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fairy-writes · 1 year ago

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Would it be too much to ask for a William James Moriarty x Holmes sister reader? Like she's a travelling archaeologist/anthropologist who's a genius in the field and has found many artifacts and lost cities and can be a bit of an eccentric looney like her older brother Sherly but she's also incredibly kind to those in need and often donates her treasures to the less fortunate and even helps Sherly from time to time which is how he meets her and is impressed by her smarts and sarcastic wits. Also, a bit of a parkour junky likes to wear mens clothes tailored for her measurements and often wears her hair in loose buns or ponytails and loves riding horseback much to Mycroft's displeasure🤭

A BUSINESS PROPOSAL

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

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Fandom(s): Moriarty the Patriot

Pairing(s): William James Moriarty x Reader

Word Count: 3k

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Female!Reader, Holmes!Reader, Mildly sexist behavior from Mycroft? It is the 1800s after all.

Notes: So this was super fun to write!

Fun fact! I took an archaeology class for my associate’s degree in criminal justice and highly recommend taking one to anyone in college!

I actually took several anthropology classes (intro to anthro, bio anthro, and archaeology). I even considered switching my major to anthropology at some point! (I switched it to English lol)

PART TWO HERE

PART THREE HERE

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Otis whinnies, and you reach forward from your place in the saddle to pat his neck.

“Easy, Otie, almost there.” You whisper to him and gently nudge him to turn down the familiar road of Baker Street. You could spot your brother’s flat from where you were at, an unfamiliar carriage parked in front. You frown briefly and then shrug. Sherlock could have whoever he liked over.

But… he did promise to take you out on the town in celebration of your latest discovery. Did he forget?

No… He wasn’t the type to forget something like that. You had been exchanging letters for weeks about your coming home.

A tall man was at the front of the carriage, tending to the horses. He had spiked black hair and a glove on one hand. He looks at you with skeptical eyes as you draw near and dismount your horse. The Cleveland Bay snorts, ruffling your hair as you smooth your hand up his snout and between his eyes. Then, you promptly tied his reins to the post outside 221B Baker Street and went up to the front door.

The door knocker was more worn than you last remembered, with the shiny brass turning a glimmering gold color from all the hands touching it. You rap the door once, twice, then a third time, and wait, stuffing your hands in your trouser pockets.

A young man opens the door, sandy blond hair combed neatly and brown eyes alight with curiosity. A grin breaks your face, and you step forward into his arms as he realizes just who is at the door.

“My dear John!” You shriek, and he chuckles, lifting you off your feet and spinning once in a circle before setting you down.

“I thought you weren’t due back for another two weeks!” He replies excitedly, and you laugh gleefully.

“We finished early! Anyhow, how’s Mary? Sherlock said you two were expecting!” You say and slap his shoulder good-naturedly. He ducks his head, a pink flush on his cheeks as he nods.

“She’s home at the mo. But yes, we’re expecting. The midwife thinks it’ll be a girl based on how she’s carrying.” He said, and before you could say any more, there was a noise at the top of the stairs.

You turn, and your grin widens even more until your cheeks hurt.

“Sherly!” You crow, and he bounds down the stairs to sweep you up in a bear hug. His boisterous laugh made your heart sing, and you buried your nose in his hair. He smelled like cigarette smoke and whiskey. He must have been on a case. He squeezes you tight and sets you down.

“I thought you were coming back in two weeks!” He exclaims, and you roll your eyes,

“So John said, I told you we finished early!” You tease, and it is then that you notice that there is someone else in the flat.

He was tall, probably around your brother’s height. He had blond hair and deep scarlet eyes that studied you with interest. He was dressed in a brown suit with a crimson tie. A lord. That much is obvious.

Sherlock notices that you notice his friend and gestures to the man at the top of the stairs.

“This is Liam! A mathematics professor at Durham University and a friend of mine who helps me on my cases.” He says proudly as “Liam” descends the stairs and approaches you.

You stick out a hand and introduce yourself. His hand is smooth like you expected, as opposed to your calloused one. You had bandages littering your fingertips from blisters from shovels and tools.

“William James Moriarty. I’ve heard stories about you.” His British lilt is proper and endearing. You feel your heart flutter and your ears burn. But you smile warmly nonetheless and give his hand a firm shake.

“As much as I’d like to say the same, Sherly has yet to tell me about you in his letters.” You direct the last sentence to your older brother in the same teasing tone as before.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and punches your shoulder lightly while William watches on in amusement.

“I got distracted!” Sherlock complains, and you break out into giggles.

“I would love to hear some stories if you’re up to it.” William cut in gently before you, and Sherlock could start bickering. You brighten. A chance to tell stories of your work and not have someone get bored? It sounded like heaven!

That was how you got to where you were at the current moment.

You were seated next to Sherlock at the Moriarty dining table, regaling them with a story of the most current dig you had been on.

“—and Egypt was absolutely smashing! It was so beautiful!” You say, waving your hands excitedly as you describe the tomb that had been uncovered. It had taken weeks to uncover everything, almost months. But oh so worth it.

“Might I ask what you did with all the artifacts you found?” William inquires, and you hum as you sip at your wine.

“Donated it all back to the locals. It’s the least I can do. Plenty of archaeologists steal their finds and bring them back to England to show in museums. I try and do the opposite.” You say and were pleased to see William nod in approval.

At least someone shared your sentiment.

You got a letter to your very old and very dusty flat a week after your return to England, summoning you to your eldest brother’s estate. You had been dusting and cleaning your furniture when the postman knocked on your door. You frown, brushing your pants on the seat of your trousers, and answer the door.

The letter was short.

Dearest sister,

I have received news of your return to Egypt. I would like to have your company at the family estate for dinner to discuss business and your adventures.

With best regards,

Mycroft Holmes

A summons to the Holmes family estate that your oldest brother had inherited after your parents retired to the country. You look at the ceiling and groan, eliciting a funny look from the postman.

This was going to be fun.

As soon as Otis realizes where you are, he tosses his head and tries to turn around. You tug the reins so he faces the right direction and nudge him into a walk down the road.

“Otie, I don’t want to do this either. But I’d rather not have Mikey send special forces after us or something.” You say to Otis, and when you reach the stables, Mycroft’s hired stable hand takes your beloved horse’s reins. “Take good care of him!” You nearly reprimand the stable hand who agrees and welcomes you back with ease.

The maids welcome you in excitedly when you rap on the massive double doors, and you are ushered upstairs into the dining room.

Mycroft was seated at the head of the table, where your father would be if he were here, and he stood to greet you. He offers a handshake, but you simply smile warmly and hug him tightly. He may have grated on your nerves, but he was still your brother. Mycroft stiffens and pats your shoulders awkwardly when you step back.

“As awkward as always, I see Mikey.” You said and took a seat at the table next to him like you did when you were kids. He clears his throat and calls for the kitchen staff to bring in the food.

It wasn’t much, considering there were only two of you. But it was as extravagant as Mycroft always demanded it to be.

“Would you like to change into dinner attire before we eat, sister dearest?” Mycroft says suddenly, just as you are about to dig into the delicious roast prepared by the staff of the household. You put your fork down and scowl.

“Don’t start with this, Mikey. You know I hate dresses.” You snap, and he raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push the issue.

At least… he doesn’t until you are done with your meal and in his study, talking about your travels to Egypt.

You down the rest of your whiskey and set the glass whiskey tumbler on the table between you two.

“More whiskey?” He offers, and you shake your head.

“I want to be able to ride home after this.” You say and hold in a yawn. The excellent food combined with the fireplace blazing with a crackling fire is lulling you to sleep.

Suddenly, Mycroft stands and walks in front of the fire, setting his own glass down on the mantle and turning to face you.

“Might we talk some business?” He inquires, and immediately, your mood sours.

So this was his end goal? Get you sleepy and drunk so you couldn’t ride home and were subject to his pleadings?

“I don’t want to hear it, Mikey.” You say and stand, holding onto the back of the wingback chair for a moment as the dizziness sets in.

He scowls,

“You are of perfect age. The season is just starting. You could still join in and find a potential suitor!” He tries, and you scrub at your face.

“I already told you I wasn’t interested in courting! I’m interested in—”

“Your work, I know. But what happens when the digs dry up and there’s nothing else for you to do? What will you do when you get too old for this?!” He snaps, and you whirl, steadying yourself with the chair as your anger flares.

“It won’t dry up! There are thousands of years of history still to be discovered! Hundreds of thousands of cities and archaeological finds!” Your voice rises to a shout, and you hear distant footsteps as maids scurry away from you and your brother’s anger.

This goes on for several minutes until Mycroft a bomb on you.

“Mother and Father have decided. If you don’t find someone to court, they will no longer fund your excavations, and you’ll be stuck here with me.”

You freeze, hands wound tightly in your hair, and argument dying on your tongue.

“B—But that would mean—” Mycroft cuts you off gently and approaches, putting his hands on your shoulders.

“You’d be stuck here until you find a husband—no more digs. No more artifacts. Not until you do as they and I ask.” Tears well up in your eyes, and you shrug off his hands violently and flee.

Your boots pound against the hardwood floors, and you run outside where it has started pouring rain. Instantly, your clothes are soaked as you make it to the stables, dress Otis in his saddle and bridle, and swiftly mount his back. He tears out of the stables at a thundering gallop, and the stable hand barely dives out of the way to save himself from being trampled.

Otis’s hooves dash against the cobblestone roads. You cling to his reins and hunch over his back as tears stream down your face and sobs wrack your body.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Taking away your funding?

No one wanted to fund a woman on an archaeological dig!

Much less one as young as yourself!

You were screwed! Doomed to live as a housewife because that was society’s and your parent’s expectations of you!

Otis eventually comes to a halt, and you dismount, collapsing onto a bench, breathing hard as rain pours down your body. Your shirt sticks to your skin, and your trousers swim in water as you sit in a puddle on the bench. But you can’t bring it in you to care.

A carriage rumbles to a stop before you, and you look up as the door opens.

“Might I interest you in some shelter?” Comes a proper and endearing accent that you recognize.

“William?” You sniffle, and he smiles, extending a hand.

“If you’ll let him, Fred will handle your horse. How about you step inside the carriage, and we’ll take you back to the Moriarty estate.” He says over the rain. A young man with a blue scarf wrapped around his head gets off the front of the carriage and approaches. You hiccup and nod, handing Otis’s reins to the young man and accepting William’s hand into the carriage. He sheds his overcoat and offers it.

It’s warm and heavy as you wrap it around your shoulders and sit down. Your boots squelch against the floor, and William knocks twice against the carriage's wall, and it starts moving once again.

The Morairty estate is even grander than you remember, looming over you as the carriage stops by the front doors. You nearly slip in your haste to get inside and are taken up the stairs to one of the many bedrooms.

“Draw a bath and get warm. I’ll have some clothes brought by. We can have a talk after you’ve collected yourself.” William says gently, and you nod, taking off his overcoat so he can have it back. He excuses himself, and you are left alone in the suite.

The bath is nice and hot, and you let out a sigh as you shed your clothes into a pile on the floor and sink into the warm water. Your tears are drying, but your emotions are still raging like a rabid dog inside you.

How could they?

Didn’t your family know archaeology was your passion? Your dream?! Of course, they did! You never shut up about it when you were but a little girl learning to play the piano! You babbled on and on about fossils and artifacts in between lessons until you were blue in the face!

It wasn’t long until you were done in the bath and dried off. As William had promised, some clothes were left on the bed. A button-down that looked like it might fit you, a pair of trousers that might be a bit too long, and a pair of undergarments. You tugged on the underwear and then the trousers, having to cuff them at the bottom so you didn’t trip. The shirt fit better than you thought so you pinned your hair out of your face and left the bedroom and down the hall. Hadn’t there been a sitting room just down the stairs?

William was inside, stoking a fire with a poker, his back to you. He stood and turned when you rapped lightly on the entryway. His lips curled in a welcoming smile, and he gestured for you to take a seat.

“Would you like some tea? I had Louis put the kettle on.” He said, and you nodded, sitting on the couch beside the fire.

“Thank you. For the clothes and… everything else.” You mumble, and he shakes his head,

“Don’t mention it. Sherlock mentioned you hated dresses.” He says and pours you a cup of tea.

It’s delicious. It warms you from the tips of your ears to the ends of your bare toes. You scuff them on the plush carpet as William sits across from you. His scarlet eyes are illuminated like glittering rubies in the oranges and yellows of the fire. They’re alive like a torch resides inside.

“Now, might I ask why you were out in the rain?” William asks as soon as you’ve settled into your spot. You bite your lip and wonder if you can trust him with your problems.

Sherlock trusted him well enough…

Perhaps…

“I got into an argument with Mycroft. He said my parents will cut off my funding for excavations if I don’t find a proper husband.” You blurt, and he hums as he takes a sip from his cup.

“I assume they’ve been funding your past archaeological escapades?” He says, and you nod.

“Correct. But that is going to change unless I get married.” You grumble, and he cocks his head to the side, setting his cup down on the tea table next to him and seemingly mulling something over.

“This may be a bit forward, but I have a proposal. A business proposal, if you will.” He starts, and you narrow your eyes. A business proposal? You set your own cup down and cross one leg over the other.

