have plenty of peppermint oil on hand. It wards off the smell of rot, both in the living and the dead. The first time you smelled it, you vomited. Now, you barely gag. Still holding the cloth to your nose, you turn back to the field hospital.

Your name is Maeve Shelby, and you are twenty-four.

It’s warmer inside the tents. Uncomfortably so. The warmth is from all the bodies; most lay about in cots; the rest are your fellow VADs and doctors. Humidity mixed with stagnant sweat and all the bed pans that ever come clean enough to be rid of acrid remnants. To save yourself from having to sit in the midst of it all, you set aside a chair for yourself at the mouth of the field hospital. It is a plain, simple wooden chair with one leg shorter than the other three. Beside it is a stack of empty ammunition boxes. You have a small lantern weighing down an unfinished letter. With a sigh, you sit down and resume your writing from earlier that day:

Dearest Aunt Polly, Ada, and Finn ,

I know once my letter finds you that this will be well-known, but the Allies have finally claimed victory here in Ypres. The soldiers say we are nearly finished ousting the Germans from Passchendaele. Only a few remain. Too injured to retreat. It won’t be long before we can claim this as ours. Still, we have yet to celebrate. It’s strange. All these months we spent fighting, and this doesn’t feel like a victory. So many lives were lost. There are too many to even try to count.

My work keeps me busy, but it is at night when my mind is most busy. Even with the fighting stopped, it has been difficult to find the dead and the wounded. I do not know where these men will be put once they’re found. We have hardly any beds left to offer. I have taken to sleeping in a chair by the entry to the main tent. Partly to free a bed for those that need it, partly to keep an eye out for any soldiers still trying to make it back.

For so long, all I’ve done is race from place to place. Now all I do is change bandages, sooth the restless, and listen for the wounded who remain stuck in the trenches. Those still well enough to fight are sent out to recover their comrades. It’s hard work. Idle bombs and lurking landmines are all still out there. Some men come back worse than they left.

I know that the boys aren’t out there, but still, I strain to listen for them. John, Arthur, and Tommy. In my dreams, I do hear them. Just as I know, you hear them in your dreams too, Polly. It makes me wake with such a fear in me that my feet carry me forward before I’m fully awake. I rush toward that ocean of muck and blood, and I stop only when my fingers pierce the earth; the feel of it under my fingernails brings back my senses for some reason.

I wonder if all the victories we’ve won felt like this. I wonder if, when all is said and done, any of this will amount to anything at all. Does anyone remember why we’re even here? Who will take our bodies home if none of us survive?

“God,” you say, taking your pen and scratching out the last line. Then, you scratch out the last paragraph. You cross out line after line. They don’t need to read this. This madness. It was good of Ada to back out of volunteering. Not just because of this lonely sea of mud and blood, but for little Finn, too. With you and the three eldest men gone, someone needed to take care of him. Mom has been dead for almost five years now. Father may as well be dead; he felt like a ghost when he was home anyway. Aunt Polly was holding up “the business,” from what you could gleam from Ada’s letters back to you.

In the year you’ve spent out on the fields, you have yet to receive a letter from your brothers. Not that you blame them. All of you are on the move. What you know of their state comes from Ada, or Polly. Arthur and Tommy are together, which somewhat soothes you. You think of John often. He’s in France with Danny and Jeremiah. I think you joined so that you could look after your brothers. It’s been years since you’ve seen them in person. Who knows what state they may be in? There are men behind you who will never be whole. Broken bodies, shattered minds, and more scar tissue than flesh. Are your brothers as you remember them? You hate to linger on the thought.

You fold your ruined letter three times and rip it in half. The give-and-take of it feels good somehow. It reminds you of something you read once about children being destructive to gain some form of control. You can’t control how long this war lasts, when you can come home, what home you return to, or what state you find your brothers in, but you can control this paper. So, you rip it again. And again. Each tear becomes more jagged and childish. You throw up your hands, and the bits of paper fly away in the cold November winds.

‘Snow from Birmingham to Belgium,’ you crack a small smile.

You once dreamed of journeying across Europe. It was a lovely fantasy filled with long train rides and French pastries. Winking at handsome strangers while hiding your smile behind a lacy white glove. Now, you feel like you’ve seen too much of it. When all this fighting is over, maybe you’ll take a holiday to Margate. Clean your memory with a long look at an ocean of water instead of this hellscape.

“Shelby!” Your head turns sharply to see Nurse Burgess charging towards you. Her round face was blotchy as always, her thin lips drawn down in a harsh frown. “Miss Shelby, you are needed in the back.”

Tucking your scented hanky back into your apron, you ask, “Is someone in throes?” Some men, in the throes of despair, couldn’t always tell the difference between a nurse and a German soldier.

Her meaty hand takes you by the upper arm and says, “No, I need you to keep an eye on someone.” Nurse Burgess drags you through the maze of malaise swiftly, despite the growing night. The nurses have navigated this place in near darkness many times now. You could probably make it from one end to the other, blindfolded. Tonight, the field hospital was quiet aside from the moaning. Nurse Burgess guides you deeper inside the field hospital with a hoarse, “It’s Captain Solomons; that bastard won’t lay still, and I haven’t the time to keep on him.”

You try to keep your voice low as soldiers in their cots roll over to follow you and Nurse Burgess’ mad dash. “Captain Solomons? I thought he was sedated, heavily!”

Nurse Burgess, on the other hand, has no such qualms. She hollers, “That man is a bloody bear. We keep trying to give him more, and he shoos us off. Now, he won’t stop trying to get out of his cot... with a blown-out leg!” Two soldiers sat on their cots with a barrel between them. They played cards under the glow of a flickering candle on their shared nightstand. As you passed, they snickered.

“I can’t imagine he would be able to move much; Doctor Gill said he nearly lost that leg,” you noted wearily. Burgess was nearly done with her escorting or you; the back of the tent was not far off. You stepped over a pool of what could have been rainwater, bile, or piss. There is no point in stopping to check.

At the back of the field hospital lay two specific sorts of patients. Those who could not move and those who absolutely should not move. Captain Solomons was in the former category. Days ago, he sustained a bullet to his shin that nearly shattered it. He had been under strict orders, and a heavy dose of sedatives, to stay right where he was. Each cot in this back section has its own privacy curtain. When you first joined, you thought it was for the nurses to sleep and change in. The other nurses had a good laugh about that. When she comes upon Captain Solomons’ curtain, Nurse Burgess lets you go. S yanks back the curtain, shielding the Captain from view, and lets out a deep grunt.

You peer around her shoulder and sigh. The captain sits on the thin cot with a sterile sheet pushed down to his legs. His back is raised from the metal headboard, and he has his body turned with his good foot nearly touching the ground. Still on the bed rests his wounded leg. It lays at a stiff, awkward angle. You know he must at least be aware of its precarious state. In the dark, it’s difficult to make out all of his features.

“Captain!”

He’s a big man, with broad shoulders and heavy muscle on his back and arms. You can see it pushing against his long-sleeved undershirt. What strikes you most about him is not his mass or his leg, but his grin. His cheeky, cheeky grin.

Captain Solomons keeps on that grin as he says, “Hm, it appears I have been caught, right?” His accent is thick. You know very little about Captain Solomons aside from the most basic of details. You know he’s from London, you know that he’s Jewish, and you know that he can be difficult. The Captain’s tone remains glib as he remarks, “And you brought a friend, ‘ello there.”

“You are to be resting, Captain Solomons!” Based on her tone, you can imagine Nurse Burgess is turning purple about now. Captain Solomons gives her a boyish shrug and stays upright in his cot. That alone makes Nurse Burgess turn to you and hiss and say, “Keep him here so he doesn’t rip his bloody stitches, understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” you hum. She leaves you there in the parted curtains with Captain Solomons. He regards you for a moment, then restarts his attempt at standing. You let out a sigh and hurry to him before he gains enough traction to hurt himself. Placing your hands on his shoulders, you try to ease him back into his crib. “Captain, you really must follow the doctor’s instructions.” You feel him push against your palms.

“Fuck the doctors; pardon my verbiage, but I’m about to go mad lying about this miserable lump you call a bed,” he says, putting his hands around your wrists. You are taken aback by how easily his hand wraps around your wrist. If he wanted to, it wouldn’t be terribly difficult to just shove you aside. “I need to take a walk.”

Politeness doesn’t seem to work on him, nor does roughness. While you weren’t tough like John or ruthless like Arthur, you were clever with people. You could get a sense of how someone’s mind ticked quickly. You hoped you could catch on about Captain Solomons too. “And when your stitches rip and you’ve lost your leg, what cot would you like me to move you to?”

He stops pushing against you. His chest is still heaving, and his hot breath fans your cheeks. You swallowed thickly; you really underestimated how close you were to him. This is a is a big, big man. One who had rumors of a violent temper that took very little to agitate.

“You have been injured and are lucky to be alive. And you still have all your parts, Captain. Why are you risking that just to go on a fucking walk?” He stares you down with a furrowed brow. For a moment, you worry you’ve poked the bear a bit too hard. “If you refuse to take the doctors seriously, what do you think the men who answer to you will do? They’ll all be trying to walk about despite their pain and end up injuring themselves for pride.”

Solomons puts you at ease when he sits back on the cot, releasing your wrists. “I can’t just lay about like this. I’ll lose the rest of my marbles waiting around for those doctors to get these stitches out. There’s not a single thing a man can do to occupy his mind in this place. It smells of piss, rot, and pus. If they would give me back my knife, right? I could cut out a little window in this tarp behind me and get a whiff of fresh air. But they won’t. Where’s the respect, hm?”

You cross your arms and ask, “So, you’re bored?”

He stiffens. Oh, you hit the nail right on the head with that one. You can’t exactly blame him. The longer you stand still, the faster all your fears catch up with you. All those ugly things you’ve seen and heard find you. That’s why the soldiers play cards and the nurses trade that single copy of ‘Frankenstein’ and ‘A Room with a View’ back and forth. Distraction. “If you can stay still where you are, I can try to get a book or a deck of cards. Would you like that?”

With a sweeping gesture to the darkness, he says, “Can’t exactly read a page or play a hand in the dark, now can we love?”

Shaking your head at his childish attempts at derailing your little plan, you take out a matchbox from your apron. With your last matchstick, you bring life to a lantern by his bed. You turn to face him, a warm orange light reflecting on your face. In the dim lighting offered by the lantern, you can see the Captain’s face. He’s young for a man of his rank. And handsome, you can admit as much in your own mind. His eyes are bright, and his features are deeply masculine. A hard jawline with a prominent brow and pouty lips. Most soldiers, regardless of rank, are required to be clean-shaven. This is not true for Captain Solomons. He has a well-maintained moustache and beard, cut close to his jawline. You heard from somewhere that Solomons was an exception due to his faith or his demeanor. Captain Solomons is looking up at you, too. His expression was all aglow. Bright gray eyes stare at your face. Confused almost as they regard you.

“Do we have a deal, Captain?”

He’s still staring at you, his brow furrowed as he studies your face. Finally, he says, “If you can get ‘Frankenstein,’ I’ll stay put. That’s a piece of fiction I can sit with for a good bit of time.”

You beam at him and take the chance to push his healthy leg under his blanket. Solomons grumbles, “Easy now, easy. I’m injured, remember?” He allows you to gently move him safely into his cot.

Finding the nurse who had taken possession of the book was no easy task, but she was quick to give it to you when you informed her a captain had asked for it. When you came back with the book, Solomons was still in bed. You thanked a God you no longer believed in and handed him the book. Just as you attempted to leave, Captain Solomons made an admission: “My eyes, yeah, they don’t pinch up the written word so easy these days. If there’s not a grisly scene out there for you to attend to, might you do me the service of reading this aloud for me?”

For a moment, you think about refusing. You never know when you’ll be called away. But then again, you’re the one who came up with the idea to get him a distraction anyway. Settling down at the edge of his bed, you take the book from his hand and begin to read. Captain Solomons leans back against the metal headboard, listening to you begin reading the preface. What you didn’t know was that this was the start of a near-nightly ritual. Captain Solomons would attempt to slink out of bed to go'stretch his leg(s)’ until you would rush over to distract him with another book or game of cards. He became a welcome distraction for you as well. A friend, almost. Perhaps more than that, if the way he kissed you one cold night in late November told you anything.

His lips were as soft as they looked.

Whether it was friendship or not, it lasted for about a month. Captain Solomons and his men were removed from the area for transport to the west. You and your fellow VADs would go north. He didn’t stop to say goodbye to you, which bothered you. The morning after he kissed you was the day you found out about the move. And he was already gone.

In one year and three days, the war would be over. You would return home to find that all your brothers had survived. But they weren’t quite themselves anymore, and neither were you.

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders oc #peaky blinders x oc #alfie solomons x oc #alfie solomons #alfie solomons x shelby!oc #alfie solomons fanfic #alfie solomons x reader

47 notes · View notes

amourlyns · 7 months

Text

⠀ 「 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧. 」

⠀ ━━ 🌷 💕

✦ 𝗦𝗨𝗠𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗬 ⨟⠀ Arthur comes back to your homestead after months of being gone.

✦ 𝗣𝗔𝗜𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚 ⨟⠀ Arthur Morgan + fem!civilian reader ✦ 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥𝗦 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘 ⨟⠀Inspired by Both Sides Of The Moon by Celeste and Gott Street Park 🫶🏾

✦ 𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦 ⨟⠀ None

⠀ ★ ⠀ | ARTHUR CONFIDES IN YOU WHEN HE can. It’s never when wants of course, he didn’t have that luxury. The life he lived would never offer him that. You knew that very well, so did he.

In fact, Arthur Morgan is the very reason your springs were lonely, left alone in fields of sweet grass, spring clovers and fresh morning dew.

Sometimes it felt like the cardinals were mocking you, singing in a lovers coo with nothing but soul in their hearts. Every spring, you’d watch the environment change by yourself, somehow your thoughts would drift to him, that damn cowboy who stole your heart one faithful evening.

It was the little things of course, little echoes and path ways that led you back to him. Sometimes it was a deer, a fawn on new shaky legs. So young, so spirited. Speckled over with daisy white speckles on brown fur.

Then sometimes it was simply a meadow, covered with soft grass, fallen logs cultivated in lichen, springtails and moss. You could already envision the various ideas scattered throughout his journal from the mere description of Strawberry in the springtime.

Filled with life and greenery, everything was so beautiful, so full. Yet it still felt empty without him— Arthur. Suddenly the look of morning dew on an early morning under the suns golden rays didn’t satisfy you anymore.

What was the word for this yearning? This desire to bring back

Your lost love? Mooning, it was mooning. In fact, the moon was a somber reminder of that. Beams of moonlight illuminated your bed; the bed Arthur Morgan used to lay in.

It still had to he faint scent of leather, gunpowder, and sandalwood. The smell of Arthur came in like rising tides at dusk, washing over you in waves. Hazy visions of the outlaw clouded your mind, calloused fingers that used to rub along your side and spine.

