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darklydeliciousdesires · 4 months

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For the Love of Dogs - An Alfie & Beth Solomons One Shot Story.

I think writing that long overdue check in with these two made me realise how bloody much I'd missed them, besties. Here, another installment in their story. I do hope I will have more ideas for further stories to follow :)

Words - 7,890

Warnings - Mention of death, but lots of fluff!

She entered the house on complete, brain disengaged autopilot, her outstretched finger finding the keypad to the alarm system, punching the code in and then simply standing in the welcome hall, a home much, much too quiet for her liking. The heaviness of it squeezed her heart, sniffing hard, rubbing her thumb over the soft leather of his collar. A collar now redundant.

Her beloved Cyril. Their beloved Cyril.

“Come ‘ere, darlin’.” Beth wouldn’t have been able to get through it, the last goodbye with their faithful family dog, without her husband at her side. Sinking into the comforting bulk of Alfie’s embrace, she wept against his chest, hearing him sniffing back further tears of his own. He hadn’t been afraid to cry as they’d both sat out on the grass behind the veterinary surgery, Cyril wrapped in soft blankets in a dog bed provided by the staff, the birds tweeting as they’d told him how he was loved, how much of a good boy he was.

The gargantuan mastiff had taken his last breaths feeling warm, calm and safe, his mum and dad right there with him. Thirteen years had come to a peaceful end as loving hands stroked his soft fur, leaving a hole behind in the lives of his family that far eclipsed his own huge size.

“If it’s anything to you, thirteen is simply unheard of for a Bullmastiff to reach. You both cared for him exceptionally well, truly.” the kind vet had offered sympathetically. She’d also been the one to suggest they put him to sleep outside, a practice that they’d had to develop over the Covid-19 lockdown, and one she now offered as a much nicer alternative to pets being euthanised upon a table, in a room so many of them felt anxiety towards.

The children were with their auntie Magda, their parents feeling it best they didn’t attend. It was heartbreaking enough for them as two adults; it would have been much too upsetting for the little ones to witness. Abe and Flora had said their goodbyes to him earlier that morning, sitting with him in their pyjamas, Beth calling the school and explaining they would not be attending on account of the event that afternoon, explaining she felt they would be too upset and distracted to concentrate in class. Luckily, the secretary had been understanding.

Instead, Magda had booked a day off work and taken them out to keep their minds off it, Thorpe Park being her chosen destination for them to visit. “Ain’t no bother at all, sweet. I could do having a day with me kids, unwind a bit. Poor little mites. Don’t you worry at all, and I don’t want no money, either. I’m treating them, whatever they want, they get.” Beth had been eternally grateful to her children’s godmother for her kind assistance.

Venturing into the house, Alfie pulled her wine bottle from the rack when they reached the kitchen, pouring out two glasses. He seldom drank, but felt like he needed something in that moment. His heart was truly broken, to be without the loving dog he’d had in his life for so long. Watching girlfriends come and go, his business empire going from strength to strength, meeting the woman who would eventually become his wife, adding children to their family, it had all been with Cyril by his side.

His loss was profound, sitting down at the island, passing a glass to Beth. “To the best bloody dog who ever was, baby beast.” They chinked glasses, smiling sadly as they remembered Cyril fondly. Their first child, as they always called him. Beth still hadn’t released her grip upon his collar, and for the rest of the afternoon she held onto it, thumb still stroking the leather.

“Would it be wrong of me if I decided to blow off my article and get pissed out of my face?”

Alfie’s smile tilted his lips, reaching to stroke her face. “Nah, treacle. Did Mags say she was taking the nippers for dinner an’ all while they’re out?”

“Yeah, she just texted me, actually. They’re currently at TGI Friday’s awaiting a plethora of their favourite foods.” She smiled at the thought, knowing how Magda loved it there just as much as the kids. “I don’t feel much like cooking for you and I, though.”

“Ain’t no bother to me, darlin’. I was gonna suggest we order from that new Italian place we like. I ain’t much in the mood for eating, but a bit later I could probably see off a piece of that lasagne they do. Tell you what, why don’t you go for a nice, long soak in the bath. I’ve got a few calls I need to make anyway.”

She took him up on his suggestion, kissing him before sliding from her seat, placing a kiss upon the collar still in her hand, too, before putting it up on one of the shelves behind the breakfast nook. She’d get to putting away all of Cyril’s other belongings at some point, but couldn’t face it right then. His bed they’d had to throw away that morning, the dog having an unfortunate bladder accident upon it. It had sealed to them that they were doing the right thing in putting him to sleep.

His toys remained, Beth looking at them mournfully where they sat in the basket for that storage purpose, deciding to move them to a place the kids wouldn’t see upon their return. Picking up his plush frog, she couldn’t resist sniffing it, smelling his lovely fur upon it, her eyes filling with tears all over again. They had decided to have him cremated, the vet advising that his ashes should be back within the next ten days. She knew she’d be in floods all over again then, too.

Trudging up the stairs, she felt weary with grief, knowing that she had to brighten by the time the children got back, for their sakes. She was expecting them to be upset, returning to a house without Cyril in it, although Magda had stated during various text check ins throughout the day that they seemed to be taking it well. Thorpe Park had proven to be a good distraction, it seemed.

While the bath ran, she tidied up her little office area, smiling as always when her eye was caught by the framed article from The Times, her very first being published within the newspaper. It had been a gift from Alfie upon her moving in with him. She could scarcely believe it had been ten years since her move into St Mark’s House. It sometimes still felt like ten weeks ago.

The smell of her Jo Malone bath oil caught her nose as she shuffled the last stack of papers, the notes of English pear and freesia crisp in their aroma, Beth stripping off her white shirt and jeans, placing them into the laundry hamper. “Need to get a load of laundry done.” she noted to herself, seeing the basket just over half full. It could wait.

The hot water provided a nice, comforting surround of relaxation, her eyes flitting over to the wall by the stained-glass windows, once again viewing her paint swatch choices. She tired of white, wanting something a little different for the space. So far, the smoky blue was a definite front runner, but she also did favour the deep, mustard yellow, almost a dark gold in hue. Hmm. She’d live with the dashes of paint a little longer before deciding. The pink which Flora has suggested was a definite no.

Once done, she got out, dressing in her favourite, comfortable loungewear set, heading back downstairs. The doorbell sounded just as she was about to head to the kitchen, her path swerved back out towards the front door.

“She fell asleep about half an hour away,” Magda whispered, passing a sleeping Flora into her mother’s arms, kissing her cheek. She turned, giving her to a suddenly present Alfie, her husband stating that he would see to putting them straight to bed since Abe also looked shattered. “Got bellies full of pizza and chicken wings, they have. Had a right ole’ feast, we did. I swear, I reckon I’ve put on a bleedin’ stone and I only had the Jack Daniel’s chicken!” She then paused, reaching for Beth’s face, her thumb skimming the apple. “Bloody horrid, ain’t it? Coming back to a house without ‘em in it.”

Of course, Magda understood the pain only too well, losing her beloved Claus only five months before to cancer. Luckily for her and Dennis, at least they still had Marley and Karma. She nipped that little slither of envy immediately, though. “It is, mate. It really is.”

“Well, I know it ain’t much, but I got you a little something.” Reaching into her gorgeous Fendi tote, Magda pulled out a bottle of her favourite Casamigos tequila, handing it over with a smile.

“Awww babe, love you,” Beth cooed, giving her a kiss.

“Love you too, sweet. Open it up, get nice an’ sloshed, and thank me later. Right, I better get moving, gotta go feed his highness and walk the pups.”

“Thanks again for taking them today, Mags. You made a hard situation just that little bit easier,” she spoke fondly, Magda waving her hand.

“I had a right good time with them, babe. Always do.” Beth waved to her from the door as she drove away, thinking herself so very lucky. A little while later, the doorbell trilled again, Alfie answering it that time. The cause was in his arms as he entered the lounge, handing her a gigantic bouquet of beautiful flowers.

“Whoever sent these fuckin’ mugged off half the Chelsea flower show, bloody ‘ell!” he exclaimed as his wife took the blooms, pulling the card from the top.

“Sending all our love to you, Alfie and the babies. We loved darling Cyril so much, too. Lots of love from Mimi and Kinga xxx”

Her heart was beyond touched at the generosity of her girls, getting together like that for her to gift something so lovely in her grief. They understood, though, how dogs truly were family. Those surprises didn’t stop coming in the wake of Cyril’s passing either, Beth’s breakfast with her dear Oliver a few days later yielding another beautiful surprise.

“I hope you don’t get upset, darling, but Brett and I wanted to do something nice in his memory, so this is for you.” He passed the brown paper Habitat bag across the table, Beth pulling out a well wrapped, rectangular shaped gift from within. Tearing open the chic wrapping paper, her throat pinched with emotion, seeing a beautiful black and white photograph of Cyril that Oliver’s husband had taken of him the previous summer, lying outside on the patio, looking so regal in the fading evening light. “Brett says he was the most photogenic dog he’s ever met, and I quite believe that to be true.”

She couldn’t speak for a few moments, sniffing hard, flapping her hand as she swallowed the lump in her throat. “Thank you, sweetheart. I love you both so much,” she eventually managed, placing the framed picture down and exiting her seat to give him a huge hug.

“And we love you too, baby. He was a splendid chap, old Cyril. Remember how scared of him I used to be, back when I first visited you at home? And then by the end of that night, he was sitting next to me on the sofa, resting his massive head on my shoulder?” His fond words sparked the memory, Cyril indeed taking to Oliver very much.

