#on the one hand he just lost his entire family ofc he wants to see his brother

[vegaseatsass]

I really think it is the familial version of the word "romantic" that New dosed himself with his own murder drug just to see Non again.

Like when Phee snaps him out of it, New doesn't say he wanted to punish himself, or stew in his grief, or even be accompanied in his grief. He says he wanted to escape reality and see his brother again. He begs the accusing hallucination of his brother not to leave.

I'm just. This achingly, beautifully brutal story.

[topknot32]

Girl Dad (2/2)

Rio/OFC

summary- Rio sees his pregnant ex-girlfriend out one night not long after their breakup. He seizes the opportunity, and tries to persuade her to let him be in his kid's life, and hers, too.

warnings- 18+. Smut below the cut

word count- 3.4K

CAMILA

The smell of cigarette smoke had always been a turn off for Camila, always. Until she met Rio. Now, the smell of menthol and cedar wood cologne were comforts. The combination was entirely Christopher, and she breathed it in as he held her in the middle of the restaurant without a care who saw them.

She could blame it on hormones all she wanted, but in truth, she missed him. The few weeks they spent being consumed by one another were some of the best she ever had. There were several moments in their affair when she believed it could be something real, that he might not be the stereotype she'd originally labeled him as.

But every time she opened her mouth to tell her friends and family, something held her back. It was the lifestyle. The unpredictable and dangerous way he lived his life when they weren't together. Christopher had never involved her in his business, but she wasn't stupid or naive.

Camila understood the money he earned to buy luxury vehicles and expensive jewelry wasn't brought in by honest means. That part didn't bother her, no. The part that did was the danger it posed to him. He'd been shot, he told her so, and she'd seen the scars. She was a nurse, she knew what the three healed wounds on his chest were before he even said the words. Getting attached to someone who could end up getting themselves killed was terrifying no matter how much she enjoyed his company and getting pregnant by him was equally so.

When she looked up as he held her, she forgot all of that. He stared down at her with the kind of intensity that made butterflies take flight in her stomach, and she chanced a glance down at his lips. When Christopher put all his attention on her, no one else existed.

"Sorry for the waterworks. I always thought pregnancy hormones were an over dramatization, but nope. They are, in fact, very real."

"You good?" he asked after brushing away the remaining tears from her cheeks. She nodded just as the waitress came over with her salad.

Camila straightened up, and Chris released her, but he didn't retreat. He stayed on her side of the booth while she ate, an arm thrown up behind her on the back of the seat.

The winds seemed to have shifted between them since his apology. She didn't feel as angry, and he didn't seem as arrogant or confrontational. It didn't feel awkward between the two, and a comfortable kind of silence settled over them.

When Camila was finished, Chris brushed a few fallen strands of hair behind her ear. "Come home with me," he said softly, sending a chill down her spine.

She avoided looking at him because the second she did, she'd cave. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

He looks irresistible, she thought. "It's just not."

"Please."

The way that one word left his lips pulled her gaze. She could get lost in his brown eyes, and she nearly did. He gave her one of those up and down glances that made her breathe quicken, the kind he snuck so quickly she wasn't even sure if she really saw it.

"I don't—"

"Don't fight me. We don't have to do anything. That's not what this is." He motioned between them with a silver ringed hand. "Let me take care of you. It's the least I can do."

"I have to work early," she tried, but he brushed that off before she'd barely gotten the words out.

"I'll have you tucked in before midnight. Come on."

Chris pulled out his wallet and threw down a few bills, then pulled out his beanie and slid it on. He was always a good tipper, having sympathy for people in the service industry. She admired him for it. Wealth hadn't made him selfish, at least not in that aspect.

He helped her out of the booth, holding her hand like a gentleman. His black SUV was parked on the street just a block away, and once they were inside, he turned up the heat for her sake, knowing how much she hated to be cold. It was a warm cocoon that smelled like him, enveloping her in a sense of calm and safety she hadn't felt since she ended their relationship.

Rap music played quietly, not too loud to interrupt a conversation if she wanted to start one, and it seemed like he was waiting for just that. His fingers tapped a soft beat on the steering wheel as he drove, and he glanced her way every so often.

"I don't want you to pay for things," she said after a while. Chris looked over, a frown forming. "You said you wanted to help, to pay for stuff for the baby."

“And that’s a problem?”

Camila took in a deep, shaky breath. "I don't want to be a single mom, to do all of this alone." She shifted a little in her seat to see him better. She could tell by the tension in his jawline he didn't like the words coming out of her mouth. "Did you mean what you said, about Beth?"

He laughed, a sarcastic kind of laugh. She hated it. "I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it. I figured you knew that by now."

"If she's nothing to you, then do this with me. I don't want your money, I can do that myself. I want you in it, too. All the way. Like, up all night, no sleep, covered in puke all the way."

The sarcastic humor vanished as he processed. He looked over at her, then back at the road. "You're serious?"

"I'm not saying I want to get back together, but I need you, Christopher."

"You have me," he said softly, reaching over to take her hand. "I promise."

Inside his apartment, Christopher pulled his jacket off, heading for the bedroom. Camila always loved his place. The open concept, the warm touches of wood and leather, the photographs.

"Strip," he said, dragging his sweatshirt off next. With his back to her, she admired the newly exposed tan skin, the muscles rippling as he moved. She loved the way his jeans hung on his hips.

She had to drag her eyes away from the lines of his hip bones. "I'm not sleeping with you."

He looked back over his shoulder, hands reaching for his belt buckle. "I'm a grown man, Camila. I can see you naked and not have to fuck. Do what I said."

He disappeared around the corner into the bathroom where she heard the sound of the shower turning on. Her stomach did a nervous flip, but she was happy to be here. She kicked off her shoes and pulled her own sweatshirt off, leaving her in jeans and a lace bralette in her favorite shade of lavender.

He was already in the shower by the time she came in. It was a massive glass box of smooth, black tile with two shower heads, one on each side. His back was to her as she unfastened her jeans and pushed them down along with her panties, then stripped off the bralette, leaving her naked. Next, Camila pulled the hair tie from her hair and let it fall. The steamy air in the bathroom felt like heaven on her skin, the tense muscles in her neck and shoulders already loosening.

When she stepped into the shower, Christopher glanced at her with heavy eyes, drinking her in slowly, like it was the first time, but he kept his distance. She liked the way he looked at her, like she was something rare and special to behold. He turned so he could see her better, but they stayed beneath their separate sprays.

While Camila washed her hair, she snuck a few glances at his perfectly tan, tattooed body. If he saw, he didn't make it known, or at least he didn't chastise her for it. She could admire him for hours and not get tired of the view. With an internal scolding, she turned so he was out of her line of sight.

She found her thoughts drifting to a very similar scene, but a different time. A series of many different times in this very room when there was no space between them, just skin on skin, his long fingers tangled in her hair, lips exploring every single inch of her body. When desire was the ruler of her emotions.

Fingertips brushing the wet hair off the back of her neck and over her shoulder yanked Camila back to now, and her heart nearly stopped. Christopher was standing beneath the spray just behind her. She'd been so wrapped up in her thoughts she hadn't even noticed him come over.

"Where you at?" he hummed, pressing his lips to the spot where her neck and shoulder connected.

Camila shivered, hyper aware of how close he was behind her, the heat of his body giving her goosebumps. His fingers ran down her arm where he laced them through hers, pulling her hand up to press a kiss to the center of her palm. The other hand slid around her waist, resting right over her abdomen.

"I was just thinking," she said softly, eyes fluttering closed.

"About what?"

The sound of his voice was enough to make her melt into him, and she found all rational thought disappearing.

"Us."

She felt him chuckle—a slow, sleepy sound as he kissed his way across her shoulder blade. "Quit makin' me ask and say what's on your mind."

Camila turned her head to see him better, and he looked down with half lidded eyes. He was irresistible, water dripping down his face, his focus entirely on her. Surprising even herself, she leaned up and connected their lips, answering his question without words.

Christopher didn't deny her. He kissed her back, deep and slow, eliciting feelings only he knew how to. It was a sensation she'd desperately missed. She tried to turn in his arms, but he held firm, keeping her right where she was. Keeping her under his control. When he pulled back, he released her hand and cupped her cheek.

"Stop it," he whispered, and she blushed, but kept eye contact.

It was a battle of wills. She waited to see if he would kiss her again, and he waited to see what she wanted, what she was thinking. She could feel his cock hardening, pressing into the small of her back, but he made no move to push her further.

"Tell me what you want, Camila," he said, ghosting his lips across hers, but pulling back when she tried to kiss him.

"Christopher—"

"No."

She bit her bottom lip, drawing his eyes down to the movement. Wanting him and asking for it were two different things. In her mind, she wanted him to let go of his restraints, for him to devour her like only he could, but she didn't know how to say that out loud.

Christopher waited patiently, holding her body tight to him, but there was that look in his eye that told her he wanted an answer.

"I want you," she finally whispered, feeling the heat of embarrassment spreading up from her chest.

He grinned. "You have me. All wrapped around your pretty finger."

“You know what I mean."

"You should be really clear because what I think you might mean, you told me wasn't gonna happen."

The hand on her abdomen slipped lower, and her heart jumped into her throat. His fingertips drew shapes just above where she wanted them. She shifted back, connecting their lower bodies firmly, making a sharp breath leave his chest. He was hard as a rock now. Heat pooled in her lower body that had nothing to do with the temperature of the shower.

"Please fuck me," she managed to get out, leaning up to kiss him again, the words vibrating against his mouth. He let her have it this time, slipping his tongue between her lips to tangle with her own.

He nudged her forward toward the shower wall just out of the spray. She nearly cried with relief. Christopher took her hand again, raising it to rest against the tile, his covering hers as his other finally dipped between her legs, brushing over her clit, making her shudder.

She pulled away from his lips, dropping her forehead and resting it against the tile. His fingers worked over her dripping pussy, mouth dropping to her shoulder, teeth grazing the skin there. It was everything she'd been daydreaming about, but everything she said she wouldn't do if she came here. And yet she needed it, needed him.

He moved his hand lower, slipping a finger inside her, and the groan that came from his lips could've made her come right on the spot. He added a second finger and pumped them slow and torturous. It felt like heaven, but it wasn't enough.

"Please," she begged, resting her other hand on the tile, lips parting when his fingers curled in a way that made her cry out.

"Fuck, Camila." He removed his fingers and used his knee to knock her thighs wider apart. The thought that he was as eager as she was made her body flush even more. He used his free hand to guide his cock to her entrance, and pushed inside.

She tried to pull her hand under his free from the wall, but he held her there, forcing the other one up, caging her in, sinking himself deeper inside her. He stayed like that for what felt like forever, letting her body adjust to him by just barely pulsing in and out of her as he kissed every inch of skin he could reach. After tormenting her for several agonizing moments, his hips moved quicker, body pressing flat against hers.

"Your pussy feels so goddamn good, baby," he whispered in her ear, making her legs turn to jelly as he fucked her. "I missed this, I missed you."

He finally let her hands go, running one up her body to squeeze one of her breasts, brushing over her nipple with his thumb. It sent shocks of electricity straight between her legs, and she gasped, chin dropping to her chest.

Christopher leaned forward and kissed her jaw, teeth nipping at the skin. "Did you miss me, too?"

"Yes." She could barely form words. His cock stroked magic along her walls, his thrusts forceful and fast enough to make her lose her breath.

His hand moved back down between her legs, circling her clit with expert precision. "Tell me."

"Yes, I missed you," she gasped, latching onto his forearm and digging her nails in hard enough to leave indents. A ball of pleasure had begun to form in her lower body.

"I want you to come for me, baby,"

She moaned his name, unable to hold it in at his encouragement, the sound of his hips snapping against hers making her tremble. He took her chin in his other hand and forced her to look up at him, to meet his gaze. She could feel herself falling apart, and by the way he stared down at her, he liked the mess he'd made. Her eyes fluttered closed as she reached the precipice, so close to tipping over the edge into sheer bliss.

"Look at me," he whispered, his own pleasure thick in his voice. She opened her eyes, her lips parting as the hunger in his voice made the ball of pleasure explode.

The orgasm took her breath away, snatching it right from her chest, but Christopher held her tight and fucked her through it, not giving her an inch of space to pull back. It went on for what felt like forever, sapping every ounce of energy from her, and she was grateful for his grip or she would've dropped like a stone.

Just as hers was dissipating, his hit him full force, and she gazed up at him with heavy, satiated eyes. She loved the way his own eyes closed, his mouth dropping open, breath hitching in his chest. When Christopher opened his eyes again, he stole a kiss, his cock softening inside her. He pulled out and rested his forehead against her shoulder to catch his breath.

The water was still running hot, and Camila had to thank whoever installed the water heater in his building. When her legs felt steady enough, she pulled out of his hold and moved back under the spray, washing away the sweat and come from her skin. Christopher watched her with a half smirk, looking satisfied.

He joined her under the spray, pressing a hand to the tiny bump of her abdomen, the other running up from her ass to the cradle back of her neck. "Boy or girl," he asked.

It was a question she'd pondered for hours and hours over the last few weeks. Who would this little life be?

"Girl," she finally said, leaning up to kiss him. "You've got 'girl dad' in your DNA."

Christopher laughed, the smile covering his entire face, and Camila couldn't help but be smitten. "Why would you wish that on me? A lifetime of ass beatings and threats."

"Come on, I'm getting wrinkly."

Camila stepped out of the shower on shaky legs, Christopher right behind. She slipped into a robe on the hook on the wall and brushed her fingers through her hair, looking herself over in the mirror. He came to stand behind her, a towel tied around his waist.

He watched her as she pulled bottles from the cabinets—facial serum and moisturizers she'd stocked here when they were together. It warmed her heart to find them right where she left them, completely untouched like he knew she would be back.

"So, a girl, huh?" he asked, and she met his gaze in the mirror.

"I hope so."

He smiled, but shook his head. "I guess I should start prayin' now. I got a lot of bad karma just waitin' to rain down on my head."

"Hey, it's going to be okay either way."

He took a step forward and hugged her from behind, squeezing her tight and pressing a kiss to her temple. "Yeah, we will."

Finally, while she was putting lotion on her legs, he walked out of the bathroom, leaving her to finish getting ready for bed in a peaceful silence. By the time she was finished, Christopher had changed into sweats and pulled down the covers on the bed. He was putting on deodorant when she came back in.

"Get in bed, mama," he said, turning out the lights, leaving them in near darkness except for the city lights shining in through the enormous windows.

Camila thought the way he demanded nearly everything in life would get under her skin and drive them apart, but after the last few weeks of work without him around, she relished the way she could turn her mind off. It made her feel cozy and warm inside.

She slid between the sheets on her side of the bed, and he followed after adjusting the thermostat and closing the door. They laid beside each other for a while without speaking until he broke the silence.

"See, tucked in before midnight," he said, and she could hear the smirk without even seeing his face.

"I do believe I said coming home with you was a bad idea, though, and I was right."

He laughed. "My intentions were pure, I promise. You were the poor influence."

She reached out and swatted at his chest. Christopher snatched her up by the wrist and dragged her into his chest. She wound her arms around his waist and pressed a kiss to one of the scars on his chest—the bullet wound that'd pierced through to his lung. The one that nearly killed him.

"I want you to fire her," Camila said softly.

"What?"

She sat up a little so she could see his face. "Beth. She almost killed you once. She should never get the chance to try again."

The wheels turned inside his head, she could see it as he held her gaze. "You gonna stick around this time?"

"I'm here aren't I?"

"You gonna keep me a secret?" One of his eyebrows cocked curiously. "I give a little, you give a little, sweetheart." He brushed a finger over her bottom lip.

"No, you won't be a secret."

Christopher kissed her softly. "Good."

[call-sign-shark]

Little Lamb part. 2 || Arthur Shelby x Reader x OFC

Summary: You discover that Arthur is already married when you are faced with his wife. Worst, she seems to already know about you. Did she see you flirting with her husband? (Yandere! Arthur Shelby x Reader x Yandere!OFC)

TW: (for the entire short series) Toxic dynamic, polyamory relationship, murders, torture, graphic depiction of violence, heavy allusion to smut, obsessive behavior, possessive!lovers, angst and horror. Inspired by the song The Things I Do For Love by Bludnymph.

Words: 1.3 K

Notes:

✞ 0 proofreading, it's also prolly bad written but it's just a little something I write for fun.

✞ Heaven in Reader in the ongoing Arthur x You series Heaven in Your Eyes.

PREVIOUS PART

Six months ago.

She hasn't stopped crying since they came back from the doctor's office. With his long and bony fingers lost in her wild silver mane, Arthur gently massages his wife's scalp in a desperate attempt to chase her troubles away.

