Michael Corleone
Vito Corleone
Sonny Corleone
Fredo Corleone
Connie Corleone
WEDNESDAY
BETTER CALL SAUL
Gus Fring
Imagine working at Los pollos Hermanos
Salamanca Family
Imagine being Hector Salamancas Health aid
Imagine saving one of the Salamancas Twins and from then on, they silently protect you
Saul Goodman/Jimmy McGill
Nacho Varga
Imagine Nacho kicking Jo and Amber out of his life after meeting you, and how enamored he is with you
Don Elaudio
Imagine being a Translator for Don Elaudio and your indifference drives him insane
BREAKING BAD
Walter White
Imagine Being Walter Whites Mistress
Jesse Pinkman
Hank Schrader
Skinny Pete/Badger
THE GENTLEMAN
Michael
Raymond
SOPRANOS/ MANY SAINTS OF NEWARK
Johnny Soprano
Tony Soprano
Junior Soprano
Janice Soprano
Meadow Soprano
AJ Soprano
Carmela Soprano
Jackie Jr
Furio Giunte
THE STRAIN
The Master’s Prize
UNDERWORLD
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
THE PENGUIN 2024
Oswald Cobb
Sophia Falcone
No one touches my wife
Carmine Falcone
THE BATMAN
Bruce Wayne
Edward Nashton
Jim gordon
Selina Kyle
CASINO
LAW AND ORDER SVU
Dominick Carisi
Casey Novak
Alexandra Cabot
Elliot Stabler
Olivia Benson
John Munch
Fin Tutuola
Donald Cragen
GOODFELLAS
Tommy
Jimmy
Henry
POWER
Ghost
Tommy
Kanan
Jukebox
Tasha
Tariq
STRANGER THINGS
Billy Hargrove
Dating Billy Hargrove Would include
Steve Harrington
Eddie Munson
Johnathan Byers
Robin Buckley
Eleven
Mike Wheeler
Will Byers
Dustin Henderson
Jim Hopper
Joyce Byers
Vecna
SQUID GAME
MONEY HEIST: KOREA/MONEY HEIST
THE GLORY
Ha Do-yeong
White Stones and Black Lies
Imagine being Ha Do-yeong's Wife
Moon Dong-Eun
Imagine being Moon Dong-eun's Husband
VINCENZO
EXTRAORDINARY ATTORNEY WOO
NARCO- SAINTS
ALL OF US ARE DEAD
WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU TANGERINES
MARRY MY HUSBAND
DISNEY VILLANS
Jafar
Hades
Maleficent
Cruella de vil
Gaston
Ursula
THE PUNISHER/DAREDEVIL
Frank Castle
Imagine being a street kid who helps him one day and Frank Castle's practically adopting you as his daughter
Matt Murdock
Karen Page
Froggy Nelson
Kingpin( Wilson Fisk)
EUPHORIA
Rue
Jules
Cassie
Lexi
Maddy
Kat
Nate
Fezco
Ashtray
MCU
X-MEN
DC
Imagine being a Doctor Working in Arkham Asylum
JOHN WICK
John Wick Masterlist
IT
The Loser Club
Imagine Being a new member of the Losers club
The Bowers Gang
Imagine Henry Bowers being your secret stalker
Being in a relationship with Henry Bowers would inlcude
Pennywise the Dancing Clown
Watcher of the Light
Shadow and Light in Derry Part I Part II Part III
Sometimes it whispered against the cliffs of Themyscira, gentle as a mother soothing a restless child. Other times, it roared like an ancient beast, hurling itself against black stone as if demanding entrance to a kingdom forever denied to mortals.
Today It felt restless. You stood near the cliffside training grounds overlooking the water, spear balanced lazily against your shoulder. Sweat cooled against your skin after morning combat, the sharp scent of salt and steel lingering in the humid air.
Below, Amazons sparred in practiced rhythm.Shield against shield. Arrow against target. Strength against strength.
The world was familiar Predictable and Safe
Yet your thoughts drifted.
Queen Hippolyta had spoken again of the World of Man during council. A place of greed.
War.
Violence.
Men who built kingdoms only to destroy them. Creatures ruled by pride and hunger for power.You had always listened politely.But quietly You wondered.
Could an entire world truly be so terrible?
Surely there had to be something beautiful beyond the horizon.Something worth seeing. You stood near the shoreline afterward, absentmindedly tracing your spear through damp sand.
Thinking.
Then, Lightning tore through the sky.
Your head snapped upward.
Something burned through the clouds.
At first, you thought it a fallen star something hurled from Olympus itself. Bright. Violent. Wrong.
