#And future posts will be with their mother and their uncles and cousins!

[luveline]

𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

five | chapter list

Finding out you’re a princess isn’t half as intimidating as suddenly acquiring a full-time bodyguard. Especially when that bodyguard is disarmingly handsome, charming, and can’t seem to stop flirting with you. 

bodyguard!james, fem!reader, implied chubby!reader, shy!reader, princess diaries au, all characters in their 20s or older, star-crossed lovers/ forbidden romance, slowburn, background wolfstar

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

James can tell you're nervous, though you hide it exceptionally well. Years of training and years before that of being the best friend to two natural born fibbers has given him a professional understanding of the ways people will pretend.

There's no need to pretend. It's your father's funeral. 

James sits behind you on the pews. There are guards posted at all four entrances and exits to the church, but the level of security doesn't relax you, because it isn't why you're tensed. 

He has to bite his tongue to stop from speaking. Has to cling to his own hands rather than lean forward and inquire if you're alright. He's lucky he'd been allowed to sit as close to the front of the room as he had been, and that was only after a convincing speech to the Queen herself on the dangers your first public outing may entail. He hadn't been exaggerating. 

James hadn't been as succinct as he could've been, either, but no one else needs to know. 

He looks around the front of the church rather than the back of your head and your tight shoulders. The room has all the furnishings one would expect of a royal funeral, garish white tapings and mammoth crystal chandeliers with their metal fixtures waxed to a burning shine. Light floods in multicolour from gargantuan stained glass windows, reds and greens and buttery orange-yellow kissing the floor, the walls, and the brown lacquered casket at the front of the room. 

The proceedings had been in Genovian. James understood the majority, and he's sure Remus caught the rest. Your shoulder had started shaking somewhere between psalms, which means your arm had been shaking, and that's likely from a jigging anxious knee. You're unsettled. 

James is unsurprised. There are huge cameras in several places across the room, and at times they'd been pointed at you, your cousin, your aunts and uncles, and, of course, the Queen. 

Your identity has been officially broadcasted to the entire world —though thanks to now redundant members of the Royal staff, that had already been true to some extent. You are a princess in the gaze of billions, even if you do choose to give up the role as you're intending. This won’t be easy to leave behind.

Crown Princess or not, you're of royal blood, entitled to royal protection, and so. James can follow you anywhere you want to go for the foreseeable future as long as you allow him. You are just scared enough to say yes. (He hadn't exaggerated the state of things to you. No part of him wants to scare you. But he told you the truth, and he'd scared you anyhow.) 

Sitting next to the Queen is the Queen mother (your great-grandmother), and beside her is your uncle, your aunt, the Princess Julianna, and then you. Julianna is clearly unhappy with your untrained decorum but won't risk talking lest she end up on the front page of the newspapers scolding her newly instated cousin. 

"Might we all bow our heads for the final prayer." 

You bow your head too quickly and too low. James winces and does the same. Hopefully they'll think you miseducated rather than stupid, though to many that's the same crime. 

The prayer ends, and pallbearers step forward to carry the casket back out of the church to the hearse, a mixture of royals and paid actors strong enough to take the weight. The first row stands, James sticking out like a nettle among flowers, though his all black uniform isn't out of place for once. 

He slots himself behind you in the procession as it begins to walk down the aisle. He can speak and get away with it due to both occupation and occasion, a melancholy orchestra plays as the King is carried home. 

"Hello," he says, his face tilted near imperceptibly toward yours. "Everything okay?" 

He wants to ask the same question, but better. How are you feeling? I'm sorry I can't give you an out yet. 

"Okay," you say. 

"You're doing so well," he says.

You relax slightly. You pass Sirius at the very back of the church, where he taps his chin, prompting you to lift your own. The photography outside of the church is respectful, but Sirius and James alike have already quizzed you on what expression to keep. You can't smile. You can't frown. You have to look heartbroken but not hysterical —being branded as an attention seeker so early would fry your reputation. The last thing you need is a smear campaign before the funeral is over. You have to look grateful to be here. 

It is not an easy balance to strike. 

James thinks you're doing wonderfully either way, and the point of the funeral is to respect your father now he's passed, but he'd also say it was a successful launch. You look sweet, and remarkably made up. 

"Can we go home now?" you ask. 

"We can. You don't have anything else on the docket." 

"I don't have to go to, like, a wake?" you ask. 

James shakes his head. "No. I think most of the family want to grieve in private after a spectacle like this." 

"An event," Sirius corrects. 

"Are you hungry?" James asks. 

"Why, does Genovia have McDonald's?"

It's a credit to both James and Sirius that they manage to hide how funny they find you. "We do, but we can't take you to McDonald's. There'll be paparazzi following your car as soon as we leave the lot." 

"I don't want McDonald's," you say. 

"We know. I'm just asking so I can call ahead," James says. 

"It's my job, really," Sirius says. 

It's neither. You should've had a lady in waiting by now, a professional one to handle every aspect of your day by day, but the sudden nature of your arrival and now incoming date of your departure has left you without one. Sirius and James (and Remus, at times) have been happy to pick up the slack. 

"Is it bad that I am hungry?" you ask. 

James guides you away from the procession as the hearse pulls away, eager to get you in your own car sandwiched between a crowd of bodyguards. His men fall in without prompting, surrounding you on all sides. You visibly wither at the precaution. 

"It's not bad. Grieving is hungry work," Sirius says. 

James can't keep up with your conversation. There's suspicious movement at the barricade, the gathered supporters strangely rowdy for the occasion. He gestures with two fingers for the guards at his side to pull in tighter. Unsatisfied, he clears his throat and says, "Fall in, guys." 

He doesn't need to say what he's worried about. The guards under his employ and under any branch of Palace security should have enough sense to feel the difference in the atmosphere. 

"There's the Princess!" someone shouts. Hundreds of eyes find you. 

"I don't wave, do I?" you ask, turning to look at James. You realise the guards have tightened ranks, a frown twisting your pretty smile down. "What's happening?" 

He hates the sudden fear in your voice. 

"Nothing," he says, hand hovering behind the small of your back, eyes at the crowd. There's a man standing too still to be natural. "Don't worry. What are you having for dinner?" 

"That was an awful lie, you didn't even try," you complain, following his line of sight as best as you can to the crowd. 

"Seriously, Princess, what are we having for dinner?" Sirius asks.

"Am I in danger?" you ask.

"No," James says firmly.

"They're protecting me," Sirius says, which would be more believable if he didn't have to shout it over someone's shoulder. 

"You're not in any danger," James says, firmer still, a bite to his voice that makes Sirius wince. You stare. "You're still on camera, Princess." James is on camera. Your safety comes first, but his job is his job. Mary already berated him upon her return about his mishandling of the first airport disaster, and if James can't handle these situations, they'll find someone else to do it.

They manage to get you to your car without any incidents. James covers the roof and ushers you in, closing the door behind you. He takes the passenger seat, and your driver for the day, Munroe, starts the short journey back to Bellaverden House. 

James stays sitting prim, the light of the police escorts fronting your procession gaussian blue on his hands. 

"Are you okay?"

James is surprised that you're asking him, turning to meet your eyes from over his shoulder. "I'm perfectly fine. How are you, are you alright?"

You look a little seasick, hands either side of you in the empty seats. "I'm sorry if I made you mad." 

It's an expression he's seen on Sirius a hundred times, uncertainty, the anxiety of not knowing if you're in trouble with someone. He does as he would with him. "I'm not mad, Princess. I have to… I have to be someone else when I'm working to make sure I perform the way I need to. I’m sorry if that feels personal, but I can assure you it's just work. Okay?" He starts professional, ends soft. "Now, are you alright?" 

He keeps waiting for the reality of your situation to press upon you. Grief for a man you never knew, even anger at his inactive role in your life, but you stay quiet and cagey as a nervous cat. 

"I'm fine, James."

"Are you?" James watches for it, finds the tremor in your hands that betrays you even if you don't think there's anything wrong. 

"Fine," you say. 

—

Two days later, you take a flight home. Private again, less than ten passengers, six of which are following you. You’d wanted to escape the royal duties and they’re practically tucked in your back pocket. 

“Don’t look so scolded,” Sirius says, ineffectual as he gets comfortable beside you, a tray of biscuits in his lap. 

“What?” 

“James isn’t angry.” 

You hide a small fluster with a swallow. “I know.” 

“Well.” Sirius eats another biscuit. You honestly like him as much as you like James, though you’re starting to think he might end up being a pain in your side. He’s… opinionated. “You don’t look like you know. Can you eat something so everyone can stop worrying?” 

“Sorry.” 

You eat a chocolate biscuit, frown, eat a shortbread. Your stomach rumbles with a sickly lurch, but after a bit the sugar kicks in and you feel better. You peer around Sirius to spot James and Mickey pointing at different things on an iPad across the aisle. Just behind them, Remus sleeps, sitting next to Marlene. And, for reasons unbeknownst to you, Lily and Emmeline chatter in the seats just ahead. 

You tried very hard to get out of being a princess, and yet you’ve been trailed back home anyways. 

“You’re like Remus,” Sirius says, with surprising affection for both of you, “a bit of chocolate and the sulking stops.”

“They’re nice biscuits.” 

“They’re Genovian, obviously they’re nice biscuits. You’re used to that English shite–”

“Come on,” you reprimand lightly, “have you ever had a Welsh shortbread? Get a grip.” 

“I’ve had many Welsh shortbread. My Remus is very Welsh.” Sirius sinks down in his seat a little, seemingly sated by even a mention of Remus. The more you know them, the more you realise ‘my Remus’ is accurate. Sirius doesn’t even really say it with fondness or anything so saccharine, but just the addition of the word packs a punch. He’s said ‘my James’ before too, and that had been the same. 

A little nibble of jealousy blossoms in your chest. 

“Have you and Remus always been friends?” you ask. 

Sirius tilts his head back. His nice chin points at you, his eyes lazily opened but friendly all the same. “Yes. Despite his wishes, some of the time. I was friends with James first, the day we met, but Remus shared a room so he couldn’t escape us. He was friendlier with… we had another roommate. So for a while we were natural pairs, but eventually we became a right group of messers.” 

“I find it a bit difficult to make friends.” 

“Me too.” He closes his eyes for a second. “If I hadn’t been forced to see them every day, I wonder if I would’ve managed it.” 

You’re late for boarding school, but seeing people each day might be manageable. After all, you’ve a trapped posse of advisors with you at this very moment, destined to trail after you for what could be months. 

You hope that, when they inevitably return home, they might still want to be friends. 

The plane begins descending half an hour from the airport. Sirius squeezes the arm but doesn’t fuss. Then, suddenly, the landing gear is out, the seatbelt lights are on, and Sirius is encouraging you to ram the last of the biscuits in with him so he can bin the plastic tray they came in. “Go on,” he whispers, forcing the last, huge slag of caramel and chocolate in your direction, “before Marlene can see we’ve ruined dinner.” 

“She’s not actually going to cook for me, is she?” you ask, frowning. 

“Of course she is.” 

Of course she is. You cringe through the landing, but can’t stop yourself from smiling when James makes his way to your chairs to get your bag from the overhead. You know it’s lame, but it’s just like having a boyfriend. 

“Remus, will you get mine too?” you hear Sirius ask as he slinks around James’ body. 

“Get your own.” 

“Nice flight?” you ask James. 

He smiles. “Awesome. You look better off than the last time.” 

Last time you’d been exhausted, with red-rimmed eyes and a shiner. This is decidedly better, but you’re thrice as tired emotionally. 

“I can’t wait to go home.” 

James puts a hand behind your shoulder like he’s known you for years. “I bet you can’t,” he says. 

“Will you be, uh, sleeping on my sofa again?” 

He laughs and encourages you down the plane’s aisle. “Not this time, Princess. The proper arrangements have been made. I’ll miss your floral pillowcases, rest assured.” 

“I’ll miss getting decked by my door.” 

James’ gaze snaps to yours in shock. He pauses with his mouth just slightly open, and then a laugh jumps from him, a sunny, warm, crackly chuckle that heats your cheeks. “Yes!” he praises, giving you a poke. “I knew we’d make a comedian of you. And a dark one.” 

The sheer look of joy on his face buoys you as you journey home. It was out of character, sure, but worth it to have made him laugh. You find you like the feeling of it, the pleasure, even the satisfaction of making him laugh. You’ll have to do it again. 

You seem to have avoided any leaks of gossip or press, ushered by a small, tight group of security through the airport and to a jet black freelander. 

James opens the back door for you. “No SUV?” you ask, climbing in. 

“They’re not exactly common here, are they? This is less eye-catching.” 

“Less impressive,” Sirius says, nudging you across to climb in after you. 

You find yourself shuttered to the opposite side of the car as Remus gets in behind him. “Idiots,” James mutters. 

“I thought we should’ve had a G-wagon,” Sirius says. 

“That’s ridiculous,” Remus says. 

“Or something stylish, then. A Benz.” 

“This is nicer than the bus,” you say. 

Sirius wrinkles his nose. “Too right.” 

“So, where are we going?” you ask. You can’t work out why they’ve gotten into the same car. 

“I thought we’d stay with you for a bit,” Sirius says easily. 

“Why?” 

You flush as you realise what you’ve said, and how bluntly it came out. 

Sirius doesn’t flinch. “I was thinking you might want company. No?” 

“You don’t have to–”

“No, we don’t,” Remus says, resting his weight on Sirius’ arm, “but we want to if you’re alright with it.” 

You settle in your seat for the drive home, a small smile playing on your lips. It would be nice to have friends right now. 

—

It turns out that time spent with the boys can get out of hand. Even James, oh so serious, begins to play into their shenanigans. Being together relaxes them, evident in their huge dopey smiles and the tactile way they go about the evening. 

James was supposed to leave sometime after eight when Mickey arrived to relieve him, but he’d hunkered down with Remus on the sofa, stealing sips of his tea and attempting to push his socked feet under Remus’ thighs. “No,” he says now, giving Remus a prod, “you knocked the Genovian pear juggler clear off of his feet! And you blamed Sirius!” 

