clancykolzig

[clancykolzig]

: ̗̀➛ sweet blooming flower

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ tattoo artist simon 'ghost' riley x reader (extended)

synopsis : Fate is a strange force—pushing a shy, insecure flower into the den of the big, bad Ghost. But with enough dedication and time, that delicate flower can finally bloom perfectly.

cw : angst, smut, body shaming, eating disorders, ex toxic relationship, anxiety, violence, blood mentioned, age gap (reader in mid 20's, simon in late 30's), daddy kink, chubby and insecure reader.  words : 20,3k

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ㅤㅤㅤmasterlist⋆ inspo⋆ moodboard⋆ ao3

Tears were slipping down your cheeks as you locked the bakery door behind you. The closing shift always did that to you, the quiet, careful way you placed the remaining pastries into small takeaway boxes. Your boss believed it was better for the baked goods to go home with her bakers than to end up in the trash.

But those treats weren’t for you. Not anymore. They hadn’t been for a long time. Not since him. 

On the way home, you passed the nearby fire station, gladly handing over the day’s leftover pastries. The firefighters always accepted them with wide grins. They knew the routine—whenever they saw you approaching with boxes in hand, they’d rush over, eager to get their share of the sweet, flaky treasures you brought.

Had you not been so self-conscious, you might have noticed a few of them were actually flirting with you.

Once you got home, you walked straight to the bathroom, undressing in silence, your eyes darting everywhere but the mirror, and never at your body. His words still echoed in your mind, making it impossible not to notice the way your stomach folded when you bent over, the way your thighs and butt creased with cellulite, or how big your arms looked in your shirt today. It was a sight you couldn’t bear.

As hot water trickled down your skin, more tears followed. There was no stopping them now.

He left. He actually left, just like he’d threatened so many times before.

An eight-month relationship ended with a single text that morning. Words you wouldn’t be able to forget : Since you don’t want to understand that I need you to stop neglecting yourself, it’s over.

Neglect. That’s what he always said, claiming you were neglecting yourself because you were a few kilos over what he thought a woman should be. He called himself a "gym bro," though he wasn’t exactly sculpted or strong, he couldn’t even lift you if he tried. But he had defined muscles, and he worshipped them. Killed himself at the gym every day, the only one town, next to the tattoo shop. He was cocky about it, constantly giving you unsolicited advice on how to lose belly fat, what meals to eat to slim down, which exercises would stop your arms from "flopping around" when you moved.

You endured all of it, all the veiled insults and body shaming, because you loved him. He was one of the only men in your life who’d ever given you any attention. He was your second boyfriend, and you’d been so deeply insecure that you fell for the first fucker who batted his eyes at you.

All you had ever wanted was to feel love, to feel seen.

The worst part was, you hadn’t gained weight during the relationship. You had already been overweight when he met you. And he had chosen to be with you. Or at least, that’s what you thought.

A few days after the breakup, you found out the truth, from people you once believed were your friends. He had made a bet with his buddies: that he could sleep with the fat girl from the bar and get her in shape within a year. And when he realized he was going to lose the bet, because no matter what, you weren't turning into the woman he wanted, he broke up with you.

He had never loved you. Never even cared. You had been a joke. A fucking bet.

And that shattered something deeper than you thought was possible.

Fidgeting with your hands, you stared at the plate in front of you. It wasn’t anything special—just some pasta with a bit of ham. A small portion, far less than what you used to eat. Your appetite had shrunk since he dragged you down that dark road, and it had only gotten worse after he left.

Some nights, you didn’t eat at all. Just showered, slipped into bed, and forced your body to lie still. Even when your stomach growled, you ignored it. You’d gotten used to skipping lunch, too.

But it never led to anything. Not a single kilo lost. Because during the day, you had manic episodes, eating everything in sight like you were trying to fill a void you couldn't name. Sometimes you threw it all up within hours. Sometimes it just sat in your stomach, but always made you sick in your head.

The numbers on the scale never dropped.

And the truth was, the real you didn’t even want them to. You’d been okay with how you looked before him. It wasn’t a runway model’s body, but it was yours. It had been healthy. It had been enough.

Now, it was neither slim… nor healthy. 

Like always, you took the plate and emptied it into the trash, untouched. Not a single bite.

The plate clattered into the sink, nearly cracking as your trembling fingers let it go. Your hands shook from the sobs wrecking your chest, but also from how weak your limbs had become in the three weeks since the breakup.

You were barely holding yourself together.

And you knew it, you had let yourself spiral down a very dark path. One that was slowly, quietly, killing you.

It was a strange feeling. You’d always thought you’d leave the moment a boyfriend insulted or degraded you. You believed you were stronger than that, stronger than what you turned out to be.

But the truth was different.

You had lacked attention from boys growing up. No one really looked at you. You were always the fat friend, the funny friend, the friend. Never pretty. Never sexy. Never interesting enough.

It took a toll on you, especially as high school ended and you remained the only virgin in your group. While your friends went off to college, experimenting with sex, parties, and boys, you took a job at the bakery. The same one you still worked at, six years later.

So in a way, it was predictable. When the cute boy from the bar approached you, showed interest, made you believe he was in it for more than just sex, you fell. Hard. You wanted to believe it was something real.

Truthfully, your first “boyfriend” hadn’t been any better. He never pretended to care. Once you gave him your first time, he vanished. His reason? I always wanted to fuck a fat girl.

Fat.

That word felt branded on your forehead.

Your mother always told you that you weren’t fat, just chubby. She said it in a way that made it sound cute, harmless, even lovable. And maybe it was. You weren’t anywhere near obese. But in your mind, it felt like you were.

Fat wasn’t just a word—it was a weight, a sentence, a quiet shame that followed you into fitting rooms, into photos, into silence when boys looked past you.

No matter what anyone said, you carried it like a scar only you could see.

Letting out a heavy sigh, you sank back into the chair, eyes closed, trying to will the tears to stop. You still had twenty minutes left on your break.

Gulping down a full glass of water to quiet the gnawing in your stomach, you stepped outside into the small backyard behind the bakery.

Technically, it was your boss’s backyard—she lived in the flat upstairs—but she let the staff use it. It was a welcome escape from the cramped, fluorescent-lit break room. Out here, at least, the rare English sun could warm your face, even if everything else felt cold.

You sat in silence, head tilted up, wishing the sunlight could burn the tears away the moment they surfaced. But it never did. 

They always fell.

The rest of your shift was hard, but no harder than the other days. They all blurred together now, each one just as heavy as the last. You weren’t really living anymore—just surviving. And the worst part was, you weren’t even sure why.

The walk home was pleasant enough. The sun was still out, lingering a little longer, casting gold across the pavement. You lifted your face to it, letting the warmth settle against your skin.

On impulse, you decided to take the long way home.

You hadn’t dared to for weeks, not since the breakup. That route passed by the gym where your ex worked out. The same one he had begged you to join. Pushed you to subscribe to. Promised it would “change everything.”

You had been grateful you never joined.

So lost in your thoughts, you almost missed it. Almost.

You stopped abruptly, something catching at the edge of your vision. You turned around.

They were beautiful, the most beautiful flowers you’d ever seen.

And yet, it was just a simple drawing. If you could even call it that. A quick scribble of sunflowers on a sheet of paper, taped messily to the front window of the tattoo parlour. Still, despite its roughness, it stopped you cold.

Just a couple of sunflowers, side by side. The details were rushed, uneven, like it had been sketched in a hurry. Probably tossed up there to draw in a certain kind of customer. You wouldn’t be surprised if it had been stuck there for years, long forgotten and sun-faded.

But to you, it was beautiful.

This wasn’t a new tattoo shop, it had been around for years and carried a certain reputation. People in town whispered about the artist known only as Ghost, an ex-military famed for his harsh, intricate designs: skulls, weapons, bombs—anything steeped in military grit. But what truly set him apart was his skill with scars. He was known for working over them with precision and care, turning what was once pain into something powerful, something claimed.

Veterans traveled from across the country just to get inked by him. Yet no one in town ever really saw him. Ghost, they called him, and the name fit.

He had settled here years ago, but beyond his clients, no one could say what he looked like. The rumours were consistent: a body covered in scars and tattoos, a nose broken more times than anyone could count, and a bluntness that sent most people running. That was all the town really knew about Ghost.

And yet, somehow, he had drawn the sunflowers, the small skull scrawled at the bottom of the sheet was his signature, his mark.

A flicker of movement in your peripheral vision pulled you out of your admiration.

There it was, the neon green wifebeater. That horrible, fluorescent shirt your ex always wore to the gym. You knew it all too well. Too painfully well. You hated it with a quiet fury. Not wanting to face him, you spun around abruptly, your head snapping as you caught the movement. Without a word, you turned and hurried away, taking yet another detour.

You ducked behind the block, your pace quickening. You kept glancing over your shoulder every few seconds, as if he might actually be following you. But you knew better.

He wanted nothing to do with you. He never had.

You were hyperventilating, your heartbeat pounding so loudly it rang in your ears. It was racing far too fast. Panic was settling deep into your bones, tightening its grip with every breath.

More tears gathered in your eyes, blurring your vision. So when you turned your head forward, you didn’t see the man you were about to stumble into. Your panicked mind was confused, convincing you it was your ex, that he was following you, coming to hurt you even more. More insults. More laughter at your naivety.

Your ears were ringing, and you couldn’t make out the words the stranger was saying. You couldn’t even see his face clearly. But you felt something burn the side of your arm—a cigarette, most likely. Which was strange, because your ex didn’t smoke. It didn’t fit his lifestyle. But your panicked mind was too tangled to make sense of anything.

Rushing past the man, you almost fell on the floor from missing the sidewalk, and mostly because of how, in a panic, your legs had become too heavy, ready to let go of your body. 

You didn’t remember how you made it home, just muscle memory taking over.

Hours later, you woke up to find yourself lying on the floor in the middle of your entryway. The sun had long since set. You’d passed out the moment you crossed the threshold, your home’s safety stealing away the panic and stress that your tired body could no longer bear.

Your head throbbed, from the fall and the tears. Your body ached, drained and pleading for any kind of energy after being pushed to its limits.

That night, you ate.

It was automatic. You couldn’t do anything else. Eat. Shower. Sleep.

It had been weeks since that day.

It almost felt like a dream now, a blur of memories and trauma, if not for the small, round scar on your arm. 

The stranger’s cigarette had left its mark. You knew it hadn’t been intentional, just a moment of bad timing in a chaotic panic. But still, it remained.

It mocked you. A quiet reminder of how twisted your mind had become. Proof of how deeply the fear had settled into your bones. You still couldn’t walk past the gym, not without your chest tightening, your legs wanting to flee. That moment had felt like the end of the world. It had drained you out, body and soul, until you’d had to call in sick the next morning. You stayed in your flat for three days after, unable to move, barely able to breathe.

Now, sitting behind the counter during a slow closing shift, you stared absently at the scar on your forearm, waiting for a client who was already ten minutes late.

And somehow, your thoughts drifted back to the sunflowers. Those pretty, messy sunflowers hanging in the tattoo shop window.

A single idea crossed your mind. Wild. Irrational. Something you would never actually do.

You couldn’t.

It was another thing your ex had wanted to change about you, your routine, your refusal to step outside the familiar. You never strayed far from what you knew. Never looked for a better job, never tried to find a nicer flat. You never chased the things you always said you wanted, like traveling to Scotland, opening your own coffee shop with a bakery, or adopting a dog. They were just dreams, floating around in your mind, never acted upon because they didn’t fit neatly into your routine. 

And he hated that. Said you were boring. Bland.

You wouldn’t let him win. You couldn’t keep letting him dictate your life, not after he’d walked away like none of it had ever meant anything. Because to him, it hadn’t.

So when you stood in front of the tattoo shop the next day, you had to remind yourself, this was for you. Not for anyone else. This was your choice, your body, and this would be your mark. A beautiful piece to adorn your hips, because he hated them. And you were tired of hating them too.

Tired of letting him win. 

Taking a deep breath, you pushed open the front door of the shop.

It looked exactly how you’d imagined. The walls were dark, lined with harsh, aggressive designs—skulls in every shape and size, weapons, tanks, grenades, and bold, blocky lettering. Classic tattoo motifs were scattered among them too: lions, clocks, roses, eagles. But nothing remotely close to the delicate, forgotten sunflowers in the window.

The bell above the door rang sharply, announcing your arrival.

A single sign greeted you, taped to the wall behind the counter. Thick black marker on plain paper, the writing was a little fancy, almost elegant, like someone trying to show off a bit of flair. The message, however, was blunt. 

Don't talk. I heard the door. Sit down and wait.

You obeyed the sign without hesitation, too nervous to do anything else. The waiting area was small, just a battered leather couch and a scratched-up coffee table covered in tattoo magazines and crumpled receipts. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and old smoke, like the place had absorbed years of ink and silence.

You sat down, trying to steady your breathing, your hands clasped tightly in your lap. The hum of a tattoo machine buzzed faintly in the distance, like a swarm of bees behind the walls. It was the only sound besides the occasional creak of the building settling.

It was all a stupid idea.

You shouldn’t even be here. It was ridiculous. He had been right, you were boring and bland, and maybe that was fine. Safe. Predictable. There was no need to change just to meet someone else’s idea of who you should be. So what were you doing here?

Sure, the flowers were pretty… but this was a tattoo. Permanent. Big. Bold. Everything you weren’t. And what if you couldn’t even afford it? This Ghost was popular, people traveled for him. He couldn’t be cheap.

The panic crawled up your throat again, wrapping around your breath like a vice. Your fingers fidgeted in your lap, nails digging into your palms. You stared down, letting your thoughts twist and spiral until your chest felt too tight and your legs itched to leave.

You didn’t even hear the tattoo gun stop. Didn’t hear the two voices, low and rough, approaching from the back room.

Another thing your ex hated. How easily you slipped away in your head. How you dissociated, zoned out, became unreachable when the world got too loud. Said it made you “weak.” Said it made you “a burden.” You clenched your jaw, blinking hard. You didn’t notice the footsteps until they were right there in the room.

And then, silence.

Looking up, you were met with three men, but one stood out immediately, like a sore thumb. 

He was taller, broader, commanding in a way the others weren’t. His arms were covered in tattoos that trailed down to his hands and fingers, dark ink etched into thick skin. His blond hair was cut short, close to his scalp, like a grown-out buzzcut that hadn’t seen a comb in days. His eyes landed on you, curious, confused, and sharp. There was something harsh in them too, like your presence disrupted something, and he didn’t like that. It wasn’t outright anger, but it simmered just beneath the surface. 

Still, he was striking. Easily one of the most handsome men you’d ever seen, in a rugged, untouchable way. And judging by his presence alone, there was no doubt—this was Ghost.

The man next to him had kinder eyes, warm brown and alert, framed by thick lashes and a subtle crease at the corners that hinted at easy smiles. He was shorter, leaner, with a trimmed beard and a calm steadiness in the way he held himself. His dark skin was smooth, his features sharp but approachable. There was something disarming about him, like he was used to diffusing tension before it sparked.

And then there was the last one. His eyes met yours like the others’, but there was a gentle smirk playing at the corners of his lips, amused. He didn’t bother hiding it, the moment his gaze landed, he openly checked you out from head to toe, unapologetic and bold. He had that rugged, battle-hardened look, dark hair kept in a weird shape, a faint beard tracing his jaw. His face held the kind of confidence that came from surviving countless fights, both outside and within. A fresh tattoo peeked out from beneath a second-skin plaster on his forearm, barely visible but telling of a story still unfolding.

“Well, LT,” the last one said, his deep Scottish accent rolling around the words, “Looks like ye’ve been hidin’ things, wee bugger.”

The dark-skinned man laughed at the remark while the taller one snapped a deadly glare at the Scot. If looks could kill, Mactavish would have been six feet under by now.

“Fuck off, Mactavish,” Ghost said, pushing the door open for his visitors.

Not even bothering to respond to the rudeness, the two men stepped out of the tattoo shop, whispering and giggling like schoolboys as they glanced back over their shoulders at you one last time.

You admitted to yourself that you must have looked out of place, sitting there in a space so obviously far outside your comfort zone. You wore a simple blue dress, dotted with tiny flowers and birds. Nothing fancy, but enough to hide your stomach, hips, and thighs. Much easier than trousers, at least. It was the kind of dress he’d called “ten years too old”, words that still echoed in your mind.

Before him, it used to be your favourite one. 

“What d’you want?” His blunt words cut through the silence, doing nothing to ease your anxiety. His sharp eyes pinned you in place, unblinking and intense.

You hesitated, struggling to find the right words. “Um… I was walking by the other day, and, uh, I saw the sunflowers outside. The pretty ones.”

Your voice was rushed, barely more than a whisper. At the mention of the flowers, his brow furrowed in confusion, his eyebrows shooting up as if you’d just said something absurd.

He turned away, glancing back toward the window, his eyes scanning quickly for the drawing you’d mentioned. It was clear on his face, he didn’t recall ever drawing sunflowers.

You fidgeted with your fingers, your leg bouncing nervously as anxiety gnawed at you.

Maybe he hadn’t drawn it. Maybe it was another artist. But you’d lived in this town for years, and you’d never heard of anyone else. Ghost was the only tattoo artist around.

“Fuck,” he let out with a sigh, walking  over to the sunflowers and tearing them off the window. “Listen, darlin’, I don’t do that sort of stuff no more. Look ‘round, find something you like, I’ll do it, but sunflowers? Nah, that ain’t me work.”

Oh no.

This was your worst-case scenario: rejection. Your heart was pounding wildly, feeling like it would burst right out of your chest. You should have known, it was a terrible idea. All the signs had been there.

The place was way out of your comfort zone. So was getting a tattoo. You’d even run into your ex while staring at the flowers. It was like the universe was sending you signs not to do this. But you’d already taken the first step, and now it was turning into a disaster.

You’d been silent far too long, not to mention awkward. Social skills had never been your strong suit, it’d always been a struggle.

“Uh, it’s okay, mister,” you stammered, pushing yourself up from the worn-out sofa, ready to bolt. “I don’t want anything else, really. Just the sunflowers,” you added quickly, your fingers nervously twisting the ring on your middle finger—a stress habit.

His eyes softened a little, noticing the clear discomfort and anxiety etched across your face.

Closing his eyes, he sighed again, not in anger, but in resignation. It didn’t take much, but something about you stirred a strange protective instinct inside him, the same feeling he’d only experienced when his teammates were in danger.

“Alright then,” he groaned, settling behind the desk by the door. He gestured toward the chair on the other side, inviting you to sit. “Tell me where you want it, the size and all that. I’ll have to redraw it. Looks like shit,” he added bluntly, not bothering to hide that the sunflowers were a poor sketch, especially given his skill.

With shy, hesitant words, you explained that you wanted the sunflowers on your left hip. As for the size, you weren’t quite sure, maybe four or five flowers, enough to stretch across the width of your hip.

At the mention of “width,” the way you said it, Ghost twitched ever so slightly. Hatred had filled your voice a little. So that was what this was all about, a tattoo to cover up insecurities. He was no stranger to this. Soldiers came to him all the time for the same reasons—covering scars, quieting traumas, memorializing lost comrades. He was used to pain and healing inked into skin.

But seeing you, a soft, sweet flower like yourself, hating on your body broke his heart. From what he could see, even with the way you tried to hide yourself under that dress, you were exactly his type: all curves and softness, just right to fit into his big, calloused hands.

After gathering all the details you wanted, which weren’t many, he gave you a knowing look and asked, “Got any other tattoos?”

A deep blush spread across your cheeks. It was too easy to read you. You shook your head, unable to hold his gaze for too long. It made you uncomfortable, but in a strangely pleasant way, something new, something you’d never felt before, not even with him.

“Come ’round in a couple days, aye?” he said, glancing down at the sunflower drawing as he thought. Then, looking back up at you, he added, “I’ll have a sketch ready, and if you like it, we can set a date.”

“Yeah,” you sighed, biting your lip nervously. “Okay.”

“’Need time to do something nice for you,” he said with a small smirk. “Wouldn’t wanna fuck it up.”

Your body stayed locked in the chair, and with a nod toward the door, he made it clear you wouldn’t be getting any work done today, not exactly chasing you out, but closing the session gently.

Frowning, you glanced from the door back to him, then at the door again.

“You don’t want a deposit?” you asked, confused. 

Glaring past him, your eyes caught the big sign in bold letters: NO DEPOSIT, NO PROJECT.

Knowing exactly what you were staring at, Ghost let out a short laugh. When you looked back at him, you were surprised to find that familiar knowing look shining in his brown eyes.

“Somethin’ tells me you ain’t gonna make me waste my time, flower,” he said, a rare intensity flickering behind his gaze. “Don’t you worry your little head ‘bout that, just come back in a few days.”

And with that, he sent you on your way.

As you stepped outside, your stomach churned, not with anxiety, but with a fluttering swarm of butterflies. A strange, giddy feeling settled over you, sparked by the memory of the man you had just met.

There was something about his quiet dominance, the effortless way he commanded the room. Nothing like anyone you’d ever known before.

And you found yourself longing for more. 

Anxiety had been eating away at you in the days following your meeting with Ghost.

In some strange way, you were excited, nervous, yes, but genuinely thrilled about this new thing. It still felt surreal that you were actually going through with it. And then there were his words, echoing in your mind like a quiet challenge: you ain't gonna make me lose my time, flower.

It made you want to prove him right. To please him.

His calm confidence, the way he filled a room without needing to say much, lingered in your thoughts longer than you cared to admit. That deep, gravelly voice of his had sent a shiver down your spine, and every time you remembered it, it happened all over again.

After that encounter, your days had started to feel a little lighter. The dark clouds that usually hovered in your mind seemed to part for longer stretches of time, letting in slivers of calm before the heaviness crept back in—usually around meals. Still, you were more present during your shifts, less likely to break down during your breaks, less caught in the spiral of exhaustion and tears.

But it all felt ridiculous to you. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you could still hear his voice, mocking, condescending. Whispering that it was just the same old story again. That a man had given you a shred of attention, and now you were overthinking like some pathetic daydreamer. 

“Little dumb naive girl,” he had once spat, voice thick with hatred and spite.

And despite everything, that voice still echoed.

You heard his voice again the moment you stood in front of the tattoo shop. Your eyes had wandered, unintentionally, toward the gym just next door. That place made your skin crawl. You hated it. Hated the way it made you feel small and enormous at the same time. Hated the way the women walked out—slim, glowing, confident—carrying something you had always been told you lacked. 

He used to say he could replace you with any one of them if you didn’t start losing weight. Said they were better than you. Slimmer. Prettier. More dedicated. Then would come the sweet words, how you could be just like them if only. Always the same routine. Break you down, then pretend to build you back up, exactly the way he liked. Like he was doing you a favor.

"Gonna stay out there all day, or you coming in?" The deep voice startled you, cutting through the haze of your thoughts like a blade.

You turned to find Ghost holding the door open, his broad frame filling the entrance. You hadn't realized you’d let a tear fall until the cool air hit your cheek. Quickly, you wiped it away, sniffing once. If he noticed, he didn’t mention it, just watched you with unreadable eyes.

You managed a shy smile, voice barely above a whisper. "Sorry." And with that, you stepped inside, the warmth of the shop swallowing you whole.

The shop was empty. Silent.

It felt almost sacred, like you’d stepped across the threshold of some hidden temple where quiet was a rule, not a choice.

A low groan broke the stillness, followed by a huff as Ghost sat down behind the desk. He sounded like an old man, despite barely looking over forty. You figured the military took its toll, grinding away at a person until even sitting down hurt. That theory was confirmed when his knee popped audibly as he stretched out his legs. Another groan slipped out.

You giggled, just a little. A quiet, surprised sound that escaped before you could catch it.

Ghost looked up at you with one brow raised, catching you mid-mockery. There was no anger in his face, no sharp edge to his gaze, just something unreadable and calm, a small smirk playing on his lips. Still, your chest tightened at the expression. 

It mirrored one you'd seen too many times before, except back then it had always come with a bite. With anger. With disgust.

You looked away quickly and sank down onto the old chair without a word.

He said nothing either. Just pulled open a drawer and pushed three pieces of paper toward you. Sketches. Sunflowers.

Each design more intricate and beautiful than the rough draft you’d first seen weeks ago. Sunlight captured in ink. Petals curled with care. You blinked, your throat suddenly tight.

He hadn’t just redrawn the flowers. He’d turned them into something tender. Something yours.

They were all beautiful, but one sketch drew you in more than the others.

It was a single sunflower, its petals open wide in full bloom, surrounded by gently arching leaves and smaller buds just on the verge of flowering. The lines were soft, almost tender, yet precise—each stroke intentional, like every vein on a petal had been studied before being drawn.

What captivated you most, though, was the smallest detail: a single bee, hovering mid-flight near the flower’s heart. Its wings were barely open, caught in that frozen moment of approach, as if deciding to land. It wasn’t just decorative, it was alive with motion, with intent.