"It's goin' to be okay, love." His usually loud baritone voice had turned into a tender hush. Gathering all his protective nature to remain the reassuring one, he presses a kiss on top of her head,

"No, it's not! What's wrong with me?!" She roars through her sobs, her fists weakly hitting Arthur's chest in frustration as her pain blends with a self-targeted rage. Usually, Heaven Shelby is not the emotive kind — quite the opposite, the young French girl's tears were as scarce as the most precious stones, only falling from her aquamarine eyes when the situation was truly catastrophic. Arthur himself could hold count of the few times she cried on a single hand. Yet, she seems unable to stop, her face hidden in the crook of her husband's neck and her salty tears dampening the fabric of his shirt.

"Don't fucking say there's someth' wrong with ya." Trying his best to remain gentle, Arthur shifts a little before cupping her doll face and then forces her to face his stern steel-blue eyes. The look she gave him, filled with inconsolable sorrow, broke his heart into pieces.

How he hates watching her in pain — it makes him feel powerless and boiling from the inside because, this time, there is literally nothing he can do to fix it. Nothing his fists can destroy, nothing his kisses can heal. All he has is words, and God knew how bad he is with them. "I don't care if ya can't have a baby, what matters is you. Only you." Still, he tried, wiping her tears and the remnant of her mascara with a soft caress from his thumbs. “Please stop crying…”

"But you've always wanted to be a father." She said through gritted teeth, her fleshy lower lip trembling and her eyes overflowing once again as she fought against another wave of uncontrollable sadness, "The night of our wedding I promised I'll give you a family and look at me! Look at me Arthur! I can't even be pregnant! This is... This is fucking unfair..." Her voice cracked. Unfair that John could spawn a whole football team. Unfair that Tommy got Grace's pregnant after fucking her only once when she came back from America while she couldn’t for the life of hers. Arthur let out a long exhale through his nostrils before wrapping his arms around her waist again, forehead pressed against forehead and eyes locked together in a tender embrace.

"Listen, little one. I don't care about babies. Don't care about anything in all this fucking world as long as you're by my side. If you can't have children and wanna grieve about it well it’s fine with me, but if you do want one we'll find a way. I promise we’ll find a way.”

"Arthur told me about you." No matter how patient and calmly she expresses herself, you can't help but feel each of her words like painful razor blades.

Discreetly behind the bar, your grip clenches around the wooden counter for you are convinced your legs wouldn't handle your weight if you let go of it. "Made me curious about this new pretty barmaid, even though the last one ended up dead and cold. Gun wounds in the chest area are pretty deadly. I truly hope you'll last longer."

As you stand there, eyes wide open and face dropping a few shades paler, an overwhelming wave of terror crashes through your body and leaves you petrified. Every muscle tenses, locking you in place as your heart pounds furiously in your chest. You don't know what it is about her — the frozen beauty, the frightening discourse, or the faulty contact in her eyes when she smiles — but it made cold sweat trickle down your spine. . "Oh, eeerr... I—" You try to speak but your brain just doesn't cooperate and your breath remains stuck in your throat. All the confidence you've built these past few weeks is destroyed in one batting of her doe lashes.

She notices it.

Hell, you're so obvious that everybody does.

"Hey," She says, her creepy smile withering and the ice of her iris melting, "I was just messing with you, little Lamb." Nimble, she leans over the bar and reaches for your face, her sly fingers offering you the most gentle caress you've ever felt grazing your skin. Her flesh is cold, smooth like marble, but despite everything the physical contact sends warmth into your soul, and in consequences your body quickly retrieves its ability to move, "I'm sorry, I knew I was terrible at making friends but not that much." The white-haired doll winks before stepping back to give you more space to breath, concluding her sentence with a little candid chuckle.

"Oh no, it's my bad!" You quickly replied, a sense of utter guilt washing over you for having thought she was being a bitch by trying to scare you, "I haven't got much sleep lately and it makes me quite sensitive. You've done nothing wrong." With a grateful exhale, you close your eyes briefly, savoring the sensation of safety as well as the fragrances of her refined perfume that envelop you. A shy smile finally enlightens your face.

"I wish I'd look as pretty as you when I'm sleep-deprived but unfortunately, I turn into a goblin when I don't have my beauty sleep." Her joke sweeps away the remaining tension and snatches genuine amused laughter from you. Heaven finally offers you one last smile before making her way to Arthur, who was sitting further, far too busy talking with John and Finn.

"Hey! Your glass of wine!" You call her.

"It's yours! Cheers, babe." She replies cheerfully, almost singing as she leaves your side.

You've tried to hate her, you’ve really tried, but you couldn't.

She didn’t make it easy either.

During the same evening, each time you came to the Shelby table to refill their glasses, you ended up quickly distracted from the pain of seeing her all snuggled up against Arthur's chest by how kind and bubbly she was when you were around. Always complimenting you and eager to chat with you — little insignificant and transparent you. So much that a part of you felt horrible at the thought that you have been flirting and planning to get involved with her husband. When they left the pub late at night -or rather early in the morning-, you found a ridiculous amount of money on the table, and under those banknotes was a little bracelet made of daisies, their stems carefully intertwined together by skilled fingers.

Did you wear it? Of course, it was made with love.

In the days that followed this unexpected meeting, Arthur's wife came to the Garrison and always left a homemade something for you to eat since you had told her that you struggled with eating more than one meal a day due to your financial problems. The food wasn't just good, it was certainly the most delicious dishes you had ever tasted. France, they say, has one of the finest gastronomy in the world and you learned the veracity of this statement the best way. It didn't take long for both of you to become friends first, then inseparable after some time.

Alongside this very unexpected friendship, Arthur's demeanor toward you hadn't changed the slightest — which didn't help forgetting about him. Every slight touch, every smile, and every word exchanged made your heart race in your chest the same as before, if not faster.

Lost and torn by the conflicting feelings of a friendship you genuinely cherished and your growing affection for your best friend's husband, you felt like your own reflection in the mirror was judging you. But if there was something you weren’t it was wicked.

Maybe that was why this battle between desire and loyalty had led you to stutter the following statement to the white-haired and crystal-eyed angel:

"Heaven, I'm so sorry. I think I am in love with Arthur."

Taglist: @adaydreamaway08 @jomarch-wannabe @esposadomd @zablife @woofgocows @anathemasworld @anastasia0000 @kate654 @kxnnxy @babayaga67 @meowtastick @shelbyssins @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @bluevenus19 @justrainandcoffee @kishie8 @alexandra-001 @dearshelby @alexizodd @helen06dreamer @kmc1989 @emotionalcadaver @peakyswritings @peakyltd @chaosinkest1996 @vanhelsingsbigtoe @cherubswhispers @he6rtshaker @bemyqueenofdarkness @cljordan-imperium @cjarbo @rysko @red-riding-wood

[alphabetboyluvr]

back to you | knj

REQUEST | @btsgotjams27

VIBES | angst 

SOUNDTRACK | back to you - alexander stewart

HOLLY'S NOTE | tense jaw namjoon gets me feeling a certain type of way so thank youuuu for requesting this!! no warnings - references to shagging cos ofc and approx (1) questionable reference to Saint Augustine lmao. also joonie is 25 in this!! don't shout at me!! i know he's not 25 irl!!

WORD COUNT | 2.5k

Namjoon watches the metronome on his desk tick... tick... tick..., ignoring the glare of the monitor screens in front of him.

There are two. One's open on the definition of a word that's been lodged in his frontal lobe for months, now, and the other is crammed full to the brim with dark grey producing software that he's sick of seeing. The windows open encase remnants of love songs that he can't seem to finish. 

It's not for a lack of trying. Just impossible, he thinks. 

They're an amalgamation of a love he never thought he'd lose, and the hopes of a future basking in it; notes of adoration dedicated to a devotion he didn't realise was quite so delicate, until his clumsy hands got a hold of it. 

Mementoes for memories he can't bring himself to relive, they sit; solemn, unchanged. It's been like this for months. They're artefacts, now. Relics. Souvenirs. Trophies of a conquest he never entirely won; a bygone era in which his hair was lighter and the sun shone more frequently. Eventually, they'll be laid to rest in the paper waste icon down in the far corner of his screen. 

No good. Not fit for use. Discarded before they've reached full maturity. 

"Maturity," he mimics the screen with great contempt. He's 25. Brain's developed. Science says so. 

And yet the loss he's mourning is all thanks to his perceived 'maturity,' or lack thereof. 

It's not like you're dead, or anything dramatic like that. He knows he's being irrational. Knows his immaturity is shining through as he wallows in self-pity, four empty takeout cups of coffee waiting to be thrown away on the edge of his desk. He only leaves the studio to shower. 

Doesn't even really sleep much these days. Has grown a little stubble; wonders if maybe that would make you think he was more mature. More grown-up. He sneers a little as he jots down a lyric idea; something about fine wine, how it ages, and how it was ironic you preferred cheap-as-shit soju instead of the bottles in his cooler.

In fact, when he really thinks about it, Namjoon thinks you were fucking mad to cite 'maturity' as a reason for you to break up. 

He's old before his time; grew up quickly cause he didn't have a choice. Took it as an insult when you said 'we're at different stages in our lives.' Knows damn well he'd have stood on any stage with you. Fuck Wembley, fuck Jamsil, fuck SoFi. Fuck 'em all if they meant he couldn't have you.

But Namjoon would never give it up. You knew this at the time, and truthfully, so did he. 

You would have never asked him to - but you can't dictate your life around him, and his plans, and his obligations. You've desires and goals of your own. Five years his senior, the impending pressures of your friends settling down - celebrating milestone anniversaries, moving back to your hometown to raise their families after their wild twenties spent in the big cities - was getting to you. It felt like you were lagging behind. 

Whether either of you liked it or not, your relationship was a huge factor in that. You couldn't even tell your friends you were dating him. It's not like you ever wanted a huge legacy, but the erasure of your history together hurt. 

A year of your life has been lost to a relationship that you can never speak of. There's an NDA. And even if there wasn't, you've too much respect for him to ever go against his wishes, or put him in a situation that could implode everything he's worked so tirelessly for.

So yeah, maybe you were out of line when you said he was immature, but no adult woman wants to live her life in hiding.

Nor does he - but he thinks the fact he that makes the conscious choice to live his life so privately is mature. Thinks if you were ever to call him, he'd block you. Show you what immature really looks like.

But you never do, so he never will.

Instead, he just scoffs again. "Immature," he mutters, shaking his head as he slouches into his desk chair. It spins ever so gently, Namjoon too irritated to stop it - but then he's facing the sofa and he's right back where he started.

See, Namjoon has been thinking a lot about you lately. It's time to submit his mixtape to the company; time for them to approve it for release. Trouble is, he hasn't been able to work on it since you left. 

You've been in California for eight months. Since last August. Eight fucking months, and he hasn't touched a single thing, because it's all tainted with you. Stained. Ruined. 

It's your favourite classical symphony sampled beneath the opening track; your lyrical suggestion in the bridge of his third track; your name he wordplays into obscurity on his fifth track. No one would ever be able to decipher it. It's just for him.

A little bit of you preserved forevermore; from a time when you were still his.

Kind of like the folder his mouse is hovering over. 

It's password protected. Called 'drafts'. Looks inconspicuous. Just another plain folder icon. Nothing interesting. At least, it looks that way. 

He can't bring himself to get rid of it - and yet the tick... tick... tick... of his metronome becomes the click-click-click of his mouse as he follows the electronic pathway back to you.  

Namjoon enters the password. Knows he shouldn't. Knows he should also change the password, because typing in your birthday is fucking painful at this point.  

There are six files in the folder. Voice notes. Audio files marked with dates and time stamps of last summer. 

Above anything, he knows he shouldn't press play.

But he's 'immature'. Of course he'll do what he shouldn't - or at least that's how the voice in his head taunts him as he presses down on the play icon.

"Is it going?" Your voice echoes into the room. You giggle. Namjoon hears himself confirm that it is. He can picture it now. Remembers the shirt of his you'd been wearing after he'd snuck you into the company building. Knows exactly which part of his studio sofa you'd been on. "Okay, okay. Cool. What do you want me to do?"

"Just speak."

His voice sounds tender. Far softer than it does these days. He thinks he's grown since back then. Thinks he's matured. Thinks maybe if you'd have met him now, instead of then, perhaps it would have lasted.

"About what?" You had said with a laugh, and Namjoon finds himself burying his head in his hands at his desk.

"Anything. Everything. Your mind fascinates me, gorgeous."

"You're the one with genius-level, IQ," you had fondly teased him. "No one more fascinating than you. Did you really have to wear those sweats, though? You know they turn my mind to jelly."

"I can take them off, if it'll help."

"Keep them on," your voice had lowered. In the studio, Namjoon groans into his hands. Knows what's coming next. "Wanna see how much of a mess I make when I ride your-"

His nimble fingers race to the space bar, pausing the audio clip. Has listened to it enough times to know exactly what happens afterwards. 

It's not like he needs the recording to remember. He remembers it all. 

Remembers the semi he'd had at the time, and how the way you'd looked at him had him growing to full stiffness. Remembers the way you'd carried on talking nonsense when you were straddled across his thigh; and the way the conversation had dissolved into you being incredibly vocal about exactly what you wanted him to do with you. To you. For you.

And so it had become a goal: he'd been after the perfect moan to hide deep within the layers of his closing track. Would record you every now and again in the midst of a fuck. Would tell you how good you sound, how much he wants the world to hear you. Would say shit like 'you've got a voice that'll ruin lives, gorgeous,' or something about Augustine, and how he'd have never converted to celibacy if he'd have met you. Would whine along with you, and thank the lucky stars his apartment spanned over two floors - his poor neighbours probably would have complained, otherwise. 

He puffs out his cheeks and sighs. Tilts his head back against the top of his chair, and lets his hand fall to his crotch. He palms it slightly; firm from the thoughts of your clammy body sticking to his, and the musky scent that he wished he could have bottled up for times like these.

"Get a grip," he berates himself, and spins back to the desk. He needs to get his feelings out. Speak them into existence. Admit that he misses you, and that he's been a bit of a mess since you've been gone. His mental block isn't going away anytime soon, so he may as well try a little honesty in its place. 

He opens up the software for the mic that he keeps on his desk for rough recordings, and clicks on the red circle. Kind of feels kind of like a stop sign to him.

"Stop what?" he questions into the void. "Thinking about her? Avoiding her favourite coffee shop, even though it was mine too? Wasting all this fucking space in my brain like it's a storage unit for memories of her? I don't want them. I don't need them. Why can't I let them go? Why is she still in my head? And why am I scared of the day she won't be?"

He rambles and he rambles. Cries not once but four times.  Goes on and on about why you're the fucking worst, and then he spirals into how much he loves the way you laugh, and how he's never felt anything better than your arms wrapped around his waist. Gushes about how committed you are to your work, and how much he's in awe of the way you prioritise yourself. Is proud when he mentions your achievements; is pissed off when he mentions the little quirks of yours he didn't love.

They're lies, of course. He loved everything you did - but it makes him feel better to feign hatred.

Makes him feel like it was his choice. Like he's the one who left. 

He's pulled from his thoughts when his phone begins to ring. It's on loud, so he lets it ring for a bit. Knows it could sound good on the recording. He reaches over for his phone and rubs his spare hand over his face to psyche himself up. 

It's probably just Yoongi, he thinks, like it normally is, wondering if he's at the office building. He doesn't check the caller ID - just answers it and automatically switches to speakerphone. 

"Wassup?" He says into the receiver, far chirpier than he was during his rant. He's still a little dry, but he's performing now. Pretending like everything is fine.

There's a moment of silence. Namjoon's eyes flick to his phone screen. Checks the caller ID. Blood runs cold.

And then, there's a 'hey.' 

Namjoon is the silent one, now. Doesn't know what to fucking say - and thankfully, you hate empty spaces in conversations. 

So you fill it. 

"I quit my job," you tell him. 

Why you think he would care is beyond him.

But the last he knew, you loved your job. Something feels... uneasy within him. He remains silent. Lets you speak.

"There's a red-eye flight that leaves in four hours. LA to Seoul. I know it's..." You cut yourself off, struggling to find the right words to say. "Look, I know it's been eight months, and I know it's been rough. I thought I could do this whole 'life' thing without you, Nam, but... Fuck. I don't think I can. I... I think maybe I was the one who needed to mature. I know I put you through hell, but if I get on that flight, will you be there at the other end?"

It's a simple question, really - yes or no - yet it feels so much heavier than that. Feels like commitment. Feels like something he isn't ready for. Feels like something you rescinded your right to a long fucking time ago.

And so Namjoon laughs. It's cold. Is guaranteed to make you cry. He doesn't care.

"No."

The call ends, his finger forcefully tapping on the red button of his phone. He knows it'll hurt. Thinks 'good'. Reckons you deserve it. 

But then he's scrambling; dialling your number back, holding his phone to ear, stomach in his throat, heart in tatters, swallowing back tears that threaten to fall on his part. 

Being a cunt was much less satisfying than he thought it would be. In fact, if anything, it makes him feel even fucking worse. 

All he wants is to see you. It's the only thing he wants.

You take a while to answer. He was right. It did make you cry. Mainly because you know you do deserve it. 