Maybe this love was tainted, like an icicle melting off into a stream during the spring. It would form again, then melt once more.

It was the cycle of your love, he’d always trickle back to you. Creating permanent cracks in your mind, pathways that always lead you back to Arthur Morgan.

Your thoughts come to a stop, the knock at the door startles you. Surely it wasn’t… Could it be?

It takes you about two seconds to fully process everything, you’re already peaking through your blinds to figure out who might be at your door at such an hour. A familiar blue button up shirt and an even more familiar hat instantly soothed your wild thoughts.

Your heart only swelled, with your chest filled with warmth.

Oh, Arthur.

Your feet are quicker than your mind, it would be wise and logical to stay in bed and just wait it out. But you’re thinking with your heart instead, your feet propel you forward

You’re finally met with your door, there’s a sense of dread. The possibility of Arthur not being the one at your door was frightening. Apparently not frightening enough to make you turn back though.

Palms would grab the handle of your door knob, twisting with in a slow fashion. You’re met with the sound of creaky door, heavy boots and a shaky breath.

One thing you note, is how hesitant he is to enter your space. Despite the many months you’ve spent together in the privacy of your residence, away for prying towns folk and travelers… he still hid away. Was it out of shame? Or was it out of guilt?

You’d always feel Arthur back in again though. With open arms and an open door.

#「 ★ 」 [𝐌] 𝗔𝗥𝗟𝗬𝗡𝗘 ➜ writes ™#spirithub #arthur morgan #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 fandom #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 community #red dead redemption two #red dead redemption community #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption arthur #red dead fandom

61 notes · View notes

englishstrawbie · 2 years

Text

#kacytober: OCT08. moon

They are on their way back from a night out with Lucy’s team when Kate suddenly pulls over on the side of the road.

Lucy frowns, confused. “Why are we stopping?”

Kate doesn’t answer as she switches off the engine and opens the door, stepping out onto the gravel. Curious, and a little concerned about her girlfriend’s unusual behaviour, Lucy follows her. They are at the top of a path leading down to the beach, the waves lapping at the shore beneath them.

“Um, babe…” Lucy starts, but she is quickly silenced by Kate, who looks over her shoulder and grins at her.

“Don’t worry, we’re not going on the beach,” she says. She holds out her hand to Lucy, who takes it, and tugs her closer. “Don’t look down, look up.”

Lucy follows Kate’s finger pointing upwards, her eyes immediately settling on the bright, white moon above them.

“The full moon?” Lucy questions.

Kate nods, a smile brightening her face. “Yeah.”

“You’re not about to tell me that you believe in werewolves, are you?” Lucy says lightly, still not understanding why they are on the side of the road looking at the same celestial body that lights the sky every night.

Accustomed to Lucy’s teasing by now, Kate chuckles. She steps back and leans against the hood of her car, and waits for Lucy to do the same.

“Did you know that we only ever see the same side of the moon from earth? And that those who have walked on the moon say that moondust smells like gunpowder?”

“No, I didn’t,” Lucy says. She looks at Kate curiously. “I didn’t know you were into space stuff?”

“I’m not,” Kate says. “But my dad loves it. He always said that his one big wish is to walk on the moon some day.” Her eyes glaze over. “When we were kids, he used to make up all these bedtime stories for me and Noah about people who lived on the moon and other planets, and what is was like up there in space.”

She lets go of Lucy’s hand and rolls up the sleeve of her left arm, palm up. It is dark, except for the moonlight, so Lucy has to squint to see the small mark that Kate points out just below her the bend of her elbow.

“I broke my arm when I was seven. Noah and I were playing in his bedroom, pretending that we were on the Apollo 11 mission. He was Neil Armstrong, I was Buzz Aldrin. We were climbing over his bed, pretending like we were walking on the moon, and I stepped too close to the edge. I slipped and fell on the floor, and landed on my arm. Noah felt so guilty, he spent the next six weeks while it was in a cast sneaking me ice cream to make up for it.”

She smiles at the memory.

Lucy runs the tip of her finger over the small scar, smiling as Kate presses her lips to her hair. She looks up at her.

“You know, when you were undercover and Elena asked you about your family, you said you didn’t have one any more,” Lucy says softly. “You talk about your brother sometimes, but you don’t talk about your parents.”

Kate drops her gaze, looking out at the ocean instead of into the stars.

“We’re not close any more,” Kate says quietly.

“Since Noah died?”

Kate shakes her head. “That made us closer for a while,” Kate says. “And then I decided that I wanted to join the Department of Defense, and that upset them. After losing Noah, they wanted me to get a safe desk job after graduation. They didn’t like the idea, they thought I’d be putting my life at risk.”

She gestures at the fading scars on her face from her fight with Malkie.

“I guess they were right to be worried.”

“Hey, nothing’s going to happen to you, not under my watch,” Lucy says. “I told you, I’m gonna make you the most kickass fighter you can be.”

She says it so earnestly that Kate smiles.

“So why the D.I.A.?” Lucy asks, returning to their conversation.

“It was never the plan. I always wanted to run a not-for-profit, to do something good,” Kate says. “But after Noah died – how he died, and no-one ever being held accountable for his death – I didn’t want anyone else to go through what we did.”

She feels Lucy’s hand slip into hers and a gentle squeeze.

“You are doing something good. I bet Noah would be really proud of you.”

Tears pool in the corner of Kate’s eyes and she wipes them away with the back of her free hand.

“I hope so.”

“I know so,” Lucy says, leaning across and pressing a kiss against Kate’s cheek.

Kate feels a warmth spread through her. It is not just the physical touch; after so many years of closing herself off to people, Kate feels the warmth that comes with letting Lucy into her heart and mind, of sharing stories with her that no-one else knows, of sharing pieces of herself that no-one else sees. It feels better than she ever imagined it could and she plans to bask in that warmth for as long as she can.

“Come on,” she says, tugging at Lucy’s hand. “Let’s go home.”

#ncis hawai'i #ncis hawaii #kate whistler #lucy tara #kacy #kacytober #ncis hawai’i fanfiction #my fanfiction #I know I'm a day behind again!

34 notes · View notes

heartofspells · 2 years

Text

Continuation from again, tempted, & secret.

Cw: mentions of murder and blood, thoughts of violence

@wolfstarmicrofic

Prompt: gunpowder

Black drags Remus out of his dark room the evening of the full moon. His entire body aches from the coming change, and he grunts as the dark-headed man jerks on his arms, leading him down the stairs.

"Where are we going?" demands Remus, but it emerges weaker than he'd intended, the strain on his body forcing his voice away.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" responds Black lightly. He almost sounds happy, amused, and it sends violent shivers of dread racing down Remus' spine.

He grimaces through the pain and uses his steadily building strength to wrench himself away from the other man's grasp. "You are not using me tonight," he snaps viciously. "Do what you will any other day, but I won't…murder people when I can't even remember doing it. Tell me where we're going!"

Black turns on him quickly, anger flashing over his sharp features. "What makes you think you have any right to know my plans?" he snarls, his face invading Remus' own in an instant. Grey eyes shift over him observingly, and then his rage seems to dissipate as quickly as it had mounted. He leans away, rocking on his heels a little as he huffs in mild irritation. "I'll admit, I did think about it. What's more terrifying than a werewolf threatening you? A turned werewolf ripping your child apart before your very eyes."

He smiles wickedly at Remus, whose stomach twists and clenches violently at the words. Then Black is shrugging.

"But how am I meant to control you? Where you go, what you do? Who you attack?" he questions rhetorically. "I'm not, so that's no longer an option, is it?" Black reaches forward and grips around Remus' elbow, tugging on him again. "Let's go."

But Remus doesn't move, remaining rooted to the spot, unyielding, and Black glares at him icily. "You still haven't answered my question," he growls out, a rumble in his chest. The wolf is pacing, snarling for blood and bone. Remus clamps down on him.

"Think maybe that's by design?" says Black, tone level and measured but features sharpening in warning. "Where do you think we're going, Lupin? Somewhere you can transform. You can't do it here. You'd wreck the entire place. Not that I'd care much, mind you. Fuck everything in this house, that's what I say, but it's still mine, isn't it? If anyone's going to mangle it, I'd prefer it be me. Now let's go. We don't have all night, or have you managed to forget?"

Remus bites back the retorts forming over his tongue and allows Black to jerk him to the door and outside, where they Apparate away from the dingy, depressing street surrounding them. When they pop back into existence, the smell is the first thing Remus notices, and his stomach lurches, faint panic ripping through him. No.

His eyes dart around frantically, taking in the tattered, nearly destroyed bed, the stained walls, the buckling, splintered boards of the rotting floor. Everything sways around them, dust swirling thickly through the air, catching the quickly fading light.

"You've brought me to the Shrieking Shack?" whispers Remus, taking a step back. No. No! He's never meant to be here again, not every. He'd spent seven horrible years here, month after month, moon after moon. Remus had thought he'd never see it again, and his body aches terribly from the pull of the moon and with the realization that he's once again trapped and rightfully fucked.

"Perfect, isn't it?" comments Black, and he sounds so smug that if Remus could make himself move at all, he'd punch the other man directly in this aristocratic nose. "I wondered, after I found out what you are, just what Dumbledore did with you every month while we were here. And then it occurred to me. There were never any rumors about this place being haunted before we came to school. It just…started, randomly. The older students were perplexed. Parents as well. But now it makes all the sense in the world."

Remus wants to protest, is prepared to beg Black to take him somewhere else, anywhere at all, but just as he opens his mouth, the light sinks and fades away, and he's bending double as pain races through every muscle and joint. Black watches from his side with only mild interest, as though he's observing an experiment with only flickers of positive reactions.

"You – " Remus stops, gasping in a breath. "You have to go."

"No. I'm staying," returns Black dismissively, shaking his head as Remus stares at him with wide eyes.

"You can't!" shouts Remus, but then he's bending forward again, clutching around his middle. Black smirks.

"I can, though," he says coolly. "I'm an Animagus. You can't hurt me. So I'm going to stay and watch."

Remus gasps again as his body begins to twitch and shudder with the coming change. "You – you're a – a what? How? Why?" And then Remus can't speak anymore, the agony nearly overwhelming.

Black has turned his back on Remus, wandered across the room with casual grace. He trails a finger over the dust-coated ledge of the window, pulling his finger to his face, nose wrinkling distastefully before he glances in Remus' direction again, shrugging one shoulder.

"I was bored."

Remus drops to his knees, a low whine escaping him that he can't control. He can feel it, the pull coming from him, about to barrel him over. His bones begin to snap and he bites his tongue so hard that it bleeds, but in the end, he can't contain the screams. He never can. But Black is still just standing and staring, not moving, no worry on his features.

"Change!" snarls Remus, his last mostly human word.

Black's face shifts, a sinister smile spreading over him, and then his body is morphing, dropping down, parts of him stretching out. Remus is greeted by the sight of too-large dog, eyes dark, fur the color of gunpowder. And then Remus knows nothing else until morning.

Storm

#wolfstarmicrofic #sirius black #remus lupin #dark sirius #werewolf remus #remus is being used #but not like that #yet #cw: mentions murder #cw: blood #cw: violence #sirius is not a good person #please don't think he is #my writing #my microfics #holli writes

16 notes · View notes

firstfullmoon · 3 years

Text

She told me, Forget what you think you know about space. But I only really know about its violence. I forget

that the moon smells like spent gunpowder. I forget what would happen to your body in a black hole. I don’t forget your body.

This would be unforgivable, and I have so many strikes against me already. I’m sorry I couldn’t hide my joy when you said lonely.

It made me feel useful. I used to be aimless— swallowing marbles and clicking my way through cities, licking my thumbs to smooth

the eyebrows of almost any man. Now, I demand a love that is stupid and beautiful, like a pilot turning off her engines midflight

to listen for rain on wings. I want to find you a peach so ripe that even your breath would bruise it. I want to press its velvet

heat against your cheek, make you edge into the bite until your mouth is too wet to ask questions. If something happens,

let it.

— Paige Lewis, from “Pavlov Was the Son of a Priest,” in Space Struck

#w #poetry #paige lewis

369 notes · View notes

the-splodge · 2 years

Note

Please give the essay, your au is giving me brainrot

okay I’m going to split this up into pre-LL werewolf joel and LL werewolf joel me and @beezverse have had a LOT of thoughts on this dude

Pre-LL Werewolf Joel

- he is quite insecure of the fact he’s a werewolf, and knows things can turn south VERY quickly for him.

- he hides his ears by pinning them down, and tucks his tail into his robe. claws are also filed down and he covers his mouth whenever he laughs

- he has no memory of his early childhood! His earliest memories are spent just surviving in the poorer part of towns; he knows he’s a werewolf and he knows how to survive, but he doesn’t know who he is or who/where his family are.

- he actually met Lizzie before they were both adults! (Important note: Lizzie is a member of the fae folk in this AU) he met her on the morning after a full moon, he had just transformed back into a human and looked like he had just been dragged through a hedge backwards, she had just finished attending a fae party! They were actually having a fun conversation and considered each other friends before Lizzie’s guardians dragged her away from the ‘dirty peasant boy‘. It took both of them way too long to clock that they’ve seen each other before

- when he was a young teen, he sought out an esteemed blood mage and asked to become their apprentice; he’d much rather be feared for what he’s chosen than what he is

- his mentor taught him a LOT of the magic he knows, and also helped his esteem issues simply by being accepting

LL Werewolf Joel

- he started the game by hiding the fact he was a werewolf from everyone! (I mean obviously Lizzie knew but she’s his wife)

- eventually someone saw his ears and tail though, and rumour got out that he wasn’t fully human. Scar tried to calm him down from the panic attack that ensued (he was convinced the other server members would hate him and want him dead), but could only do so much. It took lizzie coming over to check on him and suggesting that he just says he’s a dog hybrid instead to fully calm him down (as much as he hates being called a dog he admits it seems better than the alternative)

- (it then becomes Ambiguous as to who thinks he’s a dog hybrid and who knows he’s a werewolf)

- he warms up to scar quite quickly, and becomes a LOT more comfortable letting him see some of his more non human traits, such as showing his teeth when he laughed!

- a couple more things he does is gently biting his close allies out of affection on their hand/forearm (he’s careful not to draw blood), and stealing some of their old/ruined clothes as a special keepsake from them as it has their scent

- leading on from that last point, he cried when Scar’s robes and Lizzie’s jackets started losing their scent after they died, as it finally hit him that they were finally gone, there was no bringing them back, they were well and truly dead

- while we’re on the topic of scent, since he has a really good sense of smell, it’s much easier for him to smell blood and gunpowder and ash! this mean when he’s red, it was harder for him to act civil since any sort of ‘violent’ sense riled the reds up. hence him going absolutely fucking feral once he had the ability to kill. on more than one occasion he drove himself into a frenzy with the violence he had caused

- he gets VERY excited when setting his traps, and has more than once ruined his redstone by sweeping it away with his tail. Grian used to just sigh in annoyance and fix it for him, but once Tango died the fear that Joel may accidentally trigger one of their own traps prematurely became a lot more real

That’s all I can think of from the top of my head! I think the main difference between LL Joel and Empires Joel is that although they both have the same fears about publically being a werewolf, LL Joel is a LOT more comfortable in his own skin than Empires Joel is. If you wanna ask about werewolf joel (either empires or last life) please do I am more than happy to ramble!