“And I took the blame like a proper man,” Sirius says, tipping his head back to lay on Remus’ knees. “You’re welcome.” 

“You owed me.” 

A vague tenseness lines James’ shoulders, but Sirius only says, “Yes, I did.” 

“He had to wash dishes for a month,” Remus says. 

“I accepted my punishment. Besides, it gave me plenty of opportunity to pilfer the kitchens. We ate enough chocolate to make ourselves sick of it in a week.”

You curl up tighter in the armchair. The TV is playing quietly, an old movie flickering in muted colours, dabs of it caught on James’ arm. 

He pushes his glasses further up his nose. You like them, the glasses, though he says they aren’t practical. They look good on him, bringing an extra darkness to his eyes, already a nice honey brown. All these brown eyed boys in one place isn’t good for you. 

Marlene had, to your horror, come around to make you and your guests a late supper. You’d asked her how the royal kitchens would run without her and she’d asked you not to insult her workers. She’s bullied you into three plates worth and promised to be back tomorrow morning. 

You’d said oh, no, please don’t, and James had reminded you that you’re going to be a princess for the rest of your life. Get used to extravagance. 

And company! Sirius called. 

He hasn’t moved since he got here, not even for dinner, though it’s not like you all would’ve fit around your teeny kitchen table anyhow. He picks at a plate of buttered bread and Genovian grapes, which Marlene had apparently gotten for him on special request. He has a planner in front of him, a heavy looking silver pen between lithe fingers scribbling across the pages, scratching things out, drawing big arrows as he moves dates around. 

“You’re busy,” you say sympathetically. 

Sirius snorts. “This is your planner, babe.” 

“My what?” 

“I’m trying to fit driving lessons around your classes. They’re quite random, aren’t they?” He lifts his gaze to meet your confusion. “James wants you to learn.” 

“Well, I haven’t asked her yet, mate,” James says. 

Sirius shrugs. “If I’m going to work it out, I need to do it now before bed.” 

“What about my shifts?” you ask. 

Sirius tilts his head ever so slightly to one side. “You still want to work?” 

You remember the shock of the inheritance all over again. Weird to think a lump sum will have cleared in your bank account before you got home, the accruement of years spent unaware of your heritage. It will be strange to quit The Morgan —you know so many of the regulars, and you’ve spent the last two years living off of that paycheck— but the idea is a sudden warm blanket. 

“I can quit?” you ask. 

“Sure,” Sirius says. “If you want. You don’t have to worry about it anymore. That’s not to say you can’t work, but I can’t imagine you’ll spend what you have soon…” 

You smile to yourself, guilty and so, so relieved. “You wouldn’t believe how horrible my manager is. I don’t want to be spoiled–”

All three boys roll their eyes. It’s unnerving. “It’s not spoiled,” Remus says. 

“It makes my life easier,” James says. “Besides, the Royal Family might demand it.” 

“Mm, it’ll look bad if the heir keeps her pub job,” Sirius says. He scratches out a last corner of the page. “Alright, darling, listen up. You can fit in two hours of driving a day, three times a week, is that gonna be something you can do? In about two months you should have your forty five hours of practice. We can study theory twice a week. If it’s too intense we can slow down, there’s no rush, really, just James–”

“Doesn’t like the bus,” you say. 

“Hates public transport,” Sirius agrees. 

“It’s good for the environment,” James speaks up, leaning further and further toward the arm, sinking into your battered throw cushions, “bad for princesses.” 

That awful p-word. 

“Alright. That sounds perfect, Sirius. Thank you for working it all out.” 

“You’re very welcome. You might not like me so much when you see how many hours I’ve given Remus.” 

You put your hands between your legs. “Oh, do I still have to do all that? Even if I’m not going to...”

“Become the crown princess of Genovia and rule the country?” Remus asks. “Yes, you still have to do all that. If only the basics.” 

“But why?” 

“‘Cos I said so,” Remus quips, leaning forward as Sirius leans back, a scarred hand falling naturally against his sharp shoulder. 

“Ooh, you’re in trouble now, Princess,” James says. “An angry Remus is formidable.” 

“I’m not angry.” Remus reaches over Sirius for a grape, his nose brushing black hair. 

Sirius softens from the brush of touch alone. It is an intense thing to see, not private but intimate nonetheless. They must be seeing, you decide, curling tighter again in the armchair and craving another box of biscuits. For the first time since the funeral, you aren’t feeling off centre. You just feel like you, home again, an itch to sketch in your hands battered down by fatigue. It’s been such a long day, yet you stay your leave. 

“Scratch my hair?” Sirius asks. 

Remus hums. “No, thank you.” 

“Oh, please, Remus. Just scratch it, don’t be selfish.” 

“He’s a sponge for it,” James tells you. “Couldn’t be touched when we met him, mind, but now he won’t leave you alone once you’ve said yes. If he asks you to draw shapes on his arm, save yourself and say no.” 

You wouldn’t mind, you don’t think. Sirius sees it on your face and grins. 

James decides to appease Sirius while Remus refuses and ushers him his way. He runs a big hand through Sirius' hair, fingers combing to the ends, and then he goes up the back of his neck, where he begins to scratch long circles. “That’s better,” Sirius says, falling back against James’ leg. “I always thought I should be a prince, you know. I like the royal treatment.” 

“Didn’t get much royal treatment as a lord, did you?” Remus asks. 

“You’re a lord?” you ask. 

“I could’ve been. I was the heir,” Sirius says, tone taking on a dripping disdainfulness that seems tired of real emotion. 

“Lord of the most Noble House of Black,” James says. “Only he ditched them. Quite dramatically.” 

“Thank goodness,” Remus says. 

Sirius looks at you again. Both exhausted and unaffected, like the deepest pain has passed. You can see the weariness of someone who’s spent days at a long dinner table, though now he sits slouched and cared for against your ratty sofa, and it suits him more. “My family is traditional, and I’m less so. I could never have lived the life I was supposed to. It probably would have killed me. So I left, and I was lucky enough to be taken care of by another oh so noble family.” 

“The Potter’s aren’t noble,” James says quickly. “I’m not a lord or heir or anything.” 

“Well, you are heir of the Potter name and riches and all,” Remus says, taking Sirius’ plate of snacks into his lap. He folds a thick piece of the bread and butter and offers it to Sirius before eating the last one. 

“Yes…” James gives Remus a pointed look, which Remus ignores. “But it’s not like the Black family. You might actually meet them, one day.” 

“Pray not,” Sirius says to himself. 

“Hmm. The Potter’s are an older family too, but not like the Black’s. The Black’s have deep Genovian roots, my family are–” James’ cheeks take colour. “Rich, yes. Very rich.” 

“But you work,” you say. 

“I think I’d go mad if I couldn’t.” He must spot the look of guilt you fail to thwart. “But it’s different. To grow up completely looked after, I’ve never had to do anything I didn’t want to do.” 

“That’s not what I’ve been led to believe,” Remus cuts in, laughing, meeting James’ eyes, “all that homework you needed my help with, you did that willingly?” 

You laugh at James’ faked annoyance and their matching chuckles. Time that night seems to slip away, and it’s well past midnight when you fall asleep, still curled in your chair. 

In the morning, you wake up in bed. 

You pull a pillow over your face, cold underside to your boiling skin. How did I get here? you ask yourself, terrified of the answer. 

—

Honestly, your flat isn’t the nicest. It’s clean as you can manage, but there’s damp in the bathroom and it’s rather squashed. James finds himself squinting in disgust at the door at the front of the building which still doesn’t open properly (and so can be jimmied) despite his annoyed email to the landlord where he’d cited a few chosen laws and threatened to withhold the rent, though he supposes it had no weight because James isn’t the one paying it. Still, he can’t deal with this. He has to convince you to move. A gated community might be a shout; he’d worry less if you lived among the rich and their security cameras. 

But he doesn’t suppose the best course of action here is to displace you again. You like your flat, he thinks, hadn’t you told him before that you liked the quiet? Or was it the noise? It’s not like London has a reputation for peace. He’s still not sure how you ended up living in central London: he commits to ask. 

James isn’t going to give up on you. He wants you to be princess, The Princess, he wants you to take your place as Queen of Genovia one day. Not because you’re the only one who can stop fucking Baron Riddle from ruling Genovia as a tyrant bastard, but because it’s your birthright. You run from something that could be so special to stay here, alone and lonely. He knows it’s harsh to think of it that way, and yet he does. And, selfishly, he wants to stay with his friends. He wants to be your friend. If the Riddle family control Genovia he can say goodbye to his job, and he can say goodbye to the life he’s made. He could make another one, of course, but he has a feeling about you. 

He takes the stairs past the huge discarded mattress and a floor covered in mail to your flat. The door is propped open which he hates, but Mikkelson is inside, sitting at the kitchen table with you, drinking a polite cup of tea. Sirius leans up against a counter with his own.  

“Good morning,” James says. 

You’re wearing jogging bottoms, socks, and a t-shirt with a charcoal smudge on the neck. It has short, short sleeves, showcasing the lengths of your arms. James is only a boy, following the curve of one down to your hand. 

You glance at your arm, then him. “Good morning?” 

“Aren’t you cold?” he asks to save himself. 

“It’s warm out?” you say, peering around Mickey to check the sunshine coming from the window. “It’s warm in here, at least.” 

“Mickey, are you ready?” James asks. 

Mickey thanks you for the tea and leaves, tired in the eyes. James slaps him on the shoulder as he goes. 

Sirius stretches backwards. When he rises up, he fixes James with a cool look. “Jamie, I’ve just heard from our royal sweetness that you’ve been calling me her stylist.” 

You flinch. “Uh–”

“Well,” James says, grinning as he settles against the doorframe, “it is how Lily introduced you.“

“Ah, yes, Lily Evans. Longtime frenemy. I expected it from her. I didn’t realise you were driving the narrative home in my absence.”

“Sirius, you do style her, you realise.” 

“I’m a media coach!” Sirius sniffs. “And a gentleman in waiting, for the time being.” 

“You’re more than a coach,” James says. 

“Yes, well. I’m not a stylist. At least, that’s not my first priority. I’m miffed with you now, so steer clear of me.” Sirius says, ferrying back to the living room. 

James hears the clunk of his modest briefcase being opened. You start to apologise, but he shakes his head with a grin. “Please ignore him, he’s kidding.” He traces the side of your face in the light. “Your bruise is almost gone.” 

Your fingers flit to your cheek and the well of your eye. “Yeah. Yeah, it's only sore now.”

“Little yellow in the crease.” Hard to see if you’re not really looking.  

“It feels like it was a really long time ago,” you say, standing from your chair with a wobble. 

“You alright?” he asks. 

You make for the kettle, flicking it on. “Fine. Tea, coffee?” 

“Sure, I’ll have some tea. What’s Sirius doing up so early?” 

“He didn’t say yet.” 

You take a mug from the cupboard printed in autumn leaves. James hears a rough sound and turns to the living room on instinct, hard pressed to hold in a laugh as he watches Sirius right your knocked coffee table. James had taken Remus back to the accommodation last night while Sirius insisted he’d stay. It’s not nice to be alone, he’d said simply. When James turns back to the kitchen, you’ve placed a tea bag and a teaspoon in the mug, jug of milk waiting, jar of brown sugar cracked. “It’s gone solid,” you warn, “there’s nothing wrong with it though, I promise.” 

“I only have a little. Here, I can do it. Have you eaten?” 

“Yeah, we had toast. Did you?” 

“Don’t worry about me,” he says. 

James has said goodbye to professionalism. Not safety, not doing his job, but if what you need to be the crown princess is a friend, James will be your friend. He can do that easily. It feels a little odd after fighting it for the time you spent in Genovia, but he’s done with pretending you’re not cutesy. 

“What are you going to do today?” he asks, coming up behind you, close enough to see the dark pupil of your eye and the white of the kitchen light against it.

“Um, well, Sirius is going to help me tender my resignation at the bar, and then I guess I have a driving lesson? I should probably try to catch up on my assignments, or. I don’t know, maybe I’ll drop out.” Your eyes widen slightly. “Not because I want to do nothing. I just– I can– can try again. A fresh start at a proper university.” 

James holds the top of your arm. “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with that. You don’t have to decide anything today. I’m sure you can take a sabbatical for your current term, Sirius can help you sort that out, just until you decide. Or you could drop out tonight and think about it all later. You have time. I didn’t think for a second it was because you want to do nothing, and even if I did, that’s not bad either.” His thumb crests a small circle, pushing up the line of your sleeve. 

Your lips part for a moment before you answer, as though practising. “Thank you, James.” 

“I haven’t done anything.” 

“I bet you don’t think so.” 

James pats your shoulder gently, then reaches for the kettle as it flicks off, boiled. “Can I suggest an addendum to your calendar?” 

“Sure.”

“I was thinking you could try another counselling session.” 

You blink, stopped with a tea bag in hand. “Why?” 

“The first one went well, didn’t it?” 

“But I’m home now.” 

“That doesn’t erase the last week.” Nearly two now, since you found out.

You push your mug toward his and he fills it with hot water. He follows suit and adds his own milk, stirring it together quickly. His spoon on the sides is a biting clink, clink, clink. 

“Things have felt a bit staccato, haven’t they?” he asks. 

You nod, toying with the handle of your mug. 

“It would be nice for you to have something constant. Some stability. And we can arrange for you to have private care here, you know.”

“I have stability,” you argue unsurely. “You and Remus and Sirius, and Frank, too. Is he coming back?” 

“Frank’s having some time off with his partner, but he’ll be here soon.” He laughs, pushing the body of his teabag against the side of his mug, the brown of the tea seeping into the milk in a wave. “I don’t think you can get rid of me, however hard you wanna try.” 

“I wasn’t trying to get rid of you.”