It made your chest ache in the best way.

The sunflower stood proud and open, the bee drawn to it naturally—unafraid, unashamed. You saw yourself in that flower. Or at least, who you wanted to be.

It was a very singular design, nothing like the harsh, brutal lines that filled the walls around you. No skulls, no weapons, no eagles with razor-edged wings. Just a bloom, soft and open, alive with quiet strength. It almost didn’t make sense. That a man like him, this towering, intimidating presence wrapped in scars and ink, had drawn something so delicate, so intimate. So… you.

There had been something about you that stirred something different in him, something that made him want to create something truly special, just for you. It was unlike the bold, aggressive lines and masculine designs he was known for. He could do delicate—he’d always had the skill—but he usually chose not to. Until now. And as you sat in the chair across from him, eyes glassy and wide like a startled fawn, he knew he’d made the right call. He’d been right not to turn you away.

The look in your eyes was quietly devastating.

Ghost had spent nearly two decades learning to read people, it had been his job, his survival. And everything about you screamed damage dealt in silence. The way you sat, small and unsure, like you didn’t want to take up space. The constant fidgeting of your fingers in your lap, tugging at your clothes like they might shield you from being seen. The way your voice barely rose above a whisper, like you weren’t sure you deserved to be heard.

He recognized the signs. He’d seen them in soldiers, in strangers, in too many faces over the years. The fallout of cruel words and twisted truths. Of someone telling you you weren’t enough, or worse, that you were too much. 

But it was always the same origin, someone, somewhere, had tried to make you small.

A mother, maybe. Or more likely, he thought grimly, a man.

And sitting across from you now, he felt something cold and quiet settle in his chest. Not judgment. Not pity. Just the sharp, familiar awareness that some people carry battles you can’t always see, and you were fighting yours with nothing but a soft voice and trembling hands.

And that, Ghost thought, deserved something beautiful.

“Picked one, flower?” he asked, tone softer now, careful. Not wanting to scare you off. Not wanting to break what little peace you had mustered to sit in that chair.

"Yes, this one," you said, almost too quietly, your finger hovering over the design with the bee. Even though it looked small on paper, you hoped he could make it bigger—big enough to cover the part of your hip you were so desperate to hide.

Ghost glanced at the drawing, then at you, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "My personal favourite," he said, voice low and smooth, before rising from the desk and walking toward the back of the shop. With a practiced motion, he pushed aside the curtain and held it open, looking over his shoulder with an expectant glance, clearly waiting for you to follow.

You hadn’t expected it to happen today. You weren’t ready, not mentally, not emotionally, but your feet moved before your mind could catch up. Hesitating at first, you followed him into the back, unsure of what else to do, heart pounding with a mix of fear and anticipation.

There was no turning back now.

Noticing the way your body language had shifted in an instant, your shoulders tense, your steps uncertain, Ghost let out a low chuckle, trying to ease the tension.

“Relax. Not gonna tattoo you today,” he said, voice calmer than you'd expected. “Just testing out the size, yeah?”

“Oh,” you breathed out, almost like a sigh of relief. “Yeah… yeah, that’s okay,” you added, biting your lower lip, a nervous habit you couldn’t seem to shake.

After he gestured to the tattoo bed, Ghost moved behind the computer, likely resizing the design to fit your hip. The room settled into silence. It wasn’t awkward, at least not on his end, but the quiet gave your thoughts too much room to spiral.

What if he thought you were fat? What if he looked at your body with disgust, just like he had? You reminded yourself this was his job, he’d probably seen hundreds of bodies, maybe thousands. All kinds. Worse than yours, surely. But the thought still clawed at your chest like something sharp and cruel: what if you were the worst of them all?

Especially when the man preparing to see your hips, thighs, and stomach was, without exaggeration, one of the most handsome men you'd ever laid eyes on.

With a few stencils prepared, Ghost stood and approached, ready to test out various sizes.

Not wanting to be in the way, you immediately got up as well, stepping in front of the full-length mirror while he settled onto the stool beside it.

You’d worn another dress today, plain yellow, modest, simple. It reached your knees and clung just a little too snugly around your stomach. It used to fit better. Had you gained more weight again? You hoped not. Maybe it had just shrunk in the wash. That had to be it.

“The left one, yeah?” he asked, not looking up as he carefully trimmed the edges of the stencil.

You gave a soft hum of agreement, your voice caught somewhere between nervous and uncertain. Ghost didn't pause, just wheeled himself around behind you with ease, still focused on cutting. His strong thighs pushed him forward effortlessly in the chair, and for some reason, watching the quiet confidence of that movement sent a subtle thrill down your spine.

"Alright," he said once he’d finished trimming all three stencil sizes. "Pull this up for me, yeah?" He motioned toward your dress, voice casual, efficient—like this was just another task in his day.

And why wouldn’t it be? He didn’t care about your insecurities. He didn’t even know you. You were just another client. You’d come to him for a service, and he was simply doing his job.

Still, your throat tightened as you nodded, swallowing hard. With a deep breath, you slowly pulled your dress up.

"A little more, flower," he said, glancing up quickly while preparing the stencil products, his tone still calm, focused, professional.

Your chest constricted at the request. Your hands trembled slightly, and for a moment you thought you might be sick. But by some miracle of will, you managed to lift your dress a bit higher, high enough that your plain cotton underwear was fully visible.

You felt exposed, hyperaware of every flaw. The natural light from the window beside the table streamed in, illuminating everything.

Panic fluttered in your chest until your eyes darted to the glass, and you realized with a wash of relief that it was treated with a one-way mirror film. You could see the street, but no one could see in.

You flinched slightly when you felt his warm hand settle on your hip, the unexpected contact sending a jolt up your spine. Looking down, you caught a glimpse of how close his face was, far too close for your nerves to handle.

He looked somewhat ridiculous in that moment, crouched down low, the stool adjusted to its minimum height. And still, somehow, he was a giant. He had to curve his broad back just to meet the right angle, shoulders hunched, every movement careful and measured.

"Alright?" he asked, his voice quiet but firm, catching the way your body tensed and the goosebumps rising along your skin.

There was a flicker in his eyes, something more than concern. Ghost had always been a man whose emotions burned low and slow, but now something stirred. A spark of frustration, not directed at you, but at whoever had made you like this. Whoever had taken someone so soft, so lovely, and left them flinching from simple touch.

To him, you were stunning. Like those old Greek goddesses carved in marble, soft, full, timeless. The kind of beauty meant to be admired, not torn apart. It filled him with something uncomfortably close to protectiveness, a simmering anger on your behalf.

And yet, you couldn’t see it. Couldn't see what he saw. And that, more than anything, pissed him off.

"Yeah, sorry," you said quickly, not entirely sure what you were apologizing for. "Keep going." You added the words with a small, tight smile tugging at your lips.

He understood his mistake, he hadn't told you what he was doing. Just like with the vet with PTSD, he needed to explain everything, to avoid catching you off guard.

"This is just so the stencil’s ink sticks to your skin. It’s just a gel, but it’s gonna be cold," he explained, showing you the dab he’d applied to his finger. When you nodded, he began to gently spread it across your skin.

Without realizing, his thumb brushed higher on your hip, nudging your panties up slightly. It was unconscious, just a way to keep the gel from touching the fabric, but it sent your mind spiraling. His fingers felt so good against your skin: soft, careful, like he was handling something fragile he didn’t want to break.

No one had ever touched you like that before. It felt strange, but in the best way, and you found yourself wanting more.

As soon as he peeled the stencil off your skin, your eyes dropped to your hip, and you cringed.

It looked so small against the stretch of skin. He’d used the medium size, but it was still far from what you’d imagined. Barely bigger than your hand, it looked... wrong. Out of place. Like it needed room to breathe, to grow into something more.

“Bigger?” he asked, watching your reaction closely.

You nodded quickly, and he stood without another word, heading back to his desk.

The largest version he’d printed wasn’t much bigger than the one you’d just seen. He’d have to resize it again. As he sat in front of his laptop, he glanced up, just in time to see you frowning at your skin, letting the dress fall back over the spot the second he was no longer beside you. Like you couldn’t bear to look at it alone.

Ghost clicked his tongue and shook his head, disbelief darkening his features.

Whoever made you feel that way, he hoped they were ashamed.

After a few more tries and several rounds of resizing, you finally found yourself staring at the stencil with something like admiration, no longer disgust. He’d added more details with each version—more leaves, more petals—to better match the vision you’d had in your head. 

And now, it was perfect. It began just above your hip and flowed down almost to the middle of your thigh. It fit your body like it had always belonged there.

It felt right.

A quiet moment passed, the room still, until the chime of the front doorbell jolted you from your thoughts.

“It’s perfect,” you said at last, your voice soft but certain.

Ghost raised his eyebrows, then offered a genuine smile. “Yeah?” He asked, as if he had been ready to size it up again. 

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Great,” he said, glancing toward the trash bin overflowing with discarded stencils. “Only took, what… seven tries?” he added with a teasing lilt.

“Sorry,” you murmured, guilt creeping in. You felt like you’d wasted his time, been too picky.

“Don’t be,” he said easily, already making a note on the final stencil so he could refine it later. “Tell you what, keep it on for a couple of days. If you still like it, give me a call and we’ll set a date.”

“Okay,” you agreed, letting the hem of your dress fall back down, covering the design once again.

“Perfect, then,” Ghost said, standing with a grunt as he stretched his back. He handed you a small card with his name and number. “It’ll wash off eventually, don’t worry.”

And with that, you were sent on your way—a flower now adorning your hip, waiting to be etched into your skin forever.

A pretty flower for the prettiest, Ghost thought, as he turned to greet his next client.

Sadness settled over you when the sunflower finally faded from your hip.

It had taken about three days. Three days where you couldn't stop looking at it, admiring it in every mirror you passed at home. It had made you feel pretty, maybe for the first time in months. For once, you had felt good in your own skin. And the moment you realised that, you called the tattoo shop, your voice trembling with quiet determination.

You told Ghost you were ready.

He had sounded genuinely pleased, even told you so himself. You set a date—two weeks from now, the only opening he had. He explained it would likely take two, maybe three sessions to complete, each spaced about a month apart.

He also began talking about pricing, but you barely listened. You were so far gone in the process, so invested in this strange little dream, that numbers didn’t scare you anymore. He could’ve asked for two thousand pounds and you still would’ve paid it, no hesitation. Yet he stayed evasive about the exact number. 

While he went over the rules, you mostly listened to the sound of his voice. Deep and soothing, it made your stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with nerves.

“Wear comfortable clothes,” he’d said. “Bring books, music if you want. Drink water. Eat before, and bring snacks too.”

That last part snapped you out of your dreamy fog.

Snacks. You hadn’t had a snack in months. You barely had a regular eating routine at all anymore.

Your anxiety spiked immediately. You fumbled a quiet, “What do you mean?”

He explained gently that tattoos were draining on the body, and he didn’t want you passing out in his shop. That it was important.

You nodded, but deep down you knew you wouldn’t follow that rule. Eating beforehand would be a battle. Snacks were… complicated.

Unknown to you, Ghost quietly made a note to bring some of his own snacks. Something told him you wouldn’t show up with anything. And he wasn’t about to let you faint on his table.

He also wasn’t about to let you slip through his fingers.

He told himself to be patient, to tread carefully, but something in him had already shifted. He was ready to catch you. To keep you close. Warm. Safe. 

He had tried to restrain his thoughts during the short time he’d known you. Told himself he was too old, too rough for someone like you. But hearing your soft, fragile voice on the phone, nervous over something as small as snacks, it undid something in him. Broke open a place he hadn’t touched in years.

You needed someone to take care of you. And whether you knew it yet or not, he was already planning to be that someone.

The day of your first session came. By 10 a.m., you'd already thrown up your breakfast—nerves twisting your stomach into knots.

But you needed to eat. He’d told you to eat. And something inside you, quiet but insistent, wanted to make him proud. Wanted to follow his instructions, not out of fear, but out of something softer. Something that felt dangerously close to trust.

So when noon came, you sat down and ate a light lunch. Slowly. Carefully. You even finished it with a small pastry you'd saved from your closing shift the night before. You had another one waiting in the fridge, meant for him.

You’d eaten more than your body had grown used to these past few months. It left you with a dull ache in your stomach and a familiar, rotten urge clawing at your throat, to get rid of it. Purge it all.

But you didn’t.

This morning had been different, your body rejecting food out of sheer stress. But now? If you threw up now, it would be by your own hand. And somehow, you felt like Ghost would know.

Somehow, he’d see it in your eyes. And you couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing him.

You’d chosen another plain dress that morning, simple, soft, something that wouldn’t draw attention. You made sure your panties were in place, covering everything they needed to. Modest. Safe.

Still, the thought of being half-naked in front of a near-stranger made your skin crawl just a little. Not because of him, not really. But because of you, because of how exposed it all made you feel. But you needed this. You needed that sunflower on your hip, something beautiful, something permanent, something just for you.

You could handle a few hours of discomfort. You’d endured far worse for far less. This time, at least, there would be something to show for it. Something that might make you feel like yourself again.

When you crossed the threshold, you didn’t feel nearly as nervous as the first day. There was still tension humming beneath your skin, but it felt quieter now, softer. Familiar, even.

You were supposed to be there by 2 p.m., but you showed up at 1:30. Anxiety had been gnawing at you in your flat, pacing circles in your mind. Better to wait here than there. Your grandma’s voice echoed in your head: “Show up on time and you’re already late.”

It had stuck with you, like most of the things she said.

The sharp buzz of the tattoo machine stopped abruptly. A second later, Ghost appeared, only his face visible behind the half-drawn curtain. His eyes scanned the shop, then landed on you, clearly surprised.

Glancing at his watch, he let out a quiet laugh. “A bit early, flower, aye?” he said, the mockery in his voice softened by fondness. He tilted his head toward the waiting area. “Get comfy, I’m almost done.”

Then he vanished again behind the curtain, and the machine started buzzing once more.

You were left alone with your takeaway box, a simple things that somehow made you feel even more exposed. But you were here. That counted for something.

Twenty minutes later, the buzzing stopped.

You glanced up just in time to see Ghost walking his client out, peeling off his gloves with practiced ease. His expression was serious, sharp eyes fixed on the bulky man who thanked him before heading for the door. “Semper fi,” the man added as he left.

Ghost gave a small nod in response, shutting the register drawer with a decisive click.

“Fucking Marines,” he muttered under his breath, not loud enough to offend, just loud enough for you to hear. 

Then his eyes found yours again, and something in him visibly softened. Like a soldier slipping out of uniform. “Come on then,” he said, motioning toward the back room as he held the curtain open for you. His tone was quieter now, gentler. Meant just for you.

You stood, your heart knocking a little too hard against your ribs, and stepped past him into the familiar quiet of the studio.

You spotted the familiar stencil waiting on the small stool next to the mirror, just like last time. Before Ghost could sit down, your nerves got the better of you, and you blurted out, “Brought this for you.”

You handed him the small box, your fingers trembling just enough for you to notice. It was nothing special, just a simple éclair. You’d chosen it because it was safe. Everyone liked éclairs... right?

Well, he didn't like it.

“Thanks, didn’t have to,” he said casually, taking the box from your hands. 

He didn’t hesitate to open it, eyes widening as he caught sight of the pastry inside. Before you could brace yourself for rejection, he’d already picked it up, shoved the whole thing into his mouth, and let out a low, guttural moan of appreciation.

“It’s good, flower,” he said through a mouthful, lips curled into a grin. “Made it yourself?”

All you could do was nod, stunned.

It was almost... pornographic, the way he’d eaten it. Like he didn’t care about appearances or manners or calories, just enjoyment. Ghost, with his thick muscles and calloused hands, clearly someone who probably hit the gym daily, had devoured your cake like it was the best thing he’d eaten in weeks. Moaned for it, even.

Your ex had always asked for the ingredients when you baked, always calculating the calories, dissecting the fat content before he’d even touch it.

This? This was something new. This was acceptance. This was appreciation. And it was almost too much.

After washing his hands, Ghost clapped them together once before settling onto the stool beside you, just like last time.

“Shall we get going?” he asked, tilting his head slightly as he looked at you, watchful, calm.

Once you gave him a small nod, he got to work. 

“Gonna shave your skin first, alright?” he said, pulling out a fresh razor and a bottle of shaving gel.

He hadn’t told you to shave. You should’ve known, you should’ve looked it up beforehand. Your skin should’ve been smooth already, prepared. Now he had to do it for you, and it felt like you’d already messed everything up.

“Stop,” he said firmly, his eyes focused on your skin as he gently worked the razor over it. “Stop overthinkin’. That’s on me, I forgot to tell you. So just... breathe, yeah? I don’t care. I do this for guys ten times hairier than you, and they don’t lose sleep over it.”

Then stencil was placed with careful precision, exactly where you wanted it. When you approved with a quiet "That’s perfect," he let you lie back on the tattoo table. From there, everything moved with quiet, practiced rhythm.

Gloves. Ink. Needles.

Each item was either unwrapped from sterile packaging or pulled from sealed containers. And for every step, he explained what he was doing.

You listened closely, really listened, with those wide, soft doe eyes trained on him, absorbing each word like it mattered. He noticed that, too. Knew it gave you a bit of comfort. Knew that being informed made the fear quieter. You even stopped fidgeting with your fingers for a few seconds.

“I’m not much of a talker, yeah?” he said while slotting a needle into the tattoo machine. “But you can do whatever. Read, listen to music, nap. I won’t get distracted, don’t worry.”

It was time now. Everything was ready. His voice softened again.

“It might hurt a little at first. Like a few electric shocks. But you’ll get used to it. If you need a break, you tell me, alright? Got the whole afternoon just for you, flower.” He motioned toward a small table you hadn’t noticed before, tucked just beside a door marked PRIVATE. On top sat a neatly arranged water bottle, some juice, a protein bar and bananas.

“Snacks and water’s over there too. No excuses,” he added with a faint smirk, like he already knew you were planning on ignoring that part.

Your heart swelled in your chest. You hadn’t said a word, and still, he’d thought ahead. He’d prepared for you.

You weren’t used to that. Not the consideration, not the gentle forethought. Not someone thinking of what you might need without being told. It caught you off guard in the softest way.

It made something flutter deep inside, something that had been dormant for too long. A warmth that started in your belly and crept up to your chest, into your cheeks. That familiar tingling sensation. You were starting to associate it with him. With the low rumble of his voice, with the way he looked at you, sharp, but never unkind.

It was becoming too common, that feeling. Too easy.

The first few minutes were uncomfortable, your body needed time to adjust to the needle. To the harsh overhead light that seemed to highlight every imperfection. And then there was the smaller lamp strapped to his forehead, casting a focused beam directly onto your hip. His face was so close to your skin, you could feel the warmth of his breath.

His left forearm rested gently on your thigh, solid and warm, steadying himself as he wiped away excess ink with practiced ease, while his right hand moved with careful precision.

He’d started with the sunflower at the center of it all. It wasn’t pleasant, but the pain was manageable. At first, you were too tense to even breathe properly, afraid the slightest movement would throw him off. But after a few minutes, you relaxed enough to pull out your phone and headphones, letting a podcast fill your ears.

The first hour passed like that, calm, almost meditative. A serial killer podcast buzzed in your ears while Ghost worked in steady silence. Sometimes, you’d glance down, watching as the sunflower slowly bloomed on your skin.

But the calm cracked when he asked you to change position, to lie on your side, your back turned to him.

After a few minutes in that position, you couldn’t help it, your hand moved on its own, trying to tug your dress down over your stomach. Ghost gently pushed it back up without thinking, completely unaware of how exposed and uncomfortable it made you feel.

Lying like this felt unbearable. All you could focus on was the cellulite on your thighs, the way your stomach bulged more on your side, how visible everything was under the harsh light. Your mind spiraled. Your body tensed. Without realizing it, you began fidgeting, squirming just enough to make his job harder with each passing second.

And then the voices came back. Your ex’s voice.

Fat. Ugly. Big.

"Okay, let’s stop," Ghost grunted suddenly, pulling away as he set his machine down. "Can’t do anything if you keep moving like that."

Dread hit you like a wave. 

You’d ruined it. You’d let him down. He was angry, disappointed, you could see it in his eyes. Your chest tightened as your vision blurred. Tears gathered, hot and humiliating, pooling in your lashes.

Your thoughts scattered, running a mile a minute, grasping for an escape plan. Maybe you could say you were sick. Maybe pretend you were fainting. Anything to get out of this room, this moment, this shame.

You’d never come back. You couldn’t. You’d find another artist to finish the piece, who cared if it wasn’t perfect anymore? You didn’t deserve perfect anyway.

When he got up, pulling off his gloves and tossing them in the trash, it felt like the floor dropped from under you.

Your heart pounded against your ribcage, loud and panicked. Your breathing quickened, shallow and erratic, your palms slick with sweat. You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at him at first. He was mad. He had to be.

Glancing down, you saw how little had been done—the center of the sunflower, a few petals trailing toward your hip, the ones closest to your butt. That was why the position had been necessary. That was why you’d ruined it.

A lump formed in your throat. It hurt.

You were about to sit up and start apologizing, maybe even crying, when he returned, quiet steps, calm energy. He placed a water bottle beside you, then crouched slightly, bringing his gaze level with yours.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he said, voice gentle, like he was trying not to spook you. “Breathe for me, yeah? Just breathe. I'm not mad." You forced your eyes to meet his. He wasn’t lying. His eyes weren’t hard or annoyed, they were soft. Understanding.

"I'm not mad," he repeated, slower this time. “Not at you, anyway."

He opened the water bottle for you without a word, gently guiding it into your hands. “Drink,” he said quietly, his tone firm but not unkind.

You obeyed, taking a few gulps while your trembling fingers gripped the plastic too tightly. He stepped back just enough to give you space, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Normally, a sight like that—his tattoos, his frame, the quiet command of his posture—would’ve made your stomach flutter. But your mind wouldn’t let you feel anything but shame right now. Not when you were half-naked, having a full-blown panic attack in front of him.

Before you could fumble out an apology or excuse, his voice cut through the buzzing in your head.

"I'm taking you out tonight," he said. Not a question. An order. His tone had shifted, gruff, decisive. The same voice, you imagined, that barked commands on the battlefield.

You blinked at him, stunned.

"Nice little restaurant,” he went on. “You’re gonna sit down across from me, and you're gonna tell me about the fucker who put those ugly thoughts in your head. The ones I see behind your eyes every time you look down at yourself, 'right?."

You stared at him, wide-eyed, the words settling like a warm blanket and a shock of cold water all at once. It was too much and somehow exactly what you needed.

He had phrased it like a question at the end, but you knew better. There was no room for doubt in his voice. Not with the way he looked at you, not with the quiet command laced through every word. He had your address anyway. You’d filled it in on the paperwork before he started the tattoo.

“Alright,” he said, final and firm. No room for argument.

The rest passed in silence. Ghost moved with careful efficiency, preparing the second skin while glancing at you with eyes that silently urged, Drink more. So you did.

He let out a soft hum—something like approval—then turned his attention back to cutting the perfect size for the blister shield. Once it was applied over the small section of tattoo he'd completed, sealing the delicate lines and color beneath, he reached forward and gently tugged your dress back down himself.

Once you were both out of the back room, you found the courage to speak. “How much do I owe you?” Your voice sounded pitiful, hoarse from the panic attack, weighted with unshed tears.

“Don’t worry about that,” he answered quickly, without even glancing back. “Be ready at seven, yeah?”

You didn’t get the chance to respond. His warm hand settled between your shoulder blades, guiding you gently toward the exit. Under different circumstances, you might’ve taken it as a dismissal. But after his blunt, unexpected invitation, it didn’t feel like rejection.

“In the meantime, get some rest,” he added softly, pausing before the door. “Take a nap. Eat something. Can you do that for me?”

There was something different in him now. A shift in the air between you. The way he carried himself around you had changed. Less detached, more... possessive. Protective.

You didn’t mind. But the suddenness of it left you reeling, like emotional whiplash.

Still, you hummed softly in response, nodding along like you agreed, like you would do what he asked. 

But deep down, you knew you wouldn’t. 

Not today. Not after what had just happened. Your body wouldn’t keep anything down anyway, not with the weight of shame and panic still lodged in your chest.

That’s how you found yourself in a cute but upscale Italian restaurant, sitting across from a ghost. No, across from Simon. He had told you his name when you got into his car. The drive had been quiet. He wore the same thing he always did when you saw him: all black.

Except this was a fancy all black—not the comfortable, worn-in black he wore at his tattoo shop.

When you had arrived at the restaurant, you immediately felt underdressed. It was far more elegant than you had imagined. The other women wore cocktail dresses, while you had on your “old woman” dress. One of your favourites, sure, but it felt completely out of place. Like you had just stepped out of a quiet little cottage and accidentally walked into high society.