#mcyt #last life #smallishbeans #werewolf joel #anon I am SO sorry this took so long I hope you enjoy these tho!

20 notes · View notes

j-wont-stop · 3 years

Text

Title - The Scarred (Chapter Eight)

Word Count - 2938

Fandom - Batman: The Dark Knight

Pairing - Ledger!Joker x OC

Summary - Penelope Bishop works at a florist shop in Gotham, barely getting by in the corrupted city. Her life is shrouded by therapy and judgement with little light to find her way with. However, when a certain painted face starts making himself known to her, things take a turn.

Warning(s) - Minor errors, brief smut

Inspiration - Cold (Aqualung & Lucy Schwartz)

Masterlist

A/N - Hello, lovelies! I’m sorry for the later post, I’ve been going through a lot lately and I’m trying to get myself back on track... I tried to make it a little longer to make up for it ❣️

Penelope hesitated to unlock her door, in a way expecting The Joker to be behind it once again. Once it clicked she opened it slowly, a waft of lavender washing over her as she walked into her now empty home. Her brain was foggy, eyes sore. Mind racing with thoughts of the menacing clown, but one thing stood out the most.

She wasn’t entirely scared.

She thought about what Liam had said to her. To worry about why he was curious about her rather than what he said. He held her under a knife. He had every chance to kill her, take advantage of her somehow. Use blackmail, even. But he didn’t.

She remembered how he towered over her, at least a foot in difference. She remembered the overwhelming smell of gunpowder and gasoline, yet a hint of his own smell which she couldn’t pinpoint. The way he stared into her eye with an intensity that was almost unbearable.

She shook her head to clear it once she felt her face begin to heat up.

Stupid. Penelope mentally scolded herself and began her nightly routine, starting with her bandages as per usual. She thought about talking to Liam, but her body felt too drained after her appointment.

She was tired. Tired of breaking. Tired of worrying. Tired of living in fear. Of being humiliated, stomped on and cast out. Tired of crying. Just tired. The thought of having to wake up and do it all over again alone made her feel exhausted.

Penelope slipped under her blanket and turned off the lamp, yet she couldn’t bring her eye to close. She stared at the wall in front of her as if it was her lifeline. She stared until she lost the will to stare anymore, and that had always been frightening to her.

“J -“ The woman gasped. Her mind was clouded with the movement of his hands as they caressed her. Her mouth was parted, eye fluttered shut and head tilted back against her soft pillow as he guided her into oblivion. Their mixture of sweat and pants only ignited the atmosphere and he buried his head in her neck to lick a trail up to her jawline, earning a shiver beneath him. All too suddenly, she felt a sharp pain and her eye snapped open.

The space above her was now empty, her body covered in a mush of ash and sweat as the room grew brighter with flames. Quickly they became angrier, a more fierce heat enveloping her until it was just within her reach. It inched its way closer by the second, closer -

Penelope shot up with a shriek, gasping. She balled up the fabric of her shirt and coughed, a false hope to properly retrieve air. She ran a hand over her face and spun to sit on the edge of her bed, the only provided light was the moon that shone bright through her blinds from above its wooden frame. The lines drew themselves across her hunched figure, shoulders beginning to slow with the rise and fall of her every breath. She looked over at the alarm clock sitting on her nightstand.

3:00am.

Chewing on her cheek she reached for her phone and stared at it in thought. Her nimble fingers flipped it open and began searching through her contacts for her Irish friend. Penelope felt terrible. She felt like a nuisance, doing this from time to time. It wasn’t common, but it wasn’t uncommon, either. Her thoughts raced a few moments longer before she pressed the call button.

One ring. She bit down particularly hard, drawing blood. Maybe I shouldn’t do this.

Two rings. What if he gets irritated with me?

Three rings. Her heart picked up its pace, skipping a beat. I don’t want to upset him…

Four rings. I shouldn’t do this -

“Penny?” Her heart dropped at the sound of his groggy voice.

“Hey…” She whispered into the phone. “I’m so - I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bother you…”

“‘Ey, ye know it don’t bother me none.” He noticed Penelope's hesitation. “How ye, luveen?”

“Can I come over? I - I can’t sleep.” She heard him sigh from over the phone and squeezed her eyes shut. She knew she shouldn’t have called. She knew he would be irritated. She knew -

“I thought we were past ye havin’ to ask.” She could hear him rustling in his bed in the background. “Come on, then.”

The earthy smell of the apartment was what began to calm her down first. It was subtle, relaxing. Fitting for her friend, though he himself wasn’t quite subtle. Penelope laid the uncovered side of her face on one of the pillows of the queen bed, curled into herself protectively. She felt the bed dip behind her, followed by a stronger waft of that same smell.

Her heart began to slow just knowing that she wasn’t alone, knowing that she was with someone she trusted. It was something that Liam could provide more easily than Emma. He was just a couple of doors down while she lived twenty minutes out, so it had only been on more serious occasions that Penelope spent the night at her place. She decided to give Emma a break, just to push it on to Liam instead. And there was not one time that she didn’t feel guilty about it.

He stayed sitting up against the bed frame rather than lying down beside her. She could feel his stare as his hand gently tucked her short hair behind her ear, and it wasn’t until then that she closed her eye. What Penelope wasn’t aware of, however, was the turmoil that occurred in his own head.

He told himself that he was just doing his job, acting the part. That he didn’t truly care. That he wasn’t attached in any way, shape or form. And in the back of his mind, he felt guilt. Every hug he gave, every smile, every moment they shared. It just added on to one, big, chaotic lie. It was nothing new to him. He was a professional, after all. Yet this was different. This felt more personal. It stood out from all of the other jobs he accomplished in the past. That’s what concerned him the most.

“Don’t make another appointment. “

“I told her I would when -“

“Don’t make another appointment.” The brunette shot her a warning look. The acting mother could see the amount of conflict in her eye as it danced around the countertop. “You already know she doesn’t care, Penelope, why do you insist on wasting your money on a therapist who can’t even do their job!”

“I’ve told you why -“

“And I’m telling you it’s irrational!” The shop went silent. The tension was thick. It drowned out the ambience, the cars, the clock. Penelope’s vision blurred and she sniffed, running a hand through her hair to find something, anything, to do besides acknowledge the topic of discussion.

It was rare when Emma raised her voice, for them to bicker. But the woman had enough of seeing her friend suffering unnecessarily. She could tell that Penelope’s ‘therapist’ was doing more harm than good, and she was determined to put an end to it.

“Penny…” The softness of Emma’s voice did nothing to calm her down, but was needed when the tears spilled over. “I’m just -“ She sighed to recompose herself. “I’m just trying to help you, sweetheart.” Penelope sucked on her bottom lip and just nodded, trying to hold everything in. Emma took hold of her shoulders and gently pulled her in, her own eyes glazing over at the sound of her sobs finally breaking.

Once things started dying down the bell at the door went off and Emma snapped her head in its direction, only for her shoulders to drop when it was just Liam. His eyebrows scrunched together at the sight of them and he pointed to Penelope in a silent question. When Emma slowly shook her head he gave a knowing look and walked around the counter to join them, resting a hand on their mutual friend’s back.

“Liam?” Penelope sniffed.

“Aye.” His thumb began to rub against the thick material of her jacket and she sighed.

“What time is it?” Liam glanced at the watch on his wrist.

“Almost quarter ‘til five.” Emma looked between the two of them and offered Liam a small grin.

“I’ll let you go, Penny.” She whispered, causing the woman to look up with a large eye.

“But the -?” The brunette shook her head, still holding the same smile.

“It’s just twenty minutes, hun.” She giggled as Penelope pulled away.

“Okay…” She glanced over at Liam, then back at Emma. “Thank you…” Liam used the hand on her back to guide her out of the shop, keeping it there as he opened the passenger door of his car parked along the side of the road. “Where are we going, Liam?” She asked when they drove past their apartment building. He took a deep breath, gaze focused on the road.

“You’ll see.” He threw her a smirk before turning on the radio. She decided to leave it be and looked out of her window, chin resting in the palm of her hand as the city blurred by. She noticed how the further they drove, the darker the buildings became, how they looked more and more run down and abandoned.

“Liam?” The man hummed.

“Why are we in The Narrows?”

“Short cut?” He shrugged and a familiar body of water gradually came into view. Penelope grew more confused.

“I thought it was a weekend thing?”

“It is.” He parked the car and stepped out to open her door, helping her stand before shutting it. “I juss found somethin’ I thought ye’d like.” His long strides moved in the direction of a smaller building in the distance, no greater than the size of a small cabin. She had to trot a bit to catch up to him and he chuckled at the action. He jiggled his keys once he pulled them out and smiled when he inserted one in the lock of the door, twisting until they heard a ‘click’ to open it. The door squeaked as it pushed open and Penelope’s jaw dropped at the sight before her.

There was a strong smell of fresh wood and new furniture, and that was exactly what they had walked into. The exterior of the building was deceiving to those who walked by. It blended in perfectly. Rusty metal walls, finicky doors and broken windows. But it was all an illusion. Inside, the house was pristine. It was no larger than her current living space, if anything it was smaller with its studio layout, but it certainly was an upgrade. It held a darker tone with subtle yellow accents that were strategically placed. Nothing felt too extravagant nor too cheap. It was simply moderate.

“Didn’t take as long as I thought it would, to be completely honest.” The door shutting behind them helped Penelope come to. He watched her expressions, but he couldn’t decipher them.

“What is this?” The woman whispered in awe as she stepped further into the room.

“Erm -“ Liam made a face. “Consider it yer home away from home?” Penelope immediately whipped around to face him.

“Mine?!” Her friend reached for her good hand and slapped a set of keys into her palm, then forced it shut and patted it.

“That is what I said.” His mouth opened when he noticed a panic start to set in her eye.

“Liam, I can’t - what - how am I gonna pay for it?! This is too much!”

“Who said anythin’ ‘bout ye payin’ fer it?”

“Who is, then?” She noticed the look he gave her and she vigorously shook her head in disapproval. “No. No - you’re not paying for two places, Liam. That’s not -“ She let out an exasperated sigh and looked up at him with a pleading eye. “Liam…”

“Technically, my boss is payin’ fer it. I’m juss handlin’ the process.” Her eye squinted at him.

“Yeah, that’s - Liam, that’s how paychecks work.” Liam rolled his eyes and let out a short chuckle before spinning her around by her shoulders.

“Look around before it gets dusty.” Her fingers anxiously fiddled with the new keys as she curiously wandered around the place.

Everything seemed to be perfectly put together, exactly how she would’ve wanted it if she were to have decorated it herself. The cushions of the plush couch placed along a wall were soft, not too hard or too fluffy. Similar to her own apartment, a coffee table sat in front of it with a rug laid beneath both.

The small kitchen was the cleanest one she had ever seen with its stainless steel refrigerator and marble countertops. A petite walk-in closet was built in at the end of the counter containing jars of spices and various bottles of oils and sauces. Penelope already had an array of dinners and desserts planned out in her head with everything already stocked.

She continued to the back of the room and plopped onto the queen bed that was tucked away, a somewhat bland dark oak bed frame complimenting it along with two nightstands with matching lamps. Her head turned to the side towards the bathroom, protected by a privacy window that slid open as opposed to a wall. With a glazed eye her head moved back up towards the ceiling with a lopsided grin.

“Ye like it?” She heard Liam’s footsteps grow louder until they stopped at the end of the bed.

“I could get used to this…” She mumbled more to herself before she spoke somewhat louder to Liam. “I don’t know if I want to go back.”

“Ye don’t have to.” She shuffled over to allow him room to lie down next to her, now both of them staring up at the ceiling. “It’s a closer walk to the shop.” He attempted to convince her.

“But more dangerous.”

“Not if ye have a car.”

“You know I don’t have a car.” He shrugged.

“Juss a thought.” They then sat in the quietness of it all, thinking to themselves. Now this was a common occurrence. The two of them basking in the other’s presence to ease the day’s tensions. The moments of silence they had when they first started talking were awkward, at least for Penelope. But Liam, as extroverted as he was, had a way of easily sparking up a conversation should things start to go awry. He was her opposite. Her compliment. Where she failed, he succeeded and vice versa. It was the reason their relationship had grown so quickly, Penelope came to realize.

They always learned from each other and grew to understand the other person’s side of things. For one, Penelope taught him how peaceful silence really could be if chosen at the right time. Liam, on the other hand, taught her the difference between being rude and standing up for herself. She was slower at learning than he was, but he never blamed her or grew frustrated with her for it.

Liam looked over at Penelope, examining her before he spoke. “I need ye to promise me somethin’, Penny.”

“Yeah?” She then turned her own head towards him.

“Ye can’t tell no one else ‘bout this place.” Penelope sat up on her right elbow in curiosity, Liam following suit.

“Why’s that?”

“I mean fer it to be a safe haven fer ye.” He watched her expression grow soft, glossy with parted lips as she gradually realized what he meant. “If anythin’ should happen, Penny. Anythin’. Ye call me and we’ll come straight here. Or just run, if need be. I’ll know soon enough and come lookin’ fer ye.”

“What about Emma?” He began shaking his head before she could even finish. It confused her, sure, but she knew that there was more to why he did this. There was a reason no one else could know, and even if she didn’t know why, she knew it was important. So she decided to comply and keep her mouth shut.

She turned onto her knees and hooked her arm around his neck, hugging him as best she could. She could feel him tense at first before he grew acquainted with the feeling and returned it. He heard a heavy sniff from where her head rested against his shoulder and he pulled back slightly to look at her. He quickly realized that she wasn’t crying because she was troubled, she was crying because she was grateful. She couldn’t remember the last time someone went to this great of a length for her happiness, her protection, since the accident. It filled her with a melancholic feeling that she just couldn’t ignore.

“I promise.” Penelope finally answered with a gentle smile as Liam brought a thumb up to brush away her tears.

“Ye hungry?”