She nodded, taking her seat again. “I do, yes. Gosh, it was so long ago. I remember when he first met Brett too...”

“And humped the hell out of his leg!” Oliver finished, clapping his hands together with mirth. What he shouted, too! “Oh, my Jesus, he’s going to give me ligament damage! Queen down! Queen down!” Her emotional wobble was forgotten as she burst into hysterics, remembering Brett literally knocked to the floor while she’d wheezed, Oliver in tears, Alfie having to detach a rampant Cyril from the object of his affections. To Brett he had been known primarily as big gay dog ever since.

They shared a few memories of him before their conversation moved on, both discussing work, Beth enthralled by his tales from New York Fashion Week, from where he had not long returned. He’d also brought with him another gift he alerted her to in the bag, some of her favourite American sweeties, two big bags of Milk Duds present when she looked again. How well he knew her.

After breakfast, she had work commitments to attend, calling in at London Life and Style to discuss an article she’d submitted, her little sheen dented by the fact that the viper, also known as Madeline Arlington-Smith, had dissected it thoroughly.

“I feel that if we leave this part out, this part too, it shall be more in accordance with the overall opinion and not merely a fanciful display of the world according to Beth Solomons.”

She remembered back to being much more novice in her journalistic endeavours, seated in that very chair ten years before, taking the heat for an article Madeline had thoroughly given the bloodletting treatment to. It has preceded her first meet with her now husband, seeking refuge and Cabernet Sauvignon in a bar that belonged to him. “Then why on earth ask me to write the article, Madeline, if not from my own perspective?”

“Because you are commenting on the zeitgeist from the perspective of your peers, not simply you, you, you. How does the subject make women of your age feel, what emotions does it drive, how does it affect you all on a whole? I would like a little more of that. We go to print in two weeks. Please have your corrections submitted within the next seven days.”

The viper was not aware of it, but she narrowly avoided an outburst, Beth physically biting her tongue as she rose from her seat. “I will make sure of that.” Striding from the office, she felt her chest thickening, nodding and smiling at a few of the staffers as she passed them by on the way to the elevator. She knew it was because she was still raw over Cyril, she knew that, not being able to take her critique on the chin with her usual good nature. When she arrived home, though, she succumbed slightly.

“That bloody bitch effing bloody woman!”

Alfie raised his eyebrows, looking at her as he clicked a pen against his teeth. “Madeline’s well then, yeah?”

“She’s right on bloody form, she is! Oy!”

He chuckled at his wife’s continued exasperation, making a motion for her to take a seat on his lap. Welcoming her into his arms, he kissed her head, rubbing her back where she was tense. “How about I take you out for lunch, ay? Somewhere fancy, then we’ll go pick up the babies from school? I know you’re still heartbroken over Cyril, and as such you ain’t takin’ whatever the fuck the cobra woman told you...”

“Viper,” she interjected with.

He waved his hand dismissively. “Whatever the fuck they call her, she’s still a bloody snake, innit? So yeah, you ain’t taking it as good as you normally do, right, so let me take you out and get your mind off it.”

Her face crept into a grin. “Can we go to Jean-Georges?"

He could have guessed that’s where she’d request. “You bloody want caviar, don’t ya?” Her rapid nodding confirmed. It was only in the last few years that she’d really relaxed her moderately Kosher diet to such a degree, telling Alfie it was his influence, turning her into an equally bad Jew as he labelled himself. “Good job I’m worth a mint, innit? Fuckin’ wives and their disposition for pricey fish eggs, I dunno. Let me call Stace and see if she’s got a table.”

Stace, or rather Stacy, was the Maitre'd at Jean-Georges at the Connaught, the hostess always taking good care of them when they visited, as she did with all of her exuberantly wealthy clients. “Stace! How are ya, flower? Yeah, ain’t bad, sweet, ain’t bad. Yeah, you gotta table for about an hour from now? You do? Lovely, treacle, yeah put me down, just me and the missus. Alright, love. See you in a bit.” He then turned to his beaming wife. “You’ve got twenty minutes to go and faff. Hurry up.”

She placed a big smacker on his lips, rushing upstairs to quickly check her face, refresh her deodorant and perfume, and change into something more suitable for a restaurant with three Michelin stars. One pair of leather leggings were pulled on, along with her beautiful, grey cashmere sweater, her red Birkin bag selected, and contents transferred from her other bag, her feet jammed into her black Louboutins, and she was good to go.

“Oh blimey, my hair!” Circling back, she quickly picked up her brush and gave it a once over, hearing her husband boom from the stairs.

“Five minutes, Bethany!” He entered the bedroom, pulling off his sweatshirt, giving her an approving once over. “Love them lovely legs wrapped in leather.” A smack placed to her bum echoed through the bedroom, Alfie chuckling with mirth as he shed the rest of his clothes, heading to the ensuite and getting into the shower.

“You said five minutes!” she yelled, giving his nudity an appreciative once over while leaning against the bathroom doorframe.

“I’ll be out in twenty seconds, darlin’.” She had to envy him sometimes, how he could go from casual to restaurant ready in a matter of minutes. Styling his hair took him all of a minute, whereas for her, she’d battled through her thick mane with the straighteners for half an hour that morning. He dressed in a grey suit with a black shirt, not bothering with a tie, handsome, yet sophisticated and casual. A spray of aftershave had him ready with forty-nine seconds to spare. Yes, Beth had counted.

One drive across London later, and they were being seated at one of their favourite restaurant by Stacy herself, who was as attentive and polite as ever. He ordered his usual sparkling water, Beth a large vodka over ice, since it went best with what she was soon to be enjoying. The way he worded it too, when her caviar arrived, she couldn’t help but laugh.

“Enjoying that, darlin’, having a load of sturgeon reproductive goo in your gob?”

She almost sprayed half of them back out again. “Stop it! And yes, I am.”

He chuckled, winking. “Anything I can do to put a smile back on your face, petal.” He paused, sipping his drink and taking another bite of his souffle. “Kids are taking it better than I expected ‘em to, ain’t they?”

“They really are, yes,” she confirmed, smoothing more of the beluga onto a toast point. “Better than me, I think. I burst into tears as soon as I opened Oliver’s gift earlier.” She’d shown it to him before they’d left, Alfie placing it upon the hallway table, next to one of their wedding pictures. He’d loved it, assuring her he’d call Oliver and Brett personally to offer his thanks later that evening when they’d both be at home.

“Kids are so much more resilient than we give ‘em credit for, I think. Flora had a little wobble this morning on the way to school, but she was fine by the time we got to the gates. Told her about rainbow bridge, she seemed to like that.”

The rainbow bridge story. Her heart fluttered at his tenderness with their youngest. Leaning over, she gave him a kiss, Alfie accepting it, albeit with a slightly affronted look.

“Ugh, get away with your fish eggs! Bleedin’ stink horrid, they do!” No, he was definitely not a fan of the delicacy. Still, it didn’t stop him from buying them for his wife whenever she wanted them, though. They followed their starters with a steak for him, Beth choosing the grilled lamb, much too full for dessert. He did, however, stop by at her favourite chocolatier on the way back to Chelsea, spoiling her a little more, purchasing a few treats for the kids, too.

Once home, Beth sat with the children in the lounge, going over their homework tasks with them while Alfie returned to his office. While there, he found himself periodically checking his watch, the habit pure muscle memory. At 5pm every night, he’d leave his desk to walk Cyril. Sighing, he ran a hand down his face, absently stroking his beard as he leaned back and thought of his furry best friend.

God, he missed him.

They’d known for a while that his declining health meant only one thing, both making the decision not to keep pumping him full of painkillers for his arthritic hips, and eventual failing organs. It wouldn’t have been fair, they’d decreed, to keep him going just for the sake of their hearts. He’d outlived his life expectancy by three years, it was his time.

Rather than continuing viewing his acquisition profits for the last month, he found himself looking through various dog rescue sites, smiling at the sweet, hopeful faces of the residents. He decided right there and then that when the family were ready, they’d rescue as opposed to buying a puppy. Maybe they could take in more than one? He’d only been looking for a few moments when he felt uncomfortable, knowing it truly was too soon to even consider any dog other than Cyril being in the house, no matter how cute they all were.

Weeks passed, the family getting used to the lack of his presence within the house, life carrying on. For Alfie, with the kids being on their half term break from school, he threw himself into being a present dad, knowing his empire wasn’t going anywhere and would certainly not crumble for him taking time away from it, enjoying days out with them in abundance.

It was while he was out with his offspring one morning that Beth decided to take up an offer extended to her and try something new. Mimi had been raving about her love for Thai boxing for a good few months, attending both mid-morning and evening classes at her local gym, finally talking Beth into attending one with her.

“You know Abe thinks you’re a ninja now, don’t you?” she spoke as they ran through warmup stretches, Mimi chuckling softly.

“Well, if you enjoy it and keep it up, he’ll be able to say you are, too!”

“Oh no,” she scoffed, reaching to her toes. “I’m still smelly fart head. And Nagatha Christie, thanks to him overhearing Alfie calling me that.”

Mimi all but exploded laughing. “Oh my god, he doesn’t change!” She remembered back to when she’d been dating him, him calling her exactly the same whenever she incisively bent his ear over something. “So, where did you say they’ve gone today?”

Taking to the floor, they sat opposite each other, legs wide and feet pressed together, taking turns to pull back on one another’s hands to experience the deep stretch. “Chessington World of Adventure. They’ve never been before, you should have seen them this morning. God, Mims. The squealing!”