James looks up. He catches your eye. Again, the dark of your pupil shines and shakes, not sure where to look, but your lip stays in a firm line like you’ve been chastened. He remembers flicking you under the chin the last time you’d looked at him like that. He could do it again, but he fears Sirius’ judgement. “I know,” he says, voice soft with his low volume. “I’m teasing.” 

“Would you not?” you ask. 

“So spritely today! Alright, is your tea done? Let’s go sit in the living room and make a list.” 

“A list?” 

“Of things you want to do,” he says, scooping the tea bag from his mug. 

“I don’t know what I want to do.” You take his spoon to remove your tea bag. 

You chuck it in the sink, pulling your mug to your chest. You don’t sound happy about making the list, but you follow him obligingly to the living room where Sirius is brushing his hair from his face, a list of his own coming to life on his knee. 

“Not more duties for me?” you ask tentatively. 

Sirius makes grabbing hands for James’ mug. James, with a sigh, lets him have it. Sirius takes a glutinous sip and doesn’t offer it back. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t clear up your job status when talking to the Princess, Pads. Can we ever be friends again?” James says in defeat. 

“I’ll think about it,” Sirius says, not bothering to meet James’ eyes. “And to answer your question, your sweetness, it’s not for you, don’t worry. I’m trying to make sure Remus’ medical information is being properly swapped over. It’s…” Sirius takes another sip of tea and then thankfully passes it back. “A headache. Doctors.” 

“Does Remus know you’re doing that?” James asks, sitting on the empty sofa. You take the seat beside him. 

“Not yet. It’s not– not like it’s not part of my job. He works for the princess, I work for the princess, I might as well make sure he’s tip top shape to do that.” Sirius gets that look James recognises for not wanting to talk about the thing he’s talking about anymore, his eyes lighting up predictably. “What’s on your agenda today?” 

“I suppose we’ll be taking the Princess to the shops at some point. You needed some bits?” he asks. 

You noticeably fluster but don’t answer. 

“And then after that I’ll be taking her for her first driving lesson.” 

Your jaw drops. “Wait, you're teaching me?” 

“Well, just to begin with,” James says. He squints at you. “I’m a good driver, I’ll have you know.” 

Sirius rolls his eyes. 

“I am! And besides, who do I trust more than me? And you trust me, don’t you?” he asks you.

You cross your arm over your chest. “Yeah, ‘course.” 

James’ grin is evident in his tone. “Good. Because after that we’ll be endeavouring into the land of self-defence.” 

“What?” 

“With a safety mat, don’t worry.” 

You nibble your bottom lip. “Well, I wasn’t until you said that.” 

[postm0rt3m]

happy thanksgiving everyone!

just a lil fluff thanksgiving bf!simon post bcz i just sobbed my heart out over the most absolutely devastatingly beautiful angst story i’ve ever read (through statics, give it a read!) and if i keep thinking about it i’m going to actually spiral

not proofread so :P

(i said this then made myself cry again writing this bffr. this also ended up way longer than i meant for it to so lol!)

“simon?”

“…baby?”

“simon theodore! are you even listening to-“

simon suddenly snaps back out of his thoughts at the stern tone in your voice, letting out a small grunt as if saying “yes i was” but in reality.. he wasn’t. he was too far gone in his absolutely harrowing thoughts, because today is the day.

the day he’s having thanksgiving dinner with your family. i repeat, simon “ghost” riley is currently on his way to eat turkey and stuffing and pumpkin pie with his girlfriend’s family. sound the alarms!

don’t get me wrong, he’s met some of your family before. your parents, your siblings. but.. your entire family is going to be here. moms side, dads side, aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins. oh god.

this man has been through war and back. literally. yet, he feels as anxious as he did the first day he joined the army, just thinking about the events that are about to go down. he’s literally trembling. terrified to lift his hands from the death grip he has on the steering wheel because he knows you’ll get that same teasing sympathetic look on your face as you always do.

he finally clears his throat, breaking his deadpan stare out the windshield to glance over at you for a moment, which brings him a little comfort. just the sight of you, really, could relax every tense muscle in his body.

“yeah, yeah, ‘m listenin’. said sumn about.. ham..?”

you look over when you feel his gaze on his, that same smile he was just trying to prevent spreading across your face. holding back a laugh from the random mention of ham, you place your left hand on his meaty thigh, giving it a soft squeeze.

“…no. are you okay? i promise they’re gonna love you, si. seriously.”

you know, of course, about your boyfriend’s past. his alcoholic of a father, the absence of his mother, the way he buried himself with work and an early grave in an attempt to forget it all. every time you think about it, your heart squeezes. because his pain is your pain, and it hurts you so deeply its as if it happened to you. plus, your man doesn’t deserve all that weight on his shoulders!

so, you’re kind. loving. forgiving. you never hold his mistakes over his head, knowing it happened so many times in his childhood. you’ve been together not even a year, yet, you know. you know he’s the one that you’ll marry, the one who’s children you’ll have running around your big white suburban house. and he knows it too. which is why he agreed to this!

he gives another grunt after he mulls over your question, because, really, is he okay? he’s not sure himself, at this point.

“i.. ‘m fine. lets just get this over with.”

—

once you actually arrive, you’re.. not sure if simon is still breathing in his seat. neither is he. his hands are still placed firmly on the steering wheel and his feet on the pedals, even though he already turned the car off. five minutes ago.

“baby. take a deep breath in,”

you begin, your smile falling as you realize he’s actually terrified. this is probably the first thanksgiving dinner he’s ever been to. and with his future family? he just wants the world to open up and swallow him whole already.

but, he obliges, taking a sharp inhale in, holding it, then letting it out when you say. it actually does relax his muscles a little, but not his nerves. no, they’re so far gone he thinks they won’t be relaxed for the next five years.

“then out. you’re okay. everything will be okay. i promise, they’ll love you. worst case scenario, we leave and get chinese.”

he looks over at you, his gaze still as intense as ever, but you can see the utter fear and nerves swirling around behind his brown eyes. you let out a small sigh, leaning over the center console to place a soft kiss on his stubbly cheek.

“lets go in. we can come back out if its too much, okay?”

he nods, swallowing so hard he thinks he might’ve swallowed his own tongue. his grip on the steering wheel finally releases as he exits the car, the crisp november air instantly hitting his face and the white t-shirt & blue jeans that took him two hours to pick out.

he rounds the front of the black pickup truck, opening your door and taking your hand as you slide down out of the passenger seat.

as you two walk up to the front door of your mother and father’s home, his grip on your hand tightens more and more with each step. you place another reassuring peck on his arm, which loosens it just a little. just a little.

you make it to the front door, and oh my god simon thinks he’s going to pass out. he’s trying to keep it together, but staring through the foggy glass of the door, seeing the bustling of your family inside, he thinks he might hurl.

“oh — you must be the famous simon we hear so much about! her mom never shuts up about you!”

one of your aunts opens the door, a beaming smile spread across her face as she sees you, then cranes her neck up to look at your brute of a boyfriend. you can see the shock on her face for a split second, although she doesn’t dwell on it. but simon does.

why did she look at me like that? do i have something on my face? bloody hell, i’m gonna throw up everywhere and she’s gonna leave me and-

you cut simon out of his thoughts with a reassuring squeeze to his hand, glancing from him to your aunt. she reaches her hand out, and simon hesitantly meets it, giving it a gentle yet firm shake.

“we’re glad to be here! simon is excited to meet everyone, right, love?”

“yeah. can’t wait.”

you two make your way through the lively house, and simon can’t help but think about how.. domestic it all is.

your siblings and cousins all running around, playing together and weaving in and out of the various rooms. your mom, aunts, and grandmothers gathered in the kitchen, preparing the food and gossiping about their respective partners. your dad, uncles and grandpas laughing heartily over beers and nachos as they watch the ongoing baseball game on the tv.

its something simon has never had the pleasure of experiencing in real life, and something he never thought he’d get to experience.. ever. the reality hits him, so much harder than he’d thought.

that.. this is his life. this is his family. not those people who abandoned him all those years ago. you’re his family. and the thought warms his chest in a way not even you could.

the day flies by, so much faster than simon thought it would. he got to meet everyone, speak with everyone. he even had a beer with your dad. although this may be completely new to him, it instantly felt familiar. felt right. the stability and domesticity he’s craved for so long, and he’s finally got it.

he was nervous the whole time, of course. he still is. but having you there made it all melt all way after a few hours. he stayed by your side the entire time, not wanting to leave you alone, but also not wanting to be alone himself. your reassuring squeezes, your loving pecks to his cheek or arm, they kept him grounded. and he will never be able to re-pay you for such a feat.

when it comes time to eat, everyone is crowded around the living room with heaping plates in hands. your cousins are sprawled on the floor, uncles and aunts sitting in random camping chairs they brought knowing there wouldn’t be enough space for everyone.

simon can’t wait to eat. the fragrant turkey and gravy sitting in his lap, he thinks he will simply die if he doesn’t dig in.

but, one of your aunts mentioned saying grace. something simon doesn’t think he’s done a single time in his life.

everyones heads bow, hands connecting around the room, simon holding yours in his left and your sibling’s in his right as you all squeeze together on the couch.

your mother begins her prayer, giving her thanks for the people, the food, and the house they’re so lucky to be blessed with. simon finds it a little silly as a firm non-believer of any type of religion, but it also squeezes at his heart, because they truly are blessed. he’s blessed.

then, she mentions him.

“and thank you, for bringing such a handsome man into my daughter’s life. we hope for a long, healthy life for the two of them, and hope he doesn’t mind his new crazy family.”

his new crazy family.

you peek your eyes open with the widest grin, glancing over to see if simon is as flushed as you think he is.

but he’s not.

he’s crying.

you can feel his hand slightly trembling, his eyes still clamped shut as the tears roll down his face and his lip pouts out just the slightest. your smile instantly falls, your hand still connected with his as you raise them to wipe at his tears.

you try to be discreet, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention to as you dry his eyes with your sleeve. you can feel your heart doing flips, the fact that he’s so touched that he’s crying making you want to cry yourself.

after they say amen, everyone instantly digs into their plates. except the two of you.

you can’t take your eyes off of simon, and he can’t take his reddened eyes off of you. here, in this moment, you both realize something.

everything you two’ve been through. the lows, the sleepless nights. the highs, nights out on the town until ungodly hours. has lead to this. this connection, this moment.

and, god, neither of you could ask for more. he truly can’t wait to put a ring on your finger.

after a few moments of silent conversation you give him a small smile, and the two of you tune back into the world, digging into your plates and enjoying the presence of your family and each other.

this is his family now. and just like he couldn’t ask for more from you, he couldn’t ask anymore from them. he loves them just as much as he does you.

a few hours later, everyone begins leaving and heading home. thanksgiving is officially over for your household.

you can barely drag simon away from the kitchen, who is stacking a plate the size of his own head with the various dishes strewn across the counter. your mother was absolutely delighted at the fact that he kept going back, for seconds, thirds, then fourths. and now he’s taking the remaining leftovers.

you two make it back out to the truck, him helping you in before the both of you settle in and fasten your seatbelts.

but he doesn’t yet start it. he looks over at you, a content sigh escaping his lips and a smile so warm across his face you think you could melt.

“i love you.”

he simply says, the usual monotone stance in his voice replaced with something else. something warm and sweet, like the soft piece of pumpkin pie in the plate in your lap, neatly covered by a layer of tin foil.

“i love you too, simon. i told you they’d love you.”

you respond, the smile on your own face giddy and almost sickly sweet as you think about everything that just happened, and everything that will happen.

its a little hard for simon to make sense of all these new emotions and flooding feelings as you two make the long drive back home. but one thing he does know, he’s thankful.

thankful for you, thankful for the 5 inch tall plate of food in the backseat, and thankful for your family.

for his family.

[dragon-fly34]

SMB-LM: William Junior Gravely Boo

After Regina, I had to do one of William, he's really cute, and I did.

{The first photo is what her OC looks like in gl2, the second is from an anime business on Google of what she looks like as a teenager and the last is her wearing a casual outfit}

Here is some headcanons about him:

-> Shy and quite cute, William Junior is Regina's twin, he is 10 minutes younger than her, she usually teases him about being older than him, but he doesn't care.

-> He took after his own father's shyness, because King Boo was shy as a child! But before becoming a piscopath.

-> He loves reading and finding out about the world, when he visits his uncle Bowser's king, he asks questions about the history of the kingdom, he also does his research with the Boos.

-> Sometimes he is clumsy and ends up hurting himself, when he was little he caused dozens of bruises on his body.

-> (As I said in a post by Regina about her relationship with Bowser's children) William also has his favorites, he plays with Morton, Wendy and Roy.

-> Sometimes twins William and Regina venture into their kingdom while their parents are busy, they are always accompanied by Boolossus, King Boo's royal guard and the twins' nanny in case they get lost.

--------

And that's it folks! I'm going to make more of these little ones, bye!!!

[barblaz-arts]

Barblaz's Wenclair AU's masterpost

*NOTE: This is sorted by order of chronological events. If you want to see them by date posted, make sure you're in my blog before clicking on the name of the AU in the tags if ur on mobile. If ur on desktop, click on my blog's name first then click on the tag for the AU. Have fun backreading mwah!

Inuyasha AU - AU based on the anime Inusyasha. For the youngsters unfamiliar with it, it's an old anime about a modern Japanese teenager named Kagome who gets magicked to a feudal Japan that is terrorized by demons. She accidentally awakens a half-demon named Inuyasha(literally means demon dog) who was sealed frozen in time by Kagome's ancestor and Inuyasha's first love, Kikyo

Wednesday meets the half-demon Enid

Familiar faces

Kitty the Manticore

Pokemon AU - name speaks for itself i think.

Hex Maniac Wednesday and Cute Trainer Enid want to battle!(over a Mimikyu?)

Cover art

Getting to know Wednesday and Enid's Pokemons

List of Gym Leaders, Elite Four and the Champions

The Balcony Talk: Pokemon AU Edition

The boys awakening some "green-eyed monsters"

Challenging Champions Morticia and Gomez Addams(warning: it's still a WIP)

When you're part of their team...

