#my wife has come home safely i can sleep in peace now

[calqlate]

the gacha gods smiled upon me and let me win the 50/50 at 7 pity 🥹

[kbwrites]

Husband! Nanami

synopsis: your husband comes home for another long and arduous day. He only wishes to stay with you forever.

⚝tags: husband!nanami, reader is a housewife, nsfw, nanami loves eating his wife out

⚝wc: 1.6k

Husband Nanami! Drags his feet, trudging wearily to the entrance of his shared home. Each step heavier than the last. Work has been increasingly stressful, each day more demanding than the last. Today was no different. He brings a tired hand up to the doorknob, turning it slowly. The soft yellow light of the foyer illuminates his face, the scent of his safe space hitting his nostrils.

“Kento?” There it was, the most melodious symphony he’d ever heard. Rounding the corner it was you, his loving wife. In that moment it seems as though all the stress from the day melts away, a small smile graces his lips and his tired eyes close briefly.

“Hello dear.”

Kento wasn’t exactly sure when he fell in love with you, just that at some point he stopped being able to imagine what life would be like without your presence. You became his peace, a ray of sunshine that cut through the darkness in his life. He never believed in karma or fate, but sometimes he’d wonder what he had done in his life to be deserving of your love.

He slips out of his shoes, heavy footsteps and drooping shoulders trudge toward you. He wrapped his strong arms around you, enveloping you in a warm embrace. Kento bends down slightly, burying his head into your hair allowing your scent to permeate his senses. You always smelled so good… A low hum of content emanates from his throat, almost like a cat purring. His arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly close.

“How was your day?” He mumbles into your skin.

“My day was good.” You reply quietly. “What about you?”

“Long. Tiring..” He says with a sigh, pulling away slightly so he can have a better look at his sunshine. His hand reaches to cup your face, thumb making small circles on your cheek. You look at your husband, honey-colored eyes half-lidded, dark circles occupying his face. It was taking everything in him to stand right now.

“Are you hungry?” You muse, nuzzling your face into his hand. He only nods, still looking at you with tired eyes. Taking the hand that held your face you lead him to the dining room. The smell of food wafts through the room, a plate of steak and mashed potatoes, still hot. He takes a seat at the table, eyes lighting up at the dish.

“Thank you, my love.” He says before taking a bite, his eyes closing in satisfaction as the savory taste hits his tongue. He loved your cooking, it was like a balm to his weary soul. He continues eating in silence, looking up at you. You rest your chin in your hands, smiling at your husband.

“You’re not eating?” He says after swallowing.

“I ate before you came home.” A pang of guilt washes over him, Kento knows you probably waited as long as you could hoping you could hold out and wait to eat with him. With all the long hours he’s been putting in, he's barely had time for the one thing that made his life worth living

“I’m sorry…” He reaches for your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. You just smile, how did he end up with an angel?

He finishes eating his food, you get up grabbing the empty plate. Kento gently grabs hold of your wrist.

“Please, you cooked let me-”

“You can barely stand Ken.” You’re right, he’s come to find out that you usually are. He sinks back in the chair, too exhausted to protest. After loading the dishwasher you come back into the dining room, your husband exactly where you left him. Fighting off sleep in the chair.

You take his large hand in your smaller one, leading him to the bathroom. Although, Nanami is a serious man, one who was insistent on retiring you when you got married. He secretly loved when you took care of him, your gentle hands working his sore muscles combined with the hot water cascading down his body; he thinks in this moment he could fall asleep standing up.

He looks down at his wife fussing over him, your naked form, suds of soap covering your glistening skin. Even running on 3 hours of sleep the desire in him for his lover burns. His hands roam over your curves, gripping your hips. You pause your movements looking up at him as he pulls you closer, pads of his fingers digging lightly into the fat of your hips. How long had it been since he touched his wife? Made her writhe under him? Far too long in his opinion.

You finish the shower, leading his towel-clad body to your bedroom, drying him off you grab his night clothes from the top drawer. Suddenly bashful at all the attention you’ve been giving him Kento grabs your arm as you try to slip on his pajama pants. You look up at him inquisitively.

“Kento?” He doesn’t answer, just pulls you onto his lap. His large hands holding you in place.

“Darling..” His voice hoarse. Your body shivers in response, even after a year of marriage the sight before you— his chiseled abs, damp blond hair framing his sharp features, his lips parted and pupils blown… It was still too much. You feel the arousal pool between your legs.

“K-kento, you’re tired...” You try to be the voice of reason, but the love of your life looks so damn good right now. He places soft kisses on your chest, setting fire to your skin.

“You’ve been so good to me, allow me this.” He says before trailing kisses up and down your neck. His hands leave your waist, his touch slow and deliberate. His lips ghost over you, landing next to your ear.

“It’s been terrible my love… working all day when I’d rather be here… having you.” His breath against your ear.

“Ken!” You say embarrassed, he was always so blunt when you were having sex. “Just don’t go overboard…” You chide in between moans, your hands find his damp hair, raking through it gently. 

He uses the bit of strength he has left to lay you down on the bed, your back hitting the plush comforter. His hand trailing between your legs, he groans as he feels the wetness between your folds. Your back arches as he brings his digits up to your clit, making slow deliberate circles.

He looks up at you, eyes clouded with lust.

“Honey, I need you.” Is all he says before he buries his face into your cunt.

His tongue darting out to lap up all of your slick. Your darling husband sucking gently on your clit as his fingers tease your entrance. Your moans and whimpers only serve to encourage him. His long finger slides in, curling it upwards to your sweet spot.

“Kento~ s’good” You breathe, one hand snakes up to your stomach, giving the soft flesh a squeeze. His way of saying he heard you. His eyes flutter shut, completely enraptured in pleasing his precious wife. All the paperwork, unnecessarily long meeting with his boss, the entire shit storm of the day all seems to float away as he rests between your thighs.

“So good f’me my love.” He mumbles against your skin. The hand he had on your stomach reaches below to his growing erection. He wraps his hand around his thick length, rutting into his tight fist. He moans against your cunt, imagining his fist were your heavenly walls.

He knows you so well, just by the slight change in your voice he can tell he’s bringing you closer to the edge. His pace quickens, inserting another thick finger into your cunt, your walls flutter around him. Hot squelching noises emanate from your core. He released your clit with a ‘pop’ using the wet muscle to circle around the bundle of nerves. He wants so badly for you to cum, his own pleasure completely reliant on it. Your breath hitches, body spasms as you finally release. Your arousal coating his fingers, he removes them from you replacing them with his mouth. 

He greedily slurps up all the slick from your entrance, humming as your sweet essence coats his taste buds. 

“Kentooo” You whine, slightly overstimulated. You squirm trying to push your lover's head away from your throbbing cunt, he only grunts, strong arms holding your legs in place. Only after he’s had his fill he crawls up to you, resting your head on his broad chest. 

Your husband places kisses on your forehead, stroking your slightly damp hair. He takes deep breaths, helping to pace your own breathing. He looks down at his world, even your blissed out state was irresistible to him. 

“Was that too much for you my love?” He questions softly. You shake your head, a tired smile graces his lips.

“I’ve been neglecting you honey… I’m sorry.” He says apologetically, tracing patterns on your skin. You look up at him, the guilt evident on his face. 

He worked so hard so that you wouldn’t have to, his darling wife shouldn’t have to lift a finger. However he couldn’t bear the thought of you waiting up for him, missing him. The light of his life, so lonely in the big house he bought for her.

“It’s alright Ken.” You offer a gentle smile, of course, you missed your husband, but you didn’t want to stress him out any more than he already was. 

“No. It isn’t.” He said firmly. “I’ll request more days off, I need rest. And I need you.” He holds you tight as if you’d disappear at any moment. His mind was set, you swoon at your husbands' words.

“Good.” You say smiling, he leans down to place a gentle kiss to your lips. He rolls over to his back, the exhaustion hitting him again. You throw the cover onto both of your bodies. Sleeping taking over him quickly. You place a kiss to your husband's cheek before closing your eyes.

✧ ▬▭▬ ▬▭▬ ✦✧✦ ▬▭▬ ▬▭▬ ✧✧ ▬▭▬ ▬▭▬ ✦✧✦ ▬▭▬✧ ▬▭▬✧✧✧

[sunsetchicane]

cowboy like me [LN4]

lando x fem!reader

word count: 8.2k

summary: The one where you work on a ranch and it’s everything you know. There’s nothing that can come between you and your love for your home. Not even a handsome stranger who seems to pull the best out of you.

warnings: slight angst, some fluff, horses!, brief sexual innuendo, a singular swear word, and one [sad] kiss.