#ledger joker x oc #heath ledger x reader #ledger joker #heath ledger x oc #heath ledger #the joker x oc #the joker x reader #the joker #joker x oc #joker x reader #joker #the dark knight #batman #dc fandom #dc fanfic #dc fan fiction #dc #dc joker #tdk

52 notes · View notes

fortheloveoffanfic · 4 years

Text

Protective Service

John Wick x Reader (A/n- Hopefully this chapter isn’t too confusing. Flashbacks in italics)

Masterlist Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Warnings- Mentions of murder/violence, angst

Chapter 4 Beautiful Nightmares

Drenched and breathless, Y/n awoke with a startle, her wide eyes confused by the darkness. It took a moment before she’d realized where she was; in her bedroom at her penthouse, safe and alone. Her chest was dominated by heavy, uneven breaths and the black silk of her simple, lace edged camisole clung to her skin uncomfortably. Even as Y/n tried to settle herself, inhaling deeply through her overly dry mouth, she couldn’t push the flashes from her very vivid dream away;

A couple, swaying in each other’s arms as pale yellow moonlight washes the dark wooden panels constituting the floor of the back porch as soft music wafts from a radio on an end table. The woman’s giggles are soft as her husband leads them in a slow, casual waltz and not too far off, after she’s been told to not stray near the lake, a young girl no older than six, plays with a plastic fairy wand, entertaining herself. She loves fairies; she wishes they were real but her mother always reminds her that they are, and that she’d the most beautiful one of them all.

It was one of Y/n’s fondest memories of her parents, the last one that had really embedded itself in her memory before the bad. Their love was one that seemed to stand out above rest, though, Y/n supposed that at that age, she couldn’t have known much about romantic love anyways. She hadn’t learned much more about afterwards either, only that it was destructive. That in the end, all it could do was hurt you.

The fire below the rustic, cobblestone mantle laps viciously at the iron barrier separating it from the rest of the sitting room. Not too far off, near the designated holder, one of the pokers lay forgotten. He hasn’t really spoken to anyone in days, not even his seven year old daughter and his eyes have taken on this sort of vacancy that makes its almost frightening to look at him. She’s scared of him, and the only person that would know what to do is gone. Meredith is gone, for good. They took her. It’s been three days since they found her on his birthday, three days since he knew that everything had changed, even if he can’t quite explain it to their daughter. Three days since she’s been asking for her mommy and three days since she’d gone from adoring him to fearing the shell of what he used to be.

The dream, it had taken a nightmarish turn and at some point, Y/n wasn’t watching her parents dance in the backyard while she chased fire files, instead, she was standing in the doorway of the sitting room, watching her father stare that the fireplace, wondering how the bravest man she knew could seem so lost. She hadn’t understood then, and she wouldn’t, not until the funeral, where a large service had taken place at a mortuary and the police had showed up, poking and prodding until someone, Donavan’s father, who had a long standing connection with the commissioner’s office, had stepped in and scared them off. That was probably the day he’d really changed, her father. After that evening he’d gone from broken to cold and ruthless. No one stood in his way because they were simply afraid to, and without his wife as a buffer, things had changed in his organization quickly. Trust could no longer be borrowed, it was earned and traitors were appropriately dealt with. If he couldn’t bring back his wife, then he’d definitely vent his frustrations where he could.

After Meredith passed, Y/n had clung to her father, even if he’d never been the same. He’d cut out most of his affectionate traits and though they were close, most of his time was spent molding her into someone unshakeable. Someone who wouldn’t ever have to feel the way he did. It was working too, by her teens, Y/n had developed into a stolid adolescent, able to suppress whatever she was feeling so she could one day grow into the woman he’d be proud of. The woman he’d never meet.

Money, it makes everything easier. People like you better, you can shop wherever you want and know one bats a lash when you do something you shouldn’t have. Or maybe, just maybe, that last thing isn’t a consequence of money. Maybe it’s fear. It doesn’t matter though, she’s used to that too, the look of fear in people’s eyes when she walks into a room. Even her father’s muscle sometimes squirm around her, there’s no telling what she’ll do or say, she’s just so…...vulturine. Face of an angel with the prowl of a predator. But even predators have bad days, terrible days, the one that becomes their worst day.

Hers came after one of the most mundane afternoons of her life; she’d gone to a little pastry shop in the city with the son of one of her father’s affiliates. He’s a nice boy, just a couple years her senior and while letting people in is hard, Jack understands the life. Y/n’s dad likes him too. Her dad. “Daddy?” She calls out, pushing one half of the front double door closed behind her as she steps inside, the heel of her booth thudding quietly on the hardwood. It’s eerily quiet in the manor and in the air hangs a metallic smell that she knows all too well. The combination of gunpowder and blood. Usually, it's the smell she associates with her father and the business he’s training her to take over, but that evening, there’s a distinct portentousness that mingles with it. It’s too quiet, too cold, as if someone forgot to turn up the heat to combat the temperate fall evenings.

“Daddy?” she calls again, only to gasp upon entering his home office. The white rug dominating the room is saturated with warm red and some of it’s even seeped out to the hardwood, probably staining it and almost causing Y/n’s to slip as she hurriedly enters. “Daddy,” she emits a choked breath as she sinks to her knees, not caring if the blood soaks the blue denim of her jeans. Immediately, she pulls off her scarf, doing the only thing that seems logical in that moment, pressing it to the gaping gash on his neck, trying to quell the rapid, almost cinematic flow. That’s sort of how it feels too, like Y/n’s been plopped into a movie, because that can’t be real, her father can’t be dying in her arms. “Hold on, okay?” Her mind is going twenty miles a minute and while she knows that there are people that she can call for help, all she can think is that she needs to help him now.

He tries to speak, though, he’s literally drowning in his own blood, and that’s the first time that Y/n realizes that his wounds are mortal. Not just the slashed throat, but also several stab wounds to the chest. The sounds are sickly and stomach turning, and the sight isn’t much different, but still, she persists, he won’t see her undone. Even if inside, Y/n feels like she’s being ripped apart; torn to shreds by winter breeze. The feeling makes something change inside her, and as she presses the rich cashmere to the split in her father’s neck, Y/n feels the surge of something inhumane shoot up inside. The last shred, the only person she can truly care for has been snatched away, and in that moment, she becomes what he’s wanted her to be for the past thirteen years, made in his image. Utterly ruthless, unashamedly vengeful and undeniably frightening.

The dream, even after several minutes of sitting up in her California king, stuck with her, and if Y/n shut her eyes, she could still feel the warmth of blood on her hands and hear the sounds that her father made as he struggled to take his last breaths. It had been a while since she’d last had a dream like that, but Y/n would have preferred to attribute the runnings of her subconscious to the events of the past couple weeks; having to clean up the mess of a betrayal but more so her mother’s birthday. With a heavy, deflated sigh, she flopped back, moving messy hair away from her face and dragging her fingers along her scalp.

The clock on her bedside read as twenty minutes to four and despite the hour, Y/n knew that committing to slumber soon wouldn’t have been possible, so instead, she slunk out of bed, not even bothering with her robe as she slipped her feet into a pair of comfortable, fluffy flip flops before heading towards the door.

It was a soft, hesitant knocking that roused John from his slumber. A heavy sleeper might not have heard it, but his ears were trained, never missing a thing, and he awoke almost immediately. Groggily, he took a moment to blink sleep out of his eyes as he weaned his hand out from under the pillow, where he usually kept a pistol. Registering the time as quarter to four in the morning, John also noted the near darkness of the large room, the only light besides that of the neon green numbers of the digital alarm clock being whatever filtered through the thin, grey curtains; some from apartments in the opposing building, a street lamp and the quarter moon. It was enough to wash the shiny marble floor with a white glow, though not nearly enough to disturb John's sleep.

Again, the knocking on his bedroom door called his attention, and with a soft sigh, John flipped the thick duvet off his legs, planting his feet on the floor and padding barefoot towards the door. "Y/n?" He knitted his brows upon the sight of her; dressed in the suggestive pajama set he'd glimpsed her in earlier, the same one that had brought with it all sorts of crude thoughts as he'd fallen to sleep.

"Hey," she breathed meekly, tongue darting out to moisten her bare lips as Y/n tucked some hair behind her ears. She seemed so unlike her usual self, a little unsure, and much…...softer, almost harmless even. The pale white light coming from the opposing window illuminated her delicate features with a near bluish, ethereal glow. "I uh," she cleared her throat, standing a bit straighter, "Sorry for waking you."

That was odd, she never apologized. Shaking his head dismissively, John’s hand slid up the edge of the door as he slid against the frame, fleeting sleepiness disturbing his focus. Or maybe it was something else. “It’s okay,” something about the mood felt…...off. John couldn’t describe it really, like the air was swirling with something electric, making everything a little hazy, “What are doing here? It’s late.”

“I know,” Y/n didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands, and John couldn’t help but notice the absence of confidence in her disposition. It was so unlike her to be so unsure of herself and jittery. “It’s just,” she hesitated, mulling on her next words, “I can’t stop thinking about you John,” his name was a breath of her lips and when Y/n finally reached out, her palm hovering over the sleeve of his t-shirt before landing on his bicep. “I know its……..sudden, but it's true, and I can’t take the not knowing anymore. John-”

“Its okay,” he reassured softly, his eyes softening as he stepped forward, reaching out to place a hand on her hip, he raised the other to brush a couple strands away from her face, “I feel the same. There’s just something about you,” he searched her gaze, still cupping her face and his thumb ghosted the apple of Y/n’s cheek, “It just pulls me in. I’ve tried Y/n, but I can’t get you out of my head.”

“Good,” sliding her hand up his shoulder, she embraced the side of his neck with her warm touch, leaning into John as she stood on her toes, “Have you been dreaming about me John?” He could feel her breath fanning his lips and feel the warmth of her skin emanating from her top, “The way I dream about you?” Y/n pecked the corner of his lips, curling her arm around his neck.

“Yes,” he shuddered, feeling her lips travel along his jaw, his crotch twitching appreciatively at their proximity. His arms locked around Y/n’s frame, ensuing she was flush against him and his senses had never felt so awakened, making John acutely aware of how her full breasts were pressed to his chest, and how silken her skin felt when a couple of his fingers evaded the hem of her blouse, gracing the lower part of her spine. “I dream that I’m touching you, feeling you around me. I dream that…..”

“That what?” Y/n reached up to nibble on his earlobe, her free hand journeying between their bodies to grope him through the thick material of his sweats, “What else do you dream about John?”

“That you’re mine,” involuntarily, he bucked into her expert touch, his grip on her tightening possessively, “I want you to be mine,” he growled, a surge of jealousy pluming in his chest at the thought of Y/n being this way with Donavan.

As one of John’s palms searched her warm skin, eventually reaching up to cradle Y/n’s upper back, she brought her lips over his once again, sharing their longing breaths, “Then make me yours,” Y/n tilted her head, leaning in and almost letting their lips brush, teasing him. “Do it John,” she prompted enticingly, “Make me yours.”

In an instant, he’d crashed his lips to Y/n’s feverishly, holding her in place and humming roughly into her mouth as his only response. Y/n stumbled forward when John stepped back into the room. The way she responded against him was unmatched and for just a second, every bit of guilt he’d harbored because of his growing feelings for her vanished, if only it could stay gone.

“John,” a familiar voice intruded, urgency growing as he ignored it, “John!”

It wasn’t Y/n, it couldn’t be her after all, and when John finally pulled away, he was greeted with the most gut wrenching sight; his Helen, standing in the doorway, hurt tugging at her features. She looked the way she did just before things got bad, before the long hospital stays and the machines. So impossibly beautiful, so incomparably pure and right then, so undeniably wounded. Her eyes, the ones he’d fallen for upon matching them for the very first time, welled up with tears, shining in the low light and her paled features were smeared with the twinge of betrayal.

“How could you?” She sobbed, just as John untangled himself from Y/n, not noting the way her face changed, focused only one one thing; his wife.

How could he?

“Helen!” John brushed past Y/n, following Helen out into the hall, just as the hem of her white dress fled the corner. But he could hardly run fast enough and before John could reach for her arm, she was gone.

“Helen,” John shot up in his bed, breathing heavily as he lunged forward. Even with his eyes now open, adjusting themselves to being so suddenly opened, he swore he could still see Helen as if she were right there, at the foot of his bed, tears in her eyes as a result of his betrayal. It was exactly what he’d been afraid of; betraying her memory. John couldn’t do that to her, he’d fought for his life just so he could live to remember her, the love they had. The only love he ever had.

Scrubbing his hands over his face and then through his hair, before turning on the lamp at his bedside and pulling open the drawer of his nightstand. What he sought laid at the top, and without hesitation, John brought out a picture and a little card out, holding them each in one hand. Every time he looked at the photograph, the memory would come back like it was yesterday, that day at the beach, when in each other’s arms was the only place either of them wanted to be. They’d known she was sick then too, but times were simpler and treatment had been working well. They had time, time to build a home, plan a life, be in love.

Before Helen, that day he’d laid eyes on her in that restaurant, John didn’t think his heart had ever beat that fast. For a long time, he lived, fought for his life in the military and then under the mob, but when he met her, John, for the very first time, felt truly alive. And when she died a year and a half prior, part of him did too. Even if the love he had for her would never waver.

A lone tear fell dripped onto the photo and John’s teeth tugged on his lower lip to suppress a sob as he opted to shift his burning gaze to the letter. One of the last things he had to remember her by. Daisy was long gone; stolen by a fool who’d cashed for an untimely death, but John had held on to that letter. The only reason he’d still had it was because he’d had left it in his car, which, thankfully had been in the shop when his house had been destroyed by another dead fool. That card had kept him sane in dark times and had given him a glimmer of hope in quieter moments.

“....you still need something, someone, to love.”

“........and now that I have found my peace, find yours.”

Loving again didn’t even seem possible, and it didn’t seem right either. And even if the glimmer of affection he felt of Y/n should have given John hope for a better tomorrow, she was tainted, corrupted; there was no peace there. Not for him and certainly not for them together.

Bringing the picture to his lips, John swallowed tightly as he kissed Helen’s image, desperately wishing that things could have been different. He’d have burned the world down if it would save her life. But it wouldn’t have, and it was taking time, but he was learning to accept that. Returning the keepsakes to their security, John pulled himself out of bed, trudging out towards the kitchen hoping to find some remedy for the dryness in his throat.

As usual, his steps were silent and hardly noticeable and John was just about to turn off from the corridor and enter when something stopped him in his tracks. At first, he’d thought his ears were betraying him, that perhaps he was still caught in his all too vivid dream, until he poked his head out, confirming the more logical explanation. Much to his surprise, Y/n stood in the kitchen, a wine glass on the counter, near a bottle while she had her back pressed against the large integrated refrigerator, head bent and hands pressed to her face as she elicited muffled sobs. Her frame shook slightly and her breaths were audible and ragged.

The sight was more than peculiar, it was surprising and wildly unexpected, yet still, John yearned to go into the kitchen and encourage her towards his chest and hold her until she was okay. Even if he’d had caught her shedding a tear or two in her bedroom a couple mornings ago, he’d never taken Y/n for the type that cried her eyes out when no one was looking, though he supposed that everyone had their limits, things that broke them down and reduced them to a state where nothing else seemed possible. His was Helen, he wondered if Y/n’s was her mother.