But stars did not scream. Smoke curled behind it in ugly black ribbons.
Metal glinted through fire. A machine Broken and Falling.
The alarm horns echoed across Themyscira.
“INVADER!”
Amazons rushed toward the cliffs.
Weapons drawn.
The atmosphere shifted instantly from peace to war.
Queen Hippolyta appeared atop the overlooking terrace, expression hard as stone.
“What is it?” General Antiope demanded.
The object spiraled violently before disappearing into the sea with an explosion that shook the shoreline. Before anyone could stop you, you ran. Then dove. The water swallowed you whole cold, violent and dark.
Debris floated everywhere.
Jagged pieces of burning metal drifted like shattered armor from some mechanical beast. Strange symbols painted along its body meant nothing to you.
You swam deeper.
Then—
Movement.
Someone.
Half-submerged near sinking wreckage.
You reached to them quickly and fought against the sea to bring them to shore. They had Broad shoulders. Large frame. Military clothes soaked with seawater and blood.
But when you turned them over
Your breath caught.A face.Sharp jaw shadowed with rough stubble. Golden hair darkened by seawater. Skin bruised and bloody.Broad chest rising unevenly beneath torn fabric.
You stared.
Far longer than you should have.
A man.
A real man.
Not a story. Not a warning whispered during lessons. The Amazons had spoken of men with caution. They told tales of there Cruelty and violent and destructive nature.
Yet—
He looked…Human.
Wounded and Strangely vulnerable.
You crouched beside him in the surf, curiosity blooming faster than caution. His features were different from woman. His face was larger. sharper.more rough around the edges.
You hesitated.
Then, slowly, reached out. Your fingertips brushed against his cheek. Warm and Scratchy. His skin was rougher than yours.
You frowned slightly.
Odd.
Then, the stranger groaned. You startled backward. His eyes fluttered open. His eyes are blue
And suddenly—
He was staring directly at you.
Ben thought he was dead. Had to be.Because no living thing should look like that. Leather armor clung to powerful limbs. Gold caught sunlight against warm skin. Dark hair moved in the sea wind like something painted by the gods themselves.
Strong.
Beautiful.
Terrifying.
Yet somehow soft-eyed as she looked at him.
For a second. He genuinely forgot all of his senses.“…Jesus Christ,” he finally rasped hoarsely. A pause. Then, weaker—“Wow.”
You tilted your head.His voice surprised you. It was Lower and deeper than you expected. It was rough distant thunder unfamilar.
Everything about him was unfamiliar.
“You are…” you hesitated carefully.Your eyes moved over him again. “…a man?”
Ben blinked.Then blinked again.
Because she sounded genuinely confused. Not scared or even impressed, just... curious, and christ, her voice. It was angelic soft but commanding. Like she could snap his spine in half and apologize afterward.
“Yeah, well—” he coughed seawater. “Do I not look like one doll?”
You frowned.
Ben stared at you.
Actually stared.
Then looked around.
The island.
The warriors gathering onshore.
Every single one of them women.
Armed women.
Very armed women.
Oh.
Oh no.
His eyes widened slightly.
“…Well,” he muttered weakly, “This is either heaven or I’m completely fucked .”
You did not understand the remark at all Before you could ask—
Voices thundered from behind.
“Step away from him!”
A dozen Amazons surrounded you instantly, weapons raised.
“He could be dangerous!”
“He is a man!”
“Kill him before he harms anyone!”
Ben instinctively tensed despite barely being conscious.
But before anyone could move—
You stepped in front of him. Shielding and Protecting him.
“He is injured,” you said firmly.
The Amazons exchanged looks.
General Antiope’s expression hardened.“Injured men still kill.” she spit out
“He nearly drowned,” you argued.
“He fell from the sky.” Another Amazon chimed in
Queen Hippolyta approached at last, calm but unreadable.
Her eyes landed on Ben.
A long silence followed.
Tense.
Heavy.
Then—
“He should not be here,” Antiope said quietly.“No man has stepped foot on Themyscira in centuries.” eyes glaring at him with caution and disgust.
Ben grimaced slightly. “Wow. Real welcoming committee.” He couldn't help but spit out.
You looked back at him.
“…You speak often when wounded.”
That nearly made him laugh.
Nearly.
Hippolyta studied him carefully.Then looked to you.After a long strech of silence she finally spoke,“You pulled him from the sea?” she asked.
“Yes.” You replied
“And you wish him spared?” Quenn Hippolyta aksed with apprehension
You hesitated only a moment.