The first few minutes had been awkward. You didn’t really know what to say, and Simon was watching you with an intense look in his eyes, like he was expecting something.

The smells of the restaurant blended together into something mouthwatering. Your stomach growled loudly in response.

“You didn’t listen, did you?” he asked. His tone wasn’t patronizing, but he had clearly heard your stomach over the ambient noise of the restaurant. When you gave him a confused look, he sighed and spoke again. “You didn’t eat.”

This time, it wasn’t a question. It was a statement, firm and undeniable, leaving you no room to lie.

No one had ever cared whether you ate or not. The fact that he did made something twist inside you. It felt… strange. Unfamiliar. And it sent your anxiety into overdrive. The disappointment in his eyes, the quiet sigh before he spoke—they felt like signs. Signs that you had let him down. Just like you always let people down.

He had been right. You were incapable of taking care of yourself, let alone making someone else happy. In nearly nine months of being together, you hadn’t made him happy. Not once.

“Care to tell me why?” Simon’s voice broke the silence. It was still firm, but there was a gentleness woven into it.

“Took a nap… didn’t have time to—before I had to get ready,” you whispered, almost pathetically. You felt like a child being scolded, like you’d done something wrong.

And in a way, you weren’t lying. You had taken a nap after getting home, right after staring at your new tattoo for a good half hour. When you finally got up, the anxiety hit. Hard. It made eating feel impossible and pushed you to start getting ready far earlier than necessary. Once ready, you just paced around your apartment, running through every way the night could go wrong.

Simon being upset because you hadn’t eaten wasn’t one of them.

That was the moment the waiter chose to arrive at your table, ready to take your order. You had been staring at the menu for a good ten minutes before Simon spoke, yet everything on it felt like too much. That realization hit hard. You used to love Italian food, loved eating out, dressing up, sitting around a table with friends, laughing over shared plates.

Now, you just felt… empty. Like all of that joy had been drained out of you.

Simon ordered first. He asked for three antipasti, one of the biggest pizzas on the menu, and a side of fresh mozzarella, like it was nothing. Meanwhile, you barely managed to mumble a request for a Margherita. The fewer ingredients, the better.

Everything he ordered made your mouth water, but the idea of actually eating made you swallow hard, your throat suddenly too tight.

Just before the waiter walked away, Simon added, “We’ll take your best red wine as well. Bring the bottle.”

Then his eyes were back on you—steady, unreadable, and unwavering.

Once the wine had been poured, it became easier to speak, mostly because its warmth spread through you faster than usual, thanks to the fact that you hadn’t eaten much all day. Conversation flowed effortlessly, like you’d known each other forever.

At first, you didn’t say much. He talked about his old world, because you had asked him why he called himself Ghost. Then he began asking questions in return. Nothing intrusive. Just gentle curiosity: your job, your studies, a bit about your family, the places you dreamed of visiting. Easy conversation. And he listened, really listened. It felt like he actually cared about the answers.

When his antipasti arrived, you kept talking, pausing only when he lifted a fork toward you, offering a bite of caprese salad like he’d done it a thousand times before. You were so surprised, all you could do was open your mouth in response, letting him feed you.

And then he did it again. Casually. Like it was nothing. Sharing everything he’d ordered without comment or ceremony. It was intimate, unexpectedly so, but he said nothing, just kept asking questions, humming thoughtfully at your answers, occasionally offering his own stories in return.

Maybe it was the wine. Or maybe it wasn’t. But you felt the urge to press your thighs together under the table, seeking the smallest bit of pressure. There was something about the quiet confidence of his actions—the way he simply took charge without making a show of it—that made heat bloom across your skin. Your cheeks, your ears, your neck flushed with it.

And he noticed. You knew he did, from the small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. But he didn’t say a word.

He just kept feeding you. 

With the antipasti finished, his questions shifted, deeper now. The kind you usually avoided. The kind you never talked about. But there was something about Simon… something that made you feel safe. Protected, even. You knew he wouldn’t mock you. He wouldn’t laugh at you for not leaving sooner. He wouldn’t pity you for still struggling now.

So, you told him. Not everything. You left out the sharpest edges—the outright insults, the way he punched the walls, the time he almost hit you. The way he’d keep pushing for sex even after you said no… until you’d finally say yes, just to make it stop. Those parts still lived in a locked room inside you, sealed tight. You weren’t ready to open that door. Not yet.

But you told him everything else.

And as the words spilled out, you didn’t even notice when your pizza arrived. Didn’t realize you’d eaten more than half of it until your story trailed off and you looked down, surprised. Half gone. In your stomach.

No overthinking. No guilt. No sick knot twisting in your gut.

Just food. Just nourishment. And, for once, peace.

And when Simon offered you a forkful of his pizza, you let him.

He didn’t say much in response to your confession. Just listened, thoughtfully. His fists had tightened under the table when you spoke about the things that bastard used to say about your body. The way he tore you down with words sharper than knives. Simon had suspected your ex had left a mark, especially when he noticed your strained relationship with food, with your body. He’d even gently suggested once that an ex might’ve been the cause.

But he hadn’t imagined this. Not the depth of it. Not how cruel someone could be, how calculated. He had seen things during his time in the military, seen how dark people could get in a warzone. But he never thought he'd come across that same cruelty in civilian life, in someone you once trusted. It made his blood run cold.

So he made himself a quiet promise: to help you find your way back.

No pressure. No rushing.

Just gentle hands and steady praise. A protective presence at your side. Patient and solid. Until, one day, eating a meal didn’t feel like a shameful act. Until your body wasn’t something to battle, but something you could simply exist in, without guilt. Without fear.

Until you no longer felt like trash for giving your body what it needed.

When dessert time came around, you still felt uncertain. Full, yes—but you’d been watching the tiramisu pass by your table all night, carried by waiters like little temptations on porcelain plates. You wanted to try it. Badly.

But it felt wrong. 

The thoughts crept in, sharp and familiar. You’ve already eaten too much. You’re already too fat. You don’t need the extra sugar.

Simon’s finished eating anyway, he probably doesn’t even like sweets.

As you spiraled, again—for what felt like the millionth time today—Simon watched you quietly. He’d noticed you eyeing the tiramisu throughout dinner. But now, with the menu back in your hands, your eyes were filled with guilt. Your bottom lip was caught between your teeth, a silent giveaway that your thoughts were turning cruel.

He hadn’t known you long. But you were easy to read. Too easy, even.

So without a word, without needing your permission, Simon stopped the waiter as he passed. “One tiramisu,” he said, slowly taking the menu out of your hands. “Two spoons.”

Another silence settled between you.

“You know you’re gorgeous.”His voice cut through it, steady and sure—taking you completely by surprise. That firm tone was back. “Easily one of the finest bodies I’ve ever tattooed.”

Simon wasn’t poetic. His words weren’t flowery, but they weren’t crude either. Just raw truth, spoken without hesitation. He wasn’t the type to lie to protect feelings. If he thought something, he said it, simple as that.

And right now, he thought you were beautiful.

You let out an embarrassed laugh, your eyes darting to the table, the walls, anywhere but him. He had shown you he was blunt, sure, but this felt unexpected. Too kind. Too generous.

“You don’t have to say that,” you murmured. “Just because you feel bad for me…”

He simply raised an eyebrow, the expression cool and challenging—like he was daring you to keep going.

“Stop thinking you’re in my head, flower,” he said, voice low and steady. “I'm no liar like he was. Not here to play with you. I’d get no pleasure out of that.”

There was no softness in his words, but there was something better, certainty. The kind that didn’t ask for belief, just offered it freely. A quiet anchor in a sea of doubt. And for the first time in a long while, part of you wanted to believe someone.

“I’m past playing little boys’ games,” he added, his gaze steady.

The implication was clear, he was nothing like the others you’d known. More mature. More grounded. 

“Okay,” was all you could manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

Too shy to admit you still didn’t quite believe him. Too scared to ask if he really meant it. Too pathetically grateful to even offer a compliment in return.

You’d never been more relieved to see a waiter in your life. He placed the tiramisu gently at the center of the table, setting down two spoons—one by each of your sides.

Looking up from the plate, you watched Simon with wide, expectant eyes. You didn’t even know what you were waiting for, approval, maybe. A signal. Something. And when he gave you a small nod, you finally dug in.

His blood rushed south the moment he realized it, you had waited for his permission to take the first bite. 

He'd been right. Spot on.

You didn’t need someone to fix you. You just needed someone steady. Someone to quiet the noise in your head, to give you permission to breathe, to be, until you were strong enough to claim that space yourself.

Simon was more than ready to be that person for you. 

And he had no intention of going anywhere.

Steady, firm hands on your hips. That was all you could feel.

You were trying to unlock your front door, but your hands wouldn’t cooperate, shaking too much, fumbling the key. You missed the lock again and again, until a larger, warmer hand gently stilled yours. Simon’s. He took the keys from you without a word, his touch calm, certain.

You weren’t even sure how you’d found the courage to invite him up.

After the shared dessert, he’d paid for everything, brushing off your protests when you tried to cover your half, or at least the part you’d eaten. He’d only laughed, that deep, low sound that seemed to settle right into your chest.

Then he offered to drive you home. You’d accepted.

And once he parked outside your building, your voice had moved ahead of your thoughts, quietly asking if he wanted to come up.

He didn’t hesitate. He just said yes.

The front door finally gave way, and that same steady, gentle hand guided you inside.

Simon didn’t speak. He just closed the door behind him with a soft click, turned the lock, and stepped in. He took off his shoes, shrugged off his coat, all slow, unhurried movements. And then he looked at you.

Not at your apartment, not at the space he’d just entered for the first time.

You. With eyes heavy with desire. Quiet, smoldering intensity.

It wasn’t fleeting or coy. It wasn’t something he was trying to hide behind polite restraint. No, he let it burn, open and unashamed. He wanted you. Fully. Honestly.

And that was new. No one had ever looked at you like that before—not even the two men you’d once shared a bed with. Not like this. To be the object of desire, not obligation or performance, was strange. Disarming. A little overwhelming.

Simon didn’t move. Didn’t rush you. He just stood there, waiting. Letting you decide what happened next.

A few seconds passed. Neither of you said a word.

Anxiety gnawed at your insides, making it impossible to process anything like a normal person. Your fingers fidgeted restlessly, twisting together in a nervous rhythm. You kept glancing up at Simon, then down at his shoes—then yours—then back again.

His eyes never left you. Not once.

You didn’t know how to do this. How to act on your own desire. You’d never felt lust this strong. Never felt safe enough to let it bloom.

“I don’t know how…” you began, voice cracking under the weight of vulnerability. “I’ve never really… hum—”

The words tangled in your throat, burning with shame. Tears prickled at your waterline—tears of embarrassment, of frustration. This was where it ended. He’d leave. You were sure of it.

But then, across the space between you, he growled: “Fuck it.”

And suddenly his lips were on yours—hot, certain, unshaking. His hands cradled your face like you were something precious. Like touching you wasn’t just about want, it was about care. About something deeper.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t devour. He anchored you.

And for the first time in a long, long while, you let yourself lean into that.

His lips felt good, not demanding, not forceful. They weren’t taking. They were offering. Giving only what you were ready to receive.

One of his hands slid from your cheek, fingers brushing down to the nape of your neck. He eased you closer, guiding, never pushing. His other hand found its place again on your hip, grounding you, drawing you gently into his space.

The kiss remained unhurried. Measured. As if time didn’t matter. As if this moment—you—deserved to be savored.

Then his tongue traced the seam of your lips, soft, slow. A quiet question. Not a demand, not a test. Your lips parted before you even realized it, instinct moving faster than thought.

The moment you granted him entry, Simon’s tongue slid against yours with the same care he’d shown in every small gesture tonight. It wasn’t frantic, it was exploratory, reverent. Like he was learning the shape of you through the kiss alone. Like this wasn’t just about pleasure, but presence. 

Being here. With you.

His hand at the back of your neck shifted slightly, his fingers threading into your hair, cradling your head with firm tenderness. The other remained firm on your hip, his thumb drawing slow, grounding circles against the fabric of your dress. It sent sparks up your spine, the contrast of restraint and intention making your knees wobble.

You made a soft sound in the back of your throat—part surprise, part want—and he responded with a low hum, deep and approving, vibrating against your lips like a secret shared only with you.

There was no pressure in it, no rush to pull you further than you were ready to go.

Just Simon, steady and real, kissing you like he could piece back together everything someone else had broken.

Simon’s back was starting to ache from leaning over, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, both of his hands slid lower, settling just beneath the curve of your ass. He gave you a light tap. Silent instruction : jump.

He should’ve known that kind of command would short-circuit your brain. And it did.

But before your thoughts could spiral, before shame or self-consciousness could take the wheel, he moved. Reflexes faster than your fear.

One moment, your feet were on the ground, the next, you were lifted easily into his arms, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

“Simon, no… Please,” you rushed out, voice high with panic, your hands pressing against his shoulders in a weak attempt to get him to let go.

“Please what, lovely?” he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing along your cheek, your jaw. Soft kisses. A grounding rhythm. Each one whispered reassurance: You’re safe. I’ve got you.

“You’ll hurt yourself,” you whined, the words thick with guilt, not logic. You wriggled again, but he only held you tighter, firm, but never harsh.

“I’ve carried more than you in full gear, uphill, under fire,” he muttered, voice a low rumble against your throat. “Trust me, flower—you’re the lightest thing I’ve ever held.”

You stilled. Breath catching.

Because it wasn’t just what he said. It was how he said it—like it was fact. No room for doubt. No softness in the truth, only strength. He was slowly coaxing you exactly where he wanted you, you let him. You wanted to let him.

"Naive", the word hit like a slap. Not Simon's, but his voice echoed in your head. 

Simon must’ve felt the shift in your body instantly. His mouth paused against your skin, his breath stilling where it ghosted across your collarbone.

“Breathe,” he instructed softly. “Feel this. Me. Here.”

He knew, you didn't need to explain, not after all you had told him. He knew your brain was playing tricks with you, trying to get you out of this moment. He wouldn't let it happen. 

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as Simon turned, carrying you effortlessly through the apartment. He didn’t ask where your bedroom was, just moved like he already knew, confident and unhurried, every step measured, deliberate.

The soft creak of your bedroom door opening sounded loud in the quiet, and then he was lowering you onto the bed with a care that made your chest ache. Like you were something breakable. Like he wanted to make sure you didn’t break again.

His hands didn’t leave you once your back hit the mattress. One stayed at your waist, the other brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. His eyes searched yours, reading you like only someone truly paying attention could.

“It’s just me, love,” he whispered, careful not to startle you. He took one of your hands in his and gently placed it over his pounding heart. It was racing, not as fast as yours, but definitely quicker than normal.

He wanted you. Just as much as you wanted him.

You nodded softly, taking a deep breath before releasing it. Ready to move forward, but needing him to lead, and he did exactly that.

Kissing you again, Simon eased your legs open with his knee, settling himself comfortably between them. The simple movement drew a soft, whined moan from your lips. A low chuckle escaped Simon’s mouth at the sound, but then he kissed you once more, with renewed fervour.

Once his kisses left your mouth, they trailed slowly down, lingering at your neck. He took his time there, planting sweet, deliberate kisses, mixing in the occasional nip that made your breath hitch. Reaching your cleavage, Simon continued his path, dotting kisses over the soft skin exposed by your dress.

When he reached your breasts, he kissed them gently through the fabric of your bra, soft little pecks that made your skin burn. Then came your nipples, stiff and sensitive under the thin fabric. He didn’t ignore them, his mouth found them with teasing precision, the heat of it sending a jolt straight through you.

The soft sounds he coaxed from you were divine. Too shy, too hesitant—but beautiful nonetheless. Still, he knew. He could unlearn that shyness from you. Teach you how to let go. How to let yourself be.

“Gonna take this off, alright?” he asked, voice low but steady. Just like when he worked on your tattoo, he explained each step. No surprises. No pressure. Just care.

Your eyes were shut tight, almost like you were trying to disappear. Simon sighed softly and rose up again, cupping your cheek as he looked down at you.

“Look at me,” he said—sharper than he intended, but it worked. Your eyes snapped open, wide and uncertain. “When I ask you something, I need words. Understand?”

You nodded reflexively.His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Yes,” you added, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, who?”

“…Yes, Simon.”

That would do—for now.

You weren’t ready to give the answer he truly wanted—not yet—but he’d tried, just to see if it would come naturally to you. It hadn’t. Still, he didn’t hold it against you. He knew it was there, buried deep inside—the part of you that needed to give in, to trust, to let someone else lead.

But he wouldn’t push.You weren’t ready. And he understood exactly why.

He hadn’t earned it yet. Hadn’t proven he was worthy of that part of you, the most vulnerable one. But he would. He had every intention of showing you, again and again, that he could be trusted to hold you, protect you, guide you… without ever taking more than you were ready to give.

"Good girl," he murmured, voice low and deliberate, before his hands slid to your shoulders, pushing the dress down slowly. It pooled around your waist before you kicked it off with your legs, landing somewhere across your bedroom floor.

Now you were left in the fanciest panties and bra you owned, still just plain cotton. Comfortable, with a subtle push-up effect. Nothing seductive by conventional standards. Not lacy. Not sheer. You felt suddenly self-conscious, convinced you must look like a granny in Simon's eyes.

“Cute,” was all he said, with a soft grin, before kissing the doubt right off your lips.

His fingers trailed deliberately along your sides, over your stomach, until they found their way back to your breasts. He eased the cups of your bra down, exposing you fully, and cupped one in his large hand. It fit perfectly—so perfectly that he let out a low groan against your skin. The sound sent a shiver down your spine and a hot pulse between your thighs.

You could feel it now, just how soaked your panties had become. You’d never been this wet before, never felt this… eager. Sex had always felt like a duty, something to endure. But now?

Now, you were starting to understand why some people craved it, why they ached for connection, for touch like this. For someone like him.

The warmth of his hands, the way they moved so gently over your chest—fingertips tracing, teasing, coaxing soft whimpers from your lips—was nothing short of euphoric. Each delicate pinch of your sensitive nipples sent sparks across your body, grounding you and overwhelming you all at once.

"Can I?" he asked again, voice barely more than a breath. His hand hovered at the clasp of your bra, seeking permission rather than just taking.

"Yes, Simon," you whispered—no, whined—the need threading through your voice.

"Good girl," he rewarded you, and the phrase made something melt inside you. The words hit somewhere deeper than just your ears. They reverberated through your chest, made your thighs shift involuntarily. You didn’t even try to suppress the noise that left you this time.

There was just something about the way he said it, like he meant it. Like you were doing something right simply by being here, by letting him in. Like you didn’t have to perform, or prove anything. Your thoughts blurred, the inner voice that so often berated you now silenced by something quieter, kinder. Something like safety.

With your bra gone, Simon took his sweet time with you. His hands and fingers explored your chest before his mouth joined in. He pressed soft kisses to your skin, occasionally nipping and sucking gently, leaving behind traces of his presence. Little hickeys bloomed across your breasts—marking you so quickly, it made Simon's blood rush south even faster.

Then his tongue found one of your nipples. He licked it slowly, toying with the hardened peak in his mouth, gently sucking while his hand fondled the other breast, fingers moving in lazy, tender circles.

The sensations were surreal, too much and not enough all at once. Your body moved instinctively, hips shifting, trying to grind against Simon’s in vain. Until he shifted, sliding one of his thighs between your legs, pressing it against your clothed pussy.

The moan that escaped your lips then was nearly pornographic.

"Sorry…" you whispered, your breath shaky.

That stopped him cold. His movements stilled as he looked up at you. He took in your flushed cheeks, the rise and fall of your chest beneath his hands. Up until now, he’d thought you were enjoying this.

"What for, sweetheart?" he asked gently, worry threading his voice. A part of him feared you were hiding discomfort for the sake of his pleasure.

"The noises… I'm sorry," you said quickly, already breathless. "I'll be quiet now."

Simon’s gaze darkened, not with anger, but with something heavier, deeper. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear as his voice dropped, low and steady.

“No,” he said firmly, leaving no room for argument. “Don’t apologize for that.”

His hand slid up your side, grounding you, reminding you of the way he touched you like you were something precious.

“I like those sounds,” he murmured, his tone commanding but tender. “They tell me what you like… what feels good. Don’t ever hide that from me.”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek. “I want to hear everything—every moan, every gasp. They're mine, sweetheart. Don’t you dare keep it from me.”

The way he reassured you—with that quiet, unshakable dominance, the kind of confidence that came so effortlessly to him, did something to you. It tugged at something deep, something vulnerable and aching, something that craved to be undone.

You felt it in the way your body responded, heat pooling low in your belly, your thighs tightening around his. That calm authority in his voice, the certainty in his touch, it made you feel safe. But it also made you feel desperate. Desperate to give in, to let him have every part of you.

Something inside was ready to snap. Ready to break wide open for him. Ready to surrender completely to whatever he wanted.

And he knew it. You could see it in his eyes.

His lips curved into a slow, knowing smile as he leaned in again, his breath warm against your neck.

“That’s it,” he whispered, voice like velvet and command all at once. One of his hands slid down between your thighs, pressing just enough to make your hips twitch in response. “I’ll take care of you,” he promised, kissing the corner of your mouth. “All you have to do is feel.”

When he kissed you again, his fingers were already moving, gently caressing you over your knickers. He had to feel how soaked they were, how your body betrayed just how much you wanted him. But there was no teasing in his eyes, no smugness in his touch. No mockery. Just more kisses, slow and tender, his lips claiming yours again and again while his fingers toyed with you, patient and precise.

Then his mouth returned to your breasts, as if he hadn’t quite satisfied his hunger for them. He began his worship all over again—kisses, licks, gentle bites—while his fingers never lost their rhythm.

And then they slipped past the edge of your panties.

A quiet gasp escaped you as his fingers moved with confident ease, parting the fabric and exploring your most intimate place. He passed over the little patch of hair you hadn’t bothered to shave, never imagining you’d end up here, under him like this. But he didn’t hesitate. In fact, his fingers slowed, twirling gently through it for a brief moment, appreciating the softness, the realness of you.

And then he moved lower, fingers finally finding where you needed him most. Where your body ached for him.

Feeling your wetness, Simon's teeth clamped down gently on the nipple still in his mouth, a careful, deliberate bite that made you arch into him with a soft gasp. He soothed it immediately with his tongue, warm and slow, like a silent apology laced with intention.

This was all he wanted: you comfortable, safe, utterly undone beneath his touch. Every movement he made, every kiss and stroke, was filled with purpose. He wasn’t just touching you—he was learning you. Mapping every reaction, every breathy sound, storing it all away like sacred knowledge.

You could feel it in how he handled you, like you were something precious and wild at the same time. And he was determined to take his time taming every inch of you.

When you let out a frustrated whine, Simon knew—it was time to move on.

He placed two tender kisses, one on each nipple, a soft farewell to the attention he’d been giving your chest. Then, slowly, deliberately, he began to trail kisses down your body. Each one slower than the last, deliberate and reverent, until his mouth reached the hem of your panties.

His fingers, once exploring your soaked core, now gripped your thighs, firm and commanding, holding you open for him.

With a wicked glint in his eyes, he caught the edge of your panties between his teeth, tugging them gently as he murmured, “Is this—”

“Yes, Simon, yes… please,” you breathed out, cutting him off, your voice trembling with desperation and need. There was no hiding it, no pretending. The ache in your voice was raw, real, and it hit him like a pulse of electricity straight to his cock, making it twitch painfully in his pants.

He chuckled low in his throat, voice thick with heat and pride. “Good girl,” he whispered. “That’s what I like to hear.” 

There was just something about the fact that he was still fully dressed and you were now completely naked. A weird sense of submission overflowed you, and for the first time when this feeling came to you, you embraced it. 

Simon made you feel safe, so protective. Something in you knew he would stop if you told him to, that he wouldn't force you to do anything you weren't ready or attracted to. Surely why you were now soaked from his actions. 

Insecurities still clung to you, gnawing at the edges of your mind as Simon's eyes swept over your naked body, slow, lingering, reverent. You felt exposed, completely bare before him, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with nudity. And yet, in his gaze, there was no judgment. Only hunger. Admiration. Like he was about to devour the finest meal of his life.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, one hand palming at the bulge in his pants. It was getting tight—painfully so—but he didn’t look away from you for a second. His arousal was obvious, but even that didn’t quiet the voice in the back of your head. That old, familiar one. 

The reflex hit before you could stop it.

“You want me to suck your dick?” you asked quietly, the words slipping out not from desire, but from conditioning. From a past where your worth felt tied to what you could give, not what you could feel.

Simon froze. His eyes met yours, and in an instant, something shifted. He saw it, not just the question, but where it came from. The old wound behind it.

“Hey,” he said gently, but his voice carried that same commanding edge. One hand reached out, cupping your cheek, grounding you. “Look at me.”

You did.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said firmly. “Not your mouth, not your body, nothing. I want you, yeah. Badly. But I don’t want you because you think you have to do something to keep me interested.”