“Awww,” she cooed, leaning back as she softly gripped Beth’s hands. “I can’t wait for Lis to be big enough to appreciate all of this and go there, too. I was actually talking about it to Josh a while back, but I can never remember it’s called Chessington, so I was calling it Chesterton Theme Park and he was like, “erm, what, babes? Where’s that?” until I realised that I was flubbing the name. Typical me.”

It truly was. Mimi would not be Mimi if she wasn’t getting her words confused. Beth still wasn’t over her recent blunder of calling chicken pasta Alfredo, “the Alfred pasta.” Her and Kinga had fallen apart completely while a totally nonplussed Mims had continued browsing the menu. She was a pure joy if nothing else.

As Beth very rapidly discovered once the gloves had been put on and focus mitts brought out, Mimi was also one hell of a mean shot with her fists. Then the kicks happened.

“Jesus bloody Christ!”

“Oh, don’t be daft, mate. I’m not that strong!” Mimi exclaimed, a well-placed kick sending Beth a couple of feet backwards.

She gathered herself, holding the kick pad firmly once more. “I beg to differ!”

By the time they were done and meeting up with Magda for a little shopping and lunch, the latter having enjoyed a blissful morning of nothing due to her booking some time off work, Beth could barely move.

“Alright, tin man.”

Magda’s words earned her a scowl, Beth kissing her cheek. “It isn’t funny, she beat me up!” Turning, they both witnessed a triumphant Mimi flexing her muscles, cracking up at herself and moving to greet Magda.

“Tiny, little blonde Bruce Lee, is it?”

“Not quite,” Mimi muffled from the crush of Magda's usual, warm, bone crunching hug. “But you should come!”

She should have expected the face she got in reply to that. “My love, the only exercise I get is running me gob. You know that. Right! Let’s go be fancy bitches then, shall we, ladies?” The women were heading to Mecca, otherwise known as Covent Garden, their favourite place to shop. Magda’s contact at Chanel and subsequent discount didn’t hurt either. Not everyone was a wealthy as Beth.

She still found it bizarre, though, even ten years into being the girlfriend and then wife of a billionaire, to be able to spend an unlimited budget on herself. She and Alfie did offset it by giving an awful lot of it away to charity, though. Or, as Beth often did, heading to the bank, withdrawing a few hundred pounds and giving out little wedges to any homeless people she happened to see along her way. It made her feel better about the huge divide in the country between the very wealthy and very poor.

Still, the Chanel employees relished in seeing her name down in the appointment book, knowing they were about to receive a very nice commission.

“Mrs. Solomons, welcome,” she was greeted by Leighton with, the chief sales attendant. “Oh, this cardigan is a dream! Is it an Oscar?” he asked courteously, smoothing the black cashmere of her sleeve.

She leaned in close to whisper. “No, it’s actually M&S!”

His mouth dropped open. “Oooh, I love a good bargain! Can I offer you ladies a drink? Coffee, juice, champagne?” Of course, they all chose the latter. Once furnished with drinks, Leighton allowed them to browse unassisted, Magda deep in conversation with her friend Hannah, who managed the store while Mimi picked up a bottle of her usual perfume, and Beth browsed the bags.

She ended up choosing two of the boy bags, quilted effect design with a chain strap, one in grey and another in pink. The pink one was hidden, though, since the recipient wasn’t her. She ferried her choices to Leighton, asking him to gift wrap the pink one, moving to the shoes and selecting a pair of turquoise sandals she liked, too. Those, a skirt and pair of trousers later, and she was done.

Once Magda was done chatting, choosing a scarf and a new pair of sunglasses for herself, and another item also not destined for her, they paid for their purchases and left, hopping into a taxi and heading over to Shoreditch. They had a table booked at Camino, Mimi’s favourite tapas restaurant, a meal she had no idea she was being treated to by her friends in lieu of being able to celebrate her birthday with her on the actual day, Josh taking her for a long weekend in Italy the following week. Hence the purchases at Chanel not destined for their own wardrobes.

“Right then, little miss almost thirty-two,” Magda began, bobbing her tongue between her teeth as Mimi cringed.

“Oh, don’t remind me! I was twenty-one five minutes ago, I feel old!”

Beth snorted, lifting her eyes from the menu. “Oh, stop it. I just turned forty!”

“And I’m hitting the big five zero in six months, so you’re still the bloody baby of the group, ain’t ya?” Magda chimed, giving her a soft poke on the wrist. “Anyway, as I was saying, since you’ll be enjoying pasta and cannoli's over in the motherland on your actual birthday, you get your gifts from us now. Happy birthday, babe.”

Mimi’s mouth fell open when from beneath the table, two double C branded boxes were pulled out and passed to her, a long, high pitched squeak emanating. “Oh my fucking god! You didn’t!”

“We did, now shut your gob and get ‘em opened!”

She did, choosing Magda’s first, her mouth flying open again when she pulled out the long, gold and blue Chanel nameplate style necklace within.

“Oh, darlin’,” the lady herself cooed, Mimi in tears as she immediately put it on and then rushed to hug her. “You like it, then?”

“I bloody love it, Mags! Thank you so much, I love you!”

She was so touched, Mimi always so sweet when presented with gifts. “Love you too, sunshine, and you’re welcome.” Taking her seat again, she then moved onto Beth’s present, almost passing out when she saw the bag she had so coveted within, her hands flying to cover her open mouth with a gasp.

“Beth!” Those hands then began to flap, more tears coming. “Oh my god, oh my god!” Once again, she was out of her seat, wrapping Beth in a huge hug. “I love it, and you! Thank you!”

“You’re welcome, darling,” she told her warmly, kissing her cheek a few times. “We know you’ve had a rough year, so we wanted to spoil you a little.”

Indeed, it had been a bad year for Mimi, finding out in January that she was pregnant again, but sadly losing the baby just a week before her first scan. She’d been so sad for months about it, her friends trying hard to pull her out of her funk and be there for her during her period of grief.

Beth knew the pain well, she and Alfie suffering the same between her having Abe and conceiving Flora, so had been a pillar of support for her during that time. It was also one of the reasons why she’d taken up Thai boxing, needing something to take out her anger at the injustice of losing her baby on, choosing the sport to help in catharsis. The fact that she happened to be very good at it and already training for her orange belt was a mere bonus.

After enjoying their lunch, they were about to get a cab back over to Chelsea, since the women were heading back to Beth’s for a girl’s night that evening, when one of them saw something in the near distance she couldn’t ignore. Thai boxing had also made Mimi very brave where conflict was concerned.

“Oi! Oi!” She shouted, pointing. Her heels were off, Mimi sprinting barefoot up the street, Beth and Magda turning to search for what on earth had caused their friend’s sudden reaction.

“Oh, shitting hell,” Magda quietly hissed, beginning to run after her as they witnessed the object of Mimi’s anger, Beth hot on her heels. “I know she’s got all this newly found Thai boxing mettle, our Mims, but she can’t take on some scummy roadman by herself, fuck!”

A roadman was Magda’s preferred slang term for an undesirable man, usually donned in sports clothing, who stank of weed and thought himself to be some kind of hard arsed gangster. A large dog upon a lead that was much too large for purpose was usually involved, too, which in this instance was what had drawn Mimi’s attention. Or rather, the way said roadman treated the animal in question.

“Stop it! You can’t treat a dog like that, what the fucking hell is wrong with you?” she exclaimed, the young man of about twenty yanking the poor, skinny but still sizable, dark grey dog by the heavy choke chain around his neck. “He’s just a baby, you bastard!”

“Yo, what’s it to you, though, yeah?” he spoke, sucking his teeth. “Ain’t got nuttin’ here, girl. No business with me, ya get me, blud?”

“You’ve got a bloody chain about the size they use to secure fucking motorbikes around his neck and you’re yanking him up the street! I’m not standing by and watching that shit, mate! Fucking stop pulling him!”

The man even had the gall to smirk. “Ain’t nuttin’ to you. Yo, don’t touch me, fam!” He tried to shake her grip on his arm loose, Mimi fighting to secure the lead from his grasp, people all around stopping to stare. “Fuck, I’ll fuckin’ stab you up, bird. Ya get me?”

Magda and Beth arrived with them, the former immediately imposing herself. “Threaten her with a knife again, boy. Go on, sunshine. Fucking dare ya.”

“And who are you, old lady? What ya gonna do, yeah?”

Magda laughed, still imposing into his space. “Who am I? Someone who grew up on the fuckin’ roughest estate in Brixton is who I am, you little roadman twat. I’ll take the chain you’ve got round that poor animal's neck and fuckin’ knock every single one of your fuckin’ teeth out your mouth with it if you threaten me or my friend again. Ya get me, blud?”

Her mimicking of his vernacular drew a few laughs from those watching, Magda unblinking, Beth feeling her pulse escalate with nerves. Just then, her focus was drawn by the sudden feeling of softness pushing against her hand. Looking down, she saw the dog moving closer to her legs, Mimi successfully yanking the lead free from the grip of the man still facing off with Magda.

She crouched to him, stroking his crinkles. He was shaking. “Hello, lovely boy. Are you alright? Goodness, this chain is cutting into your neck, you poor soul,” she cooed, checking him over. He was in a state, that was for sure. She recognised his breed, but he looked the furthest from how the huge, proud looking Neapolitan Mastiff should have appeared. He was young too, she noted, nowhere near the full-grown size but still, so undernourished. Looking into his big, soulful eyes as he softly thumped his tail and licked her hands, covering her in a generous slick of slobber, her ears caught the tail end of Magda’s tirade.