“Yes.” You said softly
Something softened briefly in the Queen’s expression. Then vanished. “Take him to the healers then we must question him.” she ordered
Immediate outrage erupted.
“A man inside the city?”
“This is madness!”
“He could be a threat!”
Hippolyta silenced them with a single glance.
“If the gods have sent him to our shores,” she said calmly, “We will learn why.”
Her gaze settled meaningfully on you.
“You found him.”
A pause.Her next words felt heavier somehow. “You will be responsible for him.”
Your eyes widened.
“Responsible?”
“You will watch him,” Hippolyta said. “Guide him. Ensure he causes no harm.” Then, quieter “And perhaps learn why fate chose you to find him.”
Behind you, Ben looked at you again. Still mesmerized.Still unable to look away. Because somehow, the first face he had seen after nearly dying was the most beautiful woman he had ever known.
And when you looked back at him, Ben felt something dangerous settle deep in his chest. He wanted to know your name.He wanted to hear that voice again and maybe—
Can you write a fic where Pearline and Sammie are expecting a baby? Requested by moodboardsaesthicfanfics
Can you write a fic where both Annie and Mary is pregnant at the same time ! So both Stack and Smoke are experiencing being a father at the same time! Requested by robyntalkss
Can you do a parent trap fic where Stack and Smoke reunite when they are adult ? Like Stack is marry to Mary and have twins girl while Smoke is marry to Annie and have a daughter and son? Stack is an owner for recording companies and Smoke is for clubs? Requested by robinfanfics-recommend
Can you a write an Annie and Smoke fic were they met through Mary at a College Party because Mary and Annie are roommates? Requested by blogforblogss
Could write a Bo and Grace fic that is inspired by 10 things I hate about you ? Requested by robynbrownie3
Can you write a fic where Mary and Stack gave up their daughter for adoption because they were teenagers but because she was turning eighteen she is trying to be free from the adoption agency she has to get their signature she went to go find them. Requested by seleneflorass
Can you write a fic of Mary and Stack based of the scene from the movie where Stack said that if he or Smoke finds out that her husband puts his hands on her or anyone else than they would come up there and killed them all ? I also want Stack and Smoke to realize that Mary wasn't going to be safe at all like a wake up call for them if possible ? Requested by lilypaddyy
I know there is more but these ideas are what i'm currently working on for Sinners. Can't wait to post them. Stay tuned!
I know Annie wasn’t stack’s favorite person, but I feel if anyone else messed with her he’d be on their ass
Tuckin’ Tail
Club Juke. Best damn spot in all the Delta.
Boards underfoot worn smooth from boots and heels, the air was full of sweat, smoke, and the sweet burn of corn liquor. A guitar cried somewhere on stage, the strings bending low, droning while Delta Slim’s voice dragged behind it, heavy as Delta mud after a storm. Laughter rolled through the saw mill, loud and easy, slipping between the clink of glasses and the drag of feet.
Behind the bar, Annie Moore moved like she owned every inch of it.
And technically, she did.
Dark skin dewy from sweat, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, apron tied tight across her generous waist. She poured with a steady hand, slid plates down the counter, and kept one eye on the kitchen door and the other on the busy room. Catfish crackled in the back, grease popping, collard greens steaming in big iron pots and her special gumbo sitting hot in pre made bowls for people to grab easy. Club Juke smelled like salt, spice, musk, and something strong enough to make a man forget his name for a while.
“Two more beers,” somebody called.
“I heard you the first damn time,” Annie shot back, already reaching for the bottles, “You gon’ get ‘em when I get to you.”
The man at the bar ain’t like that.
He was big enough through the shoulders, skin a deep brown dulled by travel dust, hat tipped low. He slammed his glass down harder than needed, liquor sloshing over the rim.
“Damn prices too high for this weak pour,” he groaned, loud enough for folks to hear, “And this the best damn juke!? Better than Messangers? ‘Cause of some twins that ain’t been ‘round for years?”
Annie didn’t even look up at first.
“Then don’t drink it.”
That got a few chuckles. From the ladies helping to cook to the two men helping to serve drinks.
The man leaned forward, close enough to crowd her space, “I said, you chargin’ too damn much.”
Now she looked at him. Slow. Unblinking. Her eyes cut up at him sharp as the straight razor between her bosom.
“And I SAID you ain’t got to spend it.”
A few heads turned. The blues didn’t stop on account of the growing altercation but it shifted enough to where folks were listening now.