His thumb stroked your cheek, softening his tone. “If you ever get on your knees for me, it’s gonna be because you want it. Because you’re desperate to taste me, not because some asshole made you feel like it was expected. Okay, sweetheart?”

Something in you cracked at his words, not in a way that broke you, but in a way that made space. For breath. For feeling. For safety.

For the first time, you felt seen. Like he chose to want you, not for what you could give, not for how you performed, but simply for who you were.

Sitting back on his haunches, Simon remained patient. He could see the storm behind your eyes, the internal battle waging quietly inside your mind. One of his hands rested on your thigh, his fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns—a silent way of grounding you, anchoring you to the moment.

But when he saw your lips tremble, your eyes begin to fill with tears, he knew he couldn’t stay still.

He leaned in without a word, wrapping one strong arm around you and gently guiding you onto his lap. His warmth enveloped you, your bare skin brushing against his still-clothed body, a contrast that made you shiver.

Simon felt it, and without hesitation, he tugged his shirt off in one smooth motion. The heat of his skin met yours, bare chest to bare chest, and you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for hours.

Your arms wrapped around him before you even knew you were moving, burying your face into the curve of his shoulder. He smelled like warmth and safety, like skin and musk and something undeniably him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words instinctive.

“Don’t be,” he replied immediately, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes intense but soft. “Stop apologizing.”

His bare skin against yours sent another shiver through you, this one different. Not from nerves, but from the quiet, overwhelming intensity of being wanted and held at the same time. You could feel his desire beneath you, pressing up where he had you seated on his lap. It was raw. Primal. Undeniable.

But Simon didn’t rush.

He simply held you, one hand tracing slow, absentminded circles along your lower back, the other cradling the back of your head, like you were something fragile, but never weak.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, wrapped in warmth and quiet understanding. But eventually, stillness wasn’t enough.

Your lips began to move, seeking, remembering. You started at his jaw, pressing soft kisses there, then down to his neck, his collarbone. You kissed every small scar, every freckle, every beauty mark. As if your mouth was memorizing him. As if your lips were begging to remember his skin.

Sensing your need, your craving for more than just touch, for connection, Simon pulled you in closer, pressing your body against his like he wanted to mold you to him. Like even skin-to-skin still wasn’t enough.

He dipped his head, his voice low and careful. “Got any protection, sweet girl?”

He didn’t want to break the moment, didn’t want to pull you out of the space you were both sinking into.

But your lips never stopped their slow, tender assault on his skin, your mouth mapping his shoulder, your breath warm against his neck. You didn’t lift your head to respond. Just a faint shake, a soft, muffled “No…” against his throat.

He felt the word more than he heard it. And still, he didn’t pull away.

With a low groan, Simon stood, holding you tightly against him as he moved toward the entryway. Your legs wrapped around his waist, clinging to him, squeezing just enough to pull a breathy moan from his throat. He’d half-expected some kind of protest about him lifting you, some insecure remark—but you said nothing.

You were deeper in your headspace than he’d realized.

You just kept pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along his neck and collarbone, little whines slipping from your lips like they couldn’t stay caged. You were pliant in his arms, needy, trusting, and it lit something fierce in him.

Reaching the coat rack, he shifted you just enough to dig into his coat pocket, fingers searching until they closed around his wallet. He flipped it open, fishing out the small stash he kept tucked inside. Three condoms.

Just in case.

He had never been more grateful for his own foresight than now. He grabbed all three, not knowing if they’d need them all, but hoping they might. Better safe than sorry.

Whatever you wanted, he'd give it to you. However you needed him, he’d be there. No hesitation.

Once you were back in the bedroom, Simon gently laid you down on the bed, breaking the contact between you, just long enough to strip off the rest of his clothes. He had wanted to take his time with you, to worship you with his mouth and fingers, to ease you into it with care and patience.

But he could feel that wasn’t what you needed right now. And that was okay. That could wait.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

For a moment, he just looked at you, laid out on the bed, bathed in soft light, looking almost ethereal. It hit him then, how surreal it was. That you were here with him. A sweet, young thing like you tangled up with a man like him—older, scarred, and worn at the edges.

It almost felt twisted. But it wasn’t.

Because he could see it, you needed this. Needed him. His steadiness. His patience. His hands that knew how to hold without hurting. His body that knew how to move with purpose, not just urgency. You needed someone who could see past the surface and let you unravel safely.

And maybe, just maybe, he needed it too. Maybe he was a little selfish in that way.

Crawling back over you, Simon kissed you again, slow, deep, like he had all the time in the world for you. The second you felt his warmth again, your legs locked around his hips, arms winding around his neck like instinct. Like some part of you couldn’t stand the idea of being apart from him for even a second.

There was something in your brain, an ache, a need, that clung to him with a desperation you didn’t fully understand. The part of you your ex always mocked. Called naive. Called needy. The part he tried to shame out of you.

But with Simon, that part felt… right.

It felt like maybe this was how it was supposed to be. Like Simon had been meant to walk into your life now, of all times, when you needed someone steady, someone who saw you, not just used you.

So when you watched him roll the condom on with glazed eyes, you thought this is it. He’s finally going to fill you, press into you, anchor you. But instead… he shifted.

He laid back, tugging you with him until you were straddling his soft stomach, your thighs spread over his warmth.

Confusion flickered across your face as your hands settled on his chest, fingers curling slightly to squeeze the soft skin of his pecs. You looked down at him, unsure.

And then his voice—rough, low, but gentle. “Want you like this, yeah?” His hands rested on your hips, not guiding, just holding. Grounding. “So you can control it. Take whatever you want.”

That took your breath away.

The fact that he, a man who radiated dominance and control with every breath, was giving you the reins… it made your thighs instinctively tighten against his sides. It felt overwhelming in the best and scariest way.

You had never had the upper hand in sex before. Never been given the space to explore, to move at your own pace. To feel. It had always been about someone else’s pleasure, someone else’s needs. And just like that, this man you barely knew was handing over the power you’d never been allowed to hold.

“I’ve never… I don’t know how to do this,” you murmured, voice barely more than a whisper, shame creeping in uninvited. “I’ll mess it up,” you added, beginning to shift, to pull away from him.

But Simon didn’t let you.

His hands tightened at your sides, not rough, not demanding, just steady. Grounding. “You won’t,” he said, voice low but firm. “It’s not that hard, yeah? Just do what feels good.” Then, softer, he added. “Bounce. Rub. Sit still. I don’t fucking care. Whatever you want, ’m yours to use.”

With those words, Simon reached between you, wrapping his hand around his cock and gently encouraged you upward onto your haunches. Just enough for him to line himself up with your entrance.

As you lifted off his stomach, he felt the heat and slickness you’d left behind, and the sight alone made his cock twitch in his grip. He hadn’t been this hard—this desperate—in a long time.

Still hesitant, you hovered there, uncertain. That was when he casually rolled the tip of his length up from your entrance to your clit, slow, like it wasn’t intentional. But you knew better. You saw it in his eyes: that flicker of reassurance hidden beneath heavy, lust-filled lids. A silent, steady You’ve got this.

You inhaled sharply, gathering yourself, and slowly—carefully—began to lower onto him. He was bigger than what you were used to. Girthier. More there. But as he stretched you open, bit by bit, something surprised you.

It didn’t hurt.

It felt uncomfortable a little, full, yes—but there was no sharpness, no sting. Just pressure. Just him. When you finally settled fully onto his pelvis, your walls fluttering around him as your body adjusted, you looked down at him with wide, amazed eyes.

“Doesn’t hurt,” you whispered, a hint of wonder in your voice, as if you couldn’t quite believe it.

Simon swallowed hard, his hands now splayed at your hips, holding you in place like you were something precious. His voice was low. 

“Shouldn’t hurt, baby,” he said, voice rough with restraint as your heat pulsed around him. “Never.” 

You nodded softly, almost to yourself, as his words settled deep inside you. Shouldn’t hurt. Maybe it was the first time someone had ever said that to you. Meant it.

Your palms pressed gently against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart under your fingers. You took a deep breath, and then moved. Just a small shift of your hips at first. A slow grind, barely more than a sway. You weren’t even lifting off him yet, just adjusting, testing. Simon’s breath hitched beneath you, his hands tightening slightly on your waist, encouraging but never forcing.

“That’s it, good girl,” he murmured, voice filled with lust. “Just like that. You’re doing so good for me.”

That praise, so simple and steady, made something bloom in your chest. Your body responded on instinct, hips lifting slightly, then pressing back down, gently, carefully. The sensation dragged a quiet breathy moan from your lips.

He filled you completely, the stretch no longer strange but grounding. Your movements grew braver, more curious—lifting a bit higher now, then dropping back onto him with a gasp. He grunted below you, the sound of his pleasure feeding your own.

“Fuck, sweetheart… just like that,” he growled, voice rough with want but still wrapped in something tender. “Take your time. This is all yours.”

You believed him. Just by the way he was looking at you, you knew he wasn't lying. 

It felt so good, you just kept moving, bouncing slowly on him, taking your time, savoring every deep, delicious drag of his cock inside you.

Simon’s hands were everywhere now. One cupped your breast, fondling it in his broad, calloused palm. He pinched and rolled your nipple between his fingers, gentle but firm—drawing out soft gasps from your lips. The other hand had settled low on your stomach, pressing down slightly, as if trying to feel himself through the soft give of your belly.

That should’ve sent you spiraling. His hand, there, touching all the places you’d been taught to hide, to apologize for. The softness. The rolls. The parts you always kept covered.

But nothing happened. No shame. No recoil.

Because you were too far gone, in the best way. Lost in the headspace he had so carefully coaxed you into. A place shaped by Simon’s hands, his voice, his praises. His quiet, steady worship. And when he realized it didn’t make you flinch, didn’t make you pull away, he smirked. Just a little.

That was when he knew he had you exactly where he wanted you: safe, open, adored.

Slowly, the hand on your stomach began to travel lower, fingers dragging over overheated skin until his thumb found your clit. One gentle stroke, and your thighs clamped tighter around him. Your eyes flew open with a gasp.

And the sight that greeted you? It stole your breath.

Simon, his chest slick with sweat despite barely moving, stared up at you with eyes full of silent declarations: hunger, admiration, awe, lust. His jaw was tight with restraint, his body trembling slightly beneath yours.

It was a miracle he was still letting you lead, still lying there, letting you use him.

Another brush of his thumb over your clit, slower this time, and your arms gave out. You collapsed onto him with a broken moan, your chest pressing into his, your sweat mixing with his. And then that sound—deep, low, sinful—a chuckle rumbling from his chest.

The hottest thing you’d ever heard.

A sweet kiss pressed gently to your cheek, followed by the filthiest words whispered into your ear.

"Want daddy to take over now, sweet girl?" he growled, voice low and rough against your ear. 

The most pathetic whine slipped from your lips, your thighs and pussy clenching harder than ever around him. Your nails dug deeper into his shoulder, scratching through his skin, even breaking it slightly.

Yes, he knew it was in you. He had seen it, that desperate need to be pampered, to be taken care of. To turn off your mind and simply feel. The fact that you trusted him so quickly was worrisome, but in this moment, Simon didn’t care.

“Yes, yes, please,” you whimpered again, breath heavy against his neck.

“Yes who, baby?” he taunted, ready to give you everything—you just needed to say it.

"Yes, daddy." You finally let out. 

"Good girl." 

Then his hips began moving, faster than the steady pace you had settled into before. He held you close, whispering praises into your ear: how good you felt, how well you were doing, how beautiful and soft you were. His words kept you suspended in that hazy headspace, even more so when he hit that spot nestled deep inside you, the very spot that sent thrilling waves up your spine.

His hand, the one not tracing soothing patterns on your back, returned to your clit, fingers expertly working until your pleasure started to overwhelm you. Your brain struggled to keep up with what was happening. It was all too much: the warmth of his skin against yours, the relentless thrust of his hips, his gentle caresses on your back, the low groans and grunts he breathed right into your ear.

As if he could feel it—and you were sure he could—he groaned.

“Just let go, yeah?” His voice was deep, steady, and it triggered something deep within you. “I’ve got you.”

That was all it took. The mix of his voice, his thrust and his thumb on your clit. 

Something in your lower belly snapped, a heat bursting through you as your body trembled uncontrollably. The moan that tore from your throat was filthy, unrestrained, your mouth falling open as drool slipped onto Simon’s chest.

“That’s it. Good fucking girl,” he growled, his own movements turning rough and erratic.

By the time your senses returned, he was still inside you, moving with a slow, languid rhythm—like he couldn't bear to let you go just yet.

And then something else cracked open inside you. Sobs began to wrack your body, sudden and uncontrollable. You didn’t even know why you were crying. It just came, natural, raw. A release. All the pressure you’d buried for months, the cruel voices still echoing in your mind, the quiet loathing you’d carried for so long.

Your body, your mind, your soul, they were healing. And it was overwhelming.

Still, he didn’t stop. The slow thrusts continued, as did the gentle caresses across your skin. He pulled you even closer, grounding you, holding you through it. Letting you feel. Letting you find yourself again.

“That’s it,” he whispered, lips brushing against your temple. “Just let it all go, sweetheart.”

“I don’t know what’s happening,” you choked out between sobs, the tears impossible to stop.

Simon didn’t say a word at first. He just held you tighter, cooing softly, shushing your worries with gentle sounds. He let you have your moment, no pressure, no questions, just grounding you with the steady comfort of his presence.

It was his way of telling you he was here.

That he wasn’t going anywhere.

That you were okay. That you were enough.

Lying there felt almost therapeutic.

The soft buzzing of the tattoo machine was familiar now, comforting, even, as you closed your eyes and let yourself breathe. You’d been here for hours, finally ready to see the tattoo in its full form.

Months had passed since that first night with Simon. Months filled with quiet dates, focused attention, and earth-shattering sex. But more than that, he made you feel like you again. The dark thoughts still came and went, shadows that never fully left, but Simon was always there—steady, patient—silencing them with his presence.

So now, nearly bare in Simon’s tattoo shop, his arm awkwardly bent across your stomach as he worked on your skin, you felt nothing but warmth and want. Your fingers trailed unconsciously along his forearm, soft touches that spoke louder than words. Your thighs pressed together, the ache beneath your skin growing.

Simon let out a breathy chuckle at the movement, but said nothing. He’d been the one to coax you into rediscovering your body and your wants—he wasn’t about to make you feel ashamed of them now.

The bell above the shop door chimed, drawing your gaze to the curtain. It was almost closing time. You silently hoped Simon hadn’t booked another client, you had other plans for the night. Judging by the slight frown on his face as he glanced toward the sound, you guessed he hadn’t expected anyone else, either.

Still, he turned back to your sunflower.

When he was finally done, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the healed part of the tattoo, his hand warm as it patted your stomach.

“All done, baby. Go take a look,” he said, peeling off his gloves and turning around to prep the second skin.

It felt like déjà vu—but this time, there was no shame in your chest, no tears waiting to fall. Just you. Whole, and wanting.

The sight took your breath away.

It was beautiful. Perfect, even more so when tattooed arms snaked around your waist, and the big man attached to them pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder.

“So,” he murmured near your ear, voice low and smug, “what’re you thinking? ’Cause if you ask me, I’d say that’s my fucking masterpiece, aye?” A smirk tugged at his lips.

“It’s so beautiful, Si,” you whispered, turning to pepper his face with kisses—anywhere your lips could reach. “Even better than I imagined.”

“Alright, alright, little minx,” he chuckled, gently guiding you back. “Stay still a little longer, yeah?”

He dropped onto the stool again, rolling back toward the second skin before returning to you. Your eyes followed the flex of his thighs as he moved, which didn’t go unnoticed, another soft laugh rumbled from his chest.

Once the bandage was secured, he pressed one more kiss to your skin, then looked up at you through the mirror. He saw the look in your eyes. Lust. Hunger. He’d expected it.

And honestly? He was no better.

“Just let me check who’s at the door,” he said, straightening. Then his fingers caught your cheeks, gently squeezing them into a playful pout. “And then…” he leaned in, voice thick, lips brushing yours, “I’ll take care of you.”

Simon left you with a soft kiss, disappearing through the curtain.

You turned back to the mirror, eyes tracing the delicate lines of your tattoo—his masterpiece. The warmth in your chest lingered, until it shattered. Because then you heard it.

That voice.

The one that had haunted your nights, crept into your thoughts, poisoned your sense of peace. His voice.

No. No, it couldn’t be.

He hated tattoos. Always had. Called his body a temple. Said only the weak marked themselves to feel something. He couldn’t be here. He wasn’t supposed to be here.

But the voice, familiar, sharp, real, broke through every ounce of logic you tried to summon.

Panic rooted itself deep in your bones. Your fingers trembled as you pulled your dress back down, your eyes glued to the curtain like it might come alive. Wide. Fearful. Breath catching in your throat. Each inhale felt like a struggle, your heart thudding violently against your ribs.

You’d thought it was over.

You’d thought Simon had helped you heal. But healing doesn’t mean forgetting. And the past doesn’t always stay buried.

An unknown force pulled you toward the curtain. You had to be sure. You had to know.

You pushed your head through the fabric, heart pounding so hard it made your vision pulse. First, you saw Simon’s broad back, the solid comfort of his presence—but then your gaze locked onto him.

Your ex.

He was really there. Actually there.

The movement of the curtain caught his attention. His eyes landed on you.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he snapped instinctively, like his words were a reflex. Said with so much venom. 

That was all it took.

Simon’s entire body went still, rigid with tension. He turned his head just enough to see your face, and that was it. The fear in your eyes. The way your hand clutched the curtain so tightly your knuckles were white. The tears threatening to fall.

He knew. He didn't need you to say a word.

Because the thing about Simon was, he was a soldier. Had been for most of his life. And when he registered danger, his instinct wasn’t to talk. It was to eliminate it.

And while he wasn't in danger, you were. At least emotionally. And that was enough.

Before you could blink, your ex was on the ground, clutching his face, blood seeping through his fingers. The sharp crack of cartilage echoed like a gunshot, Simon had broken his nose cleanly, without hesitation. No wasted movement. No remorse.

He stood over him, expression unreadable, calm in a way that was somehow more terrifying than rage.

“Get. The fuck. Out.” Simon growled, each word edged in steel. There was something in his voice you’d never heard before, something dangerous, something primal, something begging to be unleashed.

And for once, the man who used to haunt your dreams scrambled without a word.

Simon locked the door behind him without a word, his movements steady, deliberate. Then he turned to you.

He didn’t speak, didn’t need to. He simply crossed the space between you and wrapped you in his arms, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs found their place around his waist, and he carried you to the old, worn couch in the back of the shop.

He sat with you cradled in his lap, as if it was the only place you belonged.

He knew what was coming.

So when your body began to tremble, when the sobs finally broke loose from your chest, he just sighed softly, not with frustration, but with quiet grief for what you’d endured. Maybe this could’ve been avoided. Maybe you should’ve stayed behind that curtain.

But none of that mattered now. He didn’t blame you. Would never blame you. Instead, he just held you tighter.

Soft, reassuring words spilled into your ear, barely more than whispers. His hands traced gentle, grounding circles across your back, keeping you tethered, safe. Present.

You had come so far since the day Simon met you. He’d seen you break, seen you rebuild. He’d offered his strength, his patience, his warmth, everything you needed to find yourself again. To bloom.

And sometimes, the past still reached out with cold, clawed hands. But that was okay.

Because Simon would always be there to chase the darkness away. No questions. No hesitation. Just you, safe in his arms.

His sweet blooming flower.

what a fucking ride it had been.

[clancykolzig]

Arthur coming in and dropping some KNOWLEDGE! Loved this chapter

The Arrangement ~ Chapter 14

Series Masterlist

Words: 9.7k

Pairing: Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders) x Reader F

Warnings: Bloody gun violence, anxiety, betrayal, angst...

Tommy immediately plans to take down the Changrettas. But he crossed a line in his first act. You're not sure you can forgive him for.

The morning light filtered in slowly and grey, the morning after his wedding, brushing the edges of the drapes like it knew better than to wake him too quickly. For a moment, Tommy thought maybe, somehow, the day before had been a dream. That he’d open his eyes and find her beside him, warm under the sheets, tangled up in him like she was each morning. 

Until her, he'd always preferred to sleep alone. If the nightmares about the tunnels showed up, he didn't have anything to explain. No one was there to witness his terrors in the night, his weakness. And Tommy struggled to sleep as it was. The idea of sharing a bed with someone who might cause him to get less sleep didn't seem that appealing.

Now, he awoke most mornings with her snuggled into his body or draped over him, sound asleep and dreaming. He loved having the scent of her all over him, the way she'd always move into the warm space he left when he arose. When she left for Ipswich for all those weeks, he'd tried to convince himself that it was all in his head. Having her close didn't impact how well he slept at all. Oh, but it had. He'd barely slept the entire time she was gone. Once she was back in his bed, he slept much better.

This morning, his bed was cold and empty. Flashes of the gunshots, the blood, and the fear crept back into his mind. Sitting up slowly, every muscle in his back reminded him just how long the night had been. He hadn't even removed his waistcoat. The silver watch chain glinted as he stood, draping it back into place with mechanical ease.

Tommy washed and dressed, moving like a man preparing for battle. Black suit, black boots. The house was silent. A servant passed him in the hall but didn’t speak. They all knew better this morning.

Pausing outside the guestroom where they'd moved Rory after the medics stabilized him, the door was left cracked just enough to let him see inside. He pushed it open without a word. And there she was, curled up in the chair beside her brother’s bed, her legs tucked up, her face half-hidden against her arm. Her robe loosely covered her nightgown, and her feet were bare. 

Rory stirred at the sound of the door, his eyes cracking open. His voice was rough but wry. “Tell me you’re calling a meeting,” he muttered. “Tell me you’re gonna deal with those fuckin’ Italians.”

Tommy stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. “You should be restin'.”

Rory gave him a look. Even weakened and bandaged as he was, it still held bite. “I'll be fine.”

Tommy crossed the room, his gaze shifting from the blood-stained bandages at Rory’s side, then back to her.

“You’ll get your meeting,” Tommy said. “If you're up to it.”

“Good.” Rory coughed once, then looked over at his sister sleeping in the chair. His voice softened. “She came in around midnight and didn't leave.”

“I figured.”

Tommy reached down gently, sliding one arm under her knees, the other behind her shoulders. She didn’t stir until he lifted her, curling instinctively toward his chest with a soft sigh. He carried her from the room without another word, back to their bed where she belonged.

He laid her down slowly, careful not to wake her. Her brow twitched, a soft sound escaped her lips, but she didn’t stir beyond that. Tommy went to pull the blankets up around her shoulders with the same hands that had once held a pistol steady through war.

And then he saw it. The smallest shift beneath the fabric of her nightgown. A flutter at her side, barely there, but unmistakable.

His son was awake. Tommy stilled.

With a breath so soft it nearly broke him, he crouched down beside the bed, one hand resting lightly against the curve of her belly. “Alright, little man,” he murmured, voice gravel-warm and low. “You’ve had your first wedding, your first gunfight… and now you need to let your mum rest."

The movement stilled beneath his palm, like the boy knew his father was close. Tommy’s throat tightened.

“I’ve got a war to finish,” he whispered, “and I’ll win it for both of you.” His hand lingered. "Let her sleep a while, eh?"

Tommy leaned forward and pressed a kiss just above where his hand had rested. And for the first time in hours, his heart stopped racing.

The study was cold and silent. Tommy stood behind his desk, dressed in black, including the gloves he hadn’t bothered to take off. A cigarette burned slowly between two fingers, the ash building unchecked. He stared at the map spread out across his desk, studying Birmingham, London, and the veins between them. Thick black lines traced routes. Red circles marked fronts owned by the Italians. Two of them had already been crossed out.

They wanted war? They’d forgotten who the fuck they were dealing with.

Polly sat to his left, her lips pressed tight, her gaze locked on him like she was studying a man she thought she knew. John leaned against the bookcase, silent for once, his arms crossed over his chest.

The door opened behind them with a creak, and Arthur entered, supporting Rory on one side. His wounded brother-in-law gritted his teeth as he crossed the room, refusing help once he reached the nearest chair. Rory eased down slowly, keeping his posture straight. If he wasn’t doing better, he was putting on a hell of an act.

Tommy didn’t acknowledge the interruption. He flicked ash from his cigarette, his eyes still locked on the map. When he did speak, his voice was low. 

“They think they got close,” he said. “Put fear in our hearts. Maybe they even believe they’ve shaken us.” He looked up, his gaze moving over each of them in turn. “They didn’t. They started a fucking war.”

The room went still. Polly's fingers tightened around the edge of her shawl. Arthur stood a little straighter. John’s gaze was intent as he folded his arms, listening.

Tommy didn’t sit. He stood behind the desk like a man already at war, his shadow stretched across the map littered with names and targets. 