Fanart by @enidtendo64

"Wenclair in my moot's styles" drawing meme by @kris-6758

Fanfics inspired by this AU by IntrusiveCreativity on AO3

Next Gen Nevermore AU - Wednesday and Enid as wives with a daughter named Vega

Meet Vega Addams

She has (both) her mothers' eyes

Mothers and daughter

Enid the wildlife rescuer

Baby's first wolf out

Vega's love for the extraterrestrial

Domestic Addamses

Full Moon nights are Family Nights

Finding the right 'do

The Heroes of Nevermore

Height Difference

Enrollment

SkyWolf

SkyWolf Meet Cute

Meet Sora Toriyama

Clowning each other like an old married couple

Principal Barclay

Clingy wolf

Family Day

Meeting Mrs. and Mrs. Addams

Full Moon Nights are Family Nights(ft. Sora)

Vega's favorite place: Sora's shoulder

Vega's Uncle Pugsley and his diverse children

Vega's Uncle Pubert, bane of her existence

Pubert fucks around and finds out

Happy Halloween

Regine Ottinger

Voices for Vega, Sora, Regine, and Pubert(ask)

The Mystery Missfits

Get to know Vega's cousins

Sora and Regine's parents

Bonus Vega fanfics by other authors:

Enid and Wednesday have a very important conversation with their daughter (by @eggplant-crusader)

Sora visits the Addamses (by TheVeryGayLouvio on AO3)

The aftermath of Vega's first wolf out by @whitebeltwriter

Vega and Sora's misadventures by @whitebeltwriter

Meet the Addamses AU - based on the movie Meet the Robinsons. Due a magical mishap, Vega Addams accidentally brings teen Enid Sinclair into the future and desperately tries to hide from Enid that the Addamses are the family she will eventually marry into.

Wednesday's daughter is full of woe(and stressed as FUCKK)

Addamses of the future

Enid Addams

See you later

Witchcraft Baby AU - loosely inspired by Lilo and Stitch. Wednesday is a witch who used Enid's blood to make a homunculus. The consequences are dire as their creation is taboo and Wednesday used the blood of a Sinclair to do it. Wednesday wants everyone to leave her and her creation alone, meanwhile all Enid sees is a chance for family.

A deal is made(fic)

Wednesday backstory(fic)

Vega the Homunculus (art)

Jailbreak (art)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Give Thanks

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, familial judgement/bullying, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your mother invites a lonely coworker to Thanksgiving, a bit too lonely.

Characters: Andy Barber

Note: this is the second of my autumn fics as decided by all of you!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

The smell of nutmeg hits you as you enter the house. That and the garble of voices. You take your time as you unlace your boots, keeping your jacket on as the rack is already overflowing with the like. You mentally ready yourself to face your famiiy and their annual judging panel. 

You peek into the front room as you keep a firm hold of the boxed pies you grabbed from your favourite bakery in the city. You promised dessert and you brought it. You'll put them down before you wade in the deep end. 

You enter the kitchen, rehearsing your greeting for your mother, but you're met with a stranger's back. He stands at the counter, scraping cranberry sauce from a saucepan into a serving dish. His brown hair is combed back neatly, though you can only see the ends from your vantage, and he wears a pressed shirt too white for the task at hand. 

You hesitate. Where the heck is your mom? You can't see the man's face but you can tell he's a bit too young for her. Or so you would assume. He could be a cousin's boyfriend and yet he might be a bit above that. 

"Um, hi," you say as you approach the end of the island counter, well away from him, "I'm looking for my mom." 

"Your mom? Doris?" He wonders. 

"Yeah," you answer as you set the pies on the counter. "I know I'm a little late..." 

"She just went to grab something from the cellar," he explains. "I'm Andy--" 

"There she is," your mom sweeps in with her seasonal gravy dish. "Mm, I knew you'd bring store bought." 

"They're from a local bakery." 

"You never did like being in the kitchen," she reprimands. "Oh, Andrew, that looks perfect. Not too runny." 

You glance at the man. This strange man draws praise from her like honey from a comb, whereas you find the task as easy as squeezing juice from a stone. You let it roll off your back like you have for years. 

"I got pumpkin, apple crumble, and some pecan. They usually sell out of that." You say. 

"Ooh, pecan," the man, Andy, says. 

"Oh, Andrew, my younger daughter," your mother introduces you as an afterthought as she goes to wash the gravy boat, "The typist." 

"Typist? Mom, I'm an admin assistant," you counter. "I guess it doesn't matter." 

"Just her, I'm afraid," she shuts off the faucet. "And her pies. No grandkids from her yet." 

You see that this year is going to be just like the last. You're better off facing the rabble of aunts and uncles waiting for you in the front room. Heck, the kids' table might be the place for you. 

"Thirty this year," your mother adds. 

You force a tight-lipped smile. When you were a kid, it was your grades or the stubborn bit of hair at the back of your head or that your sister, Tia, did it better. Now you're an adult, it's your lack of ambition or lack of kids. You don't think you lack the former and you don't really want the latter. Life is what it is. You have a job that pays your bills and you don't need to add to your cost of living. 

"I work with your mom." He offers. You look at him again. 

He’s tall, blue-eyed, distinguished. He’s older but carries it well enough. The thin lines around his eyes only add to his looks, and his thick beard further defines his jaw. 

"Oh, the law firm?" 

"He's a new partner," your mother preens. "Oh, he gave your brother some good advice too. Hopefully he can move out of that public office soon enough." 

Right, Rodney does everything right. He got into law, just like your mother told him too, and he has a pretty house and a pretty wife and three spoiled brats. Tia only has the one and a husband who works out of town every weekend. They're real grown-ups but to you, growing up seems boring. 

Your life isn't glamourous. You do diamond art or catch-up on the last issue of your favourite comic when you're not too tired. You get takeout once a week, otherwise you put the ready-made meals in the microwave and eat it in front of the television. It's not special but it's your life. 

"Public defenders do a service to the community," Andy says. "I did it for twenty years. It's not bad work. He can move up." 

"Mm, and yet you moved to a private firm," your mother challenges him. 

"Maybe you should be partner," he chortles at her playfully as he wipes his hands on the tails of the borrowed apron tied around his torso. 

"My mom makes really good stuffing," you say, "I'm sure you'll enjoy it, even if you're not home for the holiday." You drag your feet along the tile, "I'm going to say hello to Auntie Toya." 

"Good luck. She's in one of her moods," your mother tuts. "Must be menopause." 

You leave before she can aim another snipe in your direction. She can't help but let the bullets fly and see where they hit. It might be thanksgiving, but you're struggling to find much to be grateful for. 

🍂

"Mandy has a Christmas recital. I'll be sending the invite in the family chat," Tia, your sister, proclaims. "If you can make it, she'd be so happy, huh, sweetie?" 

She pets behind her daughter's ear and makes her giggle. Every awes and cooes at the little girl. Just like when your sister was her age, she's the princess of the family. 

"I can try to bring the kids," Rodney says. "We're thinking to get Kelly into dance next year. I need to get used to those things." 

Everyone laughs. You're not very amused. You're happy the kids have hobbies, that they are doing interesting things, but you just don't care that much. Still, your happy to be able to fade into the background. 

"I'm sure your sister can make it," your mother says, bring you back into the universe, "she doesn't have anything else going on." 

Your eyes dart back and forth. Your mouth is full of potatoes. You gulp painfully. 

"I can set the date aside. I still have some vacation left," you choke out. You can't make up an excuse with a whole audience to call you out. 

You sink back into silence as Tia goes on about the show. They're doing The Nutcracker. Oh joy. You were never a fan. Why can't they do something fun, like The Grinch? 

"Don't think I'm included in that invite," Andrew says under his breath from your left shoulder. As the two loners at the table, you're put together. "Kinda awkward." 

He chuckles, trying to ease the tension. You shift and hide your embarrassment. You forgot there was a complete stranger here to witness your judgement. 

"Right, well... I'm sure you have enough going on," you say. 

"I'm sure you do too," he pokes at the yams. "Kids keep you busy but life is already hectic." 

"Sure," you agree dully. You don't want to be rude. "you have kids?" 

"One. A son. Grown. He went to his girlfriend's for the holiday and his mom... is not in town." 

"Bad timing," you take another bite of potatoes. Maybe next year you can come down with a timely case of the flu. 

"Don't be silly. She doesn't have a boyfriend. We'd all know," your mother trills with laughter. You pop your head up as the hairs on your neck tingle. You know she means you before you even catch her gaze. "It'd be such an achievement, she'd have to shout it from the rooftops." 

You lost track of the conversation and you're not sure how you became the butt of the joke, but you're tired. It's supposed to be a day for family but it just feels like you're being cast out of yours. You put your fork down. 

"I'm going to clear my plate. Think I had too big a snack on the drive here," you stand, gritting back your irritation. "As usual, stuffing's delicious." 

You get up and make your way along the table. The silence is dense. Oh well. If they want to make this painful, you can do the same. 

You go to the kitchen and find a container. You scrape your leftovers into it and shake your head. You suppose you are behind. You're thirty years old. Next year you'll be thirty-one and her chiding will be even louder. The ticking of the clock will only ger worse as the years go by. 

"You're right, stuffing's good," Andy says. 

You wince and glance over your shoulder. "Uh, yeah. Like I said, think my eyes were bigger than my stomach." 

He comes up next to you and rinses off his plate, "well, I think my stomach would be turning too after that." 

"It's whatever," you shrug. 

"Thirty isn't old. You got time," he says. 

"Thanks," you reply tersely. 

"Not that it's any of my business." 

You're silent. It isn't but you're not going to be rude enough to say that out loud. Unlike the rest of your family, you can keep your thoughts to yourself. They might think you're immature because you're not living behind a white picket fence, but at least you don't act like a teenager. 

"It's better to take your time. You know, you rush into big decisions and you can't undo them. They don't always turn the way people promise," he says. "You follow that road map, take one wrong turn and you're wife's spending Thanksgiving with her 'work husband' at a hotel." He opens the dishwasher and wedges his plate between the metal, "Work husband, secret boyfriend, you know..." 

You're struck by the revelation. You can hear the tension in his voice. The hurt, the anger. 

"Oh, I'm sorry," you utter dumbly. 

"You're sorry? She isn't," he reaches for your plate and rinses it next. "I'm not telling you because I want you to feel bad for me. I guess I'm trying to commiserate. It could be worse." He adds your plate to the washer, "you're doing nothing wrong. Being alone means you have choices. Being tied to someone... you have obligations." 

"Yeah, sounds about right," you say. "Well, thanks. Not to benefit off your pain but yeah." You put the lid on the tupperware and sidle along to put it in the fridge, "I think I'm going to get some fresh air. Getting a bit overcrowded in here." 

"A little," he agrees. 

You leave and hold your breath until you get to the front door. Who knew the stranger at the table would be the only one to make you feel welcome? 

You grab your coat from the guest room and push your feet into your boots at the front door. You go outside into the brisk air. It's actually nice. Refreshing almost. 

You sit on the porch bench. In the colder months, it's rarely used. It hasn't snowed yet but the frost glistening on the grass is foreboding. 

You tuck your hands into your sleeves and look along the street. The other houses with yellow windows, glowing with the warmth and shadow of happy families. This time of year has only ever been stressful to you. You're never a part of the fun, you're usually the source of it. 

The front door opens and you fight to keep your unease under wraps. You don't need your mom lecturing you. Again. Or Tia telling you not to be jealous. Whatever happens is always your fault. 

"Whew, it's cold," Andy's voice eases your nerves as it assures you it isn't who you fear. 

"Yep, I don't mind. It's the only thin I like about this time of year." 

"Really?" He nears and sits on the other end of the bench. "I'm a summer person, I guess. Used to be we'd go to some resort for New Years." He says. 

"Sounds nice," you say. 

"I know. I'm moaning about a luxury," he scoffs, "trust me, I get it. I got it all, what do I got to whine about?" 

"I wouldn't say that. You never know what people have going on." 

"Nope," he agrees and rubs his hands together. He's quiet as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his legs. He bends and unbends his fingers as he examines them then sits up again. "Brrr. Only good thing about this weather, snuggle weather." 

He laughs. You try to. It's an awkward joke. 

"Maybe I should get a cat," he suggests. 

"Maybe," you clutch your hands tight. You should go inside. You know he's being nice but he's ruined the moment. 

Your teeth chatter as you take a deep breath of the late autumn air. Just a little longer before you go back. You close your eyes. 

The bench creaks and you think he's getting up. He must get the hint. Instead, as you open your eyes, you feel a weight across your shoulders. You flinch and peek at him from the corner of your eye. 

"You're shivering," he says. 

You look at him then back to the road. You should pull away but you can't. It feels mean. 

"God, my hands are so cold," he grips your shoulder as he puts his other hand on your thigh. 

"Woah," you catch his thick fingers. 

"Come on, let's get warmed up," he breaks through your resistance and rubs your leg. 

"Alright, I don't know what you think--" 

"What's so wrong about it? Like trains passing through the night. My wife's cheating, you're single, we could have some fun," he purrs as he holds you against him. 

"Um, no thanks," you grab his fingers again. "I'm flattered but--" 

"Shh, shh," he peels his hand away from your leg, once more evading your grasp, and grabs your chin. "Your mom told me all about it. How you can't get a date--" 

"That's not--" you latch onto his wrist, "stop, please, Andy." 

"Come on," he turns your head and nuzzles your nose with his, "I'm so fucking lonely. My wife hasn't touched me in over a year." 

"Your wife-- Andy," you hiss. 

"Just kiss me, please? That's all I want. Just a little affection. To feel wanted." 

"You're-- stop. Let go of me," you try to dislodge his hold on you. He's too strong.  

He tilts his head and presses his lips to yours. You murmur and slep his chest with your other hands. He hooks his arm around you as he angles you toward him. You writhe and bite his lip. 