The man smacked his black gums, reached out, fingers brushing the edge of her apron, like he meant to grab hold. Like he meant to control her. As if he knew the type of woman he was dealing with. See, Annie ain’t one to control. Damn sure ain’t one to grab onto like her husband wasn’t in the back room yoking some nigga up over a dice game. Because Smoke don’t wait. He don’t ask questions.
That was the wrong move.
Before Annie could even pull back, reach between her breasts for her razor, a hand came out of nowhere. A heavy hand with a gold and onyx signet ring and thick fingers caught the man by the wrist.
Tight. Almost cutting the man’s circulation.
Stack.
He had been leaning off to the side, half in shadow, Italian wine in his hand, watching the room the way he always did. With a smirk and shimmering eyes. Tall, broad through the chest, skin rich and smooth under the lantern lights, vest hanging open and the top few buttons of his shirt undone like he wasn’t trying too hard to be his usual put together and dapper self. His face held that easy look like he was just another man enjoying the festivities. Toothpick rolling between his teeth.
It dropped quick.
“Let her go,” Stack warned.
It was quiet for a beat.
The man tried to pull his hand free. Couldn’t.
“I’m just talkin’, twin,” he said, voice already losing some of that bite.
Stack set his Italian wine down with a barely audible clank. His jaw ticked and the faintest wolfish grin appeared. One he’d given many men from the Jim Crow South to the Windy City with skyscrapers instead of plantations—nothing different—men he’d gutted like fish and littered with bullets.
Then, the blade appeared. A switchblade with his name engraved. Small. Clean. Flash of metal glinting before it pressed up under the man’s jaw, right at the soft of his throat.
It felt as if the entire room froze. Blues kept playing, but it was softer now, careful not to turn up like it knew better than to get in the way.
Stack leaned in closer, his chest almost to the man’s, voice low enough that the man had to listen hard if he knew what was good for him.
“You don’t talk wit’ your hands on her.”
The blade pressed just a little. Only a little.
A thin line opened on the man’s skin. Not deep, just enough to sting. To draw blood. Just enough to let him feel it.
The man was frozen.
Stack’s eyes stayed on him, calm and cold, “You got a problem with the price, you walk ya’ ass out that door. You don’t reach for her. You don’t raise your voice at her. You don’t do nothin’ but pay or leave. You understand me, nigga?”
The man swallowed careful, throat tight against the edge of steel.
“Yeah…yeah, I hear you, twin.”
“Good.” Stack leaned in a fraction more, “run your mouth again in here, I won’t stop at a nick.”
Stack pulled the blade back like he was giving the man a clean shave. A swipe that dragged skin and some of his stubble with it.
The man stumbles away quick, hand flying to his throat. Pride already bleeding worse than the skin. He grabbed his hat off the floor, didn’t look at nobody, and pushed through the crowd, out into the night. Cornbread chuckled at the door. Eyes following the man’s retreating body up the dirt road.
And just like that, the room breathed again. Music picked back up. Preacher Boy Sammie kept strumming that guitar and Delta Slim sang a blues song about a woman in red at the crossroads while making that harmonica whistle. Laughter followed, a little louder now like folks shook off what they just saw.
Stack wiped the blade on a cloth, slow and easy, then tucked it away like it was nothing.
Annie was watching him. That same side eye she always gave him like she was weighing whether to be annoyed or impressed.
“Coulda handled that, Elias.” Annie said. Reaching for another glass.
Stack leaned his hip against the bar, picking his drink back up, “I know you could.”
She poured corn liquor into the class with a steady hand. Stack’s tongue dragged over the golds on his top teeth with a slight suction before he took a sip of wine.
“Then why you step in?”
Stack took another sip, eyes on her over the rim, “‘Cause he ain’t know that.”
Annie huffed, but there was something lighter in it now. She nudged him with her elbow as she passed, just enough to bump him off balance a little.
“Always doin’ the most.”
“Always fixin’ what need fixin’.” Stack shot back.
He lets that line sit a second, watching her move—how she pours, how she keeps the whole place in her hands without looking like she trying. Then, he leans in just a touch, voice low enough to stay between them.
“Truth be told…you like it a little,” he says, mouth curving, “me steppin’ in, cleanin’ up after you.”
Annie cuts her eyes at him, sharp, already reaching for another bottle.
Stack doesn’t back off.
“Don’t worry,” Stack adds, easy as breath, “I ain’t gon’ let it go to my head…long as you keep runnin’ things in my Juke like you do, sis.”
That grin stays there—slick, knowing—like he expects her to snap back at him.
Annie reached down, quick and smooth, and pulled that straight razor from where she kept it tucked between her breasts, the blade catching a thin line of light as it snapped open.