There's no 'hello' when you answer. You say sorry, instead. "It was out of line for me to ask."

"Yeah," he says. "Kinda was."

"I just... I had to know. Eight months is a long time, isn't it? It's really fucking long."

Namjoon pauses. Bites down on his lip as it shakes. Sighs. "The flight... when does it land?"

"Nine-thirty."

"A.M.?"

"Yes."

"Into Incheon?"

"Uh-huh."

He can hear the tears you're fighting. Wonders if you can hear his. 

"Get the flight," he finally says. "I'll meet you there."

"Wait... are you sur-"

He doesn't let you finish. He's had eight months of fucking torture without you. Eight months to think about all the things he wishes he could have done differently, eight months to play scenarios in his head. Eight months. 

He can't go through it again. Can't be without you. It's too fucking hard. 

"Get your ass on that flight," he says, stern in his tone. 

"It's one-way," you warn him.

And even though you can't see him, you know there's a dimple in his cheek. Know he's smiling. Know it feels like a weight has lifted from his chest, because it feels that way for you, too.

"It better fucking be."

[vacant--body]

stay with me pt 5

<azriel x ofc>

warnings: angst. lots of it. SH kinda, mentions of suîćîdë

part one, part two, part three, part four

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Azriel couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t fucking breathe. The overwhelming tightness was strangling his lungs, crushing his already broken heart. And someone was screaming, he couldn’t hear anything over the screaming.

Where was he, anyway?

He tried to take in his surroundings, to see where and what was going on. But his vision was so fucking blurry he couldn’t make out anything other than the outline of people. They were standing over him, trying to haul him up. Apparently he was laying on the ground, clutching something wet and warm to his chest. But the pain, which radiated over his entire body, wouldn’t let him move, even if he wanted to. It hurt too much.

“Azriel!” Someone screamed.

He felt the sting of a slap land across his face, and suddenly the whole world came back into focus.

It was Azriel that was screaming, voice raw. His vision cleared, of what he realized were tears, and the grief stricken faces of his family appeared. And he also realized he was speaking, repeating the same words over and over again.

“No, no, no!”

“Stay with me!”

All consuming anguish slammed into him. Ophelia was dead. Ophelia, his mate. His fucking mate, was dead. Azriel couldn’t feel her on the other side of the bond anymore. Couldn’t feel her chest rise with life-saving air, he just couldn’t feel her. Her beautiful eyes would never open, her mouth would never tip to the side with a cheeky smile, and he wouldn’t ever get to hear his name on his lips again.

Dead.

He held onto her tighter, how he should have all those nights ago. He should have told her everything when he had the chance, should have beared his fucking soul to her. Even if she had rejected him, he still should have told her.

“Madja is on her way.” Azriel heard someone say. He was so lost in his agony he had no idea who was speaking. “Azriel, we need you to let her go”

A primal snarl tore from his lips, and they backed away, hands up in a placating gesture.

“You’re going to have to knock him out.” Another said.

“I know. I’m just afraid of what he’ll do when he wakes.”

Cool hands grabbed onto his temple and Azriel thrashed, trying to throw whoever that was off of him. He was like a raging wild animal, like something out of the Middle. He was no longer the calm and collected male like everyone knew. It was pure carnal rage.

Long, razor sharp claws tore their way through his minds shield, destroying them to get inside. Azriel screamed louder, blood trickling from his nose. The sounds of his family faded away, so all that was left was the sound of soft spoken voices, cooing and hushing him. Lulling him to sleep. He fought, pushing back against those claws. But they only held on tighter.

Slowly, he slumped to the ground, arms falling away from Ophelia’s bleeding body.

And sleep consumed him.

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Azriel woke with a start, like something had scared him out of his deep slumber. That hadn’t been a normal sleep, it was only darkness with him floating forever in the nothingness. But he still felt pain raging all over his body. The pain of the mating bond breaking, slowly fading away into nothing.

Would that be all that’s left? Nothing?

He sat up sluggishly, the joints in his body popping and cracking. He was no longer out in that cursed field, but tucked into his room in the House of Wind. His bloody leathers had been stripped from his body, replaced with leisure clothes. Someone had changed and bathed him, as he saw no signs of her blood anywhere on his body. How long had he been out?

Getting to his feet, he walked towards the door. But he stopped as he passed the mirror, seeing his ghastly reflection. Azriel studied himself, hating what stared back. His wings now dragged behind him, the talons scraping the floor. There were deep purple marks under his bloodshot eyes, like he had been crying while he slept. And he looked incredibly pale, skin taking on a sickly pallor.

The look of someone with an utterly shattered heart. That’s what he looked like now.

A messy knot of emotions rose up his throat and Azriel stumbled, grasping the wood of the dressing table. His shoulders shook with each deep inhale he took, but it just seemed like he couldn’t catch his breath. His fingers gripped the wood so tightly that they turned white. He just couldn’t get his head clear, couldn’t stop hearing her broken cries.

Whimpering with frustration, he lashed out, his closed fist connecting with the mirror. It exploded into a thousand tiny pieces, small shards embedding themselves in his knuckles. Thick red blood seeped out of his wounds, but already his Illyrian healing was trying to take control. He watched numbly as his cuts turned pink with new skin, but was instantly shredded back open by the glass.

Suddenly, the door flew open and Cassian rushed in. He halted in his tracks, taking in the scene of his brother standing there with a shattered mirror and blood running down his hand.

“You’re awake.” He croaked, eyes misty with unshed tears.

Azriel didn’t respond. Instead, he picked up a scrap of linen and wrapped it around his knuckles to staunch the bleeding.

“You’ll need that cleaned out, there’s glass-”

“No.” Azriel snarled.

“Az…” Cassian tried, taking small steps in his direction.

“I said no!” His teeth flashed. “Fuck the glass, fuck everything! There is nothing left for me here, my mate is fucking dead. DEAD. And I might as well join her!”

They both stood there in deafening silence, just staring at each other. The realization of what Azriel had just admitted struck Cassian like a slap. His breath hitched in his chest, and Cassians mouth opened and closed, as if he were a fish out of water, trying to think of something to say. But there was nothing he could say that would take away this hurt.

“But she lives.”

Except that.

Azriels head snapped towards his brother, eyes going so wide that they almost popped straight out of his head.

“What?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Madja brought her back. She’ still unconscious but-”

Azriel didn’t stick around to hear the rest of what he said, because he burst past Cassian, sprinting towards her room. Alive? She was alive? He couldn’t wrap his destroyed thoughts around it. He had felt the bond break, and watched her take her last breath, how could she be alive? This had to be some type of cruel joke his brothers were playing on him, there was no way-

He opened Ophelia’s bedroom door so hard that it bounced off the wall, hinges rattling with the force. He took a step, and then another, before his knees gave out. But Rhys was there, catching him under his arm, and kept him upright.

“Easy, brother.” His voice was soft, softer than he had ever heard it.

What Azriel saw confused him. Ophelia was there, laying on her bed as if she was sleeping. She had been washed and changed just as Azriel had, no traces of blood remaining on her. Feyre and Madja stood on the other side of the bed, and the two stared at him, unsure of what his next move would be.

“How?” Azriel’s voice broke, and for the millionth time that day, tears rushed to his eyes.

“We got to her just in time.” Madja was there, putting various medical supplies back into a bag. The old female turned to Feyre and said something under her breath. But his shadows heard her.

Watch him. The bond hasn’t returned, and I’m afraid he’ll do something…something I can’t heal.

Feyre nodded and thanked the healer before dismissing her.

“How are you feeling, Az?” Feyre asked, and just then Rhys released the grip he had on Azriels arm.

But he didn’t hear her. Instead, he slowly crept towards the edge of Ophelia’s bed. She looked so incredibly peaceful, like the events of the past week hadn't happened at all.

He took her slender hand in his, and it was so cold. He supposed that was normal considering how much blood she had lost. They had been laying in a puddle of it. And still, it just didn’t seem possible that she was alive.

“Why hasn’t the bond returned?” Azriel whispered, scared that if spoke too loud it would wake her.

“Madja said it would take time.” Rhys said, coming to his side.

Time. If there was anything Azriel knew how to do was wait. He had waited his entire life for Ophelia, he could wait just a little bit longer. So, he grabbed a reclining chair and dragged it to the side of her bed, and plopped down in it.

“What are you doing?” Feyre asked softly.

“Waiting.”

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Three things were clear to Ophelia as she laid in the eternal darkness.

One, her mother was Lady of the Autumn Court and her father was Lord of the Day Court, and Lucien was her brother.

Two, her entire body was screaming in pain. It was a never ending barrage, it felt she was being set on fire over and over again. It felt like she was being stripped of her flesh, and someone was sticking needles in the exposed skin.

Three, Azriel was her mate.

Mate.

The cauldron had blessed and cursed her with a mate. And out of everyone, in the entirety of Prythian, it was him. Azriel.

His name on her tongue felt like taking a cold, refreshing gulp of water. It felt like life, death, and everything in between. Something as big as ruling the world seemed possible with him by her side, or even just getting out of bed for the day. Knowing that he was there, waiting for her. She could do it all.

But where was he?

He wasn’t here with her, in this endless pit of dark nothingness. But she could sense him, his scent lingering on the tip of her nose. It was smokey and sweet, the boldness of each taste coming together each time, it was intoxicating. Like she could drown in him, but he would be there to keep her afloat.

Ophelia could feel him now. He was so close but yet so far away. It felt like she could reach out and touch him, but when she tried, her body screamed in protest. Everything hurt. Every miniscule movement that was made had her already exhausted mind slip farther and farther into the darkness.

So she laid there, feeling nothing and everything. Waiting for her mate.

Azriel.

[pininghermit]

Being Nanami's Younger Sibling

Genre: feels and angst

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Sibling Reader (platonic ofc)

Summary: Admiring your older brother's every move was your birth right.

⚠️Spoilers ahead!⚠️

AN: I haven't read the manga. I've watched season one and I do not have the heart to watch season two without multiple breakdowns. So, please ignore plot holes, I am doing this because I googled the plot for fun (┬┬﹏┬┬). I want to do this series for some more jjk characters lmk if you guys are interested. P.S. I cried writing this.

Born out of a cryptic pregnancy, you were an unexpected addition to the family. Your brother, Kento, was just eight years old when you came into the world, and your life from day one revolved around him. Those tiny hands of yours reached out with joyful gurgles the moment your mom handed you to Kento.

He was always the cool sibling even when he kicked you out of his room or didn't take you on his friend's birthday party.

Like a devoted shadow, you were a clingy sibling with a tendency to follow your brother despite the stern looks or eye rolls thrown your way.

Maybe that was the reason that in order to stick by your quiet brother, you learned to fill the silence with your rambles. Even adapted to the shamelessness of ignoring your brother's apparent annoyance with you.

Your phase of copying him did not come as a surprise. Subtle side eyes, peaking over his side, waiting for him to pick something, all to know your brother's choices and making them yours.

Much to your rare embarrassment, you did end up copying your brother's high school hairstyle which remains a tragedy for both of you.

However, it wasn't your insistent following that endeared you to your brother or so you thought. Rather it was your failing grade in mathematics and a traumatic homework session with dad that led you to your brother.

Just when your eyes were full of tears as your tried to please your dad, scared of angering him further, your brother Kento looked up from his book. Sat next to you and taught you gently. Since that day, your brother became your tutor. A respite from your dad's hell tutoring.

That evening you promised to love your brother the most. Give him everything he wanted. Make him proud. You didn't say it out loud, those thoughts were too sweet to be said even by a loose tongued you. Laying in your bed, you looked up to your brother, quite literally, his bunk bed was above yours.

Sneaking you video games he had no interest in, asking for presents that you had been drooling over and he just ended up not needing, asking for your favorite foods on his special days your brother showed love in the most subtle but beautiful ways.

And when he became a sorcerer, your brother became your hero quite literally. For the first time in your life, you found yourself researching something with such passion.

He liked it. Your brother was noble. His heart found joy in saving people. He himself did not realize it for the longest time.

But then he left it all. You remember the ending years of your high school, when your brother took a normal job. Working fixed hours of the day. He needed it. Yet, it was not what he wanted. You could see it.

His eyes no longer gleamed at the end of the day. He was present. Yet, lost at the same time.

During the initial years of college, you lived with him. His apartment was conveniently close to your university. In those peaceful times, you spent evenings taste-testing his cooking, dragging him to college bars and then carrying him back because he drank more than the entire bar combined. Maybe an ordinary life suited Nanami yet, it was missing something as if an amazing cookie without a pinch of salt to bring out it's sweetness.

But it returned. The spark in his eyes came from the bloodied arm on Tuesday evening. Just like that, your brother went back to being a sorcerer.

So, despite the lingering bruises or rare injuries you supported him. What else could you do? You only followed him whatever path he went. Even the days when his blood scared you, you merely helped him with first aid or drove him to the nearest hospital.

You did not burden him with your fears, or your anxiety. His job was to protect the people, and your job was to worry for him.

But your tears did come. On instances when, you sat alone in a silent hospital corridor, you allowed yourself to be scared for your brother. You cried your heart out before wiping your tears and helping your brother with a simple soup that you cooked.

Maybe that day your brother sensed your sorrow. Perhaps that was the reason why he hugged you so tightly. Or simply ignored your soft sobs while hugging you.

But now, everything in the world feels different, foreign. It's as though the tether that once held you to this world has been severed. He never returned, and you were never given an answer. So you waited, evening after evening at six, but he never came back.

Your parents held a funeral, but you couldn't bring yourself to believe it. How could he be gone? He'd been by your side since your first breath. How could your world possibly exist without him?

Huddled in your childhood bunk bed, you'd look up at his empty bed. "Come back, please," you'd whisper, closing your eyes, hoping that when you opened them, it would all be a bad dream. You waited for him to come and take away the nightmare, just like he did on the nights when you couldn't sleep after watching a horror movie.

It became increasingly difficult to find joy in the world he had saved, as it felt so wrong without him. Did he know how much you treasured him? Did you hug him before he left that day? Was he wronged, was he in pain? You could never know.

You could have stopped him. He left in front of your eyes and you let him. Now you couldn't find him. No matter how hard you tried.

"Don't go where I cannot follow," your whispers were loud echoes in the quiet apartment.

[enviedear]

Hi I love your neighbor!Ben oneshot!! Can I ask if you have anymore headcanons for him?

—aw hi nonnie! ofc i do, i'm always thinking about neighbor!ben. thank you for sending in an ask <3

request | masterlist

neighbor!BEN SOLO...

— he is most definitely the kind of neighbor to knock on your door and ask for sugar or some shit. he always insists it's for leia, but he won't admit that he's the one telling his mom that he'll run over to yours and ask.

"hey neighbor, mom wanted to know if you have any powdered sugar?" "gosh ben, i just gave you some."

— he loves spending his free time in his garage, wide open, blaring music and working on his (and han's) car. i think these songs would be frequently playing from his speaker, 1 | 2 | 3

— insists on mowing your grass, even though your dad can do it just fine. no, ben likes having an excuse to strut around shirtless in your yard. he also will never accept payment for it.

"i can't let you pay me, sir. it's really no trouble."

— when he and his parents get invited over for dinner he'll make sure to ask you about all things poli-sci (he loves to bring up his minor all the time), headlining legal news, and nineteeth century philosophers. if you can keep up with him, he'll get sardonic and try to get you to fumble. if you're lost, he'll be subtly demeaning and solipsistic.

"let me guess? you think dostoevsky had the world figured out don't you?" "yes. why? do you want me to follow the teachings of comte as religiously as you?" he'd grin, "i'm just making conversation, kid."

— ben would always go on night runs, and on days he actually gets off on time, they end up coenciding with the time you walk your dog. he'll find so much joy in catching up to you and annoying the absolute shit out of you.

"you and cujo should really speed up, i can't jog the entire time." "no one asked you to stay with us."

— on the night run note, one evening he'd see a 'missing dog' poster that barely resembles yours and he'd accuse you of being a dog napper.

"holy shit kid, you can't steal people's dogs!" "shut up solo! i haven't stolen anyone's dog." "oh yeah? then why does this ankle biter look exactly like the one in the picture?"

— he really would just do any stupid or barely thought-out thing to get your attention

— he has no personal space, at least when it comes to you. he'll brush against you no question to grab something, he'll let his hands rest on your shoulders when he's behind you, and he'll cut your steak for you without even giving you a questioning glance.

"i can do some things myself you know." you'd groan, when he begins to cut your rib-eye. only for your mother to pipe in, "honey he's being nice! ignore her ben!"

— ben would constantly be invited to family trips, dinners, and events. especially when your parents catch wind that leia and han aren't home much. so expect ben solo to come along for a day trip into the city with you and your parents.

"you don't have to follow me around. i can navigate a museum on my own." "chill out, kid. i'm just trying to get a good eye on the best installation." you'd pause, "are you... talking about me?" with a smirk he'd reply, "you'd like that, wouldn't you."