"Angel fucking Changretta thought he could get in her face at that shop and walk away clean," Tommy said, his voice sharp. "Vicente Changretta came, dropping thinly-veiled threats because his son couldn't fuck anyone he wanted. We hit their business, took their routes... Then they tried to shoot me at my wedding reception.” 

He took a drag from his cigarette, the glow illuminating the hollowed-out cold behind his eyes.

Tommy's hand dropped, slow and deliberate. “But that’s not what made it personal.” He looked at each of them, steady and ruthless. “They put a bullet in Rory that was meant for me. They sent a bomb meant for my wife." Leaning forward, his gloves creaked as he snuffed out the cigarette and his fists braced the edge of the desk. “They didn’t come for my business. They came for our lives. So now we'll take theirs.” 

John's eyes lit up in interest, his fists clenched. Arthur remained quiet, but listened intently. Rory’s jaw twitched, but he was already nodding. 

Tommy continued. “Now we send a message that ends in blood.” He reached over and tapped a location circled in red ink. “Angel Changretta. We draw him out, bait him into thinking he’s got a clear shot. We'll use Rory.”

Polly straightened like she’d been slapped. “What?”

“Rory’s the bait,” Tommy repeated. “Word’s out now. They know who he is, know my wife is his sister. Angel will want to gloat. Rub salt in it. Let him come close enough to finish it.”

“Jesus, Tommy,” Polly hissed.

But Rory, bandaged and full of reckless fire, was already grinning. “I’ll do it.”

Tommy didn’t smile. He just lit another cigarette.

Polly’s face tightened, but it was enough for Tommy to see that battle coming. The corner of her mouth twitched like she’d bitten down hard on the protest before it could leave her tongue. But it came anyway.

“Tommy, if you put him in front of them again and something happens to him…” Her voice wavered, just slightly. 

Polly didn’t finish the sentence and didn't need to. Tommy stood there, unmoving, her words sinking in like a slow knife. If something happened to Rory…

He could still see it in his mind's eye. The blood on her dress. The way her hands had shaken. The haunted look in her eyes when she realized she’d shot a man. 

Jesus Christ.

He’d told himself it was strategy, justified and calculated, and that Rory had insisted on being a part of it. But what would it matter if she looked at him like a stranger afterward? Like someone she couldn’t trust? 

She expected him to protect her brother now. And if he failed, if he lost Rory after everything, would she survive it? Would he?

“Nothing will happen to me,” Rory said, already sitting up straighter like he wasn’t bleeding into fresh bandages.

Tommy wouldn't allow anything to happen to Rory.

John let out a breath that sounded too close to a laugh. “Angel’s got a mouth on him. He wants to see us crawling, Tommy. Taking a hit. If he thinks Rory’s alone and wounded…”

“No,” Tommy said in a tone that silenced the room. He stepped around the desk. “That’s too obvious. Angel might be arrogant, but he’s not stupid.”

He looked to Rory, whose posture had stiffened with interest.

“But he’d believe that you’re angry,” Tommy continued. “That you’re young and impulsive. That you’d go charging in like a fucking idiot, wounded or not, because he ruined your sister’s wedding day. Because he nearly killed her and her baby. That’s believable.”

Polly shifted in her seat, tension radiating off her. “So what then? You send him in alone and hope for the best?”

“No.” Tommy looked to John and Arthur. “We control the location. We place our men ahead of time, curtains drawn, exits watched. Rory gets close enough for Angel to gloat, maybe even throw a punch.”

“Then we taken 'im out,” Arthur threw in, already revved. 

Tommy nodded. 

Polly stood suddenly. “And if they have someone waiting? If they’re smarter than you think and Rory takes another fucking bullet?”

Tommy’s voice didn’t rise. “They won’t get the chance.”

Rory met Polly’s eyes. “I'm ready to do this.”

“You nearly died yesterday,” she snapped. “You think that means you’re owed another go?”

“No,” Rory said, dead serious. “It means we need to fuckin' strike back.”

Arthur clapped him on the shoulder, smirking. “You’re a Shelby now, lad.”

Tommy turned back to the map, smoke curling in front of him.

“We find the right spot,” he said. “We control the clock, the guns, the exits.”

Then quieter, more to himself, “No more mercy.”

It was too quiet when you woke up the next morning.

The house was always quiet in the early morning, like it held its breath before another day began. But this morning, something felt off.

Tommy was probably in his study, where he worked each morning, since he decided to stay close to the house. Just a few days, he’d said. After the wedding, after everything that had happened, you had to wonder how it would change things.

Thinking about yesterday had you remembering everything that happened. Rory.

You remembered being with him last night, curled up in the chair beside his bed, watching the rise and fall of his chest until sleep pulled you under. He’d been weak and bandaged. Shot.

The doctor who had shown up to the house within an hour of the incident, said it was a miracle. Best-case scenario, he’d called it. Clean exit, no major organs damaged, just enough blood lost to scare the life out of everyone. Rory was supposed to be resting and healing. Your mother was probably already there, taking care of him.

You threw off the blankets, your heart pounding as you grabbed your robe from the nearby hook. The hallway felt colder than it should have, or maybe that was just you, barefoot and unsteady, rushing toward the guest room down the corridor.

The door to the room where Rory was recovering was already open. Inside, one of the maids was straightening the bed, fluffing the pillows like nothing had happened.

You stopped cold in the doorway. “Where is he?” you asked, your voice too sharp.

The maid looked up, startled. “Mr. Rory? Ah, Mrs. Shelby, he... He went downstairs a little while ago. Said he had a meeting with Mr. Shelby.”

All you could do was stare at her.

“A meeting?” you repeated, disbelieving. “He was shot yesterday.”

But the girl only nodded meekly, her eyes wide, as if she hadn’t dared to question it.

You exhaled, realizing your tone had come out sharper than intended. “I’m not angry with you,” you said quickly, softening. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

She gave a small, grateful nod, and you didn’t wait another second.

Tying your robe tighter, your bare feet moving fast over the floor, you stormed downstairs, each step fueled by a rising mix of fear, fury, and betrayal. If something had happened... if they’d dragged your brother into something again, just one day after nearly losing him, you weren’t sure who you were going to kill first.

You turned the corner into the sitting room, your breath tight in your chest, and there they were. Polly sat primly in one of the high-backed chairs, her fingers laced around a teacup she hadn’t touched. Ada stood by the window, gently rocking baby Karl in her arms. And Ada was heading back to London today.

Both women looked up as you entered, and neither seemed surprised. If anything, they looked like they’d been expecting you.

Polly’s gaze roamed over you, barefoot, still in your robe, hair unbrushed and wild from sleep. But it wasn’t judgment in her gaze. It was something heavier. Ada didn’t smile, just held Karl a little closer and said quietly, “You might want to sit down.”

Your voice cracked through the quiet like a whip. “Where is my brother?”

Ada just watched you with wide eyes. You saw it then, the emotion in Polly’s eyes. She looked resigned, like she’d known this was coming and had already made her peace with it.

“He was fine,” Polly said calmly. “when he left the house.”

“That’s not what I asked,” you shot back. “Where is he?”

Ada moved to speak, but Polly lifted a hand to cut her off. "Gone with Tommy,” she said simply.

What? “He was shot,” you whispered, eyes stinging. “Yesterday. And you let him go?”

Polly’s voice didn’t waver. “I didn’t let him do anything. He’s a grown man. And your husband made the call.”

“Did he?” you snapped. 

Ada let out a low whistle, then gave a dry, half-laugh as she bounced baby Karl on her hip. "Well... marriage looks good on you,” she said, lips twitching. “You sound exactly like Polly did when she used to drag Arthur out of trouble by the ear.”

You shot her a look, and she raised one hand in surrender, clearly trying not to smile. “I’m on your side.”

Polly didn’t smile. She was watching you with quiet approval, like someone who’d just witnessed a lit match catch fire. Her chin lifted, and for the first time this morning, she sounded like your ally. “I tried to warn them,” she said.

You blinked, chest still rising and falling with fury. “Where’s my mother?”

Polly folded her hands. “She came by early this morning, before sunrise. Tommy told her he slept well, that Rory was resting. She left thinking everything was quiet and under control.”

"She'll be back anytime," you let out a bitter breath. “They went after Angel Changretta, didn't they?”

Polly nodded.

Ada just muttered, “But it’s Tommy. What can you really do?” under her breath, eyes wide as she gave Karl a bounce.

Polly's gaze was steady on you. “Whatever you plan to do, love,” she said, “make it count.”

Oh, you would. You turned without saying anything else, the silk belt of your robe trailing behind you like a battle flag.

Because whatever came next, he’d earned it.

The alley reeked of piss and coal smoke. Familiar, bitter smells clung to the brick and gutter like ghosts. Tommy stood in the shadow behind the far end of the delivery yard, his black coat blending into the grime-dark wall, every inch of him still and ready. From where he waited, he could see the back of the restaurant Angel liked to use as a front, its windows lit low with morning gold.

The bait was already moving. Rory.

Tommy’s jaw clenched as he watched his brother-in-law stride across the cobbles, one arm pressed tight to his bandaged side. The lad moved like someone who still believed pain could be ignored if you just walked fast enough. It was perfect for this. 

Rory had made sure to be seen. He’d lingered out front just long enough for the right eyes to spot him, limping and alone. A young waiter noticed him and disappeared inside. Within moments, murmurs swept through the restaurant like wildfire. Now, onlookers were filtering out. A few smokers pretended not to eavesdrop just across the street. Delivery boys slowed their pace. One of the kitchen porters peered through the back alley curtain, eyes wide.

Tommy noted it all from his vantage point above, in the boarded-up loft window across from the rear entrance. It was a calculated choice. The back of the restaurant offered the best of both worlds. It was less public, but exposed enough to draw a crowd when things inevitably kicked off.

The wedding was all anyone talked about. The Changrettas sent a man to kill him at his own wedding reception only for his bride to kill the assassin. Everyone in Birmingham wanted to see what the Shelbys would do next.

Tommy lit a fresh cigarette and waited.

Rory circled to the rear, drawing Angel out like bait tied to a hook. Angel didn’t hesitate, didn’t even look back to his men as he stepped into the open, the shadow of his ego twice as long as the alley behind him.

Tommy’s hand flexed on the windowsill.

Everything went silent then. The tension was thick, pressing against his chest as he watched and listened. 

“You ruined my sister’s wedding,” Rory said, voice loud and sharp, slicing through the space like a blade.

Tommy watched as Angel stepped out the rear entrance of the restaurant, a half-burned cigarette dangling from his lip, flanked by two of his men. One was younger and jittery. The other was broad and stone-faced with a hand suspiciously close to the inside of his coat. 

“I gave her a wedding she’ll never forget,” Angel drawled. “Brought the fireworks and everything.”

Tommy kept watching as Rory flinched, and Angel's grin widened.

Rory’s hand twitched near his side, not toward a weapon, just a reflex. Tommy had to give him credit. It looked like the lad meant it.

“She married Tommy Shelby,” Rory said, his voice low but cutting. “It was already a wedding she’d never forget.”

Angel’s smirk faltered for a breath.

Tommy saw confusion bleed into Angel's expression. But he recovered fast, leaning into the tension with a smirk. “You took a bullet for him, didn’t you?” he said, loud enough for the street to hear. “And where was he after that? Letting you bleed out on the floor while he dragged your sister away?”

Rory’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t rise to it.

Tommy recognized it for what it was. Control. He’d warned Rory what Angel might say. He knew the kind of lies that would come out of the man's mouth. He knew that he'd aim low, try to dig under the skin until someone snapped.

But Rory didn’t react. No, he stood there like every word bounced off him, like he wasn’t bleeding under that coat and running on spite. It wasn’t just brave, it was discipline.

Exactly the bait Angel deserved.

“I’ve heard of you, Rory Flynn,” Angel continued, circling him now, slow and deliberate. “Your name floats around, dumb luck dressed up like heroics. Shelby's new blinder who is stone cold and fearless. But let’s be honest. How good could you be if you got yourself shot at your own sister’s wedding?” Angel stopped, eyes narrowing with venom and amusement. “Face it. You’re only wearing that cap because Tommy Shelby fucked a baby into your sister and decided to marry her after.”

Rory’s flinch was sharper this time.

Tommy kept watching, listening. It was the kind of line that invited blood, the kind you answered with a bullet or a blade. Tommy’s chest burned with fury and pride all at once. You hold it, lad. Just a little longer.

But Rory didn’t move or reach for the weapon tucked at his back. But his eyes showed steely determination, like a man who’d already made peace with what he was about to do.

“That right?” Rory said at last, voice steady. “You think that’s why I’m here? Why I wear this cap?” He took a slow step forward. “I’m not here because of my sister.” Another step. “I’m here because you shot me at her wedding, and thought you could walk into our lives and walk back out.”

Angel’s smirk re-emerged. 

“I came here to deliver a message,” Rory said, and his fingers twitched at his side. “From Tommy Shelby.”

Angel arched a brow. “That’s funny,” he said. “I’ve got one for him too.” 

A new voice cut through the tension like a blade. “You just ran out of time to deliver it.”

Angel turned smugly, right into the cold blue eyes of Thomas Shelby stepping out from the alley’s edge. Tommy’s coat stirred in the wind, black as a funeral. His gloved hand held the revolver low but steady. 

Tommy didn't have a strategy or vengeance in mind as his gaze locked with Changretta's. He didn't even need the satisfaction of catching Angel off guard. 

No, he was thinking of his family. Of his unborn son, how close he'd come to losing that child and his mother. Her blue dress stained in blood, the gun in her shaking hand. This wasn’t about business anymore. This was personal.

Angel Changretta had dared to aim at his family. And now, Tommy Shelby was going to end his bloodline with the same precision he ended every other problem.

The Italian’s smirk faltered. “Shelby,” he breathed. “You really came yourself?”

“You sent a message to my wife,” Tommy said, calm and deadly. “Then you sent a bullet to my wedding. Now I’m sending a response.”

Angel swallowed hard, but raised his chin. “This supposed to scare me?”

Tommy's hand was completely steady. Angel reached for his gun, but Tommy was faster. The shot cracked loud in the tight space. Angel staggered, surprise frozen on his face, before he collapsed backwards onto the bloodstained cobbles.

Everything exploded then. Changretta men shouted, reaching for weapons. Muzzle flashes lit up the alley like lightning. Bullets tore into brick and shadow.

“Move!” Tommy barked, already dragging Rory behind cover as John and Arthur returned fire from opposite angles. One of the Italians went down with a scream. The others scattered under the barrage of gunfire.

Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance, growing closer, tires screeching. The Shelbys didn’t stick around to watch Angel die. They disappeared into the smoke and gunfire, ghosts with purpose, leaving behind a body, a war, and a message written in blood.

Tommy stepped out of the car first, the tires crunching over gravel like distant thunder. The mansion stood ahead, quiet and still, its windows lit like watchful eyes. The wind had picked up, and a summer storm was rolling in. Or maybe that was just in his gut. Behind him, the others climbed out slower. Rory moved stiffly, keeping one hand pressed to his side again. Tommy noticed the red that stained the side of his dark gray trousers. 

Arthur caught his elbow before he could sway too much. “You’re leaking, brother,” Arthur muttered. “Might want to fix that before she sees you.”

“She?” Rory rasped, gazing toward the house. "Mum?"

"No, your sister," Arthur replied.

Tommy’s gaze shifted to Arthur. It wasn’t the words. No, it was the protective instinct behind them. The oldest brother looking after Rory like he was one of their own now. Tommy appreciated it more than he let on.

But Arthur had mentioned his wife. She would be concerned about them taking off with Rory not even a day after he'd been shot, maybe. But once he explained, once she saw Rory back home, walking in under his own power, it would be fine. And she'd listen. She always did. 

At least, that’s what he told himself.

Rory was on his feet. Bleeding, maybe, but alive. And that would have to count for something.

John was still amped on too much adrenaline and more whiskey. “Fucking clean, Tommy. I mean, did you see his face? Never saw it coming. Pity about the mess, but still—clean.”

Tommy didn’t reply, his mind already ten steps ahead. Now that Angel Changretta was dead, Vicente wouldn’t rest. The whole city would fucking burn before this was over. He'd also have to take further measures to keep his family safe. He removed his gloves as they walked to the door. 

Just before he turned the knob on the front door, Arthur’s voice dropped behind him. “Tommy…” A pause. “She going to be alright with all this?”

"I'll talk with her," he told him before opening the door and walking inside. 

The silence that greeted them wasn’t right. It wasn’t the stillness of a home at peace. It was the kind of quiet that was waiting to erupt. It felt like a warning. His mind went straight to the Changrettas and what they might do to retaliate. Coming for his home, his wife, was absolutely something the Italians were capable of. But the guards hadn't alerted him to anything unusual. And as he listened, hearing footsteps echoing faintly above them. A door opening then closing. No danger then, no panic.

Tommy exhaled through his nose. No one was waiting at the door. No voices calling down the hall. That wasn’t like her. 

Arthur’s throwaway comment stuck for a beat. No, your sister. Tommy brushed it off at the time.

Where was she? He didn't even hear that damn machine she worked with every day in the sitting room.

"Hello, gentlemen," Mary's cheery voice greeted them as she walked in behind them. "Just came to check on that boy of mine." 

As she looked at each of them in greeting, she saw Rory and he saw her, his eyes wide at being caught. It took his mother maybe five seconds to spot the blood soaking into the side of his trousers. 

Mary froze. Her smile vanished in an instant as her gaze locked onto the stain darkening the side of Rory’s trousers. “Rory James—” Her voice broke off, sharp with panic as she surged forward, grabbing his arm and pushing aside his coat with practiced hands. “What are you doing running around? You’re bleeding.”

Rory winced. “It’s nothing, Ma. Just... just moved too much, that’s all.”

“You were supposed to be resting,” she snapped, voice rising. “Not out running about like nothing happened yesterday!”

Her glare swept over the others, Tommy first, then Arthur, then John. “What the hell were you thinking? All of you?”

Arthur raised both hands slightly. “I told him to take it easy, Mary. Swear it.”

Tommy stayed silent as Mary turned back to her son. “Upstairs. Now. I don’t care if you have to crawl. Go.”

"I'll help him," Arthur said, moving quickly, supporting Rory with quiet murmurs as they went up the stairs.

Mary paused, and in her eyes was something heavier than anger. Disappointment.

That left him and John in the entryway, watching Mary disappear up the stairs with Arthur and Rory. John shifted beside him, clearing his throat like he’d been holding back a comment and thought better of it. Then he clapped Tommy on the shoulder.

“I’m gonna head back to the Garrison,” he muttered. “Check on the lads. Clean up a few things.” John gave a small nod, more to himself than to Tommy, and turned on his heel. 

Tommy hung his coat and cap by the door. The entire situation unnerved him. He didn't hear the sound of Polly’s heels on the floorboards. He didn't hear the faint hum of the sewing machine from the sitting room. Just an odd silence. The house felt hollow.

He took the stairs two at a time. At the top landing, he moved down the corridor, past the guest room where Rory was recovering, past Ada’s old room, its door cracked just slightly, and finally stopped at their bedroom. The door was open.

He found his wife in there, and she was packing. Fucking packing. They hadn't been married a day yet and there she stood beside their bed, folding clothes and setting them in a small travel bag with care. Her hands shook slowly, but the determination in her movements told him she'd made up her mind about something.

Tommy stepped quietly inside. He didn’t speak, and he didn’t take his eyes off her. He just stood there, watching her fold a dress like she needed her hands to be busy so she wouldn’t break something. He'd understood that she’d be concerned, even angry. But this? He hadn’t seen it coming.

“We did what had to be done,” he said finally to her, his voice low, as if talking too loud might shatter something between them. “I didn’t think…” He trailed off.

The truth was he didn’t think she’d be packing with shaking hands. Taking a slow step forward, then another, Tommy's boots sounded dull against the wood. And still she didn't look up or say anything. She just kept folding her clothes.

“You’re not leaving this house,” he said. It wasn't a threat or command, but the ghost of disbelief wrapped in steel. 

Still, she didn’t answer. She placed a blouse in the bag like it mattered more than his voice. Tommy blew out an exhale.

“You’re angry,” he said, trying to keep himself from snapping. “Fine. Be angry. Shout at me. Throw something. Don’t... don’t just stand there and...”

That got her. She straightened just a little, shoulders tight, hands pausing over the next piece of clothing. But she didn’t turn.

“I'm keeping you safe, love,” he said, softer now. “You and our son. I told myself, if I did it right... if I planned every angle, got to him first... you wouldn’t have to carry the weight of it.” His hands were in his pockets now, thumbs pressing hard against his palms to ground himself. “I didn’t want you thinking I’d ever trade your brother’s life for revenge.” He paused. “But you think I did.”

He watched the subtle movement of her shoulders as she exhaled. And something in him twisted. He could handle a war, but he was struggling with how to handle her silence.

She still didn’t turn. Her hands moved again, slower now. A scarf, a slip next. 

Tommy felt something cold uncoil in his chest. He’d seen her cry before. He’d seen her scared, even broken open by grief. But this quiet refusal, the way she shut him out without a single word... it hit differently. He didn’t know where she thought she was going. But the idea of her walking out that door, his wife, carrying his child, wearing his ring, had his heart clenching in his chest.

"You’re not leaving,” he said quietly. “Not like this.”

Still no answer.

“Your mother will stay here until we're finished with the Changrettas, to keep her safe. Guards’ll see her back and forth to the shop. I’ll see to it personally. But you... you stay. You don’t have to see me if that’s what you want. But you're not walking out of this house.”

Her fingers hesitated just for a breath over the zipper of the bag.

“You married me,” he added, softer now. “Yesterday, you swore vows. You’re mine. And I’m yours.”

She zipped the bag. Finally, she slowly turned to face him and the look at her face stopped him cold. He saw heartbreak buried under fury and disappointment.

“You used my brother to settle a score,” she said, her gaze meeting his.

“He wanted to be part of it,” Tommy snapped before he could stop himself. “He knew the risk—”

“He was shot, Tommy!” Her voice cracked. “Yesterday, at our wedding reception. And you still let him go out there like it didn’t matter.”

Tommy opened his mouth, closed it again. What was there to say? That it had to be done? That Angel Changretta was a threat to all of them? That some wars don’t wait for you to finish healing?

None of it mattered if it meant losing her.

He stepped back, as if giving her room would somehow bring her closer. “I made the call,” he said finally. “And I kept everyone safe, including you and our child.” 

She didn’t answer. And this time, he didn’t try to fill the silence. He just stood there, watching the space between them stretch like a wire waiting to snap.

She wasn't looking at him like a wife, but like someone trying to remember why she said yes in the first place.

“I’m not running,” she said quietly. 

Tommy swallowed hard, but the lump stayed lodged in his throat.

“I know it’s not safe out there right now,” she went on, her voice shaking with fury she was clearly holding back. “I know what we signed up for. But don’t you dare pretend like you did this to protect us. You did this for revenge."

Each word hit like a goddamn strike to the ribs. He wanted to argue... Christ, he wanted to explain. But he couldn’t lie to her. And the truth was ugly.

“You used my brother,” she said again, softer now. “You knew he’d do it. And you let him.” She turned away from him then, and the sound of her breath hitching felt worse than any slap.

Tommy didn’t move. She turned her back to him, the small bag set on the edge of the bed like a line drawn in the sand, and he realized that this wasn’t just about Rory. It was about trust. 

Tommy took a breath, but it didn’t come easy. His lungs felt tight, like he’d been winded without a blow. Christ, she wasn’t crying or pleading. She was done, and he didn't like the torrent of emotion that was crashing through him right now.

“I gave him a choice,” Tommy said finally, his voice low.

Her shoulders lifted slightly, a silent scoff.

He moved closer, slowly, his hands still at his sides. “I don’t trust many people. Not with something like that. But I trust him. John and Arthur were with him, we had a plan. It was carried out.”

“You always have a plan,” she said without turning. “And someone always bleeds for it.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

He wanted to reach for her, to pull her back into the circle of his arms and whisper something, anything, that might make it right. 

“Tell me what to do,” Tommy said. It came out rougher than he meant. “Tell me what you want.”

When she didn’t answer, Tommy felt something inside him begin to shift. For the first time since putting on a uniform, since climbing back from France, and building an empire out of smoke and bullets, he didn’t know how to fix this. Not with strategy or fear. Not even with love. He was just a man standing in front of the woman he loved, trying to figure out how to ask her to stay.

The quiet felt like it stretched out forever, wrapping around him like a noose. He could hear the clock ticking on the mantel. The soft creak of the old floorboards beneath her bare feet as she shifted her weight slightly. The wind brushing against the windowpanes.

Tommy waited, and still she didn’t turn around. “You think I wanted this?” he asked, his voice low and sharp with the weight of everything that had happened. “You think I wanted to take your brother out there? The day after he took a bullet meant for me?”

Her silence was answer enough. Maybe she didn’t mean for it to gut him like it did, but it landed, hard and deep.