“Stack,” Annie said, calm as anything, “let me do my work ‘fore I cut yo’ black ass.”
A couple folks at the bar leaned back just a little.
Stack put his hands up in surrender but he didn’t flinch. If anything, his grin spread wider, eyes dropping from half a second to where she pulled it from before lifting back to her face.
“See,” he spoke, amused, “that right there is why I stepped in.”
She sucked her teeth, nudging him with her elbow as she turned back to the bottles.
“And that right there is why I don’t need you to.”
Stack let out a low laugh, lifting his glass again, settling in like he planned to stay right where he was, just close enough to watch her work, just far enough not to get cut.
She paused, just for a second.
Then, softer, under her breath, “Thank you.”
Stack didn’t make a big thing of it. Didn’t look at her long. He simply shrugged, one shoulder, voice smooth.
“You my sister. We can’t be in the same room without us arguin’ but I love ya’…and what’s Smoke’s is mine to protect so.”
Annie glanced at him again, something warm flickering behind her eyes before she turned back to her work.
“Boy, go on somewhere,” she said, but there was no edge to it this time.
Stack smiles to himself, lifting his glass as the music rolls on.
The door at the far end slammed open hard enough to rattle the frame.
Smoke came through it fast. Sleeves rolled past his elbows, shoulders squared, cigarette hanging from his mouth, the tip burning bright in the dim. The smell of gunpowder, the iron tang of blood, and sweat clung to him, sharp as hell over the liquor and grease already thick in the air. He cut through the room without asking nobody to move.
Folks moved anyway.
His eyes found Annie first.
“Annie,” Smoke called, voice raspy and low but carrying, “You straight?”
Annie didn’t stop moving. She poured drinks, slid plates across the bar, stirred pots of collards while moving her hips to the music.
“I’m good,” she said.
Smoke stepped up closer, gaze dragging over her quick, checking, making sure, “I need to put a bullet in a nigga or what?”
A couple men at the bar went real still at that. They remember Smoke shooting Terry and his buddy outside of Bo and Grace Chow’s colored grocery in town.
Annie shook her head, wiping her hands on her apron, “No. Stack handled it.”
Smoke’s eyes shifted.
They landed on Stack, standing easy against the bar like he ain’t just cleared the room ten minutes ago. That same calm sitting on him, drink in hand, shoulders loose.
Smoke squinted at him, cigarette smoke curling up past his face.
“Handled how?”
Stack’s mouth pulled into a grin, lazy and pleased with himself. He tipped his glass back, swallowed, then glanced over at Annie before answering.
“Pulled my blade out my boot,” he said, voice smooth, “sent him on his way with his tail tucked between his legs like a Mississippi donkey.”
Smoke looked between them.
Once.
Then again.
His eyes narrowed a little more, something unreadable moving behind them.
“Ya’ll being civil?”
Annie let out a short breath through her nose, turning back to the bar.
“Don’t start.”
Stack gave a low chuckle, shaking his head.
“Man came in here actin’ like he forgot where he was. I reminded him.”
Smoke took the cigarette from his mouth, ash dropping to the floor as he watched them both another second. Then, he stepped in, closer to Annie, voice dropping just for her. A voice he knew to put on for her.
“You sure you good, baby?”
Annie met his eyes, this time steady.
“I said I’m good.”
A beat passed. Her eyes trailed over his frame before dragging back up to his eyes. Smoke’s gaze remained locked on her face.
Smoke nodded once.
He flicked the rest of his cigarette down, grinding it under his boot, then glanced back at Stack.
Smoke didn’t turn away right off. He shifted like he was about to head back into the room, then stopped shot beside Stack instead, stepping in close. Close enough that their shoulders brushed. Close enough that whatever he said didn’t belong to the rest of the room.
His voice dropped.
“Bo came to me ‘bout that man.”
Stack tilted his head just a little, listening.
Smoke kept going, eyes forward, scanning the crowd like he was talking about nothing at all.
“Got his name. Know where he work. Field hand out past the east road. Sunup to sundown type.”
A chilling pause.
“He banned,” Smoke said, “From Club Juke, from anywhere got our hands on it.”
Stack’s jaw shifted, a quiet nod.
“If I catch him in passin’,” Smoke added, voice going colder, “I’m gin’ blow his top off.”
No raise. No heat. Just fact.
Stack let out a soft breath though his nose, something like approval sitting in it.
“I’ll make sure he don’t step through that door again.”
Then, he moved to go.
Stack’s voice followed him, light, teasing, cutting through the edge just enough to bend it.
“You sure Annie won’t kill him first?”