author’s note: hey! hi! hello! this is my first fic on here (omgggg 🤭) so please, please, please let me know your thoughts/comments/questions! might write a second part to this…thoughts??[xoxo elle]

~~~

Buxton Ranch has been in the Buxton family before Montana even became an official Union state in 1889. Land wasn’t simply a commodity or property back then; it was life or death. William T. Buxton and his wife, Mary Anne, put their boots down on this land along with their four children and they’ve never left. They fought their way over the mountains, survived the unbearable, and have reaped the benefits of their resilience for over a century and a half.

Willamina T. Buxton I, my boss, is the great-something granddaughter of William T. Buxton I. Her father, William T. Buxton VII handed over the ranch to her on her 30th birthday a few years back. The controversy caused ripples through the entire community because even though Willamina is Mr. Buxton’s first born, the ranch has always been handed down to the eldest son. Willa is the first woman to ever have ownership of the ranch.

My family hasn’t been in Montana nearly as long as the Buxtons. My mom and I moved out here in the spring the year I was born. My father skipped out before my mom could even hold herself upright in her hospital bed after laboring with me. She tells me that we came here to Montana for a fresh start, and what better place to go than where the sky is bigger and the air is pure. The mountains became our safe haven, our buffer from the rest of the world and, more importantly, our history. It’s easy to forget up here, to allow your mind to rest. I’ve never been at a loss for why the Buxtons came and never left. Sometimes, in the dark of my room, I pretend that I really am a Buxton, that I truly belong.

However, when the sun breaks across the mountain peaks and the world comes alive once again, I’m forced to realize that I don’t belong to the Buxton dynasty. I simply work for them.

My alarm blares to my right, causing me to shoot upright. With fumbling fingers, I seek for the power button of my alarm clock. When I finally find it and shut off the hellish noise, I fling my legs over the side of my bed. With the heels of my hands, I rub the sleep from my eyes. The world around me is painted in a deep blue, still fast asleep and undisturbed by my alarm. I envy it as I rise from my bed and get ready for the day.

Silently, I pull on my bootcut Wranglers and a light green long sleeved button down. My belt and beat up old boots complete the ensemble for the moment being. My next stop is the bathroom where I brush my teeth and comb my hair. Tying my hair off into a low braid so it’ll sit right under my hat takes only a couple minutes. I’ve been wearing my hair the same way to work every day for the past seven years.

Once I’m done in the bathroom, I make my way to the kitchen where a pot of coffee is automatically brewing on schedule. I toss a few eggs into a pan as well as two pieces of bread into the toaster. The breakfast of champions and me every single day. After crushing a cup of coffee and my plain breakfast, it’s time to head out. Instead of living on-site with the rest of the ranch hands, I still live with my mom. I’ve been wanting to move out to the ranch for over a year now since I finished college, but the possibility of breaking my mom’s heart stops me from even mentioning it to her.

Glancing at the clock, I know I have plenty of time to spare, but I start to pack up and head out the door anyway. I enjoy being early to the ranch. It’s peaceful and serene before it wakes and rises. Grabbing my work jacket because the winter’s just turning over to spring, my chaps, and my lunch sack, I head out the door. My mom and I share an old, sunburnt orange Chevy truck that just barely runs. I toss my things into the bed of the pickup before sliding into the worn out driver’s seat. As I slide the key into the ignition, I send up a quick prayer that she turns over. When I press the key forward, the engine roars to life. Prayers have been answered this morning and I hope it’s a good omen for the rest of the day.

The drive to Buxton Ranch is short and sweet, all dirt roads and drifting grassy fields. The radio sounds quietly and the engine hums loudly, but everything else is completely still. A distant light orange is just starting to brush the very edges of the horizon in the east. Nature is starting to reach out and stretch its sleepy limbs.

As I pull up to the place where I always park near a stretch of fence, I see a figure dressed in shadows leaning over the wood a few yards away. Once I’ve tossed the pickup into park and yanked out the keys, I jump down from my seat so I can walk over to her. She’s always out here before everyone. Sometimes I see her, most times I don’t. When I do, it feels like fate, like there’s something about today that’s meant to happen this way. Or maybe it’s just Willamina Buxton.

“Good morning, y/n,” she rasps without glancing over at me. Crossing my arms, I lean over the log fence and take in the view. I don’t think there’s a better view in all of Montana than that from Buxton Ranch.

“Good morning, Willa,” I answer quietly. Her brother, Wyatt, was my best friend growing up. She’s only 12 years older than the two of us, but somehow she seems infinitely older and wiser. She’s been a role model for me. We grew closer after Wyatt left for college a few years back. Of course he came back in the summers to visit, but he never stayed long. He wasn’t born for this life. Instead of horses, he dealt with horse power. He always wanted to become an engineer for Formula One. When the opportunity came to go overseas to study in England and intern at McLaren, he hadn’t even thought twice. One day he was here, and the next he was gone.

I struggled with feeling abandoned for a while, but I came to terms with it quickly. I realized that dreams were meant to be chased and he was incredibly fortunate to get this opportunity. I was also chasing my dream, I just had to go down the street instead of across an ocean. We keep in touch, calling frequently and texting nearly every day, but it’s not the same. I miss him.

“Heard from Wyatt recently?” Willa says quietly then takes a sip from her mug of iron black coffee.

“Not in a couple of days. Seems busy,” I mumble. Wyatt’s leaving is a bit of a sore spot for Willa. She wanted him to stay on the ranch and in the family business. Her asking about him is a bit of an anomaly.

She hums, then pauses, then sighs. “Lots to do today. We better get going.”

And just like that the work day starts.

I tend to the horses right away, leading them out into the corral so I can wash out their stalls from over the weekend. I give each of them fresh hay and fill up large troughs of water for the more temperamental ones. Then I lead them one at a time back into their stalls and give them a thorough once over to check how they’re doing.

The last one I have to put away is the youngest of the group. He came to us only last year, unbroke and wild as the river. He’s a black Morgan stallion, sleek and athletic. He’s larger than your typical Morgan, with rippling muscle, and a proud face. He’s beautiful. We call him Jupe.

“Jupe,” I coo kindly to the untamed stallion. “Come on, Jupe.”

He casts a look over his back at me telling me everything I need to know. Sighing, I toss myself over the fence and into the corral. With my palms raised up and in front of me, I show him the leather lead in my hand as I walk over to him slowly.

“Come on, Jupe, we gotta go back inside. I cleaned up real nice for you, boy. Fresh hay, new water, you’re living the five star life, buddy,” I say while creeping up on him. He doesn’t move, but simply tracks my movements with his black eyes. Nerves claw at my stomach as I approach him. Reaching out slowly, I praise him and repeat his name over and over. Finally, I slide the clip of the lead around a loop in his bridle. But there’s no relief yet. I still have to get him into the stables without incident.

“Good boy, Jupe,” I say, reaching out gently to stroke his nose. He pushes at my hand playfully. A surge of pride washes over me. Maybe the two of us are finally making progress. Jupe lets me lead him out of the corral and back to his stall with ease. Today really is my day.

“Thank you,” I whisper to the stallion as I slide the lock shut on his door. Jupe’s head hangs over the short door, his head coming down to level with mine. Patting him gently, I pull a couple sugar cubes from my pack. I hold them up to him on my flat palm and he slurps them up gratefully. A smile that I can do nothing to stop breaks across my face. I’m gonna saddle him up one day. And maybe that day is sooner than I’d anticipated.

“Only you would give that stubborn Morgan a treat,” I hear a familiar voice say. I whip around in disbelief as the tone and inflexion registers in my mind.

“Then again, maybe the two of you have bonded over your mutual stubbornness.” Wyatt hardly gets the words out before I’m taking his arm in mine and wrapping him up in a hug with the other. We laugh as we sway side to side. My hat careens to the side of my head as I hug him and I know I must be getting him all sweaty and dirty, but I can’t find it in myself to care about vanity at the moment. Wyatt’s back.

“Surprise!” He says when I finally let go of him. He’s wearing a bright smile as I pull back. Wyatt reaches up and straightens out my hat for me.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were coming!” I say while smacking the back of my hand against his shoulder. “I would’ve gotten off work and…”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” he laughs as I slide past him to finish up sweeping this side of the stables.

“You’re right,” I laugh along with him while I sweep. He knows that I love my job too much to step away from it. I hate missing a day and he knows that.

Wyatt takes a seat on a stack of unused hay bales that I’ll have to load back up. He chats with me about school and England and McLaren. I don’t know much about Formula One, just what I picked up on from Wyatt constantly chatting my ear off about it. Most of the stuff that Wyatt has told me, however, goes way over my head. What I do know is that this boy is an engineering genius and McLaren is lucky to have him now as a full-time employee. They offered him a job straight out of university. He’ll be living full time in the UK. My stomach twists at the thought.

“So, what do you have going on for the rest of the day?” Wyatt asks after I’ve finished sweeping. I place my hands on top of the broom and lean my chin over my fingers.

“Riley and I were going to take down that rickety south fence and…” I start to say while mentally checking my to-do list.

“Sandy’s helping Riley with that,” Wyatt says matter-of-factly. I cast him a questioning look to which he simply blinks at.

“Alright. Then I have to go to the cattle and check on all of the pregnant…”

“Louise has that covered,” Wyatt informs me while picking at his nails. What is he getting at?

“Why…well, then I have to…” I begin, trying to move away from things that he could possibly know of.

“Go riding with me and my friends!” Wyatt exclaims while hopping off the hay bales and clapping his hands together. “Wonderful idea.”

My jaw drops. There’s no way that he’s trying to make me skip the rest of the day to go riding. Not after we just had a conversation over the fact that I would never do that. That I could never do that. I have an obligation to be here, to get things done.

“Wy, you know I’d love to, but I’ve got work to do,” I say firmly while walking over to hang up my broom. Jupe huffs and brays at Wyatt as he walks briskly over to me.

“No you don’t. I made sure of it,” Wyatt says while grabbing my hands so I have no choice but to stand in front of him. “Willa’s told me to inform you that if you’re found working this afternoon, there’ll be severe consequences.”

At that, I know I have to oblige with Wyatt’s request. If Willa gave the all clear, there’s no reason for me to try and argue. One thing about the Buxtons is they’re nearly as strong-willed as the horses they hold. Not to mention it would be incredibly rude of me to not accept Willa’s generosity. This doesn’t stop me from letting Wyatt know exactly how I feel about him pulling me away from my work. I do so in colorful language the entire walk over to the house.

“You don’t even want to go riding with me, you just want me to be your guide,” I feign an accusation as we approach a small crowd of people on the large front deck of the Buxtons glorious ranch home. I see a few ranch hands and two other men that I don’t know, who must be Wyatt’s friends.

“You are the best guide out here.” His backhanded compliment earns him an eye roll. As we approach the house, he tells me to wait for a second while he calls over his friends. Their heads turn quickly to the two of us when Wyatt calls to them. They say hasty goodbyes to the staff they were chatting with before walking over to Wyatt and I. One is tall and pale, with pale eyes, and pale hair. His cheeks are flushed a slight pink from the chill that still hangs in the spring air. He looks lively and excited, his eyes bouncing around from one thing to another at lightning speed.

The other man is shorter with cropped, dark, curly hair. His hazel eyes are sharp and brilliant against his tanned skin. As he draws nearer, I can tell that he’s very physically fit. He’s wearing a tight long sleeve shirt that hugs his arms, brand new boot cut jeans, and a shiny pair of boots that have obviously never been worn. His eyes, unlike his friend, don’t wander while he walks over to us; they stay trained on me. A small smile falls across his pretty pink lips as he finds me watching him swagger his way over. He’s attractive.

“Never seen a British boy in cowboy boots before,” I say when they stop in front of us, glancing down at the brunette's footwear. When my eyes flick up to his, he still hasn’t stopped looking at me. Clearing my throat, I extend a hand to the blonde.

“Hi, y/n,” I introduce myself while shaking his hand.

“Mitchel,” he says, his accent is sharp and acutely German, which takes me by surprise. I nod, casting him a warm smile. I watch as Mitchel’s eyes flick to Wyatt over my shoulder. Following suit, I catch Wy smiling like a fool and a slight blush that I don’t think has anything to do with the weather coating his cheeks. When he sees me looking at him, he quickly crosses his arms and looks away. My smile widens. Mitchel drops my hand and then stuffs his back into his pockets.

“Y/n,” I say to Wyatt’s other friend who has a bit of a staring problem. He takes my hand in his slowly.

“Lando Norris,” He says crisply, his accent confirming my previous assessment. “Nice to finally meet you, y/n.”

His name catches in my mind, as if I’ve heard it before but I can’t place it. Wyatt must have mentioned him at some point, but for the life of me I can’t remember what about. A moment passes and our hands stay held together in the space between us as I try to place him. My eyes scan over his face and catalog his freckles and scars and the way his eyes sparkle when he smiles. When it dawns on me that I’m now the one with a staring problem, I swiftly pull my hand from his. Briefly, his jaw clenches.

“Finally, huh?” I take his previous statement and run with it. Turning my back to Lando, I glance over at Wyatt. “Just what have you been saying about me?”

“All good things, all good things,” Wy assures me while coming up to clasp me on the shoulder. He leans into me with a big smile that makes my stomach churn at the thought of what he’s actually told his friends. What does Lando think of me? Why does it matter what Lando thinks of me?

“Well,” I say quickly, trying to shake the thought of Lando from my head. “I suppose we should get going if we want to be back by sundown.”

The three boys nod their heads in agreement. The four of us walk over to the stables. Wyatt and Mitchel walk slowly behind me as they chit chat and laugh. Casting a glance over my shoulder at them, I watch as their shoulders bump together and their fingers brush intentionally. I bite my lip to keep myself from smiling. Wyatt’s alway had a hard time with romance and partnership just because of where we grew up and the hate he received for simply being himself. Seeing him this way, happy and smitten, makes me feel proud. It affirms that his leaving was necessary in so many ways.

“How long have you been working here?” Lando’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. My attention slides over to him. He’s come up to my left, his hands folded behind his back. His eyes are wide and curious as he looks at me. I can’t help but feel like I’m being analyzed.

“Seven years. But I’ve been on the ranch all my life. I took riding lessons from Willa and then became fast friends with Wyatt,” I tell him while pulling my eyes from his. Returning his gaze seems difficult, so I keep my eyes trained on the stable. He hums in acknowledgement of my response. I can feel his eyes on me still.

“Do you work at McLaren with Wyatt?” I ask my new acquaintance. He chuckles to himself a little, his pretty eyes squinting from his large smile.

“Yeah, you could say that,” he says, making me feel like I’m missing something. I scoff at his vague response, but don’t press the issue. If he wanted to explain himself, he would. His aura is interesting. He seems so sure of himself, completely at ease with who he is. It’s captivating.

We make it to the entrance of the stable and I instruct Lando and Mitchel to take a seat while Wyatt and I saddle up the horses. It takes us a while to get everyone ready for the trail ride, but with every passing minute, the more excited I get. Wyatt and I used to go out on the trails all the time. During the summer as teenagers, we would stuff our packs full of camping supplies and go for days at a time. Those memories are my most cherished possessions, things that I will never forget. Now whenever I take others up there, I feel as though I’m bearing a part of my soul to them.

Once we’re done getting everything ready, Wyatt leads his and Mitchel’s horses, Rudy and Molly, outside with Mitchel in tow. This leaves me alone with Lando. My stomach twists nervously when I feel his presence looming to my right.

“Ever ridden before?” I ask while petting Luna, a beautiful sorrel tovero paint. She’s older, but strong and steady, a good horse for a beginner.

“Yeah, loads,” Lando says while joining me in stroking Luna. I cast him a critical glance. If he sees it, he ignores me. Rolling my eyes, I really can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. It’s important to know what you’re doing while working with large animals. I make the mental note to keep him in my line of sight at all times while riding.

“Oh, good. Then you’ll be good to lead Ms. Luna out? She’s yours for the day,” I tell him while handing over the reins. I watch his adam's apple bob and his eyebrows lift slightly before nodding and accepting the reins from my hand. When his fingers brush over mine, goosebumps run across my arm. Quickly, I pull my hand away and turn towards Beau, my stallion for today. Fiddling aimlessly with his bridle, I wait until the steps of Luna and Lando have disappeared before releasing a breath. Leaning my forehead against Beau’s neck, I sigh at my stupid behavior. Am I really so touch starved that I get goosebumps at my finger brushing against his? That’s sad.

I take Beau’s reins in my hand and start leading him out to the waiting pack of boys. Just as I’m about to exit the stables, I look over at Jupe. He’s looking at me like he knows exactly what’s going on in my mind.

“Don’t give me attitude,” I tell him.

He just blinks at me.

Beau and I join everyone. Wyatt’s running Mitchel through the basics while Lando watches on. He’s pretending to not be listening by petting Luna and quietly talking to her, but I still catch the way he glances over when Wy demonstrates something. I walk around and do a quick double check on everyone’s gear before returning to Beau’s side. With the ease of muscle memory that I don’t think I’ll ever lose, I toss myself up and onto the saddle. Wyatt assists Mitchel into his saddle before climbing into his own. Lando glances over at me before sliding his foot into the stirrup and attempting to pull himself up. He looks out of his depth and slightly awkward as he hauls himself onto the saddle seat. Biting back a laugh, I click my tongue and squeeze my legs a little to get Beau to move for me. The two of us saunter up next to Lando. His easy continence is long gone, replaced by nerves and uncertainty. His hands shake as he grabs onto the reins incorrectly.

“Here, like this,” I correct while reaching out to his hands. My fingers pry his anxious fists open and fix where he’s holding the leather cord. I’m surprised to find calluses littering his palms, a mirror of my own. I maneuver his palm to rest in the right way so he doesn’t agitate Luna. I can feel Lando watching me as I touch and hold his hands. I’ve done this a hundred times when teaching lessons, but this is the first time that I feel an uncomfortable blush creeping onto my cheeks. Lando’s presence has me off axis, spinning out of my routine. I’ve known him for maybe an hour and he’s already getting under my skin.

“Just trust Luna, she knows the way,” I say quietly as I pull away from him. He bites at his lip but nods along with my words. Smiling as warmly as I can, I leave his side to ride up to Wyatt. However, I can’t help but glance back over my shoulder at him. He’s not looking at me, thankfully. Instead, his eyes are trained on his hands as he flexes them on the reins the way I showed him. His focus is endearing, almost cute.

But when his eyes rise to find mine, I snap my head forward in hopes that he didn’t catch me staring at him. The last thing I need is to develop some sort of childish crush on a stranger that I’ll never see again after a few days. I just have to keep my head down and my thoughts off of him.

“Time’s wasting!” Wyatt calls to me, letting me know that everyone is ready to go. Nodding, I take the lead while Wyatt falls to the back. We keep Mitchel and Lando between us so they don’t get caught straying off the path.

Going out for a ride is one of my favorite things. I love going into the mountains, walking along the thin paths, and enjoying the earth. As we go, I hear Mitchel and Wyatt quietly chatting at the back of the pack. However, once we get to the treeline, their voices fall away from my earshot. My senses are overcome by our surroundings. The budding trees are gorgeous as they filter the sunlight into sultry beams that fall onto the new grass along the sides of the gravel path.

“Beautiful,” I hear Lando speak for the first time since we left. I’ve been distracted thankfully, leaving me free from his effect on me. Now, though, I find myself turning to the side to look at him as he comes up next to me. I’m surprised to find him staring at me instead of the lively forest that hems us in. A thought that he might be making a comment about me instead of the scenery flashes through my mind. Quickly, I shove the absurd thought away and chalk it up to wishful thinking.

“It is,” I agree, giving him a small smile. He chuckles a little before turning to look around him. Suddenly, I’m acutely aware of him. Somehow he adds to the already perfect scene around me. His hair is being ruffled by the slight, cool breeze, which also lends his skin a gorgeous pink flush. Bright hazel eyes track the swishing branches and fluttering wildlife. His muscles are on display as he engages them to ride Luna. He looks less stiff than he did earlier, as if he’s finding himself at ease here. The idea makes me giddy. I find myself agreeing with Lando’s previous assessment. Beautiful.

“See something you like, cowgirl?” Lando laughs when he catches me staring at him yet again. My eyes go wide and my mouth parts as I scramble for a proper response, a defense, anything. There’s just something about him that makes it nearly impossible to look away. I think I’d like to be able to see him a lot more.

“Cowgirl?” Is all I can come up with. It’s not an inaccurate title, but the way he said it made it sound different. It was tacked onto his question almost like an endearment, or a tease. I laugh a little at his choice of words and the way it sounds in his accent.

“I see a lot of things I like, cowboy. You’ll have to be more specific,” I challenge. This successfully pulls a proper laugh from him. It’s the type of laugh that sends birds flying frantically from their perches and the creatures hidden in the grass scurrying away. It’s impossible to not laugh along with him. My heart flutters and I have to hold on tighter to my reins so I don’t fall off the saddle.

“I may be a lot of things, but I am no cowboy,” he corrects. I nod while continuing to laugh.

“I could have told you that,” I confirm while adjusting my hat.

“Oh really?” Lando says, urging me to explain myself. He tilts his head to the side while his mouth pulls into a closed lipped smile.

“If the brand new jeans and boots didn’t give you away, then you’re riding definitely does. You ride stiff as a board,” I inform him while glancing down at his boots and jeans. His denim clad thighs are tight around Luna’s middle, tense muscles visible through the fabric.

“Alright, teach me then,” he says, his free hand coming to rest on his hip. “Cowgirl.”

I roll my eyes at his words once again, but am resolved to help him nonetheless. There’s nothing like going out and being able to ride properly. I want to ask him why he lied to me about his experience with riding, but I don’t want to bruise his ego any further. Trying something new is challenging enough, and if he’s willing to learn, then I don’t want to jeopardize that.

“Keep sitting up straight, but relax your body. Your hips should shift back and forth in the seat a little. Don’t fight what feels natural. Just watch me,” I tell him. His eyes slide slowly from my face down to my hips. I watch as his eyes track my hips back and forth just slightly with Beau’s steps. Lando’s breathing goes uneven and his bottom lip disappears between his teeth. He’s staring at me like there’s nothing else he’d ever want to look at. It makes my heart race and nerves flutter in my stomach. I hadn’t really thought about the more sensual implications of having him watch my hips, but it seems rather obvious now. However, I don’t really mind the way he’s looking at me, or the way his focus is completely attuned to me. Selfishly, I really wish he wouldn’t look at anything else ever again. But that can’t happen.

“Eyes up, cowboy,” I tell him after a few more seconds of letting him watch. “Go ahead.”

Clearing his throat, he shifts a little in the saddle before settling in to do what I asked. I don’t miss the way he avoids looking me in the eye, as if he’s embarrassed. Have I flustered him? The thought makes me just a tiny bit proud. He doesn’t seem like the type to be flustered easily. He sits up straight and attempts to relax his body. His lower half starts to shift the right way, looking more natural and less jerky than before. Indulging myself, I watch for a few more seconds. I bite the inside of my cheek as he rocks back and forth in the saddle. My mind goes wandering to places that I shouldn’t be thinking about with a man I’ve only known for a day. Less than a day. And yet, I can’t stop myself.

“Maybe we’ll make a real cowboy out of you yet, Lando Norris,” I tell him after I’ve noticed improvements. His focus fractures and he looks over to me.

“I think I’d like that,” He shoots back, a sly smile accompanying his words. The look twists my stomach into nervous knots. There’s something about him, something intangible, that draws you in. Maybe it’s charm or charisma, or maybe it’s just the way he was made. Whatever the circumstances or reasons are, it’s not fair. I feel as though I have hardly a fighting chance to ward off any sort of desire that’s bubbling to the surface. I want to keep getting to know him; I want to teach him anything he asks; I want to never let go of the way he makes me feel.

The walk back to the ranch grounds is much faster than I would have liked. Lando chats with me the entire way back about this and that. He’s smart and funny and my chances of not having a crush on him grow slimmer with every passing minute I spend with him. When we get back to the stables, I find myself taking much longer than I normally would to put everything away. Mitchel and Wyatt decided that a fire would be the best way to end the night, so they ran out to get it started while Lando and I finished up with the horses. He tried his best to help, but kept getting distracted by visiting all of the stalls.

“Who’s this?” Lando says as I finish putting away the last saddle. I say a quick goodbye to Beau before heading down to the last stall near the open barn doors. Lando is standing in front of Jupe’s stall, his arms crossed over his chest. I stop next to him, leaving an appropriate amount of space between us, even though I want to come up right next to him and press my shoulder to his.

“This is Jupe. He’s our newest. Bit ornery, but a good boy,” I say while reaching my hand out to pat Jupe’s head. He brays at my touch, but doesn’t pull away. I give him a quick kiss on the nose and coddle him a little. Positive reinforcement does wonders.