A loud, hitching breath left John dashing for cover, pressing his back to the wall, and peeking out once again soon after, just in time to see Y/n slide down the silver door onto the floor as untamed sobs grew louder. He ached, physically, to go over to her, but the idea weighed heavy on his mind and knowing Y/n, she probably wasn’t seeking comfort anyway, so instead, John gave her what he thought she’d appreciate more; the solitude that he usually craved when reduced to tears, toeing back down the hall, and hoping that by morning she’d be okay.

******

Tagging-@harrisongslimited @magnificentclodpiebanana @keandrews @greenmanalishi @rdjloverxxx @danceoftwowolves @planetkt @wheretheriversrunintothesea @jupiterdawngirl

#keanu reeves #john wick #john wick x reader #john wick fanfic #keanu reeves fanfic #keanu reeves x you #keany reeves y/n #john wick x y/n #ff #fanfic #fanfiction #keanu reeves fanfiction #john wick fanfiction #protective service #chapter 4 #beautiful nightmares #requested

40 notes · View notes

phinixien · 3 years

Text

Discordia

Resting on a feather's breadth,

I sigh and pull closer your wept

singsong confessions, cradling them

And your bandaged cheek in my palm.

Resting on a foal's eyelash,

I bow like a viola with each ocean crash

of your laughter's moaned notes,

late into a spellcast night.

Oh, that starlight tremor of your eyes

that pulls me into gold droplets

for the divinity of your kiss,

the pomegranate and ichor of your kiss.

You are those cathedral ceilings,

cellar doors, wine-lit and moondrunk,

dark and stormy nights

spent in pews of petrichor.

You are tide pools,

and the mercury of gothic coasts

shrouded in moss and mystery,

or in secret empires of fungal decay.

You are honeybee wings,

the murmuring of shattered illusions,

do not forgive easily,

and remember like the Moon.

You are gunpowder,

and the smell of flash, burn, shock,

Quick decisions and quicker temper,

I whine for one flash of your flintlock.

You are harvest mead,

blackberries on the side of the road in August,

too much butter on cinema snacks,

and whiskey stolen from Mom's liquor cabinet.

I still taste those spinning summer stars.

I still taste wishes like popcorn.

I still taste hope like elderberry medicine.

I'll drink it happily, for you dear.

#for my fiance #love poem #poetry #my poetry #poem #love #sapphic #wlw #nblw #butch poet #poet #nonbinary poet #lesbian

9 notes · View notes

scullymakesmefeelautopsyturvy · 4 years

Text

Several Times Scully Got Locked Out Of Her Motel Room In Her Scanties (First Time Smut Ensues) Chapter One

Space (Season One)

They sat on the city steps in the midday sunshine awaiting another of Mulder’s mysterious informants. She, eating a sad little excuse for a sandwich: cucumber-dampened white bread encompassing roast chicken lovingly Saran-wrapped and pressed into her hand after Sunday lunch at her parents’ house. An awkward lunch, during which her father had accomplished the stellar feat of not asking her about her work once. I should have cheered everyone up by asking if anyone had heard from Charles lately, Melissa had joked, darkly, over the phone afterwards.

The sandwich stuck in her throat a little as she swallowed, and out of nowhere, everything felt so… insufficient.

Was this really her life now? Crackpots and conservative suits and no sex since Jack? Reading journals alone on Friday nights and eating her mother’s leftovers?

She was still stashing a fastidiously initialed brown bag in the Bureau staff kitchen fridge each morning, as she had been in the habit of doing at Quantico.

Dana Katherine Scully, you’re hardly a schoolgirl anymore, she told herself.

Perhaps it was time to graduate to lunch in the cafeteria, like one of the big kids.

Mulder nibbled on his inescapable sunflower seeds. Rental car cup holders. The top drawer of the basement desk. The bottom drawer, and the middle. Even loose, once, inexplicably, in her suitcase when she arrived home from a three-night case in Iowa. They were everywhere, pervading her entire life with their woody scent and their easy charm just like the man who unceasingly consumed them.

He was close, now, his knees spread wide and swinging with casual rich-kid confidence as he began to lose patience with his anonymous NASA tipster. Scully kept her stockinged legs primly pressed together, her well-lined heavy linen skirt draping over her kneecaps, preserving her modesty. His fingertips brushed her own as he handed her the informant’s note, and she was glad of the excuse to break his gaze, to look down and away from his face; the inevitable thrill she was coming to know so well shooting through her body from tip to toes.

When the Space Program whistleblower did arrive, it was a she; a development Scully could well have done without. Especially one as… developed as this.

Long and lean, blonde, finessed; Michelle Generoo looked exactly like the full-sized version of the girls Scully imagined Mulder growing up with on Martha’s Vineyard, summering in Rhode Island, picnicking on lush lawns by sparkling waters while she herself played hopscotch with scavenged pebbles on Navy base blacktop, or avoided cracks in uneven paving slabs as she skipped along in hand-me-down pleated skirts and fraying hand-knitted sweaters. This was probably exactly the WASP-y horsewoman type Mulder’s parents had always envisaged him marrying, with her tweed jacket and her long silky locks and her mirror-lensed aviators.

Not a squat, pale, Irish Catholic Navy brat with full cheeks, wiry russet hair and stubborn freckles that were probably popping exponentially with every second spent sitting in this sunshine. Who still brought homemade sandwiches to work.

Michelle Generoo: Mission Control Communications Commander for the Space Program in Houston. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me now, for I must have sinned, and am being punished with the early-afternoon arrival of Fox Mulder’s ideal woman, sent from heaven to enact my own personal hell.

Scully hated this feeling: this creeping sense of little sister inferiority. It was the mid-semester first day at a new school all over again, having been transplanted with her father’s latest deployment; Bill laughing and joking with the jocks or the prettiest clique of girls he could find, she hiding with a book in the library. It was enviously watching Melissa tame her curls into elaborate braids when all she could manage was a stubby ponytail with lumps at her crown, aged seven, twelve, twenty-nine.

What was it about prepubescent inadequacies that made them so infuriatingly unassailable? Successfully reinterpreting Einstein and near-perfect pistol qualification scores had only ever compensated for so much.

At the mention of a fiancé - a Shuttle Commanding astronaut fiancé, no less - Scully relaxed somewhat. For once, she was glad that Mulder’s particular obsession with certain matters of the universe was a little less than impressive to the casual observer.

Mulder disappeared off into the city on some unspecified errand, and sent her back to the Hoover Building to arrange flights and accommodation, agreeing to meet her at the airport.

On the plane, he seemed disappointed when she didn’t want to read his brand new copy of NASA: A History of American Space Travel, and peppered her with trivia instead.

“Did you know, all twelve men who walked on the moon agree, the surface smells like spent gunpowder?”

“Oh really,” Scully said. “And what did the women say?”

Mulder looked a little uncomfortable. Having made her point about why she might, perhaps, feel a little excluded from his spaceboy enthusiasm, Scully pondered this fact.

“They can’t remove their helmet on the moon; there’s no atmosphere.” She countered. “How do they know what it smells like?”

“From the dust left over on their spacesuits,” Mulder was clearly happy to be able to inform her.

Scully frowned at him.

“You think they’re so cool, don’t you Mulder?”

He looked personally injured. “Scully, how can you be the one person in the universe - a physicist, no less - who doesn’t think space travel is cool?”

She turned her torso in her narrow seat to face him.

“Mulder, when I was five years old, for Apollo 11, I was just as excited as you are now. My older brother and sister and I followed the news of the mission; we watched the moon landing just like everybody else. Bill and Melissa dressed up as Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin for Halloween that year; they made me be the Stars and Stripes so we could all pose for photos together. I had to stick my arm out and wobble the flag. We were just as space crazed as anyone. And over the years, as the missions continued, I read everything, I mean everything-” Mulder nodded, he could surely believe that of Scully at any age - “and I found out some trivia of my own.”

Mulder titled his head, curious.

“You know, a spacesuit is a sealed environment. It has to be airtight, right?”

Mulder nodded.

“And spacewalks last between five and eight hours on average.”

Mulder was listening intently.

“Well, there’s… nowhere to… go. When you have to go,” she gestured euphemistically. “And in a zero-gravity environment - or any environment, in fact - you don’t want to just relieve yourself inside the suit.”

Mulder frowned.

“So they wear these… things. It’s called a MAG: A Maximum Absorbency Garment,” she enunciated carefully. “You just… let it go, and it… absorbs it.”

Mulder looked perturbed.

“So basically, underneath that cool, space-exploring exterior,” Scully continued, “you’ve got a bunch of highly trained, hero-worshipped men - and now, women - floating around wearing adult diapers.”

Mulder swallowed hard.

“You know, I have a little brother. Charles. When he was still wearing Pampers I would watch my mom changing him, and I’d smell those foul odors and witness the frankly terrifying contents in some detail, and I just - I could never look at astronauts in the same way again after I found out about the MAG. I don’t know, it just ruined it for me.”

Her partner sat back quietly in his chair, more than a little disturbed.

Scully smiled at him weakly, and decided to take a nap.

On the tarmac in Houston, the cabin lights, dimmed for landing, switched back to full brightness as the seatbelt indicator dinged off. Mulder sprang out of his seat, already reaching up for the overhead bins to retrieve their luggage.

Scully sat calmly with her forest-green briefcase on her lap, not willing to pointlessly stand for ten minutes while the passengers in rows A-R filed interminably slowly up the aisle, huffing and checking her watch as though that would change the physics of the aircraft and hurry anything along.

No, patience had always been her friend; she would await her turn peacefully, could wait for anything forever, so long as she knew for certain it was coming to her.

Alighted, they bypassed the checked baggage carousels, Mulder carrying the suitcases and Scully toting only her leather satchel. The pair walked to the Lariat desk, where Scully hung back, and Mulder flirted with the smiling clerk working the night shift.

In the car, Mulder questioned her again about the arrangements.

“Intercontinental, Scully? It’s probably the furthest possible airport from the Space Center.”

“...and all requisitions would let me book at such late notice. The flights into Hobby were almost double the cost. It would be a waste of taxpayers’ money.” She signalled right, checking both directions.

“Are we heading further North, Scully?” Mulder asked, checking the constellations through the windshield.

She tsked and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. “It’s late. If you want to make all future travel bookings, be my guest, Mulder. But as it stands we’ll stay up here tonight, drive down for our eight-thirty a.m., and stay down there from tomorrow.”

At the mention of the morning meeting with Lt. Belt, Mulder brightened, and stuck his head back in his book for the remainder of the journey to their motel.

When they arrived at the Spring Creek Mercury Motorlodge, she threw him a look. A warning shot.

Don’t say a word, Mulder.

The motel took shabby to a whole new level: the paintwork was more chips than oil-based matte; the blown bulbs outnumbered the working ones, the woodwork of the bare-bones portico looked like it should have been condemned alongside the Rosenbergs.

The sign on the office door declared, ‘Desk open 7 a.m. - 10 p.m. ONLY ring bell outside of opening hours for ABSOLUTE EMERGENCIES.’

Scully checked her watch. It was approaching midnight. A handwritten Post-It stuck at an angle underneath read, ‘Scully booking, rooms # 8 & 12. Doors open. Keycards inside.’

“Always nice to experience that famous Southern hospitality,” Mulder deadpanned, peeling the note from the glass. They moved along the walkway, counting up as they went.

The door to number eight was propped barely ajar with a rotting two-by-four. Scully could see the square of exposed woodwork where an old lock mechanism had been removed: replaced by a newfangled electronic keycard system. She ran her eyes over the crumbling porch roof and thought, Really? This is where they chose to invest their refurb budget?

Mulder pushed the door open for Scully and held her gaze as she stared at him momentarily. He looked like he was about to follow her into the room.

“Thanks,” she gulped, taking her suitcase from his hand.

But he stayed put outside, grabbing the handle to pull the door shut, double checking their plans for the morning. “See you at seven-fifteen then? All checks complete and ready to strap ourselves into the command module?” He grinned.

Scully dropped her case onto the bed and sighed. He was going to be insufferable tomorrow.

***

After showering, hanging up her burgundy pantsuit for the next day, then losing a fight with the room’s overactive heater, Scully unravelled the tightly rolled pink satin pajamas from her suitcase. You get fewer wrinkles if you roll rather than fold, her mother had taught her.

Stepping into them, she could already feel herself perspiring lightly, and wondered if it would be better to do without the pajamas or the comforter. Her mind flashed to the various possible emergencies that might see her fleeing her room in the middle of the night: a fire, a tornado, an intruder.

Keep the pajamas, lose the comforter, she decided.

But she suspected she’d need more to keep herself cool. She remembered passing an ice machine a few doors down, and grabbed a metal bucket left on the dresser for just such purposes, tucking her keycard into the breast pocket of her nightwear as she went.

She was so warm and the ice machine was so close, she didn’t even bother with shoes as she tiptoed the few feet along the walkway. The machine hummed and clanked as she lifted the front and noisily plunged the bucket into the crisp, dry cubes.

Ice.

The Arctic Ice Core Project. Alaska. A sparsely appointed supply closet. Mulder crouching down to her level and hissing his balmy, furious breath directly into her face.

I don’t trust them. I WANT to trust you.

He’d been angry and sweaty and ripe, and it had been the two of them against the others. They’d made what felt like a binding pact, whispering conspiratorially; sealing it with their laying on of hands.

If she’d been asked prior to that about the most intimate part of a person’s body, she might have given the same answers as anyone else. Reproductive organs her studies had given her medical names for. Mammary glands meant for feeding young but warped by western culture into symbols of sex and shame. Perhaps the cushiony swell of the gluteus maximus, so favored by jocks, and creeps in bars.

But she’d finished that case on the Icy Cape with the discovery of more than a new species of worm; she’d learned for the first time about the deep, heady, overwhelming intimacy of touching another person at the back of the neck.

Jesus, she’d already been so wet when he’d grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her back to inspect her spine. She feared her unguarded gasp had given her away. And when he’d brushed aside her hair and lain his whole palm against the nape of her neck, awaiting the telltale wriggle of the homicide-inducing parasite, it was she who had squirmed beneath the hot, unrelenting pressure.

Oh god, what he’d be able to do to her with those big, strong, capable hands.

Alaska at that latitude had average winter temperatures of less than zero degrees Fahrenheit. November on the North Slope saw little more than three hours of sunshine a day. They regularly experienced impenetrable blizzards that could freeze a person to death in under an hour.

But when Dana Scully thought of the Icy Cape, all she could feel was searing, blazing, pulsing heat.

She filled the ice bucket, slammed the machine shut, and carried her personal cooling system back to her room, balancing it on her hip like an infant as she swiped the keycard for entry.

She got a red light.

Furrowing her brow, she swiped again.

Red.

Again.

Red.

Sighing her frustration, she ran the card through the slot several more times, resting the bucket on the floor and jiggling the handle as she tried over and over for green, listening for the buzz of the latch electronically pulling back.

Nothing.

She threw her hands up in the air and tried twice more to no avail.