Annie giggled. She glanced over at her husband with them eyes that got her whatever she wanted. And it worked every time. Stack took a swig of his wine, dimples deep.
“Try not to cut up all my customers.” Smoke said.
Stack smirked.
“Tell ‘em to act right and don’t be cuttin’ up in our Juke.”
Smoke’s mouth twitched, just barely, before he turned back toward the back room, already listening for the next problem waiting to rise.
Thank you to everyone who has supported my writing so far I truly appreciate it. This semester has been a busy one with for me regarding college, regular life, and preparing for graduation, and I’ve been dealing with writer’s block and burnout, so posting has been slower than usual.I've been noticing some comments lately suggesting and accusing me of using ChatGPT for my work. I want to clarify that all of my ideas and writing are my own. I’m still learning, experimenting, and trying to find my voice and style when it comes to writing so I ask for patience and understanding as I continue grow.I came to this platform to destress , share my ideas, and connect with others who enjoy my work. Constructive feedback is always welcome, but negative assumptions are uncalled for. If my writing isn’t for you then that’s okay there’s plenty of content out there for everyone. Thank you again to those who continue to support me. It truly means a lot.❤️
I just noticed that you are back ! Any chance of you posting Sinners fics? I’ve been craving more! Really love the way you write them. Especially your Mary and Stack along with Annie and Smoke.
Hello! I'm currently drafting now will be out by the end of this week!
Not like the highborn ladies with silks trailing behind them or crowns glittering in torchlight. You were dust and daylight, the daughter of a hedge knight who died with more honor than coin. You learned early how to stitch torn cloaks, how to clean rust from armor, how to keep quiet when men spoke of war and glory.
Then you met Ser Duncan the Tall, and somehow, the gods decided you were meant for him.
It happened on a windy morning outside a small tourney field.
You were arguing with a merchant.
“You said three coppers,” you snapped, fists clenched at your sides. “Not five.”
“I said five,” he insisted, sneering down at you. “Or don’t eat.”
You were hungry enough to consider throwing the apple at his face.
Then a shadow fell across you.
A very large shadow.
“Begging your pardon,” came a deep, hesitant voice, careful and polite. “But I heard him say three.”
You turned.
And nearly dropped the apple.
He was enormous broad-shouldered, sun-browned, awkwardly standing as if he feared breaking something simply by existing. His armor was plain but well-kept, his face open and honest in a way that made liars nervous.
The merchant scoffed. “Mind your business, ser.”
“I am,” he said simply. “Fair’s fair.”
The merchant grumbled but took your three coppers. When he left, you looked back at the knight.
“Thank you,” you said.
He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking shy despite his towering height.
“Wasn’t nothing,” he muttered. “Didn’t seem right, is all.”
That was Ser Duncan the Tall brave against injustice, awkward with gratitude. You liked him instantly.
Dunk falling in love wasn’t sudden.
Not thunder or lightning.
It was slow like roots growing beneath the earth.
You traveled together after that day. You stitched his cloak when it tore. He made sure you ate when coin ran thin. You patched his armor while he told stories about boys who wanted to be knights and kings who needed protecting.
He called you clever.
Called you brave.
Called you “good company.”
And one night, beneath a sky scattered with cold stars, he watched you fall asleep beside the fire curled in his cloak, your breathing soft and steady.
That was when he realized.
Not when you smiled.
Not when you laughed.
Not even when you defended him in an argument with a drunken hedge knight twice your size.
It was when he saw how small you looked in his cloak.
How fragile.
How beautiful
How precious.
He stared into the fire, heart pounding in a way battles never caused.
Gods, he thought.
Gods help me.
He loved you.
And he didn’t know what to do about it.
Life with Ser Duncan the Tall meant dust and long roads, cheap inns and shared meals, laughter beside small fires, and the steady comfort of knowing someone would stand between you and the world without hesitation.
He wasn’t perfect.
He doubted himself.
Forgot words.
Got flustered when you praised him.
But he would face kings, dragons, or armies without hesitation if it meant protecting you.
And when he finally said it really said it came out rough and uncertain.
“I'm not much ” he admitted quietly one night. “Not rich. Not clever. Not even sure I’m a good knight.”
You watched him carefully.
“But I swear,” he continued, voice trembling slightly, “I’d spend my whole life trying to be worthy of you.”
Your throat tightened.
Because he already was.
Duncan already knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you, but when you brought up the possibility of marriage first in passing conversation, he would be stunned.
That night he kneeled before you and held your hand.