“Go on…” You say hesitantly, and he clasps his hands together as if working out a problem in his head. Sherlock did say he was a mathematics professor.

“I could marry you.” You inhale sharply and proceed to choke on your saliva. William half gets out of his chair to come to your aid when you finally get your coughing under control.

“Why?!” You demand, and he shrugs,

“I’ve done some research into you. You are spearheading the way in new archaeological techniques. You donate your finds back to the locals in need. And frankly, I find you fascinating. If we go ahead with this, you’ll have access to my brother Albert’s influence as well as the Moriarty name and fortune.” He says, and you sit back, stunned.

“I could continue my work?” You say skeptically, and he nods.

“Indeed. There’s no reason to stop you. I might ask for a lecture or two from you at Durham University. But that’s it. So…” He extends a hand for you to shake. “Have we reached an accord?”

You are speechless as possibilities run rampant through your brain. You’d be free from your parent’s influence as well as pleasing them. Though pleasing them was the last thing on your mind. Yes, you’d be married. But like William said… it was more of a business proposal…

You reach forward and shake his hand. His smile widens marginally as you speak,

“I accept your proposal.”

#william james moriarty x reader #william james moriarty x you #william james moriarty x y/n #moriarty x reader #mtp william #mtp william x reader #ynm william #ynm x reader #mtp x reader #moriarty the patriot x reader #yuukoku no moriarty x reader #fairy writes

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charcubed · 8 months ago

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wait I'm sorry I just got kicked in the face. There's gonna be more sherlock?

LMFAAAOOO

Okay so. Yes because real ones know that that's always been the case!!

Here's a list of some of the ancient lore quotes from Mofftiss about the 5 season arc:

"instant series commission, a guaranteed 2nd series, a cuddle, a guaranteed 3rd series, and a whispered invitation back to 'my place' (where I'll explain that really I've got a 5-series arc in mind, & a spin-off)" –Moffat, 2009 (one year before Sherlock)

"Having started off with Sherlock and John much younger men than they are usually presented, it would be rather lovely to keep going. I love the idea of them being in their 50's and still doing it." Mark Gatiss, 2013

“…we just got out of the rain and sat at the top of the [Sherlock] production bus… and we just started plotting out what we could do in the future. And we plotted out the whole of series four and five.” –Moffat, 2014

Moffat: "We've had the most sketchy discussions on what we'd do." Mark: "We have an idea for season five on a Post-it note. That's as far as we've got. Unless I'm lying?" –2016

Moffat: "Thank you for showing more patience than any other fandom in history." Mark: "Stay tuned!" 2020, celebrating the 10-year anniversary

Those are just the quotes I have on hand right now, of course, but I do enjoy trotting them out lmao.

And yeah, after s4, basically Moffat or Mark or Sue Vertue all pop up in press every now and then to essentially publicly say "yeah we'd love to make more Sherlock but it's so hard to get ahold of Benedict and Martin :/ someday!" and everyone on the internet goes "OH MY GOD SHERLOCK IS COMING BACK???" and those of us who have been here the entire time are like "yes. it's a matter of when, not if" looollll. (There was an article with quotes by Sue a few days ago so that's why everyone is discussing it again.)

Of course, quotes by the creators (who are also notorious liars) are arguably not what matters most. The biggest evidence that there will be more Sherlock is the fact that the show indicates a 5-season arc and always has. Lowest hanging fruit: "The Five Pips" of The Great Game, for example.

But! Required reading: I humbly direct you to this post by the brilliant @devoursjohnlock. It continues to be my favorite summary about what this show is doing, as a queer story that acts as a queer adaptation/interpretation of Arthur Conan Doyle's work to bring the subtext of the original stories to light as text – amongst other things. And it talks about how/why the story remains unresolved.

Aaaaand I also direct you to this post by @bisexualmindcabin explaining how/why there may be a 10 year gap before s5 – a.k.a. just like Arthur Conan Doyle brought Sherlock Holmes back 10 years after killing him, if Mofftiss wanted to recreate that, they'd possibly aim to bring the show back 10 years after "killing" it.

SO YEAH

TL;DR: THERE'S GONNA BE MORE SHERLOCK

eventually

#(and Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are going to kiss.)#anon I got on my laptop for you to write this.#sherlock #tjlc #God I'm sooooo rusty / behind when it comes to Sherlock meta too... there's still so much newer stuff I haven't read #masterpieces by our most brilliant minds the past few years while I've been doing other bullshit. unacceptable. I need to lock in

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lol-jackles · 5 months ago

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Hello,

It’s nice to see you more active on here at the moment.

I was thinking about how you tend to say that the bi-bros who lean towards Sam are more in line with the GA.

But, I watch lots of reactors watch SPN for the first time, and they often lean towards Dean (I’d say 3/5), and I’ve heard a similar ratio say that they think Jensen is a noticeably better actor than Jared.

So, my questions are, are they letting fan expectations colour their reactions (hellers and Dean girls are very fast to pounce on new reactors), are they already Destiel curious from seeing edits in tumblr (I know of at least one who fits this), or do they acquaint “they make me feel emotional therefore they are the best actor”?

For me personally, on my first watch, Dean killed me with his love for family and Sammy and I empathized more with him usually, at least until Season 4/5 where he started pissing me off regularly. But, when I rewatch, I love episodes like Mystery Spot and Born Under a Bad Sign, or Souless Sam episodes because Jared is just so good when he gets something interesting to do. I find the Dean crying stuff less compelling on rewatches because it’s not as interesting to me (with a few expectations) after the first and second viewing. And acting at mirrors scenes gets old for me in particular very quickly.

In short, I think both are good, with different strengths, but I wonder why so many new viewers that I come across see Jensen as being stronger and Dean as being better. Do the just fail to see past the narrative bias? Or they just like Sean because he’s more fun?

Anyway, I appreciate any thoughts you want to share on this. And I’m also wondering if there is stats anywhere in GA favoring Sam?

First, because Sam girls commit “geek social fallacies” by also liking Dean because they love that Dean revolves around their Sammy. But Dean/Jensen stans don’t return the favor because they hate that Dean revolves around his Sammy so they hate on Sammy even though under their breath they’ve said if Jensen had been playing Sammy all along they wouldn’t change any of the writing. That’s why there appears to be a Dean bias in the SPN fandom because Sam fans also likes Dean.

It’s not a coincidence that Sam girls are the fandom’s official representative (all the meta fans on the show are Sam fans). The show is mostly Sam-centric, if the bitter Sam girls won’t believe me then believe Jensen’s interviews when he said that SPN is Sam-centric and called season 10 a "rare Dean-centric storyline". (X)

Second, Dean is supposed to be a scene stealer, that's what support-protagonist do. Often our favorite characters are not the protagonist but these scene stealers characters, they are usually cool or very funny. But it becomes a problem when producers try to capitalize on the character’s popularity, like creating a spin-off. Like spices, which can not take the place of the main course, scene stealers often fail as leads because their “special-ness” evaporates when they have to carry the show. It's why WB canceled Supernatural when Jared told them he was leaving, because they knew a Dean-led Supernatural wouldn't work.

So while I'm watching an episode, I am more drawn to Dean because he’s more fun or interesting to watch. However the next day I remember the episode through Sam’s actions and interactions. Some of my readers tell me that they were surprised that they seem to “forget” Dean when they recall specific storylines, I said that’s supposed to happen with the support-protagonist. We don't remember much of what John Watson did in the classic Sherlock Holmes or what was Nick Carraway's deal in The Great Gatsby.

It's the protagonist who mobilizes the story and stands out in readers’ or audiences’ minds. Dean needs interaction with Sam in order for the audience to even remember him because he's part of the protagonist’s story. It’s why I keep saying Supernatural is Sam’s story, it's his Hero’s Journey. Dean is at his best when he’s focused on Sam (which is why season 10 sucked and season 5 was kind of weak).

Third, Jensen is a personality actor and people are generally more drawn to them. Jared is a character actor who is trapped in a leading man role. Jensen has been Jensen “Dean Winchester” Ackles for the majority of his TV and movie roles since 1998. It’s why Jensen initially made a bigger splash with Dean in the early Supernatural seasons because he’s already been playing Dean for years since Days of Our Lives. In 2005 when SPN premiered, Jensen had a 7 years head start playing Dean compared to Jared who was just starting to play Sam and had to create Sam from scratch. By season 3, audiences began to notice Jared's versatile acting skills and he would soon be tasked with playing different characters because that's what character actors do.

#supernatural #dean winchester #sam winchester

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bakerstreethound · 9 months ago

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What if Mornings Were Good?

Relationship: Sherlock Holmes x gender neutral reader

Warnings: melancholy, brain fog, themes of anxiety & depression, yes the car has a CD player, sherlock is soft, and cuddles and kisses

Summary: Days pass in a blur, and they've been hard to find joy in, each one passing slowly, yet quickly simultaneously and you want it to slow down. Luckily, Sherlock is there to comfort and support you along the way, though your mind is intent on bullying you and causing you anxiety for the future and everything in between.

All writings belong to me @bakerstreethound (Do NOT claim, copy, repost, or translate my works to other sites. I only publish here and on A03 under the same username)

Word Count: 1.1k+

A/N: Hello lovelies. Was this fic perhaps a projection about how I have been feeling the past few weeks? Perhaps. Alas, it is better to get it out and create from the doubt and worry. This is only a brief example of my own experience and everyone processes differently. Your experiences are valid. Please enjoy! Graphic by @firefly-graphics Comments & reblogs are greatly appreciated!

Mornings were a struggle. Getting out of bed, battling your mind for the things you should do then not doing them. It was annoying so much that you’d rather sleep the day away the anxious ball of depression pressing down on you not wanting you to breathe, not wanting to let you go.

It was hard to eat too, forcing something down and swallowing while trying to enjoy it never helped either, but it was the best you could do.

Such a morning as now where you got yourself out of bed at noon, feeling less than groggy, yet your heart ached less. As you went through your morning routine or half a semblance of it, making your bed, changing into shorts and a comfortable graphic tea, you looked at the list you conjured on your phone the late hours of the night prior.

Gas, coffee, flowers, craft (maybe watercolors)

It was a doable list and you gather your things, your large satchel filled with your notebook and a paperback, before going to check your mail.

Your mail made you cringe at the tax return, making you worried if it was fraudulent. You would worry about it later. You had to. You did not want to cause any more trouble for yourself than you had the past few weeks with the University starting up for the last time. The last time, was your last semester in academia. How terrifying.

You shove these thoughts away, adamant not to dwell on them, for your mind would spiral and spin. That was not a good outcome, either, to worry about that which might not come to pass.

So you do what you do best and breathe, pushing the intrusive thoughts aside, and let yourself wander up and down the aisles of the grocery store, smelling the flowers, and picking a selection of purple and white. You smile to yourself, wondering at the quiet joy, and add a frozen pizza to your basket and checkout, looking forward to the rest of your adventure.

A trip out of the apartment is what you usually need to curb the fog and storms that hover in the furthest reaches of your mind. It can be cruel there to you, endless worry. Someway you will feel better.

You repeat this mantra as you find yourself stuck in traffic on the short drive home, slightly cursing at your beat down car that hobbled along for seven years, on the verge of breaking down with an engine struggling to keep up, another expense after the other.

Your check engine light going off the other day didn’t help matters, either but your mechanic assured you he would get a better look that weekend, especially since it is an exhaust leak.

You breathe tuning in to the CD player thrumming with the rotation of your favorite band’s music, a soothing balm to your soul. Then you are singing alone and then, you’re back safe at home. The craft store was closed so you couldn’t fetch your watercolors, but it doesn’t matter now.

The door of your apartment opens and Sherlock is there greeting you with a soft smile, gentle and warm. He is not supposed to be back until later in the day, but you aren’t complaining, especially when his eyes lock onto yours in question, his lips twitching in eagerness.

“Welcome home!”

“Thank you, my dear.”

“Find anything interesting?” He takes your bag from your shoulder, a welcome relief before pulling you into a gentle hug, his scent a comfort, stirring a warmth within you. You can stay like this for hours and he knows it.

You murmur against his neck, pressing a kiss there and nuzzling further. Your mind is exhausted for no reason, well besides the panic and worry over an uncertain future, but you have five more months to figure it out, apply for jobs, and trudge on. It is all you can do. That and prayer.

He brings your bags to the kitchen, putting your purchases that need to be refrigerated away. He stops when he sees the flowers and holds them out to you.

“Where would you like these?” he asks almost sheepishly, mentally kicking himself that he didn’t get you any, let alone stop to think about it. John would give him an earful about it, later.

“In this vase,” you say, pulling it from the sink from where you had left it to dry the previous night. You find a pair of scissors and set those on the cluttered table as well, watching Sherlock carefully unwrap the flowers, trimming their stems like so, while you gently arrange them to your heart's content.

You can’t think of a more perfect time than this - a moment of peace, though your stomach involuntarily coils in knots, overthinking the rest of your week, wondering how the hell you are going to make it and do your school work and tasks. The thought makes you ill as you think back to your topic assignment, the reminders of revisions going through your mind.

You have sent the email to change the topic and you are hopeful that the change will be allowed. You wish your mind isn’t so insistent on choosing one thing then letting yourself fall, then wanting to pick another topic better suited for your interests.