— you'd take up a little job tending to leia's garden when she's away, and ben will always make sure to keep you in his eyes. he likes the way you look in overalls and his old batman potting gloves.

— after you're done in the garden he'll give you a glass of homemade lemonade with a sprig of mint. he lets you poke fun of him for it.

"all for me, solo?" "hmm, who else?"

— just like ben, you refuse to be paid for your little side gig. but ben will always leave a crisp twenty in your mailbox the day after. you take them and keep them in a red envelope with the words, 'from hot neighbor', written on the flap in sharpie.

han would catch him doing it one day and say, "can't pay yourself a girlfriend, son." ben would just roll his eyes, "it's not even like that. i'm just trying to not be a cheapskate like you." "sure, son. whatever you say."

[srim01997]

The Red Princess & The Green Knight | Gwayne H. x OFC

Paring: Gwayne Hightower x Alyssan Targaryen (OC), Slight Aemond “One-Eye” Targaryen x Alyssan Targaryen (OC), Eventual Gwayne Hightower x Alyssan Targaryen (OC)

Fandom: House of The Dragon (HBO)

Warning: Angst, Implied Violence, Canon Divergence, Child Lost mentioned, House of The Dragon Season 2 Ep.2 spoiler, DV mentioned, Dub-con mentioned

Writer’s note: NSFW will be coming soon ;)

Previous Chapter | The Red Princess & The Green Knight| Next Chapter

Chapter 8 The Princess’s request

“I will not allow his body to be paraded through the streets!” Alyssan declared through tears as she sat beside Arron, her trembling hands brushing through her son’s fiery hair. She had just learned of Otto’s proposal to display the bodies of Jaehaerys and Vaegon around the city before their funeral at the Dragonpit. The plan also called for her and Helaena to accompany the procession, a ploy to garner the public’s sympathy and paint Rhaenyra as a monster. “I won’t let them pity me or Helaena. And she wouldn’t allow her children to be treated this way either. Have you ever asked Aegon?”

Alicent said nothing and turned to leave, her silence cutting deeper than any retort. Moments later, Aemond entered the room. His face betrayed no clear emotion—anger, guilt, or grief.

But Alyssan didn’t hesitate. She stormed toward him and struck him hard across the face. Ser Criston moved as if to intervene but faltered under her glare.

“Stay out of my business with my husband, Ser Criston!” she hissed, pointing a shaking finger at him. “Where were you? Sleeping soundly while monsters entered my sister’s chamber? They severed my nephew’s head, and my son’s head, right in front of me and Arron. You call yourself Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, but every time you vanish, disaster strikes!”

“Forgive me, Princess—”

“Forgive you?” Alyssan’s voice broke into a guttural shout, her fury like a storm unleashed. 

Aemond had never seen her so enraged, though he understood why. They had just buried their youngest child. And while Arron still lived, Aemond knew the boy was not truly his. He had long kept the secret that Arron was Gwayne’s son, the result of an affair his wife had concealed with their uncle. He clasped his hands behind his back, schooling his expression into cold composure.

“I, too, grieve, my love,” he said finally. “But you should honor our mother’s wishes.”

“What did you say?” Alyssan’s voice cracked, incredulous. “You want me to ride in that cursed procession, dragging Vaegon’s body through the streets? Do you know how humiliating that is? Last night, you should have been there to protect me and the children.”

“You should have protected them,” Aemond replied coolly.

Alyssan’s tears fell faster as she pulled her gown aside, exposing the healing gash on her neck. “Do you see this, Aemond? They held a blade to my throat while they beheaded our son. And where were you? Rolling in some brothel while your wife and children were left to die! Do you know what they said? ‘An eye for an eye, a son for a son.’ They demanded retribution for what you did at Storm’s End. For Luke.”

Aemond remained silent. She was right. Yet it wasn’t entirely his fault—what happened with Lucerys had been an accident, a tragedy born of circumstance. He reached out, placing his hands on her trembling shoulders. Lowering his head, he pressed his forehead to the curve of her neck, inhaling her scent as if it could absolve him.

“You should go,” he whispered. “Let them see what they’ve done to you and our family.”

“You’re asking me to let them parade Vaegon’s body?” Her voice broke, raw with pain. “No mother should ever have to endure that. Not me, not Helaena—she would never agree.”

His grip on her shoulders tightened, and he leaned in to murmur in her ear, his voice low and unyielding. “Do it, Alyssan. Tonight, I promise, I’ll stay by your side. Where is Arron?”

“With Ser Gwayne,” she replied bitterly, her lips trembling as she met his gaze. “He’s taken him riding.”

Aemond smiled at the corner of his mouth before saying, "Then we have time to do it before you join the funeral." The tall figure grabbed her leaning against the windowsill before pulling up her skirt and moving between her legs. Alyssan closed her eyes when she heard him untie his pants to insert them inside her.

Her slender hand gripped the window sill as he moved around. But she didn't want to—no, she thought more about other people than she did when she was made love with Aemond. The figure flinched as he moved out and walked out of the room, letting the other person organize herself.

Dressed in black with a lace veil draped over her fiery hair, Alyssan emerged from her chambers with an air of solemnity. Outside, she found Ser Gwayne cradling her son, Arron, who giggled softly at the knight’s gentle play. Alyssan leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to her son’s forehead, and without a word, turned to climb into the waiting carriage.

The procession began to move, the slow creak of wheels carrying the weight of grief through the city streets. The bodies of Jaehaerys and Vaegon, now sewn together by silent septas, lay on a cart ahead, their youthful forms lifeless.

“Behold Rhaenyra the Cruel!”

Villagers lined the streets, their reactions a mix of sorrow and outrage. Some wept at the sight of the young princes, their hearts aching for the princess and queen. Others hissed curses toward Rhaenyra’s name. But the mournful march halted abruptly as the wheels of the carts sank into a muddy rut. Guards struggled to free them, and the crowd surged closer, their desperation palpable. Helaena shrank into herself, her discomfort turning to visible distress. She looked ready to weep, but Alicent pulled her into a comforting embrace, shielding her daughter’s anguish from the prying eyes of onlookers.

Alyssan, watching her mother’s uncharacteristic tenderness, bit back her tears. Never had she been held like this. Swallowing her emotions, she remained stoic until the procession reached the Dragonpit. There, waiting septons prepared for the funeral rites of the Targaryen princes according to their ancient customs.

As her dragon emerged, its powerful form moving toward the pyre, Alyssan stood tall despite the weight in her chest. When she whispered, “Dracarys,” flames engulfed the bodies, reducing them to ash. She turned, enveloping her weeping sister in an embrace, her lilac eyes fixed on the inferno that consumed their son.

Back at the Red Keep, the somber mood persisted. Alicent retreated to her chambers, leaving Alyssan and Helaena to ascend the stairwell together. Helaena paused abruptly when they encountered Aegon, who said nothing. They exchanged only tense glances before continuing in opposite directions. Alyssan escorted her sister to her chambers before returning to her own.

Upon entering, she found Gwayne seated on the floor, playing with Arron. The boy’s laughter filled the room as his small hands reached for the toy dragon Gwayne held. The knight, clad in a simple green tunic and black trousers, looked up at her with a smile.

“Uncle,” Alyssan teased, leaning against the doorframe, “do you have nothing better to do?”

“Can I not play with my grandson?” Gwayne chuckled. “He has Hightower blood, after all. That red hair—just like his grandmother’s.”

Alyssan almost told him the truth—that Arron was not merely his grandson but his son. But it was not the time. Instead, she seated herself beside the boy and glanced at the unfamiliar toy.

“Did you buy this for him?” she asked.

“For all my nephews and nieces,” Gwayne replied with a wistful smile. “I’m sorry about Vaegon. He and Jaehaerys didn’t deserve this.”

“They said, ‘A son for a son,’” Alyssan murmured bitterly, her hand tightening around the toy.

A sudden commotion interrupted them as Anna burst into the room. “Princess! His Grace has ordered the execution of rat-catchers!”

“What?” Alyssan’s voice sharpened, and she rose to her feet. “Was this Otto’s idea?”

Anna shook her head. Alyssan’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Mitty (idiot),” she muttered, storming toward the door. “Watch Arron, Anna. I’m going to talk to him.”

Alyssan found Aegon in his chambers, speaking with Otto. Her sharp eyes noticed the absence of the Hand’s pin. “Grandfather,” she began, her tone sharp, “Has he dismissed you?”

Otto’s face twisted in frustration. “Your brother is a fool, Alyssan. If you were a man, things would be simpler. You have everything Aegon lacks—”

“And I told you not to put an idiot on the throne,” she interrupted. “Who replaces you? Larys?”

“Criston Cole.”

“Perfect. We’re doomed. I need to talk to him”

"No, Alyssan, I'll go to High Garden to negotiate with the Tyrells to join us." The former king's hand said before walking back to his room. Alyssan brushed past him and pushed open the door to Aegon’s inner chambers.

“I warned you, Aegon! Stop making foolish, impulsive decisions!”

She shoved him against the wall with enough force to rattle the furniture. Ser Criston moved to intervene, but her glare froze him in place. “Don’t you dare? Leave us, or I’ll toss you out the window myself.”

Turning her fury back to Aegon, she spat, “Killing rat-catchers? Are you insane? Do you think this will ease your grief? Vaegon is dead, and Jaehaerys too—but this? This will make people loathe you even more, perhaps more than Rhaenyra!”

Aegon smirked through the pain. “Criston has already handled it. He’s sent someone to assassinate the whore at Dragonstone.”

“Really?” Alyssan sneered. “And who did he send?”

“Ser Erryk Cargyll,” Aegon replied smugly. “No one will suspect him.”

“Fool,” she snapped, pressing her foot harder against him. “And if he fails? What happens when Daemond finds out someone tried to kill his wife? He’ll take your head—or Helaena’s. Maybe mine. Think, Aegon, think!”

She released him with a frustrated growl and stormed out, slamming the door. Criston hesitated before asking, “Shall I deal with her, Your Grace?”

“No,” Aegon replied, rubbing his bruised ribs. “We fought as siblings do. She’s my twin. Only I have the right to kill her, Ser Criston.”

Alyssan sat by her son’s bedside, watching over him as he drifted into a peaceful sleep. The faint rise and fall of his tiny chest brought her a fleeting sense of calm, though her thoughts wandered elsewhere. She glanced toward the door, frowning. Why hadn’t Aemond come to her chambers tonight? 

Curiosity gnawed at her until she called for a servant boy, who hesitated before revealing that the prince had once again slipped away to the Silk Street. Alyssan closed her eyes, rubbing her temples in frustration before shifting her gaze back to her son. Guilt simmered beneath her skin, but a deeper ache made her restless.

Turning to her handmaiden, Anna, she asked, “Can you watch my son for a while?”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Anna replied with a knowing smile. “Take as long as you need. I’ll tell the prince you’ve gone for a walk in the gardens and wish not to be disturbed.”

Alyssan hesitated, then nodded. “Thank you, Anna.”

Slipping out of the room, she moved swiftly toward a hidden passage. She had discovered the secret corridors through one of Maegor the Cruel’s old texts and often used them to slip away unnoticed. Tonight, her destination was clear—Ser Gwayne’s chambers. She knew where to find him; she always did.

Dressed in nothing but her nightgown, Alyssan made her way down the passageway, her heart thudding in her chest. Finally, she reached a vantage point where she could peer into the room through a narrow slit in the stone wall. The sight of a green cloak draped casually over a chair confirmed her suspicions, but Gwayne was nowhere in sight.

Disheartened, she turned to leave, only to feel the sudden press of a broad chest against her back and a strong arm sliding possessively around her waist.

“And where do you think you’re going, Alyssan?” a familiar voice murmured.

She spun around to face him, her breath hitching as her gaze met Gwayne’s. His dark hair was damp, droplets of water sliding down the sharp planes of his face. He had just bathed, and the musky scent of soap lingered faintly in the air. He wore only a pair of trousers, his torso bare and glistening.

Once, she might have blushed, but tonight her need burned hotter than any embarrassment. Without a word, she stepped closer and kissed him with a fervor that left no room for hesitation. Her lithe body pressed against his, her nightgown absorbing the moisture from his skin.

“Gwayne,” she whispered, her voice trembling as her fingers curled against his shoulders. “I need you.” The way she addressed him—like a lover, not a niece—sent a spark through him. “Please…”

The knight’s jaw clenched, his arms encircling her waist. “Are you certain, Alyssan? Because once we start, I won’t stop until you’re left voiceless.”

“I’m certain,” she breathed, her lilac eyes locking onto his.

Gwayne’s restraint snapped as he claimed her lips again, his hands mapping her curves as if to memorize every inch. For once, she didn’t care about propriety or consequences. If the gods wanted to punish her, let them. They had never shown her their favor, and tonight, she would take what little joy she could grasp.

TBC.

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Running from the Flames {22}

Pairing: Pierre Gasly x OFC Warnings: 18+ only, hurt/comfort - this is a work of fiction and the events are not based on reality. Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

It was almost midnight local time when we landed in Montreal and Addie was fast asleep. I thought she was going to stay awake the entire flight the way she was bouncing on her seat with excitement, more than ready to see Pierre again.

For the first time, I was dreading it.

I had been awake for more than 30 hours, and I had spent every second of the flight dissecting every word we had exchanged on the short phone call. 

‘Are you alright?’ 

‘Fine.’ I lied. ‘You?’  

‘Don’t worry about me.’ 

‘I should have told you.’ 

‘We’ll talk about it later.’ The flight attendant had announced that cellphones needed to be turned off and Pierre had sighed. ‘Je t’aime.’ 

When was ‘later’? And what exactly did he want to talk about? My mind ran through all the possible answers to the questions and every scenario seemed to be more daunting than the last until the wheels touched down and my stomach lurched. 

Was the sigh one of sadness or pity or exhaustion? He said he loved me, that was a good sign. At least I hoped. 

I slung my handbag over my shoulder and picked up Addie, her head coming to rest on my shoulder as she remained asleep and I made my way out of the first class cabin. 

It felt like I was sleepwalking, my feet moving on their own accord and not through any conscious thought of my own. I’m surprised I didn’t flag the security as they asked me the standard questions when I showed my passport. 

“No, not here on business,” I replied in a daze.

“Anything to declare?”

I’m emotionally unstable and might just vomit all over your bench. “No, nothing.”

“Enjoy your stay, Miss Vowles.” He stamped the entry permit onto the next free pages of our passports before handing them back and waving me through to the arrivals lounge. 

Our flight had been full and arrived not long after Pierre’s was supposed to land, so there was still a large crowd despite the late hour. The sudden influx of noise stirred Addie and she lifted her head to look around at the families reuniting. Her eyes lingered on a girl a little older than her as she ran away from a woman and into the arms of a man, screaming ‘daddy’ excitedly. 

She had never really asked questions about her father and I wondered now what she was thinking as she stared at the three of them hugging each other tightly. 

Suddenly she started squirming in my arms and I grunted at the shift in weight as she kicked my suitcase from my other hand. I carefully lowered her to the ground before she moved in a way I couldn’t and was dropped but the moment her feet touched the universal grey vinyl flooring she took off.

“Addie!” I cried out as she disappeared into the crown and I rushed to chase her down.

I stumbled to a stop when I broke through the line of people and heard her squeal with joy as she was lifted into the air. 

“I missed you, princesse,” Pierre said with a grin after catching her and holding her tight. He looked up when Addie turned and pointed to me and the smile was lost as he took a slow step forward, concern replacing the joy his face had held. “Mon ange, you look…”

“Like shit?” I offered but he shook his head and opened his free arm instead of reaching for me. He had always been perceptive of me and it showed when he gave me the choice of his embrace, and I think he had a new understanding of why since seeing the interview. 

I stepped into his arms and wrapped mine around him and Addie. 

“You look tired, mon amour,” he murmured as he kissed my forehead. “Beautiful, but tired.”

“It’s been a rough few days,” I admitted as I looked up at him and saw dark bags under his eyes that hadn’t been visible on the many video calls he managed to make time for. “For the both of us.”

“The worst four days of my life,” he whispered before turning to Addie. “Have you been good for mama?”

Addie was frowning as she looked around the airport and it was like she hadn’t even heard Pierre. We followed her gaze and she was staring at the little girl she had seen before. It was only as they turned and left that Addie looked at Pierre, her head tilted to the side as she poked him in the cheek. “Daddy?”

My lips parted but no words came out as I looked at Pierre, his eyes fixed on Addie. I didn’t know what he was thinking as he kissed her forehead and closed his eyes and gently swayed us side to side. 

“You’re going to rock me to sleep, babe,” I said with a yawn as the days finally caught up with me.

Pierre chuckled and let me go so he could take my suitcase for me. “Come on then, love, the driver’s out front waiting for us. Wait, is that my hoodie?”

His eyes trailed over my body properly for the first time and I bit my lip as I gave him a twirl so he could see the GAS 10 print on the back. “You have so many, I figured you wouldn’t notice if one went missing.”