“My turn,” Lando says from behind me. Astounded, I turn my face toward him. He’s insinuating that he wants me to kiss him. My brain short circuits at the thought. He’s just standing there with his arms still crossed over his chest and a stupid smile playing across his handsome face. I scoff at his joke, trying not to let on how much it affected me.

“Careful what you wish for, you might end up with a stall of your own,” I jab back. However, keeping him here doesn’t seem like the worst idea in the world.

“Being praised, kissed, and ridden by you? Sounds like these guys are living the dream,” Lando says. My jaw hangs loose as his words hit me like a freight train. Shock courses through me, leaving me beyond speechless. Is he being serious? Who says things like that? I blink at him, unsure of how to continue. I can’t lie and say that the images that popped into my head when he spoke were entirely unpleasant. If he’s being serious, there’s a lot to consider here. I could deny my feelings and spare myself the heartache. Or the alternative, which is letting my emotions get the better of me. This would mean that in a few days after spending time together, I would have to deal with heartbreak and come to terms with the fact that I’ll maybe never see him again. Or maybe I could, if there’s something really here. Maybe I have to give into hope for once. There’s never really been anyone who I’ve put ahead of my goals or dreams. I’ve never been tempted to stray from my path by anyone. Sure, I’ve gone out with guys, had a boyfriend for a while. But if something didn’t line up, I made cuts so my life would fit together how I needed it to. Suddenly now, as I stand here in this stable with a man I met only hours ago, I’m finding myself bending my rules for the first time. I don’t think I’ve ever been more scared in my whole life.

“Alright, cowboy,” I say while taking a tentative step toward him, I’m ready to play this little game of his. His hands have fallen to his side, so I gently slide my fingers into his. Shining eyes lock onto mine. His tan skin is set aglow by the dying sunrise, highlighting the ridges and curves of his face. I want to memorize every freckle, every line, every corner of him. I’m lost in the way his hand feels around mine and in the way he’s looking at me, and I don’t ever want to find my way out. One of his fingers comes to the front of my hat and pushes the brim up. He draws closer now, his face mere inches from mine. His jaw flexes and his large neck muscles twitch with tension as he dips his head down just enough for his lips to hover over mine.

“We have a fire to get to,” I finish my earlier thought in a whisper. With hooded eyes, I look into his wide ones. Smiling smally, I step away from him. Adjusting my hat back to its original place, I begin walking out the door. Lando is hauled after me with my hand still grasped in his. Giddiness takes me over as I walk hand in hand with him towards the fire pit near the house. My small smile breaks into a much larger one as I pick up my pace, breaking into a jog. Lando’s hand clasps around mine tighter as he adjusts to the new pace. A laugh bubbles from my chest as I bring my free hand to hold onto my hat as I run harder. A sense of carefreeness has corrupted my usual serious disposition. Rarely do I feel as free as I do now. Lando’s lightness has infected me, and I can’t help but fall in love with how it’s buoyed my spirits. It feels like the first hit of a drug; it’s the type of high I’ll be chasing for the rest of my life.

As we approach the house, I can hear Wyatt’s laugh ring out from around the corner to the back. Just as we’re about to turn that last corner, Lando’s arms reach around my waist, stopping me from moving another inch. His chest hits my back with no small amount of force, tossing my hat from my head. I’m bent over in his arms as both of our laughs pull the last threads of air from our tired lungs. He hauls us both upright and my head falls back against his shoulder. I suck in a deep breath of the cool, dusk air. It cools me from the inside out. A feeling stirs deep in my stomach as I stare up into the sky while basking in the feeling of Lando’s arms wrapped around me.

Belonging.

It’s something I’ve been chasing my whole life; a sense of knowing where I belong and who I am. And now I feel as though I’ve finally found it: a home; a place to belong; a knowledge of exactly who I am.

Once we’ve regulated our breathing, I break out of his arms. Leaving them isn’t what I want, and as I pull away, I immediately feel much colder. However, we have to accompany Wyatt and Mitchel before they grow suspicious. Carefully, I pick up my hat, but don’t place it back on my head.

“Are you coming?” I ask quickly, tossing a glance to Lando over my shoulder. He shakes his head with a smile, but follows me around the corner without a word. Wyatt’s eyes find us over the roaring fire he’s built. Mitchel is seated right next to him on a log, a thick blanket spread over their laps. Between the warmth of the fire, the blanket, and the present company, I know that the nighttime chill won’t be able to touch me. As I approach Wyatt, he reaches to the side to pick up another blanket with a couple beers and s’mores supplies stacked on top. I accept it with a quick thank you before plopping down on the log next to them. Lando saunters after me, slowly taking a seat to my right.

“Hold this?” I ask while placing the blanket onto his lap. Gently, I set my hat down behind me, then reach over my shoulder to grab the end of my braid. I pull the elastic from the end and go about undoing the braid.

“So, Lando, how was the ride for you?” Wy asks as he brings his beer to his lips. My eyes are on the fire as he speaks, my mind slipping out of focus for a brief moment while I concentrate on my hair. But I’m aware of the fact that Lando doesn’t answer. When I turn to look at him, I find his eyes already on me, following my fingers as they finish pulling out my braid. I run my fingers through my roots to shake out the nasty hat hair that I undoubtedly have.

“Lando?” Wyatt laughs.

“What?” Lando says as he snaps out of his dazed state. His eyes go wide as they shift over to Wyatt who’s chuckling to himself. A goofy smile breaks across Lando’s face as Wyatt restates his question.

“I think I might have to switch professions,” Lando says, his eyes flicking down to me. The fire is lighting his skin with a warm glow. The flames flash lazily in his glossy eyes.

“I think it would be best for you to stick with McLaren,” I joke while cracking both of our cold beers. With a small smile, I hand over one of the bottles to a slightly offended Lando. Laughing to myself, I nudge his shoulder and click the neck of my beer to his. The liquid is cold and fresh against my lips, sending the perfect chill cascading down into my neck and chest.

“Yeah, mate, I think it’s best if you stay in the cockpit rather than the saddle,” Mitchel adds. “Play to your strengths and all that.”

The cockpit? As in the cockpit of a Formula One car? The realization hits me with all the grace of a drunk elephant. Lando Norris; I recognized his name earlier because Wyatt works as an engineer for a driver named Lando Norris. A Formula One driver named Lando Norris. With wide eyes, I stare forward into the fire. Every possibility that I’ve just dreamt up has suddenly become nothing but a fantasy. My body tenses as it physically revolts against my idiocy and naivety. Reality settles into my bones and I have to chide myself for being so stupid to ignore it for as long as I have. Not only did I ignore it, but I created a work of fiction where maybe we could end up together.

“Shit,” I hear Lando breathe next to me. His face is one I don’t recognize, one of seriousness. For the few hours that I’ve known him, which feel more like years, I haven’t seen him lose that little spark that makes him so him. Now it’s nowhere to be seen. He didn’t want me to know that he was a professional driver, one of the most elite in the whole world. It stings because I don’t understand exactly what his intentions were and it allowed me the space to concoct some seriously messed up notions. There’s no way that anything could happen between us now. It’s hard enough to maintain a friendship of years over an ocean with an engineer; imagine trying to hold together a relationship with a driver across continents and seas that constantly change. However, I can’t justify being angry with him. It is his life to be in the public eye constantly. If he came out here to not be recognized for a while and to be treated like just a normal guy, then who am I to deny him that. I just wish he would have given me the opportunity to do that with knowing who he really is. Now I’m stuck with feelings that I know won’t go away in a hurry and thorough embarrassment.

The rest of the night passes monotonously. Wyatt and Mitchel are wrapped up into their own little world, so they hardly notice the ever eroding gap that suddenly formed between Lando and I. We chat a little, but it’s not the same anymore. Roasting marshmallows has suddenly become my new favorite thing because it gives me an excuse to not look at him. I know that if I do, I’ll start to adore his curly hair and the scar over the bridge of his nose and the way that he looks right into your soul with his pretty eyes. I know that if I dare to look at him, I’ll start to believe in fiction once again. That’s not something I can allow; I won’t be the person who falls in love with the idea of something they can never have.

I won’t be the person that falls for someone they can never have.

Wyatt and Mitchel bid us goodnight before walking hand in hand into the house. Envy flares in my chest, jealousy turning my heart an ugly shade of green. The crackling of the dying fire and the rustling of wind through the grass and trees are the only things that greet my ears. Usually, I would be incredibly fond of this quietness. But now, it simply feels like a life sentence of silence. And once again, as the world turns to night, I feel the loneliness creep in at the edges. The night chill has crept into my fingers and toes, slowly creeping inward.

“I’m sorry,” Lando’s voice is gravelly from lack of use. “I should have…”

“You should have,” I agree. My voice isn’t harsh or condescending, it’s soft, softer than I’ve ever heard it. “I understand, though. I just wish I had known before…”

My voice trails off and gets blown away with the smoke that floats lazily into the atmosphere. Clouds have collected across the sky, cutting the stars from our view. With a melancholy heart, I can’t help but admit how fitting that is. I suppose we really weren’t written in the stars. We are the opposite of destined.

Lando’s hand wraps around my cold fingers, but instead of warming me, it burns. The kiss he leaves on my knuckles feels as though my hand was dipped into the embers of a fire. Blinking back the prick in my eyes from impending tears, I watch his face fall into a frown. I hate the way his eyebrows are creased in the middle and the concern that’s painfully evident in his stubborn eyes. It’s not the look I wanted from him tonight. It’s not the face that’s become my brand new favorite. It’s not Lando.

“How long are you staying for?” I find myself asking. I have to know how long I’ll have to endure his presence. But what’s worse: having him here and knowing I can’t have him, or watching him leave and knowing that I’ll never have him?

“We leave on Monday,” he says. Just for the weekend then. I’ll only have to see him on Monday and then I’ll be free of him. I know he’ll torment me in my sleep, when I see someone walking down the street who looks a little like him, when I look at Luna. I’ll never truly escape him.

“Alright,” I mumble. A beat passes without any more conversation. Then Lando’s hand is slipping under my hair and around the side of my neck. My head turns toward him, his touch unprompted and sending a wave of goosebumps across my skin.

“I’m sorry, but I have to know. Just once and then we can put it away forever. Alright?” He’s closing that gap between us, both physically and emotionally. His face slows as it hovers in front of mine. My breathing has ceased and fear has seized my heart. Is this the right thing to do? Or will it make it worse?

“Alright,” I find myself agreeing without thinking. Maybe I have to know, too, if this is everything I think it is; if this really is everything that I’m losing.

His kiss is light at first, lips just barely brushing mine. It’s soft and gentle as he uses his hand to bring my face closer to his. When his lips are fully on mine, my mind bursts into stars and streams of color. He kisses me with quiet passion, slow and strong. That belonging that I felt when he had his arms around me flares back to life in my chest. His fingers flex under my jaw, holding onto me tighter like he’s scared I’ll slip out of his grip. Which I am. When we break away from our first and last kiss, I feel as we filter through each other’s fingertips. We’re lost now, never to be found.

A crack in my chest sends me to my feet. Tears suddenly blur my vision.

“Goodbye, Lando,” I find myself saying, my words taking every bit of strength I have left. As I turn away from him for the last time, I find myself wishing I'd have said no to his kiss. As I walk away from him for the last time, I know now that I’m losing the one real thing I’ve ever known.

The truth is he isn’t a cowboy like me.

[explosionkatsu]

"Age doesn't matter" 8

Dad!Bakugo x F!Babysitter!Teacher!Reader

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

"So." Eijiro started as they both exited Y/n's apartment. 

Katsuki stayed silent while carrying the sleeping Kazui in his arms along with his things for school.

"She seems nice." Eijiro grinned. "And very helpful." He added as he clicked his car keys unlocking his car.

"Straight to the point," Katsuki mumbled carefully getting in the car.

"Well, you both look close to each other, especially after the news," Eijiro said getting in the driver's seat.

"The news is nothing. They're spouting lies. That's all they fucking do." Katsuki mumbled once again, trying not to wake Kazui.

He's not ready. Not yet. But he sees you fitting to be Kazui's mom knowing how close you were with his son. Of course, he knows him being a single father is fine, but he also knows Kazui will be looking for a mom. Now that he can see other kids being picked up by their mothers.

"What do you think will happen if she saw the news?" Starting the engine, Eijiro slowly drove off of the parking lot.

"The fuck do I care," Katsuki growled lowly. "For all I know she's fucking banging any other guy in every bar she goes to." 

He doesn't care.

He doesn't care that they're not officially divorced. He won't accept her back. Not after what she did. 

"Hey, that's not how you talk about your-

"She's not my fucking wife. Not ever." Katsuki scowled deepened, but soon disappear when he shifted his eyes to Kazui's peaceful face.

He'll do everything for his son. He'll risk his life if he has to just keep him safe.

"Okay, okay. Sorry." Eijiro apologizes.

"Kazui doesn't deserve to know her." 

..

After Eijiro dropped Katsuki at their home, he drove to a secluded area. 

His eyes were serious while he focuses on driving. No one knows he's here. Not even Katsuki.

Suddenly, he stopped in front of a dark alleyway and roll the passenger seat's window down. 

"Get in." He said.

When the person got in, Eijirou started driving once again. 

"You'd be surprised by my intel." 

"Tell me," Eijiro said quietly while his eyes focuses ahead.

"Didn't I say she's in the city?" 

"Yeah."

"Surprisingly. She got her own home."

Eijiro side glances at him after he what he heard. "We're you able to track her house?"

"Yes."

"Give it to me."

..

“Good morning, class.”

Friday finally arrive. That means tomorrow, Y/n can finally rest.

“Good morning, Miss Y/n.”

But deep inside Y/n, no matter how tiring her job is, she loves children. Maybe it's because of a quirk? Pft. Of course not. Was it? Seeing the children smile after she mends their booboos away makes her feel warm. So maybe it was indeed her quirk.

“Alright everybody, today we’ll do arts!” Miss Y/n smiled cheerfully.

A loud cheer of small voices engulfed the room.

“Be quiet everyone.” Miss Y/n spoke up clapping her hands to settle the children down. “Take out the art materials that I advised you to bring. If someone needs more art materials, come to my table, okay?”

“Yes, Miss Y/n!”

“Okay! Draw your favorite hero and you will show it to everyone.” Miss Y/n said.

She was about to make her way to her table when suddenly, a loud crash was heard from the other side of the room alerting Miss Y/n. The children began crying due to being frightened.

“Everyone, please evacuate the premises. Everyone, please evacuate immediately.”

Y/n’s eyes widen. What is an attack? No. This is not the right time to think about it. She needs to take the children outside. Then another loud crash was heard.

Then a laugh.

Terror and fright were getting ahead of her. She couldn't think straight. Seeing the children crying around her makes her heart clench.

Think.

Y/n let her eyes roam around her classroom. There must’ve been something she can use.

Think.

Her eyes suddenly focused on the windows. So without any reluctance, she rushed towards it opening it wide enough for the children to fit.

“Children. Come to teacher, we need to leave.” Miss Y/n said as gently as she could say. “Everything will be okay. The heroes will arrive. They will save us.”

One by one, she held the children and pass them through the classroom window with another teacher outside waiting for the children. But her eyes went wide when she was missing one.

Kazui.

“Kazui!” She shouted. “Where are you, come here, baby!”

“Miss Y/n. You need to get out!”

“No no! I’m missing one student.”

Y/n was now panicking. Her eyes were scanning the classroom repeatedly. He was nowhere.

“Kazui, baby!”

Then another crash was heard. But this time, it was the classroom door she was in.

She yelped in terror and surprise.

“Miss Y/n.”

Miss Y/n turned her head to her left. There she saw Kazui hiding under her table.

“Kazui!” Instantly she took him in her arms protecting him. “It's okay. Don't cry.” She needs to be strong for him. She needs to protect him. Y/n was frightened as he is but right at this moment, she was willing to give her life to protect Kazui.

“Isn't that the number 2 hero’s son? Well well, ain't I lucky?”

“Ugh. This is so boring!” Eijiro complained as he walk to the pavement with his buddy.

“That just means the crime rate was decreasing, idiot. Be glad.” Katsuki crosses his arms saying this.

“Oh yeah-

Their communicator suddenly started making a buzzing noise. Someone’s trying to communicate.

“Dynamight! The daycare from ***** is under attack!”

“Shit!!”

Not letting the person on the other line finish, Katsuki blasts his way to where the daycare.

Kazui was all he can think of. He can't lose him.

..

“Back off!” Y/n yelled at the villain while carrying the crying Kazui in her arms.

“Ya know. You can just show me where the money is. Every money in this establishment then will be all over. You’ll save the heroes from work.” the villain smirked.

“As if I’d tell you! Heroes will come here and they will arrest you!”

Where was this courage coming from?

“Suit yourself,” The villain suddenly launched itself into her but Y/n was quick to dodge and move away. Although, that movement made her catch her breath.

“Aha. You’re fast.” The villain smirked evilly as they slowly pull a knife out of where.

Y/n watches in fear. She doesn't know what to do.

“Oy? Where's that brave face you were wearing? Although I have to say, that look suits you more.” After what the villain said, they once again launched themselves at Y/n.

Y/n manages to run away though. Why hasn't she thought of running away before?

“Miss Y/n I’m scared!!” Kazui cried out loud.

“I know baby, but we’ll be safe. Your papa will protect us!” You said between breaths.

“Where do you think you're going, doll!?” The villain suddenly appeared behind her.

“Papa!” Kazui cried.

Her lungs felt like burning. She's starting to lack oxygen due to running. But she needs to keep both of them safe. She needs to protect Kazui.

All of a sudden she felt immense pain in her back and it made her slow down.

“Miss Y/n!!”

Was all she heard when she felt another. But this time, she knelt, still holding Kazui tightly in her arms.

You were now panting. Every breath you take hurts you.

“Miss Y/n, no!” Kazui was still crying. He slightly pulls himself away from you to look at you.

You were hurt.

“Miss Y/n heal yourself like what you did to Papa and Uncle Kiri!” Kazui cried as he held your face with his small hands.

“Not so tough now, aren't you?” the Villain sneered watching them. “If only you gave me what I want-

“You! Villain! Just wait until Papa came here!” Kazui cried staring angrily at the villain.

“So I was right. You are indeed the no. 2 son!” The villain laughed. “Where was he now though?”

Kazui was sobbing. He shifted his eyes back to you when you suddenly tried to stand up.

You were facing the villain now. You kept Kazui behind you as you stare at the villain. “I will n-never give you want you to want.” You manage to say.

“Come on now. Less the hassle. But eh. It's not like you can fight me. I can just end you right here.” With that, knives were thrown and stabbed right at your shoulder, stomach, and legs.

Everything hurts. Y/n couldn't believe her life will end like this. She always thought she’ll grow old and just die peacefully. Her thoughts are slowly slipping away. Her vision was darkening and her body was numb. She couldn't feel anything.

Y/n’s body just fell on the floor.

“Maybe I wouldn't mind touching you while this kid watches us, eh?”

“Don’t fucking touch my wife.” 

..

Took me a while to do part 8. I'm sorry!

[bosbas]

Alternate Ending: I knew you'd haunt all of my what-ifs

series masterlist original ending || next part

pairing: benedict bridgerton x best friend!fem!reader, anthony bridgerton x wife!reader WC: 5.2k words (whoops I got carried away)

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, idiots in love being idiots in love, benedict being so down bad for this woman, unrequited love, pregnancy and discussions around pregnancy/birth

Summary: You and Benedict have been best friends since childhood, but things change dramatically once you come out in society. You’re struggling to find someone you’re as compatible with and who knows you as well as Benedict, all while trying to quell your ever-growing feelings for him. Shenanigans ensue.

A/N: The timeline for this ending diverges after chapter 12!! This is how life would look like if Chapter 13 and onward didn't happen.

March 3, 1820 - B, 

I apologize for my delayed response – I’m sure you’ll understand that I was a tad occupied giving birth. But she’s finally here! It was easier than the other three, so I'm personally delighted, though Anthony seemed just as stressed as usual. And, as usual, he'll most likely be resting for the next five days. If he ever stops looking at her in awe, that is. It would be quite adorable if I didn't need to wrestle her away from him to nurse her every few hours! 

Although, I will say that Anthony being taken with her has worked out quite well for me. I was able to finish my novel and get a full night's sleep last night. I'd love to see you soon if you're up for it. You can meet her and we can discuss your latest painting, which I heard was absolutely breathtaking. Anthony and I will both be home for the next week at least, so feel free to pop by any time.

Yours, Y/I

You finished addressing the envelope to Benedict right as Anthony walked into your bedroom holding the tiny form of your newborn daughter. Twisting in your seat to face them, you cooed when you saw her fast asleep in his arms. She was wrapped in a soft pink blanket, and you couldn’t help but marvel at her tiny fists opening and closing absentmindedly as she slept. She looked so peaceful in Anthony’s arms, and it was terrifying to think that a human being this small would grow up to be an adult and that you would have to guide her through it. Well, she would have Anthony too, you thought. And the thought did a lot to quell your fears.

For as long as you had known him, Anthony had been a steadfast figure in your life. He’d been the eldest of the Beaumont-Bridgertons, and he certainly acted like it, too. The responsibility he felt for his family was evident in everything he did, and it was one of the qualities you admired most about him. Now, seeing Anthony cradle your newborn daughter with such gentleness and awe only solidified your feelings for him.

You had decidedly not been in love when you had married him, but one couldn’t simply have four children with someone and not develop at least a little affection for them. The two of you had been wonderful friends even before you were married, and you still were, but along the way, it seemed that you had learned to love each other in your own funny sort of way. It wasn’t the sort of all-consuming love you had for Benedict all those years ago, and that perhaps you had still in a corner of your heart. But it was comforting and safe and built upon a deep respect for one another, and your life was all the better for it. 

Perhaps you and Ben had never been destined for a life like this, you thought. Your childhood intention to wed Benedict had been just that: a naïve plan. That night in the studio with Benedict, after he had found out in the most unfortunate manner that you and Anthony were courting, you had needed something safe and constant. And Benedict had given you the complete opposite. For so many years, he had been your anchor, but that night you felt like the ground had fallen away below your feet and you were in free fall. You had so much love for Benedict that you didn’t even know where to put it. You could feel it from your heart to your fingertips, and it was terrifying. You thought about Violet and Edmund in that moment, and how destroyed Violet had been when Edmund passed. The thought of that happening to you and Benedict made you sick. The thought of taking the risk and putting your heart in his hands only for it to crumble. 

Maybe running away from Benedict at that moment was the cowardly thing to do. Maybe you should have faced your fears and given in to the overpowering love. Maybe you should have kissed your best friend and dealt with the consequences later, holding his hand the whole way through. But you hadn’t. You had sought out safety instead, running up the stairs to Anthony’s room and knocking incessantly until he opened the door, eyes startled and hand holding a handkerchief to his cut lip.

“We’re getting married,” you had declared, breathing ragged and arms crossed tightly over your chest. 

“Who’s ‘we’?” he asked, hoping you meant you and Benedict but suspecting otherwise given that you were currently at his door looking furious. 

“You and me. And we’re going to do it as soon as possible.”

Anthony uttered a soft, “Oh.” He didn’t know what else to say. “And Benedict…” he added in a questioning tone.

“No,” you said firmly. “No Benedict.”

He had expected you to say more, but you just stood in front of him, unmoving. 

“I suppose I can start the arrangements,” Anthony said finally. “If you’re sure this is what you want.”

“I am sure.” 

God, Benedict must have truly done something stupid, he thought. “Very well, then.”

“Good night, Anthony. We can inform our families of our engagement tomorrow morning.”

He just nodded in response, still too stunned to fully process your words.

You cleared your throat and your stoic façade faded slightly. “And thank you, Anthony. For everything,” you said, suddenly very aware of what being married to Anthony might mean.

He shook his head. “No, no. It was nothing. You are family.”

A month later, you were married at the church near Aubrey Hall. Benedict barely stayed long enough to see the two of you say your vows, citing an urgent problem with his cottage in the countryside. His family was kind enough not to question his obviously fabricated excuse, but he couldn’t miss the endless looks of pity sent his way. He had been hurt. Well, you had hurt him. You hurt him when you walked away from him, and you hurt him when you announced your engagement to your family without telling him first, but most of all, you hurt him when you chose Anthony even after two decades of history with Benedict. 

Maybe none of your fears would have come true, and you and Ben would have been happy. Maybe he would have treated your heart with the same love and care with which he always treated you. But it didn’t do to dwell on what could have been. Your marriage with Anthony was real. It was concrete and it was grounding, and you couldn’t imagine a more stable presence in your life.

Bringing you out of your musings, you felt Anthony kiss your cheek in greeting and ask, “Do you want to take her?”

You nodded eagerly, setting down the letter in your hand so you could hold your daughter. “I’m surprised you’re willingly letting me have her,” you teased, laughing as Anthony all but collapsed onto the loveseat across from you, clearly exhausted.

He had been an awfully attentive father the past few days, ecstatic to finally have a girl after three boys. Though she had brought out a heightened sense of protectiveness he couldn’t seem to shake. It was rather endearing to see him so frazzled over a baby that weighed less than eight pounds, but you suspected there might be something more to it.