She looked about her for assistance, finding none. No one was about. She started off towards the office and slowed as she reached the door. She re-read the sign.

ABSOLUTE EMERGENCIES.

Well, she couldn’t get into her room. Surely that was an emergency. She pressed the bell and waited, but no one came. She pressed again, and again, nothing. This was ridiculous. She tried once more with the bell, and after two minutes, sighing furiously, strode back along the walkway, her bare toes starting to go numb. She’d successfully cooled off, at least.

She continued past room eight, doubling back to try the lock three more times then kicking the door with great vexation before jogging up towards number twelve, wrapping her arms around her breasts to warm herself. The ice bucket stood sentry, dripping condensation.

She lifted her knuckle to knock on Mulder’s door, then hesitated slightly. She stole a glance down at her pajamas. They were not thick, and clung to her curves, puckering at her bare nipples. Mulder had seen her wearing far less - had checked her for mosquito bites clad only in what her maternal Grandmother would have called her smalls on their very first case - and remained professional, but that had been a rare exception, borne of her neophyte panic. She worked so hard to be taken seriously, to be seen as a colleague and an expert and a peer, and not as a sexual object. It was hard to project an air of authority in pastel pink satin with your breasts announcing themselves to anyone within five hundred yards. But Jesus, it was freezing out, and she had to be up and dressed in less than seven hours. She wasn’t about to spend a frostbitten night out in the cold and give herself hypothermia for the sake of avoiding a little embarrassment. She was a fully grown woman; Mulder, a fully grown man. They were both adults here. They could be mature about this.

She knocked, hugging her chest again afterwards.

Mulder opened the door still in his shirt and tie, although his jacket was hung over the desk chair in the corner. The NASA book lay face down, open on the bed. He chewed on one of his infernal seeds.

“You okay, Scully?” he asked, frowning. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Couldn’t get back into my room,” Scully explained, huffing. “I went out for ice and my… the keycard doesn’t work.”

“You should ring the bell for the owners,” Mulder suggested, unhelpfully.

“I did,” Scully said, pointedly. “No answer.” She looked up at him and pressed her lips together apologetically. “Can I come in?”

“Of course, of course,” Mulder said, standing back to let her enter. He stood with his back to the door after it was closed. “You can sleep in here; it’s no bother. I’ll crash on the floor.”

“Thank you,” Scully said, perching on the desk. Mulder sat himself on the end of the bed and gazed over at her.

“You cold?” he asked.

Actually, Mulder’s room was as toasty as hers had been, and her toes were already thawing out.

“Warming up,” she said, thankfully.

“Just that you’re… hugging yourself,” he explained, gesturing at her arms, still clamped across her unsecured bosom.

“Oh,” she said, self-consciously, but let her arms drop slowly to her sides, gripping the edge of the desk with both hands for security. “I’m not… wearing very much, is all.”

“Oh,” he echoed softly, his eyes scanning the length of her nightwear all the way to the floor and back up again. Yes, she was certainly feeling some heat once again.

“What you are wearing is… very nice though.” His eyes settled on her own for a few seconds, then flicked down to her breasts, and she inhaled sharply, silently, she hoped in retrospect. When he looked back at her face, her mouth was hanging slightly open, and she caught herself, licking her lips for discipline, her chest heaving. He looked down again.

She felt her cheeks burning, and averted her eyes to the book on the bed, a change of focus for her mind, which was racing with thoughts of candlelight and shower-wet hair, of thermal shirts and platonic supply closet fumblings: Mulder and his fingertips the common denominator in these scenarios.

She forced herself to look back at him. He was comfortably staring now, his face giving nothing away, but she knew he was quite aware she’d seen him appreciating her exposed form. He was leaving this up to her.

She wrestled with her conscience.

She shouldn’t do this. They were partners. It was against Bureau policy. It was unprofessional. It could ruin her career if it ended badly. Worse, it could come between her and Mulder, drive a wedge between them and prise apart their newly cemented friendship.

But…

She thought of Oregon and hands and Alaska and ice, and she knew what she wanted.

You’re hardly a schoolgirl anymore...

She stood up slowly, wordlessly taking a few steps towards Mulder on the bed. Yes, they were both fully grown, and she had some very adult ideas about what they could do together.

She paused one or two paces from his knees, and held his gaze for a moment. She let her lips fall open once more, her breathing labored, and she saw his breath was keeping pace with her own.

She thought of Michelle Generoo, and of her own jealousies and insecurities, and second guessed herself momentarily. She’d always suspected she wasn’t Mulder’s type. Yes, he had moments ago brazenly taken in the sight of her nipples brushing against the silky confines of her pajama top, but he was a red-blooded straight male, and they had been right there, still standing at attention from her time out in the cold. And yes, he was looking at her intently now as she crossed the room, the propulsion of months and months of unverbalized, unresolved sexual tension at her back, but his expression was blank, and he might be nervously wondering how the hell he was going to abort this mission.

There was one way to be sure. He had done his fair share of looking; it was her turn to be brazen.

She dropped her gaze to his lap, seeking a different kind of green light.

In the dim glow coming from the slightly open bathroom door, she found exactly what she was seeking. The bulge that tented Mulder’s pants cast a promising shadow. She was go for launch.

She took another step, and found his eyeline once more.

His pupils were dilated, his lips pillow-soft and pouting, the ridge growing noticeably larger even in her peripheral vision.

She reached down for his left hand and brought it to her breast, pressing it against herself over the pajamas.

“Make me see stars, Mulder,” she whispered, breaking into a lazy smile.

His momentary expression of disbelief gave way to a grin, and he looked up at her with reverence. She let go of his fingers, dropping her arm to her side once again, and his palm moved with feathery softness over her breast, centering her nipple in the smoothest spot, where you’d clutch a baby’s fist, or a prized possession. The heat of his hand radiated through the satin, the friction of skin on fabric even more erotic than direct contact. Their gazes were locked. His mouth fell open a fraction, mirroring hers, and he raised his other hand to work both breasts, his fingers held up and away from her body as he traced circles with her hardened peaks against his deep volar arches. She closed her eyes and moaned, low and soft, letting her head fall backwards. Her knees went limp, and Mulder steadied her with one hand, docking her at the hip.

His grip sent shockwaves to her core, her pulse now strongest between her legs. She knew she was already leaving a damp mark on her pajama bottoms.

She lifted her head back up and looked down at Mulder, still seated on the edge of the comforter. They panted together in the quiet, each awestruck by the other, and Scully reached up to her top button, deftly pushing it through the opening with her delicately manicured fingertips. She did not avert her eyes from Mulder’s as she worked her way down to her waist, finally letting the shirt hang open at the front.

She took his left hand once more and tucked it inside the front panel, his massive palm easily encompassing the entire fleshy mound there. He squeezed her hip gently, cupping her and pulling her towards him at once, guiding her between his knees. Checking her eyes for continued consent, he brushed the center of her shirt to one side and revealed half of her chest to his vision for the first time.

“Oh, Scully,” he said in a hushed voice, and - permission silently granted by Scully’s hungry gaze - lifted his mouth to her nipple and latched on, sucking, circling his tongue around her hot, pink bud. She moaned again and grabbed the back of his head, twisting her fingers into his hair, her nails scratching at his scalp.

His mouth broke contact with her delicately pale skin, and he pushed the satin from her shoulders, letting it whoosh to the floor.

He was gazing up at her again, and she leaned down to kiss him now, finally allowing herself to experience in the flesh that which she had longed for, imagined, fantasized about for some time. Their lips met; wet, fervent, ravenous. Their shared craving drew them together, suctioning them to one another at the mouth as though they could consume one another entirely, and meant to. His salted breath mingled with her own, and their tongues tangled and danced. He ran his hand up her naked back, and her breasts pressed against his collarbone.

He pulled away, and she held the side of his face tightly to her bare chest, breathless, eyes closed.

“Scully,” he ventured, “are you sure about this?” He looked up at her with his soft, beautiful, hazel eyes. She didn’t know what had possessed her for so long, being able to resist those eyes all these months.

She straightened up, and took his hand once again, reaching behind herself to slide it down the back of her waistband, over her rounded ass, and into the molten cleft of her body. She spread her thighs as his fingers found her desire, parting and probing her on their voyage of discovery. He dipped a single digit inside her body, and she exhaled on a low moan.

“I’m sure, Mulder,” she murmured, smiling again. “Take me to the moon and back.”

He relaxed a little, his shoulders dropping, “Oh is that the game?” he teased, “Space puns?”

She shrugged playfully.

He smiled wide at her, or she thought he did; it was hard to see with her eyelashes fluttering closed. Her head dropped back once more as he pumped into her, his thumb resting fortuitously against the base of her perineum, that dark, forbidden, blissful spot. She felt alive, animal, raw. She let her breath come out ragged, allowed her rasps and moans to escape unbridled. Mulder paused his efforts for a second or two, leaving two fingers curled inside her, using his free hand to yank down her pajama pants. She helped, kicking them loose from her ankles as he grabbed a handful of her ass with his spare hand and pulled her toward the bed, reclining face up on the mattress and encouraging her to crawl on her knees up to his shoulders and sit back. Only then did he remove his fingers from inside of her, and her body sucked at them as he did, protesting their departure.

Scully was giddy with want, and Mulder looked up at her just then with such veneration that her heart burst with renewed affection for him. She’d never been made to feel more worthy in her life. This was so Mulder. She had not specifically realized it before, but this was how he often made her feel, in his best moments.

At the insistence of his hand pressing gently on her lower back, his fingers sticky with her own yearning, she lowered her sex to his mouth.

As soon as his velvet tongue met her clit, she cried out, almost lifting herself up on her knees at the shock of it. He held her steady, lapping at her hardened bundle of nerves with the flat of his tongue, softly at first, then applying more and more pressure as she sunk further down onto him, his chin pressing up into her heat, her slick juices gliding her inner walls against his light stubble. Oh Jesus, it was divine, and she called out his last name as she rode his face, her breath hitching in her throat as her trajectory was set to climax.

Scully chanced a glance downwards and saw that he was watching her in her ecstasy.

She was wanted. She was valued. She was enough.

She smiled down at him, not halting her movements, and reached up to pinch her own nipples with her dainty, expert hands. Mulder groaned his pleasure into her body, sucking and licking and holding her down so she could not get away.

“Fuck,” she gasped, and was lost; her face lifted to the heavens, her body and mind spinning and soaring in concupiscent formation, her voice clamorously invoking two thirds of the Trinity with various, stertorous monikers as she rocketed into her own private orbit.

Mulder massaged her hips and kept his chin tilted up into her as she twitched and panted and called out for God, and she felt her inner muscles contracting around his way-past-five-o-clock shadow. The humid air of his heavy breath rushed from his nose, tickling her pubic mound as his lips remained clamped over the hood of her clitoris. She exhaled the last of her shudders and sat back on her haunches, resting on his solid pectorals, running her tongue over her lips, wetting them with exhausted delight. Mulder’s chin glistened in the dim room, drenched, and she laughed, reaching down to wipe him off.

He let her, but then caught her by the wrist and held her soaked palm against his mouth, kissing it, hard, and smearing the residue of her arousal all over his lips once again. He licked them clean, unblinking.

She buried her face in her other hand and laughed shyly.

Mulder chuckled along with her, resting his hands on her still-spread thighs, his thumbs dipping close to her parted labia. She bit her lower lip and looked him in the eye once again, unable to hide her happiness.

“Luckily, out here, no one can hear you scream,” he joked, a question in his eyes suggesting he was worried he might not get away with this, and she pushed him away teasingly but giggled as she climbed off the bed. She picked up her pajama pants from the floor.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Mulder asked her as she stood up.

“I’ll be right back,” Scully responded, flinging the bottoms over her shoulder and sauntering off to the bathroom, looking back at him to make sure he was getting a good look at her receding form. “Don’t move.”

She glanced down at the enormous bulge in his pants once again, and knew she needn’t worry. He wouldn’t be going anywhere with that thing.

She returned a few minutes later, now wearing the satin pants, and sporting a dark gleam in her eye as she crept across the carpet towards him. When she reached the bed, he leaned up on his elbows and reached for her to pull her onto the bed, but she shook her head. Instead, she reached for his belt buckle and deliberately undid it, sliding the leather through the metal loop before reaching for his fly. As she unzipped his pants, Mulder lifted his hips, and his erection bounced up, pushing the flaps of the zipper to either side, straining against his boxer briefs. This was one shuttle she wouldn’t mind watching blast off, and she was ready to fire up the booster rockets.

She helped him remove his pants, then tugged at the waistband of his underwear. He removed it and lay himself back down on the bed, looking almost anxious.

“Mulder,” she reassured him. “Relax; I want this. I want you.” She whispered the last part, lowering herself to kneel at the foot of the bed.

His manhood loomed large, worryingly large for such a petite person, but Scully had never met a challenge she didn’t want to face. And face it she did; this hard, quivering invitation to wantonness inches from her mouth. He smelled like the Mulder she had come to know, only stronger here; that musky, spicy pheromone blend that brought her to her knees - now, finally, literally - and she breathed him in with abandon.

She gripped him in her hand, taking his tip into her mouth, sweeping her tongue around the head of his cock as he exhaled forcefully. She slid her closed palm up and down the base of his shaft, letting her saliva drip down to lubricate her ministrations, then working him further into her jaws so that the top of his penis rubbed just against her soft palate. She bobbed her head against him. He filled her mouth easily, and she thought of all the times she’d surreptitiously stolen a glance at his lap. Her curiosity had been satisfied, and then some. He was every bit as big as she’d always suspected, and her small oral cavity made for a snug fit as she worked him into a frenzy on the bed.

He clutched at the covers and murmured her name, encouraging her efforts all the while. He slowed her at one point, just managing to explain through his moans that he wanted to enjoy it a little longer, but his thighs were soon flexing again and she accelerated her pumping with her fist, sucking a little harder, working the tip of her tongue against his popping veins.

Mulder reached out and grabbed at her shoulder, clumsily pushing her back. “T-minus... T-minus five seconds and… and counting…” he sputtered, and she risked another tongue swirl, another deep thrust towards her throat.

“Scully!” Mulder choked out, and she pulled her mouth away. She kept her hand in place and he wrapped his own around it, working his erection skillfully as he delivered his impressive payload over their ten conjoined fingers and down onto his stomach. A coy smirk plastered itself across Scully’s face as he collapsed back onto the bed.

She raised herself from the floor, rolling her neck from side to side, and grabbed the box of tissues that was sitting on the nightstand. She held them out and sat on the mattress, one foot tucked under the opposite thigh, her breasts sitting proudly on her chest with the pert insouciance of youth.

Mulder cleaned himself up and aimed the balled up tissues at the wastebasket, missing. He sighed, but didn’t get up, so Scully laughingly dragged herself over and retrieved the errant missiles, dropping them into their intended target. She returned to the bed and lay herself down in the crook of Mulder’s arm.