" Will you marry me?" he asked voiced filled with fear and love
"Yes Dunk," You answered eyes filled with happy tears
“You want… me?” he’d ask, voice thick with disbelief and relief that you accepted his proposal.
You’d nod and pull him for a kiss.
Your wedding wouldn’t be grand.
No golden halls.
No jeweled crowns or fancy gowns.
Just a quiet sept, flickering candles, and his enormous hands trembling as he placed the ring on your finger.
His vows would be simple.
Honest.
Unbreakable.
“I swear to protect you,” he’d say, voice steady now.
“To stand beside you.”
“To never fail you, if I can help it.”
And he’d mean every word.
Because being loved by Ser Duncan the Tall meant being loved with every ounce of strength he had.
And he had plenty to give.
More than kings. More than knights.
More than songs could ever tell.
Note: For more content follow me on https://www.tumblr.com/sammyquarius
You are the one thing he cannot control and that hooks him
You don’t meet him in some grand, dramatic way.That would be too easy.You meet him on your first day at the firm. You’re just a new hirehis secretary. Everyone else is nervous. Polished. Trying too hard.
You?
You’re late by three minutes.You walk into his office, completely unfazed, holding a folder and a coffee. “Mr. Milton,” you say, setting the coffee down, “your 9AM is waiting and your last assistant labeled everything wrong, so I fixed it.”
You don’t smile.
You don’t stammer.
You don’t tremble like the others do when they first meet him.You turn to leave. That’s when he speaks.
“Miss…”
His voice is smooth velvet over steel. Low. Amused.
You glance over your shoulder. “Y/N.”
He leans back slowly in his chair, studying you the way a collector studies a rare object something unfamiliar, something potentially valuable.
Most people look at him like prey looks at a predator.
You look at him like he’s just another man with a schedule.
Interesting.
“Three minutes late,” he says mildly.
You shrug.
“The subway stalled. I figured you’d rather I arrive useful than apologetic.”
A flicker of something sharp passes behind his eyes.
Not anger.
Not yet.
Interest.
You step forward again, flipping open the folder.
“I reorganized your afternoon meetings,” you continue calmly. “You had two clients booked at the same time—one of them being the mayor’s office, so I assumed that one mattered more.”
He lifts a brow.
Assumed.
No one assumes with him.They ask. They beg. They hesitate.
You decided.
“Did you now?” he murmurs.
You nod once. “Yes, sir.”
Sir.
Not reverent.
Not fearful.
Just practical.
He takes a slow sip of the coffee you placed in front of him and pauses.
Exactly how he likes it.
No sugar. No cream. Strong enough to bite.
He never told you that. Not personally. Which means you observed.
Adapted.
Improved.
His lips curl barely into something that almost resembles a smile.
“You may stay,” he says.
Like you asked.
Like you needed permission.
You nod once again, unfazed, and head toward the outer office to escort his waiting client.
And the moment the door closes behind you—
He laughs.
Quietly.
Softly.
A rare sound.
Because for the first time in decades… maybe centuries…
Something surprised him.
Should I continue with this?
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Being the wife of Sam 'Ace' Rothstein would be glamorous on the surface but extremely intense, dangerous, and complicated underneath. Sam is brilliant, hardworking, obsessive, and controlling, so life with him would revolve around loyalty, image, and survival in the Las Vegas casino world. Here are some things that life as his wife would likely include:
Sam’s Intense Attention
Sam is extremely observant. As a husband, he would notice every small change about you.
If you’re tired, he notices immediately.
If someone disrespects you, he remembers it.
If you’re upset, he wants to know why.
He wouldn’t be the type to ignore his partner. Instead, he’d study you the way he studies a casino floor. The attention would feel sweet but sometimes a little overwhelming with how well he knows you.Sam’s instinct is to control situations so nothing goes wrong. When he loves someone, that instinct becomes protection.
That means:
Making sure you always have security
Him driving or having drivers take you places
Him having to know where you are late at night.Not because he doesn’t trust you but because he doesn’t trust the world.
In his mind, protecting you is part of loving you.Unlike many mob men, Sam is not a big partier or womanizer. If he truly loved his wife, he would likely be:
Faithful
Showering you with affection and gifts
Emotionally invested
Proud to show you off
He’d talk about you to people like you’re the best decision he ever made.For someone like Sam, loyalty is everything. If you give it to him, he returns it with absolute commitment.
Possessive in a Quiet Way
Sam’s possessiveness is different from violent jealousy.
It’s more subtle and psychological:
He wants to know where you are
He wants transparency in the relationship
He dislikes other men getting too comfortable around you
Sam wants stability. If he had the right partner, he’d enjoy:
Quiet dinners at home
Talking about the day
Someone waiting for him after long hours at the casino
The casino is his empire, but your his home and safe place.