You don’t know why it insists on throwing you into a box for no reason, and consequently making your mind and body become at war again.

A ping goes off from your phone email. The knots in your stomach clench and unclench as you read the new response from your professor. All will be okay, the request for topic change is approved along with an extension for the literature review preview. You almost cry in relief, your shoulders sagging, tension bleeding from you when Sherlock locks eyes with you.

“I knew you’d be okay, my dear,” he rumbles.

You hiccup, “I never feel like I will be. Brain is insistent and rude yet here we are. Everything has turned out okay.” Perhaps some mornings can be splendid, after all.

You fall into Sherlock’s waiting embrace, clinging to him as you wrap around him while he stumbles to the living room, depositing you on the sofa before turning on the telly and fetching an assortment of DVDs. These are the DVDs you recognize from your childhood, along with an assortment of your favorite spooky season picks. You pick up The Corpse Bride, watching Sherlock’s lips twitch in amusement.

“Knew you’d choose it.”

“Who said I wouldn’t?”

“John,” he says matter-of-factly, sliding the movie into the console.

You chuckle. Of course, they bet on your movie selections. It’s what they do when Sherlock is bored, or John can’t get Sherlock motivated to work on what he considers a “boring, good for nothing case.

Regardless, you open your arms to him, smiling as he sets a favorite book of yours on the coffee table, before settling in your embrace as you wrap the two of you in a well-loved blanket.

Yes, perhaps an entire day can be splendid indeed.

******

#sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock x you #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock fanfiction #bbc sherlock #benedict cumberbatch #my writing #my alleyway

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thesummerpetrichor · 2 years ago

Text

𝓒𝓪𝓻𝓶𝓮𝓷: 𝓢𝓽𝓪𝔂𝓲𝓷’ 𝓾𝓹 𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷’

Javier Peña x afab!fem!reader

Summary: If he thought giving into his urges and fucking you at his embassy’s end of year dinner would lend him any relief from your antics, Agent Peña was wildly mistaken. Day two of your weekend getaway brings you the realisation that you’ve got him wrapped around your little finger.

Warnings: 18+ only minors DNI you will be blocked. Mentions of DEA, reader is the ambassadors daughter, thicc age gap [reader is in her early 20s Javi is in his 40s], petnames, cigarette smoking, alcohol consumption, minor drug use, sex under the influence [minor dubcon], daddy issues ™, mommy issues ™, mean!brat tamer!dom!Javi, brat!reader, daddy kink, size kink [javi is describe to be bigger than the reader], degradation, playing footsie, use of clothes as restraints, semi public sex, fucking in the hot tub, thigh riding, one spank, a few slaps [I had to], phone sex, cream pie, unprotected P in V [don’t do it!!]. Let me know if I missed anything 🫶

Word count: 10.4k

A/N: Part two of the three part getaway series. A long time coming so I hope you enjoy. Things are messier and nastier and only get worse from here. 🫶🐝💗

🍓Part One 🍓Masterlist

Carmen, Carmen

Staying up 'til morning

You twirled the phone cord between your fingers.

After getting back to your room the previous night you cleaned up and slipped into bed– exhausted and content. The smell of Javier's clary sage and cedarwood perfume insisted on clinging to your skin, despite the fact that you’d showered, and lulled you into a heavy slumber– the cold sheets swallowing you and sending you to dream land.

The night went mostly peacefully, considering your mind endlessly conjured up images of Agent Peña trying to explain why he missed nearly half of his embassy’s dinner party when all he was required to do was escort you outside for some fresh air.

As you lay in bed he was likely in front of your father, lying through his teeth about the fact that you weren’t feeling too well, that you had a headache and decided to retire to your room. Pretending like he hadn’t been fingering you under the dinner table, like you didn’t clean his cum off your dress and face minutes ago. The thought made your head spin, and in the best way. The infamous Javier Peña, the man who didn’t let anyone or anything control him– unable to control himself.

You fell asleep that night feeling like a winner, undefeated, but that was only until you could once again feel the ghost of his touch on your inner thigh, the prickle of his stubble on your cheek, and the brush of his lips against your jaw. The man was haunting you.

The ac was on full blast, but the room felt hot and muggy. Somewhere along the line you’d tossed your sheets off your body, still asleep but not oblivious to the tension building in your core.

Images of Agent Peña projected in your closed eyes like a stuttery film reel. In your sleep these images were brief, but vivid, and distinct, and some of them unreal and dream-like. Your imagination took flight, and it wasn’t long before you could almost feel him against you, and his hands were roaming your body, and he was grabbing your hips, and he leaned down and kissed you roughly. You felt his breath on your neck, and his hand slipped between your aching thighs, and –

You woke up in a cold sweat, and you were sure you could feel your heartbeat caught in your throat. The room around you felt small, and your chest rose and fell uncomfortably as you hit the bed, with uninterrupted force, once again. Shifting about uneasily you could only hope your little indulgent wet dream was an outlier.

You glanced at the clock beside you.

6:00 AM

And that’s how you ended up where you were– scrambling for the phone on the bedside table and impulsively trying to Sherlock Holmes your way into getting Javier’s room number.

When you first heard his name being called across the reception the previous day you remembered seeing someone toss him the keys to his room. He carried them with him everywhere. Even when he sneaked up beside you back at the restaurant.

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing your brain to reconstruct the image of his keychain dangling from his fingertips, trying to form out the room numbers carved into the wood from the blur. You sat there for a good forty seconds, praying for a bible level miracle until from the fuzzy memory you made out the numbers.

736

Sure, your plan was far from foolproof, but worst case scenario you’d wake up Noonan or something. There wasn't much to lose. So you twirled the cord between your fingers and listened to the ring of the call.

The receiver clicked as it was picked up from the other end, a gruff half sleepy voice coming through the static.

“Buenos días?” you rolled your eyes, even on vacation the man couldn't help but answer so formally. He sounded half dead as is.

“Relax Agent Peña, you're on vacation.”

“Jesus Christ-” He breathed in an exasperated sigh, in that half questioning half irate tone. “You sound a little tired. I hope I'm not disturbing you, Agent.” Despite being playful your voice was hushed and thick with sleep. So was his.

“No no , not at all-” he sighed heavily, tone monotonous, and you heard him fiddle with the phone cord. “I was just running laps around my room.” You rolled your eyes.

“What's got you up so early babydoll?” The fact that he didn't know immediately why you’d called him at the crack of dawn was beyond you. Did he think you wanted to have a little chit chat? You decided not to mention it.

“Dreamt ‘about you.” letting out a heavy breath, you sank back against your pillows, letting the sheets swallow you. “‘S that so?” Your words seemed to peak his interest, and despite only having known him a couple of hours you’d figured out there was nothing more effective at accomplishing that task than stroking his ego.

“Couldn't sleep.” He couldn’t see it, but you pouted nonetheless.

“Oh yeah? And ya had to wake me up early in the damn morning?” He wasn’t as annoyed as he was a moment ago. His voice was lower, deeper, softer. Something told you he didn't mind.

“Need you.”

He chuckled lowly. “Already, babydoll? Barely been ten hours.” The smugness seeped through the phone, you could practically see his cocky smile. If you weren't as desperate as you were you wouldn’t have let it pass.

“Couldn’t stop thinkin ‘bout you.” It was difficult not to give in quick and easy. You wanted to make him work for it, but that plan only lasted till you heard that voice of his drip like honey through the phone.

“Thinkin’ bout what?” You heard his sheets shuffle delicately as he presumably propped himself up. That demanding voice had you clenching your thighs together as the ache built. So you relented, telling him what he wanted to hear. It was true either way. “Your cock. How you made me cum.”

“Yeah?” It wasn’t a question. “Thinking about how daddy stretched you open?” The ‘yes’ that escaped your lips was broken, mostly thanks to what he called himself.

“Insatiable aren't ya babydoll?” His subtle accent seemed a lot more pronounced so early in the morning. Not quite a southern drawl, but flaunting the Texas charm nonetheless. You hummed and fiddled with the hem of your sleepshirt in an attempt to occupy your hands.

“Yeah, and now you’re all wet ‘n achy?” It was more a statement than a question, one dripping with faux sympathy. You whined another quiet yes, running your cool palms across your inner thighs. It was difficult to relent to his mocking, but you were dripping for him, and you needed the release.

“Poor little thing…you touch that pretty pussy thinkin’ of how I made y’a come on my cock?”

“Nuh uh. Didn’t touch.” You said proudly. And you were proud– of your self restraint, not quite proud of how desperate you sounded. He hummed and sounded equally proud. Maybe even a little impressed. He sucked in a breath, and you heard his sheets crinkle again.

“my cute lil pussy’s drippin all over those panties?” he didn't let you respond. “Or should I ask if my little slut’s even wearing any?” My little slut. He was right. He practically owned your body. You couldn’t even sleep without thinking of him.

As for your panties, you were, but you wished you werent. You were sure the fabric was soaked, you felt it cling to your core. You wiggled your hips in frustration, desperate for any amount of friction to ease the ache between your thighs.

He hushed your whines again, the moan slipping past your lips as you squeezed your breast making you sound increasingly incoherent.

“Not a thought in that head’ve yours huh? can’t even get the words out?” Your hand danced up to run along your upper body, fingers teasing over the swell of your breasts as you sucked in a sharp breath. He wasn’t wrong.

“S’okay babydoll, you can touch.” you heard him swallow thickly, enough to convey that he might have been just as desperate as you. He heard your huffs through the phone, and in his condescending way shushed you gently. “Tell me how wet ya’ are f’ me baby, feel how wet y’are f’daddy”

He didn't need to ask twice. With your lust blown gaze tilted downwards your fingers danced across the skin of your inner thighs. They brushed the hem of your panties as you dipped your hand between your legs, teasing yourself with feather light touches.

An obscene moan bubbled in your throat as you ran a finger over your throbbing slit. Your panties were soaked, barely a barrier between your fingers and your aching pussy.

“Hmm so wet daddy, ruined em.” it took every fiber in your being to resist the urge to pull them aside, your voice higher than it usually was.

“I know babydoll, I know.” his faux sympathy had your breath hitching. “Imagine how wet you were for me last night.” The thought made you shudder. If you thought you were on edge you couldn’t imagine just how hot you were when he was around. Reminders of the night before sparked in your head.

You rubbed yourself over your thin cotton panties. “Feel how wet you were ‘round my cock?”

“Jus’ for you..” He hummed in satisfaction, and you once again heard his sheets shuffling. “That's right baby, just for daddy.” He hummed. “Thinkin’ bout that cute lil face of yours, fuck. Those pretty eyes lookin’ up at me.”

You recalled him above you the previous night as you kneeled in front of him, your lips wrapped around his thick cock as you gazed up at him.

“Daddy need your cock..” your thighs closed around your hand, your digits drenched in your slick. You heard him curse under is breath, the unmistakable sound of his hand on his cock filling your ears.

“Ohh- fuck, rub that pretty lil clit for me babydoll” You pulled your panties aside, finally letting your fingers meet your weeping core. You started slow, following the low hum of his voice as it emanated through the phone speaker.

“Feel good?’ Closing your eyes you nodded– imagined him laying on his bed, on his back, eyes screwed shut as he tried his best to decipher your breathy sighs through the phone. You hated giving into him, confessing how much you ached and longed for him, but you just couldn’t help yourself– especially when he rewarded you. You shuddered as you teased your clit.

The image had you lost in your own head for a few seconds.

“Use your words, slut” he sternly reprimanded. The world felt like it was spinning, and you only got more light headed when you let him take control. “not as good as yours.” The cotton of your panties clung messily to your wet cunt as you pulled them off, sliding them down your legs and off your ankles.

“Fuck babydoll” He sighed in aproval, “can see ya already, hand between those pretty thighs.” The fact that he could imagine you with your hand between your legs in nothing but your sleepshirt, as you thought of all the things you wanted him to do to you drove you wild.

There was nothing more exhilarating than being the subject of his dirty fantasy.

“Fuck yourself with your fingers” You pushed a finger in your dripping hole, sighing and letting your head rest back against your pillows. They didn’t feel like his, not quite hitting the spots he did the previous night, not stretching you open. Desperately needing to feel full you were quick to slide another finger in your aching cunt.

As if he could read your mind he was quick to interrupt you. “Just one” his voice was strained but just as commanding and stern as before. “Don't be a greedy slut, now” Whining, you wanted to protest, but something about his tone forced you into submission.

He hummed at your obedience, indulging you a little .“Feel how tight you were around me?”

“Fuck, bet those lil fingers dont feel as good as daddys do they? I know babydoll, wish I could take care of that pretty pussy..” he bit back a breathy moan “Yeah, they look better wrapped ‘round daddy's cock huh?” In no time your soft fingers moved back to circling your clit, and you felt that tight knot build in your core.

“Yes daddy, ahh, please.” You heard his breath quicken, you could almost feel it tickle the nape of your neck. You did miss him, you missed the way he engulfed you in his big arms, how he liked to rag doll you around, and force the brat out of you.

“Give yourself another baby..”