He moved then, slowly, his steps measured like he was approaching a skittish horse. “If I’d told you,” he said, softening his tone, “you’d have stopped him. And I couldn’t let that happen. Not with the Changrettas, and what they did.”

Her fingers tightened around the handle of her bag, and it was that more than anything that drove it all home. She was leaving. He knew she wouldn't leave the house, she'd said as much. But she was leaving their room, and it was gutting him. 

Tommy's breath caught, and he stepped in front of her, cutting off her path without touching her. His gaze searched hers, looking for something to hold onto. Anything.

“I can’t protect this family without doing things you won’t agree with,” he said quietly. “But I’ll be damned if I let this, us, fall apart because I was trying to keep you safe.”

Her eyes were wet now, and that wrecked him.

“I’ve done terrible things,” Tommy said. “And I’ll do more.” His voice dropped. “Don’t walk away from me.”

Tommy wasn’t a man who begged. He’d learned young how little good it did. But this was different. And she saw it in his face. He meant every word. He just didn’t know if it would be enough.

She didn’t yell, or shove him out of the way. He expected some version of that. Anything but what she did next, looking at him like she didn’t recognize him. Like he was a stranger with his back to the fire, telling her the house was safe.

“Were you trying to keep me safe?” she asked, her voice steady and low. “Or were you trying to win?"

It hit him harder than he let show.

“Rory could have been killed today, and you let him go anyway.” Her eyes narrowed. “You planned it.”

Tommy didn’t speak, he couldn’t. Not without lying or making excuses. And he knew she'd see through either.

“You didn’t tell me because you knew I’d try and stop you.”

Tommy stared her down. “He volunteered.”

“I don’t care.” There was no hesitation in her voice. “I don't care if he begged you to let him come along. That’s my brother. I’ve already stood over his body once. Yesterday. I won’t do it again."

She stepped past him now. 

“You’re not leaving the house," he told her. He wouldn't allow that. Not under the circumstances.

She didn’t turn, just breathed slowly through her nose. "I’m not asking permission. I’m your wife, not your prisoner.”

Tommy moved closer. “You’re my wife, and you’re carrying my child. Which means your safety comes before your pride.”

She turned, her shoulders squared. “Fine. My mother stays here too, since none of us are safe anymore.”

His gaze didn't move from her. “Done,” he said without hesitation. “She’ll be moved in by tonight.”

She stepped past him, case in hand. He caught her wrist. “You’re not sleeping in a guest room.”

She pulled free of his grip. “I’m not sleeping in this room.”

He took a slow breath, trying to hold on to reason. “That bed,” he pointed to it, "is ours."

“Not tonight.” She tried to move past him, case in hand.

His hand shot out, catching her wrist again. “Don’t walk away from me.”

She didn’t look at him. She just tugged, firm and silent, until he let go. There was no fury or theatrics. Just a woman who'd reached the edge of what she was willing to accept. And then she was out the door, down the hall, without a backward glance.

Tommy didn’t follow her. He stood there for a long moment after the door shut, the sound of her footsteps receding down the hall sounded like hammer blows. There'd been no yelling or slammed doors, no sobs. Just no. It echoed louder than any bullet ever had.

He looked down at his empty hand, the one that had tried to hold her there. He still felt the warmth of her wrist, felt her pull away from him. It rattled him. She hadn't begged or broken. No, she just left...

You didn’t slam the door even though you wanted to. Your hand hovered there for a second, every muscle tensed while your heart thundered in your chest. No, you closed the door to Ada's old room quietly, fighting for control of your emotions. The second it latched, your shoulders dropped and you released the breath you hadn't realized you were holding. 

Ada's room still smelled faintly of her perfume, a distinct sweet smell of defiance. It was smaller than the master bedroom, but cozy. The curtains were drawn tight, and the bed still had a folded quilt at the foot. You stood in the middle of the room, your eyes still burned. 

You weren't heartbroken. You were furious, and not just at Tommy or your brother. You were angry at yourself for thinking you could walk into Tommy Shelby's world and not get swallowed whole. You'd honestly believed that love could be enough to change how he did things.

He’d used Rory, who had barely survived yesterday. Rory trusted him, and you knew how devoted he was to your husband, to the blinders. And you didn't particularly want to see Rory either right now. Your brother had lost more blood today, and your mother was beside herself with worry. 

Wrapping your arms around yourself, you sat on the edge of the bed.

Tommy hadn’t denied it. He just stood there trying to explain it in that way he had, like it had been strategy and not a betrayal. Did victory justify everything?

A hot tear slid down your cheek, and you wiped it away with the heel of your hand, angry at yourself for letting it fall. You were done with being weak. You hadn't been when you drew Rory's gun at your wedding reception, and you weren't about to start now. You meant what you said. You married Tommy because you fell in love with him, not because you were blind.

But right now, you needed some distance. You needed to be able to breathe. You were sick of feeling like you were just another pawn on your husband's chessboard. At least he hadn't followed you. 

Good. Let him sit in it for a while.

The last cigarette Tommy lit had long since burned down to ash. He hadn’t noticed. The whiskey on the desk, untouched. He sat in his study, in front of the fire. His shirt collar was open, tie loosened hours ago, but he hadn’t bothered to change. Despite today's success, he felt heavier now, like he carried the weight of the day, and the mistake he didn’t want to name.

The mansion was too quiet for him, and he appreciated silence. It wasn't the kind of quiet that comes with peace, but the kind that comes with absence.

She wasn’t in their room, but locked in Ada's old room. And that silence... that was the only thing he didn’t know how to fight.

He stared at the dark window, his reflection faint and hollow. His family had been hit harder before they even encountered the Changrettas. They'd taken bullets and lost good men. Tommy could deal with any fucking situation you threw at him from back alley to boardroom. He had no idea how to deal with this. He could threaten enemies, burn property, and pay for silence and had done it all before.

But he couldn’t buy her forgiveness. Couldn’t threaten her into love.

He leaned back slowly in the chair, one hand over his mouth. The hurt she wore on her face. No, not just hurt. Betrayal and fury. It wasn’t something he could drink away or maneuver his way out of. It had cut straight through his armor.

Now she was behind a locked door in the same bloody house. And he could go up there right now and unlock the door. He had keys to every room in the house. Of course he did. Nothing happened under his roof without his say.

And yet… he hadn’t touched the key. It sat in his pocket like a weight, like a dare. He could end this cold silence in an instant. Cross the hallway, turn the lock, and look her in the eye. Tell her she was overreacting, and that he did what had to be done. But he didn’t. Some part of him, some small, unarmored part he couldn’t silence, knew that if he forced that door, he wouldn’t be taking control. He’d be confirming her worst fears about him. And he knew he wouldn't survive the look she’d give him if he did.

So he stayed where he was. Caged not by the door, but by the line he’d never wanted to cross.

Her silence echoed louder than any gunshot. 

He couldn’t fix his situation with her. So he fixed everything else within an hour of her leaving their room. Orders went out like clockwork, his voice steady, his tone flat. Mary would stay at the mansion until the business with the Changrettas was finished. Guards at every door, every hour. If his wife wouldn’t speak to him, she’d still be protected, even from him if she wished it.

The housekeeper was told to make Ada’s old room more comfortable. Flowers, fire lit early, the works. Whether she stayed one night or ten, he wouldn’t be accused of making it unlivable. He sent Liam to check the perimeter twice before midnight. And he'd assigned Arthur to keep watch over Rory, who wasn’t to move a muscle without someone there to make sure he didn’t bleed through another pair of trousers. Tommy had enough to deal with in his situation with his wife. He didn't want to be on the receiving end of Mary's ire too.

It was all done in minutes, efficient and controlled. And still, the silence upstairs didn’t change.

He lit another cigarette and stood at the window, jaw tight. If I can’t bring her peace, I’ll secure the illusion of it.

Just before midnight, Tommy stood in the hallway outside Ada’s old room, hands in his coat pockets, head bowed. The wood floor creaked beneath his boots, but there still was no movement inside. He paused at the door, listening. Her voice? Nothing. Tommy raised his hand, his knuckles barely a breath away from the doorframe. But he didn’t knock.

Not like this. Not when I don’t know what to say.

His hand dropped. He turned halfway down the hall, trying to will himself back into the man who could command a city and make kings bend. But that wasn’t the man she needed right now.

A sound behind him made him turn. Polly was there. She said nothing but arched a brow and gave a soft tilt of her head. Come on, it said. He followed her down the stairs, back toward his study.

Silence lingered thick between them until the door closed, and Polly poured two glasses of Irish whiskey without asking.

“Thought you might need something stronger than guilt,” she said.

Polly handed him the glass. He took it but didn’t drink, just held it between his fingers like it might ground him.

“Well, you didn't expect that,” Polly said, settling into the chair across from him. “Did you?”

Tommy didn’t respond, only looked into the fire like it might have an answer.

“She’s fire when you expected smoke,” Polly added. “You think you can suffocate it before it spreads, but that’s not how it works. It’ll burn you both.”

He looked at her then, glaring. “She’s angry.”

“She has a right to be,” Polly said.

“She was never meant to be part of this.”

“She is part of this,” Polly said sharply. “That’s the bit you can’t protect her from, not now. Not after you made her your wife.”

He downed the whiskey in one go, his throat tight.

“She’s scared, Tommy," Polly said in a softer tone. "She’s angry because she’s scared. You handed her a future, and then proved just how easily it could be taken away from her.”

Tommy’s gaze stayed on the fireplace, but he was listening.

“Get out of your head,” Polly said quietly. “Just go talk to her. Not as the man who rules Birmingham. As her husband.”

He didn’t move for a long time, didn't speak. Then he just stood. He left the glass on the table. Empty.

After walking by the door to the room where she was staying again, Tommy found himself in his study, at the window again, his hand resting on the sill. The fire behind him had died to low embers, but he hadn’t bothered to stoke it. The cold creeping into the room suited him fine.

The door creaked. He didn’t need to look to know it was Arthur. No one else walked like that, quiet, but heavy with the weight of too many years and too many battles. Arthur just wandered in, poured himself a drink, and sat in the chair Polly had vacated earlier. After a long pull from the glass, he spoke.

“You ever just think about apologizin’, Tom?”

Tommy’s head turned slowly. His brow furrowed. “What?”

Arthur shrugged, not meeting his gaze. “You’re tryin’ everything but the one thing that might actually work.”

Tommy let out a dry laugh, more breath than sound. “You think sorry is going to fix this?”

“No,” Arthur said. “But maybe it’s not about fixin’ it. Maybe it’s about meanin’ it.” The silence stretched between them. “I’ve seen you win over bloody politicians, generals, kings of industry,” Arthur went on. “You always got a move. A card to play. But not with her, eh?”

Tommy’s jaw locked.

“That’s how you know it’s real,” Arthur added quietly. “You don’t get to play the game with her. You just have to show up.”

He stood, took another sip of whiskey, then placed the glass down with a soft clink.

“You want her back?” Arthur asked, heading for the door. “Stop makin’ plans. Start makin’ sense.”

And with that, he left Tommy alone with the silence again. Only now, the silence wasn’t so welcome.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t sleep. Just stood there with that truth in his chest, burning hotter than any bonfire ever could. It was just after three in the morning. 

Tommy sat in the low firelight again, his shoulders bowed beneath the weight of everything he hadn’t done. His mind worked through the options, reflexively, automatically, like it always did.

Her mother? No. That wouldn’t move her, and Mary was likely as pissed at him as her daughter was. Rory? That bridge was already in ashes. Even if he regretted pulling the lad into it, the damage was done. And she knew it.

Maybe a truce. Maybe a deal. A set timeline. A few days. Then we talk. We sort it out.

But he didn't want to fucking drag this out for days. He wanted it resolved now. His negotiation skills worked on politicians, rivals, clients, and contacts. On kings and common men.

But not her. Even now, part of him tried to calculate the best move, the right line, the offer that might draw her out from behind Ada’s door. But he already knew, it wouldn’t work. Not on her and not in this situation.

She wasn’t supposed to change the rules.

But she had. And worse, he didn’t know how to play by them.

He didn’t remember walking back upstairs. One moment, he was pacing the hall outside Ada’s room like a man circling a battlefield. The next, he was in their bedroom. The fire had burned low in the grate. The bed was untouched, sheets still tucked and smoothed the way she’d left them. He sat in the chair nearest the hearth – his sleeves rolled up, his collar open.

And waited.

At first, he told himself she’d come back. That the heat would wear off, and she’d want to come back. But hours passed, and with each one, his doubt grew louder. What if she doesn't come back? What if she’s lying awake behind that door, thinking about leaving for good?

He scrubbed a hand down his face, the edge of stubble catching at his palm. He'd faced guns, blades, and blackmail with a steadier heart than this.

At four a.m., Tommy stood. For once, he had no plan or strategy. Just the weight in his chest and the silence on the other side of the door.

He raised his hand and knocked. His voice was low and rough, “Open the door, love. I can’t sleep like this.”

He waited, and the silence that followed was worse than a slammed door. Worse than shouting. He let his hand fall to his side.

Maybe she’s asleep. Or maybe she heard him and chose not to answer. Maybe this time, it wouldn’t be fixed with promises or soft words spoken in the dark.

Tommy backed away a step, his heart aching. Then another. One more...

The latch clicked, and he froze. The door opened just enough for light to spill into the hallway, and there she was. Her robe was tied at the waist, her hair slightly mussed, her eyes tired but fierce. She didn’t say anything. Just looked at him like she wasn’t sure if she’d made the right choice.

You hadn’t been able to sleep tonight. Every time your eyes closed, you heard him, boots on polished wood, the occasional low creak of a floorboard as he paced just outside the door. Back and forth, again and again.

You’d expected fury. Expected him to burst through the door and still insist that this was all just strategy. That it had to be done. 

But he didn’t. Tommy didn’t shout or demand. Your husband didn’t storm in. And maybe that was what got to you.

It had been satisfying, earlier, throwing his words back at him. Staying quiet when he tried to twist them, packing your things and refusing to break. You’d said only what needed to be said, kept it clean and calm because it was the only way to keep yourself from unraveling.

But when you heard his voice outside the door, tired, low, almost quiet, you hesitated. 

“Open the door, love," he said. "I can't sleep like this.”

You opened it.

Tommy hadn’t slept either. Still in the same black suit, his shirt rumpled at the collar, the dark shadow of stubble along his jaw. His eyes were red-rimmed but locked on you with that sharp, unreadable intensity that always made it hard to know what he was thinking, except for right now.

Right now, he looked lost. 

He didn’t try to come in or even step forward.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

It was the last thing you expected. Not because he didn’t know how to apologize. But because he almost never needed to. And here he was, your husband, offering it up like the words might crack him open.

You stared at him for a long second, caught off guard by how much those two words actually hurt to hear. It wasn’t the sound of it. It was what it meant, and that he knew. Beneath all his logic and strategy and bloody calculations, he knew what he’d done and what he’d risked. 

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the edge of the door. Your hand found his shirt first, creased, still smelling faintly of smoke, and then his chest beneath it. You didn’t say anything, just reached for him like gravity had finally won. Tommy moved like he’d been waiting for that exact moment. Like your touch unlocked something he hadn’t let himself feel until now.

His arms went around you, but with a kind of reverence that made your throat ache. One hand cradled the back of your head, the other settled at the small of your back, holding you as if the walls might fall and he’d still have you anchored. He didn't speak, but you felt the rise and fall of his breath against your cheek, the subtle tremor in the way he exhaled.

It was the quiet that said everything. It wasn't victory or surrender. Just the truth, finally shared between two hearts still learning how to carry each other.

You pulled away from him just long enough to switch off the light in Ada’s room. When you turned back, you reached for his hand. “Let’s get some sleep,” you murmured.

And without another word, you led him back to your shared room. He didn’t let go of your hand, not for a second, as you led him down the hall. The hallway was dim, the house still silent around you, but the storm between you had broken. Or maybe just softened into something quieter.

You opened the door to your shared room, familiar and shadowed in the low light, and Tommy followed you in without a word. You didn’t look at him as you pulled back the covers or slipped into bed. He closed the door took off his boots. When he joined you, it wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t about fixing everything in that moment. It was about being close to you, and warm. His arm draped over your waist as you turned toward him, your forehead resting just beneath his chin.

You felt him breathe. Steady and grounded. Yours.

And finally, finally, sleep came.

@outlanderuniverse @alyssajunelle @gothic-chinadoll @sparda1234 @mrsnms @alexakeyloveloki @theinheriteddutchess @wiseyouthingluencer @lovinglimerence @goldensunflowe-r @andydrysdalerogers @hellfirehopeless @wantedby-larry @mariaenchanted @moonbeamott @thetamtam9 @ayeeeitsmiracle @atlas-of-a-human-soul

[clancykolzig]

LOUDER FOR THE MEN IN THE BACK!!

[clancykolzig]

depression tips™

shower. not a bath, a shower. use water as hot or cold as u like. u dont even need to wash. just get in under the water and let it run over you for a while. sit on the floor if you gotta.

moisturize everything. use whatever lotion u like. unscented? dollar store lotion? fancy ass 48 hour lotion that makes u smell like a field of wildflowers? use whatever you want, and use it all over. 

put on clean, comfortable clothes. 

put on ur favorite underwear. cute black lacy panties? those ridiculous boxers u bought last christmas with candy cane hearts on the butt? put em on.

drink cold water. use ice. if u want, add some mint or lemon for an extra boost.

clean something. doesn’t have to be anything big. organize one drawer of ur desk. wash five dirty dishes. do a load of laundry. scrub the bathroom sink. 

blast music. listen to something upbeat and dancey and loud, something that’s got lots of energy. sing to it, dance to it, even if you suck at both.

make food. don’t just grab a granola bar to munch. take the time and make food. even if it’s ramen. add something special to it, like a hard boiled egg or some veggies. prepare food, it tastes way better, and you’ll feel like you accomplished something. 

make something. write a short story or a poem, draw a picture, color a picture, fold origami, crochet or knit, sculpt something out of clay, anything artistic. even if you don’t think you’re good at it.

go outside. take a walk. sit in the grass. look at the clouds. smell flowers. put your hands in the dirt and feel the soil against your skin.

call someone. call a loved one, a friend, a family member, call a chat service if you have no one else to call. talk to a stranger on the street. have a conversation and listen to someone’s voice. if you can’t, text or email or whatever, just have some social interaction with another person. even if you don’t say much, listen to them.

cuddle your pets if you have them/can cuddle them. take pictures of them. talk to them. tell them how u feel, about your favorite movie, a new game coming out.

[clancykolzig]

Sanctuary

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: The shower is a sanctuary, and Bucky can't resist joining you.

Word Count: Over 1.2k

Warnings: Established relationship, implied smut, tenderness and feels, thoughts of marriage and kids, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: A nonnie inspired me. I'm picturing this before Bucky gets married, but you can view it however you'd like. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You stood under the spray of the water, not bothering to lift your hands to wash yourself just yet. It was just the right temperature with the perfect amount of steam to surround you without feeling like you’d choke on it. You tipped your head back and closed your eyes, wishing that time could stand still. Showers were a necessity as well as an enjoyment and it felt wrong that time had to continue when you wanted a moment of peace.

Your temporary sanctuary was interrupted by a familiar presence at your back. No, not interrupted. If anything, your sanctuary was more alive. “Sorry if I scared you,” Bucky whispered, slipping his arms around your waist.

“You didn’t,” you whispered back, sinking into him. “Never have, never will.”

“That’s good to know.”

Every chapter of your life since you met Bucky had him written in it. He had been a beautiful stranger who exuded danger and comfort, a heady and contrasting combination. He became a wonderful friend, opening up and trusting you with his secrets and vice versa. It wasn’t long before he became your boyfriend and allowed you to love each other the way you both deserved. He would be your husband one day, and the father of your children if you went down that path.

“Sorry though,” he said, his fingers barely skimming you, but making you shiver just the same. “I should’ve asked before joining you.” 

You smiled, noticing that he didn’t sound apologetic in the least. “You made a mess on your shirt again, didn’t you?”

“Sure did,” he replied. Your man had stained more white shirts than you thought possible. He joked that it was one of the reasons he usually stuck with black. At least he was decent with laundry. “Want me to go?”

You put a hand over his to stop him from letting you go. “Don’t you dare,” you warned, which earned you a warm chuckle in response. You hadn’t initially asked him to join you because you were impatient and wanted to feel the cascading water on your skin.

Now you wanted to feel him all over you.

“Fine, I’ll stay,” he teased.

“Smart man,” you teased back.

Bucky was a man who appreciated showers just like you. When he still accepted missions, he would take the opportunity to self-reflect in a peaceful environment, especially if the mission was a long or tough one. The water helped his muscles relax and reduced his stress. It gave him a sense of well-being. The mood he was in when he joined you often determined whether he would be loving and tender or rough and intense.

You welcomed him either way.

“Feels nice,” he sighed, his breath dancing over your skin before he softly kissed your neck.

“Me or the water?” you sighed.

“Both,” he said, kissing directly over your racing pulse.

As your mouth parted and your head fell back further, a shallow breath escaped. His hands and lips enticed you, igniting a slow spreading fire in your veins. You were the match for each other’s flames and the heat was going to consume you both. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asked, his hands tracing along your skin like an unspoken promise. “You take my breath away.”

Your heart pounded and you turned your head with a soft smile. The angle was just enough to catch the blue of his eyes and the drops of water dripping from his long hair. He was so beautiful. “You take my breath away, too.”

“Yeah?” His smile didn't just rob you of your breath, it snuffed out all the noise in your mind until all you focused on was him. 

“Yeah,” you smiled back. 

When his lips touched yours, the slow spreading fire erupted into an inferno. His hand slowly slid down your stomach, the other moving up to tease your breasts. “You're so responsive,” he whispered, his thumb grazing a nipple. 

Your breath hitched when the hand moving south dipped between your thighs, a tremor running through your body when he gently moved a finger along your slit. The hand cupping your breast pulled you closer, drawing another gasp when he slowly rolled his hips to tease you when his hard cock brushed against your ass. You wanted him to tear you apart.

“And so wet,” he rumbled, suddenly turning you so that your back was against the wall. His hungry gaze had you choking on your next breath when he brought his hand back to your pussy, slowly rubbing it like he had nowhere else to be. Your essence coated his thick fingers, and he hadn’t pushed them inside you yet.

“Please,” you gasped, lost in his touch and wanting more. 

But Bucky didn't rush. He merely moaned when he leaned in and kissed your lips, tenderly lavishing you and forcing you to be patient. While your hands dug into his arms to hold on for dear life, he touched you as if it were an honor, cherishing every part of you. He was an artist who molded your body like it was his own creation, a masterpiece for him and him alone. The pleasure building within you was overwhelming, the kind that left you trembling and on the verge of breaking to pieces. The cracks filled with parts of him, piecing you back together in a way that was still you and yet forever changed.

“Can we just stay like this?” he murmured, as if he wasn’t setting you ablaze when his thumb circled your clit.

“Yes,” you whispered, wrapping a leg around him. If that was what Bucky wanted, you’d give it to him.

Just like when he asked for your heart.

His tongue traced a water droplet down the columb of your neck before he gently bit down. “Say my name,” he whispered, moving his hand away to replace it with his cock. 

“Bucky,” you breathed, your back arching when he began to push into you. You’d chant it, scream it, let the whole world hear it. Everyone would know who you belonged to and who you chose to be by your side. 

His warm body pressed against yours and your heart squeezed in your chest when he whispered, “I love you.”

You breathed him in, your eyes shining with unexpected tears. “I love you, too.”

He didn’t thrust yet, even when you tightened around him. “Forever mine?” He phrased it as a question, but you were his from the start. 

This man had burrowed so deep into your heart and soul that you would never be able to carve him out. You didn't want to. If you ever dared to put a wall up, he’d either crash through it or bring it down brick by brick, whatever you needed to get back to him. And you would do the same for him, burning the world if you had to if it meant you’d be together.

Moving a hand to his chest to feel his racing heart, you whispered, “Forever yours.”

You loved being his, loved that he was yours, and you would cry his name to the heavens above before the shower was over. 

And under the water and steam, you’d stay wrapped up in each other and enjoy your sanctuary together.

I want this! Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[clancykolzig]

Still Life 3

Pairing: Alpha Curtis Everett x Omega Female Reader

Word Count: ~4.3k

Summary: Curtis has been volunteering as a foster alpha for three years now. He's never seen a case this bad...

Warnings: Heavy angst (with an eventual happy ending), past abuse (not Curtis), alpha/beta/omega dynamics, physical scarring, extreme sexism (both external and internal), adult themes, referenced past non-con, fear of non-con, explicit language, the slowest burn I've done yet. All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI

Dividers by me this time!

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

A/N: Here we go! We're back with Curtis's POV this time.

A huge thanks to @bigtreefest for talking through so much of this with me and especially gut-checking the Ari appearance. I've never written him before!