“She’s so tiny!” he defended, gaze fixed on her admittedly minuscule form in your arms. “I can’t help it…” He trailed off, deep in thought. You glanced up at him, noticing the change in his tone and his hunched posture. After five years of marriage, you had him memorized, and reading him came as naturally as reading a book. 

“Is anything the matter?” you asked gently, already having a general idea about what was plaguing him.

But he shook his head, murmuring a soft no and focusing on the writing desk behind you instead. “Is that for Benedict?” he inquired, nodding in the direction of the letter.

“Yes, I’m just telling him that she’s here and asking him to come visit,” you answered, still eyeing him carefully.

“So, he’s coming to visit, then?” pressed Anthony, eyes back on your daughter, who was currently sleeping soundly in your arms.

“Well, I don’t see why he wouldn’t. Why do you ask?” You changed tactics, trying to seem nonchalant about your concern. 

“Alright. That’s good. Yes, that’s good,” he muttered, seemingly satisfied with your answer but his mind was obviously miles away. 

Growing increasingly worried, you stood up and carefully laid your daughter in her crib, ensuring she remained undisturbed. With her settled, you approached Anthony, who hadn't shifted his gaze from where you had been sitting. Kneeling beside him, you reached out and gingerly placed your hand on his. The touch seemed to quiet his restless thoughts, and he turned to meet your eyes, acknowledging the weight of his anxiety.

Anthony spoke softly, carefully. “I just want to make sure that you and the children are taken care of. In case something happens to me. I want you to have someone.”

You should have known that this was what plagued him. During the first year of your marriage, you settled into a comfortable dynamic with Anthony. It was not quite love, but something like it had blossomed between the two of you. However, it was after the birth of your first son, Arthur, that Anthony reached a breaking point. He realized that his grand plan to marry someone he didn’t love to avoid any undue heartbreak was not, in fact, foolproof. Even if there hadn’t been growing affection between you, Anthony completely fell in love with Arthur from the moment he was born. It was like nothing he’d experienced before; beyond anything he could have imagined. And it was terribly frightening. 

He had shared his fears with you–he’d had no choice in the matter when you were as stubborn and insistent as you were–and you had shared that you, too, were scared. But you trusted one another, and so the two of you navigated parenthood in tandem and Anthony’s fears subsided. Regardless, you could understand that the birth of your daughter brought back this fear in full force, and he felt a greater need to protect her from danger than he would with his sons.

“Anthony, I won’t need someone. You’re right here, and you always will be.”

He shook his head, looking at you with desperation in his eyes. “How can you know that?”

You pursed your lips, brows furrowing. “Even if you aren’t, it won’t be your fault. You’re a wonderful father. And a wonderful husband.” 

With a deep sigh, he clasped your hand and stood up, bringing you with him. “Just promise me you’ll ask Benedict to take care of you if I go?”

Your heart softened. Knowing he needed to hear you say it out loud, you nodded, “I promise.”

---

 March 5, 1820 – Y/I,

One would think Anthony had been the one to give birth instead of you! I’ll pop by today to give him a talking-to. And to meet my lovely niece, of course.

Yours, B

You found yourself in the nursery this afternoon, your three boys gathered around you and your daughter fast asleep in her crib. It was a lovely day out; sunny but not too hot, but the boys hardly noticed. Instead, they sat still, completely enthralled as you read from your current novel. Though you adored reading to your children, you found children’s books rather boring and repetitive. Thus, you had shifted to reading them excerpts from your own reading material. It made the endeavor much more interesting, and the boys seemed to love it too, evident as they hung on your every word.

“‘Listen to me, Frankenstein. You accuse me of murder,’” you read, and your sons gasped, not quite understanding the meaning of the word but easily catching onto your surprised reaction. You continued, “‘and yet you would, with a satisfied conscience, destroy your own creature. Oh, praise the eternal justice of man! Yet I ask-’”

“Surely I’ve heard wrong and you’re not reading to your children about murder!” came Benedict’s voice from the doorway. 

Immediately, three voices squealed in delight and Frankenstein was completely forgotten as your sons rushed over to their uncle. Charles was only one year old, but his brothers’ excitement only fueled his clumsy crawl toward Benedict’s waiting arms.

“They don’t exactly know what it means, Ben,” you laughed. “Besides, it’s wonderful literature. And it keeps them entertained.”

He picked up Charles in one arm and Arthur in the other, making his way over to you as Bernard clung to his leg. “Well, I’m sure you know better than me, darling,” he commented and kissed you sweetly on the top of your head. 

“Isn’t that usually the case?” you teased, standing up to properly greet your best friend. Though you hadn’t joined the welcome committee, you were positively glowing now that Ben had arrived. It had been over a week since you had seen him, and you had missed him terribly. You smiled brightly, instantly at ease in his presence.

Eyebrows raised and eyes shining with mirth, he teased back, “You forget I have three very bloodthirsty boys on my side who have just learned what murder is.”

You looked at Arthur, who was completely focused on attempting to undo Benedict’s cravat, and Charles, who had two fingers in his mouth and was unsuccessfully attempting to put in a third, then glanced back at Benedict. 

“Quite bloodthirsty, aren’t they?” you deadpanned as you gently pried Charles’ hand from his mouth. 

Ben couldn’t help the waves of laughter rolling off him as he observed your sons. “It seems they still have a way to go before they get there.” 

Then, spotting the pink crib across the room, he gasped and set down Arthur and Charles and somewhat successfully shook Bernard off his leg. Walking over to the crib, he stared at her, completely awestruck.

"She’s so tiny!” he exclaimed, careful to keep his voice down so as not to wake her.

You giggled, making your way over. “That’s exactly what Anthony said,” you smiled at him. 

But your smile did nothing to soothe the dull ache that had blossomed in his chest as he remembered all the things he could have had with you. The pain was not as unbearable now as it had been five years ago, but he was inclined to think that it would be there for the rest of his life. In the back of his mind, Benedict wondered if he would have been as good of a father as Anthony. He supposed he would never know, having devoted himself completely to his art and extinguishing any lingering hopes Violet had that her second son would ever marry. But you seemed happy, and that was truly all that mattered. 

Ignoring the pain in his chest, he smiled sweetly back down at you. “What’s her name? Something starting with a D, I’m sure. Otherwise, Anthony will have lost his mind.”

“Yes, naturally,” you giggled. You tugged on Ben’s sleeve to bring him closer to the crib. “Benedict, meet Diana Bridgerton.”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Bridgerton,” he murmured, intently observing your daughter as she slowly blinked her eyes open. 

“Quite eager to meet her uncle,” you observed, but Benedict was too mesmerized by her to respond properly.

“She’s got your eyes,” he whispered after a few seconds, turning back to you and placing an arm around you. Your arm snaked around his back, and you drew him in a little closer.

Leaning down to place his cheek on your head and hugging you tighter, he spoke softly, “I thought you might name her Daisy. Flower names and all that. Besides, it starts with a D.”

Benedict didn’t quite know where the comment had come from. You hadn’t mentioned flower names in years, but the thought had suddenly popped into his brain quite unexpectedly and he had been unable to stop the words coming out of his mouth. He knew he was so incredibly lucky to know you and to love you and to have a friendship with you, but it was at times like these when he wished he didn’t know you quite so well. At times when knowing you was only a reminder of what he lost.

In that moment, you were thankful to be facing Diana’s crib instead of Benedict, because you could feel the tears prickling at your eyes. The flower names. Of course Benedict would have remembered. You had never truly regretted marrying Anthony, but what you had with Ben transcended anything you could ever have with anyone else, and sometimes it was hard to come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t your person anymore.

Shaking your head to will the tears away, you responded, “No. No, I could never.”

“What? You always said you wanted to name your children flower names.”

“No, Benedict. I wanted to name our children flower names.”

He felt all the air in his lungs escaping all at once. It felt as if someone had reached deep inside of him, taken hold of every organ inside his body, and squeezed very tightly. Wanted to name our children. Our children. Our. Just a simple word, three letters in total, had managed to leave him completely disarmed. 

It was silly, really. You were married and had four children with his brother, of all people. And Benedict was still completely and irrevocably in love with you. He rather thought that he would always love you, in some form or another. Benedict suspected that Anthony knew this too, though his older brother was far too tactful to ever broach the subject. 

Seemingly unaware of Ben's internal turmoil as he tried to reduce his feelings to their usual dormant state, you grabbed hold of his hand and led him away from Diana toward the door. “Nurse Edwards can watch the children while we go downstairs to have some tea. I must hear about your painting displayed at the National Gallery! I wish I hadn’t been about two days from bursting so I could have gone to see the unveiling.”

---

November 17, 1820 – Benedict,

Y/N has fallen ill, and I am away on business unable to tend to her. Go to Aubrey Hall as soon as possible and make sure she’s alright.

Please.

Anthony

Benedict could barely hear the rain pouring down outside his carriage over his racing heartbeat. Anthony’s frantic note had left Ben in a state of panic. He had left for Aubrey Hall immediately upon receiving the note, but he still worried that he might be too late. What on earth had frightened his older brother to the point of asking Benedict for help? A million possibilities, each one as devastating as the other, raced through his mind. 

The sight of your home interrupted his catastrophizing, and he swung the door open and ran toward the entrance before the carriage could come to a complete stop. Benedict was somewhat aware that he was getting completely drenched in the rain, but his mind was far too focused on getting to you to care. 

The front door was already open when he reached it, and Benedict burst through, barely hearing the butler’s, “Upstairs in her bedchamber, Mr Bridgerton,” before he was frantically climbing the stairs to get to you. 

Once he reached your door, Ben stopped quite suddenly. He didn’t want to startle you by bursting in unannounced, so he waited a few seconds to catch his breath. Finally, he turned the doorknob slowly, hands shaking nervously as he entered your bedroom. 

In between shockingly vivid dreams and a splitting headache, you vaguely registered what looked to be Benedict’s tall frame standing in your room. You shook your head, confused by his presence and not quite trusting your own eyes, but the effort left you breathless and you coughed violently. 

“It’s alright, darling. You just rest,” he shushed you, shrugging off his drenched coat before he came to your side. 

It killed him to see you like this, pale and sweaty as shivers wracked through your tired body. He had never seen you look so ill, not even when you came down with influenza when you were ten years old, and he was trying his hardest to hold himself together.

“Have you called for a medic?” his voice came out a bit strangled as he asked your lady’s maid, Rose, who had been nervously fidgeting off to the side. 

"Yes, Mr Bridgerton. It's pneumonia," she said softly, her voice filled with concern. "The best we can do is keep her comfortable and give her fluids until her fever breaks."

He nodded, running his hands through his hair in an attempt to calm down. But you had drifted into fitful sleep, and your shallow, ragged breathing was only making him more worried. 

Nevertheless, he had to think clearly. Anthony was away, meaning that Benedict was now entirely responsible for you. The realization steeled his nerves, so he straightened his waistcoat and released a controlled breath, ready to face whatever came his way.

“Where are the children? I trust Nurse Edwards is with them now,” he said firmly.

Rose nodded. “They’re asleep now, but she is there in case they need anything. They’re taken care of,” she reassured.

“Very well. Please let me know if I can be of any assistance to them.” Then, clearing his throat, “Ring for tea, please,” he instructed. “And bring me towels and a bowl of lukewarm water.” 

She nodded, hurrying out of the room. Benedict moved closer to your bedside, his heart twisting at the sight of you in distress. He didn't hesitate, pulling a chair close to the bed and sitting down beside you. Gently, he reached out to feel your burning forehead, but you immediately flinched, the pain evident in your eyes as they shot open.

“Too cold,” you rasped. “Please don’t.”

He cursed under his breath, heart cracking slightly at your reaction. But he withdrew his hand immediately, settling instead for sitting on a chair next to your bed, watching you intently for any signs that your condition was worsening.

You looked awfully pale, paler than he’d ever seen you, and your lips had turned a concerning shade of purple. Though even when you were drenched in sweat and shivering, you still were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, he thought. Even now, years after you had married another man, you remained his muse. The heartbreak he experienced that summer had been an admittedly excellent source of inspiration, and his new works helped propel him forward in the art world. It had served as a distraction, proving especially useful when Ben heard the news that you were pregnant for the first time so soon after the wedding. But now he supposed that art was no longer a distraction, and had instead become his life. 

Maybe it was better this way, he sometimes thought. Maybe fate had never intended for him to be with you, though he couldn't fathom why the universe seemed so cruel. But the conclusion that he most often came to is that this was some sort of punishment. And he supposed he rather deserved it. He had continuously run away from the person he loved most, his best friend, the love of his life, time and again while you had only waited patiently for him to love you back. 

Looking down at you now, he still felt the need to take care of you. The instinct would never go away. But it was a shame that the only reason he was allowed to do it now was because your husband had asked him to.

Your lady’s maid cleared her throat, standing at the doorway with the items Benedict had requested. He waved her in and had her place the tea on your bedside table, but he took hold of the towels himself and dipped one of them in the bowl of water.

“How long have you been here?” Ben asked Rose, taking in her exhausted appearance.

“Since midmorning, Mr Bridgerton,” she responded, stifling a yawn. "But I'm happy to do it. Lady Bridgerton seems to need it, too."

“Well, I think you ought to go to bed now, Rose,” he responded, gently placing the damp towel on your forehead. You let out a soft sigh of relief, and the tightness in Benedict’s heart loosened the tiniest bit. 

Hearing his words, Rose could have collapsed right then and there. “Thank you, Mr Bridgerton. Please call for one of the servants if you need anything,” she said gratefully. And then, before he could change his mind, she hurried out of your bedroom. 

The towel had seemed to rouse you from your sleep, and you sat up weakly so you could take in your surroundings.

You opened your eyes, happy to find Benedict still in your room. “Hello, there,” you croaked, but he shushed you, immediately holding a teacup to your lips. You took a hesitant sip, but the warm liquid ran down your throat so soothingly that you grasped the cup with your own hands and drank the entire thing. 

Ben laughed softly, delicately taking the teacup from you so as not to touch you, not having forgotten your earlier protests when he placed a hand on your forehead.

“How long have you been here?” you asked Benedict, a particularly strong shiver making your teeth chatter. Noting his look of concern, you rushed to reassure him, “I’m fine, Ben. Promise.” However, you didn’t know how convincing you had sounded, given that you started violently coughing immediately after the words left your lips. 

“I can see that. You look great,” teased Benedict. 

“I bet,” you shot back, and he was unable to keep the fond smile off his face. “I’m–” you started, but another coughing fit prevented you from continuing. He looked at you, eyes overflowing with worry, and exchanged the towel on your forehead for a fresh one, hoping it would provide at least some relief.

Once your coughing fit subsided, you were overtaken by a wave of exhaustion. Sliding back down into bed, you turned to Benedict. “I think I need to sleep if that’s alright,” you said softly, eyes already drooping shut.

“Mmm, I think so, too,” he agreed.

You reached out and grabbed his hand, intertwining your fingers with his and bringing your joined hands to your chest. “Please stay, Ben,” you said, eyes already closed. 

His heart nearly skipped a beat, having completely forgotten just how right your hand felt in his. “Always,” he murmured, reaching over to kiss you on the forehead. Benedict settled into the chair beside your bed, carefully watching you to make sure your breathing remained even. 

An hour later, a particularly intense shiver ran through you and you woke up to find that you were still clutching Benedict’s hand. He was staring at you intently, and you felt an overwhelming sense of tenderness for him. Even though you had married Anthony, he was still here by your side, ensuring that you were safe. Even though you probably looked about two minutes away from death, and even though he probably had much more interesting things to do, he was here.

“I’m sorry, you know,” you whispered, not quite sure you wanted him to hear but needing to say it anyway.

His brow furrowed, not quite sure why you were apologizing. “It’s quite alright.”

“No, I am. I’m so sorry,” you said, barely registering the tears running down your face and mixing with your sweat. 

Ben wiped away your tears with one hand, the other still holding yours. “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he whispered.

You shook your head and the towel fell from your forehead once again, which he immediately replaced with a new one. “I don’t regret marrying him, but I regret hurting you,” you choked back a sob. “It was cowardly of me, and I’m sorry.”

Benedict was at a loss, your confession bringing his complicated feelings to the surface. But before he could find the right words, you had fallen asleep once again, eyes closed peacefully and your breathing even. He sat back in shock, attempting to process the meaning behind your words while still being careful not to move his hand too much so you could sleep peacefully. 

Benedict sat there for what felt like hours, his mind in a whirlwind of emotions. Guilt weighed heavily on his heart as he watched you sleep, your hand still clasped in his. Surely you were at least a little delirious, he reasoned. How could you apologize for something he had caused?

Hours later, the morning sun filtered through your curtains and you stirred awake. You blinked your eyes open, a bit disoriented as you took in your surroundings. You glanced down, seeing Ben sitting in a chair next to your bed, fast asleep in what looked to be an incredibly uncomfortable position. Your hand was still clasped in Benedict’s, his thumb absently stroking the back of your hand. You felt a pang of guilt at the sight and cringed slightly as you remembered your tearful apology the previous night.

Sensing that you were awake, Benedict stirred, half opening his eyes to make sure you were alright. Wincing as his neck cracked, he sat up and asked groggily, “How’re you feeling this morning, darling?” 

“Much better, actually,” you responded.

A sudden wave of panic washed over you. “Who’s with the children?”

“Don’t worry! They’re alright. Nurse Edwards is with them,” he assured you. “Perhaps it’s for the best; they might get to engage with some books actually meant for children.” He kept his tone light and teasing, not entirely sure if you remembered your apology and not wanting to open up the conversation if you didn’t.

“Oh, thank you,” you sighed in relief, relaxing against your pillows once again. Then, swatting his arm, you scolded, “And they enjoy the literature, mind you!”

“I suppose you are feeling better if you had the strength to hit me,” he remarked amusedly.

You rolled your eyes. “I could have hit you last night. Easily.” But your expression turned sincere. “Thank you for coming. I didn’t mean to be a burden; I know you’re working on a new piece.”

“It’s nothing,” he waved his hand. “You could never be a burden.”

You cleared your throat awkwardly, suddenly looking anywhere but at him. “And I meant what I said last night. It was ill-timed, I know, but I am truly sorry.”

“Nonsense,” he shook his head. “There is nothing to apologize for. I didn’t treat you the way I should have and I was the one who hurt you. I’m just glad I can still have you as a best friend.”

You smiled at him, pulling him into a hug. “We seem to be quite good at that, don’t you think? Being best friends.”

“Oh, the best,” he smiled at you, adoration clear in his eyes.

—

orginal ending || next part || buy me a ko-fi!

Tag List: @bellahadidnt16 @like-gabriel-and-castiel @riverraingrayworld @5sos-calm @elissanatok @titanicnerd-blog @noonenuts @moonwayne @lilasblogg @mmontgomeryb @fulltacoparadise @joyfullymulti @sopanngon @fanfiction-she-wrote @aureolinb @ambitionspassionscoffee @bbubbllejisoo @marvelspogue @avengersgirlloriannaa @loliakeoghan23 @cierrajhilll @sadprose-auroras @merlieve @khaylin27 @cherrytop02 @little-duck @angerpearl @shondlenoodle @lyssamay52 @bags10 @angerpearl

[separatist-apologist]

A Lost Princess of Sunlight

Summary: Lady Elain has spent her life in the idyllic countryside wanting for nothing, so when her adopted sister Vassa begs her to accompany her to court, how can Elain say no? The roguish prince is in need of a wife and Elain, certain she'd make a terrible princess, has no interest in such theatrics.

But something about the palace brings back memories lost to the sea ten years before. Memories Elain had been certain she'd never get back…memories that speak of a colder place, and sisters long forgotten. Amid the tumultuous politics and the looming war, Elain finds herself embroiled in a mystery to find out who she really is.

And where she really comes from.

Note: HAPPY HOLIDAYS @writtenonreceipts! I hope you like this- I tried so hard to give it TOG vibes AND to incorporate nessian and feysand because you said you love them (and I in turn love you).

@acotargiftexchange

Major thanks to @velidewrites and @wilde-knight for the moodboard + beta-ing this fic when I was laying face down in a puddle of my own tears.

--

Prologue: 

“Go,” Feyre whispered, hands pushing against Elain’s back. It was frigid outside, their boots cracking the ice crusted over the cobblestone streets. It should have smelled like pine and snow, should have been utterly silent as everyone waited for the coming Solstice and the gifts that so often accompanied it.

War had shattered the once idyllic peace, inching closer and closer to the capital of Ellesmere until Elain and her family were forced to flee in the night. Just ahead, her mother grasped Nesta’s hand, weaving through alleyways unfamiliar to the ransacking soldiers.

She knew where they were going. They had practiced this before. One more left, ducking beneath a half-ruined awning, and then a sprint to the docks where a ship was waiting. Her father was nowhere to be seen, though Elain supposed he had a head start on them.

“Go,” her mother urged, pushing Nesta, then Elain, and finally Feyre into the little vessel. A man was waiting, hoisting them beneath with hurried, impatient fingers. “Get down—”

A flaming arrow screamed through the night, missing Feyre by mere inches. It took Elain a minute to realize what had happened—the shield that had saved her youngest sister’s life. Their mother stared, blue eyes like glassy mirrors against her ashen face. Golden brown hair graying at the temples was set aflame. Nesta began screaming, the words ringing in Elain’s ears.

“Go,” their mother mouthed, hitting her knees before she pitched forward. Hands pulled the three of them roughly back into the boat as orders were given to pull up the anchor. Was she crying? It seemed as if she must be given how frozen her face felt. 

The world was moving too slow for Elain, making it impossible for her racing thoughts to process. Even as the ship pulled away, dragged by roaring wind, Elain was certain their mother was going to get up. 

She didn’t. 

“Princess,” the captain was yelling at Nesta, unsteady against the choppy northern sea. “Princess, we need—”

Elain never heard what they needed. The wind drowned out the command which Elain didn’t care much about, anyway. Was Nesta Queen, now? The few sailors moving about eyed her fourteen-year-old sister warily and though Elain couldn’t hear what Nesta said, she recognized the sharpness of her eyes. Nesta was used to giving out such commands. Feyre was gripping the railing of their ship, staring at the water below with a hollow gaze. Elain knew what she needed to do—put on a brave face and take Feyre into the interior of the ship where they could get some sleep, if only to forget what was happening to their home.

Everything was going to be okay. They’d get to the safehouse where relatives would be waiting to usher them to safety. Everyone was okay. A healer would attend to their mother who would be bedridden but otherwise safe. 

Deep, deep down Elain knew it was a lie. She needed those lies, at least for now. As the ship rocked, Elain made her way toward Feyre who was still looking outward. The once beautiful city she’d spent her life in was a mere haze of smoke and fire in the distance, half lost to the fog of sea. 

“Feyre,” Elain began, though that was all she was able to say before the ship violently lurched to one side. The gods were moody that night, unwilling to offer safe passage despite the circumstances. Elain lost Feyre, hitting her back against the wet wood so roughly it robbed her of breath. 

Please, she thought just as water rushed over her. It was shockingly cold, leaving her paralyzed like a rag doll, flung from one end to the other. She could hear nothing, could do nothing, utterly helpless to even draw breath though she desperately wanted to.

Get up get up get up! Her mind screamed with panic. Elain did try to grasp at something when the ship tilted sickeningly again, though her fingers were utterly stiff and unwilling to bend. The world was upside down, a swirl of dark hues of navy and gray.

And then it was silent and salt and made entirely of water. Elain’s body constricted, lungs demanding air though none arrived when she opened her mouth. More water, more fear. She could feel nothing, could see nothing. Just a blur of her own hazy fear and the terrible fear she was going to die. 

Elain did try, though it amounted to nothing. There was nothing to cling to, no light to tell her which way was up and which way was down. And as the cold seeped in, somehow driving out the horrible chill, she thought that maybe this wasn’t so bad. Maybe it was better to be without fear. 

Maybe this was a mercy.

In the end, it was nothing at all.

[ten years later]

Lucien Vanserra stretched out his legs, neck stiff. “Bastard,” he spat, tossing his sword to the muddy ground beneath him. Behind him, the boisterous laugh of his best friend and second-in-command Jurian followed him out of the training pits.

“You’re a sore loser,” Jurian crooned, likely catching the way Lucien’s fists curled and uncurled. “I have half a mind to tell your father you were bested in training again.”

“And I have half a mind to punch you in the face ahead of Lady Vassa’s visit,” Lucien retorted hotly, wiping the smile off Jurian’s face. “Oh. Did you not hear she was coming to court?”