“Now, I’ll give you a choice, mate. Walk away and leave the dog with us, or I’ll fuckin’ get the law on ya for animal abuse and threatening my friend with a knife. What’s it to be? Because you ain’t lookin’ after that dog at fucking all, are ya? Look at him, barely out of his puppy months and he’s skin and bone! What’s it to be?”

She stood firm, the man shrugging before cussing under his breath, his teeth sucked again before he simply walked away. He didn’t even fight for his dog, so little was the care for the creature beyond having a status symbol at the end of a lead. A few people applauded, a man coming forth and offering his hand to Magda, telling her how well she’d handled it.

She then turned to Beth, taking the lead from Mimi and handing it to her with a curt nod. “Don’t say I never give you nothing.”

Immediately, tears spilled from her eyes, hugging the dog as she cried into his soft, yet dirty fur. He stank of cigarettes and weed. “Oi, come on, babe. Hold it together, eh?” Magda continued, crouching to put her arm around her, Mimi dipping too to offer support. “Right, nearest pet shop. He needs a bit of proper dog clobber and not this nasty chain. Look at it! You could tow a fuckin’ Jeep out of a bog with it! Poor puppy, Christ! He can’t even be one yet.”

A quick hail of a black cab got them the transport they needed to reach the nearest pet shop, the large puppy more than happy to head along with the three kind ladies who made such a fuss of him.

“He’s a lovely chap, ain’t he?” the cabbie chirped, looking in the rear view. “Please make sure he don’t slobber on me seats though, girls! How long you ‘ad him for?”

“About five minutes,” Beth quipped, the cabbie looking confused. “My besties here commandeered him from a roadman lad who was mistreating him, so yes, I went out handbag shopping and ended up with a couple of them, and a dog, too.”

“Bet you couldn’t pick one of them up in Chanel either, right?” His words had them laughing, obviously noticing the branded bags they all carried from their little splurge in that very store. Once at the pet superstore, they paid him with thanks, Beth taking some tissues from her blazer pocket and wiping up where the dog had dribbled on the floor.

“I can’t take you in on this,” she spoke, removing the chain. “Are you going to be good and stay with me, or do I have to put my back out and carry you?” He must have weighed a good twenty plus kilograms already, Magda noting on the way over that he was probably under a year in age. “Come on.” She made a kissy noise with her lips, the dog tilting his head before lolloping along with them, pinning himself at Beth’s side.

Just twenty-five minutes into his new life, and he seemed to feel safe enough to revert to how he should have acted. Carefree, silly and happy, as all puppies should. He drew a few questions from the staff, Magda explaining the story while Beth sorted him with a new collar and lead, another member of staff coming over and advising on a harness, too.

“You’ll of course need to come back and fit him with a larger one once he’s fully grown,” he spoke, making adjustments, noting the state he was in. “Flipping well done to you all, too, taking him away from that vile person. I can’t bear to see animals mistreated.”

It was one of those pet superstores that also contained a veterinarian clinic as well as a groomer, Beth pleased to learn that they actually had a few appointments spare for each a little later, waiting around for forty minutes after making the purchases of food, a new bed, toys and everything else he needed before going in to see the vet.

“From his teeth, I would estimate he’s around eight months old, no microchip either, so we can pop one of those in for you, too. I’m going to say I very much doubt he’s had his vaccinations either, so I can start a file for you with a card. I will recommend a course of wormer and flea treatments as well which we sell down in the store. Can I take your details please, Mrs. Solomons?”

She duly gave those details, the vet speedily typing them into the file. “And the dog’s name?”

Oh. She had no idea. Thinking for a few moments, she felt a little on the spot, feeling like it should have been a decision she consulted Alfie and her kids over. It then came to her in a flash, the perfect name for her brand-new companion.

“Wilson.” she smiled. After all, they had been on Wilson Street when they’d found him. Once his microchip had been sorted, the little wounds caused by the chain upon his neck bathed and flushed, the vet made a few more recommendations, Beth taking Wilson’s new vaccination card and thanking him.

They then went to the groomers section of the store, Beth remaining with him while he was attended to, for the sake of it all being so new and not wanting him to feel like he was being abandoned. The colour of the water that ran off him made her insides pinch. She guessed he’d likely never been washed. She was only surprised he didn’t have fleas or skin conditions, the state he’d been in.

Once bathed, Beth held him while he was dried, Wilson swiping at the nozzle for the dog dryer with his paws, comically trying to bite it as well, his large, floppy ears he hadn’t quite grown into flapping around all over the place. He tilted his head back, his big, blue eyes staring at Beth with all the love and trust in the world, his tail thumping. He knew he was safe, and it melted her heart to see him accept his new life so willingly. She could only imagine just what the hell he had come from.

With some flea treatment and wormer purchased, another cab was called for, Mimi calling for an Uber pet service, the girls and Wilson all piling in.

“Oh god, I hope Alfie doesn’t go mental at me for bringing him home. Thank the stars you two are staying for dinner, he’ll make less of a scene with his best mate and the woman he’s terrified of there,” she exclaimed, both snorting with laughter.

Magda pointed at Wilson, reaching to rub his ears. “How the flip can anybody go mental at this face? Look at him! Bloody lovely thing, he is!” He was, that much was true, but just nine weeks after Cyril’s passing, Beth worried that it was much too soon to consider another canine companion. Then again, what were she and her girls meant to have done? Let the poor creature remain with the scumbag who previously owned him? Taken him to Battersea? He had a new start right there waiting for him. It seemed silly to bypass such a fated meeting.

Once back at home, Magda grabbed as many bags as she could, Beth leading Wilson to the front door while juggling his new bed under her other arm, Mimi bringing the rest. Placing everything in the kitchen, Beth unfastened Wilson from his harness, the three standing back while watching him begin to explore his new surroundings.

“Might be a good idea to steer him in the direction of the back door, just in case he isn’t house broken,” Mimi suggested, Beth widening her eyes.

“A very good point, my friend! Oy, could you imagine if he pissed up the sofa before Alfie even gets home to either love him or shout at me?”

Magda snorted. “Babe, he ain’t gonna shout, you’re fine! Look at him, bloody little smasher, he is! Besides, didn’t you tell me you guys wanted to rescue? Well, he was rescued, so there you go.”

Following the dog, they all herded him in the direction of Alfie’s office, Beth jogging to open the door that led to the garden. Once outside, his nose didn’t leave the floor, tail wagging, letting out a few excited baby barks as he sprinted across the patio, chasing a butterfly. Three hearts all melted immediately, Beth’s then catapulting into her chest when she heard the front door opening.

“Stay out here with him, let me go and face the music.” Turning she strode through the office, welcoming her family, Alfie’s eye as eagle as ever.

“What’s with this, this shifty look on your mug, ay?” he spoke slowly, pointing at her face and giving her another kiss.

“Um... something happened today. Kids, go and take your coats off and wait in the kitchen. Abe, sort you and your sister a juice each, there’s a good boy.”

His eyebrow rose. “And?” he spoke, the kids obediently trotting off down to the kitchen.

“And...” she began, hearing a little commotion, and a soft yapping bark before turning to see Wilson slip out of Magda’s grasp and come hurtling towards them. “And we have a puppy.”

“What the fu...” he began, his eyes widening as his mouth dropped open. “Hello, you! Fuck, look at you, bloody hell! Little tank, innit? Bit thin though, ain’t ya, ay? Hello mate!” Reaching down, he easily lifted him into his arms, Wilson showering him in puppy kisses. “Oi, no biting the beard, yeah?” More washing continued. “Where’d ya get him from? I thought you birds was off up Covent Garden? Last time I checked, they didn’t sell no mastiff’s up there!”

“You’re not cross with me?” she asked, her hand rubbing Wilson’s wriggly legs.

“Nah, darlin’! Bit surprised, like, but I ain’t mad. Look at him, he’s a right little champ, ain’t ya?”

“Told you,” Magda called, ducking her head back in from where she was smoking a cigarette, swiftly going on to explain what had happened, Alfie and Beth joining them outside.

“Bleedin’ might’ve known you two would have something to do with it!” he exclaimed, pinching Mimi’s nose between his fingers. “Thinking you’re some kind of street fighter, takin’ on roadmen, you fiery mare!”

Mimi beamed, giving him a few playful punches. “Worth it though, wasn’t it? Puppy boy here got himself some lovely new parents and a lovely new home!”

“Yeah,” Alfie began, setting him down on the ground again, Wilson lolloping off, “a home he better not bleedin’ take to chewing. Ain’t having none of that game, I ain’t. You got him toys and all that, baby beast? Or we gotta go out again?”

“Nope, all sorted. Hold on, let me go and get the kids.” Rushing back to the kitchen, she retrieved her children, telling them there was a surprise waiting for them outside. When they saw him, oh, their little faces. Excited squeals filled the space, happy tears were shed, and a very big, very wriggly puppy introduced himself with lots of kisses.

Suddenly, the house wasn’t so quiet for the new member of the family settling in, the girls night turning into a family night as they all watched Wilson happily acclimatise to his new surroundings. He played with the kids for a full two hours before flopping into his bed, asleep within moments. Since it was the weekend as well as half term, the kids were allowed to stay up late, their dad treating them to pizza while Beth ordered in a Chinese takeaway for her and her friends, eating it upstairs in the cinema room while they watched Pretty Woman.

While taking a pause between that and the next film, she came downstairs to grab another bottle of prosecco from the fridge, pausing at the entrance to the lounge. There, all snuggled up on a nest of blankets and floor cushions, her husband sat with the children stroking Wilson, who was stretched out on his legs. Noticing his wife there, he smiled, winking. “Love you.”