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Chicago hums like a living thing streetcars rattling, jazz bleeding out of basement clubs, men in pressed suits speaking in low voices about money, shipments, loyalty. In a narrow brownstone on the South Side, everything is already unraveling.
Mary stands at the window, watching the streetlamps flicker on one by one. The city looks softer from up here, almost forgiving. Almost.
Down below, she knows the truth police that look the other way, men who don’t, and the kind of whispers that can get someone killed if they stick to the wrong ears
Behind her, her mother’s voice cuts sharp through the quiet.
“Those boys are trouble,” she says, voice low but sharp, like she’s afraid the walls themselves might carry it back to them. “I don’t care what they pay. I don’t care who they work for. You stay away from them.”
Stack and Smoke. Two sides of the same coin but Mary sees the difference immediately.
Smoke is quiet. Watchful. The kind of man who stands in a room and somehow notices everything without saying a word. There’s something heavy in him, something that never left Mississippi. Loss sits on his shoulders like it belongs there.
Stack—
Stack is a wildfire.
He laughs too loud. Talks too fast. Lives like tomorrow is a rumor he doesn’t believe in. And when he looks at Mary for the first time, it’s not careful.
It’s immediate.
Dangerous.
But Mary couldn't help but be attracted to it
“You will not see him again.”
Mary doesn’t turn around. Her fingers tighten around the curtain instead.
“You don’t know him.”
“I know enough.” Her mother steps closer, heels clicking like a warning. “Men like that men who work for Capone don’t love girls like you. They use them. They ruin them.”
Mary lets out a breath, slow. Controlled.
“You mean girls like me,” she says quietly, “or girls like me?”
That lands.
Her mother goes still.
Because they both know what she means.
Being Biracial and Passing. It's constantly walking a line so thin it could snap under her at any moment.
“That life will kill him,” her mother says, softer now but not kinder. “And it will take you down with him.”
Mary finally turns.
Her eyes don’t waver.
“I’d rather choose it than be locked away pretending for the rest of my life.”
It stared small at first
A glance held too long in the hallway.
A shared cigarette out the back window when her mother isn’t home.
Y’know,” Stack murmurs one night, leaning against a brick building, eyes tracing her face like he’s memorizing it,
“You shouldn’t be out here,” he muttered, but he didn’t step away.
“Neither should you.”
That smirk again, but weaker this time. Stripped down.
“You don’t listen real good, do you?”
Mary stepped closer. “Neither do you.”
Smoke sees it before anyone says anything.
Of course he does, he was always more observant.
He corners Stack in the kitchen late one night, voice low enough not to carry.
“You need to stop.
Stack doesn’t even look up. “Stop what?”
Smoke’s jaw tightens. “ I ain't stupid fool. That girl—”
“She gotta a name.”
“And she got a target on her back if you keep this bullshit up!,” Smoke snaps, sharper now. “Ya'll think Capone’s people don’t notice things?
Stack finally looks at him.
" She's a white woman stack don't matter how much negro blood she has Stack, she is white. You understand what that means? One wrong look, one wrong word, and it ain’t just whispers. It’s a noose. It’s bullets. It’s—”
“I ain’t letting anything happen to her.”
Smoke lets out a bitter laugh.
“That’s what I said too.”
Silence.
Heavy. Suffocating.
Because Stack knows what he means.
Mississippi.
Annie.
A baby that never got to grow up.
The night they decide to run, it’s not dramatic.
No grand plan.
No perfect timing.
Just urgency.
Stack bursts into her room, breath uneven, eyes lit with something between fear and certainty.
“We gotta go.”
Mary sits up immediately. “What happened?”
“It don't matter,” he says, already grabbing her small suitcase from under the bed. “It’s not safe here no more. For you. For us.”
“Stack—”
“I mean it,” he says, softer now, stepping closer. “I should’ve listened. Smoke was right. This city? It’ll eat you alive just for existing wrong.”
His hand finds hers.
Warm. Steady, despite everything.
“Come with me.”
Mary searches his face.
Reckless. Yes.
Dangerous. Always.
But for the first time—
Serious.
“Where?” she whispers.
Stack smiles, a little crooked, a little wild.
“Anywhere that ain’t here.”
And with that, they disappeared into the night into a future thick with uncertainty, where danger lingered in every shadow.
But wrapped around them, just as strong, just as consuming, was something else—
Love.
Dark, reckless, and unrelenting…
…carrying them forward into whatever waited.
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