It was Jurian’s turn to look as though he’d like to hit Lucien. Lucien had intended to tell Jurian though it had slipped his awareness given all the other things happening. Now was as good a time as any, besides. 

“Why?”

“Why do you suppose? Now that mother and father insist I marry, every lord with a daughter under the age of forty will descend upon us hoping to secure a match.”

“You wouldn’t—”

“Of course I wouldn’t,” Lucien snapped, wiping his sweaty brow against his bare forearm. “And Lady Vassa is hardly on mothers shortlist besides. This little ball of hers is not in good faith.”

“Ah, but it will be one last night of debauchery and fun,” Jurian teased, elbowing Lucien in the ribs. “This is every firstborn son’s duty, is it not? Get married, carry on the family line, etcetera and so forth?”

Lucien’s mood only darkened at the prospect. It wasn’t that he minded the thought of one day having a son, of becoming king and ruling the empire his father had so strategically built. It was the manner in which he was expected to do it. His own father had been allowed to choose his wife, however ill-advised it had been at the time. Lucien had no intention of stealing another man's wife as his father had done, sweeping her away and leaving six furious sons behind.

He merely wanted the ability to say who he wanted when he wanted.

And, perhaps, he was still a little burned by Jesminda’s rather abrupt dismissal of their courtship. She was gone, left to the countryside with her new husband she loved. Lucien told himself he ought to be happy for her. It had been nearly two years since she’d left, married and beaming—practically glowing, now that he thought about it. He’d been too bitter at the time to notice. He didn’t begrudge her that.

Lucien merely wished she had felt that way about him. He was convinced there was no one else in the world for him and perhaps he’d told his mother so drunkenly a few months earlier. If he’d only kept his big mouth shut, he’d have been allowed to carouse as he liked for at least another year.

Possibly two if he was careful about it.

Now he’d be married by solstice—just in time to parade his new wife around the summit in Velaris while making not-so-veiled threats to Archeron, the utter bastard. He was in the process of marrying off his eldest daughter so he, too, might have a successor to the throne, looking west toward Lucien’s half brother which was a threat in and of itself.

Everyone knew the Vanserras would love to see the southern empire laid to ruin. It was important Lucien married more than ever—ideally into a family with deep pockets to fight the war they all knew was coming. Peace was tentative, brokered when the northern royals lost their queen and a princess all in the same day. Ellesmere ceded territory laden with gold, enriching Lucien’s family and in exchange his father returned their remaining two daughters, rescued at sea. 

He still remembered Nesta Archeron. They’d been allowed to live in the palace rather than as prisoners and while Feyre had been mostly mute, glassy eyed and silent, Nesta had raged like a wild animal.

If she still harbored even a lick of resentment, Lucien knew she’d be the driving force behind Eris Vanserra’s throne and her father's bid for revenge. Eris was coming on a diplomatic mission, too, which was the polite way of saying Lucien’s mother was going to throw herself at his feet and hope she forgave her for leaving, while offering up all the same women she was pushing at Lucien, too.

As if Eris were the type for a love match. 

Shaking his head, Lucien pushed through the wooden gate to make his way back toward the city. It was unseasonably hot even for summer, the humidity drawing sweat even when he was sitting in the shade. It was miserable just then, boots hitting the sunstone streets with a loud thwack. Behind them, the sounds of clanging metal and groaning soldiers were half drowned by the cheerful white sands and foaming ocean, while ahead of them the bustling city created a chorus of voices. It was Lucien’s favorite sound. 

And his favorite sight. The looming palace on the hill made of ivory and gold and the multicolored buildings that circled around, built on a sloping mountainside. Purple flowers dotted along spiky grass while towering palm trees occasionally dropped coconuts to the streets. As a child, Lucien had collected them, begging his father to puncture them so he could drink the milk inside as he strutted about, a pretend sword strapped to his hip. 

Now when he stepped onto the main road people lowered their eyes and bowed their heads. He wasn’t a boy anymore, but a man they might one day call king. Lucien missed being the former, though—missed the way they’d reach for a strand of his auburn hair or how they’d sneak him little treats when they thought his parents weren’t looking. 

Jurian straightened, his expression shifting from Lucien’s friend to Captain of the Guard. One day Jurian would be his General, but for now, this was enough. Jurian was one of them—just another man from Rhodes who had risen through the ranks while making Lucien feel less isolated when he, too, had been shoved into the army. Everyone else treated Lucien with respect.

Jurian had shoved his face into the dirt.

“There’s a way out of immediate marriage,” Jurian began, reminding Lucien once again why he was both Lucien’s best friend and closest advisor. 

“Go on,” Lucien murmured, inhaling the smell of grilled meat. 

“Velaris is filled with beautiful women. Tell your mother you’re interested in a more political marriage.”

“And when she realizes I’m not interested in a more political marriage?” Lucien asked dryly, trying to think of the last time he’d been inside Velaris. Had he ever? Maybe once when he’d been a boy, the memory eluding him.

“It’ll be winter and half the ladies who visited will be married to other lords. It’s not forever, but maybe another year or two. Nothing will save you from the marriage bed forever.”

“It’s better than anything I considered,” Lucien agreed, dodging a donkey hauling a cart filled with sunmelons. 

“And who knows. Maybe the love of your life is up in the mountains,” Jurian added, elbowing Lucien once again.

“I doubt that,” Lucien grumbled, his thoughts once again turning toward Jesminda. How long before she was pregnant, he wondered? How long before she brought her firstborn to court for his father’s blessing, forcing Lucien to see the man and family she’d wanted over him? 

Why not me?

Knowing full well Jesminda had never wanted to be a princess and had never wanted to be queen. 

He couldn’t shake the thought from his mind even as he entered the opulent palace to a loud argument between two of the philosophers his father insisted be allowed to live at court. Sidestepping them and mumbling a goodbye to Jurian, Lucien took the steps two at a time toward his bedroom. He needed just a little silence and a chance to clear his head. 

Flopping onto his bed, still sticky from heat and sweat, Lucien closed his eyes, intending to find a way through the tangled mess that was his mind.

All he found was sleep.

“Come with me,” Vassa urged, reaching for Elain’s hands. “Please. Please. Pleasepleaseplease—”

“I don’t belong at court,” Elain interrupted, looking up from her book. Vassa plopped beside her, spreading her hands over the cerulean blue of her skirts. “And you’ll have more fun without me.”

“I won’t. I never do,” Vassa protested, pretty face twisted into a scowl. “The prince is a bore and his court is far too self-satisfied to be of any amusement.”

“Stop, you’re making it sound too fun—”

“Come with me anyway. Rhodes is a wonderful city filled with libraries and museums and amusements beyond your wildest imagination. Plus there will be parties and dancing and you love parties and dancing.”

“Yes, and there will be all these well-bred ladies–”

“You’re a well-bred lady, and my sister to boot.”

Elain offered Vassa a look of exasperation. They were sisters in name only, but not by blood. Elain’s family was yet another casualty in the brutality the north inflicted upon them, razing her village to the ground and tossing her body into the western sea. Had she not been found by Lord Koshington, Elain might have succumbed to exposure. Her life before Vassa was lost to her and in some ways, she knew she was quite fortunate. She’d been given the education of a lady and one day a marriage would be arranged on her behalf.

It was far better than whatever she’d been expecting before the raid, she supposed. But just because Lord Koshington had taken her in didn’t make her an actual lady. Elain had never been brave enough to go to court either, choosing to remain behind rather than be reminded of her inadequacies.

She wanted to see it all, if only once. 

“I should stay–”

“I won’t take no for an answer. Please. I’ll do your latin homework for a week if you agree. Or…I’ll give you my gold dress—”

“You wouldn’t,” Elain replied, facing the book in her lap to fully look at Vassa. “You love that gown.”

“I love you more. Is that an agreement, then? You’ll spend a month in Rhodes with me in exchange for my gold dress?”

“And my latin homework. And you’ll work harder on the piano when we return as well. I’m tired of being the only one asked to play when guests come over.”

“Done,” Vassa agreed, blue eyes as bright as the sun itself. “Lucky you agreed because I may have told father this morning you’d agreed to accompany me. We’ll serve as each other's chaperones so he can waste his time droning on and on with the king about politics.”

“Chaperones? Who are you hoping to see?”

Vassa’s bronzed cheeks darkened, her freckles lost beneath the wash of color. Elain forgot her book entirely, surging forward until their faces were mere inches apart. “Tell me his name at once!”

“Swear to keep it between us. I would die if he ever learned the depth of my affection. He thinks I loathe him and I would prefer to keep it that way.”

“You’re cruel, Vassa.”

“Men prefer to work for our affection and this man is no different. Worse, I suspect, which is why I like him. The prince’s mother is hoping to match someone with her son but I am far more interested in the Captain of the Guard.”

“Is he handsome?” Elain asked, resting the back of her head against the rough bark of the tree behind her. 

“Terribly handsome. And horribly stupid, but in an endearing sort of way. I’m certain he’s good at many things…just not winning an argument.”

“Well, no one can win an argument against the likes of you,” Elain said with a laugh. “What will the lord say about it?”

Vassa’s smile dipped a bit. “No, I’m sure. He has no title, no money and will always serve the prince. Still. It’s fun to imagine a world in which we could select our own husbands, don’t you think?”

“I’ve never really thought about it,” Elain admitted. “It seems risky.”

“That’s just what men want you to think. But we’re perfectly capable of knowing our own minds and deciding for ourselves. We’re not as helpless and brainless as they imagine.”

“What are you planning?”

“Me? Oh, I wouldn’t dream of planning or plotting.”

Elain rolled her eyes, wondering for the first time just how much Vassa actually liked this man and how far she might be willing to go. Elain pondered it all evening, wondering if she shouldn’t tell someone that sending the two of them mostly alone to Rhodes was a bad idea.

But Vassa’s words lingered in her mind. 

We’re not as helpless and brainless as they imagine.

Because Vassa was right. She’d been educated within an inch of her life just for men to waltz around her acting as if she were as new as a freshly born baby. Treated as though it were cute she had opinions when she was supposed to be nothing more than ornamentation while Elain brushed it off because what else could she do?

But Vassa was right, just like she always was. They weren’t stupid—men wanted it both ways. They wanted a wife smart enough to one day oversee the education of their sons, but stupid enough they were always the unchallenged authority. It didn’t mean Elain wouldn’t acquiesce when her time came—she had no other option and no other skills but to be married—but that didn’t mean she couldn’t help Vassa escape the expectations.

That was what Elain told herself, anyway. And it helped her sleep at night for the following week as preparations were made to leave the idyllic countryside estate they resided on and make their way further south toward the coast. Lord Koschington was still accompanying them and would be the one to introduce Elain to court—as his niece rather than his daughter. That was the more believable lie without besmirching Elain’s reputation right from the start. 

With the gold gown packed in a trunk and the promise of being allowed to coast in her lessons when she returned—assuming Vassa returned with her at all. Elain was dreading the carriage ride not because the journey was long and it was already oppressively hot, even at dawn, but because Lord Koshington loved to hear himself talk.

And in the carriage he had a captive audience. 

For five miserable hours, Vassa and Elain sat straight backed and silent while Lord Koschington droned on and on about King Helion’s feud with the King of the North, Archeron. Elain loathed the name like any good southerner, having learned to fear those silver armored warriors that often ducked across the border to raze whole villages to the ground. 

He had two daughters and Koschington was fascinated with the oldest, said to be unparalleled in her beauty and destined for the prince to the west, Eris Vanserra. For five hours, all he talked about was the disaster it would be if those two territories united and how Lucien would be the last Spell-Cleaver to ever sit on the sunlit throne. It was the sort of conundrum that kept men like Lord Koshington awake at night but to Elain, who couldn’t remember the war and had been living in nothing but peace for the last decade, it felt more like unwarranted anxiety. 

Who cared about a princess’ marriage? Why wouldn’t she marry a prince, besides? Elain had heard rumors that Eris Vanserra was the most handsome prince in the realm, still unmarried as his ancient father crept toward the grave. She imagined there was a line from his bedroom door to the edge of his coast hoping to secure him as a husband.

As for herself, well. She was glad to not be in such a position. Elain didn’t think she cared for that kind of responsibility. 

Eventually, even Lord Koschington was silenced by the heat, sweat sliding down the temples of his face. His once onyx hair was threaded with silver and his face lined with age though he was easily a good-looking man. Elain sometimes wondered why he’d never remarried after the passing of his wife though she’d never had the guts to ask him. That was private—personal. 

He wasn’t her father, either. He’d cared for her, taken her in when that had never been his obligation and treated her as well as his own daughter.

Elain knew better than to upset him. Though he’d never given her a reason to believe otherwise, some part of her suspected that if she acted outside of his will, he might withdraw his support. Better to be above reproach in all things so he felt his investment was worth it. 

Elain had never been more grateful in her life to stumble out of a carriage. At first glance, she saw the women in the capitol wore far fewer layers than they had been out in the country. No laces, no petticoats, no sleeves. Gods above, but Elain was desperate to update her wardrobe with the breezy fabrics and shorter sleeves, even if some part of her felt slightly scandalized by the scooping backs and the clingy bodices. 

She noticed the palace itself next. Set atop a rather steep hill and half-carved into a mountain overlooking the southern sea, the sprawling structure was made of ivory and gold, lined with swaying green palms, while purple flowers dotted against the lawn.

Rows of carriages circled to the front of the drive spilling ladies in all manner of garb toward the towering pillars where they were greeted by an elderly man draped in white. Elain and Vassa both dipped into curtseys when it was their turn as Lord Koshington announced, “My daughters, Vassa and Elain.” Elain’s pulse hammered.

My daughter.

He’d told her she would be introduced as a cousin. Daughter? Blinking rapidly lest she burst into tears, Elain grasped Vassa’s hand so hard she was certain there was no blood flow. Putting aside his kind words and his willingness to pretend she was wholly his, Elain and Vassa stepped into the palace. She’d expected more of the miserable, oppressive heat but somehow it was cool. Not cold, but chilly enough a shiver raced up her spine the moment the air hit her skin. 

They were hardly the most anticipated guests—no royals to greet them, no decadent rooms. Lord Koshington had his own while the girls were given a suite of interconnected bedrooms that were larger than anything Elain had ever seen. Draped in cream and gold, her bedroom had the good fortune of overlooking the sea and the gardens just below. 

Elain was living in a dream.

She didn’t want to wake up.

Nesta Archeron took the spiraling, stone steps two at a time, navy skirts gathered in one hand to keep her from plummeting right back down. Chilly hair nipped at her cheeks, drawing color that wouldn’t otherwise exist. The air itself stung her eyes, making them seem glassy like she’d been crying.

Nesta Archeron never cried. 

Hiding at the top of the tower stood her younger sister Feyre, fingers bright red from the cold. “Have they arrived?” Nesta asked, shouldering beside Feyre to peer out of the little arched window overlooking the whole of the city. 

“There,” Feyre said, nodding toward the black and silver banners marching toward the palace gates. Nesta’s eyes were drawn to the man sitting atop a black steed, his matching cape fluttering in the wind. She couldn’t see him well, but every ounce him screamed warrior king. 

King Rhysand of the East.They called him the King of Nightmares for his reputation for being ruthless—he didn’t kill those who slipped over his border looking to destabilize his regime. Rhysand had them tortured, broke their minds, and sent them back home. 

He was flanked on either side by two men who might have been brothers. The distance obscured their features, though Nesta could make out the broad shoulders and lethal sword hilt of the one on the left and the slimmer build of the one on the right. She supposed the one on the left was the terrifying Lord of Bloodshed, Rhysand’s general, and the other was the torture master himself, Azriel. 

For the first time in living memory, the North was welcoming the East into their borders. Nesta wasn’t foolish enough to think it was mere diplomacy, though she’d already promised the prince of the west her home, her throne, and her body, too, if he returned with a way into the south.

But should he fail, she’d do what her father was hoping and she’d marry Rhysand if he could offer her the revenge she was so desperate for.

Nesta’s nightmares were still plagued of Elain, wide-eyed and shivering as she made her way toward Feyre in the dark. She still dreamt of the ricocheting canon that slammed into their ship and how she and Feyre were whisked into a lifeboat. How they’d been kept political prisoners by Helion himself, their lives used to forge the treaty that now bound both nations.

While Elain had never been found, her body still haunting the sea bed. 

And Nesta might have been able to forgive the death of her mother. But she’d sworn her life to protecting Elain the very night she’d failed. It was the only way to convince Elain to leave.

I’ll protect you. Please. Come with me.

How she’d failed. 

Nesta was old enough to inherit her father’s throne though law dictated she needed a husband and so Nesta had begun a campaign of finding the right man. She didn’t need love—didn’t want love. She wanted vengeance and none of the men at court were equipped to give her that.

Eris Vanserra wanted it nearly as badly as she did, and was just as practical. He’d told her he wasn’t looking for a love match and would look the other way if she chose to take a lover so long as she was discreet about it—and he had no question regarding any future offspring.

Fine.

He would be there now, poking through Helion’s secrets. Looking for weaknesses, mapping out their borders, the walls of Rhodes, and anything else he could glean. Nesta would give him everything, ruining her father’s careful legacy in favor of turning her family into Vanserras, giving her husband total control her territory, her wealth, her armies.

And she’d be the one to drive the blade straight through Helion’s blackened heart.

Rhysand was her backup plan and her father’s first choice. Eris Vanserra was a snake in the grass, untrustworthy and perhaps more damning, a Vanserra. Their family had ruled longer than any other on the continent, with a legacy that predated the oldest written record. 

But for all Eris’ faults, Nesta knew vengeance was personal for him. Helion had stolen his mother away in the night, forced her into marriage, and made her his wife. Those kinds of scars lingered, lasted. Rhysand wasn’t that sort of man from what she’d gathered.

He was a shadowed mystery, his motivations unclear. She didn’t know if he even wanted conquest, or if he was merely interested in seeing her home. She’d sent several letters which he’d returned with short, polite answers. Nothing helpful, no hidden message she could read between the lines. Only a gentleman’s words that were utterly banal and uninteresting to her.

Gentleman be damned.

She needed someone bloodthirsty and cruel.

Beside her, Feyre turned her head, chestnut hair whipping against her face. She knew, even if Nesta had never once explicitly said what she planned. Feyre knew, watchful as she was. Whether she approved or not didn’t matter, though Nesta had never known Feyre to be terribly soft-hearted. And she suspected she carried the same weighty guilt over Elain’s death, held the same deep-seated need to see someone pay for it. 

“We should be ready to greet them,” Nesta said, well aware Feyre would slip up into the rafters to listen without anyone watching.

“You go, then. I have no interest in any more princes or kings,” she replied, blue eyes flashing with defiance. “Nor do I wish to assist father in selling us off like livestock.”

“Not us. Me. You are safe—and once I’m married, you can pick whatever lovely northern gentleman is hounding your steps. I’ll make sure of it.”

“I don’t want a husband. We don’t need any of these horrible men to get what we want, Nesta. Take the throne, rewrite the laws—”

“The nobility would revolt. They’d throw me in prison or worse, force a marriage on me, wait until I gave them a son, and then stage some timely yet tragic accident. It’s better to have a say in it. To decide for myself and direct it as best I can.”

“None of them are trustworthy and I fear this king—Rhysand— is the worst of them.”

“Worse than Vanserra?” Nesta replied, genuinely curious which Feyre would prefer ruling their home. 

Feyre glanced back out the window, eyes narrowing. “He looks like a liar.”

“That’s because he’s a man.”

Feyre blew out a breath, crossing her arms over the rosy pink dress she wore. Neither of them would acknowledge what they were both thinking—Lord Tamlin Rosewood, who’d asked for Feyre’s hand in marriage and then struck her in a fit of frustration over some problem with the dowry. It had been, he claimed, an accident. 

He had been expelled from court, banished to the countryside and Feyre locked in her room until the bruising on her face faded. Everyone wanted to pretend it had never happened but to Nesta, it merely highlighted that she needed to be the one to secure their family so Feyre could have a small sliver of peace. 

Love was for the lower classes, besides. Perhaps Ferye understood that, now. 

“Come on,” Nesta said, hoping she wouldn’t have to go alone. She would, but she would feel less anxiety if she weren’t by herself. 

For once, Feyre didn’t put up a fight. Perhaps she recognized Nesta’s own vulnerability. Or maybe she wanted to stare the foreign king down with that lethal gaze of hers that made men wither to dust. Nesta thought it would be something to see them cower before her petite sister rethinking whatever strategy she was certain they must have.

The halls were utterly emptied, leaving only the watchful sentries posted by windows and doors, none of whom were allowed to meet their gaze. She still remembered Elain trying so hard to get the ones at the throne room door to smile and how she’d nearly always succeeded.

Feyre and Nesta didn’t bother. 

Their father was waiting, sitting on his icy, iron throne crowned in the blue diamonds that could be found only in the ancient mountains of the Spine, the natural border between their home and Rhysand’s. Nesta wondered if Rhysand would come wearing them, too. Nesta was wearing them around her neck, so heavy it made her spine ache. She’d carefully braided her hair off her face and put on a rather sumptuous, though conservative, gown. 

She was beautiful and she knew it. Nesta also knew that men liked a woman who presented herself well—Eris Vanserra had certainly been taken with her presentation, and she assumed Rhysand would be, too. There was no harm in letting him see what he wanted. A wellbred, obedient wife was the expectation. It wasn’t the reality, but that was a problem for another day. 

Nesta and Feyre took their place on either side of their father, staring across the room lined with nobility as the sounds of heavy footsteps began echoing louder and louder. For one moment, something in Nesta quaked with fear, blood icy as though death itself was making its way for her.

It was only a man—a man she didn’t want, didn’t like, and would never love. Rhysand and his right hands were the only ones who came in, strangely unadorned.

He was, objectively, attractive enough. High cheekbones set in a symmetrical face, with eyes so blue they were nearly violet and dark hair styled to look as though the wind had merely tousled it. A silver circlet of stars adorned his brow and one heavy ring was perched on his middle finger while the rest of him was rather bare in comparison to her father.

He looked like a warrior king in his dark black leathers and the heavy cape hanging from his shoulders. He lacked all the pomp and circumstance Eris had brought with him along with the warmth, too. His whole presence exuded ice and instinctively, Nesta took a step back.

His eyes were on her, and then her father as he swept into a bow. Nesta watched, as he came back up, how his gaze slid to Feyre.

And remained there.

“Rhysand,” her father began, his voice sharp and clear. “I hope the journey didn’t give you too much trouble.”

A cat’s smile slid across his features, eyes flicking back to their father. “None at all.”

Nesta didn’t hear her father’s response, buzzing filling her ears as she took a moment to survey the other men who’d come to join their king. The tallest one had removed the heavy helmet he wore, tucking it beneath one muscular arm and oh, Nesta wished he hadn’t. His face, scarred just at the eyebrow and again across full lips, was perhaps the most beautiful face she’d ever laid eyes on. Not classically, of course—for one, he was far too large. The sconce on the wall across the room was, perhaps, as tall as this man was and the muscle packed on his body spoke to an active life, never mind the twin, curved swords looming over his shoulders.

A light layer of dark stubble graced a perfect jaw while strange, whirling black inked tattoos peeked from beneath the neckline of his armor. She wondered what they meant, what their purpose was. Nesta drank in his slightly crooked nose, likely broken in some battle he’d won and the curved scar across his throat that must have been brutal when he’d first received it. He had his large hands clasped in front of him and when she looked up to take in the color of his eyes—hazel, more green than brown—she found he was grinning at her.

He’d caught her looking at him and wanted her to know it. Nesta immediately looked away, unable to hide the damning flush creeping up her own neck. 

Nesta swore he’d never catch her looking at him again.

Hands in his pockets, Rhys allowed Archeron to show him around the palace. These visits never failed to bore him. Look at this painting, survey my wealth. Did you see my daughters? Aren’t they lovely? 

Usually the answer was covert eyerolls and shared smirks with Cassian and Azriel. Today, though, Rhys felt moody. Unsettled. Disturbed, even, by the younger daughter he hadn’t known existed and hadn’t expected to see. 

Rumors swirled about Nesta Archeron and the possible marriage her father was considering with heir apparent Eris Vanserra. His father was on death’s door and a marriage between North and West almost certainly promised a brutal and bloody war. 

When Helion had learned, he’d sent word to Rhysand. What is going on in the Spine?

Nothing smart. Rhysand intended to do what he did best—lie. Pretend he had interest in Nesta, jerk her around for a year while he drew up marriage contracts that had to be written and rewritten and written again, wasting her time while Eris inevitably moved on to some nice noble in his own court.

And then Rhys could withdraw, free to continue philandering until his advisors put their foot down. His presence was purely nefarious—two months freezing his balls off in the frigid north while Cassian inspected the army and Azriel devoured secrets. 