Your hips hurt, you felt like jello, hot to the touch. Your mind wandered further as you fucked yourself with your fingers– what it would feel like to have your legs on either side of his thighs, his hands grabbing and kneading the flesh of your hips like he had the previous night.

You didn't even realize how loud you were being, a string of incoherent noises slipping past your lips as the tension built in your belly. You wouldn’t have realized if Javier hadn’t angrily bit through the phone. “Shut that whore mouth of yours. Wouldn't want your pops hearing you moan like a lil slut.”

It only made you ache more. “Should’ve bent ya over my knee at that table, showed him what a dirty little girl ya’are.” your skin going hot and cunt throbbing around your fingers at his obscene words.

“Could teach him a thing or two about instilling good manners huh?” Javier could teach him a thing or two about quite a lot to be honest, and the thought made you crave him even more than you already did. The line crackled gently as he panted, and you imagined him thrusting into his fist as he thought of you.

“Maybe ya’ wouldn’t have turned out such a fuckin’ brat.” your movements sped up. “dirty lil girl, gettin fucked by a guy twice her age.”

“Can fuckin hear it.” his breath quickened. “Dirty little thing, ya’ liked that didn’t ya’? Can fuckin hear how bad ya’ need it.” He growled, and once again you could make out the sound of his hand over his cock just barely over the static.

“Don’t worry babydoll, gonna take care of that tight lil cunt.” You felt a bead of sweat drip down the side of your forehead.

“daddy ahh-” how words caught up with you, had your jaw dropping open. He knew what he was doing, and he made sure to let you know he did. “Dirty lil thing. Close huh baby?”

You could only moan and whine, unable to form a coherent sentence that conveyed just how badly you needed to cum. You were so close, far too close to hold back any longer. That of course, didn’t sit well with Javier.

“If ya tryin’ to convince me, it aint workin. Use your damn words whore.”

Your movements were quick and sloppy, eyes fluttering shut and head tilting side to side as you neared your release. “Daddy want it” You bit the words out, hips wiggling atop your sheets as they attempted to meet your hand.

“Look at that, ya missed the magic word baby.” he chuckled darkly. “Know you want it babydoll, but it don't matter, you take what I give ya’, don’t you?”

You whined, and kicked your legs delicately, frustrated at how unyielding he was. You could barely form the words.

“Please daddy, wanna cum, please, need it so bad.” you paused momentarily, voice small and desperate and breathy, “please lemme cum daddy..” Good manners always seemed to work with Javier

“That's it. Good little slut.” he hissed, rather urgently as he tried to suppress a groan. “Ohh Fuck. cum for me, cum for daddy.” He sounded as close as you did.

The line went silent, and you imagined Javier on the other side trying desperately to hear your whines. His drawn out groan was the last straw, accompanied by the mental image of him spilling all over his fist– the one you had playing in your mind as a loop.

“Daddy, gon- gonna cum- ah-” Your back arched off the mattress, eyes squeezing shut and jaw going slack. Your walls squeezed and throbbed around your fingers as you came in a wordless cry.

“Ohh fuck babydoll.” His voice just barely got picked up by the receiver. You lost track of the obscenities that left his mouth as he neared his release, a stray “babydoll” lost in the mix of snarls and grunts. You would have given anything to see him as he was– on his back, his thick cock in hand, eyes screwed shut and brows furrowed. You would have given anything to have your lips wrapped around him again. You felt your pussy clench and pulse around your digits.

There was a distinct lack of air in your lungs, and you struggled to catch your breath as you lay back against the sheets. You bit your lip as you heard him catch his breath. You’d just gotten off, but if you could you knew you’d be right at his door if he asked you in a moment's notice.

His voice cut through your thoughts. “Thanks for the wake up call.” you imagined how he was likely running a hand through that soft brown hair of his, you could make out the action from his strained voice.

“You're welcome” there was a short pause. Your brain buzzed, working overtime. Now far less anguished than you were before your snappy mouth was back at it. “And daddy?” you hovered your finger over the disconnect button, unwilling to let him have just a moment's peace.

“Babydoll?” his ears perked up everytime that word slipped past your lips. Your very own Pavlov’s bell. You imagined his raised brows, big brown eyes hopeful, and probably far less droopy then when he first picked up the phone.

“Don't be late, wouldn’t want the ambassador to get worried.” you pressed the button, the beep that followed returning you to your deafening and lonely silence.

—

Only seventeen,

but she walks the streets so mean

It was extremely odd to see the embassy employees all in beach shorts, flip flops, and Hawaiian shirts. It was jarring. Like when you saw your teachers out of school. People funneled in one by one for breakfast. Since their bosses couldn’t seem to leave them alone for more than a couple of hours at a time, they managed to make an event out of it.

You walked in beside your father, who had his phone plastered to his ear, and had decided his life’s mission was to keep his line busy as to avoid your mother’s incessant calling. Still blissed out from the morning, and in a considerably better mood than the night before, you decided to ignore the drama intermittently.

From the entrance of the restaurant you spotted Javier in the large open space facing the beach, in a white shirt, and black shorts. The shirt managed to be simultaneously too tight on his bulging arms, and slightly loose around his torso. It looked criminally soft, and was unbuttoned just enough to expose his tan chest, and give off the impression that he’d just rolled out of bed. Boy did you know that wasn’t true. He was sharing a cigarette with Colleen again, and was anxiously fiddling with the sunglasses atop his head between drags.

His eyes caught you as you moseyed your way to your table. Commendably, he tried not to be as obvious undressing you with his eyes this time, probably because you were standing right next to your father, who was himself, trying to suppress the glare he was tempted to shoot the agent. The man was in a bad mood and it wasn’t even nine yet.

The table was narrow, but might have been the longest one you’d ever seen in real life. It was a nightmare, trapping you between whoever you had the misfortune of being seated beside. You wished it was a buffet, at least it would give you an excuse to escape to grab refills.

You took your seat, sandwiched between your father and Maria. Only one side of your arrangement was agreeable. You felt a tad bit better when Agent Peña eased in right opposite you.

By the looks of it Javier was just as unenthused about the seating arrangements. In reality he had it a lot worse than you did– Owen to his left Stechner to his right. He’d even been separated from poor Colleen who had the misfortune of being stuck next to chatty deputy Neil. The only two things that made a DEA agent bearable were their general charm and ability to make conversation. Deputy Neil had neither of those things.

After having skipped the previous night's meal thanks to Javier and having survived on the snacks stacked in your room, you were looking forward to breakfast. To Javier’s dismay however, no amount of hunger– of any kind and any severity was enough to quell your antics.

Owen pulled his chair out, patting Javier on the back as he took a seat. The latter practically recoiled from the touch, but smiled politely anyway. It was admirable– his ability to not let these freaks get to him. There was not one tolerable person in his periphery besides Steve Murphy, who had been working pretty much independently since he was appointed to attaché, and yet the man showed up everyday, slept with any willing woman, and lived his life. He didn't care for their validation, approval, or acceptance, and it was perhaps exactly that that made them hate him as much as they did.

You watched him interact with his colleagues, far more up close this time. The scowl he famously sported deep set on his face, arms leaned on the table and on either side of his cutlery. As always he was commanding, and resolute, delivering responses to pesky questions with far more patience and authority than you had expected. You clenched you thighs under the table.

Conversation moved on and it wasn’t long before he fixed his eyes on your platinum chainlet, on the blue diamond hanging from your neck. He seemed to like it. Or maybe he liked how your tits looked in that dress. You were almost completely sure it was the latter, Javier Peña was no gemologist.

“Buenos días, tío.” Maria leaned to your side obnoxiously to catch his prying eyes as she took her seat beside you at the table.

“Buenos días, ria.” Javier turned his head briefly and put on a tight smile. Idiot. There really was nothing in that head of his. If he thought he was doing a good job not arousing anyones suspicions he was sorely mistaken. The former pinched your leg under the table, and rolled her eyes at what she liked to call your “nauseating arrangement” with her godfather.

Breakfast started with fruit, and boy did it look heavenly– practically every color of the rainbow on your plate. You popped a strawberry in your mouth, only half paying attention to the tremendously boring conversation you were unfortunate enough to be stuck in the middle of.

You were certainly distracted, enough in fact to have only noticed minutes later that you were not the only one not paying attention. Agent Peña seemed to be rather preoccupied with your eating, enough so that he had to quite literally be shaken out of his daze to participate in the rest of the table's conversation.

You watched the way his eyes kept drifting back to the way your lips wrapped around the fruit, how you’d bite into it slowly, and dart your tongue over your lips. He was shameless and importantly he was just begging for a show.

And who were you to say no to the great, the ever important DEA attaché Javier Peña? You caught and then pretty much forced his eyes to yours from across the table. If the man wanted peace, he was not making it easy on himself. He was trying to be nonchalant about the whole situation, but he was admittedly shit at it.

Rubbing his temples with his index and thumb he tried desperately to hide his face as he watched you take a bite of the dragon fruit you had stabbed with your fork– eyes trained on the way the pink juice escaped your lips and dripped down your chin. You watched his gaze darken in warming, and it made your breath hitch to think about just how he wanted to set you straight.

You licked your lips, reaching for the white table napkin and watching it stain pink as you dabbed away. You watched his adam's apple bob as he swallowed nervously, and shot him the sweetest smile you could muster. You knew where his mind was, you knew he was thinking about the way you’d wrapped your lips around his cock the night before, around his fingers, and tasted him on your tongue. You were sure of it when he shifted in his seat uncomfortably, and politely asked your dad to repeat himself as he tried his best to engage in the conversation.

By the time the waitress came along offering water he was practically dying to get out of the table. For someone who had been so courageous the night before he was blushing like a schoolboy. Now that he was on the spot his pda policy was changing. You weren't even touching him yet.

The waitress leaned down beside you, and offered you regular and ice water. From the corner of your eye you watched Javier's face as you opted for the second option. Of course you asked for ice. What was he expecting? For you to give it up because he couldn't get his mind out of the gutter? In that weather? He was delusional.

You took a sip and held the cube between your teeth, he watched it start to melt as it brushed your warm lips. You sucked on the cube, lewdly eyeing him and leaning your hands against the table. Your tongue brushed your bottom lip.

“Agent Peña, you’ve met him before haven’t you?”

Javier cleared his throat, then forced his eyes away from your supple lips to answer your father’s tedious questions.

Poor man, he just couldn’t catch a break

But he wasn’t on a break, he was still technically at work, and who were you to deal with, compared to all those scary, dangerous, criminals he spent all day with. Surely, you weren’t affecting him all that much?

Your lip tugged into a gentle smile as you watched him clear his throat in a rather obvious indication for you to get a grip. But that was no fun now was it? You stretched your leg under the table, tapping Javier’s calf with the arch of your foot. It didn't take much effort, his long legs already far closer to yours than he would have preferred for this particular situation. It was all meant to be really, the table could have been any length, yet here it was, so awfully narrow that just a minor stretch of your leg would have your soft skin brushing against his.

He visibly flinched, and to anyone paying attention probably looked like a man possessed– responding to the apparent touches of a ghost that had snuck their way between his legs.

But to his dismay he wasn't dealing with a ghost. He was dealing with you, and you had decided you liked the way your leg felt slanted between his, the way his skin felt as you trailed your foot along it.

He was lucky no one ever paid attention.

You glanced at the ambassador, who was ever engrossed in his interrogation of Javier’s deputy. If he was smart he would have noticed Peña hadn’t taken one trip out of the resort– clearly getting his fill right where he was. If he was smart enough he would have noticed the fact that you were playing footsie with his attaché under the table.

Most of breakfast passed in slow, agonising torture. With your eyes trained on his as you teased him unrelentingly. Just like he had the night before he was pained by your actions, just itching to get out of his seat and smack some sense into you.

At one point you accidentally dropped your napkin under the table, and as you bent down to fetch it took the liberty to run your fingers against his calf when you dragged the napkin back up with you. When you looked at him once again he was a little short of red in the face.

If anything he should have been thanking you.

You knew better than anyone the world of elitist superficiality, pseudo intellectualistic hacks, and narcissistic bureaucrats, all trying to climb the ladder. Hell you lived with one 18 years of your life. Javier could do with a little distraction.

Your phone buzzed on the table beside your pink stained napkin.

It was, of course, your mother. And she was of course, demanding the details of your return home. Details that you didn’t have. Details that the ambassador had likely not even clarified yet. But then again your mother didn’t care about the details. She wanted something, and the rule was that she always got it. With no care of who got stuck in the crossfire.

The information was completely useless to her, but that wasn’t the point. She didn’t want it for practicality, she wanted it because she wanted control.

You wanted to ask why she didn't ask him herself, but you already knew the answer. Nothing was new, you were their messenger. It felt like a cruel trap to force you into keeping contact with either of them.

As much as you would have liked to continue bothering Javier with your under the table antics, you knew the task at hand was top priority, and that as much as you didn’t want to engage him, you were better off just clarifying the details with your father, and sending your mother along her merry way, knowing she had control over the both of you in some form or the other.

You watched your dad as he leaned towards his deputy, mentioning something about the budget.

“Dad-”

You opened your mouth once again, only to be interrupted and ignored.

“D-”

If there wasn’t a plate in front of you you’d have slammed your head right into the table.