“Love you, too. All four of you.”

And by god, how she did. With the arrival of one dog who needed them just as much as they did him, their family was whole again. Wherever the spirit of Cyril was, she couldn’t help but think he’d approve, too.

The End.

#alife solomons fanfiction #alfie solomons fanfic #alfie solomons fic #alfie solomons x ofc #alfie solomons au #peaky blinders au #peaky blinders fanfiction #alfie and beth #tom hardy #tom hardy fanfiction

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slasherberry-shortcake · 1 year

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•·.·''·.·•This Can't Be Love (Bo Sinclair X Male!Househusband! Reader)•·.·''·.·•

Okay, so huge angst CW for this one. It's gonna be kind of a vent fic for me, that's why I've been working on it for a bit of time. Please proceed with caution.

CW: Stockholm Syndrome, Domestic Violence, Physical Ab*se, Verbal Ab*se, Ab*sive Relationship, Alcohol Mentions and Consumption, Cussing

FEM DNI PLEASE

It was another day in the Sinclair house. The rain poured outside, splashing against the ground and hitting the windows in a lovely tandem of beat after beat. You worked away inside the house, dusting here, decluttering there. That’s what Bo needed from you, at least, that’s what he said he needed. You bent over and gingerly picked up crushed can after crushed can of alcohol, throwing the recyclable aluminum into a plastic trash bag. It was a lot of work cleaning up Bo’s messes, the man didn’t know how to pick up after himself at all. Either that or he just wanted to leave the work to you, which was just as possible. You pushed the thought to the back of your mind, continuing to pick up trash and other miscellaneous items that you found laying on the floor.

You began to rearrange items on shelves, trying to make all of Bo and Vincent’s trinkets and baubles look more presentable. You were sure Bo would appreciate this gesture, you knew he hated coming back to a mess. And if you left it a mess, he got much angrier. Plates would fly, he would scream at you, maybe give you a smack or two. But he always apologized to you and you had no choice but to forgive him. He was keeping you alive. The only reason you ate, slept, and had water was because of him. Why would you want to let go of that lifestyle? You were horribly selfish for thinking that way. You completed the last shelf and moved on to your next task within the kitchen, pulling up your sleeves to tackle the mountain of dirty dishes.

:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ

You scrubbed tirelessly away at the grime upon the kitchenware, heartbeat speeding up slightly as you knew Bo would be home soon. You thought the dishes wouldn’t take this long, you wanted to get them out of the way so you could easily make Bo dinner and do the dishes a second time. But they were stubborn, the gunk was caked on thick and refused to budge. You scrubbed harder, a small tear finding itself to the inner corners of your exhausted eyes. Your chest thrummed and shrieked in pain and fear as the filth continued to stay stubborn, a choked sob ripped from your throat. “Please,” you whispered as you scrubbed as hard as you could, with the force you hadn’t known you had, “please just come off!”

You were scrubbing so ferociously that you didn’t even register the sound of the door opening. Come off, come off, come off, please please come off, you screamed in your mind, heart slamming as you openly wept into the sink.

“The fuck ya cryin’ over?” A deep voice spat from the door way, causing you to flinch so hard that you shattered the glass in your hands, “Fuck! You useless piece of shit!”

He stormed up to you and smacked your face, pulling a loud wail from your scratchy throat. You knew he hated it when you cried but it hurt so bad. Blood soaked your hand and a red mark began to bloom on your cheek. He always came home in a bad mood, but you hated when he came home like this. You sobbed silently in pain, your hand shaking hard. You were shrunken away from Bo, your body trembling in fear that the man may strike you again. “I-I can clean this up, Bo…I’m sorry,” you whimpered, not daring to peer up at him through your teary lashes.

“You’re always crying like a little bitch. Why can’t you just shut up? You’re so pathetic, you’re lucky I even love you,” he sneered, grabbing you by the uninjured hand, “I’ll take care of this, honeydew, I can’t have ya bleedin’ out all over the place. If you go, who’s gonna do the chores?”

You knew the last comment was just a tease but it didn’t feel like it. He began to pick shards from your hand, wiping the blood gently away with a damp rag. You choked at the pain, clenching your eyes tightly. You hated how fast Bo could switch. One second, he was a monster who would do nothing but degrade and beat you, then the next, he nuzzled against you and called you by precious nicknames until he lost his temper again.

He poorly bandaged your wound, pressing a painful kiss to your covered palm, “There ya go, sweet thing. All better,” He pointed at the dishes, his face contorting from one of gentleness to one of annoyance, “Now finish these fuckin’ dishes, ’m starvin’.”

You nodded and quickly resumed your chores, your bandage immediately soaking up the filthy dishwater. You scrubbed away, dish after dish, trying to do it quickly to please Bo. He was right, honestly. You were lucky that he loved you. Without Bo, you would probably be in a ditch somewhere, dead. Or worse. You appreciated how much Bo did for you, how much he sacrificed to keep you alive and well. He was your savior, the guardian angel that protected you from the pain of the outside world. Doing mundane tasks for him was the least you could ever do in return. The best way to show your love.

:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ

You put the dinner in front of Bo on the table, clean silverware finding its place next to the meal soon after. “Would you like anything to drink, Bo?” You whispered, attempting to stay quiet so as to not hurt your lover’s head. His captivating blue eyes dragged up your form slowly, his mouth twisted into a scowl. He didn’t look very happy at all.

“What is this?” Bo snapped, causing your smaller form to flinch. He hadn’t asked for anything specific but he hated what you made. Your heart sunk and your hands began to wring one another, an excuse trying make itself present. Your head pounded with fear, your mouth opening and closing a few times.

“It’s…It’s what I made for dinner, Bo,” you whispered almost silently, earning a sharp tug to your collar. He pulled you close to his face, his minty breath hitting your nostrils and making your eyes prickle with tears. You hadn’t meant to upset him.

“Gonna be a fuckin’ smartass with me? Don’t give me an attitude unless ya want a beatin’, do ya understand me?” He spat, making you shiver in fear.

“Yes, Bo! I understand…please, Bo…I’m sorry,” you sobbed, your hands flinging up to cling to his strong wrists in shock. As you grabbed him one hand broke free from your shirt, a burning smack hitting your face for the second time that night. You fell to the floor and sobbed, your chest heaving as you wept in pain. You didn’t mean to cry, you didn’t intend to upset Bo even more, but you couldn’t help it. The stress of the day had beat you down and the pain was unbearable, even more so when he would insult you.

"Get me a beer," he grunted, not even sparing a glance at your quaking form on the floor, "and hurry it up, babydoll."

You sniffled and rose to your trembling legs, walking shakily over to the old refrigerator as was asked of you. Pulling open the door to the cold box, you reached in and grabbed an unopened bottle of yeasty, amber liquid. Hurriedly, you opened it and walked it back over to Bo, wiping your tears as you set it down.

"Go on, now, I'm sure ya got somethin' else to be doin'," he chuckled, landing a harsh smack to your rear end. You yelped at the pain and excused yourself with a whimper, going off to find another task to busy yourself with.

:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ

#bo sinclair x male reader #bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair #slasher #slashers #slasher x reader #slasher x male reader #slasher fic #house of wax #fanfic blog #fanfiction #fanfic #slasher community

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gildeddlily · 9 months

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I have no words

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA WHWT THE FUCK JUST HAPPEJED

CHUUYA the best plot twist in the history of plot twists, all our theories were shit and yes!! we weren't delusional!! soukoku will never be over!!!

fyodor's death (I hope he'll be like chuuya- not characterized much in the manga but a lot of light novels presence!!! this is not bungover!!!!)!!!! nikolai cradling fyodor's arm!!! not even dazai daring to joke about them!!!!

BRAM IS SO he's aya's knight (dad) and he's so cunty in those boots

FUKUCHI AND HIS EX BF they're not exes anymore guys they got back together!! fukuchi died in his arms and our dad cried and wept at his death!!! all this time fukuchi just wanted come peace!!! the flashbacks

ranpo watching as his father cradle fukuchi's body? absolutely perfect

TERUKO FUCKING TERUKO SHE DID WHAT SHE WWAS SUPPOSED TO I LVOEW WHR SO MUCH IM GOING FERAL AB HER

jouno's alive, and tecchou's ok!!

akutagawa is alive, and after not even two hours he's already flirting with his man like he didn't woke up sucking on atsushi's neck!!!

in a few hours I'll analyze it a lot more, and I'll probably start to hate a fwe things, but for now I'm ok with this!!! it's like some sort of fix-it fic, and I'm all in for it

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mylevisdontfitanymore · 3 months

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Hear me out I am very high from a edible rn but HEAR ME OUT DUDE

so we all know Chris Evans and his absolute slutty build like cmon he literally was nicknamed the human dorito bc slutty waist

Anyways thinking about that one promo pic of Chris in the cap suit with his back turned to the camera and his ass is just perfect ANYWAYS FR THIS TIME

Thinking about stucky but not like dating but Bucky being obsessed with Steve’s absolutely slutty figure and once the two get close to being fully retired Steve gets bigger as he slowly grows accustomed to taking it easy for once. but not exactly just fatter everything is the same but somehow softer and bigger. His thighs spread out more when he sits his chest is massive not quite defined pecs but far from being flabby moobs they’re just huge, his abs are long gone but he doesn’t have a round gut (Atleast when he’s empty) and the best part that makes bucky go crazy is his love handles , ass, and thighs, all perfectly packed together in one big package that makes Bucky lose his shit. Steves ass has nearly doubled but it’s still a perfect bubble butt, and his thighs have filled out enough to close any gap that might’ve occurred even when he has a wide stance. (Think those really chunky frat boys that manspread and their thighs are still somehow touching) BUT Steve’s suit and most of his wardrobe hasn’t changed so his clothes just accentuate his assets. His thighs and ass taking up most of the room in his pants and they perfectly leave Steve’s bulge completely on display almost like a gift from god to Bucky. Anyways I’m sure if you did add to this you’d be able to express that better than I could! And if you don’t THATS ALSO COOL (pls by no means feel like you have to answer this right away )

THIS HAS VIBES 🤤🤤

You know what kind of vibes? Exhibitionist Captain America vibes from this post by iwritetheweirdstuff

And I assume you're talking about this photo, which I nabbed from forchrisevans

Okay, shit...