He gasps and pulls back, keeping you locked in his embrace, "listen, sweetheart, you wanna play hard-to-get," he squeezes your jaw until you whimper, "what's mom gonna think when she catches you all over her married coworker?" 

"No, that's not--" 

"I'm sure she'll believe you," he snarls and slides his hand down to your throat. 

"Why..." you croak. 

"Baby, please, it's not a bad thing," he moves you with him as he edges off the bench. He turns, one arm still around you, his other hand locked onto your neck. He bends and forces you onto your back as he settles over you. "I'm going to make you feel just as good as you make me feel." 

You wriggle and whine. What he says is just as scary as what he hasn't said. He'll make you feel as good as you do him, or as bad.

[swiftreader1989]

🚨🚨🚨

new theories I will consider going into the glorious rivals

FIRST THEORY: KAILEY IS LYRA'S MOM - kailey is alive and is lyra's mom. when reading the games untold I found the small bits of kailey and lyra's mom to be too similar: these are my reasons ↓ @emreads294 introduced this theory and made a great post abt it (go check it out!)

1.) kailey loves to dance, it's all she ever does and even in hannah's dream she appears to tell her to keep dancing and to teach her future daughter to do so as well. now I imagine kailey aka "lyra's mom" to also hold that true to herself, putting her daughter in ballet and what is basically so much of who lyra is. OFC lyra is going to be dancer if kailey loved it too. I can also imagine kailey being distraught, confused, and upset when lyra quits dancing her senior year of hs.

2.) kailey and lyra's mom both have very bubbly personalities and so much optimism just by the short bits we've seen of them. also kailey is said to have a bit of a short temper, who has that as well? LYRA. kailey LOVES to curse and say "bitch". guess who also loves to curse and has her own trademark aka "asshole", LYRA.

3.) kailey saying "you, glorious thing, you" comes up about five times in the hannah and toby's story. what's the next title of the next book? GLORIOUS RIVALS. now you're probably like yas you sound crazy rn and you're probably right... I do. but jlb never does anything unintentional especially if this phrase comes up so much in the span of such a short story. could this be foreshadowing of role kailey has in the next book and the rivals at play?

4.) @emreads294 brought up another great point as well and said kailey was known to be very nicknamey. meaning she loved to give people nicknames and what does lyra's mom call her? YOU AVOIDER. because she rarely calls her mother. something kailey would say...

5.) this is also random but kailey and catalina both have the same meaning aka pure. which I thought was cute and interesting if that's lyra's mother. we also do not know lyra's mom's name but her stepfather's? that's a little fishy and mysterious if you ask moi.

SECOND THEORY: TOBY SENT LYRA THE INVITE FOR TGG

-toby sent lyra the game invite in hopes to redeem himself for the guilt he's had for "killing" hannah's sister kailey.

-he says he will always be sorry for what he did to her and carries that burden. so when he finds out that kailey IS ALIVE & has a daughter named lyra. he's probably shook and thinks to himself that hannah not only had a niece but avery has a cousin.

-AND by reading toby and avery's relationship they are daughter and father. making lyra in a way his niece. so toby as an "uncle" gives her the invitation because if he can help anyone related to hannah out he will do so especially if he thought kailey was dead.

-who else would say "you deserve this" not eve or alice. they're both psychotic bitches who care for no one but themselves. I like to think uncle toby ate and sent lyra to the game!

what are your thoughts?!

[octuscle]

Blood is thicker than water

Peter hated being out in the fresh air. He had hated working on the farm ever since he had had to help his grandparents muck out the barn during the summer vacation. Yes, there weren't many other ways to earn money here in Lincoln now. But Nebraska wasn't Peter's future either. He was very sure of that. His future would be somewhere in New York, Singapore or London. Somewhere where the big money was. That's where he wanted to go. And that was where he belonged.

The job at the local bank wasn't that glamorous yet. But it was the starting point. Working at the cash desk, processing loan applications, it was all just a prelude to the glittering world of investment banking and hedge funds. He was hardworking, he was smart and charming. And he looked incredibly good in a suit.

When the board called him into his office, Peter saw his big moment had come. He adjusted his tie knot, took a deep breath, knocked and entered the office of his top boss. "Peter, good to see you, have a seat!" Mr. Harrison greeted him. "I hear wonderful things from you. I thought it was long overdue to meet you in person." Peter had to make an effort to stay cool. "As you probably know, the head of our corporate client department is being replaced. And even though you're actually a bit young for a position as head of department, I've been advised to consider you." Strike, thought Peter. "However, I have a, shall we say, delicate task… But if you master it successfully, I have no doubts that you are the right man for the job." A few minutes later, Peter wished he had never started at the bank.

The farm he was on his way to belonged to his uncle Cleatus. It had once been his grandparents' farm. His mother's parents' farm. Not the one where he had had the humiliating experience in the cowshed. This was his father's parents' farm. Damn it, he thought to himself. I must have manure running through my veins. I come from a clan of cows. "Anyone home?" he called out as he arrived in the yard between the stables and the house. The farm looked run-down. He hadn't been here for a long time. Suddenly he heard someone loading a shotgun. "I'm not expecting visitors!" Peter heard a harsh voice. Peter turned around and grinned as friendly as he could. "Hi Uncle Cleatus! It's me, Peter" "Peter, damn it, why are you in disguise? You look like an asshole from the bank!" Peter gulped. This was going to be fun. His uncle invited him into the large kitchen. It was dirty and untidy. Peter saw the pile of unopened post. He took a deep breath, declined the offered beer and began: "Uncle Cleatus, I'm actually not here by choice. And let me get straight to the point: I'm one of those assholes from the bank…"

"Junior!" roared Cleatus. "Say goodbye to your cousin!" Peter looked down the barrel of the shotgun. It hadn't gone as well as he had hoped when he told his uncle that the farm would have to be foreclosed. "Junior, now!". The floor shook as Junior approached the kitchen. It was beginning to stink. Slurry, sweat… And then his cousin Junior stood in front of him. A colossus! He took him in his arms and almost crushed him. "Throw him out, the asshole!" Peter lost the ground beneath his feet. Junior carried him out into the yard. And threw him into the mud. He lay in mud, cow shit and manure. Peter picked himself up and turned around. He wanted to protest. But one look in Junior's direction was enough. And he took off in the direction of the town.

Something was strange… Peter should actually feel humiliated and bad. But he was fine. The dirt on his ruined suit was drying. He was sweating in the warm air. He whistled a song. He was doing well. Of course, his uncle's farm hadn't been saved, but at least he hadn't put his own family out on the street. Shit, that wouldn't be worth a promotion on this planet either. He was beginning to develop pride in his grandparents' accomplishments working this land. They had made this country great. That made him very proud. And he was growing, without realizing it, in his suit.

He had parked his car outside on the country road so as not to get it dirty on the muddy dirt track. Peter now stripped out of his dirty suit on the road and sat in the car half naked so as not to soil the seats. The suit lay crusty, but neatly folded, in the trunk. It wasn't the end of the day yet. He had to report to the bank. He needed something to wear. And, given the way he smelled of cow shit and manure, a shower, too. Peter scratched his chin to think. His chin was scratchy. Very scratchy. And his upper arm looked kind of powerful. His cock in his boxer shorts was getting hard. Shit, what was he going to do now? Fortunately, he remembered the workwear store at the entrance to the town. He would find something to wear there. Maybe nothing from an Italian designer. But it would certainly be better than underwear.

The waitress in the store looked as if she was always serving men in their underwear. Peter mumbled that he needed something for the office. The waitress nodded understandingly and said that a guy who was built like him was certainly not the kind of person who would fit into an office. Peter didn't understand, but nodded. "Go into the changing room, I'll bring you something," said the sales assistant. Peter did as he was told. He looked in the mirror. Yes, he was a man who, in his underwear, you would probably expect to see as a construction worker or tree cutter. Arms like his didn't really fit into a shirt. "You look like you have an appointment at the bank," said the sales clerk. "You'll want to look respectable." Peter actually wanted to say that he worked at the bank. But somehow he had the feeling that wasn't true… "Yes, I have a farm to save," Peter replied. "Shit situation," replied the salesman. "Bankers are all vultures!"

When Peter arrived back at his small office, where he was a corporate account manager, he took a deep breath. Yes, he too was a vulture. But not as bad as the money-grabbing careerists up there. He was a passionate banker. He wanted to help people. His people. Before he called Mr. Harrison, he took a deep breath. His huge chest rose and fell. He reeked of sweat in his cheap polyester shirt. And after his visit to the farm, he probably had cow shit in the treads of his rough boots. But he just wasn't the type for penny loafers and Egyptian cotton shirts. He was a guy from Nebraska. Even if he did work in a bank.

The conversation with Mr. Harrison went as Peter had expected. You couldn't expect sympathy from a man like that. And Peter didn't want to work with a man like that again. He had saved hard. His dream had been to buy a house in the suburbs soon. But now there were more important things. One word followed the next in the phone call with Mr. Harrison. Until Peter plucked up his courage and told the vulture to stick his money up his ass. Peter would pay off his uncle's debts. And then turn his back on the bank. He threw his tie in the garbage can. And unbuttoned his shirt. Free! Free at last!

Junior was quite a challenge. His cousin was a few weeks older than him. And he hadn't been softened up by working in the city. But Pete had been living on the farm for a few weeks now and, thanks to his cooperation, there was a silver lining. The auction was off the table. Everything would be fine. And at the next wrestling match in the cowshed, Junior would lose and Pete would win. And the winner would get his cock sucked by the loser. Life on the farm was wonderful!

[lostloveletters]

This Must Be The Place (John Brady x OC)

Summary: Home is a place, and a person, and a strange thing to navigate when Brady’s been away from his for so long, and Woody’s never quite had one.

Note: I really missed writing for Brady and Woody, I'm sorry it's been so long! I was thinking I'd have this done like a week ago, but then I got stuck on a scene and had to rewrite some things. Do not interact if you're under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 2.3k

Warnings: Some angst.

‘I’m coming home. Woody will be with me. We’re getting married.’ 

John’s letter home, sent just before their departure from England, hadn’t been that short, but the message was clear enough that by the time they were Stateside, his mother had called—paid the long distance charges and all—just to speak to him after years of anxious writing. He choked up when he heard his mother’s voice again after so long, handing the phone to Woody so he could compose himself when he felt the conversation getting away from him.

Woody’s semi-frequent correspondence with his mother, particularly after his father died, put her in her good graces, as she found the letters odd yet charming. She especially appreciated the photo of the two of them that Woody included in one of her letters—which must have been from the party for Dye’s crew when they completed their 25th mission, since she was actually wearing her WAC uniform instead of her typical coveralls in it. ‘I thought it was from a movie magazine!’ his mother gushed to him in the letter that followed.

Looking at that photo, framed and displayed on the slightly yellowing floral-patterned wall along with decades’ worth of memories, from his parents’ wedding to his childhood with his brother, made him more certain of his future with Woody than ever. 

He pulled his pipe from his mouth and sighed. Being home without his father around made him feel a bit unsettled, even though he had been greeted with hugs and kisses from just about every one of his relatives at the door. His father had been their rock, the one who kept it all together, the kind of husband and father he aspired to be someday. Turning around to look at his fiance, he tried to see her through his father’s eyes, and quickly determined he would have liked her, there was no way he couldn’t have.

Woody cleaned up damn well when she wanted to, her blonde hair had been in hot rollers and then painstakingly styled early in the morning, before they took the train into town, his brother Gene waiting at the station to drive them to Victor. She scrounged up the money to buy a new dress from a department store for the occasion—midnight blue, loose-fitting, ‘Something I can move in,’ she had told him. John wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to seeing her legs like that. Throughout the evening, his eyes drifted to the soft, flowing hem around her knees as each of his relatives fawned over her.

It wasn’t necessarily eavesdropping, not when aunts and uncles and cousins clamored over each other to speak to his future bride, who bashfully accepted their compliments and patiently entertained their questions.

“You’re from San Diego, aren’t you?”

“San Francisco, actually, but I’ve been all over.”

“San Francisco! It must be so sleepy up here to you!”

“Oh, I’m just glad to be wherever John is,” she said, glancing over at him almost shyly. “We could end up in Alaska for all I care.”

Her story of how they met won them over. The twinkle in her eye when his relatives gasped and crossed themselves when she told them of his crash landing upon arrival at Thorpe Abbotts—a detail he omitted in his letters home, it only would have been a source of unnecessary anxiety back then, but humorous and exciting in hindsight.

She’d ridden up to the wreckage of a well-executed emergency belly-landing in the truck with Ken Lemmons and the rest of the available ground crew, ready to get to work once he examined the damage. In the middle of Ken’s quick and astoundingly accurate assessment—’It really wasn’t that bad,’ she assured his enraptured family—she introduced herself to the fort’s pilot, mentioning to them how handsome she found then-Lieutenant John Brady when she first saw him.

“Love at first sight,” one of his younger cousins gasped.

“Something like that.” Woody said, light laughter in her voice. “After a while, I realized the progress on the plane wasn’t all he was interested in when he came around the hangar to watch me work.”

Their eyes met from across the modest living room’s threshold, sharing private smiles as if the dozens of people crammed inside all disappeared. 

“Can you blame me?” he finally said.

Everyone had something to say after that, all clamoring to get their two-cents in. One of his uncles patted his shoulder, "You picked a good one."

He grinned—he sure did.

The sentiment was reiterated as the larger group dispersed throughout the house. He managed to slip into the dining room to make a plate of what was left of the hors d'oeuvres his mother had set out. Cheese and crackers, some cold cuts, too. Didn't realize how much he missed things like that, savoring each bite as he stood near the kitchen, watching Woody with one of his aunts.

She slouched a bit, withered compared to how she had been entertaining everyone in the living room. 

“A lady mechanic,” his aunt marveled, “you know I can hardly believe it, but I’m sure you showed those boys a thing or two.”