And yet…and yet. 

Rhysand’s mind slipped toward the younger daughter and those eyes. They looked like the same stars that hung over the Illyrian Mountains, silvery and bright and so very alive. Rhys had spent his entire life gazing up at them—he would have recognized them anywhere. Even in the face of that woman, who spared only a passing glance before she fixed her stare on the wall behind him, clearly underwhelmed by their presence. 

He wanted to talk to her. He’d seen beautiful women before, though perhaps this was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and that beauty was often exhausted the moment they opened their mouth to speak to him. 

Easier said than done. Rhys tried, but Nesta Archeron became the ambassador for the Archerons, silently watching him without ever speaking a word. He found that unnerving all through dinner and wasn’t the only one. The moment he, Azriel, and Cassian were locked away in the suite of rooms, Azriel was the first to speak.

“This place feels like a tomb,” he said, looking around the dark interior.

“Why don’t the princesses speak?” Cassian added, pulling open the heavy velvet curtains blocking out the dim light. “Are they allowed?”

“We should have brought Morrigan,” Azriel grumbled, flopping gracelessly onto a floral sofa. 

“She doesn’t deserve the archaic practices of Archeron,” Rhys replied, running a finger over the marble mantle of the fireplace. A thin layer of dust came with it, proving the North rarely hosted guests.

They were far too untrusting.

He supposed he didn’t blame Archeron given the horror of that final invasion. Rhysand couldn’t imagine losing both a wife and a daughter, no matter how, frankly, deserved Rhysand still found the entire thing. After all—Archeron had marched into a neutral city, the third largest in the West, blocked all routes in and out, and burned it entirely to the ground in the matter of a week. 

War was hell and there were no heroes. Helion’s father had retaliated, breaking into the capital city and sacking it over the course of a night. In the aftermath, he’d taken the two surviving daughters hostage and only agreed to return them when a peace treaty had been brokered, redefining old borders and returning both stolen land and land long contested. 

Oh, but it was all such a mess even a decade later. Those wounds had been left to fester and no matter how Rhysand looked at it, he could see no path forward that didn’t explode into utter disaster. Maybe if Lucien Spell-Cleaver married an Archeron they could avoid war, but he’d heard the prince was far too spoiled and sheltered to be offered up like a political pawn.

And having seen Nesta, he doubted she was willing to subject herself to another hurt at the hands of the West. 

“What did you think of Nesta?” Cassian asked, his words carrying a strange ribbon of curiosity. Rhys opened his mouth before closing it again, trying to find words that were both honest without being cruel.

“I doubt a marriage is in our collective futures. Still—maybe she’ll surprise me.”

“With a dagger to your throat,” Azriel commented lightly, causing Cassian to grin at the thought. 

“We don’t need to worry about them other than distracting them. Any one of us can accomplish that,” Rhys declared, wondering why the image of Azriel and Feyre annoyed him so much.

“Let's get what we came for and let’s get out of this miserable city.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Azriel murmured, stretching out his legs. 

“I can already tell you their military is weak in compared to our own,” Cassian half whispered, his gaze sharp. “I’m going to ask to train with them tomorrow—”

“Trotting out the dumb brute act?” Azriel questioned, a gleam in his eyes.

“My favorite,” Cassian agreed. “I just love swinging a sword and no one ever taught me to read.”

“There must be more of them. Up in the mountains?” Azriel suggested, glancing toward the windows. “Archeron wouldn’t be so stupid to leave his entire kingdom undefended just to protect one city.”

“Helion decimated them a decade ago. Men don’t grow up so quickly,” Rhys reminded them both. “The north has gold, and diamonds from the Spine. Vanserra has manpower and a navy none of us could fend off should he bring it to our shores. It makes sense that Nesta would go to Eris first if she lacked manpower.”

“Then why are we here?” Cassian asked, drumming his fingers against his knee. 

“Perhaps Vanserra isn’t sold on the idea?” Rhys suggested, uncertain himself. “Or her father wants to explore all his options? We’re here to prevent another war that would almost certainly drag us into it,” he added, looking at his general and spymaster.

“We’re just waiting out the summer, then?” Azriel questioned.

Rhys nodded. “We can give them all a little taste of what war might mean for them this time.”

Knowing his objective didn’t do much for Rhys’s restless mind, though. While his brothers got ready for the evening, making jokes and generally amused by the entire situation, Rhys slipped from the suite of rooms they shared to walk the halls. It unnerved him how many people were watching under the guise of not watching at all. The sentries and guards never looked at him and he knew his steps would be reported to the king before breakfast.

Getting around undetected was Azriel’s domain. Rhys had never tried, commanded too much attention. He was always the distraction, besides. No one gave Azriel and Cassian much thought, certain he must be the knife in the dark. Slick smiles and double entendre made everyone assume he was far more clever than he was.

Cassian was the dumb brute, Azriel obsessed with cruelty which left Rhys as the one worth watching. He just seemed like a two-faced bastard. And to be fair…he was. But he had help, had chosen his inner circle carefully. 

His feet took him to a set of stone steps that spiraled upward into a tower. It was a decent vantage point over the dreary city. Fog hung like a curtain, floating from the mountains that kept the warmer air Velaris received from reaching them. Rhys heard there were years where Ellesmere experienced nothing but rain every single day.

No wonder they liked war so much. What else was there for them?

At the top of this tower, rather than more oppressive fog, sat the younger princess. Rhys hesitated, drinking in the sight of her propped up in that window, one leg dangling precariously over the edge. Her hair was braided over one shoulder and propped on the wall beside her, a bow with a quiver of arrows. 

Another sentry, far prettier than any of the others he’d seen. Rhys couldn’t help himself, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest.

“Keeping watch?”

She turned her head to look, those starry blue eyes narrowing. “You shouldn’t be up here.”

“Says who?”

“Says me,” she replied, causing Rhys to take a step into the candle lit, chilly room.

“Oh, but you seem like such fine company,” he crooned, holding her gaze. “Maybe you could give me a tour—”

“I’ll leave that to Nesta,” Feyre snapped. It was a dismissal given she turned back to looking out at the city and any rational man would have turned around and left.

But Rhys was famously stupid, if his cousin Mor was to be believed so he came closer, desperate for anything to say to her. He was a fool to have any interest in this woman at all, to want a moment of her time when he’d come here to betray her. 

“Why are you here?” she asked when Rhys couldn’t think of anything eloquent to say.

“I’m looking for a wife, darling,” he heard himself say. Heart thudding, Rhys recalled telling his advisors not a week earlier he had no interest in a wife and to stop pushing him on it. What absurdity to say it while looking at her, knowing damn well she wasn’t for the likes of him.

He barely knew her at all.

“It's strange how many men suddenly find themselves desperate to be married,” Feyre commented, swinging her legs over the edge of the window before righting herself. “We came of age years ago. Surely you’re not interested in women as old as we are.”

“You think me so shallow? I like a conversation partner—”

“You don’t worry we’ve been ruined?”

Oh, what man touched her he wondered? What man would Rhys have to murder? The urge washed over him stronger than any other emotion he’d felt in recent months. It wasn’t that she had potentially been with another man but the defiant way she asked him if that somehow diminished her worth. 

“A lot of things keep me awake at night, Feyre darling,” Rhys purred, taking a measured step toward the princess. “Your activities in the bedroom are not one of them.”

“That’s good, given you’re here to court my sister.”

“I’m here for the princess of the North. You are a princess, are you not?” 

“I am a princess, I live in the North,” she agreed, those eyes of hers flashing. And Rhys knew whatever words came out of her mouth next were about to wreck him. His whole body went tight at the prospect.

“And I will never be your wife,” she added with that same, light tone. “I am not interested in a husband, especially one who looks like he lies as easily as he breathes.”

Rhys flashed a smile. He wanted her. What a revelation. “We’ll see,” he replied as she sauntered past him, shouldering her bow with ease. 

Feyre only shook her head, eyes rolling upward in her skull. “That wasn’t a challenge. You repulse me.”

Rhys only laughed.

They’d see about that, too.

[writingintheshadowsforever]

Imagine Namor and Queen Ramonda forgiving each other on your behalf

The crashing waves, the whistling of a passing breeze, the chirping crickets, and the rustling of trees were the only sounds to fill the air. For the longest as Namor and Queen Ramonda simply stared each other down. Waiting for the other to cave and look away. Nakia had to be the one to break the silence.

"Neither of you came here tonight to have a staring contest. You're here to make peace with each other, so this alliance starts feeling more real on both sides. And not the result of a forced marriage" she reminded them. Her voice holding a tone of authority.

"I did not force your princess to marry me." Namor protested turning his attention to Nakia with a frown.

"Well its not like I left her with many other choices now did you?" Queen Ramonda shot back with a glare.

Just like that his attention was back on her, and he took a menacing step forward.

Nakia placed herself between both of them. "Careful Namor your wife will not be happy if any harm befalls either of us."

Namor looked away feeling a little ashamed at letting his anger get the best of him so easily. He was supposed to making peace, and here he was arguing with the Queen like a child. You would be disappointed in him if you were present.

"Where is my daughter right now?" Queen Ramonda asked him over Nakia's shoulder. She refused to move even if it did seem like he was no longer a threat.

Namor looked up to catch her eyes with his own, and saw something he wasn't use to with other people. Vulnerability.

You were her daughter and for the past three days she had been unable to contact or see you. Not to mention you were located in another nation not totally inaccessible to her, but not somewhere she could reach in a moment’s notice. Of course she was worried for your well-being.

"She is located in the underwater caves for now, and was sleeping when I left. Your daughter is safe and perfectly fine Queen" Namor reassured her. He tried to sound as if he really didn't care but the undertone was there.

"The Talokanil woman that I killed when I infuriated your home. I'm truly for her death" Nakia spoke up. She decided that someone had to apologize first. Why not her especially when it was her actions that led to the invasion on Wakanda.

Namor tilted his head to the side as he studied her trying to see if she was sincere. Nakia held his gaze.

Ten long seconds went by before he finally let out a sigh. "I sent my soldiers to ambush the Princess and the General in America on purpose. You just responded to my actions, and then I acted hastily nearly destroying the alliance I wanted to build so badly. I'm sorry for that." His gaze flickered back to the Queen whose eyes shone with disbelief. "I'm sorry for the lives your country lost during my attack, and I'm sorry for nearly taking yours."

"Why should I believe you?" The Queen asked.

"Queen mother" Nakia hissed.

"What this could be some ploy to earn our trust" she exclaimed in anger. It was obvious she wasn't ready to forgive the King of Talokan yet.

Namor nodded in understanding. "I told both of your daughters I have no love for the surface world, and it is true. Even now as I stand before you trying to fix my relationship with you so our kingdoms can be united in peace. My hatred for mankind has always stemmed from their hatred of people like me. The surface love has never shown me or my people any love."

"What about the ones on the island?" Nakia insisted.

"They worship me as a God that is different. I'm civil to them but only because most of them haven't truly conformed to the way of the world. I brought all of my wrath down on Wakanda out of fear and paranoia. Humans have nearly discovered our existence in the past so many times. We had to relocate to stay safe for the past couple of decades. Talokan has remained safe where it is now, but all that changed when your son revealed your resources to the entire world. None of you had any intention on sharing with the other nations, but knew they would come looking-"

"We weren't aware of your exis-" The Queen tried to remind him, but he cut her off with a roar.

"It doesn't matter you put my people and home in jeopardy. I was blinded and was willing to do anything to protect my people. I didn't think it was possible for a human to be accepted in Talokan, but your daughter has proved me wrong. That is why I'm here now apologizing because I realize maybe if I had approached the situation differently all of this could’ve been avoided." Namor brought his voice back down to quieter level as he reached the end.

Ramonda closed her eyes and took a deep breath. While there was a part of her that wanted to hold onto the grudge. She knew it was time to let it go, if Namor could find it in him to admit his mistakes and apologize. So could she.

"I accept you apology Namor, and I am truly sorry for how my country’s action have affected your own nations." She said stepping around Nakia to face him directly.

Namor gave her a nod.

A silent agreement passed through both of them as they looked at each other. This was a new beginning for Wakanda and Talokan.

Namor turned around to make his way back into the ocean. He did what he set out to do, there was no reason for him to stick around any longer. But he paused right as his body entered the water too look back at both of them. They were still standing in the same spot watching him leave. "I will take care of your daughter Queen Ramonda her well-being is not something you need to concern yourself with. I promise if it makes you feel any better the marriage is on hold till we learn to truly love each other."

Ramonda let out a sigh unable to hold back the small smile taking form on her face. As relief flooded through her body she didn't know why, but his words brought her some much needed comfort. Knowing you weren't whisked away into some underwater marriage ceremony the day you left made her feel better. "Namor wait take this with you." She called out to him pulling something from her sleeves.

It was a gold chain with a large purplish black ring on it. He tilted his head to the side as he walked back out of the ocean to go get it. "What is it?"

"Its T'Challa's ring her brother I want her to have it promise me she gets it" Queen Ramonda told him.

He observed the ring closely like it was a secret weapon.

"Its just a ring Namor it belonged to their own father. Its just something to make her feel more connected to Wakanda this isn't some trap" Nakia reassured him exasperated with his hesitation.

He glanced in her direction with a raised eyebrow, but still reached out to gently take the chain from the Queen. "I will give it to her." With those words he turned back around and descended back into the ocean. There were no goodbyes exchanged between the two, but progress had been made.

Next Morning

You were stretched out in the hammock on your stomach sleeping peacefully. Your face pressed into a pillow that Namor had put under your head when he got back. Your body was still cocooned in his robe despite the blanket at the bottom. It was still folded neatly, and was nestled under your feet. He wondered if he was going to get the robe back from you.

He was leaned back into a sofa positioned right across from the hammock. Namor had it built specifically for you wanting to make this cave as close to your home as it could get. The platform for the sofa was made out rock material from the ocean itself. Which they were able to mold perfectly as well as the more than comfortable soft cushioning.

Namor had been watching you sleep for about an hour so far. Once he returned from his meeting with the queen. He retired for the night to his own sleeping chambers in the cave. Sleep didn't come easily too him considering it wasn't something he did very often. Unlike his people and you his body last way longer without a sufficient amount of rest. So he only rested whenever the need arose, and although he felt drained a little mentally. Last night physically he was fine and felt as if he could go another two days or so. But he slept anyway with nothing else to worry about.

You started to shift around letting out a soft groan. Your eyes squeezed themselves tightly as you frowned. Consciousness had come to way too early for your liking, and the material wrapped around your body coupled with the cloud you were sleeping in. Made you want to go back under, but for some reason you couldn't go back. You opened your eyes pulling the robe up to cover your face slightly to block out any light. And that was when it hit you no need to try and dim the morning sunlight. Even the glow worms plastered all over the cave ceiling lit up the cave. The light wasn't overwhelming for your fresh morning eyes.

"Maybe sticking with this hammock isn't such a bad idea" You murmured sitting up.

"I'm happy you found your sleeping arrangements accommodating" Namor spoke up.

You let out a small yelp jumping a bit with your head whipping in the direction of his voice. He was sitting on a sofa leaning forward with his arms resting on his knees. His hands were clasped together as he regarded with a proud look on his face.

"Were you watching me sleep?" You asked.

"Only for a while in yakunaj" He replied softly.

You raised an eyebrow trying to figure what he had just called you. It probably wasn't anything bad, but it was a bit annoying not being to understand his language sometimes. "Are you ever going to tell me what that means?" He had used that term more than once.

"No its fun trying to see you figure it out" Namor said with a teasing smile.

You threw your head with a chuckle not use to this side of him. It was the first time Namor had joked with you. Then something sitting on the small table between the hammock and sofa caught your attention. You threw your legs up and over standing up in one fluid motion, and walked over to the table. Tears formed in your eyes as you let out a little gasp in shock. It was T'Challa's ring resting on a gold chain. The one that passed down in your family for generations. You had decided that after his death the ring would go to Shuri, so how was it here now. Your gaze moved from the ring to Namor who's face had soften even more now.

"Your mother asked that I give that to you" He told you.

"My mother but how?" You asked in confusion.

"You asked me to make peace so I made peace my Queen" Namor answered getting to his feet.

Your eyes widened in surprised as you were taken back that he had actually done it. Honestly you didn't think he would nor did you think your mother would be willing to forgive him so soon. You picked the chain up to place it around your neck, and overcome with emotion. You threw yourself at Namor wrapping your arms around his neck placing your chin on his shoulder.

Namor didn't respond right away caught off guard with the physical show of affection from you. It wasn't something he was use to so for at first he just stood there frozen. Until finally he constricted his own arms around your waist pulling your body closer to his own.

"Thank you Namor" You whispered into his ear.

"You're welcome" He replied back.

You pulled your face back to look him in the eyes. "Should we go check on the city?"

Namor gave you a small nod knowing right then you had his heart. Nothing in the world could stop him from falling in love with you right now. He might have went about getting your hand in marriage the wrong way, but from here on out Namor made a promise that. He was going to do everything else right.

Tag List: @omgsuperstarg @local-bxbby @nebulastarr @historygeekqueen @realm-of-azrael @lia-losing-it @queenotaku23 @creamecafe @dngnmtr-blog @lullabaesstuff @polireader @alinefrank @pearlsyeaaa @astronautelilanded @riri53 @undermoonlightwalk @1andonlytashae @riverjane-d @zeeader @farleyis @ziayamikaelson @leahnicole1219 @redcitisiren @ellathefriendlyalpacaaa @looneylikesbooks @thighella @http-isabela @unsatisfiedanddisappointed @motivation-idontknowher

[dellalyra]

Family Formation - Part Eight

Summary: Yuuta joins the family, and the events of JJK0 are explored.

CW: sexual references, swearing, suggestive themes, canon typical violence, mentions of blood and wounds.

A/N: sorry this took so long guys I’m working on my 1.5k followers celebration too so this took a back burner but I gotta say thank u all so much for such amazing support ily all <3 don’t forget requests for this series are always open and so are requests for my 1.5k celebration!!

Masterlist

Your husband comes through the front door of your cottage, strangely quietly – which is your first indication of something being amiss, your peaceful house when you come home is usually sounds of music and the occasional meow of a cat and whistle of a kettle, and soft chatter between you and Megumi, but it’s always broken by a “Wifey! I’m home! ‘Gumi, come see your darling papa and welcome him home!”, so the silence was disconcerting.

Hearing footsteps from behind you, you spin from your place at the stove, freezing at the sight of a slightly uncharacteristically serious Satoru.

“What’s up?” You say.

“Where’s Megumi?” You reply.

“Studying at the library, he’ll be home by 8 pm. What’s wrong, Satoru?” You put your hands on his shoulders and see them loosen under your touch.

“Remember that I was visiting the cursed kid today? After the school thing?”

“Yeah? Okkotsu, right? Poor kid.”

“Yeah. Well, he’s in the hall.”

“Hm?”

“He’s in the hall, the kid. Like – in there.” He says pointing to the entryway of your house.

“Well, I’m glad I made extra food. It’s like I have a sixth sense. Now we can’t leave him out there, bring him in. We’ll talk later.” You say, kissing your husband on his cheek. Contrary to what many people think, your husband never does anything without thinking it through – and you trust him implicitly. Details could be dealt with later.

He kisses the top of your head and leans into the hall.

“C’mere Yuuta, it’s your turn to meet the world’s most beautiful woman!” He shouts and you roll your eyes, smiling.

In the doorway appears a boy, thin and slightly gaunt in the face – he looks so tired you almost worry he’ll keel straight over. You think he’s a little older than Megumi, maybe 2 years his senior. He’s tall enough, probably the same height as your son. His eyes dart from the ground up to you, then around the room. You can just feel the nerves rolling from him.

“You must be Yuuta! It’s so nice to have you here, I’m Y/N, Gojo’s wife. I hope you’re hungry, we’ve lots of food, I made spaghetti tonight.”

“Thank you for having me, ma’am. I’m very sorry to be imposing on you like this.” Such a polite boy, you think, with wonderful manners.

“Oh don’t be silly you’re not doing anything of the sort! I’m just sorry if my husband dragged you here. Want me to take your coat?” You lean toward him, and he flinches and shies away, eyes looking to Satoru. You look between them.

“Rika… she’s a bit, eh, protective.” He says.

“Ha! Don’t worry about Y/N, Yuuta. She’s special grade too, like me and Rika.” Satoru laughs ruffling your hair, passing by into the kitchen.

“We’re all safe here, Yuuta, don’t worry.” You softly say, nodding toward the dining room.

You serve up some food for Satoru and Yuuta, who both eat like they hadn’t in days. You don’t eat yet, saying you’ll eat with Megumi when he gets home.

“Our sons about your age Yuuta, how old are you?”

“16. How do you guys have a son my age?” He asks, obviously curious about how two people in their mid-twenties could have a teen.

“Ah, well, he’s adopted. We took in Megumi and Tsumiki when they were little, Tsumiki’s your age. But she’s… she’s not here.” You say, still unsure of what to say about where your daughter is.

“Tsumiki was cursed. She’s in the hospital, sleeping, she has been for a while now.” Satoru fills in when he finds you faltering, squeezing your hand.

“Cursed, like Rika?” He asks.

“Kinda. We don’t know what happened to either of them or why they’re both cursed. But Tsumiki is alive – and human.” Satoru says.

“Would you mind telling me about Rika, Yuuta?” You ask him.

He looks at Gojo, who nods and smiles.

“She was my friend when we were small. She told me we’d be together forever and she loved me and gave me this ring. But, she died. She was hit by a car. She stays with me now. She’s, really protective of me. That’s … what happened at the school.” He says head bowed, fiddling with his ring.

“Well, you can tell Rika she and you are both safe here.” You knew that wasn’t a promise you could keep, if Rika threatened your family - you’d have to take action.

Yuuta smiles, and you stand up from the table.

“Yuuta, the TV is on if you want to relax for a while. Satoru, will you help me set up the guest room?” You ask, hoping he’ll tag along and fill you in on what happened.

He follows along, and in the room, changing the bedsheets so a boy harbouring a special grade cursed spirit can stay the night, he tells you all about the higher-ups, the execution order, Rika’s sheer power and the rest of the story.

“He’s enrolled at the school. I just don’t trust the higher-ups enough yet to let him stay there. It’s why I brought him home. He can stay until I can be sure.” He nods resolutely.

“Sounds good. I’ll come into school early tomorrow, I’ll speak to the higher-ups too. Pressure from us both should have them back off somewhat. I’ll look at his dorm too, see what seals I can put on it, for extra peace of mind.” You wrap your arms around his torso, and he reciprocates.

“Thank you, Princess. What a team we make, huh? It’s like we were born to torment the elders together. If you’re going to shout at the old men though, I’m coming too. I will never miss a chance to see that, you’re just so damn sexy when you fight them. Might have to sneak you off to an empty classroom after.” He winks, lightly slapping the rounds of your ass.

“Like I’ll ever say no to that, ‘Toru. Time honoured tradition since 2008.” You nip his neck and he groans at the steamy memories through the years, but you saunter off, with a little extra swing in your hips. Biting his lip, and smiling at the view, he follows you – as always.

The next few weeks slipped by, Megumi was not even slightly phased (as always) by the situation, he knew you guys well enough by now to never be shocked. Yuuta settling into school, netting the first years and attending classes with both you and Satoru. He was getting more and more comfortable with you both, and relaxing too. You were quickly discovering that Yuuta was a truly sweet boy, he was kind, caring and so thoughtful, with quite the sense of humour to boot. You were sitting in the living room one night when you noticed Yuuta repeatedly pushing his hair from his eyes.

“You want me to trim your hair, honey?” You say to him.

“Would you? That would be awesome. I’ve been worried to go to the barber because I didn’t think Rika would react too well to a stranger coming at me with scissors.” He huffs out a tiny laugh.

“Do you think she’d mind if I did it?” You say you had started to approach Rika through Yuuta, hoping he could feel safer if she felt safer. You treated her always like a toddler who was desperately protecting her toy, and it seemed to be working. Satoru always smiled at you when you included her in something, the sheer expanse of your heart would never fail to amaze him, along with your emotional intelligence – he saw how you approached the situation calmly and softly and was amazed at the progress you’d made. He may have been in charge of teaching Yuuta to handle Rika’s powers, but you were teaching him how to handle Rika.

He nods, smiling that adorable smile.

You set him on a stool, hair scissors in hand and a towel on the ground. With a soft comb to boot. You both chit-chat about school while you work, he asks about your cursed technique and you realise how much you like spending time with this kid. He was just so warm and personable, it was impossible to not grow attached – you felt you understood Rika a bit more.

As you finish up, Yuuta grows a little stiff – and quiet.