Now you just have me thinking about chunky but still super fucking muscular Steve. I’m going off the rails over here, biting and clawing at my enclosure. I don’t think this rambling is actually totally related to your original idea, so just know I love your original idea!

But this reaoly gets me because Steve would be such a fucking classic MAN. Yanno? Big and heavy and robust. He looks like he could take Bucky in his big, beefy arms and rip him apart. He’s healthy. Hefty. Rippling muscles hidden under this layer of pudge.

Yum.

Unbeta'd stucky belly kink ahead. Warning for weight gain, muscle chub talk, tight clothes, Bucky being a little creepy by drooling over Steve before they're an item, etc.

Before gaining weight and when he was wearing the title of Captain American so tightly that it was suffocating him to the point that he was unforgiving of himself, never good enough as Steve Rogers, Steve was like a Thoroughbred. A racehorse, smooth and lean, with a single objective. Win. But now that he’s looser with the title and deciding what he wants for himself, more often calling himself a nomad than going by Cap… now he’s gruff, ignoring the rules (ignoring them even more than he did before, which is saying something for a troublemaker like him), and he’s like a Clydesdale. He’s a tank.

A fucking beast.

When he’s running, you get out of the fucking way because of all the mass behind that force. If you let him collide with you at full speed, full force… it ain’t pretty. His feet pound the ground. Jesus wept. These days his chest, belly, and ass shake when he runs, even when his big, big body is wrapped tightly in all that deep, navy-blue Kevlar. The sight just destroys Bucky.

Bucky can’t fucking fight next to him anymore when they’re called in for Avenging every now and again, half-retired as they are. It was bad enough when Steve was that Thoroughbred, rippling lean muscle and a shiny, bright blond head of short hair. Always distracting Bucky. But now it’s worse because Steve is a Clydesdale with this heft to him and his dirty blond hair and dark, thick beard. He’s even letting his body hair grow in, and it’s all Bucky can do to not faint, landing face-first into the deepening cleavage between his robust pecs, inhaling the musk of him. Every time Steve grunts with the effort of punching or kicking or tearing some offending villain to pieces, Bucky swears he feels faint. He has this completely involuntary feral reaction to the burly man he’s become. Hunky. Stocky. Ripped. Hefty. Whatever fucking word there is for the built he’s got going… it makes Bucky’s mouth water.

Of course, Steve’s still only two inches taller - 6’2” to Bucky’s 6’0” - but suddenly he feels a whole foot taller, and he feels twice as wide as Bucky. Those broad shoulders are only made wider, reinforced by the extra protein he’s eating, thickening his muscles and adding soft pudge; his pecs are still high and tight but even more… they’re swollen almost, added to by an irresistible layer of fat that Bucky has the primal urge to bite; the abs he had once upon a time, defined enough to use as a washboard have softened, especially after a hearty meal like a good lumberjack’s breakfast or a caveman’s dinner, just, these big plates with plenty of meat piled onto them, which turn his stomach into this drool-worthy curve, a little belly that sticks around until he somehow manages to digest it all; that fucking ass made even rounder and more shapely to the point that his pants all strain across it, his sweats especially, nearly splitting down the middle whenever he gets out of his comfy recliner; his thighs, oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, they’re ripe, rubbing together and trying to bust outta his jeans, his sweats, even his Captain America uniform.

Bucky has it bad.

If he weren’t so focused on trying to not let his animal out, growling and just fucking tackling Steve to the floor, he would feel terrible for how much he’s sexualizing his best pal. It seems no matter what he’s doing, Bucky’s caveman brain is thinking about how to best peel him out of his too-small clothes. Too tight when he was lean with rippling muscles, barely any body fat on him, and especially too fucking tight now when he has this delicious extra give to him. He looks like a size two sausage stuffed into a size one casing. Bucky curses his wardrobe at the same time that he would fall to his knees and thank it with his hands pressed together, praying to it. He wants to be there for the day that Steve busts out of it after a heavy, hearty, indulgent dinner.

‘Cause, listen, Bucky’s spank bank is just overflowing these days:

When the most recent battle is done and Steve bends over to pick up a fucking massive slab of concrete, he unintentionally gives Bucky a front-row seat to his thick ass. His curves barely fit in his uniform these days. Honestly, Bucky doesn’t know how he puts that godforsaken, tight-as-hell uniform on by himself anyway. And he doesn’t want to think about it. Not in public! The only way he can imagine it happening is with Steve naked save for a jock strap, alone in his room. First, he steps into the legs, then he works it up his calves, getting it to his thighs where it gets stuck. He’s outgrowing it. It’s a tight fit, but he still fits for now. At least, he fits when he shimmies and wiggles into it. Better than a damn stripper. Moving his body in this unintentionally, totally sexy way. Wiggling. Pulling. Squirming. Even jumping while he’s at it, pulling hard at the thick Kevlar, his biceps bulging - they’re bigger than Bucky’s fucking head now - grunting as he holds his breath, sucking in. Sucking in! His chest expanding without his pudgy, starter belly going anywhere, stubborn and jiggly.

Whenever he bends over, he gives Bucky a show, really. It doesn’t matter where they are...

When he’s bent over looking at the leaky pipe under their kitchen sink, his waist filling more of the open cabinet than it once would have. While he’s down there, his shirt rolls up over his soft little hips, the new weight just beginning to accumulate there. The start of what could be real love handles someday.

When he’s looking through the bottom drawer of the fridge, doing a head count before they head out for groceries. He’s not dressed yet, though, so he doesn’t have a belt to hold his pants up and his sweats slide down the shelf of his ass, displaying just enough of his asscrack for Bucky to feel starved, meaning he’s extra grumpy at having to wander around an overcrowded store. Shoulder to shoulder with strangers. Hungry and horny.

When he’s drawing on the couch and he accidentally lets a pencil fall onto the floor, so he has to get up, but, oops, it looks like it must’ve rolled under the couch so he gets even lower. Onto his knees and forearms. Searching blindly for the pencil… blind to Bucky’s eyes, perving out on how his thighs touch from the back now, his legs getting just as thick as his ass is. And it’s thick.

When he’s doing stretches on their balcony in the morning, breathing in the fresh air, doing some cat-cows, and inadvertently displaying his new belly that’s still rumbling through last night’s dessert. A classic, couple 'a slices of pie and ice cream. Too much pie and ice cream judging by how distended his belly looks.

When they’re getting some of their energy out now that they’re not constantly going out and avenging, half-retired, by sparing with each other in the gym. Sparing, kind of wrestling, too. They’re not trying to be tactical about it, they’re just having fun, being big kids, reminiscent of the days when they’d pull the mattress off the bed and start to play fighting on the floor. But they aren’t kids and Steve isn’t so much smaller than him, so Bucky doesn’t have to focus on finding that perfect balance of holding back just enough where it doesn’t seem like he is but he’s also not at risk of pushing Steve’s frail body too far. Now they can really whale on each other. Which is fun… until it isn’t. Because Bucky is laughing and sweating and actually starting to feel tired, and then he’s pinned, and he’s choking back a moan, sweating harder. Steve is on top of him. Steve is crushing him. Steve’s big, hot chest is against his back - Bucky can feel how he’s sweating through his skintight white t-shirt, his thick pecs squishing against his shoulder blades. Steve’s delightful, chubby, little belly is slotted perfectly into the small of his back. While fighting, Bucky’s shirt has risen up, and apparently, Steve’s has done the same, despite how firmly it had been clinging to his soft middle the last time he dared to sneak a peak because now their sweaty, hot skin is pressed together. Steve’s hairy tummy is tickling him, making Bucky want to squirm. He wants to moan. It’s a good fucking thing he’s face-down with Steve on top of him. He wants more than just to squirm and moan, he wants to hump the floor like an animal because with Steve’s tits pressed to his back and his belly squished to his back, it aligns his crotch right up against his ass. Bucky can feel Steve’s dick on his ass through the thin layers of their sweatpants and underwear. He can feel how heavy it is. And he’s thinking about how Steve’s dick probably blushes a dusky pink and gets wet at the time and how it probably curves a little and gets so thick when he’s hard and… this is where Bucky dies because Steve readjusts himself, making it worse by spreading his killer thighs to either side of Bucky’s legs, practically grinding into him, trapping him between his watermelon-crushing thighs. “Had enough?” Steve teases him with a shit-eating grin. God. Only if the fucker knew.