It went on for a good thirty seconds, you trying to catch his attention in the midst of something that would be, to anyone else, rather unimportant. But work was important, more important than whatever you had to say. In a moment you felt like that five year old kid again, tugging at his sleeve and trying to drag him to that thing you wanted to show him.

It was humiliating, and pathetic, but it was more pathetic that you still cared, like some child. So you exhaled, struggling and rolling your eyes at Colleen as if to indicate you weren't as bothered by the situation as you were, who gave you a knowing sympathetic smile.

Generally, you didn’t make a habit of making conversation with him in public, or in groups. He was constantly preoccupied, and no matter what you did you’d end up wasting upwards of ten minutes trying to get his attention. If it wasn't as time sensitive as it was you’d let him drone on, but you also realized leaving your mother out of the loop would only be another thing you needed to worry about. At the end of the day what did it matter to him, he’d be oblivious whilst you dealt with the complaining and whining.

Suddenly, you felt a brush of a foot against the inside of your calf, gently, up and down. Javier wedged his leg between yours, bumping your knee ever so slowly with his. When you looked up at him he was listening to your dad. He stopped your restless legs, gently soothing their movement with each brush of his skin against yours, gaze still fixed on the conversation at hand.

You felt your eyes burn with hot tears as he dragged his foot along your calf, then continued to bump his knee with yours, his eyes unmoving as if nothing had happened. His touch was soft, and gentle, and barely there like the night before, just this time there was nothing sexual about it.

You pulled your leg back, folding your napkin and excusing yourself to get ready for the day. You felt his eyes follow you out of the restaurant.

—

It's alarming, truly

How disarming you can be

Eatin’ soft ice cream,

Coney Island queen

It had been a couple of hours since breakfast. You’d traded in your summer sun dress for a bathing suit and tie around, its sparkles twinkling against the glow of the sun.

Despite how much he seemed to be excited to indulge you that morning you’d think you’d never met, forget fucked Javier the way he was avoiding you. He tried to be subtle about it, occupying himself in conversations with everyone from the embassy receptionist to the ambassador.

Hell he even decided to join in the DEA volleyball game, the one that was happening right across from where you’d splayed out your beach blanket along with your friends. Just close enough to let him enjoy the view, but not close enough to arouse any suspicions.

The sun beat down on his golden skin. This was probably the most you’d seen him interact with the other DEA folks. By the looks of it they were just as surprised as you were to find him joining in. If only they knew.

The dirty old man.

Truth be told, as shameless as you were, you felt a little pervy looking at him the way you were, you wondered how he had the confidence. Each second you passed gawking at his broad frame, the way he seemed to get just a little bit aggressive when the game picked up pace. It felt like something you shouldn't have been doing in public. But since when did you care about that? You imagined what he would say to you if you were alone, how he’d tease and reprimand you for your staring.

“Just couldn’t keep your eyes off could you?”

“Desperate slut.”

He was one to talk. The man was far more of a slut than you could ever dream to be, and here he was calling you a whore.

He wanted to have his cake and eat it too. Stay far away and preserve his sanity, but also secretly indulge in whatever perverted fantasy he had swimming in his head.

He took his little half time game break to discreetly watch you lather on your sunscreen, the way your hands roamed your body, down your bare legs and shoulders. You put on a little bit of a show, inching your hands under your tie around and towards your inner thighs. He’d called you a whore less than twelve hours ago but the man couldn't keep it in his pants for 10 minutes.

He did not look pleased. Not when he wasn’t the only one who could enjoy the view. Those junior agents of his had been watching you like a hound of hungry dogs. If there was one thing he couldn’t seem to handle, it was a bunch of mid twenty nobodies who could barely last twenty seconds eyeing what was his.

Your father made his way to the makeshift court just in time for a second game, to Javier’s dismay. He peeled his eyes away from you, reaching out to shake the ambassador’s hand and pass him the ball.

You watched from a distance as the two of them engaged in friendly banter, how Javier had managed to figure out your biggest irk in less than forty eight hours of knowing you was honestly impressive. He praised your fathers great service skills as the two racked up points on the scoreboard, sharing high fives and pats on the back. It was sickening. The coward didn’t even have the courage to look you in the eye in front of your father, and then decided his MO was playing best friend with him all afternoon.

You leaned back on your beach blanket, staring the sun right in its white face and hoping it would burn your retinas enough so that you’d never have to see that bastard with that man again. This whole thing was one thousand times less fun when Javier was getting along with your father.

You rolled your eyes under the cover of your sunglasses.

—

She says, "You don't want to be like me

Lookin' for fun, gettin' high for free

I'm dyin', I'm dyin'"

She says, "You don't want to get this way

Street walk at night and a star by day

It's tirin', tirin'"

You’d spent your day enduring the most obscene questions from your friends, all excited and far more interested than you’d initially assumed to know every gorey detail of your little adventure with Javier.

The drinks went down one after the other, you didn't even notice the sun had set. Javier remained out of sight, and you guessed it was a good thing, because you’d have jumped him the first chance you got.

First to give him a piece of your mind, and then to let him fuck you sensless.

It was ironic, popping gummies with a DEA agent on your mind. But Sophie had offered you some, and after a long day of thinking far too much about far too many things you decided it was a good idea to relax a little.

As had become routine the music from the beach side restaurant preoccupied you as you sat in the hottub, muscles taking a moment to untense under the water and bubbles. Your father had a private dinner with the former ambassadors that evening, but said it would be better if you didn’t tag along. They were going to talk business and it would bore you.

You were grateful, but probably not as much as the rest of the embassy, who could enjoy their night in peace.

The effects of the gummies were kicking in, and if you thought Javier consumed your thoughts before, his name was pretty much playing on loop in your head now. It had been a while since everyone retreated to their rooms, exhausted and far too intoxicated to be laying about in the hot tub. You knew he was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Further muddy his reputation and risk his career or deprive himself of the joys of being with you.

You reached for your phone behind you, clicking it on and squinting your eyes on the time.

2:00 am.

You lit a cigarette, swinging your legs under the water and watching the moonlight illuminate your skin.

Part of the reason you tagged along this drag of a vacation in the first place was because you didn't want to wile away your summer, fearing staying at home you’d be cooped up in your room all day. But here you were half way through the weekend, wondering where the time went.

“Shouldn’t be smokin so much” He had a way of sneaking up on people, that Javier Peña. A regular entrance seemed to be just too mediocre for him. Frankly, you admired his love, or rather his addiction, to chaos. How in the world someone like him ended up a narc was still a mystery to you.

“You an activist all of a sudden?” You were turned away from him, but rolled your eyes non the less. You heard him sigh, and with your back still turned to him you heard him take a step or two towards you, then stop, sigh defeatedly and continue forward. The man was fighting himself, and it was far more entertaining to you than it should have been.

Turning to face him you leaned your elbows on the uneven stone that formed the deck of the hot tub, knees tucked under you as you sat atop the step leading into the water. He was still in his shorts from the morning, but had lazily half buttoned on his white cotton shirt from under which your eyes caught the mild sunburn on his exposed chest.

Squatting down to your level he let his eyes linger on your barely covered chest– on the diamond pendant that twinkled in the sun, and had caught his attention on that first day in the lobby. It sparkled against the cut of your breasts, floating in the blue water and brushing against your skin.

“This is not going to work if you keep sucking the ambassador's dick.”

“yeah , this-” he pointed between your bodies. “needs to stop.” The water rippled gently, much to the disappointment of Javier, whose eyes were trained on the distorted image of your body under the surface as you waded your way between his legs. He made space for you to come closer, but didn’t indulge you any further.

“But why?” You didn't really mean to, but you ended up dragging the ‘why’ out to the point you sounded like a desperate, pathetic mess. He almost flinched when you reached your hand forward, fingertips tracing soft shapes on his skin, right up to the hem of his black pool shorts. Then again, despite seemingly wanting nothing to do with you he moved just that little bit closer. Just enough to give himself away.

In an attempt to crumble his resolve you leaned your cheek against his thigh, pouting up at his yearning gaze. “Didn’t ya’ like it daddy?!”

He sucked in a breath. “Dont want your pops wondering who the fuck you’ve been callin’ daddy.” he looked around and then leaned closer. “cuz’ it sure as hell ain’t him.” You felt you skin heat, the subtle throb between your legs building.

“Since when do you give a shit what the ambassador thinks?” you pressed your lips to his skin, the faint aroma of his sunscreen invading your senses. Javier looked at you incredulously, but you were too dizzy to care.

“He's my boss, babydoll.” You giggled in response, dragging your lips against his inner thigh. Just as it was the night before the immediate and very real thrill of what you were doing and who you were doing it with persuaded you to keep going.

“But don’t you want to daddy?” your eyes fluttered shut as you spoke, words coming out slurred between your pouted lips. If getting high made you anything, it was seemingly desperate for Javier. You leaned your head against his thigh once again, resting it there as you gazed up at him through glossy eyes, meeting his gaze for the first time that night.

Admittedly, it was not a good idea. You shouldn't have expected otherwise from a DEA agent.

“Are-” He squeezed your cheeks between his thumb and index, dragging you off his thigh till you were inches away from his face. “Are you fucking high?!” He was stuck somewhere between furious, surprised and in disbelief– eyes incredulously searching your glazed ones. Closing the gap between you, you pecked him on the lips, making sure to accentuate the obnoxious ‘mwah’ sound you were for some reason, in your delirious and giggly mood, compelled to make.

“Just a little…”

You didn't believe his good employee act. A man so consumed by all things pleasure, one of the most hedonistic people you'd ever met, and he supposedly never smoked a joint? The man was a liar and you could see right through it.

You’d push that button another day though.

You giggled, tilting your head and taunting him. “Are you going to arrest me, officer?”

“I ain’t an officer babydoll.” He rolled his eyes, tapping your cheek roughly. Everywhere he touched left you wanting more.

“Babydoll this, babydoll that, you're boring me Agent Peña.” Your lust blown eyes searched for him and you leaned your body, dripping with water, against his. He didn't seem to mind, legs unfolding till he was seated with his feet in the hottub.

“You know you're a lot like your father.” he narrowed his eyes and seethed, still letting you press your face into his shoulder as you tucked yourself into his side. The thought was nauseating, but you were glad if he passed you down anything it was his stubbornness.

“Oh really? Dont tell me you wanna fuck him too?” You lifted your head and sank back into the water, just in time to watch him rub his eyes in exhaustion.

“No, but you sure as hell like bossin’ me around.”

Tilting your head you rose to your knees. ““I'm not the one who keeps crawling back for more” you trailed a finger across his chest “you’re here, aren’t you agent? out of your own violation?” His eyes were fixated on the swell of your breasts, but moved to your face as he grabbed it between his thumb and forefinger.

“Hmm, didn't look like that when you were gawking at me this morning.” his nose brushed yours.

“Was returning the favor.” you shifted to whisper beside his ear. “God knows this isn't a part of your job.” You had been quite bold sober, but the intoxication seemed to aid your snappy mouth.

You caught the twinkle in his eyes again– the one you’d seen the first night, back at breakfast and at the beach. That look of his he gave you as a warning not to push his buttons. “Keep runnin that mouth babydoll. Let's see where it gets ya”

He fixed his gaze on your face as you reached for the buttons of his shirt. You fiddled with them, undoing them as slow as you could possibly manage. After he’d been getting an eyeful of you over the past two days you were quite satisfied to have him as exposed as you were.

He inched closer, easing himself into warm water, one hand on your waist the other on the granite behind him . He was finally at your level, close enough for you to pepper kisses along his sunburned chest. He hissed at the contact, sucking in a breath as he felt your lips, cool from the ice in your drink, ease the subtle burn.

His neck, his chest, you left practically no part of him untouched. Your hand sneaked up his leg as you palmed the bulge in his shorts. You watched him hiss, bit your lip in satisfaction when he could barely get your name out of his mouth.

You shifted to straddle his thigh, sighing at the temporary relief to the pressure building between your legs. “Don’t seem so mad to me, agent Peña..” He scoffed, but didn’t do anything to stop your actions.

The urge to push his buttons ran high, and you knew only good could come from you indulging it. Unable to hold back any further you shamelessly rolled your hips against him, sighing at the subtle relief it brought to your aching center.

Swallowing your moan in a kiss he played with the side of your bikini bottoms, toying with it. His hands slipped under the fabric, thumbs brushing against the swell of your ass.

Now soaked with your slick, it did little to cover your aching pussy. You squealed when you felt him slip his hand between your bodies, yanking the pathetic excuse of a cover up aside to let you press your bare cunt against his thigh.

“You’re not as scary as you make yourself out to be, aren’t you, daddy?”

He guided your hips over his thigh, agonizingly slow, the wet friction on your clit enough to have you pressing against him in further desperation. “‘Ya’ can’t even help yourself huh babydoll?” he growled in your ear, taking your earlobe gently between his teeth.

The heat traveled up your neck, scorching your skin till it reached your cheeks. The soft skin of your inner thigh continuously brushed against the threaded lower seam of his shorts, getting increasingly tender with every pass.

He squeezed your breast as flexed his thigh, each pass of your cunt sending your eyes rolling back into your head. Agent Peña was enjoying himself just as much as you were, no matter how much he refused to admit it.