“What’s up, Yu?” You say, hand on his shoulder.

“It’s, it’s Rika. She – I told her no, please don’t worry, but she asked if you’d comb her hair and I told her no she’s not like that anymore-” he begins to ramble, and through your shock, you realise that this curse – the Queen of Curses - isn’t just that, she’s also just a little girl. A little girl stuck in a terrible fate, all because she loved a boy.

“Yuuta, tell her yes.”

“What?”

“I’ll comb her hair, but tell her she has to be a good girl, okay?” You say, smiling gently. He stands in shock, but he trusts you. And for some reason, he’s started to trust Rika.

Behind Yuuta, emerges a shape – taller and bigger than him - there’s a resemblance to a human, faint but - it’s there. A small giggle – a giggle, comes from the mouth of the curse. You step toward her, as you would a wild cat. You are sure to soften your gaze and your voice.

“Hello, Rika. It’s nice to meet you. My name is Y/N. I’m a friend of Yuuta’s too. I’ve been excited to meet you.” You say, waving your hand.

To your shock, which you hide, a childish girly voice says ‘Hello pretty lady. Yuuta said you will comb my hair.’

You nod and softly beckon Yuuta to the side, he follows your lead and you turn to Rika, you notice she has no hair, not anymore, but tendrils instead – you figure you’ll make do.

“Of course Rika. Do you want to sit down so I can do it?” You pat the cushion on the ground and Rika makes herself a bit smaller and moves and curls her lower half, almost snake-like, onto the floor.

You move behind the curse, and for a moment you shake your head – how the hell did you get yourself into these situations? You’re combing the head tendrils of a curse on your living room floor. You guess Satoru was right – you do have to be a bit crazy in this life. You also enjoy the thought of the heart attacks the scene would give the higher-ups. That feels good.

You reach your hand out and stroke her head, up and down, separating the tendrils to mimic the motions of brushing long hair.

“My momma used to sing to me when she combed my hair when I was little, would you like that to Rika?” You say.

An affirmative hum of ‘Yes songs please, Rika and Yuuta-like songs’ comes from the strange voice of the curse.

You begin to hum the soft song your mother did as a child as you continue to comb through her tendrils. You used to do this for Tsumiki too, and you think that maybe you just have an affinity for cursed young girls.

Yuuta just stands in shock.

You spend about 20 minutes doing this, and Rika just sits and holds Yuuta’s hand.

You tell her you’re done, and her hair looks wonderful. Yuuta tells her to thank you and before she retreats to wherever she goes, she does thank you, and she also says.

“You are nice to my Yuuta. Thank you, pretty lady. We both keep him safe.” And with that, she’s gone.

Tears flood to your eyes and you pull Yuuta into him. Wishing you could absorb some of the sadness he feels.

That night, you and Yuuta grew so much closer. Yuuta told Megumi when he got home, and Megumi just shrugged,

“Mom’s equally as nuts as Dad, but she knows what she’s doing.”

As you told the story to Satoru in bed that night, he just smiles at you.

“God you’re something else Princess was made for me, you’re crazy and I love it.” He says tickling your sides as you both laugh.

Months pass quietly enough as you eventually move Yuuta into his dorm. You have some classes with the first years, so you get to see the blossoming friendships.

Things are peaceful.

Until they aren’t.

Everything happens in a whirlwind and then in front of you stood the man who was once your brother.

You tensed, standing beside Nanami – as you take in the man after so many years of his absence. His clothes have changed, and his hair is down – like you used to tell him to wear it. He still has the gauges and the smile, he still smiles that same smile reserved only for Satoru.

You then notice he has his arm around Yuuta, you move to push forward but Satoru tells him to step away from the kids. You study the form of your husband - he’s radiating strength, power and energy but only you can see the slight line of hardness in his neck, he’s scared. Not scared of losing, he knows he’d win, scared of the inevitability of him having to kill his only best friend.

Suguru releases Yuuta and you push the boy behind you. You think of the last time you saw him. It was the day he left for the mission in the village, he was up early, as usual, and you stumbled half asleep into the kitchen of the dorm, Satoru’s sweatshirt long and comfy. You chatted about the missions you both had that day and as per your daily routine – he poured your coffee just how you liked it and you made toast for you both. You knew he wasn’t himself lately, you’d been there for him, doing what you could. So before he left he pulled you into a hug, patting your hair.

“See you tomorrow, oniisan. Don’t forget bar at 8 pm, okay?”

“Sure, I won’t forget.”

And with that, he was gone.

And now, he looked at you – older, hair longer, more refined, more sure in your stance, but that same glint of passionate determination in your eyes.

A declaration of war was made that day, and a date was set. A party to which none of you wanted an invite but attendance was mandatory.

And then he was gone.

That night, Satoru collapsed into you, breathing harshly and ragged. It was rare to see the strongest so unravelled but he was safe with you. He knew what would happen. He knew what he’d be forced to do. After all, he was society’s greatest weapon.

You let him heave into your chest. You stroked his hair, during bubbling in you like an unholy soup of loathing and hatred. You hated the world, the higher ups, the hierarchy, for driving Suguru to this – but also hating Suguru, for doing this to Satoru. You’d be okay, both of you. But right now, you needed each other.

The Night Parade of a Hundred Demons.

That’s what it had been called. Battle plans were drawn up. Yuuta and Maki stayed at school, everyone else to Shinjuku. You were grateful for Suguru’s advance notice, it gave you time to send Megumi to your mom’s house. You guessed he had someone minding the twins too. Parenthood can interfere with war.

Through the fight your main objective was offence, sure you were strong. Incredibly so. You were capable of causing unrivalled destruction. Ironic, you always thought, given it was also the technique capable of causing unrivalled beauty.

You vaguely caught glimpses of Nanami and Mei Mei through the fight, but soon enough your husband caught up to you.

“He’s not here.”

“I thought he’d go straight for you.”

Something clicked in his head.

“He’s going for something more valuable to him.”

The school. Yuuta. Rika.

Fuck.

“You stay, Satoru. They need you here. I’ll go. Finish up here, then come.”

He was about to fight you on it when an explosion echoed loudly. He hadn’t doubted your judgment or abilities in 9 years – and he wouldn’t start now.

“Take Inumaki, and Panda.”

“Can you send us there?”

And with that you and the two students were in a circle, being warped by your husband back to high school.

And in front of you was chaos.

Maki was unconscious, you checked her pulse quickly – confirming she was alive and moved to find Yuuta.

But in a way, you had been too late. Rika stood gloriously behind Yuuta. A deal was struck between them. You couldn’t get close enough in time, flashes of light blinded you for a second and then you somehow found yourself following a trail of blood.

Suguru was leaning his head against a wall.

He was dying. You could tell that much.

Your Yuuta had saved so many people.

Wordlessly, you slid down the opposite wall, sitting facing him. Blood and ash caked your body, the smell of destruction and iron filled the narrow alley. You knew Satoru would be here soon. Suguru did too.

“Fancy meeting you here.” You say.

He lets out a laugh.

“Come here often?” He replies.

“To sit with my dying friend who just tried to kill the boy I see as my son and waged war on the love of my life in an alley? Yeah, most weekends.” You smirk at him, lowering your daggers to you sides.

“Nice ring.” He says, pointing to the wedding ring on your finger.

You hum in agreement.

“The wedding looked beautiful. You did too, you made a model bride and groom.” He said.

“You got the photos we sent?” You and Satoru had secretly sent photos of the wedding in an unmarked envelope 2 years ago. Something soothing for you both.

He nodded.

“How drunk was Shoko and Utahime?” He laughs.

“Very. They also got together that night.” You laugh.

Silence for a moment, a smile on his bloodied lips.

Some people would think this suicide, sitting with a terrorist catching up on old times. But he was no threat to you, not now, he was dying and he knew that. He would put up no fight. You think he always knew that.

“You should have been his best man.” Your eyes droop, looking across the gravel.

“Nanami did a good job.” He replies.

“But he wasn’t you.”

“Any mini Satoru’s yet?” He asks.

“Not yet. Two kids though. Adopted.” You smile. “The twins, are they still with you?”

“Nanako and Mimiko.” He smiles fondly.

There’s silence for a few moments.

“Don’t make this harder for him, Suguru. Please, he doesn’t deserve it.” He will know what you mean.

“I won’t. None of us deserved it.”

“No, we didn’t.”

A figure appears in the alley, you lock eyes with blue crystals. No words need saying. You smile sadly at Satoru. He looks between you and the man on the ground. You stand up, and walk to Suguru. You kiss the top of his head.

“See you later, oniisan.”

You stop beside Satoru, you grab his hand and squeeze.

“I love you, ‘Toru.”

“I love you too, Y/N.”

He squeezes back, you walk back to the school – you need to check on your kids. One last look behind you and Satoru is crouching beside him.

He needed to do this alone. This was not something you were part of. It was between them. Blood brothers and the strongest. Best friends. You would pick up your husband’s pieces and glue them back with love and care, but this action was his alone. Destiny wasn’t something to be toyed with.

In the school, you embrace Yuuta, tears on his face – he told you about Rika. The curse was broken. You held him and whispered softness to him.

You help Maki to Shoko, Inumaki too. Panda is fretting over them all.

You think of the boys in the alley. You think of the tragedy that was forced upon your love – he didn’t deserve this. But he deserved love. So that’s what you’d provide.

Several months later.

“Okay, that should be everything. Now remember, sunscreen – no matter how busy you are, okay?”

“Don’t worry Y/N, I won’t forget.” A slightly taller Yuuta agrees. You had helped him pack for his overseas trip with Miguel. You and Satoru were about to send him off.

“She’s going to text you to remind you everyday anyway.” Satoru smirks patting the boys head. You glare at him playfully.

You both lead him to the school gates and hand him off to Miguel. Like sending a boy to summer camp and not a special grade sorcerer on a long overseas mission.

You kiss him on the cheek and tearfully tell him goodbye and stay in touch. You hand him one of your silver daggers, 4 had been given to you when you started Jujutsu High by your family, they were heirlooms. A cursed tool, strong and imbued with power.

“This will keep you safe.”

“Thank you, Y/N. Really, for everything.”

“Our boy! Moving away! They grow up too fast!” Satoru is whining beside you.

“Miguel, he’s allergic to shellfish so be careful okay.” You warn the tall man beside Yuuta who nods, staring bewilderingly at the man who beat him to a pulp months ago whining over a boy going on a trip.

And then he’s off.

“One leaves the nest.” Satoru says and you hum, grabbing his hand and leading him to the school.

“What do you think about refilling the house? With Gojo’s maybe?” You say. Hoping he’ll pick it up.

“With my clan elders? God no, why would you even suggest having those wrinkly ballsacks in our home. They’ll taint it!” He shivers comically.

“No, Toru, I mean little ones. Very little ones. Small Y/L/N Gojo’s.”

He stops in his tracks and stares at you.

“Then I’d say let’s get to work straight away.” You laugh joyfully and squeal as he throws you over his shoulder.

Safe to say, saying your child was conceived in the empty classroom which was you and your husband’s designated sex classroom was sweet, after all, it was tradition.

TAGLIST: @vesta-ro @lilithlunas @mialexandruh @sassy-cat-in-town @madam-ri @cjm-cookiethief

[uniquevoidflowers]

CW: Blood, Character Death (mostly mentioned but you can tell from the beginning)

“Papa?” Link called with a trembling voice as he hurried to the still figure on the ground. 

He saw the spreading of something red underneath Papa, staining everything it touched. “Don’t sleep yet. It’s not bedtime yet.”

He got no reply, just the breeze in his ears, rustling bushes and the leaves on the ground that crunched against the weight of Link’s feet. The boy sat down next to his father, tapping the man’s shoulder repeatedly, waiting for his eyes to flutter open but they remained shut. When nothing worked, he sat down and nestled himself in his father’s incredibly loose arms, tears stinging his eyes at the cold embrace. “It’s okay, Papa. I can wait.”

He heard a cry, but he just gripped his father’s bloody sleeve tightly. “The boy looks alive!” Someone shouted.

He glanced over at an unfamiliar man and curled more defensively into his father’s cold, but safe-feeling arms. “It’s okay, I’m not here to hurt you,” The man promised. “Are you hurt?” 

“No,” Link mumbled. 

“…Well I’m Rusl, kid. Can you come back to my village with me?” 

“Are you one of the bad people?”

“Not at all. I promise.”

The boy reluctantly got out but refused to leave without Papa. He just needed some help waking up. Rusl chewed his lip before offering to bring him too, and Link agreed. Some other man picked Papa up, out of the red on the ground and Rusl brought him to a village. “He’s already gone,” The man carrying Papa sighed.

“Sweet Ordonia…What do we do?” 

“Take him home for now, I’ll ask the mayor.”

Link felt warmth as he saw the interior of a house and he looked around. Soon a woman came around the corner and spotted him. “Hey there buddy.”

“Hey…Where’s Papa?” Link turned to Rusl with his eyes squinted.

“I’ll tell you later,” Rusl decided after a moment. “Kid, this is my wife, Uli.”

Uli hummed, narrowing her gaze at Rusl but smiling slightly at the boy. “And what’s your name?” 

“Link!”

“Link, why don’t you go play over in that room? We have some toys there that I’m sure you’d like.”

“Okay.”

He obliged but heard their hushed voices anyway. Mama always said he had amazing hearing. 

“Uli, we found this kid in the forest in what was supposedly his father’s arms. The father’s dead, so I took him here for the meanwhile.”

“Oh my…”

“Yes. The kid insisted his Papa was…sleeping. He…doesn’t know yet.”

“This is horrible. What are we going to do about him?”

“I still haven’t thought this through, Uli, but would it be too much to adopt him if he has no other parent elsewhere?”

Adopt…him? Papa’s…dead? Like Mama?

Link screamed.

                       ————————

Link woke up with a jolt, a sob tearing its way out of his throat but as soon as he gathered his bearings he sighed shakily. Twilight saw his cub leaned into his side and swallowed back any more tears.

It had been awhile since he remembered that day. 

He barely remembered anything about his biological parents—only that day when his Papa died. He didn’t know if that was for better—or worse.

He felt eyes on him and looked over to see the Sky on watch, staring at him. He brought himself up, careful not to wake up the champion and walked over to the skyloftian and sat next to him. There was a few moments of blessedly peaceful silence. “Nightmare?” Sky spoke up softly.

“Yeah,” Twilight hummed, turning his gaze back to the ground. 

Oh, yeah, he hadn’t remembered any of the heroes mentioning parents. Were they all orphans? He turned to Sky whose eyes glowed with the reflection of starlight. “Do you have any parents?” 

“They died when I was a child,” Sky admitted quietly. “My father was a knight of Skyloft, according to Sun and he went on a mission once…and never came back…I do remember him. I don’t remember my mother though, she died way before then. Illness, Headmaster Gaepora tells me.” 

“…I’m sorry for your loss.”

“And I’m sorry for yours,” Sky put a hand on his shoulder, a knowing look in his eyes. 

“…thanks.”

[brinxxxx]

A Bang Chan FF (content warning 18+!!) (smut)

Whipped For You

Chapter 8: Thunderous

Chan POV:

Last night...was amazing. I wasn't expecting her to go through with it. But after the first time we relaxed into each other touch, enjoying the nice company until I felt my cum dripping down my leg. Until the opportunity to do something I've never done before but I knew she would LOVE.

I went down to her heat and licked her out. My cum and her juiced in my mouth i kissed her the moans she made made me rock hard again and we fucked for a second time. This time rougher than the last. Honestly it felt like I was in heaven.

I got ready to go to work. I checked my phone. No missed calls or messages. I change into my clothes and leave Y/N in peace. I left her a note I didn't want to leave without saying anything. It felt nice to finally have that time with her. That special moment. It was perfect. I wanted more. I wanted her.

I got to the office where the boys were sitting outside my office "what's up? You all look constipated?"

"Hyung you've not seen the articles have you?"

"What do you mean Changbin?"

He have me his phone. My "fiancé" posted another stupid article about me sleeping around. Not coming home when asked. Yet she can have a boyfriend and no one bats an eye. I get a text from Y/N.

"You told me she wouldn't care! You told me she wouldn't bat an eye. Wtf is this!?"

"Y/N calm down. I'll fix it"

"I knew we shouldn't have spent the night together. She's gonna kill me."

"She won't."

"I don't believe you."

"CHAN! Dude. Stop texting and listen. Where did you go last night if you didn't go home?"

"I was home"

"Chan you're in the same clothes as last night. You're bad at lying"

"Okay this doesn't go anywhere else but here okay...? Can we got one do your offices. I don't trust mine to be safe "

We go to Lee Knows office. They all sit down staring me. "Don't freak out. I was with Y/N last night."

"I KNEW IT!" Seungmin and Hyunjin cried.

"MY SISTER!?" Lee know pointed out. Not shocked but still grossed out.

"Lee know Hyung! WHAT!?"

"That's a story for another time. We can circle back. Chan are you serious did you..."

"Yes we had sex. Last night and this morning. Please keep this between us I don't want PDnim getting involved. See how she found out and is posting it everywhere however she doesn't say WHO I was with.  Still. Please. Can we find a way to shut these articles down? I need to call my father. I have little over 6 months to avoid marriage. I need your help to make it happen. Me and Y/N. Can you do that?"

"Hyung we aren't a match making service. What the fuck are we meant to do?"

"Report articles to stay this ain't true.

Do them to but if there's loads of us doing that it'll get the message across that she's spitting fake news. Though it's not but it's not the point. I want my relationship with Y/N to be private. Okay?"

"Yes Hyung" they shout. Ready to battle.

*a few hours later.*

Author POV:

After a few hours the guys as a collective managed to come up with articles that were good enough to divert the claims on Chan and aiming at his soon be to wife. Chan's father was livid at her. Not at him. He was very happy that he found someone after trying for so many years.

Which is weird since he was the one to make them get married in the first place. Anyways. Chan texts Y/N about the news.

*Chans text:*

Chan-ah: hey babygirl. It's okay we have worked things out. So no need to stress okay? I'm sorry for scaring you and upsetting you. Please don't hate me.

Babygirl:

Hey Daddy, it's okay im calmer now

*sends a naughty pic to Chan*

It's a shame Daddy has to work all day when im at home looking like this hmmm?

Chan-ah: ohhh Babygirl. You can't do that. You can't tease Daddy like that. Remember bad girls get punished.

He was enjoying how confident she was all of a sudden. He secretly wanted more but wouldn't be able to control his pants situation if it did continue. Chan was deep in though when his soon to be wife calls him...

"Take those articles down. Right now Chan!"

"You're the one who's been boasting about a fake relationship I seem to be having. Which by the way thanks for the heads up I didn't know I was in some sort of relationship with another woman! *he lies* seriously. You have a boyfriend. You have your person why are you making this difficult for me. You know if I don't find someone we still get married. We don't want that do we!?"

"No you don't want that but I still do!"

"What why!?"

"Why do you think Chan? Don't worry it's not out of love. Ewww. I don't love you like that."

"For the money?"

"Wow Daddy's boy is smart! Yes dumbass. I want the money. Then get an emolument and go out septet ways"

"You didn't read the contract huh? It says we cannot split up. No matter what. If we are married to to each other till death parts us."

"I don't want that."

"Me neither. So cut the crap and stop messing with my life. Please."

"Okay fine but if you piss me off I will come down on you like s tone of bricks. Got that?"

"Yes sure now please im working."

He hangs up. He looks at his phone 20 messages from Y/N. All photos and videos of her. Captions saying "Daddy's not here to play so I guess I have to myself."

"Daddy's not answering me"

So on and so forth. Chan runs to the toilet and watches the videos of you. Playing with yourself. Screaming his name. The moans. It was all so hot. Too hot infact. It was getting to lunch time and chan had the perfect plan.

He calmly walks out managing to hide his bulging erection. "Hey guys I'm gonna go home and get changed into more appropriate clothes. I'll see you after lunch?"

They nodd. They knew exactly where he was going. And it wasn't home.

[alielyan]

Title: "I Am Ali Alayan: Our Family's Story… Help Us Live With Dignity"

My name is Ali Alayan, I am 31 years old, and I am a son of a family torn apart by war and burdened with suffering. We were a simple family, dreaming of a stable life in our modest home in Gaza. But the bombing took everything from us—our home, our peace, and our hope. We were forced to scatter, with some of us in the north and others in the south, each living under unbearable conditions.

Our Story:

My father, Ahed Alayan, 55 years old, and my mother, Raeda Alayan, 54 years old, have always been the pillars of strength for our large family. But after losing our home, we were displaced. My father now lives with my younger siblings in northern Gaza, under constant bombardment. Meanwhile, my brother Mohammad (26 years old) and I fled to the south with our families, where we now live in a tent in Al-Zawaida.

I live with my wife, Hanin (22 years old), and our three children:

Sham (5 years old): A little girl who longs for a warm bed and the toys she lost.

Zina (4 years old): Struggling with malnutrition, she lacks the healthy food she needs to grow.

Ahed Jr. (1 year old): A baby who spends his days crying from hunger and cold, in need of care I cannot provide.

Life in the Tent:

The tent where my brother Mohammad and I live with our families offers no shelter from the harshness of nature. In the summer, the heat is suffocating, and in the winter, rainwater floods the tent and the cold becomes unbearable. My children sleep on the cold ground and often wake up crying from hunger. Mohammad and I work tirelessly to meet our basic needs, but opportunities are scarce, and survival has become almost impossible.

My Father’s Struggle in the North:

My father and the rest of our family in the north face even greater challenges. The bombing never stops, and hunger has become a constant companion. My father, who has always been our protector and role model, is now unable to provide for the family. His only dream is to reunite us under one roof, but he lacks the means to make that dream come true.

A Heartfelt Plea:

I, Ali Alayan, am writing to ask for your help during this crisis. We are not asking for much—just enough to restore our dignity and humanity. I want to see my children play in safety and to reunite with my parents and siblings. I dream of a simple house that brings us all together, far from fear and hunger.

Your donation can provide us with:

A safe home where we can live together as one family.

Essential supplies like food and medicine for my children and family.

An opportunity for my children to have a dignified life, education, and a better future.

How You Can Help:

Every contribution, no matter how small, can make a significant difference in our lives. Your donation could mean milk for Ahed Jr., a bed for Sham and Zina, or safety for my entire family.

Please help us rebuild our lives and reunite our family. Your generosity and compassion are the only hope we have left.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart,

Ali Alayan

[melishade]

Damn it, I lost count again. Number 31?

This ask game

Peaceful Timeline. Dealing with Ymir's second pregnancy.

Oshern was in a...interesting predicament. Not one that he was particularly fond of.

When his wife, Ymir, had gotten sick and had thrown up, there was an obvious concern for her well being. What had happened? Would she be alright? Then Optimus had examined her and explained to them all that she was with child, or 'pregnant'...these new phrases and terms were rattling him.

That didn't mean that Oshern wasn't happy. He was ecstatic. He never thought that he would have a child come from him directly. He didn't think he would even have a family as big and strange as this. But...he's also been used to being alone for...years. And going from being alone to a house of...technically four has had it's ups and downs.

Everyone had to accommodate for Ymir’s changing body, although the one taking it the hardest was clearly Optimus, since he was trying to control every aspect of the pregnancy. Which had led to a few arguments between him and Optimus about his skills. He hasn’t felt that angry in a while.

They still made it work for the most part, but now he was in a very compromising position. He was lying on his side in bed, with a three month pregnant woman still sleeping and latching onto him so tight from behind. He could hear the gentle snores coming from her, and any other circumstances, he would have found this welcoming. Ymir had complained about getting a full night’s rest and this is the most that she has slept.

But Oshern really needed to go to the bathroom. But he didn’t want to wake up his wife! Damn it! No one had even come into the room yet! It was morning! Someone open the door! He didn’t have the heart to wake up Ymir!

Oshern nearly screamed with jubilation when someone had opened the door, but nearly got annoyed when he saw that it was Optimus in his human form. He still wasn't going to be stubborn about it, and used his pinned arm to wave to the Prime for help. He hated how Optimus looked amused at the situation, and...was he holding back laughter!

"Help!" Oshern nearly yelled. He covered his mouth when he felt Ymir moving a little bit.

"She looks very well rested," Optimus whispered.

"Yes, she does, but I need to go to the bathroom and I don't have the heart to wake her," Oshern whispered, “Help me.”

Optimus looked like he was debating his options, which made Oshern annoyed. “Look, you can’t just be angry with me because I’m not following your strict rules.”

“How many hours of sleep has she gotten?” Optimus asked him.

“She slept the whole night,” Oshern replied, “Can you help me?”

“…Let her sleep a little more,” Optimus decided.

Oshern glared at the Prime, but he was unwavering in his decision. “Optimus-!”

“I know you are annoyed with me, as is Megatron,” Optimus began, “But…before you, before Maria, and before Megatron, it was just the two of us: me and IronSpark. My knowledge of humans were already limited, but to take care of a pregnant woman is one of the hardest challenges I had to do. I had to find her a proper home, a proper place of rest, food that was safe to eat. I was out of my depth. I had no one to ask for help without compromising her safety. Additionally, the suffering she went through under the Eldian king.”

Oshern’s expression grew tight and grim. Of course if came back to the Eldian Empire.

“I just…I know our family has grown and that we have more help, but it is hard to let go of my fears and concerns,” Optimus explained, “I am trying, but…forgive me if I do not meet expectations.”

Oshern sighed, his head slumping against the bed. “I know. You mean well…but you don’t have to control every part of her life.”

“I know,” Optimus agreed, “And I am sorry for my actions. You have much of a say in this, and I do not mean to ignore your input.”

“Apology accepted,” Oshern said.

Oshern felt the sheets rustle and the bed sink a little. Ymir had released her hold of him and sat up on her side. She slowly blinked her tired eyes before rubbing them with her hand. Her hair was a complete mess, and there was a bit of drool coming down from her lip. But Oshern realized something: he was free!