When Natasha adopts a new, abandoned kitten that she’s named Liho and they go over to play with him at Tasha’s apartment and Steve decides to grin like he does, always breath-taking, his smile the sweetest, most affectionate thing as he lifts Liho up above his head like Simba in the Lion King (yes, they’ve caught up on that modern pop culture reference, thank you very much). Bucky nearly goes cross-eyed, staring at his pecs. His t-shirt clings to his round, heavy tits. With his arms up, it forces his pecs to move up, too. High and plump. Bucky can see every detail of them, he can see every breath he takes, making them heave, and he’s almost able to pick out the tiniest creaking groan of the seams of his shirt screaming under all that pressure. Tasha doesn’t bat an eye, at the treatment Steve is giving her new companion, she just squeezes past Steve in her kitchen (is the apartment that small, or is Steve that big?), flicking one of his hard nipples. The points of them are obvious through the straining, thin fabric. She refills her mug with coffee but she doesn’t take a sip until she reminds Steve that if he wants to see how much more comfortable running can be, he only has to say the word and she’ll show him the magic of sports bras. Everyone can see that he needs it, and he might as well embrace it. They can even get matching ones if he wants. Her smile is razor-sharp, teasing. Bucky nearly chokes on his tongue, imagining the heavy mounds of his tits hoised up higher, giving him even more cleavage than he normally sports. Guh. Bucky wouldn’t survive.

When later during that same day, Steve decides he’s going to lie down on Natasha’s couch as they watch a movie - some Russian production that Tasha’s been telling Bucky about forever (he’s hardly paying attention and it’s Steve’s fault that he’s going to have to watch this again, on his own, during one of his sleepless nights when he can pay attention to it) - and Liho decides that Steve’s his favorite. So, he wanders back over to curl up on his soft chest and belly and starts fucking kneading his plush chest and belly like it’s the comfiest, fluffiest pillow ever. It probably fucking is! And Bucky can’t blame the kitten for purring so loudly - despite Steve’s and Tasha’s amusement at it - Bucky would be no better. He spends the rest of the evening biting the inside of his cheek and trying to banish all the mental images of his own hands kneading and squishing and groping those tits until Steve’s blushing, his mouth open, eyes heavily lidded, sweat beading at his hairline, begging Bucky to move on and touch him somewhere else, anywhere else! His nipples swollen and so hard. Irrestable. Bucky would indulge him… sort of. He would move on. But he’d have to give the same thorough attention to his soft belly, his growing hips, his thick thighs, and his fat ass. His body deserves to be pleasured until he’s out of his mind.

When Steve’s loose and warm, they’re hanging out in some back-alley sports bar in Brooklyn for a game, watching the feed on TV, downing beers and greasy bar food with Sam and some other guys from the VA, and a sip goes down the wrong pipe so Steve has to pound his chest with a closed fist, ending up not coughing but belching loudly. For everyone else, the sound is covered by the rowdy cheers filling the crowded, dimly lit space. But not for Bucky. For Bucky, Steve is the only thing in focus. Steve, with his looser fit shirt disguise, blending in, his baseball cap tugged down low on his forehead, shading his eyes, his beard grown out, thick, and… Bucky can’t take it. His body. The way his belly scrunches up when he sits down, bulging out further. The way his throat moves when he chugs from a long-necked bottle. The way his pecs jiggle when he jumps up excitedly, cheering loudly, and the similar way his belly wobbles at the same time. The way he groans at the end of his beer burp, voice rough from yelling all night and soaked in hoppy, malty richness. The way his thighs spread out over his bar stool, expanding, stressing the seams of his jeans. He’s taking up so much space with his broad shoulders, excitable hand gestures as he talks, and his manspreading. Yet, it’s still not enough. His thighs fill out his tight, dark-wash denim so well that even when he’s manspreading, his thighs still touch. Bucky aches to curl up in his lap and kiss him, feeling his beard tickling his face. He wants the heat of that big, big body underneath him. He wants to feel the hot line of his erection when he grinds down into him - their stomachs pressed together, Steve’s heavy with bloating, greasy, fattening bar appetizers.

Bucky’s spank bank is over-fucking-flowing as Steve starts putting on weight and if Bucky didn’t know better, he would think Steve is doing it to him on purpose, teasing him, trying to get him to jump his bones 😏

#ask #mylevisdontfitanymore #belly kink #text #weight gain #stuffing #steve rogers #bucky barnes #stucky #chubby steve #alcohol consumption #tight clothes

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shinekocreator · 11 months

Text

Based on this post

a/n: tw mention of discussion of ab*rtion, hurt and comfort

🕷️🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️

Leaving was hard, but you knew staying would be much harder.

You loved your work, and all the spider people you got to hang out with, but you had to get away from Miguel, so without anyone noticing, you replaced your watch with a day pass, and used the "go home" machine to return to your universe, knowing Miguel was too preoccupied to find out.

You had to disappear, you knew that much, so you got a new place and left no contact info.

The next part was harder, you had to quit being Spider Woman altogether. You got rid of the costume in a random dumpster, you changed your name, you made sure all information regarding the name change was gone.

After all was done, you sat on your bed and wept.

You had a conversation with yourself about whether or not you should get an abortion, but decided against it. You thought you'd have to deal with the pregnancy alone, luckily for you, you had much help from your neighbours, and couldn't be happier about the place you moved to.

Four years passed. your daughter was already three years old when you finally met him, Michael John Watson, and boy, was he everything you could want in a man, sweet, kind, funny, intelligent, emotionally stable and very accepting of your daughter.

Three more years and you were happily married, Michael absolutely adored your daughter, Isabella, who was now already six years old, and she absolutely loved him as well.

Two years passed, and you couldn't be happier, when he finally found you.

It was a calm day, in the middle of spring when you heard a knock on the door. You hated being interrupted during movie time with your family, but you cared for your neighbours, and if one of them needed help, you would be more than happy to.

When you saw Miguel at the door, you hurried to close it, but he was quick enough to stop you.

Michael and Isabella had no idea what was going on at the door, but when Isabella heard you bark "NO!" she knew she had to investigate. So she came to the door to see who you were talking to.

As soon as she saw Miguel she asked "Mommy, who is that?"

Miguel nearly choked when he saw Isabella, she was clearly his daughter and he wanted to get explanation. Knowing this, you dragged Miguel away from your house.

"Explain" was all Miguel said to you.

You laughed bitterly, "There's nothing to explain here".

"The child is clearly mine, I demand an explanation"

"You might be her sperm donor, but you're not her father, I don't want you near her EVER!"

Miguel looked furious "I DEMAND TO MEET OUR CHILD!"

You looked at him with a hardened expression "Not your daughter, and I would like to keep her away from harm"

Miguel looked hurt at that "Please, babe, I miss you, I want to be with you, and our daughter. I promise to cause her no harm." He pleaded, but you were deaf to his pleas.

"You're a heartless man Miguel O'Hara, and I refuse to be with a heartless man. I'm finally happy and I very much love my husband. I don't need you back. Now leave!"

All arguments died on Miguel's lips at the mention of a husband and he just left.

You breathed out in relief and returned to your house, finally at ease now that you got closure over that part of your life.

🕷️🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️

Miguel returned to his universe, and headed straight to his office, for three weeks he stayed alone, replaying moments of you two together on his screen and crying, he stayed isolated and pushed out everyone.

This was it for him, no more chances for a happy ending.

🕷️🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️

Thank you to anyone who reads this,I hope you enjoyed it. and especially thank you to @sillyblues for the amazing base I had to work with.

#miguel x reader #tw discussion of abortion #spiderman across the spiderverse #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara #comfort for reader #hurt for miguel #atsv #atsv fanfiction #atsv ficlet #atsv fic #ShiNekoWrites

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unusual-raccoon · 10 months

Text

the dragon's seed | by Unusual_Raccoon (Lucerys II x Aerys II)

for @andromaxeoftroy Warnings: Arranged Marriage, Background Relationships, Established Relationship, Infidelity, Cheating, Cousin Incest, Intersex Velaryons, Reformed Aerys II Targaryen, if you squint, Vaginal Sex, Cuckolding, Finger Sucking, Size Difference, Mild Painplay, Biting, Non-Sexual Breastfeeding, Male Lactation, POV Rhaegar Targaryen Summary: Rhaegar discovers his father and spouse in a rather compromising position

WC: 2K+ Ao3 Link

Rhaegar paced in the nursery, he and half the castle lay awake from the cries of a dragon.

Aerion and Alyssa were abed, while Maekar wailed loudly in his nursemaid’s arms.

“Hush now, sweet prince,” she hummed as she rocked the babe, to no avail, the boy continued his shrieking. At times, his father jested that the boy was entirely his in temperament, though mother argued that while Rhaegar tended to frown as a child, he had been much quieter.

He and the king disagreed on much in the years passed, but a strong line of succession, of pure Valyrian blood had seen them closer of late.

There had been a time when Rhaegar had presumed his father to be beyond saving, half-feral at all times. Yet in recent months, he appeared to have turned a corner; caged away his darkness. Nails filed to a dull point and hair oiled and combed free of tangles, his beard cropped close to his square jaw. The people rejoiced at the recovery of their king.ﾠ

Rhaegar had been a widower a short time after Elia’s passing. Her health had always been a worrisome thing and she had died in her birthing bed. Their daughter was small and very beautiful, with hair more gold than silver, and he too joined his mother, gasping his last a mere hour later. He had learned no physical wounds could ever amount to the agony of losing a child. He had felt such sympathy for his father then, having recalled the way he raged with each babe mother had lost.

His grace had arranged a union immediately after, without so much as a sennight between the burial of his son and the return of Elia’s remains to Dorne, and his second wedding, between Rhaegar and his cousin and Lord of the Tides, Lucerys Velaryon.

They could be distant toward one another at times, but Lucerys had given him three healthy, beautiful children. At times he could not find sleep unless Rhaegar sang to him, and would sleepily slink into the prince’s chambers with a guilty smile for just that - while their union began quite loveless, it had grown into something more..