“It looks good on you, really good,” he said with a wink and a charming smile. “It’ll look even better on the floor.”

The shadow of doubt in my mind wasted away and I felt the tightness in my shoulders and back ease as I realised that while things had changed for me, our relationship was still the same. He was still my flirty and funny and sweet Pierre.

“With pick up lines like that it’s hard to believe you were single when we met,” I teased. 

“I must be a masochist because I missed your sass too.”

“English is a difficult language, it’s pronounced ass.”

Addie lifted her head off Pierre's shoulder and pointed at me. “Mama, naughty word.”

“Yes, mama is being very naughty,” Pierre agreed with a smirk on his face that promised I would pay for the comments later in the best way imaginable. 

Addie was asleep by the time we reached the hotel and Pierre carried her up to our suite, tucking her into bed with a kiss on her forehead while I watched the tender moment from the doorway. I could see why she asked if he was her dad. He treated her the same way she observed fathers treating their daughters and I had seen that lightbulb moment at the airport.

I just didn’t know how Pierre felt about it.

“She missed you a lot,” I said softly as he turned out the light and closed the food behind him.

He took my hand and led me away from our bedroom and into the lounge instead. “I missed her too.” I looked back longingly at the bed I could see down the hall and Pierre chuckled at the pout on my lips. “I know you’re tired, love, but we need to talk.”

I stumbled over the edge of the rug and Pierre stabilised me but I couldn’t find my voice to thank him as those thoughts I thought had been banished came rushing back. ‘We need to talk,’ was usually followed by something bad, and I had spent seven hours on a flight imagining every outcome.

“Hey, hey, you zoned out on me,” Pierre soothed as he cupped my cheeks and guided me back to his eyes. “Let’s get you to bed, this can wait until you’ve rested.”

“No,” I rushed, covering his hands with mine to stop him pulling away. “I won’t be able to sleep until I hear what you have to say.” 

He pulled me down on the couch beside him and draped his arm over my shoulders. It should have been cosy but he was upset as he absentmindedly rubbed at his beard and stared at our reflections on the dark tv in front of us. “What you did today, I can’t imagine how hard that was and I hate that I wasn’t there for you.” He turned to look at me with tears in his eyes. “I’m so sorry. And I am so fucking proud of you, Bri.”

“What?” I couldn’t have been more stunned at the direction of the conversation and my overthinking had led me down a rabbit hole that couldn’t be further from where Pierre was heading.

“I’m so proud of you, mon amour,” he repeated as he took my limp hand and kissed my knuckles. “I saw how hard it was for you to repeat what happened but you didn’t see the comments that were blowing up. In just a few minutes you changed a lot of people's lives.”

“What do you mean?”

He shifted around so he could pull his phone out from his back pocket and unlocked the device. As soon as I saw his finger going for the Instagram app I started to pull away with a shake of my head. I hadn’t reinstalled the app since reading the cruel comments in Barcelona and I knew I would only be more sensitive to what people had to say about me now. “I’m not ready…”

“I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, ever. I just want to show you that you’re not alone, that your story helped other people.” His finger hovered over the icon as he gave me a moment to absorb his words. “May I?”

I didn’t trust my voice but I trusted him and gave a small nod. 

His profile picture was ringed to show he had shared a story and he clicked on the image. Immediately I saw dozens of tiny lines across the top of all the pictures that he had shared, the first one showing on the screen. 

Each one told a story similar to mine.

Some stories came from celebrities and the times that reporters invaded their privacy or their friends and family’s privacy. They talked about the harassment that bordered on obsession until they no longer felt safe in their own homes.

But those weren’t the stories that stole the breath from my lungs and brought tears to my eyes. 

It was the one from the unassuming young woman who I could have walked past on campus and never known it. It was the one from the middle aged woman with wisps of grey streaks in her hair. It was the one from a man around Pierre’s age that had the same fluffy hair poking out from under his cap.

They all told me the same thing. They all told me that I was wrong.

I had said I didn’t want the world to know my shame. They told me I had nothing to be ashamed about. They said that what happened to me, and to them, was not a reflection on who we were and the real shame was that we were made to feel like it was our fault. 

I remembered that internalised guilt and blame. I remembered wearing long sleeve shirts in the summer heat to hide the bruises of his grip, but I had stayed out too late with my friends and I should have known better. So I slowly lost touch with those friends, isolating myself further from all the support that could have helped me. 

My vision blurred until I couldn’t see the next story and a sob broke the silent night.

Pierre tossed his phone onto the coffee table and pulled me onto his lap as my hands locked onto the thick fabric of his hoodie. The sobs wracked my body and he held on to me as tightly as I held on to him, letting the feeling of shame wash away with the tears that fell.

“Thank you, Pierre,” I whispered with my cracked and broken voice. 

“I didn’t do anything,” he replied weakly, the disappointment in himself palpable.

I leaned back so I could look him in the eyes as I brushed his hair back. “You stayed, when any sane person would have left.”

“Always,” he promised sincerely before his lip curved up. “Shows how crazy I am for you.”

His smile cracked into a grin when I snorted at the line and rolled my eyes. “You’re a doofus.”

“But you love me.”

“I do, Pierre, I really do.”

“I love you too.” He started to lean in for a kiss but I planted my hand on his chest to stop him. 

“Before you distract me, we need to talk about something else.”

It was his turn to look apprehensive as he leaned back. “Okay…”

“Daddy?”

His eyebrow shot up in question. “You want to call me daddy?”

“Oh god, no, maybe papi chulo,” I wheezed as I clutched my stomach and laughed. “Addie called you daddy.”

His smile returned. “I know.”

“So…you’re okay with that?” 

“I’ve always wanted kids, and I don’t care that she’s not biologically mine, I want to watch her grow up and take her to football training or ballet or whatever she wants to do. I love Addie, and when I think about the future I can’t picture it without you and her in it. So yes, of course I am okay with that, if it’s alright with you.” His eyebrows pinched together as he thought perhaps he had overstepped. “Is it alright with you?”

“Gah, now you’ve done it,” I sniffled. “Bloody happy tears.”

“Happy tears I can handle,” he chuckled as he wiped them away, his thumbs brushing over the dark bags that hung under my eyes. “Let’s get you to bed, mon amour.”

I draped my arms around his neck and curled into him. “I’m too lazy to move, I’ll just sleep right here.”

Pierre’s hands cupped my backside to support my weight as he stood up and I wrapped my legs around his waist with a yawn. I didn’t even feel him lay me in bed. My body and my soul knew it was home in Pierre’s arms and I could finally sink into sleep without my demon’s breathing down my neck. 

He had chased them all away. 

Click here for chapter twenty three.

Tagging: @my-only-way-tocooperatewithlife @prrttysposts

[sagesolsticewrites]

Pyaar Dosti Hai

Benny DeMarco x Ruthvika Patel (OFC)

Ruthie Patel runs into a certain furry member of the 100th Bomb Group— and his owner— on her way to celebrate her friend Juliet’s engagement to John Brady. The gang quickly welcomes her into their found family, but there could be something more between her and Benny DeMarco— if either of them ever finds the courage to make a move.

Word count: 5.3k

Warnings: implied racism (being a brown girl in 1940s New York… oof), mentions of strict parenting, I think that’s it? Please let me know if I missed anything!

a/n: the final member of the Book Club Girlies is here! Writing our little girl gang with @winniemaywebber and @ginabaker1666 has been so much fun, I can’t wait for y’all to see more of our darling girls! And a huge thank you to @hephaestn for the gorgeous moodboard!

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Masterlist

Ruthvika Patel— Ruthie to her friends (and to, well… pretty much everyone outside of her small immigrant community)— rummages in her purse for the scrap of paper she had been referencing the whole way to the city. It was the address of the restaurant her old school friend had given her, where she was hosting a small get together with her and her fiancé’s friends, and had insisted that Ruthie come along.

“Are you sure, Jules?” She’d said over the phone, glancing over her shoulder for any sign of her mother— Ranjan Patel would be livid if she knew her daughter was using their hotel phone for a personal call, “I won’t really know any of them, I wouldn’t want to intrude—”

“Absolutely, Ruthie!” Her friend’s bubbly voice insisted, “You’re one of my best friends, I want you to meet Johnny. And it’s been too long since we’ve seen each other. Please? Jean and Jo will be there, we had so much fun with them last time, didn’t we?”

Ruthie could practically hear her batting her lashes pleadingly, and her resolve crumbled.

“Alright,” she relented, reaching for a pen and paper, “What’s the address?”

The Patels ran a hotel just on the outskirts of New York City, but that didn’t mean Ruthie was in any way prepared for being in the heart of it. Glancing from the street to the paper in her hands, and doing her best to ignore the stares of passers by— her mother always said she was lucky to get her father’s lighter tea-with-milk complexion, rather than her mother’s darker tones, but that didn’t mean she didn’t stand out in a crowd— she tries to get her bearings, but her efforts prove futile. She was utterly lost.

She doesn’t have long to mourn her circumstances, though, before a large mass of fur barrels into her legs.

Benny DeMarco grins as he strolls through the streets of New York, Meatball trotting happily by his side.

“You excited to see everyone, buddy?” He asks, the husky barking happily in response before returning to sniffing the air in earnest.

He’d been glad to get the invitation from Brady & his fiancée for a get together to celebrate their engagement, and he was looking forward to seeing his friends again. It had been a while since he’d seen anyone from Thorpe Abbotts, but last he’d heard, Olive and Dougie were still together and very happy, and he was happy for them.

Meatball tugs at the leash, straining to chase after all these new sights and smells.

“Hang on, buddy, we’ve still got a few blocks to go—“

Meatball pays no heed to Benny’s words, and soon the leash is tugged out of his grip entirely.

“Meatball! Get back here!”

He weaves through the crowded streets, chasing after the husky who’s getting farther and farther away. Eventually he loses sight of him completely and has no choice but to just keep running, hoping that his dog runs out of energy before he does.

Benny slows, gasping, as Meatball comes into view, sniffing eagerly at the feet of what Benny can’t help but notice is a very pretty girl.

“There you are, bud.”

“Oh!” The girl looks up from petting his dog with a sheepish smile, “Is he yours?”

“He is,” he laughs, noting her slight accent accompanying her rich brown skin and lush black waves, “Meatball’s first time in the city, he got a little excited.”

“Well, Meatball,” she grins, giving him one last pet before he returns to Benny’s side, “We have that in common. Is it yours as well? First time in the city, I mean.”

“Yes, sort of. I’m from Philly, but I’ve got a few friends who live here and I feel like I’ve been here already just from hearing them talk about it,” He laughs.

“Oh, I see,” the girl nods politely, seeming to wilt the tiniest bit before gathering herself, “Well, I hate to bother you, but…”

The girl seems to turn shy for a moment, fiddling with the scrap of paper in her hand, “Would you happen to know where to find—?” She says the name of the very restaurant he’s on his way to— “I’m a little lost.”

“Lucky for you,” he grins, “I’m on my way there now. I’d be happy to walk with you.”

“Thank you so much,” she says earnestly, falling into step beside him, “My friend’s waiting for me and I cannot be late.”

“Oh? What’s the occasion?”

“She’s having a small party to celebrate her engagement, and I promised I’d be here to meet her fiancé.”

It’s too much to be a coincidence.

“Your friend’s fiancé wouldn’t happen to be named John Brady…?”

“I— yes!” She blinks, surprised, “You know him?”

“I’m on my way to that same party,” he grins, “Brady and I served together. Bernard DeMarco,” he holds out his hand, “But everyone calls me Benny.”

She shakes his hand, “Ruthie Patel.”

“Ruthie?”

He tries not to sound too surprised, but a name like Ruthie doesn’t exactly match up with what he had imagined…

“Well, it’s actually Ruthvika, but Ruthie’s easier for everyone, so—”

“Ruthvika?” He tests out the syllables, hoping he isn’t butchering them too badly, “That’s very pretty. You really prefer Ruthie?”

She flushes, and he backtracks quickly, hoping he didn’t overstep. He just met this girl, what was he thinking?

“Not that Ruthie’s not very pretty too! It’s just… if I had a name like that I’d want everyone to use it.”

“It’s not exactly a matter of preference,” Ruthie says shyly, reaching up to fiddle with the thin gold necklace resting between her collarbones, “But most people don’t want to bother trying to pronounce something like Ruthvika, so I went by Ruthie in school, and it just… stuck. Helped me assimilate.”

“Well,” he says, “You deserve to have your name pronounced correctly. Especially one as pretty as yours, Ruthvika.”

She does her best to smother her grin at his attempt at her full name, helping him with the pronunciation as they approach their destination.

“Ah, we’re here,” Benny says, beaming at his last nearly-flawless attempt at her name.

“I never would’ve found my way here on my own,” Ruthie admits with a laugh, “Thank you very much, Benny.”

“Ah, it was nothing,” he shrugs, “It’s really Meatball we should be thanking, otherwise I never would’ve run into you. Good thing he has excellent taste,” He can’t help adding with a wink, if only to see that pretty rose flush cover her cheeks again. “Shall we?”

Ruthie follows her new friend and his dog into the restaurant, scanning the room until she spots her friend seated at a secluded table on the back patio, along with several other people.

There’s some whispering around the room, and she can feel eyes on her as she makes her way out the back, but she does her best to ignore it and plasters a smile on her face just in time for Jules to meet her gaze.

“Ruthie!” She all but squeals, standing to pull her into a hug, “I’m so glad you could make it, it’s been too long. You look wonderful!”

“It’s so good to see you, Jules,” she beams, squeezing her friend tight.

Juliet steps back, seemingly taking in her friend, before turning to the table and beckoning over the man in the chair next to the one she had just left.

“Johnny,” Juliet grins, green eyes sparkling as he moves to stand next to her, hand resting easily on her waist, “this is Ruthie, my friend from school. Ruthie, this is John, my fiancé.”

Ruthie could practically see the little thrill that went through her friend at that last word, and her smile widens.

“A pleasure to finally meet you,” John smiles, blue eyes crinkling as he reaches out for a handshake, “Jules here hasn’t stopped talking about how excited she was to see you.”

“She’s told me so much about you, it’s very nice to finally meet you as well.”

“Come on, let me introduce you to everyone!”

Jules guides her over to the other people sitting at the table, as Ruthie is reintroduced to Jean & Jo — their day at Coney Island and the sleepover at Jo & Jean’s apartment wasn’t an experience she was likely to forget anytime soon — and introduced in quick succession to Val DiRosano, Olive Lewis, and the men settled next to them: Harry Crosby, Rosie Rosenthal, Everett Blakely, and James Douglass (who insisted she call him Dougie, “everyone does”).

“How do you all kn—?”

Ruthie is in the middle of asking what their connection is to Jules when the relative quiet on the patio is broken by a chorus of “DEMARCO!” from the gentlemen in their group, a shout that has Ruthie nearly jumping out of her skin.

“Egan does that to me one time—” Benny grumbles good-naturedly as he pulls Brady in for a hug, reaching out for handshakes from Croz, Rosie, Blakely, and Douglass.

“A running joke from during the war,” Benny leans over to explain with a smile upon seeing the confused expression on Ruthie’s face as everyone settles into their seats.

“Ruthie, how do you know Benny?” Olive asks as she leans down to pet Meatball, calming the husky’s whines for attention.

“Oh! Well… I don’t, really? We just met—”

“Oh I’m sorry!” The Brit says hurriedly, “I just saw the two of you come in together, I shouldn’t have assumed—”

“No, it’s fine!” Ruthie assures her quickly, “Completely understandable—”

“That troublemaker’s the reason we met,” Benny interjects, putting a stop to the cycle of nervous politeness as he nods to Meatball, “I guess he got a little excited being in the big city, because he bolted away from me on our way here. Ended up chasing him for I don’t even know how many blocks until I found him with Ruthie here.”

Ruthie misses the knowing smile playing on Olive’s lips as she continues the story.

“I was trying to find the restaurant and was… completely lost,” she admits with a slightly embarrassed smile, “But luckily Benny here offered to walk with me.”

“Ever the gentleman,” Olive grins, with a teasing smile directed at the man himself, “Well I’m glad you made it. Jules has told us nothing but wonderful things.”

“I was so excited she invited me,” Ruthie smiles, “My parents’ hotel has been so busy, I’ve hardly gotten a second to breathe. And I was looking forward to meeting all of you.” Her smile turns soft, one meant just for Olive, “I know your letters to her were a great comfort, and I wanted to thank you for that.”

“I’m glad,” Olive says, “I was grateful to her as well for indulging me with that first letter, and now—” she gestures around the table at the girls, then towards the bar where the boys have migrated, “— what a friendship it’s turned into.”

“So Ruthie,” her attention is pulled towards Val, sitting across the table, “tell us about yourself! You said something about a hotel?” Val asks, innocent curiosity on her face.

“Oh, yes!”

She can’t help falling into her please-help-my-parents-stay-in-business persona, the one she usually reserves for her time at the hotel.