He kissed her temple, a peck, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead, then lifted her chin with one finger so that he could plant a full kiss on her mouth. She breathed in the scent of herself on his lips, their musky scents intermingling on both their tongues.

“Wow Scully,” he smiled. “That was fun.”

She nodded, grinning herself.

“Although, it was a bit of a close encounter, if you know what I mean,” he said, and she buried her face in his shoulder and laughed, any residual worries she’d had about this changing the fundamental nature of their relationship flying away on her huffing breath and disappearing into the vacuum of the mattress.

Mulder lifted his head. “Oh god, it’s past two,” he announced. He must have been checking the display on the alarm clock. “You should get some sleep Scully; you gotta drive us down to the Space Center in the morning.”

“Hey, it’s your turn,” she whined, sitting up and pulling the covers back to climb beneath. Her pajama shirt lay forgotten on the floor. Tornadoes and fires be damned, she’d already had her ABSOLUTE EMERGENCY for the night. It was too hot for more clothes, especially with Mulder’s intense body heat so close. And she did intend to hold him close tonight. And other nights, if he wanted her.

“Talk about a waste of taxpayer’s money, Scully,” Mulder droned, sitting up and shaking himself alert. “The two of us sharing a motel room while another sits empty.”

“Oh,” Scully replied sleepily. “Believe me, I’m demanding a refund on my room.”

“Demanding a refund, Scully?” Mulder queried, now folding his pants and setting them on the chair by his suit jacket. “You weren’t happy with the level of service you just received?”

She squinted one eye open to look at him. “Mmm, you? You did good, Mulder. I’ll be sure to leave a generous tip for you at check out.” She patted the mattress next to her.

“I’ll be right there,” he assured her, disappearing off into the bathroom.

She was asleep before he even turned out the light.

***

Scully had witnessed Mulder ejaculating for the first time at the Spring Creek Mercury Motorlodge, but she genuinely worried she might see an impromptu repeat performance when they arrived at the Space Center the following morning. Walking to their meeting, they bantered for the benefit of their NASA escort, Mulder practically bouncing off the walls and once again bombarding her with facts and figures.

“You remember all that stuff?” she asked, wearily, suppressing a yawn.

“You never wanted to be an astronaut when you were a kid, Scully?”

“Guess I missed that phase,” she sighed, mouthing ‘adult diapers’ at him behind their guide’s back.

She couldn’t help but make fun of him for his adulation of Lt. Belt, either. “Didn’t you want to get his autograph?” she teased as they left the Space Shuttle Program Director’s office, and when Mulder caught up with her he tapped her lightly on the ass in retaliation.

At some point in the afternoon, Mulder slunk off and made some phone calls, and when they drove to their accommodation after the successful launch that evening, it wasn’t the motel Scully had booked but a ritzy hotel with bellhops and room service. They finally made it back there in the middle of the night, following the complications with the mission and Lt. Belt’s questionable press conference.

At the reception desk, Mulder retrieved two keys, but when he held one out to Scully and she grasped her forefinger and thumb around it, he didn’t let go. She looked up to meet his smoldering gaze.

“What’s the matter Houston; do we… have a problem?” She managed to keep a straight face, just about.

“What do you say we waste some more taxpayer’s money tonight, Scully?” he grinned, his voice hushed, seductive. “Maybe we can cross... the final frontier?”

She halfheartedly rolled her eyes at his pun, but her insides were already aflame. She drew her mouth into a tight, shy smile, and nodded her agreement.

nb. I want everyone to know that I watched the Falcon 9 launch and I managed to refrain myself from using the phrase ‘good orbital insertion’ in this fic. And that was a struggle.

AO3 link here.

#xfsmut2020 #mulder and scully #mulder #scully #the x files #x files #x files fanfic

30 notes · View notes

spirit-of-the-void · 5 years

Text

Gunpowder and Flower Petals (Dante x Reader Fanfic) Chapter One

Author’s note: Sorry this came out so late--my laptop has been having issues, kids. Thanks to my discord for helping me name this fic

Chapter One

~Sunlight and Rose Petals~

Ever since you were a little girl, nature had its way of...speaking to you.

Nothing else really quite compared to it. Not to the way dandelions would hum with vitality and life, how roses tended to sigh and shudder under your fingertips. Morning glories always whispered their hellos from your balcony during every sunrise, and moon flowers giggled once it began to set. It filled your life with such unbelievable joy, one that was not lost on your mother once she noticed petals drifting occasionally from your hair, or how seeds would automatically sprout in your hand. As a botanical witch herself, seeing how nature embraced a child like you made her heart soar with delight and promise. She started your teachings at an early age, opening your eyes to the wonders and prospects of magic.

As for your father...he was never in the picture. After witnessing your mother cast magic for a single time, he left without so much as a word. She reasoned that this was for the best, and determined herself more than capable to take care of you once the time came. After all, him leaving was better than someone fearing magic being in your lives. Delusion and innocence had clouded the young witch’s eyes, convincing you mother that maybe she could tell your father when the time came. It was pointless after that day. She would not change herself to meet his bigotry, and you were deserving of a life filled with the wonders of spell casting.

Despite him not being there, your childhood had been so bright. Living in a small town, helping your mother grown herbs in window boxes and vegetables in the garden. Fields of poppies would bloom as you ran through, seedlings had an inexplicable chance of blossoming in your hair. Whimsical, enchanting. You carried the scent of flowers in your wake, even to this day. It was in those times that you learned the cycle of respect between nature and a witch, the process of which to enrich a flower or plant with life and gain their respect in return. Those same flora provided back in kind, more than eager to continue their cycle as a spell or nutrition for those who were kind to them. The sun would rise and fall, and your mother would whisper her thanks and gratitude to every plant she used in each task she needed. You had always been in awe of her, how the flowers were more than happy to give up their petals to her potions and powders.

With each passing day, your magic and knowledge grew until you were ten years old, when...well. Tragedy stuck, and as always, it struck in ways you would never expect.

Demons attacked your little town in the woods, razing everything they touched to ash. You would never forget waking to the screaming of your neighbors, of the silent shrieking of plants as they were scorched into nothingness. There had been smoke, a scent so foul it made your little eyes water and throat sting like nothing else before. Glowing embers made patterns in the dark air, drifting like the pollen that had grown so precious and wonderful in you life.

You remember lurching from your bed, crying hoarsely for your mother even as the vines on your balcony frantically dragged you out of the house before they had a chance to burn. They deposited you safely on the ground outside, just as a small group of your neighbors rushed over to pull you away. Mrs.Davenport, the closest to your mother, had held you in a protective embrace, her heart pounding frantically as they piled into a vehicle and sped away from the rising flames.

Your mother would have never been able to make it out of the house. Not with magic, not with plants. She was in the basement working on a project when the first flames had shot through the windows, and was trapped on all sides. At least...that was according to Mrs.Davenport’s husband, who went back to check for any sign of her once everything was said and done. After that day, after the funeral for all who were lost...you sat alone in a little room above the Davenport’s shop in the city, a single handful of seedlings in your pocket and an ache in your heart that would never fade.

But the Davenports were kind, and took you in with open arms. Despite losing their home and store in town, the one they held on the edge of the city made enough to keep them going. The apartment above was renovated into a new living space, and you spent your time learning how to help out in any way you could. In the shop, at home, and with the only skills you had left to give. During this time the rosebuds in your hair were closed and dull, echoing your grief and uncertainty loud and clear to the outside world. But in time...they would bloom again.

Things were not always without turmoil. Being a witch’s child growing up in a place beyond the safety of that town proved difficult. The small, private classes from some of the mothers who lived nearby with children of their own were far more understanding and accepting of magic. After all, a lot of their medicines and tonics came from your home. The same could not be said when you were enrolled in public school, hair full of rose petals and an naive air of whimsy following your every step. Children were not ignorant of outsiders, sensing something about you was off from day one.

Young ones could be so cruel sometimes.

Teachers too. School was a hard time, rife with bullying and ridicule from all sides. The first time you performed magic in class, the teacher was heavily alarmed and immediately drew you out of the class for scolding. It had seemed so innocent at the time--making flowers sprout up from a handful of seedlings to give some classmates gifts. The Davenports were called, and you were almost expelled from the grade school there and then. After pleading, begging, promises that no more magic would be performed...you were allowed to stay. But the damage had been done, on all sides. The teacher never looked at you the same way after that, and neither did the children.

An important lesson was learned that day. Magic was not the wonderful, beautiful thing you had always been taught. For some it was something ugly, a thing to fear and ridicule. Growing up in that environment left lasting damage on your confidence, damage that took years to truly shake. The flowers didn’t bloom in your hair that often then, magic harder to cast and you finding yourself trying desperately to fit in. But...is this what your mother truly wanted? For you to bow your head and smoother all the beautiful things she had given you, the teachings she held so dear?

You spent a lot of time thinking about her words, shaking off the cloud that had plagued you for so many years of school. Balance could be found, control must be had. If people could not understand the beauty and wonders of magic without fear, the only way to change anything was to teach them. Even if it had to be secret, even if you had to hide it until out of school.

You had so much kindness to give, after all.

After graduating high school, the Davenports encouraged you to sell the flowers that you cultivated in window boxes, in pots all over your room. They insisted that you keep every bit you made, and soon a reputation with the customers began to thrive. Your flowers took much longer to wilt that normal ones, and bloomed bigger and brighter. The roses smelled stronger, the peonies sweeter. Valentine’s day became a busy time for the shop, filled with eager men looking for bouquets for their lovers and family searching for flowers to gift to their children, parents, grandparents...You developed an adoration for every person you met, heart full and welcoming for each new face and smile.

And the flowers sold each time, absorbing the eagerness of their new owners and coming with a small note on how to properly care for them.

Each person who bought a flower left with the knowledge of how to respect them, just as your mother taught you. The plants understood their purpose, silent but filling you with their energies of delight and pride. Because at the end of the day, all nature wanted was a purpose and kindness in turn.

You found your calling there, Mister Davenport helping create a greenhouse in the backyard for your needs. They grew old in time, and both decided that when they retired, the shop would be converted over fully into a Botanical business instead. Tears were shed that day, ones of gratitude and sorrow as you remembered what was lost, what had been gained. How lucky you had been, to have such lovely human beings there to support you, from the moment you took your first breath to when you thought fire and demons would take it all away. Neither of your mother’s friends had to help you, but did it anyway. And for that, you owed them everything and more.

Especially on days like these, when everything was perfect.

A smile was always on your face as you flitted around the shop, saying your “good morning”s to the flowers and making sure each had water and their needed nutrients. The wide, open shop windows allowed sunlight to dapple each petal, unfurling the morning glories with droplets of water dripping from them like dew. The bouquets were arranged for orders taken, hanging pots casting shadows and their vines occasionally brushing the top of your head. Mornings were always so spellbinding--everything felt alive, humming with their silent energies and filling you to the brim with positivity. Even the seedlings that bloomed in your hair radiated an air of being pleased, one curling around your left ear like it intended to whisper to you.

The shop bells jingled with each new customer, you smiling at familiar faces and new ones in kind with a cheerful, “Good morning! How can I assist you today?”

It was springtime, right around when people were getting married and having babies. Lots of requests for pink bouquets, blues, whites. Orchids and roses, lilies and tulips. When the shop grew quiet you would sneak to the greenhouse to put spells on the gardens, adding new seeds for flowers you were running short on. A little magic, a little care...they never took long to grow, everything would be ready for the following morning.

This was your life, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Around noon you set about weaving dandelions and mini carnations into flower crowns, smiling when you saw the usual bees hanging around your window boxes. There was water out there for them and passing birds, plus you made sure to plant things they would like. There was something very cute about seeing their little pollen-covered butts wiggle around in the flowerbed. Regular customers had long grown used to them, respecting the art they played in keeping flowers alive.

Maybe you should start beekeeping? Was there room for bee boxes in the yard? Being this far out on the edge of the city, there weren’t really any businesses that would be bothered by it.

You were drifting in and out of your musing when a familiar face came through the door, the resulting bell making your eyes lift from their task.

“Morning, Y/N!” Greeted Alex, grinning from ear to ear as he slid by the counter on the way to where the lilies were displayed. He owned a little bakery a few streets over--you thoroughly enjoyed stopping by the corner deli first, then grabbing sweets from them on the way back , “See you’re working hard as always. What’s on your agenda for today?”

You chuckled, lifting up one of your finished crowns to display it proudly to his curious eyes, “Crowns. They’re getting popular on social media,” You set the item down, shaking a few loose petals from your silken locks as you added playfully, “Picking up lilies for your darling again? Like clockwork, every week. I don’t know where you’re putting them.”

He chuckled at that, seeming grateful when you came around the counter to help him wrap a small bouquet. The flowers’ energy reached out for you, the magic toiling through your veins responding in kind.

“We plant them in our garden to be honest,” He admitted, scratching the back of his head sheepishly at your delighted look, “I don’t get it, didn’t think they would just bloom if we planted them like that, but...your flowers are really somethin’ special.”

They most certainly were. Infused with magic, filled to the brim with possibilities they wouldn’t otherwise have. But he didn’t need to know that, not yet at least--there was no telling how he would react otherwise. You wondered belatedly what kind of honey would yield from magic flowers, especially with the kind of magic you used. Healing properties, maybe? It was just another thing to add to the list.

Regardless, you grinned, wrapping the stems gently in plastic before exchanging them for his money, “They do that because you treat them with kindness--honestly it makes me really happy to imagine your yard filled to the brim with all the lilies you’ve bought the past few months.”

Alex laughed lightly, little winkles appearing around his eyes when he smiled so brightly, “Bella loves it to pieces, so I can’t really say no,” His eyes drifted to the door when a few more customers entered, the familiar man waving with his free hand as he added, “See you next week, Y/N! Swing by the bakery sometime, we’ve got some seasonal fruits coming in so I’ll make sure we whip up something special!”

You waved goodbye, smiling cheerfully as you went to greet the next couple of customers. You would definitely have to stop by the bakery again soon, it had been too long since the last order of creme puffs you had.

Regardless, you focused on the next people in need of assistance--Familiar faces as well, regulars who bought bouquets to put on tables in catering events. They had an order to be picked up, one scheduled long in advance and sitting in the greenhouse waiting for them. The crowns could wait for something so important, surely. And after these orders were taken there was only two more meant to be taken that day. Plenty of time to tend to the new flowers, to take care of whatever customers come in then close down around six or seven o’clock.

So distracted with helping these customers get their order, you didn’t notice a new face walk in.

It wasn’t until you started hurrying back to the front of the store with boxes of pre-made vases in tow did you realize someone had entered, figure wandering on the edge of the shop and idly gazing at the masses of roses. You spared a brief glance from over the budding flowers obscuring your vision, hurrying to set the box in the back of the customer’s van outside. That wasn’t one of your regulars, was it? White hair, broad shoulders, tall...wearing a red leather jacket and dark jeans. Definitely not the usual type to peruse a flower shop in the middle of the afternoon. Not that you cast any judgement--anyone could love nature, so maybe this person was simply finding a new passion for roses? Regardless, you hurried on, feeling a bit bad that you didn’t hear the bell over the door jingle at all.