“I’ll fetch Lucerys.”

The nursemaid blanched.

“Forgive me, your highness.”

“There is nothing to forgive, the young prince is especially inconsolable.”

With that, he departed to find the boy’s mother. The faith tended to frown at the vernacular, but they wouldn’t dare cross father and speak out against the union he arranged.

He crossed the keep to Lucerys’ chambers, his rooms were kept separate to the prince’s chambers. The space permitted him the chance to maintain his duties as Lord Admiral and Master of Ships, sometimes well into the night.

He did not begrudge his spouse. Sleeping alone suited the prince at times. His dreams could be troubling things, far easier to process in an empty room than with his cousin’s waifish body in his arms.

The door was shut and hall glazed copper with lit sconces.

It cracked open with the slightest touch, as if welcoming him inside.

The rasp of wet breaths slithered out through the gap in the opened door. Rhaegar glanced inside his spouse’s rooms through the scant gap. A single tallow candle flickered upon the windowsill, bathing Lucerys’ delicate silhouette in a gauzy glow.

The groan of wood wept into the hall.

He wasn’t alone.

Perched atop his desk, parchment adorned the floor; Lucerys was dressed in a nightdress that melted off a single ivory shoulder, the flesh reddened with teeth marks. Thrusting between pale thighs was a tall man, silver of hair, much like Rhaegar was..ﾠ

And Lucerys.. was no innocent, rutting and gasping and clawing at a broad back and shoulders; incensed.

His lover’s head was lowered to Lucerys’ sweat-dampened fringe, where they panted, open-mouthed, over the same dewy breath.

Large hands swallowed up Lucerys’ narrow waist, guiding him into every thrust.

Milk white legs tensed around his lover’s hips, heels finding purchase in his lower back, like the squeeze of a rider’s spurs against a destrier’s sides. The result was the same, the canter of his lover’s hips grew harder and faster.

“Fuck,” Lucerys panted, mouth wet with saliva.

“Kepa” he said in a breathy little whisper.

Father.

Realization dawned upon him.

There was no word for good-father in High Valyrian.

The irony was sharp and metallic in his mouth. A hand came around Lucerys’ pale throat with a deep snarling sound. The hips laboring between his thighs hastened. Lucerys bounced madly with each thrust, the wood of his desk groaning; his round little bottom likely burned with fresh bruises.

Rhaegar found it was eerie in a way, how unrecognizable his father was in the absence of his crown.

He watched, spellbound, as Lucerys tugged insistently on the hand around his throat, not to unburden himself of it, but rather to lift a broad thumb between waiting lips, to flick his tongue along the pointed nail. His spouse moaned around the digit, the sound spreading into the hall.

The pair shuddered through a shared release, Lucerys’ teeth clamped around his father’s thumb, heart-shaped mouth painted ruby red with dragon-blood.. pale thighs shimmering pearl white with dragon-seed. Lucerys’ shoulder was held captive in his father’s mouth.

They moaned in unison, breath shaking, nose to nose.

As his father and spouse sighed contentedly into one another’s mouths, short of breath, he recalled every moment Lucerys had pleaded for spontaneity that did not come naturally, when they lay together, and callousness that did not come at all..

Pull my hair, bite me, devour me..

He watched as his father licked across broken skin upon Lucerys’ shoulder with an indolent smile, a bitterness filled his mouth at the realization that Lucerys had never truly been begging for him.

He had been begging for this, for his father, his kepa..

Every part of Rhaegar burned too hot; overcome with what felt like illness.

Maekar still wailed loudly, in need of his mother.

He pressed upon the door, letting it swing open, the humid scent of skin and sweat and semen hung in the air.

Rhaegar cleared his throat, arms folded behind his back, mouth bitter as Lucerys’ easy smile melted instantly. Their eyes met, lilac on indigo. His hands raised to his mouth, trembling. His face had gone colorless.

“Rhaegar!” he gasped, swatting father’s hands away as though they burned.

“I-”

“Maekar needs you,” was all he said in explanation.

His spouse gave a jerky nod, “of course,” he murmured, sliding from the desk, nightdress stuck to tacky thighs.

His father, the king, remained silent. Only raising an arm for Lucerys to steady himself upon as his feet touched the stone floor, an arm that was ignored.

Lucerys wobbled about on coltish legs, unsteady. His father, who could often be smug and arrogant and self-aggrandizing, strangely, said nothing. He merely stood in Lucerys’ chambers, mostly dressed, as Rhaegar’s spouse stepped into silk slippers and a robe.

As Lucerys followed him into the hall, he thought of the smallfolk that had rejoiced at the returned health of their king, and wondered what the smallfolk would do if they had seen what he did in that moment - the utter madness that flashed in Aerys Targaryen’s eyes; snarling behind dark violet like a caged animal.

Lucerys idled before the nursery, a dainty hand with delicate fingers like fishbones curled around Rhaegar’s wrist.

“We should- we should speak about this, shouldn’t we?”

He held open the door of the nursery in lieu of a response, where Maekar’s cries took precedence over all else.

Lucerys seemed to find his footing then, bustling into the nursery.

The nursemaid offered a small wince at the sight of them both.

“Apologies, my lord.” She said, still rocking the babe in her arms.

“That’s quite alright, give him here.”

Rhaegar watched as their youngest son was passed to his mother. He looked especially large for a child of three turns in his mother’s arms. The nursemaid was given her leave.

Lucerys gently bounced the boy in his arms, carefully cradling the babe’s soft head.

His jaw tensed as an ivory shoulder littered with teeth marks came into view, a pert teat was offered and their boy latched on readily.

“He was hungry,” Lucerys hummed as he settled into a cushioned seat, “He refuses to feed from the wetnurse.”

He could think only of how he had found his spouse, thighs parted for his good-father while their child had howled, hungry.

“Why was he not fed sooner?” Rhaegar asked in the stiff silence, the only sound was of their child eating. He felt a surge of outrage, anger, betrayal. He had always been slow to anger and quick to forgive, he was not his father. He had no desire to hold onto the feeling that resided within his chest.

Lucerys mouth hung open for a brief moment, his offense was obvious.

“He was, he is larger than Aerion and Alyssa were at his age, he eats more..”

Lucerys stared down at their son, rubbing a tender hand across the downy silver-blonde wisps atop his head.

“That is not the question you wish to ask,” Lucerys murmured, lilac eyes knowing.

“That is true,” He admitted, watching as Lucerys carefully dabbed away a faint trail of milk from Maekar’s cheek, the boy asleep soundly in his arms.

“Then ask it,” Lucerys bade, eyes round and framed with long white lashes, perfect heart-shaped mouth still red with his father’s blood; the evidence of their coupling remained likely wet upon his pale thighs.

Maekar was placed upon his small cot and left to sleep. A gentle kiss was pressed to his delicate silver-blonde crown.

“Whatever it is, Rhaegar, ask it.”

The past years of marriage flit through his mind like a dream, grains of sand that melted between his fingers under new scrutiny.

“Sleep well,” He said instead.

. . .

In eight turns of the moon the kingdom has welcomed yet another young prince, another Targaryen; seed of the dragon, just as Rhaegar was. The boy was called Aurane, Lucerys had declared, waxen in his birthing bed as his fourth child was placed in his arms.

The king spared no expense in the orchestration of a tourney at Harrenhal to commemorate the birth of another grandchild.

The boy is small, with blue-green eyes like the sea and father doted on him endlessly, as he did with all of his grandchildren.

“Will you be riding in the tourney?” Lucerys asked, having cornered him in the hall. Rhaegar nodded.

A soft, hopeful smile tilted on heart-shaped lips.

“I will have Alyssa make a favour for you.”

Eight months and they had seen startlingly little of one another. Rhaegar’s dreams had grown more dire with every passing night.. And Lucerys remained where he always had, by father’s side.

His son, his true son was to be the prince that was promised, he whose song was destined to be one of ice and fire. As he stared at his spouse, doublet embroidered with a likeness of the sea, teardrop pearl hanging from his ear, he realized how foolish he had been.

. . .

The stands roared as he rode in, wearing his dragon helm and night-black armor studded with rubies atop golden ringmail.

In a royal box above the smallfolk, the king presided, mother by his side, her belly round, Lucerys upon his other. Aerion and Alyssa screamed gleefully, little hands braced against the railing of the royal box.

Maekar was bounced upon Lucerys’ knee. Aurane had been too small to attend.

He sat astride his destrier, sweat bubbled in a layer of foam over her black coat, her hooves gouged scars in the tilled soil.

He had unseated many men.

His final tilt was against his dearest friend, at times, his only friend. He stared down the field as Arthur Dayne sat atop his horse, a gorgeous pearl white beast.

He kicked his horse into a gallop, lance held at the ready.

The wood splintered upon impact, a thousand splinters erupted. The Sword of the Morning lay in the soil, a smile upon his face despite the loss as the arena boomed with delight.

His horse was kicked into a calm trot as countless favors reigned down from the stands. Yet he had a favor of his own.

A wreath of winter roses..

He rode past the royal box, past Lucerys and the children that called for him, past his father whose eyes glowed with envy. He rode towards his destiny.

His horse’s hooves crushed Alyssa’s favor into the soil.

Lyanna Stark stared at him as the stands fell silent, her eyes like a winter’s storm.

“For the Queen of Love and Beauty.”

#my writing #lucaerys #lucaerys ii #aerys ii x lucerys ii #aerys ii targaryen #lucerys ii velaryon #asoaif

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