“My parents own a little hotel just outside the city— perfect for if you want a bit of quiet after a night out on the town or a day of sightseeing— and I’ve helped them run it since I was a little girl.”

She can’t quite hide a smile at the fond memories of helping carry meals up to rooms, helping change sheets between guests— her parents were right in assuming that her youth would earn her a few extra sympathy tips, and every little bit helped— and as she got older, she progressed to helping check guests in and out on top of all that, making sure everything was running smoothly for her aging parents.

At the rest of the girls’ insistence, she tells story after story of growing up in the hotel, Juliet chiming in with a story or two of her own from their school days— “That scratch behind the front desk is still there, by the way.” “No!”— and soon they’re all laughing and chatting like old friends, occasionally bending down to indulge Meatball with a pet when his whining becomes insistent enough.

Ruthie finds herself relaxing as the chatter envelops her, a smile stretching wide across her face and growing each time her eyes are drawn towards Benny leaning up against the bar with the boys. Her gaze repeatedly flicks back to the table before he can catch her staring, though apparently she hasn't been as subtle as she thinks when Olive leans in to whisper, “he’s handsome, isn’t he?”

Heat rushes to Ruthie’s cheeks.

“Oh— your fiancé?” Her eyes flick to the man next to Benny as she attempts to recall his name from the fairly rushed introductions, “Dougie, right? Yes, he is very handsome, you did well,” she makes an attempt at teasing her new friend.

“Oh, I know,” Olive grins, then clarifies, “But I was talking about Benny! I noticed you looking over at him and, well… you should know he’s an absolutely wonderful fella, such a gentleman. I could put in a good word for you if you want,” she adds with a friendly wink.

“I— no, no, that’s not necessary,” Ruthie scrambles to say as her cheeks heat even more, “I wasn’t— he was just nice to me,and I appreciated it, that’s all. But… you seem to know him very well,” she nods with a laugh to Meatball sitting comfortably at Olive’s feet, his head resting in her lap, “if his dog is any indication. Did you two meet during the war?”

“We did,” Olive smiles, “I was with the Red Cross on base, he was one of the first people I met there…”

As Olive tells the tale of her and Benny— strictly a friendship and nothing more, she assures her new friend— Ruthie notes out of the corner of her eye Val heading over to the bar.

“Benny,” Val nods in greeting as she squeezes between the boys to reach the bar, ordering another French 75.

“Val,” he smiles, “Sorry for stealing your man away.”

“I’ll live,” she says, catching Ev’s eye from where he’s chatting with Dougie to shoot him a wink and a red-lipped smile before turning her attention back to DeMarco and switching seamlessly into Italian.

“Ask her out, Benny.”

Benny blinks, quickly translating in his head before replying in the same.

“Ask who out? Olive’s already engaged, Val.”

“Don’t make me smack you, just because the war is over DeMarco…”

An arched eyebrow is all he needs to know that his glances over at Ruthvika weren’t as subtle as he’d hoped.

“…how did you know?”

“Um, because you’ve been staring at her all evening and I can tell you’ve barely listened to a word Croz has said.”

“To be fair, Croz is going on about some jazz record and only Rosie is listening at this point.” Benny laughs, glancing over to where Croz is conversing animatedly with a captivated Rosie Rosenthal, John Brady only half-listening next to them with his eyes fixed on his fiancée.

“Then, bring Ruthie a drink and maybe talk to her?” She flicks her gaze over to Ruthie, prompting Benny to glance over at her too, and he can’t help the smile that stretches across his face seeing her laughing with Olive.

“See?” Val says, gesturing to him, her eyes almost accusatory, “You’ve been looking at her like that all night and you expect me not to notice. Talk to her, Benny.”

With a final friendly nudge, she wanders back to the table, glass in hand.

Ruthie nods politely as Olive’s story winds down, her attention now captured by Val and Benny together at the bar, leaning into each other as they speak a language that, as far as she can tell, is definitely not English.

“And… I don’t mean to pry, but are Val and Benny close as well?”

“Hm?” Olive follows her gaze to the bar, “Oh, in a way.”

On Ruthie’s other side, Jean Crosby turns from her conversation with Jo, frowning slightly as she registers Val’s empty chair and her current place at the bar.

“Oh darn, I was hoping I could ask Val for a refill while she was over there,” she says, ice tinkling in her now empty rum and cola, brow furrowing as their voices reach the table, “Are she and Benny doing that thing where they speak Italian so none of us can understand them again? It’s a beautiful language, I’ll grant her that, but I can’t handle anything other than English after a few of these.”

At Ruthie’s somehow even more confused expression, Olive jumps in to explain.

“Val and Benny became good friends when we were on base, both being Italian and whatnot. I guess he was like a bit of home for her, giving her a chance to stretch her legs with her Italian, and I’ll admit it was very fun trying to figure out what they were saying at times,” the Brit adds with a laugh.

“Oh yes honey, they’re just friends, never been anything more” Jean adds from her place on Ruthie’s right with a knowing smile, “You’ve got nothing to worry about. We're all just one big happy family, aren’t we?”

A flush of embarrassment races through Ruthie at the knowledge that her attraction really wasn’t as subtle as she’d thought, but her smile grows at the tender way Jean refers to the group as a family. Given her own experience with family was largely with strict uncles and aunties, even stricter parents, and cousins competing ruthlessly for praise from the adults, the idea of a friendship of the kind she had seen Jo, Jean, and Juliet share becoming a kind of chosen family sent a warm thrill of happiness radiating from her heart.

“Family,” she murmurs, “That sounds wonderful.”

Jean lays a gentle hand on Ruthie’s arm, kind eyes sparkling, “And you’re one of us now, Vika sweetheart. Family whether you like it or not.”

Ruthie blinks back sudden tears at the use of the name she’d told the girls she preferred at their sleepover all those months ago. The young cousins who used to call her that had switched to Ruthie when they started school, along with using their own Americanized names at home, and it was so nice to hear even just a part of her true name from someone other than her mother.

Jean’s words echoed through Ruthie’s head. Family. One of us.

She could get used to that.

“Oh dear… I’m sorry, honey, did I say something wrong?” Jean fusses, seeing Ruthie’s watery eyes.

“No, I’m fine, I’m fine,” she assures her, brushing away her tears, “I just… you’re all so nice,” she laughs, unsure of how else to explain the overwhelming joy and disbelief welling up inside her.

“Just wait ‘til you see Val before she’s had her coffee, chicken,” Olive says lightheartedly, bumping Ruthie’s shoulder playfully, “You won’t think we’re all so nice then.”

“Vika’s seen what Jo and I are like in the mornings, Ol,” Jean replies with a laugh, “I’d say she’s ready for anything after that.”

“I think your infamous martinis had more of a hand in that than the early morning, Jean.”

Feeling bold, Ruthie takes a shot of her own at her new friend, much to the table’s delight.

“There she is!”

“Alright, Ruthie!”

“Oh goodness, what did I miss?” Val grins as she returns to the table, a fresh French 75 clutched in her perfectly manicured hand.

“Just Vika teasing me about my martinis,” Jean says, flashing Ruthie a grin.

“Vika?” Val looks momentarily confused.

“A nickname from when I was younger,” Ruthie explains, “But of course Ruthie’s fine as well if that’s easier—”

“Nonsense!” Val waves away Ruthie’s anxious rambling, “Vika’s a gorgeous name, I love it.”

Ruthie’s shoulders relax at Val’s smile and the compliment.

“So, we were talking martinis?” Val says, moving the conversation along, “Is now a good time to bring up the lasagna story?”

A chorus of good-natured groans tells Ruthie that this isn’t the first time Val has brought this up, and whatever it is, it’s sure to be amusing.

Val leans in with a grin, eyes sparkling mischievously.

“So, the first time Jean made me one of her martinis…”

The group, some a little tipsier than others, decide to call it a night as the bright sunshine warming the patio begins to fade to the red-gold of sunset. With plenty of hugs and several exchanges of addresses with Ruthie, most of the couples depart, leaving Benny and Ruthie with John and Juliet at the table, Meatball curled contently at their feet.

“Are you sure you don’t want a ride, Ruthie?” Juliet asks, “I don’t love the idea of you taking the subway alone.”

“I'll be fine, Jules, I promise,” she assures her friend, tamping down the anxiety spiking in her chest at the thought of being alone on a dark subway platform. She made it here on her own, she can surely make it back.

“I’d be happy to go with you,” Benny says, leaning down to pet a whining Meatball, “I know this guy could use some adventure before being cooped up on a train tomorrow.”

“Well…” she pretends to think about it for a moment, then nods. “If it’s for Meatball’s sake, then yes,” adding sincerely, “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Benny grins.

They say their goodbyes and depart, Ruthie glancing back to catch a glimpse of John pulling her friend into a tender kiss.

It takes them a moment to get their bearings in the fading light, but with Benny’s help, Ruthie manages to guide them onto the subway for the hour-long commute to her little town of Lynbrook.

“So,” Benny says from his place beside her as he pets a snoozing Meatball, the excitement of the day having worn out the playful husky, “Have you… always lived here?”

Ruthie’s heard this question enough times to know what he’s really asking.

“I was born here, yes. In Harlem, actually, not too long after my parents came over from India,” A smile crosses her face at the fuzzy memories of playing with the neighbor children in their tiny, run-down apartment building, of visiting her uncle’s jewelry shop and begging to try on some of the cheap costume jewelry he sold alongside the much more valuable items.

She continues, “My parents moved out to Lynbrook to start their hotel when I was five, and we’ve been there ever since.”

“You like it there, don’t you.”

It wasn’t exactly a question, but she answered anyway.

“I do,” she smiles, “Don’t tell Jo and Jean this, but I like being a little removed from the hustle and bustle of the big city, getting to choose when to be part of all the excitement instead of having it all around me all the time. And my parents love the hotel— love having something they own, love being their own bosses, so to speak. And I love getting to help them live their dream.”

A warmth blooms in Benny’s chest seeing the tender look in Ruthie’s eyes when she talks about her parents. It’s clear to him how much she cares about her family, how close she is to them, and he feels extremely lucky to see that softness in her come to the surface.

A question floats to the front of his mind that… well, he’s not sure if it’s too personal, but he’s had a few drinks and his filter isn’t quite where it should be tonight.

“Do your parents call you Ruthie too?”

“Sometimes,” Ruthie replies, seemingly unfazed by the way Benny blurted out his question, “They usually stick to Ruthvika, though. My little cousins used to call me Vika, but when they started school they switched to their own Americanized names and started calling me Ruthie.”

“Vika…” Benny hums, testing the pronunciation, “I think I heard some of the girls calling you that tonight. Is that a favorite nickname of yours?”

“I don’t really have a favorite,” Ruthie lies. Ever agreeable, ever flexible Ruthie. Her parents had trained her to keep most of her opinions to herself, especially with men, to be seen and not heard, and that training was coming in handy now.

Benny sees right through it.

“Are you sure?” He asks sincerely, “It’s your name, you can have a preference.”

His warm brown eyes meet her own, fingers brushing ever so slightly in the space between them.

The courage she’d managed to reach for during her conversations with the girls seems a bit farther away now, but she manages to summon a scrap of it to say, “I do love being called Vika.”

She meets Benny’s gaze with a small smile, but can’t help adding: “But I’m also fine with Ruthie— it’s easier for people to pronounce.”

The corner of Benny’s mouth quirks up into a smile.

“We’ll work on that. Vika’s a very pretty name.”

He resists adding for a very pretty girl. Now isn’t the time to be trying out lines, no matter how true the sentiment is.

Ruthie— Vika— ducks her chin to hide her smile, changing the subject quickly.

“Has Meatball always been yours?” She asks, smiling down at the sleeping husky at her feet.

“Feels like it,” Benny grins, “Won him at craps during the war.”

His smile grows at Ruthie’s raised eyebrows, and he continues.

“We stopped in Greenland on our way over to refuel, I ended up taking this troublemaker with me to base on our way out. Sorta became our official mascot.”

“You didn’t— he didn’t come up in the plane with you, did he?”

“Only on that first flight to base,” he replies, wanting to soothe away the slight hint of alarm in her voice, “He stayed with Olive and Val and the rest of the Clubmobile girls when I went up. Got a thousand complaints about fur in the donuts, but come on, imagine staying mad at a sweet boy like him.”

Vika laughs, “He does have a way of winning people over.”

Their banter continues for the rest of the ride, so engrossed in each other that the time speeds by and the pair have to scramble to make it off the train at Ruthie’s stop. They hail a taxi to get to the hotel, at which point Benny asks:

“There wouldn’t happen to be any available rooms at your parent’s hotel tonight, would there?”

“I… believe there are. Why?”

Benny gestures to the suitcase he’s been carrying all day, the one Ruthie had wholly forgotten about, “My train doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning, and I don’t exactly plan on sleeping under the stars tonight. Not that I have anything against that, but,” he shrugs, “what can I say? I like my creature comforts. This will be much more convenient than going back and trying to find someplace to stay in the city, and besides,” he flashes Vika a teasing grin, “I’ve gotta see what all the fuss is about.”

The taxi pulls up to a modest two-story hotel, the words Forest Inn lettered in vibrant red above the doorway. Ruthie finds herself suddenly nervous as they pay the fare— or rather, Benny does, despite Ruthie’s protests— and exit the car, scanning over Benny’s face as subtly as she can as he takes in the building.

“It’s nothing fancy,” she rambles as she leads Benny and Meatball to the front doors, “But my parents have put so much work into it and, well… it’s home.”

The group steps into a small lobby, and something in Ruthie relaxes at the familiarity of the polished wood floors, rich burgundy wallpaper, the lamps along the walls washing everything in a golden glow, the soft red carpet leading to the dark wood front desk where—

“Mammi?”

Standing at the front desk, Ranjan Patel looks up from the ledger she’s writing in, a tired smile crossing her face when she sees her daughter.

“Welcome home, beta. Did you have a good time with Juliet? How is she? Is her fiancé nice?”

“It was fine, she’s good, I—“ Ruthie blinks, “Mammi, I thought Pravi Auntie was going to take over for you at 6–“

Mrs. Patel waves away her daughter’s concern, “One of her little ones took ill, I told her to look after her daughter. I don’t mind staying here.”

Ruthie lets out an exasperated sigh, but it’s clear her annoyance stems from concern for her mother.

“You were up at the crack of dawn today, Mammi, you need rest,” She steps behind the desk to usher her mother out of the way, “Please? I’ll take over until Ronny Uncle comes in for the night shift.”

Ruthie’s mother sighs, relenting, then straightens when her gaze catches Benny standing in the middle of the room.

“Alright, beta, just let me get this gentleman checked in—”

“No, Mammi, I’ve got it,” Ruthie says hurriedly, waving Benny over, “This is one of Juliet’s friends, he was kind enough to give me an escort home and needed a place to stay before he leaves town tomorrow. I told him I could get it all taken care of. Benny, this is my mother.” She introduces anxiously.

“Bernard DeMarco, ma’am, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Benny greets with a beaming smile, “Your daughter’s told me nothing but wonderful things about your hotel.”

“Very nice to meet you, sir,” Mrs. Patel says with a tight smile, glancing with a slight frown down at Meatball, before putting on her customer service mask once more, “I hope you enjoy your stay, and if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

Introductions finished, she turns back to Ruthie, “Ronny Uncle should be here at 10, Ruthvika, but I can send over your father if you want him with you.”

“I’ll be fine, Mammi,” she waves her away gently, “Good night.”

“Shubh ratri, beta.”

With that, her mother slips out the side door towards their apartment in the building next door.

“Sorry about that,” Vika says with an embarrassed laugh, “She’s always working too hard.”

“No, I understand,” Benny says with a soft smile, “Mothers never think they’re doing enough, even when they’re going above and beyond.”

A quiet moment passed between them, interrupted by a whine from Meatball— the husky’s apparently eager to get to bed.

“Oh, your room!” Ruthie starts, “Sorry about that…” She reaches for a key with one hand as she begins filling out paperwork with the other.

“You’ll be in room 213,” she beams, turning the paper towards him for him to sign as she holds out the key.

Benny’s brow furrows as he notes the price stated on the paper— it’s much lower than the rate they have posted on the signage.

“Hang on, uh— Vika, I’m not much of a math whiz, but this seems—”

“Consider it a friends and family discount,” she says, waving away his concern, and the look in her eyes brooks no room for argument.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely once she’s noted it in the ledger, concern sparking in his mind as he notes the darkness outside and shy, sweet Vika manning the desk. “You’ll be alright out here until your uncle comes?” He asks, recalling her conversation with her mother.

“My uncle?” Her brow furrows, then her expression clears as she understands, “Oh, Ronny isn’t really my uncle, he’s my neighbor,” she explains with a laugh, “It’s just a thing Indian people do, showing respect to our elders. We’re raised to refer to elders, even ones not related to us, as Uncle or Auntie as a sign of respect. But anyway,” she ducks her head down to hide her embarrassment— she must be more tired than she thought to be rambling like that— “Yes, I’ll be fine, Benny. Have a good night.”