“I was just glad I could do my part,” Woody said, the canned answer acceptably modest.

“Your family must be so proud of you.”

Her strained smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “My parents are, um—“

“Aunt Del, I think I heard my mother asking for you,” John interrupted, setting his plate down.

“Oh, I better go see, then. Lovely talking to you, dear,” she said, patting Woody’s arm before departing the kitchen.

Woody leaned against the counter, audibly sighing in relief. She fought to blink away her exhaustion, traveling into town in the morning to keep up a facade through the evening, wanting so desperately to make a good first impression on his family, the agreeable, lovely future in-law they all wanted.

He moved in front of her, shielding her from any nosy relatives who might poke their heads in, looking for her. 

“You saved me,” she said.

“She shouldn’t be bringing it up anyway," he said. "I know my mother told them—"

"It’s a practice run for the wedding.”

“We could elope. Go to the courthouse first thing in the morning…”

She chewed on her bottom lip, eyes darting all over the room before bringing her attention back to him. "No, we couldn't," she said with finality. "It wouldn't be fair to them."

But it'd be nice. Shorten the list of things they had to worry about, though it'd just as quickly put her on his family's shit list as she managed to get in their good graces over the course of an afternoon. It almost felt too easy. Maybe that was what everyone wanted after everything that happened over the past few years, glad to finally have John home and willing to overlook any reservations about the woman he brought home with him.

“Have I mentioned how beautiful you look?” he asked, gently tugging on the hem of her dress and pulling her from her thoughts.

“I feel naked without trousers on.”

“I wish you were.”

She tapped his chest with the back of her hand. “Watch it, Johnny.”

“I’m sorry we have to stay here.”

“Why?”

He nodded toward the crowded living room. “Lack of privacy, for starters.”

She shook her head, echoing her earlier sentiment. “I’m just glad to be with you.”

“As soon as we’re both working, we’ll start looking for a place. Maybe an apartment to start.”

“Your family would be okay with that?” she asked. “Us living together?”

“Probably not, but we’re engaged at least, and after the past two years, I don’t want to be without you again.”

“Me either.”

They spent the following half hour or so hiding in the kitchen before his relatives began filtering out, leaving them with hugs and well-wishes and promises to invite them over for lunch or dinner sometime. 

"Woody, it was great meeting you," Gene said, giving her a hug. "Keep an eye on this one, he might not look it, but he can be trouble."

"I'm enough trouble for the both of us, believe me," she said, retreating back to John's side.

The house was soon empty, save for the three of them, sitting in the living room with the radio playing softly in the background of the conversation between John and his mother.

Even though she brewed some coffee for them, Woody could hardly keep her eyes open. She nodded off for a moment, her mug nearly slipping from her hands.

"John, the poor thing is exhausted. Why don't you show her upstairs while I clean up? I made up your brother's old room for her."

"Thank you," Woody said. "Really, for letting me stay here. I can pay you rent, or—"

"Please, you're almost family now. And I trust you both to…" his mother struggled to find the words, almost flustered, and Woody tried her best to contain a snicker, "mind yourselves."

"Woody keeps me honest," he lied.

"Alright," she conceded with a smile. "Good night you two."

As soon as they were upstairs, they wasted no time in shoving into the bathroom together—a tight squeeze, but more than fine by them. Their respective nighttime routines peppered with kisses and soft touches while teeth were brushed and faces were washed, practically pressed against one another while sharing the limited sink space. 

They paused to look at themselves in the mirror on the wall, a domestic portrait staring back at them. He pressed his lips just below her ear, settling his chin on her shoulder as his arms wrapped around her waist from behind. 

Whenever she blinked, she expected it to be a dream she would wake up from, back in the barracks at Thorpe Abbotts, waiting for him to come back, worrying incessantly. But she put her hands over his and squeezed gently. Real, warm, loving. Always loving.

"I wish we didn't have to sleep in separate rooms," she mumbled.

"We'll be fine," he said. "It won't be for too long, anyway."

She wanted to say something—that it was ridiculous, they were adults for crying out loud. And after everything he especially had been through, couldn't there have been some grace, some wiggle room, all things considered? But it'd been clear through the way his family interacted with him throughout the day that they didn't know nearly as much about it as she did. Even then, there were things he kept to himself, things she'd probably never know.

Feeling almost useless, she turned around, pressing her lips to his, hoping he knew everything she couldn't say was in that kiss, in the way her blunt nails tenderly scratched his jaw. "I'll see you in the morning."

The hallway was short, the room easy enough to find with Woody's two suitcases sitting neatly next to the door, Gene having brought them up for her once they got to the house, encouraging her to unpack after the party, 'Make yourself at home.' She hesitated, more than used to living out of the two suitcases and not having much to her name anyway. She was careful when she set one of them on the bed, digging through for pajamas, a satin set consisting of an olive green camisole, matching robe, and loose, flowy pants with lace detailing around the cuffs. John bought it for her when they were in Manhattan, insisting his family would think he wasn't taking good care of her if she puttered around in her old PT shirt and men's pajama bottoms. Felt like they spent half the money they had on hand to buy new clothes, so they'd be real people and blend in with all the rest. 

His mother made up the room beautifully for Woody—the soft, worn linens smelled faintly of detergent, but mostly of home, something she heard plenty of people refer to when the scent of a certain blend of tobacco or freshly cut grass was in the air, but never quite understood until she got under the covers and immediately thought of John.

Settling on her side, she stared at the wall between them, like if she looked at it long enough, she'd be able to see through it, see him. One measly wall, nothing compared to two years and thousands of miles, but she still missed him terribly.

She wrapped her arms around her middle in a weak attempt to comfort herself and closed her eyes. She couldn't find sleep behind them despite her earlier exhaustion, her racing thoughts keeping her awake.

The door creaked open, and she sat up on her elbows, brows furrowed in confusion until John closed the door behind him.

“Are you out of your mind? Your mother could come up here any minute and—“

“It’s not that…I can’t sleep without you,” he mumbled, almost embarrassed. They’d spent the past few weeks practically attached at the hip, from the time he arrived back at Thorpe Abbotts, on the ship from England to New York, to the guilty weekend in a Manhattan hotel room. Even in the familiar walls of his childhood bedroom, he tossed and turned when left to face the night alone.

“Oh, Johnny,” she cooed, extending her arms to him. “Come here.”

He curled up into her, burying his face in the crook of her neck. She silently cradled him until she felt hot tears on her skin.

“Are you alright?” she asked softly.

“‘m sorry."

“Don’t ever apologize. I love you.”

“I love you.” He held her tighter, the way he would cling to a teddy bear when he was a boy, too young to face his fears on his own but too old to seek the comfort of his parents for it. “I love you so much.”

In an attempt to calm him down, she stroked his hair. It wouldn’t look great, his mother finding them entangled in bed together or catching him sneaking out of her room. She didn’t seem like an unreasonable woman, though. Surely she would understand that seeking comfort wasn’t a sin—nothing they did was, not when there was love at the root of it all.

“Go to sleep,” Woody whispered, though she could tell by his steady breathing he already was. “I’ll be here in the morning.”

[larz-barz]

Updated Mikitama info post

her new design!:D

Family (biological)

Mother: Unnamed (dead)

Father: Unnamed (dead)

Aunt: Unnamed (dead)

Aunt: Aika Shineeza (alive) (father’s and Haruki’s sister) @uponthefantasy

Uncle: Haruki Suzuki (alive) (husband of unnamed aunt and father’s brother)

Brother: Michio Suzuki (alive)

Great great etc. grandmother: Hana Tsugikuni (demon) (married to Kokushibo)

Great great etc. grandmother: Kana Suzumi (Hana’s and Kokushibo’s daughter)

Great great etc. grandfather: Kokushibo

Family (adoptive)

Mother: Yuna Handa (alive) (dies in an au) @kimetsu-chan

Father: Giyuu Tomioka (alive)

Cousin: Shiina Suzuki (alive) (dies in an au) @nothingtoseehere1-2-3

Bother: Zeno Arakawa (alive) (not actually adoptive, they act like siblings tho) @kimetsu-chan

Uncle: Tengen Uzui

Aunt: Hinatsuru Uzui

Aunt: Makio Uzui

Aunt: Suma Uzui

Sister: Ames @donkeybro

Sister: Hikari Sano @ta-ni-ya

Brother: Hikaru Sano @ta-ni-ya

Father: Hiroto Ichiga @night-mince0

Brother: Jun’ichi Ubuyashiki @blueberrypie20

Backstory

tw: abuse, murder, attempted murder

Mikitama and Michio were raised by Haruki since he killed their parents after Mikitama was born.

One day, when Mikitama was 3 and Michio was 6, their aunt Aika tried to take both of them in, but Haruki only let Aika take Michio.

Before leaving, Michio gave Mikitama her purple bow that she’s always wearing.

Haruki is very abusive towards Mikitama, and only Mikitama.

This is because of Mikitama being a yokai.

When Mikitama was about 6 years old Haruki attempted to drown Mikitama which led to her fear of water.

Shiina was adopted by Haruki when Mikitama was 9 years old and Shiina did everything she could to keep Mikitama safe.

Also, Mikitama was forced to live in poverty despite her uncle being rich since he wouldn’t spend any of his money on her.

One day, when Mikitama was 10 she was digging around in a closet and found various scrolls and letters from her father, who was the starlight hashira when he was alive.

She used those to teach herself the starlight breathing style and how to do total concentration breathing constantly.

She did the final selection with her future adoptive mother, Muichiro, and Aoi at 11 years old then became the starlight hashira at 12 years old.

Personality

Mikitama is a very kind and selfless girl.

She’s very shy and sweet.

She’ll do anything to protect the people around her no matter the consequences.

She’s very introverted and submissive.

If someone is being rude to her she’s not going to do anything about it.

She’s always willing to help anyone.

Random facts

Her favorite food is chicken udon.

The first time she met someone who didn’t mistreat her she was stunned to tears.

In Kimetsu academy her best subject is chemistry.

She doesn’t think she deserves to be treated with kindness.

She’s deathly allergic to garlic.

She made her arm warmers and painted her sword sheathe herself!

She loves cooking and sewing.

She often has really bad nightmares.

(TW: S/A) Her uncle has s/aed her before.

When she and Michio reunited they both cried together for an hour and they hugged the whole time.

Mikitama’s birthday is February 3rd and she’s 14! (14 in the show and 15 irl-)

She doesn’t like peppermint.

She’s also deathly allergic to onions.

She has 3 powers: Turning into a cat, shrinking, and healing.

In her small form she is about 2’2.

She wraps her tail around her leg when nervous or scared.

She’s very good at drawing.

She’s 4’8

She’s extremely light for her age, only weighing 94 pounds!

Tagging: @kimetsu-chan @demonslayerdoodles

[leelarots]

DECA STUFF

this is a master post about my au/fic canon for the deca. i will link this in my deca posts in future, so i don't feel like I have to explain stuff every time. thank you so much to this sub-fandom for making me feel so welcome!

current lineup:

6/10 drawn, design ages frozen at 18-25

to do: vansell, drax, mortimus, jelpax

basic info from left to right:

Magnus | 6'4 | Oakdown | hazel eyes, black hair

Ushas | 6'0 | [?] | 'black' eyes, dark brown hair [portrait]

Koschei | 5'7 | Oakdown | blue-grey eyes, black hair [portrait]

Theta | 5'8 | Lungbarrow | brown eyes, light brown hair [portrait]

Millennia | 5'3 | Brightshore | hazel eyes, blue hair

Rallon | 5'10 | Stillhaven | brown eyes, black hair

[other info on the fic(s) below cut]

current word count: 2.3k

the fic:

will be separated into different 'books', each focusing on a select few characters and one main plot each.

will have theta as a regular gallifreyan instead of half human or another species. however, it's worth noting that for the narrative, I am going to make all 'freyans have some human genes due to past inbreeding

(with luck!) will be partially illustrated

won't be an attempt at following the incredibly messy canon. godspeed to those who try.

won't be centred around thoschei. as much as I wish it was, writing worldbuilding for gallifrey and fleshing out other members of the deca is also enjoyable to write about

other notes on my worldbuilding:

at this point in time, time lord households do not refer to parents or siblings. the hierarchy goes from bottom to top cousins -> aunts/uncles -> granny/grampas -> kitriarch

theta may not be half human/the timeless child, but I aim to still make him 'adopted'. he knows who his father is, but his mother is not of rank, and left him as a baby outside of the lungbarrow household. the connection between him and braxtiel is that they were both left with a note in the same handwriting, addressed to their father.

koschei's 'hypnotic' nature and high telepathic ability is a rare genetic condition. most gallifreyans have a weak latent touch telepathy, trained up in the academy. hypnosis is a different story, but koschei can carry off a potent version of hypnotism without training. he is only in the academy because of his condition.

related to the above's last sentence, becoming a time lord is somewhat class locked due to the initial exam for joining the academy requiring training only supplied by expensive tutoring. if you are not born into a time lord family, it is very difficult to get in.

a main theme of the fics will be around the stagnation that occurs when people in power do not change. as the occupants of the high council live for so long, they have the ability to enforce only their beliefs/beliefs of a small bubble, refusing to move with the times or address changing circumstance.

looming has only just come into existence during the fic canon. none (or at least most) of the deca are not loomed.

'shobogans' are the occupants of the capitol's surrounding slums. this may change.

religion is banned/illegal, but I aim to portray that as being hypocritical—time lords started out as a religious sect. the cloisters are indeed remnants of the original religious building, buried underneath the capitol.

a large portion of gallifrey is not optimal for human-like life. the largest part of the planet's gallifreyan population is centred in the glass globe cities, such as arcadia or the capitol.

humans regularly trade with gallifrey, although the trade lines go: widespread human trade lines -> undocked spaceships around gallifrey -> permanent human settler-traders on the planet. it is not permitted for anyone to go to and from gallifrey freely without a specific, hard to obtain permit. time lords can obtain a permit more easily.

related to above, this is my reason as to why gallifrey has cats and other human items. some human plants and animals are considered invasive.

human-gallifreyan marriage is somewhat taboo. theta is commonly rumoured to be half human without basis because of his being 'different'. once again, the fact most gallifreyans are part human is to show that they are hypocritical.