You were delirious, drunk literally and on pleasure as the words left your mouth– soft and slurred. “Knew you were full’ve shit, Agent Peña.”

His hands stilled you on his thigh, his face hardened, palm coming down to meet the side of your face swifty before you could even realize what happened. You felt you pussy clench pathetically around nothing.

Sure, he liked the control, boy did you figure that out the hard way, but it seemed like he had a no tolerance policy when it came to back talk. He had to have known that your biggest motivation to do anything you’d been doing was to get a rise out of him– his scolding, his ‘putting you in your place’, was not so much a punishment as it was a reward.

You squirmed against his newly found grip on your waist, his words and the sting on your cheek only prompting you to attempt to rub yourself against him once again. Javier was not going to let that happen. “Watch that whore mouth of yours.”

With his thumb and index on either side of your face he shook you slightly from side to side, his other palm coming down against the side of your face once more.

On command, and somehow a little out of your control, a soft “sorry daddy” slipped past your lips, hands going to snake around his waist for a sense of comfort. Javier liked being mean sometimes, and you never knew it better than when in an attempt to put you in your place his palm struck your sore cheek once again.

Whining at his actions you grabbed the fabric of his unbuttoned shirt, tugging him closer impossibly. “Your pops didn’t teach you any manners did he?” he tutted at you, stroking your head in a surprising display of gentleness. It still, however, dripped with condescension and mockery.

The sting on the side of your face felt like it was burning, but he didn't seem to care. You felt the desire bubble further in your core. “Don't you worry babydoll, daddy’ll make sure you behave” he landed a firm spank to your ass, making you yelp and fall forward into his chest.

“Someone’s gotta fuckin’ look out for you,” Smiling, he pinched the cheek he’d just slapped, seemingly enjoying your little “ow”s. “cuz your old man sure doesn’t. ain’t that right babydoll?” Hot tears pricked your eyes, making them flutter shut at the sting. You turned your face as he planted a soothing kiss below your ear.

Javier took your chin between his fingers, directing your face down to where you were straddling his lap. His free hand snaked between your bodies to cup your barely clothed mound.

“This tight lil pussy’s mine. Only daddy gets to make her feel good, fuck her.” He rubbed soft circles on your clit, making your hips shift to feel the little friction. His actions had you far more desperate than before. “When she feels good, ‘s cuz daddy’s lettin’ her.” He murmured darkly, sparkling brown eyes raised in a subtle warning towards yours. “Ya hear?”

You nodded, but he only landed another spank to your ass, prompting you to use your words.

“Daddy decides.” He leaned forward, large palm once again capturing your face.

“What was that? Know you can be louder babydoll–” he squeezed your cheeks harder, biting out his words. “heard it last night.”

Mewling, you repeated yourself– this time louder, but also feeling smaller. His skin felt warm as you leaned your now tender cheek against it in an attempt to get back into his good graces.

“That's better, ain't that right?” Javier smiled gently, hands guiding you over his thigh once again. “So much better when you listen huh?” You could only manage to nod.

“All this just for some attention, huh babydoll?” he brushed his knuckles against your soft skin. He talked down to you, patronizing you, but it only made bare down on his thigh harder. “Fuckin’ pathetic.”

Your lips turned to a downward tilt. He matched your pout, still stroking your skin. “Hate to see it don't ya? pretty little thing like you, whoring herself around” he brought your hand to his hard cock, letting you rub him over his shorts.

‘Like a free use hooker.” You felt your pussy twitch at his words, at the way he chuckled darkly before he spoke again.

“Could give the girls at the brothel a run for their money.”

Rather haphazardly, he pulled you to straddle his lap, a new sense of urgency taking over in the wake of your mild submission. You felt his hard length press against your pussy and shuddered.

“Want it inside, daddy, please” That white cotton shirt of his you so loved was discarded and tossed to the side of the deck in seconds, letting your hands roam freely across his body– grab onto his broad shoulders.

“I know baby” he stroked your arm gently. “Just needed daddy’s attention” You resumed softy grinding against him, his hands once again taking hold of your hips.

Sighing, you closed your eyes, letting the quaint atmosphere of the sleeping resort shift you in your own little private universe for the time being. All was lost in the mix of tempered moans and sighs, your delirious state only heightening the pleasure.

Javier’s hand slipped up your back, under the band of your bikini top to unclasp it discreetly. You would have barely noticed if it wasn't for how he groaned as he slipped it off you, palm immediately moving to palm and squeeze your breasts. He kissed up your bare stomach, then your collar bones, letting you press your lips to his when you urged his face up to yours.

He always tasted the same– cigarettes and whiskey. You could get used to it if you were being honest. He was drowning you in his presence, when he was around nothing else seemed to matter besides getting him inside you, or getting on his nerves. You wondered if you really had as much power over him as you thought you did.

You kicked yourself for being so oblivious and distracted. Before you knew it the strings of your bikini top were being slipped off their clasps and being used to bind your hands together. The guy was a cop, and probably a pretty good boy scout guessing from the unmoving boxknot he made at the back of your wrists. The string was tight, any of your movements prompting an unfavorable friction against your skin.

You felt him smile against your cheek as you pulled back, twisting your body side to side in an attempt to free yourself. Your face burned in humiliation as he chuckled at your futile attempts, and frustrated huffs.

“Told ya baby..”

“You are such a dick.” Humming, he pulled you down onto his lap further, dragging your dripping cunt against his cock. “You’ve gotten lucky tonight, brat..”

With your hands tied behind your back there was no choice. You had two options, sink back and let your head fall under the water, or sit pretty for him on his lap. The time of your bratting around was far from over, but you let him have his little measly victory.

He lined his thick cock up with your warm center, teasing your aching hole and just barely pushing in. “You gonna be a brat the rest of the night?”

You squirmed, shaking your head vigorously. “You gonna stop being such a fuckin slut? Runnin’ ya hands all over yourself at the beach-” He pushed in just a little bit further, his tip breaching your warm center. “Givin’ those boys a show?”

You blubbered out an urgent “no daddy”, shifting side to side as you screwed your eyes shut in frustration. You could barely take it any longer. From the way Javier had his eyes trained on you it seemed like neither could he.

With a deep but broken groan he pushed inside you in a single swift thrust, stretching you open on his thick cock. It was a relief to be full again, the sensation ghosting over you since the last time. His hands smoothed up and down your thighs under the water, squeezing the flesh of your ass till you yelped.

“Think your pops out there? Walkin’ round, tryna figure out where the fuck you disappeared?” He growled in your ear, obviously proud of himself beyond measure. His cock was nestled deep in your pussy, shallow thrusts hitting that sweet spot inside you you could barely reach in the morning.

“thinks I'm sleepin.” you panted. You felt him twitch inside you.

“Dirty little girl.” He laughed mockingly, then met your hips in a harsh thrust. You rested your forehead against his, letting him place kisses to your slack lips and watch your eyes flutter shut.

You felt small in his lap, engulfed by his presence and broad shoulders, onto which you attempted to rest your head against as your hips rose and fell over his. You nipped the underside of his jaw, then pressed a kiss there. “Little brat”

The water made a seductive splashing sound as you shifted. Anyone in the vicinity would be immediately privy to what exactly was going on. The mix of alcohol, drugs and Javier’s hands on your body spread a fuzzy tingle across your skin.

Your lips parted in a wordless cry, you were so so close.

“Such a good little slut when you finally fuckin’ listen” his cock hits your sweetspot in the perfect angle as he rocks his hips up into you. You’re barely doing any work, letting him use you as you sit on his lap.

“Gonna ruin this pretty lil body for all those boys. Fuck you like you need.” He grunted in your ear, throbbing and pulsing inside you. “Cuz on one else can babydoll.”

The coil in your belly was quick to tighten, you felt your walls quiver around his cock as you began to cum. You bit down on his shoulder as you came undone, trying your best to stay quiet amongst the sound of bubbling water, crashing waves and chirping crickets. He fucked you through it, groaning as he felt your pussy suck him in.

Javier was quick to follow, thrusts getting shallow and sloppy as he fucked into your wet heat, an incoherent “babydoll” falling from his mouth as he painted your pulsing walls with his warmth.

The sound of crashing waves seemed deafening as you both caught your breath, the certain mess you’d made on his lap not bothering you at the moment. You were still imobile thanks to your restraints, and lay your head on his chest as he peppered soft kisses to the cheek he’d slapped and pinched minutes ago.

His hands snaked behind your back, untying the unmoving boxknot he released your hands from the makeshift restraints, then ran his thumb over the sore flesh. You sat atop his lap, still stuffed full of his cock– softening inside you. He tried to similarly pepper the tender flesh of your wrists with soft kisses, but you pulled them away, twisting them for comfort.

For a man who had slept with the entirety of Colombia he sure liked to take his time with the intimacy. He held you to his chest– still rising and falling and pulled out, tucking himself back into those infamous black pool shorts. Just as he did the day before he stroked your skin gently under the water, and instinctively you pulled your legs together when he reached between them, thighs closing around his hand as he shifted your bathing suit back in place.

In that blissed out mood he layed back in the hot tub, letting the bubbles wash over his chest, pressing his warm lips to your even warmer cheek and sighing up at the sky. With how preoccupied you were the night before you’d missed the clear skies of Cartajena. It was difficult to remember the last time you could actually see the stars. He kissed your cheek again.

Shifting your head to the side you placed your hands on the outside of the hottub, lifting yourself off his lap and out of the water. He looked at you, somewhat confusedly, but didn’t push you further. You felt your tie on skirt stick messily to your upper thighs. It dropped to the floor with a heavy plop when you undid it.

You reached to grab his discarded shirt off the ground. It was seeped in the scent of his sunscreen– a fresh fougère, crushed grass, and lavender. He leaned his head back, watching as it clung ever so slightly to your wet skin when you slipped it on– the white fabric turning translucent. He kept his eyes on the shameless show you put on for him– reaching down to shimmy off your wet bikini from under the shirt's cover. You felt his spend lewdly trickle down your leg.

“Makin’ me walk back cold?” he breathed jokingly, lifting his head off the granite and nodding it towards you.

“I can take it off” You smiled as you reached for the top button, undoing it. He watched, for whatever reason expecting you to stop. You moved down another, then another, and another.

You caught the subtle tick in his jaw. “Put it back on. Now”

“M’kay daddy..” bending and reaching for your bathing suit that had formed in a pile on the warm ground you met his gaze, the collar of your, rather his shirt riding down too close for comfort.

And to think he’d tried to ignore you the whole day. He was crazy. You stood up straight, beginning to walk back into your room.

“Don’t forget about me this time, daddy..”

The boys, the girls

They all like Carmen

She gives them butterflies

Bats her cartoon eyes

She laughs like God

Her mind's like a diamond

Audiotune lies

She's still shinin'

Like lightning, whoa, whoa

White lightning

Thank you so much for reading, please let me know what you think. Made myself sad by making her refuse Javi’s aftercare but we’ll deal with that later. This took way longer than intended so I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you to everyone who reblogs my work you keep my writing. Dividers and banners by @ Saradika 💗🫶🐝

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asgoodeasgold · 24 days ago

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Radio Times 24-30 May 2025 – 10 questions with Matthew Goode

Craig McLean

The actor has left behind the privileged road of Downton to play “DCI Del Boy” and a new cop drama. Matthew Goode is the star of Dept. Q, a Scotland based Netflix police procedural that puts a fresh spin on “Tartan Noir”. That twist is having a heavyweight American show runner Scott Frank (Godless, the Queen's Gambit, Mr Spade) and an originally Danish story transposed from the source novels to Edinburgh. The dark drama has an appropriately All Star Scottish cast, including Mark Bonnar, Kelly Macdonald, Shirley Henderson, Kate Dickie and Jamie Sives, but leading from the front as Det. Carl Mork is the 47-year-old Devon-born actor and father of 3 who starred in Downton Abbey and fantasy series A Discovery of Witches.

Department Q is a cosmopolitan concept based on a Danish crime novel adapted by an American filmed in Edinburgh with a Scottish cast. But an English lead. What makes that mix work?

There are 2 stars of our show. One is Jussi Adler Olsen, who wrote the original 10 novels, the other is the showrunner Scott Frank. He scares me slightly just because he's intellectually far superior and look at the amazing cast he assembled…

Did the smorgasbord of different Scottish accents ever confound you?

Only when with some of the grips when they'd had a drink. Glaswegian is occasionally challenging. My brother went to university in Glasgow, so I spent time there, but even to me when someone is drunk, the accent can be a bit quick, I occasionally just have to smile and nod.

Did you read the source novels for preparation?

I was told not to on this occasion. I listened to my director. In the past, I've found it sometimes very useful and sometimes has been a right pain to read the source material. Of course, things are going to change from page to screen, and you're going to hold onto a bit of the book – so it can become complicated.

Carl Morck is an irascible curmudgeon with few friends, what makes him that way?

15 years on the murder squad and divorce. But we might find out there's other stuff from his past. I'll be shot if I say more because we don't know if this will go to a second series.

Are you generally a fan of detective shows?

My daughters and my wife watch everything but also, but I've also liked them since I was a kid.

One of the films that made me think I might be able to do this was Young Sherlock Holmes [from 1985 exactly to produce executive produced by Steven Spielberg]. So yes, bring on the detective genre, there's always room for more.