“You too, Ruthvika.”

A wide smile stretches across her face as Benny leads Meatball towards the stairs.

His pronunciation of her name had been almost perfect.

[justjams2003]

Blossoms-15

Pairing: Erik Destler x OFC (Mariposa Claremont)

Summary: A young author travels away from her family to The Opera she has heard so much about. She is lost and confused and yet still seems to get a job there as a cleaner. Yet when she meets a mysterious man there, everything changes. Her mind is entirely consumed, but will she allow her burning need for him to consume her life as well?

Warnings: Kissing, cuddling, impure thoughts, alcohol, I would also just like to remind everyone that the life expectancy back then was 60.

Word count: 2k+ unedited

Masterlist

Part 14~Part 16(coming soon)

Dividers: @yaynowimglad @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

Tags: @rclector @jordanmunson3 @ann-vic-9 @ssssssws-world @gryffin-whore @zoglin2 @achillmango

The door flies open and a tall elegant lady opens the door. She glares at Elliott, before her eyes soften when she sees me. She opens the door wider. “You come home, who knows what time at night, smelling of beer and with a girl?” She scolds, closing the door and crossing her arms. “Oh, grand-mère,” he coos, taking his grandma’s face in his hands and giving her a  kiss on every cheek. 

“Tu devrais la voir comme une famille. C'est une Claremont.” He says, now both having their stormy grey eyes keenly trained on my every movement. The older woman hums and raises her brow. “Elle dit qu'elle travaille à l'opéra.” This makes the corner of the woman’s lip slide up in the slightest, pleased  grin. “Opera Populair?” Quickly, I nod. Just barely could I keep up with their French but I did hear the words ‘opera house’ and then she smiled. Clearly, she likes that part. 

Elliott’s grandmother walks forward, swiftly placing a kiss on each cheek. “Poor girl, what are you doing so far from home? Does the music not want you anymore?” She coos, her eyes jumping all over my face, as if searching for something under my skin. “The music has it’s grip too deep in my soul.” She laughs and nods. “An uncommon problem. Come, sit, I made dinner...” 

Her eyes look through my soul. It’s like she and I are speaking our own language. In a trance of the touch of her hands and the knowing she carries. Clearly, she knows more than she leads on and I almost groan. I wanted to escape the thoughts of him. I wanted the rain to wash it away and leave me the clean slate I was before ever coming to this damned place. Rather, before ever seeing those almost green eyes.

The red wine swirls in the wine glass and the fire crackles in the background. He’s been in this trance since his grandmother went to bed. “I didn’t think you know how to be quiet.” He does a grin that looks to be saying ‘now is not the time.’ I swallow my words, nodding, to show him I understand he doesn’t want to joke. He wants to be serious. I rarely know how to be serious, all I really ever want to do is laugh. I choose to fill the silence with the sip of my red wine. 

The air is thick. His brows are in a frown and he seems to be thinking of everything all together. His coat is hung up and he’s only in his flowy under shirt. It frames his muscles. His calloused hands put down his own whiskey glass. His jaw locks and he sighs leaning in forward. His tongue darts out to lick his lips.  Elliott’s hand pulls his hair back and out his face before his stormy eyes finally settle on mine. 

“I must ask something of you. A partial stranger.” I can only gulp, leaning in to his words. “My grand-mama, I worry about her. She’ll tell you that she’s as young as you and doesn’t need any help but... she’ll be 55 one of these days. She is lonely more than anything. And I can’t be with her every day as I’d like to be. I’m away for months on end...” I instantly notice what he’s trying to explain. 

“You wish for me to stay with her the summer? Check up on her on the weekends?” I fill in his sentence for him. He swallows his wine and nods. “She is familiar with your family, you two seem to be getting along quite well... I’d owe my life if you’d agree.” Grey eyes suddenly seem full of an emotion not quite sure of. A mixture of beg and need. His hair has started to dry down in an sun-kissed blonde. The dark blonde brows are plucked together in worry for his grandmother. 

“I just met her and-”  his hand reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’ve stopped shivering.” Elliott’s voice is almost a whisper, more sultry than anything. But his eyes aren’t anywhere near my shaking body. Rather glued onto my lips. “Am I suddenly no longer a spoiled brat?” He lets out a boisterous laugh. One that I’ve never heard Erik let out, he never laughs and he rarely smiles. 

There I go, thinking of him again. 

Elliott’s hand rests on my cheek, leaning in more. “You’re definitely starting to grow on me...” A giggle escapes my lips, I allow him to guide me further down on the couch. He takes my wine glass from my hand and places it on the nearest coffee table. “Please, ma dame, may I kiss you?” My breathing hitches and I can hear my heart pounding. Should I consent? I just cursed myself out for stupid choices involving men. 

But can I really focus and think clearly when his hand has moved onto my waist. His body pressed so tightly against mine. I can feel his heartbeat against my chest. His hot breath heating up my neck. “Please, please, jolie dame. I must feel your lips on mine.” Just hours ago, Erik refused to even let me imagine us together. And he only kissed me as a botched solution for his idiotic words. Now, this man, even more handsome under the light of the fire, is begging to kiss me. 

How can I ever deny him when there’s nothing more I crave now than a man’s body inside mine. Cradling me and distracting me from any and all reckless mistakes I’ve made. For the pleasure of the body to overcome the terrible thoughts of the mind. 

Elliott’s eyes are on mine and mine on his. And I can see them light up when my head slowly nods yes. His lips are cracked and tastes so salty. I savour the taste of ocean on his skin. And I can feel him adjust my body in his hands so that my body can be closer to his. Elliott’s hair is still damp under my finger tips and an a guttural noise reverberates from his chest when I give his hair a slight yank. 

My breath is quick and short when his lips leave mine. His grey, barely blue eyes search my face all over. Until his lips spread out in a grin, “You’ve distracted me, mon cherie.” I laugh and as I do, he presses his cheek against the bare skin of my chest and neck. Like a kitten purring in my lap. A dog begging for cuddles. “I’ve distracted you?” I can’t help but laugh. 

He hums and nods, “I never kiss a lady I just met...” Elliott rests his chin on my chin, looking up at me. “I’m certain we’ve met before. At some stuffy tea party or boring ball.” His warm chest vibrates as he laughs at my words. “Is that your way of asking me to kiss you again?” I can’t help but shrug my shoulders. “Would that be so wrong of me?” He hums, one of his hands escape from under my body and land on my cheek. 

Elliott’s thumb swipes left and then right over my cheek. “Only on one condition.” My hand mirrors his in the locks of his hair. “Anything.” He smiles at my reply. “Tell me you’ll stay with my grand-maman, take care of her when I’m not here to?” I can see just how much he cares for his grandmother, the love he feels for her. Even more so the responsibility he feels for her. 

Again his grey eyes turn bluer when I slowly nod yes. How can I not? I have no where else to stay. And rather I should be the one begin him to stay. He sits more upright, straddling my waist. Elliott takes my hands in his. “Thank you, thank you so much Mariposa. Vous ne comprenez pas à quel point cela compte pour moi. Merci, merci. Je retire tout ce que j'ai dit.” He can very clearly see the confusion behind my eyes, because he laughs. Full of joy and amusement. “Don’t worry, I only thank you.” 

“Rien de ce que vous faites n’est très gracieux, n’est-ce pas?” My head snaps up, all thoughts of the two men in my life being interrupted by the French of the old woman. I groan, she insists on speaking only French to me. I’ve been doing my best to keep up but our conversations tend to be choppy with a lot of repeating. But I can make out her words to be something about me not being graceful. 

“I am not Prima Ballerina as you used to be. I clean and I write and that’s just about it.” She hums and nods. “I do not see what he sees in you.” Again I sigh, “I promise you, Madam, your grandson and I only kissed. Nothing more.” Again she hums and I can see the disbelief behind her eyes. “You already look pregnant.” I stop my sweeping at her rude comment. “That wasn’t very polite, now was it?” I choose to avoid her jab at my weight. I know the ballerinas all aim to be as thin as possible. 

She replies with a tsk noise, not bothering herself with my scold. “I was not talking about my grandson.” I tilt my head to the side. My hair has gotten longer, it’s just barely past my shoulders. “Who then?” She repeats her easier tsk sound. “You know who I am talking of.” I gulp when my mind immediately jumps to one man and one man only. I go to laugh and brush her off but she interrupts me. “He was there in my last years of teaching. Back then Madam Giry was his obsession.” 

Time slows when her words make much more sense than they should. “She...knows of him?” Elliott’s grandmother nods, “But of course...Now tell me...what does he see in you?” My mouth is dry and my mind whirls, trying to decide if I should share with her. Ultimately, I decide to pull myself a chair and sit down next to her. And with great detail, more than the older woman likely wanted, I explain my relationship with the man that haunts my every move. Who’s she going to tell? 

“I do not know what to do.” Is how I finish my story. She sighs, intertwining her fingers and leaning further back in her chair. “I think it was foolish of you to ever even believe someone like him could ever even love.” My brows pull together. “Do you not believe him to be human?” She almost laughs, in the last month or so I have yet to see her smile like she did when Elliott was here. 

She shakes her head. “He is human, just perhaps not one capable of loving.” That feels so cruel to say. I could see kindness and compassion behind his eyes. Even more so when he looks at me. Ike I hold the answers to the world in my eyes. He always looks like he’s on the verge of tears and just about ready to break down. Erik just holds so much emotion, no where near the heartless beast she imagines him to be. 

“But I can see in your eyes you do not agree with me.” My lips pull up in a shy smile. “I know what it’s like to be young and in love.” Now my smile is a laugh. “Only enjoy it. Once the dream becomes a nightmare, you’ll wish you’d enjoyed it more in the moment. And that you didn’t spend so much time stressing about it.” The way that she speaks it’s as if she knows. “Especially if you’re his second girl.” 

And instantly, my mind goes to Christine

It was like I hit the golden treasure when I found her notebook in my tunnels. I couldn’t control myself. I had to know each and everyone of her thoughts. And what I read was so utterly beautiful, I couldn’t stop. I had to make sure that the whole world knew of this. Could experience it just as I have. And after a month of utter writers block, I knew each and every word that would come next.  

The words that would bind together and make this story she has made into the perfect play. And along with  a semi-threatening message, I left the play, in her name, on the director’s desk. When all returns, the world will see her in all her glory. See just how magnificent her mind is compared to the other simpletons that run this place.  

[andydrysdalerogers]

The Type You Save ~ S E V E N T E E N

James "Bucky" Barnes and OFC Alexandra "Alex" Richards

Detective James Barnes hasn't seen the love of his life in three years. Since the night she was almost caught stealing a painting. He knows it was her and she disappeared leaving him confused and heart broken.

Alexandra Richards never expected to be pulled back into her old life two years after she left it. She had found love and a home and was happy. Until a note blackmailed her to take one last job. Three years later she walked into the last person she expected to see in San Francisco. Because he lived in New York right?

They always put family before everything. And he would do anything to get his family back. Because she's the type you save.

TW: mob, death, smut, rape intentions, angst, guns, family abandonment, dub-con, manipulation

A/N: because of the Valentine one shot I'm posting tomorrow, I'm posting the final chapter of The Type You Save today. It has been fun writing a different hero this time.

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site, even if you give me credit. DO NOT REPOST MY FICS. Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated

Divider by @firefly-graphics

Previous: S I X T E E N

Series Masterlist ~ Main Masterlist

Alex stood on the grass in San Francisco, her black dress swaying in the cold wind, a storm coming in.  She sighed as she watched the casket being lowered into the ground. She tightens her grip on James’s hand as he held Drew on his other side.  

“I’m glad I was able to do this for him.”  

“Me too doll.  You ok?” 

“Its just hard.  I thought…” 

“I know Allie. But its closure.”  

She could barely listen to the prayer, her mind whirling from everything that had happened.  After everything had settle, Zemo sang like a bird.  He explained how he got involved with Grey, the threat Grey had on his family.  Grey made it seem like all he wanted was to take Alex, not explaining that he was going to kidnap Drew a week or so after his plan to break her.  

The police found Grey’s will and a letter for Alex.  Alex took a moment a couple of days after her rescue to read it.  

Alexandra,   If you are reading this, it means that I have die, probably at your hand.  That’s hard to write, considering the amount of love I have for you.   If you haven’t discovered yet, let me explain some truths.   When I first saw you, you were the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.  I wanted you from that moment on.  But your brother refused. I tried to persuade Simon, reason with him. Unfortunately, that didn’t work out.  We buried him close to the house in Boston. I hope that brings you a little peace.   As for your parents, they threaten to harm you as they blamed you for your brother’s disappearance.  I had them change their will to leave me as their benefactor before they were killed.  I wanted to keep your inheritance safe.   I left everything to you, my pet, my queen. My hope is that this letter is unnecessary, but I wanted to be sure you were taken care of, should anything happen.   I love you so much Alexandra.    Yours,   Christian.   

Alex sobbed at the letter with James holding her as she wept.  Her entire adult life before James was built on a web of lies.  When she got confirmation of his location, she had her brother reburied.  The toll of the bell snapped Alex back to the present.  

The father completed his blessing over the casket.  “We celebrate your life Simon Richards, a lost soul that has been found and now taken to the Lord. Amen.”  

They all murmured a reply and then came to give Alex their condolences. After everyone left, Alex turned to James.  “I want to see him, Jamie.”  

James sighed, “Allie, I…” 

“I need to see him.  He did this for me.  It’s the least I can do.”  

James adjusted a sleeping Drew on his arm.  “Ok, ok.  Let me make a few calls.”  

A couple of hours later, Allie sat beside a hospital bed.  Its occupant was asleep.  She took his hand and his eyes fluttered open.  

“Hey Allie Cat.”   

Nate’s face was still pale and his movements slow but there he was three weeks after being shot.  

She reached over to press a kiss to his forehead.  “Hey Nate.  How are you feeling?”  

“Tired.”   

“Getting shot will do that.” She gave him a soft smile. “What have the doctors said?” 

“Recovery is going well. Docs say I just have to be patient to get stronger.”  

“That’s good.” She rubbed her thumb over his knuckles.  “We had the funeral today.”  

Nate could see the pain in her eyes.  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. I’m just glad I was able to give you that.  I’m sorry I hadn’t told you sooner.”  

“Its ok. I probably wouldn’t have believed you then.”  She looked away to blink her tears away.  “How is your case looking?” 

He chuckled.  “Since I help saved two cops and a witness, its looking like I’ll be able to plea to a lesser charge. Maybe a year.”  

“That’s good. Steve, James and I are ready to testify for you.”  

“Thanks Alex.  I should rest. I have physical therapy in a couple of hours.”  

“Ok.  I’ll be back again now that I can get to see you.”  She hugged him gently and went to the door.  “Open on bay 7.”  There was a buzz and a click before the door slid open.  She glanced back at Nate with a smile and went through the door.  

James was sitting in the visitor’s lounge, checking his email when Alex walked in.  “Hey Allie.  How is he?” 

“He’s good.  Still kinda pale and slow but he says he feels stronger.”  She popped a shoulder.  “Ready?” She held out her hand.  

He took and tugged her to him, her back to his front, hugging her, breathing her in. Something he doesn’t take for granted anymore. “Ready, doll.  Steve called and said Drew asked if they could go to the park.  I said ok. Wanted some time with my doll.”  He placed a kiss on her neck.  

“Jamie, we are in the hospital,” she moaned quietly as he continued with his gentle assault.  

“I’ve missed you, Allie.  My perfect little doll.”  

She melted right there. “Ok, ok, get me outta here Detective.”  

“Its Sargent and you know it.”  

“You’ll always be my Detective.” She spun in his arms and looked into his stormy blues. “Take me to bed Jamie.”  

“Oh Allie,” James moaned. He kissed her hard before releasing her, taking her hand and guiding her out of the hospital.  The drive was laced with anticipation, the air heavy with lust from the couple.  They hadn’t been intimate, since before, with Alex dealing with the emotions of her past coming to light and Drew being attached to his parents in fear of never seeing them again.  James held onto Alex’s hand, his thumb moving over her knuckles, the sensation like bolts of lightening to her core.  

“Lightening touches,” she whispered.  

“What was that?” 

“Lightening touches,” she said a little louder.  “Before all of this, your touch always gave me the feeling like lightening through my skin.”  

James smiled.  “I remember. I believe it was the same night we conceived Drew.”  His smile grew wider. “That was a great night.”  

“It was.” Alex brought his knuckled to kiss. “I’m sorry I’ve been distant.”  

“Don’t be doll. I understand.  We’ve all been through a lot.” They made it back to their apartment.  It was eerily still.  Alex looked around as James pulled her to their bedroom.  “Tell me what you need baby.”  He sat on the edge of the bed as Alex settle between his legs.  

“I need you,” she whispered.  