Any comment, reblog, or ask to let me know what you think will be greatly appreciated. And if you need to come scream at me, that's ok too!

As always, thank you so much for reading! 💜

“You look terrible.”

Curtis sighed and slumped a little in his kitchen chair. “Gee, thanks, Tanya. So glad you came over.”

Across from him, Tanya ignored his comment. “Are you sleeping?”

He grimaced. “Not really.”

She hummed in acknowledgement before moving on. “Are you eating?”

He nodded, then added, “When she does.”

“Curtis.”

“I’m eating, ok? I am. I’m fine.”

His friend just raised a judgmental eyebrow at that as she glanced around the kitchen. “This house has never been cleaner.” She wiped a finger across the wooden table. “Recently polished.”

Curtis groaned, finally dropping his head into his hands. “I don’t know how to get her to stop. I’ve tried to tell her she doesn’t have to, and she just nods and says ‘Yes, Alpha,’ and then continues to clean every surface. And she’s kind of mad at me, I think, for cooking as much as I do. She looks completely bewildered every time I’m in the kitchen.”

“So, she really drank the Kool-Aid on all that alpha supremacist stuff, huh?”

Curtis sighed. “I think the Kool-Aid’s all she’s ever known.”

His friend gave him a scrutinizing look. “You’re in over your head.”

He couldn’t help the humorless chuckle that came out of him. “Yeah, I’m well aware.”

Tanya sighed with her whole body. “But you aren’t going to stop, are you?”

Instead of answering, Curtis drummed the fingers of one hand on the table for a few moments, then said, “I set up a Google alert for the Snowpiercer Collective. I can’t stop reading about it. I keep hoping they’ll release some detail about the investigation that will open the whole thing up for me, you know? Clue me in on how to actually help her. But so far, it’s just been stories about the guns and the drugs and the money. Nothing about the sixty-three omegas they pulled out of there or the well over a hundred children. For just twenty-five alphas! I can’t–” his hand came up to cover his mouth briefly, the horror he’d been feeling on and off for the last week sweeping over him again. “I can only imagine what she’s been through, what’s happened to her. And, of course, she won’t tell me. She doesn’t talk to me at all unless she’s answering a direct question. She is so–” He dropped his head into his hands and did his best to take a deep breath, the constant stress and worrying of the last week settling in his chest. He looked back up at Tanya. “She needs so much help, and I don’t know– I don’t know how to help her. How do I help her?”

He helplessly laid his hands on the table, and Tanya immediately covered one of them with her own. “Curtis, you are helping her. It’s been a week. She isn’t going to heal from a lifetime of abuse in just a week. But you’re giving her a safe place to be, and you’re showing her kindness. That helps. And you’ll continue to help her. But you have got to take care of yourself too. Take care of yourself so you can take care of her. “

Curtis exhaled slowly. “Yeah,” he eventually said quietly. “Okay.”

“And you will call your friends when you need help. Got it?” Her tone left no room for argument, her eyes steady and determined.

That finally got a real smile out of him. “Yeah, Tanya, I got it.”

You had insisted on making tea for Curtis and his guest when Tanya had first arrived. Then, as soon as the pot was placed between them, you’d disappeared into your room, door open, but out of sight.

After Tanya left, Curtis carefully approached you, lingering in the doorway. He was committed to never entering your room without your explicit permission. And he’d figured out that you couldn’t say no to him yet, so he’d stopped asking if he could come in. He was just fine staying in the hallway for as long as you needed him to do it. He rapped lightly on the doorframe to let you know he was there. You looked up at him from where you sat on your bed, your eyes not quite meeting his. “Hey,” he said softly, “I just wanted to let you know that Tanya’s gone. And– And that you didn’t need to stay in your room while she was here. You could have joined us. Or gone anywhere in the house you wanted. I want you to feel at home here.”

You curled in on yourself, trying to make yourself as small as possible. You did that too often. It sent a sharp pang through his heart every time. “I’m sorry, Alpha,” you whispered. 

Goddamnit. He was fucking this up. “No, nothing to apologize for. I just wanted to make sure you knew that you have free rein over any part of this house. But if this room feels safe, and that’s where you want to spend your time, that’s okay too. I want you to feel safe.”

There was a long pause during which you didn’t move out of your curled-up position. Then, even quieter than your apology came, “Yes, Alpha.”

Reflexively, one of his hands coiled up into a tight fist. He was going to lose his mind if he heard that phrase one more time. “Right,” he said with a tired sigh. He should leave you alone; he knew that, but he lingered in the doorway.  He just couldn’t walk away quite yet, even if the conversation was clearly over. As he searched for something to say, all he could come up with was a necessary reminder that he knew wouldn’t go over well. “You have your doctor’s appointment tomorrow. We’ll leave for the center right after breakfast.”

He’d tried to keep his tone as calm and gentle as possible, but panic still spiked in your scent. “Yes, Alpha.”

 “It'll be okay,” he said quietly. Uselessly. “We just– We just want to make sure you're healthy.” 

You didn't respond to that. Of course you didn't.

He looked down at his hands and shook his head. “Alright, I'll leave you alone now. But please come get me if you need anything.” And then he turned around and walked down the hall, knowing full well that you wouldn't. 

You were quiet on the drive to the center the next morning, so Curtis was too. He’d turned the radio on to try to drown out your silence. He knew you were scared about your appointment. The scent of your fear filled his truck. He had no idea what to say to make it better.

When you got to the center, Yona met you at the door. “Hi,” she said warmly. “It’s so nice to see you again. If it’s okay with you, I thought I’d come to your appointment with you.”

Instead of answering, you looked to Curtis. He did his best not to sigh. “That might be nice,” he said, trying to keep his tone even, “having a friendly face with you.”

You nodded, and turned to follow the omega down the hall.

He stood and watched you go, slowly trailing behind Yona. Then he took a deep breath and went out to the large courtyard behind the building. There were several omegas milling around, and he gave them a wide berth, not wanting to be obtrusive. He’d planned to just sit quietly by himself until your appointment was done, when he saw a familiar figure sitting at a nearby picnic table.  

“Steve!” he called out. The blonde alpha raised his head at the sound of his name, his lips turning up in an exhausted smile when he zeroed in on Curtis.

“Oh hey,” he said as Curtis sat down next to him. “You ended up with one of the compound omegas, too?”

Curtis nodded as he carefully looked at his friend. Steve had dark bags under his eyes, and he sat hunched over. “You look about as good as I feel,” Curtis told him.

Steve let out a humorless chuckle. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” He sighed with his whole body. “The pups are really running me ragged.”

Curtis shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d known since that first day when he picked you up that most of the rescued omegas had come with children, but since you hadn’t had any, he hadn’t put much thought into the logistics of fostering an omega and their pups. “How many?” he asked.

“Three,” Steve answered, his lips turned down. “An alpha boy and two little omega girls.”

“Shit, that's a lot to handle on your own. I just have an omega and I’m completely exhausted.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighed.

“How are the kids adjusting?”

“Well. The little omegas still haven’t said a single word in my presence and the alpha pup won’t stop saying the most vile shit while he keeps trying to be all buddy-buddy with me because we’re both Alphas.”

“Shit,” was all Curtis could come up with.

“Yeah,” Steve sighed again as his shoulders sagged even more. “And their mom– I don’t know. She just seems really sad all the time.” 

Curtis scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah,” he said, “mine too. And very, very scared.”

They both just sat there in silence, next to each other, Steve staring off into the distance, while Curtis looked down at his hands. 

Suddenly, Steve’s posture changed. Curtis looked up and followed Steve’s gaze over to a man who was slowly approaching them. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Curtis called out.

Ari’s face split into a wide grin as he reached them. “Been a while,” he said warmly.

Steve smirked and nodded pointedly at the prominent, deep mating scar peeking out from the collar of Ari’s shirt. “Well. Looks like you had a decent excuse for losing touch.”

“Yeah, how’s it feel to foster fail?” Curtis teased as well.

Ari’s smile stretched wide, and his eyes shone. “There was no failing about it, boys.”

Curtis’s grin matched Ari’s, and Steve looked lighter, for a moment, too. “Congratulations,” they both said.

Ari ducked his head a little. “Thank you. I never expected it, but shit, it’s good. It’s really good.”

Curtis looked at his friend, who really did seem to be glowing with an uncontainable happiness. Mating with an omega you were fostering wasn’t unheard of, but it also didn’t happen quite as often as one might expect. News of Ari’s relationship and retirement from the program had rippled through the small, tight-knit community that revolved around this center. He was a fixture here, one of the longest-running alphas in the program. He took on a mentorship role for the incoming foster alpha classes, going as far as leading some of the workshops. That was how Curtis and Steve had met him, hitting it off after he’d taught one of their classes.

So when Ari had fallen for one of his long-term foster omegas and left the program to settle in together as a mated couple, the news had spread like wildfire. Curtis had sent his best wishes by text and then had left him alone to enjoy the honeymoon period in peace. The last place he’d expected to run into Ari again was here at the center.

And really, there could be only one reason he was here. “So, you got called in for this mess, too?”

Ari’s smile dimmed slightly. “Yeah,” he said with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Cherry and I had just started talking about the possibility of maybe coming back here and fostering as a couple, but it seemed a long ways off. Then we got the call and–” he shrugged. “How could we say no?”

“Yeah,” Steve said quietly. “Me too.”

“Me too,” Curtis echoed. 

The silence stretched on again until Ari asked, “You guys dealing with this omega hierarchy bullshit?” 

“Huh?” Curtis asked at the same time Steve let out a resigned, “Yeah.”

“Poor Cherry was so confused when our foster, Mary, started following her around, waiting for orders.”

Steve snorted in response, but Curtis just looked between his two friends, cluelessly. He had a sinking feeling he was missing something important. “What are you talking about?”

Ari didn’t answer right away, just looked at him seriously. “So, most of these alphas had more than one omega, right?” Curtis nodded. “Apparently, there was a pecking order in these houses. The first omega the alpha claimed was in charge, sort of, under the alpha, at least. Then the further you got down the line, second, third, sometimes fourth omegas, the fewer privileges and worse treatment you’d get. Mary was a first omega. She had a younger alpha who hadn’t claimed anyone else yet. When she came into our house, she assumed she was now second in line. It took Cherry a lot of talking to get her to understand.”

“My foster was second,” Steve said, darkly.

Curtis’s head whipped around. “She told you that?”

Steve shook his head as his expression got more grim. “No, the alpha pup.”

“It might be a good idea to find out what number your foster was. Could be helpful,” Ari said.

“How?!” Curtis exclaimed. “She won’t talk to me unless I ask her a direct question, and then the only answer is either ‘Yes, Alpha,’ or ‘No, Alpha.’ I don’t know anything about her. I don’t have any details that might help me help her. I’m reaching my wits’ end and it hasn’t even been a week! I mean, my god, she even refused the suppressants and I don’t know why–”

“Wait,” Ari stopped him, “she isn’t on suppressants?”

“No,” Curtis told him, defeated. He felt Steve staring at him on his other side. “I tried. I explained what they were, but she still said no.”

“What are you going to do?” Steve asked with urgency.

Curtis shrugged. “Hope like hell she doesn’t get her heat soon?”

Ari shook his head, “That’s not–”

He was cut off by a commotion near the doorway into the main building. Angry voices rose over the din of a gathering crowd. Instinctively, all three alphas started moving towards the sound of omegas in distress.

Curtis’s instincts were on high alert as he moved and tried to parse out what he was hearing at the same time. There was indistinct shouting, and then he could see the crowd move back as he distinctly heard someone hit the ground. That was followed by a wild, guttural, rageful cry that something inside of him recognized instantly. It was you. What the fuck?? “Shit,” he said to the other alphas, “that’s my foster!”

How could that wail possibly have belonged to you? You were meek and quiet and painfully deferential. But was it really that far off from what he knew of you? That cry had been full of pain and anger and hopelessness. His pace immediately picked up as he got closer to whatever fight was happening. The seconds it took for him to get to you were completely unbearable.   

The crowd immediately parted for him once he was close enough, all of the omegas bowing their heads before an unfamiliar alpha. But he didn’t have time to pay attention to any of that. His eyes were on you, sitting on top of another omega, trying to hold her down as she scratched at your face and kicked and screamed. Your face was contorted in rage as you tried to hit her right back. 

It only took him one long stride before he was close enough to grab you by the waist and lift you off the other omega. You gave no indication that you knew who was holding onto you as you kicked and screamed. Curtis was shocked by how much he struggled in the face of your rage, even using all of his alpha might. Ari was quickly by his side, gently holding on to one shoulder so Curtis could hold you by the other. Steve was immediately on the ground, checking on the other omega while trying to disperse the crowd. 

Curtis recited a litany of comfort into your ear— ”It’s okay, omega. You’re okay. You’re safe. You can calm down now. It’s okay. Calm down,”—as he and Ari moved you down the hall, searching for a quiet room to use. He couldn’t tell if you heard him at all. You were crying now, big heaving sobs. What the fuck had happened?

Ari opened the door to a small conference room, similar to the one he had met you in. As Curtis ushered you inside, Ari sent him a questioning look. “We’ll be fine,” Curtis said. “Thanks for your help.”

“Anytime,” Ari said, patted Curtis on the shoulder, and left.

Curtis got you settled in one of the chairs and then crouched in front of you. Your sobs had subsided somewhat, now mostly just little sniffles and whimpers. He was desperate to touch you, hold you, comfort you. But he was determined not to do that until you gave him the verbal okay. He wouldn’t be one more person taking a choice away from you.

He stayed that way, silently crouched in front of you, until you finally seemed calm enough to talk. “Okay,” he started, softly, “can you tell me what happened?”

You hunched over, wrapping your arms around yourself tightly, and ducked your head. You didn’t say a word.

He sighed deeply. Mostly at himself. He had no idea how to do this. “Omega, please. I need you to talk to me. This is–” another sigh, “it’s really important that you tell me what happened.”

All you did was hug yourself tighter. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. Your hands were shaking.

“It’s–” He stopped. He couldn’t tell you it was okay when he didn’t actually know if it was. “All I need right now is for you to tell me what happened.”

A long silence passed, and then with a voice packed with an aggression he hadn’t expected, you growled, “I hate her.”

“The omega you were on top of?” You nodded but didn’t say anything else. “Who is she?”

“Claude,” you snarled. When just her name clearly did nothing to answer Curtis’s question, you continued with a huff. “She is– no, was Wilford’s omega.” Now, Wilford was a name Curtis knew. He’d featured prominently in all of the news stories coming out about Snowpiercer. The head of the compound, the list of his crimes was ever-growing. But Curtis didn’t have time to dwell on that. In your rage, you seemed to have finally found your voice. “She called herself the head omega, when everyone knows that’s not a real thing!” you scoffed. “She’s always thought that made her such hot shit, but it never stopped him from bringing me to his bed, did it?” 

Curtis’s eyes got big, first at your language, which he’d assumed you weren’t even capable of. But then he got over that shock and was able to actually focus on what you’d said. From the way you’d said Claude was Wilford’s omega, Curtis surmised that he wasn’t the one who’d given you the scar on your neck. But he’d still hurt you and taken from you. God, it just kept getting worse. 

Curtis desperately wanted to do something about all this. But as lost as he’d felt since you’d first entered his home, he did know what his job was here. And that was creating an environment for you to feel safe. And him reacting too strongly right now wouldn’t do that. Especially when he still didn’t have the answers he needed. “Why did you get mad at her today?” he asked, trying to keep all of his feelings out of his tone.

“She was running her mouth,” you said with a dark glint in your eyes that took him aback. “Thinks she’s still so important and I should care what she thinks about me. Doesn’t understand that none of that matters anymore. Wilford isn’t her alpha now. She still ended up here just like the rest of us. I don’t have to take her shit anymore.”

Curtis let out a deep sigh. “Okay,” he said slowly. “I understand where you’re coming from. But this is serious. Fighting like that, that’s not– If you were staying here, instead of with me, you’d be at risk of getting kicked out.”

And just like that, it was like a switch had been flipped. Your head shot up, and your eyes widened with fear. You were back to the scared, meek omega he was used to. “Kicked out?”

“Well, yeah. They have a pretty strict no-tolerance policy for physical violence. Now, since you’re staying with me, it’s a little di–”

Your hands jolted out and grabbed his, your eyes full of desperation. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please don’t send me to a breeding program!”

“A what?” he asked, his brain trying to catch up to the leap you’d just made.

“I’m sorry. I’ll be good. I will. I’ll be better! Just, please. Not a breeding program. Alpha, please!” Your hands were wrapped around his, and your gaze was so pleading that his heart broke.

Breeding programs. Now that he had a moment to think about it, his mind jumped to the deepest, darkest, stupidest corners of the internet, where conspiracies ran wild of secret underground centers where omegas were kept chained up only to help the government control the population. Of fucking course you’d been taught about that.

“Sweetheart,” he said, so gently, “that’s not something that’s going to happen. Breeding programs aren’t real.”

“They are!” you cried, and it didn’t escape him that you were so scared that you’d just corrected an alpha without thinking. That had to be a good sign in this entire shit show, didn’t it? That had to show that maybe he’d earned just a little bit of your trust.

Curtis paused. Arguing back and forth with you on this wouldn’t do any good. But maybe this would. “I promise,” he said, making sure to look you right in the eye as he said it, “that I will never send you to a breeding program, okay?”

You swallowed nervously and glanced down to where your hands still clasped his. But you didn’t move them. “Really?” you whispered.

“Really,” he said, trying to imbue his words with all the certainty and steadiness he possibly could. “Not ever.”

“But then why haven’t you–” you started, but stopped abruptly, ducking your head.

“Why haven’t I what, honey?” he pressed. The moment felt loaded, like whatever the next words out of your mouth might be, they’d be absolutely vital.

You kept your head down, and he had to strain to hear you as you asked, “Why haven’t you used me, yet?”

Fucking shit. He took a deep breath as he chose his next words very carefully. “Because you aren’t a thing to use. You’re a person. A whole person. And you should get to decide what happens with your body. Not anyone else. Including me.”

You lifted your head at that and just stared at him. He held your gaze, refusing to blink. He needed you to know how seriously he meant it.

After a pause that felt like it spanned an entire age, you said, in a soft whisper, “Thank you, Alpha.”

“Hey,” he said quietly. “You can call me whatever you want. But I’d really like it if you called me Curtis.”

A war played out on your face as he could see you fighting your instincts. But eventually, you said, slowly like you were trying out the words for the first time, “Okay, Curtis.”

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. He didn’t even try to fight the smile that broke out on his face. This felt like the first real win since he’d met you. Maybe he could do this after all.

He took a few more minutes to make sure you were okay and calmed down, then, when you were ready, he guided you out of the room. Yona, of course, was waiting outside the door. “Give me just a minute,” he said to you, then stepped into the hall with her. “I know, Yona,” he said immediately. “We talked about it.”

She sighed and shook her head. “This isn’t the first incident we’ve had with Claude. And some of the other omegas said it was provoked. But this can’t happen again, Curtis.”

“I know,” he nodded quickly. “It won’t.”

She sighed again, and he noticed the hunch in her shoulders, the bags under her eyes. He wasn’t the only one overwhelmed by this situation. 

“How’d the appointment go?” he asked.

“She did well,” she said. “You know that’s all I can say, but we’ll call her with any results in a few days.” 

“Alright. I’m gonna take her home then.”

She nodded, said goodbye to you, and walked away down the hall.

He continued herding you out towards his truck, when you were both stopped again, this time by Ari. “Everything okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Curtis said. “I think we’re alright.” Then he called your name to introduce you. “This is my friend, Ari.”

“Hi,” Ari said, “it’s so nice to meet you.”

Your eyes were on the ground as you nodded, but he saw you sneak a glance up at the other alpha, and your eyes went wide as they landed on his neck.

Before Curtis had a chance to wonder what that was about, Ari pulled him aside. “You’re doing really good, Curtis,” he said quietly. “I want you to know that. And if you need anything, I’m just a call or text away, okay? You aren’t alone in this.”

Curtis gave his friend a warm smile. “Yeah, he said. “That’s what everyone keeps telling me. Thank you.”

“Absolutely, anytime,” Ari said, then made his way back inside.

“Alright,” Curtis said to you. “Ready to head home?”

You nodded, and your shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Yes, Curtis.”

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[clancykolzig]

The Arrangement ~ Chapter 13

Series Masterlist

Words: 9.5k

Pairing: Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders) x Reader F

Warnings: Bloody gun violence, death, survivor's guilt, anxiety, PTSD

Today's the wedding. Everything is beautiful and perfect. Until it isn't.

It was finally the day of the wedding. You woke before the sun had fully climbed above the trees outside the bedroom window. The light was soft and golden, filtering through the sheer curtains like the morning was holding its breath just for you.

Today.

You didn’t move right away. For a long moment, you just lay there, listening to the birds outside. You heard the sounds of the house beginning to stir. Somewhere below, a floorboard creaked. You could hear faint voices in the kitchen, probably your mother, already organizing something. She’d been in full planning mode since yesterday afternoon.

None of it felt real. Not the silk robe draped over the end of the bed. Not the wedding dress Polly had guarded like a state secret. And definitely not the fact that by nightfall, you would be Tommy Shelby’s wife.

Your hand drifted over your stomach, absently. You smiled. The baby had settled again after all the chaos of the last few days, and you wondered if he knew what day it was. The day when his parents made it official in front of the Almighty and all of Small Heath. 

Sliding out of bed, you crossed to the window and cracked it open an inch, letting in the early spring air. It smelled like grass and roses and new beginnings. A small army of people were rushing in and out of the house with deliveries, flowers. All around them were men with guns, some you recognized and others you didn't.

Behind you, the bedroom door creaked open. “You’re up,” your mother said warmly, stepping inside. “I was just coming to wake you.”

You turned, and she smiled like she was seeing you as a little girl again. “Big day,” she added, her voice catching. “I’ll send in the maid to start your bath. There’s a lot to do. Polly wants your hair done just so. The dress is pressed, and the veil’s ready. And I brought you tea.”

She crossed to the nightstand and set it down. Lemon slices floated in the cup. Of course, your mum thought of everything. “Thanks, Mum.”

Mary cupped your face for a second, then leaned in and kissed your forehead. “You’re going to be the most beautiful bride this city has ever seen.”

You smiled. “I hope Tommy thinks so.”

Mary raised a brow. “If that man doesn’t tear up seeing you, I’ll slap him myself.”

You laughed, a little shakily, and the sound eased something in your chest. As she turned to leave, she glanced back once more. “Breathe, love. The day’s only just begun.”

And as the door closed behind her, you let yourself smile. You weren’t afraid of the marriage or belonging to Tommy. You were struggling with expectations. The eyes that would be on you today.

But you were walking into it on your own terms, in the most beautiful wedding dress. Your own quiet joy tucked like armor around your heart. 

The steam from your bath had only just begun to fade from the room when Polly appeared, sweeping in like she’d choreographed the entire morning herself. 

“Now, let's get to work on your hair,” she declared.

You exchanged a quick glance with your mother, who only smirked behind her teacup.

Polly’s gaze was intent on you. “You slept, yes?”

“I did,” you said. “Surprisingly well.”

She gave a nod, approving. “Good.”

You sat before the small vanity as Polly began working on your hair. Her touch was brisk, but careful. Every now and then she paused to tilt your chin this way or that, deciding what looked best.

“This needs to hold all day,” she said more to herself than to you. “Through the ceremony, dinner, and dancing.” A slight frown. “And hopefully no running for your life.”

“Polly,” Mary warned gently.

But you couldn’t help the dry laugh that escaped. “Let’s hope not.”

You met Polly's gaze in the mirror, and for a beat, everything stilled. There was something in her gaze that hadn’t been there before. Something protective, yes, but deeper than that. Like she’d seen this moment coming long before you had.

Polly's expression softened, her sharp features momentarily giving way to something wistful. She smoothed a crease on your dress, not because it needed it, but to keep her hands busy. “I wasn’t sure Tommy would ever find someone,” she said, her voice low and honest. “Much less marry her.”

You turned to look at her fully, surprised by the confession.

“But then he saw you. And just like that--” she snapped her fingers lightly “--his mind was made up.”

You gave a soft laugh, nodding. Despite how it all started, it was exactly what he did. 

She nodded. “Ada was right. And at least the two of you get along well enough.”

There was a beat of silence between you, a shared stillness.

“I love him,” you said suddenly, the words slipping out like a truth you’d been holding close.

Polly just looked at you, that knowing light in her eyes burning warmer now.

“Good,” she said, adjusting the edge of your veil. “Because he’d burn the world down for you.”

Polly said nothing more, but her eyes were suspiciously shiny as she resumed styling your hair with new precision.

Mary came over and carefully opened the dress bag, revealing the gown Polly had guarded like a crown jewel. The fabric shimmered faintly in the morning light. It was elegant and soft, with embroidery at the hem and delicate lace at the sleeves. It was beautiful, and it was yours. Next to it was the soft pale blue dress your mother had crafted for the reception. It was almost as beautiful as the wedding dress and blessedly shorter to make it easier to move around and dance. 