“Freedom!” Oshern rolled out of bed and hit the floor, startling Optimus and scaring Ymir awake. Oshern stood up and looked at her concern and messy wife. He grabbed her cheeks and kissed her on the lips.

“Morning!” Oshern greeted, “I just need to go to the bathroom!”

The two watched Oshern rush out the room to the bathroom, causing Ymir to look at Optimus in confusion.

“He just did not wish to disturb your sleep,” Optimus explained.

Ymir realized the implication of Oshern’s actions and couldn’t help but smile. She didn’t mean to do that to him, but he was so thoughtful.

(Definitely a stark contrast to when Ymir was first pregnant. Anyway, 17 is still on the back burner. For that one, I’m going to be going into spoiler territory for the dark timeline and I need to build up some context. But the rest is free game!)

[ovaryacted]

PAIRING: Javier Pena x fem! reader || WC: 980 CW: This post contains NSFW/18+ content. Javi is a house husband. I apologize for my scattered thoughts.

Out here thinking about Domestic! Javier Peña and I just want to throw out random thoughts that I plan on discussing more cohesively eventually. But for now, ya'll get this lmao. (Note: I have not watched Narcos yet, this is just me thinking about domesticating Javi.)

Domestic! Javi who retires after all of the bullshit from Colombia and chasing down the drug kingpins. He gives in his DEA badge and takes his ass back to Texas, happily bringing you along, the pretty girl he met while he had been working down there.

Domestic! Javi that is very quick to slip a ring on your finger, more than glad to slow down like you’ve always wanted him to do for the past few years. Now that he has you safe and away from the nonsense of his previous job, he can treat you the way you deserve. You get eloped in a private and quiet ceremony, and he takes you on a lovely honeymoon somewhere tropical for a little while, a real vacation.

Domestic! Javi who turns his house into a home, welcomes you to the ranch and lets you do whatever you want. He makes space for you everywhere, lets your jewelry dish take its place on the dresser, and has your toothbrush sit next to his in the porcelain cup on the edge of the bathroom sink. Pieces of you merge with pieces of him, and for the first time, he feels like he finally belongs somewhere.

Domestic! Javi who falls back on his routine prior to becoming a DEA agent, doing work around the house and the ranch, tending to anything he could get his hands on. It's good work, the best really, and it helps keep him busy.

Domestic! Javi that handles everything in the house and doesn't let you lift a finger. He cooks, he cleans, he fixes shit, and he upgrades things to make you comfortable. In his mind, he's the embodiment of the happy wife, happy life motto, and after all of this time dealing with guns and death and conflict, all he wants is to make you happy.

Domestic! Javi that's busy cooking dinner, apron wrapped around his slim waist, and jolts when he feels your hand coming to give him an affectionate smack on his ass. He just turns his head to the side and welcomes a kiss.

Domestic! Javi who actively searches for your praise and attention when he's doing something right. He purposefully wears those shirts you like that broaden his figure just to feel your hands graze his shoulder blades. Other times, when he's fixing one of the dingy lightbulbs and you get a peek of his lower stomach, he'd smirk to himself when he senses your fingertips trailing right under his belly button.

Domestic! Javi whose hard work never goes unnoticed by you, his precious wife, who grants him the chance to get the good, peaceful life he thought he'd never get. When he comes back home after being outside on the ranch, you're already waiting for him with lunch prepared, offering him a glass of water and a smooch on the lips.

Domestic! Javi who welcomes the feeling of your mouth wrapped around his cock after upgrading the fixtures in the master bathroom, hearing your sinful prasies the entire time you sucked him off. You happily tell him how much you love him, how pretty his dick is, how badly you want him to make a mess on your face while jerking him off with your left hand, the diamond and golden wedding band sitting on your ring finger now shining from your spit. It's enough to make Javi cum on the spot.

Domestic! Javi who starts the day off right by putting his mouth between your legs, lavishing his tongue over your clit, and slipping his thick digits inside, curling them the way you like after years of practice. He lets you run your fingers through his curly hair, pulling and yanking at him once your thighs begin to shake beside his head. Your release is the sweetener to his morning coffee, hearing your giddy laughter and letting you sleep in a little longer while he gets an early start to his morning.

Domestic! Javi that sometimes gets taken off guard by your constant affection and insatiability. He likes it, hell, he relishes in it, but if it's not your hand on him, then it's your mouth, and if it's not that, it's your pussy, always wet and ready for the taking. But regardless of how he feels, fucking you makes you happy, and he'll keep going until he runs dry.

Domestic! Javi that envisions the future and wants to give you more than what he's already provided. He walks past one of the empty bedrooms in the main house and starts to picture what a crib would look like with a rocking chair off to the side. When he closes his eyes, he can see you holding a small bundle in your arms with the widest smile. Now, he's more determined than ever to make his dream a reality.

Domestic! Javi that fucks you every morning and every night, sometimes multiple times throughout the day. You don't complain either, forgoing underwear and wearing flowy dresses when it's warm outside for easier access. He'll take you over the back of the couch or while you're busy folding the laundry you took down from the clothesline. Javi wants to keep you stuffed, wants it to take, and you secretly hope that it does.

Domestic! Javi who is finally at peace and doesn't take it for granted. He walks up to the porch where you're sitting on a bench, sipping on some lemonade and silently admiring the sweaty view of your husband. He bends down to your level, kissing the top of your head and your lips, widening his palm to place it on your growing belly. You don't mention it to him, but you love the grin on his face that only seems to grow as you hit month six, and you know deep down Javi is the happiest he's ever been.

©️ ovaryacted 2024. Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!

[theyluvkarolina]

౨ৎSLIPPING THROUGH MY FINGERS౨ৎ

masterlist / rules / requests & talks with me!

SUMMARY౨ৎ  Being a father was everything Fernando wanted on top of his racing career, but his age causes concerns. But your there to lift his spirits.

PAIRING ౨ৎ Fernando Alsondo x Wife!Reader (not really but very implied)

WARNINGS ౨ৎ a bit of a age gap! (not drastic, reader is AT LEAST 25 but is targeted to be 28. It makes me uncomfy if it’s anything younger tbh haha)

A/N ౨ৎ Absolutely loved this 🥹 “slipping through my fingers” never fails to make me cry. As someone also with a older dad, I loved this request! This one is pretty short but i decided to make it short and sweet. enjoy!! (GIRL DAD FERNANDO FANS RISE!!) Daughter also has a name! I choose Camila :)

1K EVENT MASTERLIST

BEING A FATHER was everything Fernando dreamed of. Nevermind the mesmerized corners of every race, every counted lap, or every podium finish that brought a rush of adrenaline and satisfaction. Now, his new satisfaction stems from the birth of his daughter. The joy he felt holding his newborn daughter in his arms. The once-deafening roars of engines were now replaced by the gentle cries and giggles of his baby girl.

Fernando sat in the dimly lit nursery in your home in Spain, the soft hum of the lullaby playing in the background. The pastel-colored walls, adorned with tiny butterflies and stars, felt like a sanctuary from the high-octane world of racing. His eyes, usually focused with steely determination on the track, now softened as he watched his daughter sleep. Every rise and fall of her tiny chest, every flutter of her eyelashes, brought a sense of peace and fulfillment that no championship ever could.

He remembers every part of preparing this nursery, in fact, it was the same day you told him you were expecting.

· . ୨୧⭒๋࣭ ⭑

The sound of clanging in the usual baren room quickly caught your attention.

“What’s going on in here, mi vida? Is everything okay..?” You entered the previously barren room to be met with Fernando in the room of the nursery, a paintbrush in one hand and a can of pastel pink paint in the other. The room, once a bland, unused space, was now a canvas for his little girl. He had spent the better part of his career perfecting the art of precision and speed, but thiswas a different kind of project. It required patience, love, and a vision that went beyond the finish line.

“Mi amour, you should be resting, not walking around.” Fernando voiced, placing the paint and brush down onto the floor.

You let out a amoused laugh. “Nando, I’m barely even 2 months along, I’m more than okay to be walking around. What’s all of this for?” You coaxed looking around at the half painted room.

“For Camila.” Her said nonchalantly.

“Camila?” You raised a brow, surprised by the name, yet you loved the name.

“Sì. Camila.” He smiled fondly.

“I didn’t know we were certain on having a girl.” You gave a slight smirk at his certainty.

“I just know we are having a girl.” He replied, looking at you, grin evident on his face.

“Well, I'm sure that ‘Camila’ would love it.” You affirm, walking over to Fernando and placing a tender kiss on his cheek. "It's going smoothly I hope?"

Fernando turned to you “It's coming along. I think she's going to love it.”

You moved closer to the walls, inspecting his work. “It's perfect. She's going to feel so loved and safe in here.”

He paused, looking around the room, then back at you. “I hope so. I just want everything to be perfect for mi princesa.”

“You already have a nickname picked out?” You glanced at him, a giggle leaving your lips.

“Mi amour, the nickname has been picked out for our little girl the moment you told me you were expecting.”

· . ୨୧⭒๋࣭ ⭑

Fernando let a grin slip past his lips at the memory before he glanced at the framed photo on the dresser—a snapshot of his younger self, clad in his racing suit, holding up a trophy with a triumphant grin. Then, there was one of you both smiling, his arm on your waist while he held the 3rd place trophy when he re-entered the world of Formula One, getting the podium in Bahrain. Next to it was a recent picture of him cradling his daughter, his face glowing with a different kind of pride. The juxtaposition of these two images often brought a lump to his throat. He wouldn’t change a single thing. Besides one thing. His age. He was no longer the young, fearless racer he once was. Time had etched lines on his face, and every ache in his body served as a reminder of the years gone by.

Being an older father with a noticeably younger wife in a world filled with younger parents wasn't easy. At every birthday party or playdate he would take Camila to, he would be met with acute whispers and curious glances made at you both. Comments about his age, masked as innocent remarks, pricked at his confidence. Hell, he wasn’t deaf to the comments even some of the women you hanged out with made.

“What about when he needs to walk her down the aisle?”

“How will he walk her to school?”

“Are you… are you sure you are happy he is your husband?”

God how he hated them. It’s almost as if they forgot he is a world-class athlete… a 2x Formula One World Champion at that! But now, he wondered if he really could keep up. If he could be the father his daughter needed as she grew up. That little voice in the back of his head finally becoming vocal.

` Will you be able to walk her down the aisle? `

` How can he walk her to school with all the stares they would get? Surely he looks more like her grandfather than father.. `

` Are you even happy with him? Do you regret being with him? `

But then, there was you. You, with your unwavering support and infectious optimism, were always there to lift his spirits. That’s why he loved you so much. That’s why he was so drawn to you since the beginning. You had a way of silencing his doubts, making him feel invincible. Your love was his anchor, your laughter the melody that drowned out his fears.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow through the nursery window, Fernando found himself lost in thought. He was gently rocking his daughter in her rocking chair, her tiny hand wrapped around his finger as if it were her lifeline. You entered the room quietly, not wanting to disturb the serene moment.

“Hey… so that’s where you two ran off to..” You whispered, not wanting to wake your sleeping daughter. The sudden voice made Fernando jump, causing Camila to squirm a bit in father’s arms.

“Dios mío Y/N… you scared me.” He mumbled, placing a hand onto his chest in a joking manner.

“Sorry.” You gave a soft laugh at his teasing. “I was looking all over for you guys for about a hour.”

“I was just thinking... about everything.” Fernando replied, his eyes still fixed on the sleeping baby.

“Really? About what?” You asked, smiling at the sight of your husband and the baby.

“First of all.. about how lucky I am to have you and Camila. But…” He stops in his tracks, causing you to frown.

“But what, my love?” You questioned, entering the room and standing next to the pair, you placing a hand onto his shoulder.

“…but also, how old I feel.” Fernando came clean.

“What do you mean, Nando? You know I could care less about your age…Look at her. She doesn't care how old you are. She just needs you to love her, to be there for her. Which you are already doing.” You attempt to comfort him.

“I know.. but Y/N, I’m 42 and just had my first child… I’m not the like the other fathers. !hat if I can't keep up? What if I'm not around long enough to see her grow up? Who will be there to tie her shoes and play with her without needing so many breaks? What about all the stares I would get walking her to school? …Who will be there to walk her down the aisle for her wedding if I’m not there?” He began to ramble.

You shook your head at his comments, squeezing his arm gently. “Fernando, look at me, will you? You're here now. You're the best father she could ever have. And you'll be here for as long as you can be, giving her all the love and wisdom that only you can provide. That's what matters. Don’t talk about all of this as if you won’t be there to see her live her life… you very well will be there for her. No matter what age.”

Fernando took a deep breath, your words washing over him like a shower. He knew you were right. It doesn’t completely take away all of his worries, but it definitely eases them. His age might be a concern, but it didn't define his ability to be a good father. It didn't measure the depth of his love for his little girl.

He will be there when she says her first word. He will be there when she begins to walk. He will be there to tie her shoes before she goes off to her first day of school as she waves goodbye to him, toothy smile on her face. He will be there when she finally falls in love. But most of all, he will be there to walk her down the aisle. Because to Fernando, no matter how old she will be or himself, she will always be his little girl and to her, he will always be her dad.

· . ୨୧⭒๋࣭ ⭑

2043

Fernando stood in the small, private room of the chapel, his heart swelling with a mixture of pride and nostalgia as he watched Camila, prepare for the biggest day of her life. He had always known this day would come, but it still felt surreal. It felt like it was yesterday when he was teaching her to walk in the paddock and now, nis little girl was about to walk down the aisle and start a new chapter with the love of her life.

“Papà…don’t stare at me like that…” Camila mumbled, fidgeting with her newly painted nails.

“¿Cómo qué? (Like what?)” Fernando snapped out of his thoughts, looking up to his daughter.

She was all grown up now, in her white wedding dress he always imagined seeing her in. She looked radiant—every bit the beautiful woman he had always known she would become.

“Like I’m still a little girl.” Camila sighed a bit embarrassed by his eyes on her, her eyes sparkling with tenderness.

He smiled, his eyes misting over ever so slightly. “It feels like I am. You look so beautiful, mi princesa.”

“Para… don’t make me cry. I just did my makeup.” She brought a finger under her eyes to not smudge her makeup.

Fernando chuckled softly, stepping closer to her. He reached out, gently brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll try, but it’s hard. You’ve grown up so fast. It’s like you’re slipping through my fingers all the time… I still remember when you just said your first word.”

Camila took a deep breath, her expression softening as she looked at her father. “I know, Papà. But I’ll always be your little girl.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of the occasion settling in. Fernando’s thoughts drifted back to the years gone by—the first time he held her, her first steps, the bedtime stories, the scraped knees he’d bandaged, the late-night talks. And now, this. This beautiful, bittersweet moment.

“You know,” he began, his voice thick with emotion, “being your father has been the greatest joy of my life. Even more than racing.”

“Even more than racing?” Camila voiced, her tone slightly shaky.

“Siempre más que carreras (Always more than racing). ” He assured, pulling her into a tender hug.

They held each other for a moment longer, then Fernando stepped back, taking a deep breath. “Are you ready?”

Camila nodded, her nerves settling into a calm determination. “Yes, I am. As long as you’re by my side.”

The room goes silent for a moment.

“Papà, I’m happy that I grew up being your daughter.” Camila turned to Fernando with a smile. Fernando blinked, a tear threatening to spill from his eye that he quickly wiped away.

“And I’m happy that out of anyone in the world, it’s you who is always going to be my daughter, mi princesa.”

𝐀/𝐍 2 ୨୧ I CRIED MAKING THIS WTF 😭😭

[shutupbrain]

12.16.2022 - Part 5

We walk back to the car in mostly silence. I have a sense of urgency he notices. He asks if I'm okay and I smile, "yes, I'm just tired and ready to be home." I use the cold to account for my stiffness. We get in and start the drive home,I turn up the music to fill the silence. I try to get my vibes in check but he again asks what's up. I fill him in on all the above after he doesn't believe my efforts to reassure him I'm fine. He tells me that he just thought more about it and realizes that there's nothing wrong with weed and wanted to partake. Okay that's fair and I am relieved he's come around on that front. At the conversation around C's ass, he responds with loud, belly laughter. Huh okay. Don't know how to take that. He tells me I have "absolutely nothing to worry about, he loves my fat, juicy ass." That the girls are always talking about her ass at the office too. I love to see women hyping up other women. They seem like a fun group. It's just me, I'm obviously jealous and want to be the only woman he has eyes for. He says I am but I'm not dumb, I know it's natural to look at other people even when you're in a relationship and that it doesn't equal cheating at all. But apparently she is funny, nice, cool to talk to (easier to talk to than me probably)... AND she's thick. I need to get it together. I tell him I'm in my head and know I'm being unreasonable,"it's not you, it's me. I'm sorry." He then says he actually didn't want to leave. Great!! Now I seem like the bitchy wife (who's not a wife mind you) who made you leave the party early. I mean I kind of am but don't want them to know that. "No no, we're only 10 minutes away, let's go back. I'm good!" He backpedals and says to keep on, he does "wanna go home too, really." We do this back and forth but ultimately continue home. I feel immediately relief once I walk in the door, my safe place. The weight lifts. I hug and kiss my daughter goodnight and change into comfy clothes. "Are you sure you're okay?" "Yes, I'm fine! Don't worry." I get in bed, he has the munchies and dry mouth. Cute, funny. I look at him in the eyes, he responds with he's not horny actually. Oh. That's an extreme rarity. Okay, that's totally okay I'm tired anyways. I turn over. He changes his mind and says if I want to, he can get there. "No no no it's alright, I'm tired too. Let's go to sleep." It works. I close my eyes and try to silence my thoughts. He builds a barrier of pillows between us and I breathe thru the threat of building tears and let the darkness envelope me. I surrender to the peace that only sleep can bring.

[theshelbyclan]

Love Language

Summary: Tommy doesn’t say ‘I love you’.

(Gif by @nofckingfighting​)

A/N: Sweet anon asked: Hello i love you're writing! Can i request a tommy one shot imagine where the reader (his girlfriend or wife) finds out in his office, one of the locked drawers has everytning shes ever given to him? Maybe like love letters or random flowers everything he keep 😍🤍 thank you so mych. This request was so amazing to me, because you it made me feel like you understand this character so well? Either way, it made me think, and this is the result. It’s kinda different but I hope you like it! Words: 1448

***

“Tommy?” “Hmm,” the preoccupied reply came. You sounded defeated, against your best efforts, “I love you.”  “I know.” 

***

There’s blood on his shirt. It’s the first thing you noticed when he walked in. Not the mud, not his eyes, not his energy, just the blood on his shirt.

“Who’s is it,” you asked as casually as you could. Tommy lit a cigarette in reply. “Are you okay?” “Yes,” he drew out the ‘s’ like he usually did when annoyed or tired. “Who was it?” you continued. “Y/N,” he held up a hand, “not tonight, eh? Not with the hundred fucking questions tonight, alright?” You remained silent for as long as you could bear, “Just need to know you’re safe.” “You knew who you married,” a low voice replied. “I did.” Tommy stood up again slowly started to walk away.

“Do not,” you hissed, “walk away from me.” “Y/N, what the fuck do you want from me, eh?” he raised his voice, “This is me. This is who I am. And I’m doing it all to give you everything you want. To keep you safe. Alright?” You leaned forward and tried to lock eyes with him, “What I want, Thomas Shelby, is you. In one piece, preferably.” “I know,” he lowered his voice again, “And I understand.” He waved a hand like he was about to say more, but didn’t. “It’s because I love you,” you emphasized. He nodded slowly, “And that’s why I’m doing all of this.”

***

You were sitting at your desk writing. Some people seemed to think that being married to Tommy Shelby was a fulltime job and it could be if you’d let it, but not for you. Even before Tommy you’d been a writer, a journalist and an author of short stories. Neatly you typed them out and send them to the publishers in question. It was the one thing in life that always offered you solace.

“You spelled ‘enthusiastic’ wrong,” you husband commented helpfully after having popped up suddenly behind you. You ripped the page irritably, “Says the man who never even went to school.” “Life taught me how to spell, Y/N,” he sort of joked. “Life taught youhow to spell ‘enthusiastic’? Can’t remember the last time you were ever enthusiastic about anything…” He raised one eyebrow slowly, “How about ‘sarcasm’, can you spell that? Or ‘devil’, how about that, eh?” You pouted theatrically, “Sometimes I’m not even sure you take me and my work seriously…” “Oh, I take it seriously,” Tommy took a drag from his cigarette, “I know it’s enough to keep my wife away from me.” You smiled back at him when he did, but still a pang of hurt went through you: you’d give up everything just to have him say ‘I’m so proud of you sweetheart’. Just once.

***

“Come on,” he whispered. You looked up. “Come on,” he repeated, cigarette hanging from his lips, “let’s go upstairs.” “Why?” you asked, as you already started to follow him. Once inside the bedroom, he started undressing you with surprising tenderness. “Tommy,” you breathed, “look at me. What is it you want?” As a reply without words he gazed at your body, like he was drinking in very detail and getting drunk at the mere sight of it. “You and me, Tommy,” you said in between kisses, “remember it’s you and me. Fuck the rest of them. Fuck your family. Fuck the whole world. I love you and you love me. It’s you and me and nothing can ever come between us, right?” As he took off his own shirt, he gently pushed you down onto the bed.

“You and me, right Tommy?” you repeated, a little breathless as his head disappeared between your legs. “No,” he finally spoke, “you.”

*** Thomas Shelby had a long day of dealing with renegade family and dangerous enemies, so when he got back home, all he wanted was his wife and some peace and quiet.

“I cooked,” you said as you lingered against the doorpost. Tommy looked tired, worn-out, dead almost, with his head in his hands, “even told the cook to take the evening off,” you commented while your voice sounded flat. It was funny, because your emotions were all over the place, but your exterior just didn’t show any of it.

He slowly lifted his head, “You did, eh?” “Thought you might like it…” you fidgeted in spite of yourself. “I pay that cook for her to actually fucking cook,” he grumbled. “Fine,” you snapped, “I’ll feed it to the dog,” and you started to walk away. “Wait…” “What?” You didn’t even really turn around. Tommy sighed again and for a moment it was like he noticed the disappointment in your eyes, “What did you cook?” “Mint leaves. Your favourite.” And then a minor miracle took place and Tommy Shelby actually smiled a little.

***

“You were late today. I waited.” “I’m sorry.” “Are you?” “I am.” “Do you love me?” “Yes.” “Tell me.” “I do. Every day.” “Not with words…” “No, not with words.” “Tommy, tell me again.” ***

You were still half-asleep in Tommy’s arms. His eyes were closed and his breath was steady. Outside, the sun wasn’t up yet, but it wouldn’t take long now.

Next to you, there was a gun on the table. Tommy had just taught you how to shoot. He’d shown you over and over again, even though you’d protested. But he said you might need it one day. On the other side there were his cigarettes and whiskey. His medicine. His comfort. His eyes were closed and his breath was steady. But for how long? How long would it be until he’d die by his own gun, or get killed in some fight? Or met some other girl, prettier and smarter than you? As if he could read your insecurities, he shifted in his sleep and hugged you even closer to him. Thomas Shelby might not be perfect or a gentleman or eloquent when it came to expressing his love, but he did hold you at night.

***

“Tommy?” you shouted out through the house, “THOMAS!” “Fucking hell, woman,” his head appeared around the corner, “What is it?” Slightly embarrassed by your own volume, you said, “I can’t find the scissors.” “They’re in my desk somewhere,” he put on his cap and added, “I need to see a man about a horse. I’ll be back in ten minutes.” You made your way to the desk that was always so tidy and neat. So you did as any sensible woman would do and turned over everything in search of a pair of scissors. Nothing. Angrily you threw down a pile of papers. And that’s when you noticed it. One drawer hadn’t been opened at all. When you tried it, you found it locked. But you were a girl from Small Heath and no locked drawer could stop you. In less than twenty seconds you had managed to force the lock en slid the secret hiding place open. Inside there were more papers, neatly stacked and tied together with pieces of string in different piles. Breathlessly you took them from the drawer and examined them one by one. “Still looking for those scissors, eh?” a low voice grumbled in your ear and you practically jumped from fear. “For fuck’s sake, Thomas,” you mumbled as you tried to hide the papers you’d just found. Tommy was eyeing them already, but didn’t say a word.

So you went back through them, “These are the letters I wrote to you, when you were in France. I thought you threw away everything. Your medals, everything…” He didn’t reply. Tears sprang into your eyes as you examined the second pile, “And these are all my short stories. Did you cut them from the papers? Did you really keep them all?” You quickly went through them and they were all there, from the very first one ever published, “And these, my articles…”

Tommy cleared his throat once and cast his eyes down when you looked at him. Lastly there was a small box. When you opened it, you found, “The rose I wore, when we were kids. The one my brother stole…” And now you couldn’t find the words, “I hardly… I didn’t even know you… back then. Why?” Tommy grabbed his case and started searching for a cigarette. “Tommy,” you insisted, “I had no idea. Why did you keep all of these?” “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” he smirked lightly. You stared at the content of the secret drawer and decided that nothing was ever obvious when it came to Thomas Shelby. “Well?” you questioned. “I love you.”

*** Masterlist