“You have me, doll.” James began to kiss around the hem of her blouse.  He motioned for it to be taken off and Alex swiftly pulled it off.  “So beautiful.  My Allie,” he whispered in between kisses.  

She ran her hand through his hair.  “My Jamie.  I love you.”  

“I love you too, doll.” He stood up and lifted her into his arms.  She wrapped her legs around him as he flipped them around and he laid her on the bed. “Let’s make a baby.”  

“Now?” 

“Now.  No more threats, no more secrets.  Its just us now doll. James and Alexandra. Bucky and Alex, Jamie and Allie.”  

“Never called you Bucky. But Bucky and Alex works.  Just like mommy and daddy.” She ran her fingertips over his chin. “I love you.”  

“Oh doll.  I love you.” Soon all their clothes were gone and James was hovering over his wife. He stared deep into her eyes as he rubbed his tip through her folds.  “So wet doll.  Almost as if you were excited to make me a daddy again.”  

“Jamie, don’t tease,” Alex whined.  “I need you.”  

He grinned as he sank into her, stretching her slow.  He watched as her head tilted back and her eyes rolled back. “Feel good?” 

“So good baby but you have to move,” she moaned.  James started on a steady pace, not really using force, just letting her feel good. “Oh god, Jamie,” she cried.  

“Yeah Allie.” James flipped them so she was on top.  She swiveled her hips and he groaned.  “Just like that doll.”  She bounced on him, feeling all of him. He could feel her starting to tighten.  “You close baby?” 

“So close.  You feel so good inside me.” He grasped her hips tighter, pulling her down harder onto him. “Gonna cum.”  

“Do it, love.  All over me Allie.” James grunted at the force, wanting to be closer to her.  He flipped them again and moved his hips hard. She gave a silent scream as she tightened around him.  “Ah fuck!” He let go as well, moving slower, working them through.  

They laid there a moment, the cloud of bliss still over them. The memories of lost love, love found, and love made flooded them.  James held his girl, thankful that she wasn’t lost.  She was saved.  

F I V E  Y E A R S  L A T E R 

“Andrew! Delilah! Its dinner time!” Alex called out to her children. She felt something around her ankles and looked down to see their white kitten, Alpine, twisting herself around her.  “Yes, Al, dinner for you too.”  Her children raced in, their German shepherd, Brooklyn, racing after them.  “Wash your hands!” She turned back out the door.  “Bucky! Steve! Dinner!” 

James and Steve trudged in, still arguing on the best way to fix the bike.  “I’m telling you it’s the exhaust,” Steve argued.  

“Whatever punk, the pop noises are from the clutch, guaranteed.” James wiped his hands off and went to Alex.  “Hey momma, how are you?” 

“Tired but good.” His hand rested on the small bump on her belly, and she placed her hand over his. “Still too early to feel them, love.”  

“Can’t wait to meet them love.  Its everything we ever dreamed of.”  

“It’s more Jamie.  It’s so much more.”  

James and Alexandra. Bucky and Alex. Jamie and Allie.  

Family over everything.  

*~* The End *~* 

@patzammit

@texmexdarling

@slutforchrisjamalevans

@firephotogrl74

@tinkerbelle67

@before-we-get-started

@bunnyforhim

@alexakeyloveloki

@sunnyhummingbee

@peaceinourtime82

@lokislady82

@saucy-sassy-sparkly

@kmc1989

@kandis-mom

[kimetsu-chan]

fic request for the aftermath of the war (Milo death au:3), like how is everyone adjusting to Milo being gone along with so many others? (you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to:3)

~Character’s Reactions to Milo’s Death~

A/N: yall, I think my wife wants to kill me ;-;

The only ocs that will be featured in this are Yuna, Zeno, Michio, and ofc, Milo, but she ded-

this was written as headcanons bc Larz said that was okay :3

TWs ⚠️: death(obvi), grief, loss of loved one, crying, it’s just sad bro ;-;

First and foremost, Michio would undoubtedly be the one hurting the most.

That was his sister, the person closest to him for his entire life, even if he hadn’t seen her for half of it.

The news of her death was hard on him, and not seeing her smile every day was even harder.

He missed his sister so badly, he had only just gotten her back and she had been ripped away from her all too soon.

It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair at all.

He didn’t want to give Milo that bow only for it to be handed back to him, years later.

Of course, Michio’s best friend was there for him during this time.

And although he was hurting too, Zeno would always put priority on Michio.

He was absolutely astonished he was offered to keep something of hers, he would have assumed others would get top priority.

And that is why he declined anything of hers.

Yes, he wanted something to remember her by, but he didn’t want to rob those precious items from people who were closer to her.

So he settled on perfecting his painting skills and painting portrait after portrait of her to preserve her memory.

Milo was such an overwhelmingly loved person, and her death brought a noticeable drop in a lot of people’s moods.

Especially Yuna’s

She tried so hard to keep her usual smile on, since she knew it would have been what Milo wanted

But it was hard

She found herself talking less and keeping to herself more.

She saw Milo as a close friend, someone to look up to, a daughter.

She had the honors of keeping Milo’s sword, what was preserved of it anyways.

The odd, purple sword and sheathe was the heirloom of the Tomioka family for years and years to come.

Tanjiro would often stare at it, hung on the wall, whenever he and his sister would come to visit his late girlfriend’s found parents.

It made him sad, she was too young.

He also couldn’t help but feel self-pity

He had lost a lot of people, why did he have to loose her too?

They had just finally realized their feelings for each other, and it was all gone now, never to be seen again.

He was permitted to keep the haori Milo always wore

When it was presented to him, he couldn’t help but cry

He missed her

He missed her so bad, how was he supposed to live the rest of his life without her?

Milo’s death brought devastation and sadness

But thanks to many people, her memory was kept safely protected through stories, art, and fond memories.

A/N: my eyeballs started leaking when I wrote this ;-;

[alicentsultana]

Where do I even begin ?

Oh let’s start with the fact that your writing style was INSANE .I really love the way you describe things .Dark Alicent my beloved you were done justice in this .

And Alicent having Aegon to attend lessons ma then granting him so wine was such a goof bit and I do think that was in character for both of them .

Alicent played the dutiful way after Viserys died (“Let him rest!”) was such a delicious detail .I really felt for Aegon when he takes the throne and it’s such a nightmare but if he stays delusional his family (and any possibility of recognition)is dead .I SEE what you were doing with Helaena’s warnings and I love it .

The politics in this were all so delicious .Weird word for talking about politics but reading about the Black box and Corlys as hand and Lord Arryn and Rhaenyra’s pregnancy was so engaging .

Alicent losing three kids was a change that struck me ,and I find it interesting because a lot of women lost children in medieval times and now we don’t even know if they actually lost them or even had them so it was interesting in the historical sense .And really sad because the scene where she is caressing her empty belly really did something to me .I stared at the phone for like ten minutes .

Alicole in this was INSANE ,like wdym she literally said she wanted to have his babies ? What do you mean she’s PLANNING to make him hers ? Not that it makes me unhappy actually I was kicking my feet the entire time .

Alicent’s dream was such a haunting and good bit .Aemond being his cunty self my beloved .And you mentioning Daeron with Criston …the way you wiew Daeron is so heartwarming he is such a KID .

And ofc her last words to Viserys were so cunty and so hunting .The way she took his life and the only possibility to ease his guilt after what he did to Aemma was probably the best bit of the entire chapter .”See you in Hell” GODD

I’m so ready for the second chapter and I really thank you for this fic already because it made my day better .

YOU GO ALICENTSULTANA

Omg, thank you so much!

Lessons in exchange for wine is something that totally would happen, this is soft manipulation/motivation.

Alicent must be a cancer, I can feel it, it's in my blood. I have wondered for a long time what is a major manipulation feature one can express, and I totally would play dumb and heartbroken just to see the outcome and cover my actions, I gave her this to make her truly unhinged.

Aegon is doing it for his children and his siblings, this is the sole reason, wine also. I think he used Helaena's vision to justify his actions and feel less guilty about it, but don't worry, there will be no remorse coming.

I'm not a politics girl, like I don't understand anything about it, so in my head I always justify everything as "political undisclosed reasons", but then, Alicent is a politician, her father and life taught her the hard way, so she had, as queen mediator, to act. Including taking risks with helping Corlys raise to position - one snake + one snake = naja and coral. She must be suttle, must analyze everything, every step, no faux pas.

Corlys is playing for the winning team when is convenient, though don't ask me what he will tell his wife.

I also pondered who would be a major Lord who could prove himself against Rhaenyra, and who better than the brother of her mother. Throughout s1 she stroked me as being relapse and naive about the power of court women, while Alicent entertained them, Rhaenyra was mostly doing faces and throwing some tantrums. Who's to say she wouldn't offend, unknowingly, a member of her own extended family? The Arryns are a super important house, and are her relatives, losing them is losing the vale.

Let's not mention Viserys health deteriorating and her doing what? Thousands years of honeymoon? Alicent was pregnant and holding a child while the world was falling apart and pretty girl was doing what? This will be brought up again in the future. Viserys would 100% overlook and think nothing of it (as always).

I have an hc that she had at least three more pregnancies, though she would have lost them by natural causes, I decided to make her get rid of them herself, and lamenting it because obviously she wouldn't want to do it, but she couldn't bring herself to birth more children to an ungrateful crown. I believe after Aemond, she would often tell Criston like "oh, i wish they were yours" both because she lost faith in Viserys, but also because Criston was the dadTM and she's in love with him.

They are very much aware of their feelings, but my intention was to do it much more mature and heavy, more wild and on edge, they are certainly more touchy, more open, not that many notice or see it happening beyond some of her servants and Westerling (he have a keen eye).

But again, they would never be caught red handed (god I really want to post the second chapter, people will scream).

Even if he's already hers, Alicent doesn't content herself with halves, she wants the whole meal, the whole experience.

Daeron will always be a baby, he's not allowed to grow up, he stays in mini size, pocket size. Though she would want it, Alicent won't get pregnant again, she doesn't have the energy to do so, and she is Dowager Queen, she has an image to keep.

She hates Viserys, like, actively, fervently. Alicent wanted to say those words when he was alive but she couldn't risk him not dying.

I'm so glad this made your day better, this is always the major intent! Chapter 2 will come soon, I'll try to post it as soon as possible.

Thank you so much for reading and telling me what you thought of it!

[fumifooms]

HI. I loved your marchil fics and I love your lil blurbs and hcs and all you're lil thoughts on them it's beautiful and makes my heart melt. It's just seeing this lil guy and how he has all his feelings locked away in a box until marcille walks over and picks right through the lock and gets him to open up (well in a metaphorical sense-).

DAMN YOU FOR GETTING ME DEEPLY INVESTED IN THESE IDIOTS I LOVE THEM SO MUCH IM GETTING CUTE AGGRESSION!!!!

I KNOWW RIGHT, I love how you described it!! There’s so much fun imagery and metaphors you can do with them… They lost focus and had a consensual workplace relationship, as people say

I love their dynamic they are so romcom shaped… Speaking of romcoms I recently read Dame na watashi ni koishite kudasai/Please love me ! which has major marchil energy, I love reading it while thinking of them lmao. They banter and she infiltrates his social sphere & gets all the family gossip and also he owns a cafe and cooks her things, it’s like my coffeeshop AU but real 😭💗

People when getting into marchil:

Thank you for this ask! 🥺 It’s always really nice to hear things like these… I never know what to respond though so naturally I shall go overboard, handing out more marchil thoughts as per popular demand! Marchil nation is a tiny island I’m sorry for getting you invested, but also mwahahaha hahahA YES HAHAHA YESSS! Handing you these ramblings as apology

My motivation to write essays has been waning lately BUT I do have a big post about theories and facts on Chilchuck’s family planned, his wife and daughters plus some Chil’s dad and siblings, the whole package. On top of more marchil crumbs to post oof… Ideally I should also rework the first part of the marchil crumbs to make it more streamlined and dare I say convincing. Also fanart and fics which I hope to get around to finishing up… I def want to make more marchil content, but I honestly have no clue which idea to work on next… (I take requests and prompts btw~). I want to make more fluff but I also want to make more hurt/comfort, ahh dilemma

One idea I have that’s particularly relevant is a fic that I’d call Locks of Hair, about blonde hair and the key to his heart. I’d love touching on his attraction to blondes and how that might affect their relationship in a neat lil introspective oneshot like I like to make. LOCKS of hair? Being the KEY to his heart? I love the english language. There’s sorta this trope where if a character loves money has a liking for blondes it’s because like, the hair is "golden", and I’d find playing with that so funny too.

Another that really has my heart right now is Marcille’s mom visiting them to see her daughter and meet her new partner Chilchuck, and it throws them into a frenzy to prepare for it, Chil being entirely too stressed and dreading. And seeing them her mom’s eyes soften and she tells them they remind her of her and her late husband… The bittersweet pride mixed with anticipation at how her daughter has grown into someone who can accept loss, and is willing to throw all of herself into loving despite them not even having 20 years together ahead of them……. I think about marchil proposals and marriage a lot. Hey hey did you know that in Japan "I want to drink your miso soup every day" is a way to propose, because that’s so Dungeon Meshi. The way proposals are so meaningful with these two because it truly is like "i want to give my lifetime to you, knowing all that it entails, but I believe that it’s worth the trouble. That it’s worth it." I have so much proposal dialogue between them written up oogh they make me so emotional

You truly are a warrior for reading all I wrote about them omg, if you like these sorta convos then maybe you’d enjoy joining our dunmeshi discord! I rarely get the chance to speak with another marchil enthusiast~ We have a lot of big convos on characters and ships over there hehe, ofc no pressure though, invite link in comment just in case. I get cuteness agression over them TOOOOO I need them-shaped stress balls to squeeze in affection

-trips and falls and some of my favorite marchil moments slip out-Soulmates ❤️ (delusional)

[unohanabbygirl]

All I’m thinking about is fmbh Luke getting the divorce he deserves only to vibe with Daeron and remarry him. Now Daeron and Luke getting pregnant at the same time is something I see so clearly in my mind’s eye. Unlike Aemond, I feel like Daeron completely embraced his body as a way to feel more Targaryen when he was isolated in Oldtown (plus those Hightowers never really wanted to aknowledge the strangeness of Valyrians and Alicent wasn’t there to shame him so actually he was mostly left alone to develop a very healthy understanding of his body). At Driftmark he would def find the freedom to explore his gender with clothing too. It’d be so interesting to see Luke wary of Daeron or see it as a ploy for the Hightowers to try for Driftmark again, but it turns out Daeron is 100x better than Aemond is every regard and things are just easy with him. Once again he curses Viserys for chaining him to Aemond when if the fates had just said Daeron instead of Aemond he wouldn’t have lost 10 years on a dead marriage. Aemond gets nothing in the divorce! (Tho can you imagine his pride being like I need nothing from that bastard while Otto and Alicent saying you need alimony bc you have no money). Also I love divorcee Aemond thinking it was just Luke who was ruining the marriage but once he finds himself a new wife who hates him and still no inheritance he realizes oh shit I had it easy being a consort

Luke x Daeron is so niche yet so important to me so I love this idea of these two finding love with one another. Especially after Luke’s had to deal with Aemond’s bull for so long. It would also be a much cleaner start since they barely know each other seeing as Daeron’s only come around one every blue moon and even then they never actually conversed. There’s no resentment or past grievances making things difficult either, just two people getting to know each other and coming to find love. I don’t even see Daeron holding anything about Aemond’s lost eye against Luke since they barely know each other. There’s no sense of loyalty to his older brother holding him back from a happy relationship despite Alicent’s disbelief that he could ever truly love the man who blinded his “true” family.

Daeron seeing his body as his one connection with his Targ ancestry is eye opening. He’s the only one who never had the chance to connect with that person part of himself being raised amongst the Hightowers in Oldtown. None of his extended family were comfortable enough to acknowledge him being intersex therefore never brought it up, even to shame him. Without shame came the ability to not only explore his body/gender identity, but develop confidence in who he was. Moving to Driftmark would absolutely give him the opportunity to dress differently as well. Luke’s own more feminine/androgynous sense of style interesting him to the point the point of wanting to try some things out for himself.

The image of these two stunting together is stuck to my brain like glue. Luke ofc goes with his usual choices of his houses colors. On the other hand, rather than Velaryon blue Daeron is attracted to much darker blues that almost boarder onto purple in certain light to match Tessarion

Now Divorcee Aemond is forced to see his ex-husband and little brother flow together like a well oiled machine during events calling for the entire royal family’s presence while his new wife barely talks to him. It’s not even just the fact that he’s a pain in the ass to deal with but that Aemond is leeching off of her since he left with no money or lands in his name. Something she never lets him forget whereas Luke only mentioned money when it came to business rather than Aemond’s personal spending habits. (Luke always checked their records, but Aemond doesn’t have to know that)

Aemond really does live a good life as a kept man though. The only reason he involves himself with Driftmark’s trade at all is because it makes him feel as though he’s not living off of his nephew even though he very much is lmaoo