“I’ll be right with you!” The familiar words carried easily over the shop as you rushed past, voice friendly and sweet. The stranger half turned in your direction, but you didn’t get to see their face past the white hair draping over one side.

He simply lifted one hand in a light acknowledgement of you, voice deep and slightly bemused as he replied, “Take your time.”

If there was one thing you didn’t like doing, it was keeping customers waiting. The box of flowers was deposited in the van quickly enough, papers signed and thanks given for their purchase. The beautiful displays of lilac and lilies will make for lovely centerpieces for whatever gathering they’d be hosting, that was for certain--plus they would stay vibrant and lively, blessed with good fortune and radiating a heavenly scent. Your magic made sure of that, and when the blossoms eventually wilted it would disperse the magic safely into the air and bring good energy to whatever space they were kept in.

You made sure the buyers were all set up and pulling away before rushing back into the shop, a bit anxious about making a good first impression on this new customer. Luckily, he was still there by the rose display. Back turned, shoulders occasionally rolling as he browsed the selection. Goodness, he was certainly tall...and big. Well, compared to you at least. Height wasn’t something you were blessed to have a lot of, but it never really bothered you. It was just slightly intimidating to be facing someone like this stranger, one who dwarfed you so obviously in size and stature. He...carried a strange energy too, one that made you pause and frown at his back.

What is that feeling? Surely you felt it before, but...it was very muted, like diluted by water. His scent felt human again, almost like whatever you sensed had passed.

You shook the feeling off, approaching him finally and managing a soft smile as you greeted, “I’m so sorry about the wait, is there anything I can help you find?”

The stranger paused, turning finally to look at your form standing patiently behind his own. He was...oh. You blinked, feeling a bit flustered upon seeing this man’s face. Handsome, with strong features and a wry smile on his lips. He was a bit unshaven, facial hair white where it lined his strong jaw and chin. If you didn’t have a type before, you surely had one now upon meeting the stranger who had been so interested in roses--it suited him, you decided that already. He seemed like a roses type of guy, it mingled well with the rugged energy surrounding his body and limbs. The smile he greeted you with seemed to pause when he saw your face, lips popping open and a mix of emotions flitting across his features.

What was going on with that? He seemed surprised for a second, taken aback, then a bit nervous and fidgety as his smile became a bit more...rueful?

He was hard to read, and you were already nervous.

“Er...It’s no problem, miss,” He replied in that warm voice, scratching the back of his head a bit and half turning his face away, “Just...ah. Someone mentioned to me that your shop was the best place to get roses.”

You blinked, staring at the man without realizing it. Embarrassment colored your cheeks a bit pink, your mind desperately trying to shake whatever daze had come over you and find a response to his statement.

“They...sent you to the right place,” You finally managed, lips curling softly as you brushed past him for the display of flowers. A handful of petals fell from your hair as you did so, landing on his black boots in a sharp contrast of color. I need to calm down, you told yourself meekly, heart stuttering in your chest, the magic is causing anomalies with my hair again, “Is there a particular color you’re looking for or may need?”

The stranger seemed fascinated by the little pink petals that dotted his boots, a bemused smirk growing on his lips again as he plucked one out of the air before it fell. Something about the action made you swallow, face starting to resemble that shade the flowers were.

“Red,” He replied to your question, quirking a grey brow as he rubbed the thin flower petal between his fingers, “I’m a simple man with simple needs, what can I say?”

You nodded a couple times, eyes peeling off of him long enough to slide over to the lovely red roses sitting in a patch of sunlight near the window. Water still glistened from when you watered them earlier, making the petals glimmer like diamonds. They were a fresh batch too, radiating a sultry energy and filled to the brim with your magic care and adoration. They were a plant based around romance, so your mood and eagerness was easily sensed considering how connected to you they were. The remaining few that hadn’t bloomed fully yet finally did so, curling out in front of the stranger’s eyes as he prepared to pluck some from their container. Oh dear, he definitely saw that, didn’t he?

Your gaze flickered to the man in question, anxiety making a home in your features as you gauge his reaction. But he didn’t seem bothered, merely fascinated and bemused as he took in their sudden growth.

“How many would you like?” Your voice asked softly, despite how absolutely nervous you felt. What was wrong with you? Many handsome or beautiful customers had come in before without issue, so why was this one managing to get you so flustered? It was inexplicable, and definitely outside the realm of normality. But...you found yourself not upset by it, excitement curling in your gut as you met his light gaze again with a hesitant one of your own.

Locking eyes sent a shiver down your spine, heart doing the most unbelievable things in your chest.

“Uh…” He cleared his throat again, seeming to lose whatever train of thought was going through his head, “Oh...a dozen. Just twelve should be enough for now. If they’re as great as people told me, I’ll come back and get more, right?.”

Oddly enough...you desperately hoped that would be the case. A hint of a giddy smile formed on your lips, head ducking down to hide it as you retrieved some paper and plastic to wrap the flowers in, “Certainly, sir. Roses are really beautiful, loyal flowers so they will last for a while,” You set about carefully setting them up as you spoke, eyes locked on the water gently rolling from their petals as you asked, “If I may ask...what are you using them for? Are they a gift, perhaps?”

This was something you generally always liked to hear about from customers, he was no exception. But...asking him still felt strange somehow, like you were breaching a realm of privacy for information you hadn’t earned. Definitely not asking to discover if he had a wife or girlfriend, that was rude and inappropriate. Just thinking about it made you want to pull up your turtleneck and hide your face from his eyes, hide away from everything. As it stood, your finger slipped on the stem of a rose as the thoughts went awry, pricking your finger on a stray thorn that hadn’t been fixed earlier. A hiss escaped your lips, instinctively tugging your hand away to pop the injured digit into your mouth.

The roses radiated apologetic energy, sensing what had happened and not liking it in kind.

“You okay?” The man asked, a frown marring his features as he stared at the bead of blood forming on your skin. Seemingly without thinking, he reached out to grasp your wrist with a gentle hand, pulling a bit closer for inspection. Just that action alone sent a tingle of energy along your arm, face going a bit red at the unexpected touch.

Oh dear. The flowers in your hair trembled, more petals falling from the silken locks.

He was not immune--the man blinking, seeming to realize a second later what he had done and dropping your limb like it had burned him. He raised both hands in a gesture of apology, taking a measured step back, a hint of embarrassment in his expression.

“Shit--sorry, I didn’t mean to just grab at ya like that,” He apologized immediately, dropping his arms and letting out a gusty sigh, “You just hurt yourself, and I didn’t really--”

“It’s okay…!” You blurted out suddenly, cutting off whatever he was going to say. It made him blink, staring at you with surprise as your gazed met once more. More petals, a vine curled under your ear slightly. Oh no, I’m getting too emotional, too nervous, too excited--your face was far too warm, especially when you tugged the turtleneck up a bit to hide the vines creeping around your neck.

“U...um…” You murmured, feeling completely obvious under his steady blue eyes and hating yourself thoroughly. He couldn’t see the magic, couldn’t know about that. You had spent far too long being careful to make slip-ups like these. But...why was your mouth still moving?

“It’s okay. I...didn’t mind, not really,” You peeked up from the turtleneck, fidgeting at the surprised expression he still had on, “My name is Y/N, by the way...I usually tell customers that right away but I think I forgot to with you. Or did I? Oh dear...I’m sorry.”

I’m a mess, an absolute disaster. Why was it so hard to form coherent sentences around him? You had gone from being steadfast and confident one moment to a bumbling fool the next, which honestly was...typical. Emotions ran high on even your best days, which came with the territory of being a witch. Controlling them was by far the hardest thing to do, right at the top of the list of skills she hadn’t quite mastered. All it served to do was make her miss the mother she so adored--full of poise, calm in even the darkest moments and able to control her magic like breathing. Mrs. Davenport said that even when her father left, the woman never shed a single tear for his absence.

Regardless, you shook off the wistful nostalgia, turning your gaze away from his when a low, crooked grin tilted his lips at your red face. He seemed to be enjoying it far too much.

“You didn’t tell me your name yet, sunshine, so don’t worry too much on that end of things,” He chuckled, the sound washing over your ears in the most pleasant manner possible, “Though it was rude of me to manhandle a pretty girl without askin’, even if you don’t mind.”

Sunshine. Pretty girl. The words stuck to your skull like glue, making you downright dizzy as you tried to process it. This wasn’t the first time someone called you pretty, right? Several customers had come in and made such observances, both in a romantic subtext and not. All of the former variety were politely turned down, you just didn’t have the time or the shared attraction worth following through with.

But this person...something about him made your heart flutter, pounding against your ribs and bringing out every flustered, easily embarrassed part of you. And he clearly wasn’t oblivious to it--the man smirked when he caught the surprise in your expression at his cute nickname, fidgeting under his stare and resisting the urge to hide your face entirely. This is all too much.

“D...don’t worry about it,” You squeaked, the sound coming out a bit breathless even to your ears as you turned back toward the roses. Frantically trying to tuck a loose vine behind your ear, silently urging the flowers to calm down as you added, “Wh...what is your name, if I may ask?”

He let out a low hum at your question, eyes turning toward your task as you wrapped the roses in a final layer of plastic. Something about him hovering over your shoulder as you finished his order...well. It made you very flustered indeed.

“Dante,” The man, Dante, finally replied to your question, offering you a charming smile on top of it all. But that soon faded, especially when he cleared his throat and added hesitantly to his statement, “And to what you asked earlier, roses were...well. They were my mother’s favorite flower before she passed, so...I keep some with me at all times in honor of her.”

Oh. His response made your heart ache on his behalf, excitement draining into something a little more forlorn and sympathetic as your hands gentled a bit in their duty. His tone was so wistful, border-lining on a little sad as he mentioned the parent he had lost. In an instant you felt a kinship with this man you didn’t know, wanting to comfort him in any way you could. One hand rested on the package of roses, crinkling the material slightly as you closed your eyes.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Your voice was soft, gentle as you thought back to the loss of your own mother, that dark day in town with the flames rising in your home, “I lost my mother too...a long time ago. It can be a very hard thing to go through.”

He sucked in a slight breath at your words, pausing like he was surprised to even hear them. You turned your gaze to meet his again, seeing a hint of shock and sympathy now echoed in his eyes right back. A look of regret, of exhaustion and heartache that made your own chest hurt in a strange way. The mood in the air shifted in an instant, your magic sensing ever ounce of grief that seeped into his energy aura that told you everything that you needed to know about him. Trauma, sorrow, exhaustion, anger...he had been through something terrible, hadn’t he? It showed on his face, that smile shifting into something deeply sorrowful at the sound of your own pain.

Oh no...I made him sad.

“Damn...I’m sorry, Y/N,” He replied, sounding gruff and a bit apologetic as he scratched the back of his white hair, “I didn’t mean to bring the mood down. I have a habit of putting my foot in my mouth when I probably shouldn’t.”

“Oh no!” You protested immediately, turning to stare at him with the roses cradled gingerly in your arms, “Please, don’t apologize for anything Dante. I don’t mind at all,” A small smile tilted your lips, cheeks still a bit flushed from his earlier comments, “There’s no shame in opening up to someone about your past, never doubt that. I’m always happy to listen if you need it.”

Your words surprised him further, his gaze lingering on yours with an unidentified emotion lingering in its depths. Whatever it was...your stomach did somersaults at the sight, making you turn away and hurry toward the counter to give you a chance to breathe a bit. Oh dear. Oh my, this man was a whirlwind on your emotions, stirring up things that a stranger absolutely shouldn’t have the power to stir up. You tried not to focus on it, summoning forth another smile as the price for his roses was tallied up. A little shaved off for making him wait in the store for so long while the other order was processed of course.

He strolled up to the corner after you, watching with curious eyes as you made sure to attach the needed items to take care of roses to the wrappings. A little note too, thanking him for his purchase.

As soon as he saw the total, one eyebrow quirked up in surprise, “That’s all?” He sounded doubtful of the low price, pulling out a leather wallet from his pocket and eyeing you suspiciously.

You nodded, graciously accepting the offered bill and depositing it in the cash register as you replied, “Yep. Consider it an apology for forcing you to wait outside so long earlier--its rude to do that to first time customers.”

He let out a little “huh” at that, cocking his head a bit to examine you as he gathered up the bouquet of fresh roses. Something about his scrutinizing gaze made you blush further, that color returning to your cheeks as his change was handed back. Your fingers brushed at the action, making you shiver again before pulling away and trying to find some semblance of sanity again. Calm down, it’s rude to act like this to strangers. You resisted the urge to bite your lip, trying to gather all the nervous attraction and bottle it down inside. As if that would somehow fix anything, which you knew damn well it wouldn’t.

Already you were hoping he would come back. Already hoping your roses were up to his standards. It felt a bit pathetic really, wanting to get to know someone this badly just from one interaction. Maybe you were just lonely? After the Davenports moved out to their retirement home, you lived above the shop alone and worked hard every day without fail. It was just all that neediness talking, that was it.

Wasn’t it?

“Thank you for coming by, Dante,” You said softly, playing with a strand of your hair and lifting your eyes to see his again, “I...I hope you like the roses. Don’t hesitate to stop by again, okay?”

That made him smile, that crooked smirk causing your stomach to feel like it was spinning in circles. A low chuckle left his lips, eyes lingering on your hair for a moment as he reached out one hand. Your heart nearly stopped, breath pausing in your throat as he plucked a stray petal from your locks with his free hand. You blinked owlishly, cheeks warming more as he rubbed it between his digits and felt its soft texture.

“You’ll definitely be seeing me again, Sunshine,” He replied, an amused grin tilting his lips as he took in your flushed face, “Might invite you out to coffee next time too, if you’d allow it?”

Oh. OH.

You squeaked, hands grasping the edges of your turtleneck as you replied in a stammer, “O..oh! I’d...I’d like that, yes...absolutely…!” Far too eager, far too happy about his request in the first place.

But he didn’t seem to mind, giving you a two finger salute before he turned to head out the door again. You watched him as he went, heart pounding in your chest even until the bell jingled above the door to sound his departure. It wasn’t until he was completely out the door that all the emotion finally burst forth, a sense of embarrassed excitement causing you to hide your face in the turtleneck and squeak softly. It was a good thing there were no more customers in the store at that moment, because the flowers in your hair sprouted even more and dropped far too many petals in a little halo around you on the floor.

“Oh god…” You mumbled, holding your overly warm face in your hands as the remaining traces of nervous attraction refused to be shaken off.

“Did that...just really happen?”

Read on AO3

Like what you see? Consider buying me a coffee

#Dante x reader #flowershop fic #flowers #flower shop oc #flower shop witch #dante devil may cry #devil may cry #gunpowder and rose petals #chapter 1

203 notes · View notes