Like every good telly ‘tec, from Colombo and his raincoat to Luther’s herringbone overcoat, you have signature outerwear. How did you and the wardrobe department arrive at Morck’s sheepskin jacket?

We played around with a few options. I said it's got to be the DEL boy hasn't it? But it was funny to wear because any wind, the jacket would suddenly whip up and you realise there are two big sheepy pockets inside. It ruined a few takes.

You and Scott Frank go back to his 2007 directorial debut film The Lookout. What are your memories of filming in Manitoba?

Getting off the plane and thinking I'd better go and buy a decent jacket. Outside of our hotel, it said lowest recorded temperature in Canadian history. It was something like −98 and then it said in brackets plus wind chill.

Your last television role was criminally underrated 22 drama series The Offer about the making of the classic gangster film The Godfather in which you played film producer Robert Evans. How did you go about inhabiting his old school Hollywood flamboyance?

Once you work out the voice and characteristics, it becomes fun. But there was another role that they had asked me about. Three months went by and I thought, oh well, this isn't going my way. Then my agent phoned when I was on the Golf course. You're playing Bob Evans. Who's fallen out? It doesn't matter, you're doing it and you've got 2 weeks to prepare. Fear got me through that. And if I hadn't needed the funds desperately for me and the family, I would probably have found a way to inveigle my way out of it because I'm a self saboteur.

In Downton Abbey, you were a posh love interest, in A Discovery of Witches, a posh suave vampire and in Death Comes to Pemberly, The Crown and Ordeal by Innocence posh rogues, how worried are you about type casting?

I've done other things! But you don't always get choice. I know what you're getting at. You want to have a difference. If you're turning up with a pipe playing a lot all the time, it would be terribly dull. But on all of those projects, I was lucky to have great writing and great people.

Speaking of Downton, we saw your character. Henry Talbot, the husband of Michelle Dockery's Lady Mary briefly in the first spin-off movie. But you weren't in the second and you aren't billed being the third. Why?

I was unavailable for the second because I was doing The Offer then for the third I was shooting this. But I also buggered my knee and I had to have an operation that takes weeks to get overr so I was never going to be able to do it. And let's face it, he was itching towards becoming a bit of a wet lettuce, so maybe it's a good thing.

#matthew goode #matthewgoode #dept q #department q #scott frank #jussi adler olsen #carl morck #downton abbey #henry talbot

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ellieslittleburrow · 1 year ago

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Summary : your dad, Hannibal. And your brother Sherlock sense something different about you. They bug you about it and later find out that you're being bullied. Needless to say, each one reacts differently. But both are comforting enough to get you to smile again.

Pairings : Alternate Universe : Hannibal Lecter x daughter, Sherlock holmes x sister.

Warnings : Hannibal being a cutie pie dad, mentions of bullying, a punch scene, mentions of wanting to off somebody.

A/N: yall know how much we love big boiz and these two are the perfect definition of that!!! Also let's ignore the fact that they're both somehow hoe at the same time like- don't they have no life??? Also i'm sorry if any of yall suffer from bullying ❤️. I really hope this doesn't trigger you. And i hope it comforts yall. I decided to delete it from the other account because i'm trying to get used to this one. Sorry if that confuses anybody lol

------

Home sweet home.

Opening the door to your house, a very distinctive smell of rosemary oil slaps your nose as your pupils suddenly dilate, adjusting to the dim blueish feel of the house. That's what you've always loved about home. It wasn't just a safe space you thought about whenever you were outside, it was a smell, a look, a feel, warmth no matter how cold it was. Inner warmth.

"Little one."

You emerged back to real life.

"Oh" Spinning your head to the side, you catch your brother in act, pinning his head backwards as he sighs dramatically. "I caught her. Finally, i can have her now. She has awoken from her daydreams and she finally has time for us."

Your shoulders slouch as you roll your eyes at him. You're annoyed. And fucking pressured.

Your father and brother have been bugging you about what's been going on. A genius detective and a genius psychiatrist are two of the things you DO NOT want to be surrounded with.

But here you are, living with both-

"There she goes again."

Snapped out, again, of your little world, you huff, even more annoyed now.

"Would you both leave me alone."

The words come out harsher than you expected. You brush past them, taking off your coat before tossing it on the sofa. That upsets your dad. Sherlock too. But one's dangerous. The other one is too. Just..less dangerous.

"Something's different about you...I just can't seem to find what it is."

You smile when they're facing your back. You're honored to know that you're a difficult person to read, as reading is all they do.

As you walk upstairs, Sherlock follows behind. "What's been bugging you?"

"Nothing, Sherlock. Leave it." You mumble, entering your room, not bothering to look back because you know Sherlock to be respectful enough not to force things out of you. He can tell when you're really not in the mood to talk.

------

On your way home, you like to walk past the forest entrance. The forest that's been known, your whole life, for it's eerie feels. The forest that only those YOLO people dare go into. Walking past it always made your blood pump, filled it with such adrenaline that- it made you feel al-

"Hey there, Lecter."

Fuck.

The voice is too close behind. How did you not realize somebody was behind you? If your dad were to hear he'd be so mad.

You slowly pivot around, only to find more than the one girl you expected.

Uh...

"Miller, let's not do this, okay? It's been a very long week and I'm t-"

You're interrupted by a fist that flies towards your face. And it's too quick so all you manage to do is lean back, making contact less painful. You stagger backwards, reaching up for your nose.

This bitch.

"Don't tell me what to do, Lecter. I choose when and what to do."

Miller and her rats walk away, leaving you frozen in place.

When did this become such a normal thing? You achingly take a deep breath in. You'd fight back, but you'd kill her. And that's not something you really want..

As you start walking home again, you think about how you're going to hide your bloody nose from your family...Or maybe..You won't. Too tired to do anything....You just didn't care anymore.

Opening the door, you're welcomed with that sweet sweet smell but...Fuck that and fuck everyth-

"What's that?"

You look up to find your dad hurrying towards you. He hols his hands out, ready to grab your cheeks but you flinch. The shock from earlier not having worn off.

"It's okay. It's just me." He reassures you, examining your nose as he rotates your head up and down. "Who did this to you?"

"It....It doesn't matter." You mutter, pulling away from him before heading for the living room.

"What's g-What's that?" Sherlock almost copies Hannibal but you lean back, holding an arm out to stop him. But he ignores it, grabbing your face to take a better look at your dried up bloody nose.

"Who did th-"

"It doesn't mattteeeeeeer." You groan this time, rolling your eyes as you once again pull yourself away. "It's just somebody from school that dislike me for no fucking reason." Your voice gets lower at the end of your sentence.

There really no reas-

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock frowns. "And you didn't think about telling us about this earlier? We would've hel-"

"How?" You cut Sherlock off, bitterness lacing your voice. You violently swing your coat and toss it on the sofa. "How the fuck would you have been able to help?"

"I know a way." Your dad joins in. You can sense the smirk creeping up on his lips. You can hear it in his voice.

"Is it a boy, or a girl?" Sherlock asks and before you get to reply, your dad does.

"It doesn't matter to me." Your dad jerks his knife playfully.. Although...the darkness in his eyes doesn't look so playful.

"What are their names, honey?" The doctor's voice is hauntingly blank. Just filled with nothingness. Like the person inside of him suddenly disappeared. And Sherlock senses it too.

"Father...Calm down...Please. I'll...." Sherlock's fatigued sigh stabs you in the heart. "I'll take care of it." He shoots his father a glare before grabbing your hand, gently. "I'll show you how to defend yourself."

You follow behind, turning when your dad speaks from a distance.

"I don't care what moves you're going to teach her, Sherlock. I'll make sure those kids never touch her again."

Your heart skips a beat. You don't want to ask. Don't want to know. You'd really rather not. But you ignore that...fear anyways. Why would you care. At least you had them to take care of you.

-----

wtf was this, am i right? I don't even how i managed to write it. Anyways, i hope yall enjoyed it. ❤❤❤🥀🥀🥀

#daughter!reader #sister!reader #sister x brothers #adoptive father troop #father figure fic #daughter x father #henry cavil x daughter #sherlock holmes fic #sherlock holmes x reader #Sherlock holmes x sister!reader #alternate universe #hannibal x daughter!reader #Hannibal lecter x daughter #Father hannibal lecter

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cushfuddled · 10 months ago

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Thank you so much for speaking up about Sherlock & Co because I very nearly got tricked by the "sooooooo canon!!" buzz. I guess it's been long enough for tumblr to get amnesia about TJLC. As Holmes-inspired stuff goes, back to my toxic yaoi House/Wilson rewatch I guess. That might be bait but what a tasty bucket of chum.

Thanks for the ask! Hope you don't mind a rant haha! This got me all fired up because AUGH, the memories!

I think the thing that frustrates me most is that from my brief stint in the Sherlock & Co tag, it looks like we're STILL at the point as a fandom (and a culture, I guess) where it's socially acceptable to claim it's MORE progressive for Sherlock and John to NOT be gay.

I was on the Sherlock BBC train by the winter of 2010, and I watched this argument evolve in real time from the don't-ask-don't-tell "being gay is fine but don't shove it in my face" fish into the faux-progressive "our culture is so oversexualized that modeling healthy, intimate male friendships is more important than canon gay rep" land mammal abomination. The fact that both these arguments land queer fans and creators in the same gilded cage kinda gives the game away: Queer relationships are fine...so long as they stay out of sight and out of mind. A gay side character can be forgiven, but the main characters must remain staunchly platonic lest the Gay Sex Stuff poison an otherwise pure, healthy, and culturally aspirational friendship.

Even queerplatonic relationships are seen as deviant. Other erroneous character details are sprinkled around for flavor, but any clarification on ace or aro relationships are treated as unnecessary at best and burdensome at worst—like a detour which would weigh down the story. It's the "ew gay cooties" fire poker approach in a utilitarian hat: If people can't label the queer content regressive in some way, then it's framed as extraneous to the narrative. Suddenly the plot becomes a perfect crystal, compounded and polished until all but the most vital story beats remain. Of course silly relationship details wouldn't penetrate this barrier of Pure Plot.

Except that's a total fabrication. These stories always make time for extraneous gags and flings and miscellaneous side quests. They nurture long-form friendships and rivalries under short-form plots. And creators are happy to play jump rope with the canon material right up until queerness enters the chat. They play it off like their hands are tied re: canonicity and relevance when really they just...don't want to make their characters queer. Which is perfectly fucking fine. I just wish more fans and creators were able to go "eh, I like these two as best friends and nothing else, so that's what I wrote" rather than make value judgements on people who WOULD prefer a canon queer relationship.

I haven't seen any kind of hand-wringing bullshit from the Sherlock and Co. creators as of yet, which gives me hope they'll just be honest about their preferences when the time comes (rather than try and spin their adaptation as something revolutionary in its platonic approach).

Like you said...It's also hard to watch a new round of fans rally their hopes around a Sherlock Holmes adaptation. My gut has absolutely led me astray before, but as far as I'm concerned, the Sherlock and Co. vibes are a world away from canon Jonklock. It's a great podcast and I'm sure it'll continue to accumulate fans. But it's not gonna be Gay. And I would loveeee to see people take that at face value I guess.

#RANT OVER #CAN YOU TELL I'M SAD #sherlock and co #no shade to anyone who's made these arguments about rep in the past #and it's totally okay to prefer one type of rep over another #just...when will we escape the bullshit...

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whoreviewswho · 7 months ago

Text

What phantasmagoria is this? - The Unquiet Dead, 2005

There is an element of fun to be derived for anoraks such as ourselves in exercises of comparison and contrast. One such game I have been musing upon lately relates specifically to Doctor Who writers of the original and revived series. For example, Steven Moffat is the modern Robert Holmes, Russell T Davies something more like a Terrance Dicks and Mark Gatiss, the subject of today's discussion, is perhaps more akin to a Bob Baker and Dave Martin. To a certain kind of fan, this might sound incredibly derisive and, to an extent, it is but it is worth noting that the original series' Bristol Boys were hardly hacks or even especially poor writers. Between the two of them, as a partnership or otherwise, no less than nine stories were broadcast in their names over eight years and every single one of them is bristling with creativity and energy. If anything, the downfall of Baker and Martin was that they brought too many ideas to a Doctor Who script. But despite really nobody pointing to any one of their serials and crying "Yes, that one's my favourite", it would be ludicrous to suggest their work left little impact with iconography of Axons, the Mutts, K-9 and Sarah Jane's Andy Pandy costume being etched into the minds of audiences for years to come.

And Gatiss is much the same. Contributing just as many stories over a twelve year period as well as appearing in front of the camera and helming one of the show's finest spin-off ventures, his legacy is arguably even harder to ignore. True as it is that he was never awarded tasks as monumental as The Three Doctors or The Hand of Fear nor creating something as iconic as K-9, Gatiss' unwavering position as the Moff's reliable partner ensured his mark on the series would be left no matter what he was writing and, even then, what he was writing did offer up its fair share of iconic moments. Like the kids who grew up with the Bristol Boys, you'd be hard pressed to find a fan my age who was not unnerved by the peg dolls, introduced to the Ice Warriors or able to recreate the exact cadence of Maureen Lipman's "HUNNNGRYYYYYYYY" at a moment's notice. Hell, they probably even learnt who Winston Churchill was thanks to him. Yet, the comparison still is not flattering. At the end of the day, I am celebrating Mark Gatiss for being a competent writer during two eras of Doctor Who where the overall production was some of the best it has ever been at every level.