I could go on, but I won't lol this is long

I am aware of how ambitious this project is. for that reason, I can never promise that the whole fic series will be completed. drawing and sharing my headcanons is enjoyable for me, though, as the deca is my current favourite thing. it's been years of me tinkering about with them in silence, I'm rather hoping I can find others who like my ideas.

my ao3 is soupsmog

want to know something specific? want to talk? pop me an ask, comment on my deca related posts, or join this academy era server, where I'm pretty active. dms are not really open because they make me anxious, sorry!

[louissatturi]

ALL OF RICHARLYSON FAMILY

"Bio" Adopted father's: Felps, Forever, Pactw, Mikethelink, Cellbit

Goddess Mother: Goddess Mine

1% Father: Quackity

Step-Father: Roier

Step-grandparents: Foolish, Vegetta

Bio sister step-aunt: Leonarda

Aunt: Baghera & Jaiden (jaiden is Bobbys mom but idk what she would be in relation to richas só here she is)

Uncles: Slimecicle, El Mariana

Bio step-Brother: Bobby

Bio 1% step-sibling: Tilín

Bio sister and cousins: pomme, Juanaflippa

This post can have changes depending on what heppens in the future

[lialacleaf]

Simon Riley x Reader: Baking Headcannons Pt. 4

The Finale

Thank you all for your support of the Baking Headcannons! Despite this being the finale, I will be posting one shots for this series to my Patreon account in the near future!

Little feet pitter-patter across the floor of your home, and you watch from the couch as a small head of blonde hair pops up, a little hand swiping a lemon shortbread cookie off the plate settled on the counter.

Your home is often full of sweets and baked goods, and you're certain your husband gains a pound or two when he comes home from deployment. It's not like he's not going to work it off later anyway.

"Momma, why do you like making shortbread cookies so much?" Your daughter has always loved your cookies just as much as your husband does, and you smile at the memory of your first attempt at making them.

Simon always knew when you'd pulled his mother's cookbook out, and you could only describe the way he slunk into the kitchen as a lost puppy following his nose home by the smell of his favorite treats.

"What is it with you and the shortbread?" you asked one evening, licking lemon batter off the spoon once you'd stuck the cookies in the oven.

The look he gives you is so close to a smile it hurts. "Mum used to make em' for my birthday," he'd say, and you'd swallow thickly, bumping his shoulder playfully with your own.

Six months later you'd perfected the recipe for his birthday, just like his Mum would have done for Simon if she were still there.

After that, shortbread cookies had become a tradition. They were the first thing you and Simon baked when you moved in together and were featured on the dessert table at your wedding.

You still felt your face grow red at the memory of your mother profusely thanking Simon for teaching you how to cook, as she no longer had to fear for the safety of her kitchen during the holidays.

Blueberry shortbread had announced the arrival of your firstborn son to the team, and Johnny had beamed as he proclaimed himself an uncle, crumbs collecting at the corner of his mouth.

It didn't escape your notice that Simon wished Tommy was there to share a beloved family treat to celebrate the news, and the absence of an uncle, aunt, and cousin would be forever mourned. He hung an old family photo in the nursery, a promise that while they were gone, they would never be forgotten in the Riley household.

The first thing you baked with your son was his father's favorite shortbread cookies, and Simon had caught the two of you licking the mixing bowl with pure adoration.

"It's a very special family recipe," you explain to your daughter, lifting her into your lap as Simon simply smiles at her from beside you, your son already curled up against his father's side as he doses off with a full stomac of sweets.

"Do I get Grandma's cookbook if I get married before Tomas?" your daughter asks, and Simon chuckles.

"If the lad can't cook I suppose you'll need it," Simon offers with a grin directed your way, and you swat his leg playfully.

"If you get Grandma's book first, you'll have to give it to Tommy's wife someday, welcome her into the family," you warn, and your daughter's features pinch in disbelief.

"No one wants to marry Tomas," she says in disgust, and you can't help but laugh at the way she whispers her brother's name, as if not to wake him so that he might defend his charm.

"Funny, they said the same thing about your father," you snickered, and Simon rolled his eyes.

"Mhm. And yet I was the one winning you over with my skills in the kitchen."

You smile as your daughter giggles, nestling between you and Simon contently.

You have everything you could ever need. Everything you could ever want. You've given Simon more than he ever thought he would have in his lifetime, and it all started with a cookbook.

I hope you guys liked the ending! This was originally supposed to be one part but then it just kept going...

tags: @i-feel-violated @oranoyaora @beautifulcollectivewolf @notsosweetcheeks @vinithechocolatevampire @prttylilkittn @babygirl-riley @animarix @emily-roberts @bibbyreads @originaldeerhottub

[wishful-thinking64]

HH Rewrite Related Post #03

I've finally finished Lavanya's (renamed Charlie) key information for her character sheet! And with it comes a bit of lore for what I have in store. __________ [FULL NAME & NICKNAME] 🞂 LAVANYA MORNINGSTAR. 🞂 PREFERS TO BE CALLED ANYA. 🞂 With her first name meaning beauty and grace, Lucifer & Lilith thought it was the perfect name to give to their little princess. [D.O.B] 🞂 BORN DECEMBER 31ST, 2002. 🞂 Anya can't help but see her birthday as a bad omen due to having been born on the last day of the year when Hell's annual Extermination takes place. She'll put on a smile for her parents when in their presence but otherwise she'll be sulking in her room, silently wishing for the day to be over.

[AGE] 🞂 BIOLOGICALLY 22. [SPECIES] 🞂 HALF BAPHOMET DEMON (OTHER HALF UNKNOWN.)

[GENDER & SEX] 🞂 FEMALE.

[SEXUALITY] 🞂 BISEXUAL.

[SOCIAL STATUS] 🞂 PRINCESS OF HELL.

[ROYAL EMBLEM] 🞂 THE FORBIDDEN APPLE OF KNOWLEDGE. [IMMEDIATE FAMILY] 🞂 LILITH MORNINGSTAR = MOM. 🞂 LUCIFER MORNINGSTAR = DAD.

[EXTENDED FAMILY] 🞂 1 GRANDFATHER. 🞂 1 HALF UNCLE. 🞂 5 UNCLES & 3 AUNTS. 🞂 2 COUSINS. 🞂 Anya's never met most of her extended family thanks to two main reasons. The first being that most of them are in Heaven and the second but more important reason is that most of them have been and STILL are missing with the exception of her aunt, Adina Delacroix, and her daughters, Raquel & Amariel. In the absence of Elohim, Jesus (yes, he's the half uncle), and the 7 Heavenly Virtues, Adina was selected as Heaven's de jure leader as she is the only angel who both birthed and mothered an Archangel's children.

[FRIENDS] 🞂 ONLY 6. 🞂 As Princess of Hell and heir to the throne, her parents made sure that their daughter understood that she had to be careful choosing her friends as there’ll always be people who just want to use her money and her status. Her parents' words would lead to Anya's very seldom way of thinking when it comes to making friends as she would make her very first friend in the 3rd Grade. Over the years she’s amassed a tightly knit friend group consisting of six other demons excluding herself. Sometimes she jokes about them being the new Seven Deadly Sins.

[RELATIONSHIP STATUS] 🞂 FORMERLY DATED LAZARUS VON ELDRITCH. 🞂 CURRENTLY DATING VALORIS CARMINE. 🞂 Going from dating a fellow aristocrat in Hell’s hierarchy to dating the daughter of an Overlord isn’t too much of a leap in logic but it is still a noticeable difference. Thanks to her parents not many people publicly commented on their daughter’s romantic life (lest they wish to be publicly executed or suffer true torture for the rest of their damned afterlife) though people have always wondered what caused the end of her and Lazarus’ relationship along with the beginning of Anya’s relationship with Valoris. At the very least she seems to be happy with Valoris. [CORE PERSONALITY TRAITS] 🞂 AMIABLE. 🞂 AUTHENTIC. 🞂 AUTOCRATIC (you’ve gotta be a bit bossy if you’re going to be the future face of Hell.) 🞂 CLUMSY. 🞂 COMPASSIONATE. 🞂 CREATIVE. 🞂 DETERMINED. 🞂 INDECISIVE. 🞂 NAIVE. 🞂 OPTIMISTIC. 🞂 OVEREMOTIONAL. 🞂 SCATTERBRAINED.

[CORE ASPIRATIONS] 🞂 HAVING SINNERS ACHIEVE REDEMPTION AT THE HAPPY HOTEL. 🞂 PROVE TO EVERYONE THAT SINNER’S CAN BE REDEEMED. 🞂 DISCOVER MORE WAYS TO IMPROVE HELL. 🞂 HELPING OTHERS TO THE BEST OF HER ABILITY. 🞂 BEING A GOOD PARTNER. 🞂 NOT BEING A FAILURE.

[FEARS] 🞂 AUTOPHOBIA & KAKORRHAPHIOPHOBIA. 🞂 Autophobia is the polarizing fear of being abandoned and alone. If one day, the majority of Hell’s denizens suddenly decided to turn their backs on Anya, she wouldn’t care as long as her friends and family remained at her side. However, if her friends and family had ALL abandoned her, not only would she genuinely have a full blown mental breakdown and sob for months, she’d never be the same again. This does not bode well at all with her other biggest fear being Kakorrhaphiophobia which is the fear of failure. Anya does her best to follow the expectations set on her from her citizens, her parents, and even herself. So when she fails to meet this internal quota of hers, she’ll feel like shit but she’ll convince herself to do better in the future and focus on the Happy Hotel staff and its residents. [THOUGHTS ON HOTEL STAFF] 🞂 FAIRLY POSITIVE. 🞂 For the most part, Anya can see that everybody is trying their best to keep the hotel in business even if they don’t believe in the thought of redemption. She has faith in at least five out of her seven employees coming together to help her make the Hazbin Hotel work.

__________ I hope you guys liked reading Anya's character sheet and I'd like to know what character you'd like to see me write about next. I'll probably do this through a poll so keep your eyes peeled for that and I'll see you guys later!

[myemuisemo]

What Was the Fair Lady's Game? (a brief Hound of the Baskervilles post-action fic)

This is for @penig who suggested in response to my last Baskervilles post that Beryl and Laura should go into business together. I was bored in a meeting and had an idea of how it would happen.

The chill fog of the moor crept into Beryl Baskerville’s heart, wrapped itself like cotton around its chambers, and dwelt there, casting gloom over the simplest activities.

Standing on the edge of Grimpen Mire, beside kindly Dr. Watson and the genuine Sherlock Holmes, she had laughed at the prospect of her husband consigning himself to a muddy grave through his own hubris. When the visitors had undone her bonds and pulled away the towels that stifled her breath, the night of the great disaster, she had felt as if she might float away without them. 

Now, the weight of widowhood pressed her into her cold, empty bed. She missed Rodger—or Jack, as she’d come to call him. If she thought of his sneering eyes, or his hand striking a blow against her skin, or the shrinking humiliation of allowing Henry Baskerville to court her, she could push aside that sentiment for an hour, or even a day.

It was the memory of Jack smiling when he courted her under the sweet flowers of her home country, of Jack promising fortune and happiness in England, that hollowed her soul. All these years, as her husband’s perfidy had revealed itself, she had lived with the hope that someday, he would be wealthy, he would be satisfied, he would be honest. Now Jack would never better himself. His body would rot in the mire while his soul burned in hell… and she would starve in England.

She forced herself to choke down food, to take her daily walk, to breathe air thick with dirt and despair, to read the correspondence with Jack’s solicitor. Dr. Mortimer, Dr. Watson, and Sherlock Holmes had put their heads together with the local constabulary to see that Jack was declared dead, so everything he had was now hers.

If she rented a room somewhere, if she lived frugally, it might be enough. She, who had been Maria Magdalena Garcia Montealegre, the belle of Cartago and San José, must look forward to a life of re-sewing her dresses inside out to get another use of the fabric!

The one thing she would not do is put on mourning for the man who had abused her. She would not forgo future security to buy widow’s weeds. Nobody here in Devon knew her to be a widow anyway. They knew her only as the sister of the man who’d murdered Sir Charles Baskerville, beloved of the village and the countryside.

Every afternoon, in the little morning room that some prior tenant had papered in cheerful pink flowers, she sat at the escritoire, took pen in hand, and tried to write to some relative who might take pity on her. Her family in Costa Rica had approved the match on the condition that Jack become a citizen and enter the family business. His promises had been lies. Her choice had been a disgrace. Even if her mother were soft-hearted, her grandfather might not be. Could she bear to read a letter telling her that she could never go home?

The solicitor had also given her the addresses of family in London, all connections of a maternal cousin who’d brought an Englishwoman home as his second wife. Watching weak sunshine right the fog as her tea grew cold next to a blank sheet of paper, Beryl could almost laugh at imagining how that letter would go.

Dear Distant Cousin I’ve Never Met,

You don’t know me, but we are related through my mother and your uncle-in-law, the deposed President of Costa Rica. He is long gone to California, but I am stuck here in England. The small matter of my English husband having stolen, embezzled, and committed murder has left me in straitened circumstances. However, there is some hope that my social disgrace has spread no further than Devon. 

I am fluent in Spanish and English. I can sew, play pianoforte, and dance moderately well. My math is passable and my manners, excellent. If offered a position as a companion or governess, I promise to be modest and discreet, as well as to educate your daughters on the foolishness of following a man without fully knowing his character.

Yours humbly.

It was no use, and she knew it. Yet every day, she trod the grim path of her routine, never letting her steps stray from safety. One or two steps into the deceptive sweet green grasses, and she would die the way the wild ponies did, only in grateful silence. Yet, she did not.

On the seventeenth day of pacing the prison that a failed marriage had penned her in, the ancient butler announced: “A person is at the door to see you, miss.”