With this in mind, perhaps the most fascinating aspect of Gatiss' legacy is the one he was never allowed to have – the showrunner. Gatiss pitched a complete reboot of the series with G*reth R*berts and Cl*yton H*ckman but obviously lost out to Davies and, it has to be said, the prospect of even one full season of stories that are about as strong as Empress of Mars and The Shakespeare Code is hard to get excited about. There were some potentially interesting aspects such as the Doctor being introduced as an antique shop owner, the continuation of the serial format and Derek Jacobi as the Doctor. All of these things could have made for something entertaining to watch.

But reflecting on this pitch gets us to the biggest problems with Mark Gatiss as a Doctor Who writer and, arguably, the same things that made him the perfect co-writer for Sherlock; he is an old-fashioned, conservative writer and a dreadful romantic for all things nostalgia. His scripts are like the TV equivalent of an interactive museum exhibit that passionately recreates bygone eras. Sometimes this comes good, sometimes it does not but they are qualities that make it hardly surprising that Russell T Davies found him the perfect person to pen the very first historical revived Doctor Who.

Like practically all of Davies' initial run on the programme, My Name's Dickens... Charles Dickens (as it was originally titled) came about from a brief he hired Gatiss to fill. Davies insisted that the story take place in Cardiff, be set during the Victorian era and feature Charles Dickens in an adventure with charlatan medians. Gatiss' original pitch was entitled The Crippingwell Horror and took place in a hotel for fake medians with the character that would becomes Sneed being an employee who suddenly realises his powers are not a mere act. Interestingly, the original script would have drawn some similarities with The Empty Child two-parter with the character that became Gwyneth being haunted by the ghost of her recently deceased brother. Across the various drafts and at the production team's behest, the script became a less and less grim affair with a healthy injection of humour and self-awareness. The concept of the Gelth, however, was present across all versions with Gatiss taking inspiration from a childhood nightmare for the image of the possessed Mrs. Pearce.

In the context of its home season, The Unquiet Dead is perfectly slotted. The third story (and episode) of the season, it follows The End of the World with something completely different. It shows the full breadth of the programmes basic possibilities across three weeks and sets the template for the three modes Doctor Who will continue to alternate between and subvert until the present day. This was probably disappointing for some longterm fans as it does lay down a fundamentally different foundation to the 1963 season. In Verity Lambert's first three stories, Doctor Who was a survivalist drama that oscillated between educational historical settings, futuristic political allegories and surrealist horror flavours. Davies' Doctor Who was a soap opera that shifted between satires of contemporary England, futuristic camp absurdities and pastiches of revered literature. Neither of these is more valid but the distinction is essential to understanding how British television had changed over forty years and, indeed, the kind of fans that each version of the programme has continued to garner.

It is also important in understanding what The Unquiet Dead is actually accomplishing as it is essentially intending to fulfil a dual function. The first, as we have established, is to introduce a new audience to the historical Doctor Who but the second, and arguably harder, is to reintroduce fans to the historical Doctor Who. The way it goes about these things is the same; it turns to pastiche. For new audiences, the cultural context of Charles Dickens' writing and his literary depiction of the Victorian era is heavily leaned upon as a shorthand for establishing the world and characters of Gatiss' story. Leaning on tropes and cultural signifiers is an essential aspect of streamlining for the forty-five minute format and really the only choice for a show as fast paced as Doctor Who set out to be. It's a very savvy choice and, to be fair, not an entirely new one since it is essentially something David Whittaker was employing as far back as The Crusade. However, Whitaker never had to contend with the second aspect of this that works which is making the story equal parts a pastiche of the Doctor Who historical arguably a literary style in its own right in 2005. Henceforth, The Unquiet Dead would be just as the general audiences remembered and expected it to be; famous figures from history, gothic horror tones and colourful and exaggerated period stereotypes.

The latter of these two examples, of course, pertain almost exclusively to the mid-'70s period which, fair enough, was when Doctor Who was at its peak of general audience popularity (and even then it's pretty much exclusively Talons of Weng-Chiang we are referring to). As for the first, that practice was pretty much abandoned after The Crusades. No, this is not a genuine Doctor Who historical anymore than this is a genuine recreation of Victorian Cardiff. Rather, it is a streamlined and romanticised version and the one that Gatiss is most fond of recreating (and he would several times after this, even in Sherlock). Authentic to real history and Doctor Who or not, The Unquiet Dead set the precedent for practically every historical episode moving forward with every season (save for exclusively series seven) uniting its main cast with a celebrity historical figure for a heightened romp around some bygone literary tropes.

The more attentive reader would likely have noticed by now that I have been avoiding actually talking about The Unquiet Dead itself for some time now. There is a good reason for this which is simply that, besides the context surrounding it, there is very little to actually say. Even what I have is mostly just production background and reiterating points El Sandifer made years ago now (and more eloquently than me at that). I promised an analysis of the episode so let's just bite the bullet and get on with it. As I have already suggested, there is plenty to like about The Unquiet Dead that makes it hard to write off as some wholly disposable runaround. Being so obviously in the mould of the original show, more so than its predecessors and really any other episode of the first season, there is a simplicity to the affair that I find works to its advantage. There are some mature but simply laid out themes of spirituality versus science that come together rather deftly in a climax that hinges on children realising that an open-mind and attentive nature can allow for new discoveries and broader horizons. The constant reoccurrence of gas as a thematic symbol is effective and easy for children to spot. It provides a coherent, visual link between the Victorian era and the modern day, the old world hurtling into a new age.

Dickens himself is key to conveying these themes as well which is impressive considering that Gatiss was reluctant to include him in his story in the first place. Dickens is portrayed marvellously by Simon Callow, an expert on the author with prior experience playing the character and recreating his public readings. Callow was adamant that for him to sign on, the script would have to be of a sufficiently high quality. Allegedly, his initial reaction to the news that the author would be part of a Doctor Who was disappointment, feeling that fiction often did an injustice to the man. Thankfully, he was very much won over by the material and brought, not only the best performance of anybody in the episode but, some serious credibility to a programme that needed it. Simon Callow does not just sign on for any old slop and why should he when he brings such gravitas and grandeur in his characterisation of Dickens? Callow single-handedly elevates the already solid material to make the part simply superb. Like all the great character actors, and like this episode's approach to history, he may not be one-to-one accurate to Dickens as he was in real history but he embodies his spirit and essence of the author as he is remembered by us today.

So Dickens becomes the heart of the narrative, somewhat inevitably given the mythic status he holds in British literary canon. While Rose is still serving as an audience surrogate in the sense that hers are the eyes with which we view the past (more on that later), it is Dickens who serves a more traditional protagonist role to no small extent. If we consider the Doctor and Rose as analogous for Doctor Who as a series and the Gwyneth/Sneed double-act as our vessels for historical pastiche, Dickens falls in between as the baffled and wry viewer of events who understands the rules of period costume dramas and is being introduced to the weirdness of a Doctor Who story. All of the characters are awarded strong moments but only Dickens receives a full-blown opportunity for change and it is he who actually saves the day (with a healthy dose of real-world science for the kiddos at that). Dickens is the narrow-minded know-it-all whose beliefs are challenged by exposure to a new facet of his world and this, on the surface, is an extremely obvious direction to go. In the absence of a full-blown special, The Unquiet Dead is honorarily regarded by some fans to be the Ninth Doctor's Christmas episode and the allusions to Dickens' most renowned work in that arena are anything but subtle. The door-knocker is a cute touch and offering Dickens his own Scrooge arc, of a sort, works well enough however on-the-nose it is but going so far as to quote the book, not only several times but, as his final line is a level of overtness that I could have done without.

What is more interesting to talk about is Dickens' role in a metafictional sense. Like every story of the first series, The Unquiet Dead is drenched in metatextuality, in this case responding directly to its prior television version. Dickens is the original series of Doctor Who; a beloved icon that still has many fans that has grown stale, burnt its bridges yet continues to go on and on "the same old show... [p]erhaps I've thought everything I'll ever think". Yet, Dickens' worldview is challenged and his morale reinvigorated as the new show, the Doctor and Rose, enter the scene and disrupt his entire understanding. Doctor Who is more than capable of continuing in a new form for a modern world but its older form, the one Dickens embodies, cannot continue alongside it. Zooming out to a broader lens, we can see an even cheekier read where Dickens is symbolic of an entire storytelling approach for science-fantasy and drama that is reinvigorated by the potential of what Doctor Who could be.

Despite Dickens taking over the narrative, the medium aspect was obviously not abandoned and the bridge between the two worlds in this story is not Dickens but literally and figuratively embodied through Gwyneth, played very charmingly by Eve Myles. Gwyneth is the core character embodying the spirituality aspect of the story, essentially serving as the opposite for Dickens. The latter refuses to accept the Gelth exist because they do not fit the facts of his worldview while Gwyneth accepts them more readily than anyone because the facts presented align with her spiritual beliefs. Gwyneth is a medium, communicating with her “angels”, the Gelth, and ultimately understands both conflicting parties’, the Doctor and Rose's, ideologies but refuses both and makes her own choice to help the Gelth, regardless of what others think and makes her own choice to destroy them be sure it is what she believes to be right.

Besides it being a good choice formally to air this episode in the third slots, The Unquiet Dead also lees back an appropriately further layer to the Doctor's character, challenging the audience's morality without ever making him non-empathetic. Plagued by guilt over the consequences of the Time War, still something that we know nothing about beyond the fact that it wiped out there Time Lords, the Doctor offers the Gelth the opportunity to roam freely amongst the bodies of the dead, much to Rose’s disdain. The Doctor's role has little precedent in the televised show, clearly suggesting that his mistake comes from an overwhelming and misplaced emotional response. The Doctor projects his guilt onto a situation that takes advantage of that but his moral position is never seriously challenged. Rose takes a more conservative position which stems naturally from the best scene in the episode where she and Gwen are conversing about their respective upbringings. The scene overtly positions Rose as the educated, condescending lady of privilege which is a delightfully intelligent role to cast her in given her introduction in Rose explicitly establishing the opposite. Rose thinks she knows better than Gwyneth because she thinks she is smarter than her. It could have been a disastrous move and it is impressive that it never paints her in an entirely unlikable light. Importantly too, this scene is written by Russell as a late addition to extend the runtime.

Everything in the story up until here is working but the climax is ultimately where it kind of breaks down and never recovers. The story needs the Doctor to be right for the arc and theme of enlightenment and indulging other perspectives to broaden your own to actually work but it also needs to have an exciting third act with monsters and life or dearth stakes. So, the Gelth are just irredeemably bad beings. As Sandifer exposes in her own essay, this story is infamously criticised for xenophobic undertones regarding the Gelth and she breaks the entire argument down incredibly well. My only addition to that critique is that I think it is barely a matter of conjecture to say that this reading was unintended given Russell's insistence upon recreating the 1980 moment from Pyramids of Mars. The scene was, mercifully, cut but the intention was to explicitly depict a present-day Earth that has been invaded by the Gelth which would have more than doubled-down on their position as irredeemable monsters.

This is not a story about immigration, it is not Flip-Flop, and Rose is never painted as morally correct for insisting that their cohabiting the Earth is wrong. The focus of the conflict is on the whys of their choices, not the what. The Doctor is perhaps the most enlightened, for lack of a better word, of the cast but his emotions override his judgement and he allows the Gelth a way to invade while Gwyneth has an unwavering belief in her angels and the blind faith gets her killed. Dickens is only able to save the day once he accepts that his life has been fundamentally changed which leaves Rose as the one character whose development is somewhat confused. Rose thinks herself superior to Gwyneth due to her relative education and life experience but is shamed by her for assuming she can make decisions on her behalf. The result of this is... nothing really. Rose just sympathises with Gwyneth and is as moved by her death as her two surviving companions and that is about all here is to it. The sombre tragedy of the scene following Gwyneth's death ("She saved the world. A servant girl. No one will ever know.") is staged like a story that is fundamentally about class but The Unquiet Dead just is not. It's not that it doesn't come up from scene to scene but the theme is not a driving force of the story until it very suddenly and awkwardly is.

The Unquiet Dead is a good episode of Doctor Who with a great sense of atmosphere and tonal consistency but is more than a little shy of greatness. The production quality is excellent, the corpses and wonderfully creepy, there are great performances from the whole cast and the only real holes in the production are the lack of ambition in direction and editing (it is cut very slowly) and the surprising lack of score from Murray Gold that is something I would never criticise a story with his name attached for otherwise. The final script here is something much messier than the rest of the production and favours individual moments over a cohesive bigger picture. It is entertaining, clever and the right story to be airing three weeks into the show's run but becomes, nonetheless, somewhat more and more insubstantial on repeat viewings. It is a solid episode of a promising programme that likely needed at least one more draft to tease out its most interesting ideas. And maybe tackle that inadvertently problematic bit. In other words, the consummate Gatiss. Start as you mean to go on, I suppose.

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