Curiosity poked at her weariness. Even a farmer coming to complain that his sheep had done something stupid on her land would be a diversion, for a moment. “Send them in.”

He returned, a long moment later, not with the expected stumpy man in overalls, hat in hand, but with a woman. The stranger was neatly dressed in a sensible brown suit, with a spray of matching feathers in her hat. Beneath the hat were tidy golden-brown curls, large golden-brown eyes, a straight nose sprinkled with freckles, and an expression so somber that Beryl knew this could be only one person. 

“Laura Lyons.”

“The same. I do not mean to intrude on your grief—”

“And yet here you are, to gawk at the widow of the man you sought to wed.” Had good manners not forbade her from slapping this interloper, Beryl might have risen from her chair and done it. As the banked flame of her anger flared, she felt herself come to life with it.

“I’m here to see if I can be of help.”

“Your help would have been to refuse the advances of my husband.”

“He called you his sister. Can you imagine how it would go if, every time a man introduced a woman as his sister, we all assumed she must be his wife? It would be nothing but scandal.” Laura Lyons paused, tugging at her gloves. “I know more than I’d like to about scandal. It’s a tedious way to live.”

“You think so?” Beryl’s fingers itched to throw the ink well. The splatter of dark liquid would mark that immaculate suit to match its wearer’s soul.

“I know so.” This time, Laura Lyons’ irritatingly confident voice was interrupted by the reappearance of the aged retainer, laboring under a tray with a fresh teapot and a plate of depressing little biscuits.

The routine of pouring tea, redolent of jasmine and gun powder—a better tea than Beryl had been offered since that terrible day of reckoning—cast a strange glamor of respectability over this encounter with a woman she must surely hate. Amidst the niceties of offering milk and sugar, Laura Lyons seated herself in an arm chair, as comfortable as a cat on a cushion.

Abruptly, Beryl missed the cats in her old home. Orange striped, brown striped, and plain black, they used to wind around the ankles of her gentleman callers. When they’d given generous berth to handsome, pale Rodger Baskerville, she’d joked that even the cats respected him.

“You don’t wear black either,” she blurted.

“It would be conspicuous.” Laura Lyons peeled off her gloves to sip her tea. “When would I put it off? What is the proper mourning period for the man who would have been one’s husband, save that he was already married and also, in passing, a murderer?”

“Surely you English have an etiquette manual for that.”

“I have looked up proper forms of business letters in Hill’s Manual more times than I can count. The book is comprehensive, yet that specific matter is not covered. Did Mr. Holmes mention that I am the daughter of your neighbor, Mr. Frankland?”

Beryl blinked at a fact as seemingly irrelevant as whether there’d be partridge for dinner. “I don’t recall.”

“Right. It would seem the least of your worries. I married foolishly, was disowned, ran away from the man once I learned better, and have since endeavored to make my own way, as far from him as possible. Your brother—your husband—meant to help me with proving my own husband’s brutality and infidelity, so that I might be free of him. Had I known he—your husband—was cut from the same cloth, I would have counted myself lucky to have been tied by law to only one scoundrel.”

The neatness with which Laura Lyons wiped overflowing tears was so very English. Beryl would have wailed and torn her hair—except that she hadn’t, not in seventeen days since that single day of disaster. She had feared and fought so long that now, she felt both too exhausted to weep and too fragile to be sure she could stop weeping once she started.

“Why are you here?”

“I want to know if you can type.” When Beryl stared blankly, Laura Lyons flexed her fingers as if she were playing pianoforte. “On a typewriter. Typing.”

“I have never.”

“You could learn.” Laura Lyons leaned forward, her eyes bright. “If you’re left comfortably, pay me no mind. But Jack—your husband—always talked as if there was little money to hand. I mean no insult to you, but I would be surprised if he left you well-placed. Perhaps your family is kinder than mine about forgiving your choice of a husband. But if they are not, if you are concerned about your future, I’d like to offer you a partnership.”

A knot of stubbornness formed in Beryl’s throat. She forced tea past it. “A partnership. With my husband’s paramour?”

“Is that any more scandalous than being your husband’s wife?”

Beryl’s belly shrank within the confines of her corset. Her clothes had begun to hang loose, and now she felt as if her very skin would shrivel and leave her bones. “People will talk. His death must be all over Coombe Tracey.”

“The Barrymores can count on a free pint at the pub every time they tell the story of how they served dinner to a murderer. I pray they never learned my name or part in the matter, but—I cannot be sure. I wish to relocate to London.”

“And you think I will go with you?” There it was again—that weightless feeling. When Jack had dragged her to London, fearing to leave her in Devon, she had feigned distress at the noise and filth, but she had imagined, over and over, slipping into the crowds and never reappearing. In a city of over five million, it would be easy to lose herself.

“If you have somewhere better to go, perhaps you would have gone by now. Two women typists together can earn enough money to rent a respectable flat in London, particularly if we have the patronage of Mr. Holmes.”

“The patronage?”

“I propose to ask his help in setting up a typing bureau staffed by women of respectable appearance and behavior, who are escaping terrible marriages. Typists see all sorts of documents which might help him in his cases, and we are entrusted to the point of seeming invisible. If he will give us a little help at the beginning, we might do him a great deal of good in the end.”

Beryl met Laura Lyons’ level gaze. To fall in with this plan, she must rip off the last rags of her love for Jack. She could not put her trust in this woman while thinking daily of what Jack must have said to her, how Jack must have wooed her, whether Jack kissed one of them while his lips were still warm from the other. It would be an absolute ending to her marriage, more permanent than Jack’s plunge into the Grimpen Mire.

“How did you do it? How did you decide not to hate me?”

“After Mr. Holmes told me what Jack had done, I hated everyone, including myself. That was exhausting. On the fourth morning of putting cold compresses on my red eyes, so nobody would know I’d been weeping for a man with no conscience or morals, it struck me that not one of our problems would exist if Jack had possessed a single scruple or shred of decency.” 

Laura Lyons plucked a sad biscuit from the plate, looked it over, and set it on her saucer without taking a bite. “Perhaps it was that I’d scarcely slept or eaten for days, but feeling guilty because I’d believed a man who set out to be believable no longer made sense. By the same logic, I could not blame you for being deceived, nor for existing.”

“Jack chose to court you, knowing he was married.” Beryl said it as if she were reciting an English lesson to her long-ago governess. The cow stands under the tree. My aunt goes to the ball. My husband is a liar and a cad. Her hand in her lap clenched.

“I thought it miraculous. I had no hope of finding love again with an honorable man. In that, it turns out I was right.”

Beryl looked over her visitor again, slowly. Laura Lyons was a pretty woman, certainly, all burnished gold in coloring. She was poised, confident, professional—a creature of offices and shop counters, not the kind of butterfly Beryl herself had been raised to be. 

Laura set down her tea cup and lifted her chin. Her frank gaze now seemed less a challenge and more a vulnerability. Jack had seen that vulnerability and chosen to exploit it. He had taken the poise Beryl now envied—a woman able to make her own way in the world!—and twisted it to his own ends.

“I’ll do it,” Beryl said. Her deep breath cracked some bond that her rescuers had not seen nor unwound. “I’ll learn to type and go to London with you.”

She held out her hand to shake on the deal as she burst into tears.

#

There's an actual President of Costa Rica who has the surname I allocated Beryl from her mother. I gave her an entirely different Christian name because "Beryl" is positively not Spanish, and the nearest translation, "berilo," doesn't work as a girl's name.

The typing bureau is also inspired by Miss Climpson's typing bureau in the Lord Peter Wimsey mysteries.

Way back when I was seven or eight years old and read the Holmes stories for the first time, with mixed and spotty comprehension, I felt inspired to write a story about two teenage girls who lived upstairs from Holmes and Watson and had adventures. My mother got wind of this plan and was appalled at the idea of fanfic. While I've since written fic on other properties, I felt the time had come at last to do a little story where two women hatch a plan that could have them living upstairs from Holmes and Watson, while having adventures.

[sunnysideprincess]

Last few days have been wild lol, had a cystectomy, finally met my cousin's husband and now people are asking me to get married and have a baby before "it's too late", so I wrote this instead of punching them

no actual cheating happens here

Steve Rogers is a respectable married man. But he's called in by Virginia Potts, told Tiberus Stone's husband needs a bodyguard and it's fine, he's fine. He can take the heat of a family known to sell weapons to death and destruction. Except the husband is Tony fucking Stark, a man who is so obviously trapped. A trophy for Tiberus like his mother was to his father. And while Stone gets to sleep around, Tony's kept on a chokehold by his own father, uncle and husband. He's a writhing chrysalis trying to evolve, trying to break free. And Steve is helplessly in love with those furious doe eyes looking at him with all the rage as he stops him from trying to sneak away. Again and again. But he is also in love with his husband for seven years. So there's nothing to be found here.

"It's for your own safety," he tries to tell Tony. But the man won't listen. He throws a punch, two. Accuses him for being his husband's spy. Steve assures him he's not. He tells him Miss Potts picked him. And that pulls Tony up short. Leeches the anger out and leaves sharp confusion instead.

"Pepper sent you?" And Steve is a respectable married man. But if those eyes don't stop looking at him with all the curious wonder of a predator, he doesn't know what would happen. All he knows is that he'll end up long buried.

There's a change. Where Tony's rage and struggle pulled Steve in like a depraved blackhole, his gentleness and wit tethers something inside Steve. Keeps him coming back. Tony is a genius. But he's not a psychopath like Stone, not a greedy bastard like Stane, not a businessman like his father. He has hopes and dreams that could save the world. He sees a future that's bright and green. And Steve is a respectable married man headed for ruin.

Steve tells Bucky he would be late. He tells him he's got priorities and his husband says nothing, just nods and kisses his cheek.

He should have known.

He finds Bucky beside James Rhodes, doned up in his Soldier regalia.

"I'm assigning Barnes to Tony's guard."

"We have Rogers."

"Well we've also got Ten Rings coming after him."

There's that. Even Howard Stark doesn't want his son dead. And though there's an ugly scowl on Stane's face he doesn't like, Steve is more worried about deciphering Bucky's blank stare and the gentle flex of his metal limb.

Things go differently this time around. Tony meets Bucky not with fury, but a gentle curiousity. Like he's trying to peek through the icy winds of a storm. He picks and prods at him like a cat sniffing a new scratch post. Asks about the arm. About the metal. About the joints. And the connectors. But never about how he lost the weighted piece of flesh in the first place.

Steve is torn between pulling them apart and asking Bucky to say something.

But Bucky has his back to him. And Tony's eyes are sharp as ever.

"You're lucky my Rhodeybear warned me about you. Or you would gotten the same treatment as him."

Steve can put it on paper. He won't even have to look to know Bucky's interest at that. He always loves it when someone shoves at Steve's immovable strength.

"I punched him. Twice," Tony explains, and like an automated machine Steve defends himself.

"It didn't hurt."

Bucky snorts, shakes his head and throws him a look which tucks the message home. We'll talk later.

"You came back all bruised like a peach."

"Oh," Tony breathes and then blushes. "Well, that's an image."

"I want him," he mourns to Bucky on the sparring mat. Once Bucky has beaten him senseless, gotten the rage of betrayal out of his system. Once Steve learns that he is a respectable married man. But he can learn to be not. "I want him for both of us."

It takes time. Bucky is wary. Skittish around this other guy.

There is Stane and his obvious displeasure. There is Ten Rings and their looming threat. There is Tony himself, pulling away, haunted by a sad, guilty shadow.

"I'm married. And so are you." There is that and more under. There is Stone and his pride. Bruises marking Tony's skin. There is rage boiling up inside Steve, checked by a cold press of Bucky's hand over his neck.

There is too much. And too little.

But when Bucky falls, Steve isn't there. He is trapped behind the rubble after someone blew up the building. He is trapped and worried about the old lady with him, calling for her son and her daughter, bleeding from her torso.

He isn't there. Yet when he gets home, Bucky is there with his fury and rage, his eyes dark and lips warm as he lunges at Steve.

"He's a fucking idiot," he snarls and Steve grins. "He's gonna get himself killed!"

After, Bucky tells him the story.

"He just fucking jumped in after the kid. Wearing a goddamn tom ford suit like it's armor. Ten Rings wanted him alive so of course they stopped shooting. Only saving grace is that I was there. Picked them off one by one."

"And now?"

"Fuck you, Rogers."

"You already did."

"Shut up. We gotta genius to save."

Now, Steve and Bucky are both respectable married men. But they are also known to be a little bit rotten on the inside.

[coolshadowtwins]

I know everything else I post about is SVSSS, but I do have a MDZS au I’ve been thinking about for years lol

It’s an Encanto Au! Jin Ling is Mirabel, having no gift like the rest of his family.

His family of a lot of uncles and a lot of cousins. There are, of course, his mother Jiang Yanli, and her magical healing cooking. His uncle, and Yanli’s brother, Jiang Cheng, who controls the weather with his emotions. His other uncle, and Yanli’s other brother, Wei Wuxian, who can see the future. He disappeared ten years ago, and nobody is allowed to talk about him.

There’s his uncle Jin Gaungyao, who can hear everything that’s happening. And JGY’s son, Jin Rulan, who’s about to get his gift during his fifth birthday. And there’s his other, other uncle, Mo Xuanyu, who can transform into other people.

And there’s his perfect cousins, Lan Sizhui, who can summon flowers and is over all perfect. And Lan Jingyi, who is super strong. (They are probably cousins through WWX, but no one talks about that)

I never decided who Abuela is, because on one hand, the Yunmeng Trio is the triplets, so I feel like it has to be Madam Yu. But there are so many Jins here, so I feel like it needs to be Madam Jin? Of course, then it’s weird for JZX not to have any powers, since he’s the dad that married in. Never mind. It has to be Madam Yu. I have decided.

The background event, instead of a proposal, that everyone is panicked for, is the Lans’ coming to check on Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi, which has everyone stressed.