You stood slowly, reaching for the wedding gown as Polly helped you step in and adjust the fit. Mary carefully zipped it, smoothing it into place with hands that had clothed you since you were a child. When they were done, they stepped back in silence as you turned toward the full-length mirror. 

The gown settled perfectly against your frame, every detail stitched with care, every fold a reminder of just how far you’d come. Polly adjusted the veil one last time while Mary watched, her eyes misting with something between pride and disbelief. 

For weeks, you’d been afraid. Afraid of not being enough, for Tommy, for this day, for the future stretching out in ways you’d never dared dream. You worried people would see the girl from Gray Street, the one who didn’t belong among silks and chandeliers. And while your wedding gown subtly masked it, you were also in delicate condition. 

But now, standing here in ivory and lace, his ring on your finger and his child growing inside you, you didn’t feel like that girl anymore. He loved you, and for once, you believed it all could be yours.

Let them whisper and stare at you. The ones who mattered were already proud of you, already fighting for you.

As for the rest?

They could go to hell.

“You’re ready,” Mary said simply, her voice thick. "You look beautiful."

Polly handed you your engagement ring to slip back on. Then she carefully placed the beautiful sapphire brooch on your dress. They arranged the veil, carefully helped you into your shoes. Together the two women adjusted your veil, smoothing it into place like they were tucking in their own hopes. 

You turned toward them, your heart hammering. “Thank you, both. For everything.”

Polly smirked. “Don’t thank us yet. You haven’t made it down the aisle.”

Mary gave a watery laugh and reached out to straighten the veil, now resting like mist over your shoulders.

A knock at the door made all three of you turn. Ada burst into the room, all smiles. "You look so beautiful!"

Tommy had already been awake when the house was still dim and the halls were hushed. She sprawled across him as she always did, one arm draped over his chest, her breath warm against his neck. It might have been the most peaceful moment he'd ever felt in this house, in this life. For one fleeting moment, he considered staying there. Waking her slowly with kisses. Letting the day wait.

But he couldn’t. Today was their wedding day.

There was too much to do. Too many things that needed to be tightened. While she slept, safe, for now, he had enemies to outmaneuver and a perimeter to fortify.

So he eased himself from beneath her with the kind of care reserved for fragile things. He pulled the covers higher over her shoulder. And then, without a sound, he dressed and disappeared into the shadows of the waking house.

Keeping her safe wasn’t something he’d leave to chance. Ever.

His shirt was buttoned, waistcoat fastened, sleeves rolled halfway up as he sipped from a mug of black coffee and reviewed the morning’s logistics with Arthur. They weren’t in the study or the kitchen or any of the usual rooms. They were in the entry hall, where the tall windows offered a clear view of the drive, the hedges, the gate. It was important that he could see the front.

“I want the outer perimeter checked again,” Tommy said, his voice low and deliberate. “Even the tree lines. I want eyes everywhere, and I want them in place before she walks out that fucking door.”

Arthur gave a tight nod. “Liam’s already out there, two good men with him. They’ve got three men walking the garden paths, four in the trees, another two by the drive.”

“And the rooftop?”

“Handled.”

Tommy took a slow drag of his cigarette, glancing toward the landing above where she was sleeping.

Arthur shifted beside him. “Rory’s got the guest list locked. No one’s getting in without a nod.”

“And anyone we don’t recognize gets escorted out the back door and into the cellar,” Tommy added.

Arthur smirked faintly. “That’s already been explained.”

Silence settled between them for a beat. Tommy’s eyes narrowed as he watched a bird flutter across the drive. A simple movement, but it reminded him of the “gift” that had arrived days ago. The floral bomb.

“They wanted to shake her,” Tommy said quietly. “Make her afraid to walk down the aisle.”

Arthur’s posture tensed. “Yeah, well, they fucked that up, didn’t they?”

Tommy exhaled through his nose. "She’s still walking,” he said. “I’m still waiting.”

He tossed the spent cigarette into a nearby tray and straightened the cuffs of his shirt. The suit he’d wear for the wedding was hanging upstairs, perfect and untouched. He wasn’t putting it on until every single man on his list confirmed their place.

“I’m heading down to the gate to see it myself,” he said. “No delays, no surprises. Not today.”

Arthur gave a nod. “You’ll be back in time?”

Tommy looked up toward the stairs again. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. “I will.”

Then he turned, coat already in hand, and strode out the door like a man on a mission.

Today wasn’t just a wedding. Today was sacred.

And no one, no Italian, no enemy, no devil in a silk suit, was going to ruin this for her.

The church was breathtaking, with columns wrapped in soft white blooms and gold candles flickering in the stained glass light. It looked like something out of a dream.

You, however, were struggling not to hyperventilate.

It was standing room only. You’d seen the crowd through the carriage window and nearly turned to mist on the spot. So many people. All of them waiting to see you. 

Ada, calm and composed as ever, stood at your side, adjusting a pin in your veil with steady hands. “Breathe,” she murmured. “You look perfect.”

Your hands clenched your bouquet tighter. “What if I trip?”

“You won’t.”

“What if I faint?”

“Then Polly and I will drag you down the aisle," Ada said with a laugh. "Either way, you’re marrying him today.”

You managed a shaky laugh.

The door opened quietly behind you, Arthur’s head poked in, half-sweat, half-scruff. He was clearly in the middle of some last-minute security scramble. But when his gaze landed on you, he gave a low whistle.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he said, grinning wide. “You look like you walked outta magazine.”

You gave him a nervous smile, as he walked closer.

With a lowered his voice, he said. “Don’t tell Tommy I said it, but… he’s the lucky one.”

You gave him a quick hug. 

"Gotta make sure no one blows us up before the vows.” He gave you a wink before he dashed off.

Ada leaned closer, grinning. “See? That’s Arthur’s version of a blessing.”

You weren’t sure how much longer you could hold it together. Now it was just you, Ada, and a hush that buzzed with nerves. 

This time when the door opened, Rory stepped in. Your brother looked so handsome in his suit, all clean lines and straight shoulders. And he wasn't looking at you with his usual teasing.

Walking closer, he smiled. “My sister.”

“You look so handsome,” you whispered, blinking fast.

“You look beautiful. Might stop Tommy’s heart when he sees you.”

You let out a small laugh, your lips trembling.

He offered his arm. “Ready to do this?”

You nodded. “I think so.”

He glanced at the altar doors, then back at you. “Dad would be proud.”

That did it. Your eyes stung instantly.

“I mean it,” Rory added, voice thick. “I know you can’t see him... but he’s here. Right now, walking with us.”

You tried to speak, but your throat wouldn’t work.

Ada sniffed from behind you. “Rory,” she said with mock sternness, stepping forward to fix your veil again. “If she starts crying now, I’ll knock you out and walk her up the aisle myself.”

Rory gave a soft laugh, eyes still on you. “Sorry. Just had to say it.”

You nodded, biting your lip to hold back the wave of emotion. 

The music began. Your heart jumped. Ada gave your hand one last squeeze and stepped ahead to take her place.

Rory held out his arm again, offering you steady ground.

You looped your arm through his, leaned in just slightly. And together, you walked into the wedding.

Tommy stood still at the front of the church, the weight of every eye in the room pressing down on him. He barely noticed the standing-room-only crowd packed tightly into the pews and aisles. He barely spared any attention for the hushed murmurs or the way the old chandelier above creaked slightly in the beams. The scent of flowers filled the air, too sweet and overpowering.

His world had narrowed to the space between himself and the entrance doors. Arthur was beside him, shifting now and then as if his suit itched, but he remained steady. His oldest brother was focused, and silent for once. Tommy’s hands were clasped in front of him, but they weren’t still. His fingers tapped against each other slowly, steady. The way he might before a deal, or a strike.

Only this wasn’t war. It was his wedding.

And still, his mind reviewed all the layers of security in place. Liam, John, had three men posted in the choir loft. One at the doors. Two at the back gate. Snipers hidden in the hedges at the estate for later.

A flash of movement caught his eye, and his heart skipped a beat. Ada appeared at the far end of the aisle, smiling. She nodded at him, turning to take her place.

A hush swept over the church like a gentle wind. Tommy’s breath caught somewhere between his lungs and ribs. The music shifted, swelling softly through the old stone church, and there she was.

Her arm was looped in Rory’s, her steps careful but steady, like she was balancing joy and nerves with every movement. Her veil caught the morning light, a shimmer of lace and promise. And beneath it, his beautiful bride. 

Tommy couldn't keep the smile off his face. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Not just because of how beautiful she looked, but because of the hopeful expression on her face. That quiet mix of determination and wonder. Like she couldn’t believe this was real, but she was walking toward him anyway.

Everyone shifted in their seats to catch a glimpse of her, and he heard the collective hush, the low murmurs of admiration. He saw it too, in the way Polly blinked back tears, in the way even Ada softened. It was in the proud tilt of Mary’s chin.

Everything, everything, felt right for a moment in a life full of wrong.

She’d changed everything. Not just his days, or his plans, or the way he slept at night. She'd changed the man he was, the future he wanted. And now she was walking toward him.

His. 

And as she took that first step toward him, Tommy felt his heart soften, and then it swore. I’ll protect her. I’ll love her. Whatever comes, we walk through it together.

She reached him finally, and Tommy carefully lifted her veil to reveal her face. 

Rory took her hand gently, looking Tommy straight in the eye. “I promised our father I’d always keep her safe,” he said quietly, his voice steady but thick with feeling. He placed her hand in Tommy’s. “Today I'm keeping that promise.”

Stepping back, his eyes never left them.

Tommy managed a nod, one warrior to another. No thanks, no speech. Just a look that said I understand. And I’ll protect what you’ve given me.

Her fingers slipped into his, warm and trembling slightly. Tommy didn’t let go. She was all he saw as the priest welcomed the guests, when the first verses of scripture were read. Polly coughed pointedly from the front row, because he hadn’t looked away from his bride in two full minutes.

And he didn’t care.

Because for all the gunfire, the backroom deals, and the ghosts that haunted his name, this moment was clean. Holy, even. He wouldn’t taint it by looking away. 

And she wasn’t looking away either. That meant something to him.

The vows came, and she spoke hers first. He heard every word as she slid the ring on his finger. Not just the ones she said, but the ones she didn’t. The small shake in her voice when she promised to stand with him. The way her eyes glossed when she said “love.”

Then it was his turn. Tommy found his throat tightening as he began, but he got through it. Every word and vow, every ounce of emotion he poured into a promise that only she would ever hear fully. He was able to breathe easier now, his ring on her hand.

And in the beat that followed, before the priest spoke, before anyone moved, she mouthed the words: I love you.

She'd said it before, once or twice. But this time it wasn’t in the dark or in passing. It wasn’t after a night tangled in sheets or a morning half-lost to quiet smiles.

It was now and in front of everyone. In front of God, in front of the ghosts.

Tommy told her once, say it when you mean it, and I’ll know. Now he did.

His heart raced in his chest, not from nerves. From knowing he’d never wanted anything so badly to be true, and now it was. 

The priest smiled and nodded, his voice rising in a joyful declaration. “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Tommy pulled her in before the priest finished the sentence. He kissed her like the world had finally stopped spinning. One hand on her waist, the other wrapped protectively around the back of her neck, grounding them both.

The church erupted into cheers and clapping, and somewhere behind them Arthur let out a triumphant whoop. But Tommy didn’t hear any of it. 

All he knew was the soft rush of her breath against his cheek as he whispered, “Mine now. All mine.”

And for the first time in his life, Tommy wasn’t chasing power or revenge or peace. He was simply standing still right where he wanted to be.

The light inside the hall was golden, soft and warm, and just a little bit surreal. Like a dream painted in candlelight and music. You didn’t think you’d remember much after the ceremony, or the trip back to the mansion. Your head had been spinning when your mother helped you change from the bridal gown to the soft blue dress. Your heart was full, and you could breathe now.

Now it was real.

The Shelby mansion had never looked like it did today. The long drive was lined with lanterns, flickering softly even in the daylight, casting a warm welcome over arriving guests. Black cars lined the edge of the property like a protective wall, each one housing a man Tommy trusted with his life. Not that you’d know it from the outside.

You met Tommy there in that small hallway, the quiet just before the storm. Next was a grand entrance into the reception and it sounded easier than the wedding until you got there. 

Tommy's gaze moved slowly over the dress you wore now, like he was memorizing it. Every detail, and line. His gaze finally settled on yours, and he smiled.

“You look…” His voice trailed off. He gave a small shake of his head and stepped closer. “No one’s going to remember what the room looked like. Or what they ate. Or what songs they danced to.” He lifted your hand in his. “They’ll remember the moment they saw you. Just like this.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest. He leaned in, lips brushing your temple. “And so will I.”

Then, with a quieter smile, the one only you ever got, he whispered, “Come on, love. Let’s give them a night they’ll never forget.”

And with your hand in his, the doors opened. 

The main reception room was a golden glow of polished wood, crystal, and fresh flowers in deep sapphire, ivory, and blush – all hand-selected by Mary and Ada, with Tommy’s final approval. A string quartet played softly in one corner, weaving elegant music through the chatter of the gathered crowd. Champagne flowed from tall-stemmed glasses, and the scent of roast meats, warm bread, and honeyed fruit filled the air from the lavish buffet.

Tables were dressed in linen and lace, each setting marked with fine china and silver place cards. Even the cutlery had been polished to a mirror shine. In the center of it all, the dance floor gleamed, waxed to perfection, waiting for the bride and groom’s first dance. Above it, a grand chandelier sparkled, catching the late afternoon light.

Family mingled with allies. Powerful men nodded in greeting. Curious glances were cast toward the new Mrs. Shelby – admiration, envy, and speculation. The girl from Gray Street now stood at the center of Birmingham’s most powerful family.

Polly held court near the hearth, drink in hand and eyes everywhere. Arthur laughed too loudly. John winked at anyone who looked his way. Ada, elegant and calm, kept things from tipping too far into chaos.

And Tommy, calm, collected, and devastatingly sharp in his tailored black suit, watched everything. He held your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to earth. All around you there was warmth and laughter. A hum of tension just under the surface, always. But for a moment, it felt like a fairytale.

When the music shifted, the murmur of voices fell to a hush as Tommy led you out to the dance floor. “Dance with me, Mrs. Shelby.”

He led you confidently, as though he’d been born for this moment. As though nothing in the world could go wrong while your hand was in his. The music was slow and sweeping, strings humming softly through the air. You didn’t trip and you didn’t falter because he had you.

“Easy,” he murmured by your ear. “See? You’re perfect.”

And then he began to hum along to the song, low and sweet, just for you. You could have melted right there. The room blurred around the edges, faces blurring into soft shapes, candlelight spinning gently. For a few minutes, it was just you and him. When the song ended and the clapping started, he dipped you just slightly, his forehead resting against yours. And you knew. No matter what came next, he was your anchor. 

Yours.

Dinner was elegant but warm. It was the kind of meal that felt both grand and deeply personal. Long tables were set with gleaming silverware, crystal glasses, and flickering candlelight that made everything glow. The menu was carefully curated: roasted lamb with rosemary, herb-stuffed chicken, buttery potatoes, fresh bread still warm from the oven, and vegetables seasoned to perfection. Wine flowed freely, and every course was met with quiet approval or cheerful clinking of glasses.

Laughter and conversation filled the room, the din of family and friends finally relaxing after a tense week. Tommy looked pleased with everything. Ada had been right. It was a wedding fit for royalty. 

Arthur raised his glass first, clearing his throat with the subtlety of a foghorn. “Right,” he muttered, then glanced at Tommy. “He’s not one for speeches, so I’m doin’ it. You all should know, this man…” He paused, almost cracking a smile. “He was a right miserable bastard until she came along.”

Laughter echoed through the room. Even Tommy smirked.

“But truth is, I’ve never seen him look at anyone like he looks at her. Never thought I would. So... I'm glad he found someone to put a smile on his face. And to put up with him.” He lifted his glass. “To Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Shelby.”

The room erupted with cheers and clinking glasses. You beamed.

John was there beside Esme, wearing an easy grin. He stood up after Arthur’s toast, clapping his brother on the back on the way to the front. 

“Not about to let Arthur have the last word,” John said, lifting his glass. “I mean, look at him. He cried during the vows. He’s gone soft.”

Laughter rippled through the room.

“But in all seriousness,” John continued, his grin fading to something gentler, “we’ve seen Tommy build an empire with nothing but grit, blood, and stubbornness. Thought that was all he needed.” He paused, looking toward the bride. “Turns out, he needed someone to remind him there’s more to life than the fight.” He lifted his glass higher. “To the woman who changed our brother. And to the little life on the way that’s about to change him even more. Cheers.”

A chorus of cheers echoed as John sat back down, eyes shining with something unspoken.

Your smile faltered the moment the words left John’s mouth. “…and to the little life on the way..."

Your heart nearly stopped. John said it, in front of everyone. You felt heat rush up your neck as a hundred pairs of eyes seemed to swing toward you all at once. Some faces lit with surprise, others with knowing smirks. Polly’s brows lifted slightly, Mary looked at you in concern, and Ada mouthed something that looked suspiciously like “bloody John.” 

You kept smiling, nodding politely as glasses clinked and the cheers echoed around the room. But inside? Panic. Tight and rising.

Tommy hadn’t made any public announcements. You hadn’t discussed when or how you'd share that bit of news. And now everyone knew. Your hand instinctively drifted to your belly under the table, a protective motion you hoped no one noticed. You glanced at Tommy beside you, who was calm and unreadable, as always. But there was a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

He leaned in just enough for only you to hear, his hand finding yours under the table. “John’s a sentimental idiot,” he murmured. “But the secret’s out now.”

You gave him a look, and he saw right through it. 

Tommy’s gaze didn’t waver. “No one here believes I’d allow myself to be navigated into marriage even with a babe on the way,” he said, quiet but certain. “They know me better than that.”

His fingers curled around yours with a firm, reassuring squeeze. "If anything,” Tommy went on, softer now, “it was the other way around.”

You stared at him.

“The day Rory told me, when you were at your uncle's and I was just fucking lost... I was happy to hear it.” He looked away briefly, then back at you. “Not just because you were having my child. Maybe it meant I’d get a second chance. That you might let me try to do it right this time."

Emotion swelled in your chest, sharp and warm all at once. His hand tightened around yours.

“And now here we are."

You blinked fast, willing the tears not to fall, not in front of everyone. But they weren’t from fear or sorrow. They were the kind of tears that came from finally feeling safe and loved.

Polly rose next, her presence commanding even without trying. She lifted her glass, her voice steady, but full of emotion. 

“I’ve seen this family at its worst," she said. "I've also seen it on the verge of tearing itself apart. And tonight…” Her eyes flicked to Tommy, then to you. “Tonight, I see what we can be at our very best.”

She spoke not just as an aunt, but as a matriarch, acknowledging the past, honoring the present, and nodding toward the future.

“To the bride, who has given my nephew something I never thought he’d find." She paused, just long enough for her next words to really settle. “And to the child, who will grow up in a house that knows both war and love. Hopefully more of the latter.”

The crowd raised their glasses with a soft murmur of appreciation. Tommy nodded to her, a quiet, unspoken thank you. 

And you felt welcomed, like you were part of the family officially.

Polly's eyes shone just a bit too brightly to be completely dry. She gave you a hug before making adjustments to you like she was afraid she wrinkled you, smiling. When she handed you a fresh champagne flute, you accepted it and then found a place to set it to the side when you could. You wanted to enjoy the drinks with everyone, but it wasn't sitting right with your stomach, so you took it easy. 

Even your mother was glowing and tipsy. She was seated with Rory, who looked so proud. Not just to be a blinder, but his sister was marrying their king. As you visited with your family, you caught him sneaking glances at Irene. Tommy had hired her to help your mother at the shop, and she was a lovely girl you recognized from town. Her smile was kind, and Rory shyly glanced down every time Irene caught him looking her way. You'd tease him about it later. Your mother, seeing the same things you did, winked at you.

The music had shifted again, something lively, with strings and horns wrapping around the buzz of laughter and celebration. Her laughter cut through the noise, warm and unmistakably hers. It reached him even above the hum of conversation, above the clinking of champagne flutes and the scraping of silverware. Tommy’s eyes found her easily, even in the crowd. She was standing with Ada and Polly, her dress catching the golden light spilling in from the chandeliers. Her head was thrown back slightly, laughing at something Ada had said. 

He didn’t smile often, not without effort. But watching her now, he felt it, unforced and real. He hadn’t let her out of his sight since the ceremony and wouldn’t, not tonight. Not after everything. Even now, with every Blinder on high alert and trusted men posted outside, he kept his gaze on her. 

Tonight, she wasn’t just the girl he’d fallen in love with. She was his wife. And in this room full of allies and ghosts, she was the only thing that mattered.

Tommy watched her dance with Finn, glowing and unburdened. She’d danced with Arthur earlier, and he’d been fine with that. Arthur had held her like she was family, one of the first times in Tommy’s life when that word had meant something soft instead of something sharp. Rory had danced with her and they were laughing about something, about the girl Tommy had hired to help their mother with sewing if he had to guess. The lad had an eye for her and Tommy was fine with it as long as it didn't distract him from his duties. 

A couple of other men, business associates, mostly, had asked her to dance. They had been polite and respectful. She’d looked to Tommy for the okay each time, and he’d nodded. But the second their hands wandered beyond what was acceptable, the moment their smiles lingered too long, he’d been there. Smooth interruptions, barely noticeable to anyone but her. A hand at her back, a soft word in her ear, a silent request. Tommy couldn't help himself, and she never refused him.

For one goddamned moment, everything in the world was exactly as it should be.

Until it wasn’t. 

Tommy felt the ripple before he saw it, his instincts sharp despite the sound and splendor all around him. He saw movement at the edge of the crowd. He didn't recognize the man, too crisp, too polished. No coat, just a clean black suit that didn’t fit the occasion. The man's posture gave him away, his shoulders were too squared, his eyes were too sharp, too focused.

As Tommy watched, like a vision from a nightmare, the man's hand moved to his side, his jacket parting.

“Gun!” Arthur’s voice cut through the hum of music like the crack of a whip, raw but too far away.

Rory was closer, already moving. He'd spotted the man, too. He shouted something Tommy didn’t catch, surging forward.

All Tommy could think about in that moment was her. She was dancing with his youngest brother, eyes shining under the lights. His heart lurched in his chest.

Christ.

He lunged as the shot rang out, shattering the room. Tommy was aware of the screams that erupted, chairs clattering backward, and glass hitting the floor. It was then that he caught a glimpse of Rory, out of the corner of his eye. Rory moved in his direction just as Tommy reached his bride. He felt a hand shove him down, causing him to stumble. 

Another shot, brother and sister went down in front of him. His bride, Rory, collapsing together. Her soft blue dress was splattered in red, and Tommy's heart almost stopped.

“No,” Tommy breathed.

Another shot cracked the air, coming from next to him. Rory got off a shot. The would-be assassin jerked backward, clutching his gut with blood blooming across his shirt. His gaze was on Tommy, but by the time he hit the floor, he was dead.

Tommy dropped to his knees beside her and Rory, his breath tearing from his chest. His hands moved fast, searching and trembling.

“Move,” he ordered, more a plea than a command.

Her eyes were wide with panic, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts like her lungs couldn’t remember what they were supposed to do. Her blue dress was soaked in crimson, and for one frozen second, Tommy thought the worst.

“No, no...” he rasped, his voice cracking as he reached for her.

He eased Rory off her carefully, his hands shaking as he braced his brother-in-law’s weight and lowered him gently to the floor. Every breath Tommy took tasted like metal and dread. He looked her over, his hands moving over her sides, her belly, her arms, checking, searching, and praying.

It wasn’t her blood. Thank God. Thank fucking God.

But then her gaze dropped, down to the still form beside her, the dark stain blooming beneath Rory’s side.

“No,” she whispered, horror dawning in her eyes. “Rory...” She reached for her brother, her trembling hands brushing his shoulder, his cheek, desperately checking for movement, for a response, for anything. And then she saw her hand. Slick with blood that wasn’t her own. Rory’s blood. She gasped, recoiling like she’d been burned. And in the same breath, she flung the gun clutched in her other hand, like it was cursed. It hit the floor with a dull clatter.

Tommy jumped in, already pressing both hands to Rory’s side, trying to stop the bleeding. Her hands were shaking, her breath quick and shallow, but she wasn’t frozen. She was trying, fighting through her panic. His gaze dropped to Rory’s coat, open and askew. The holster under his jacket was empty, making Tommy’s chest tighten.

His wife had drawn Rory’s gun, and she’d fired. Jesus Christ, she’d shot the man.

Arthur was there now, dropping to a knee beside them, wide-eyed and breathless. His gaze landed on the gun, then swung back to her. He'd seen it too.

"Rory?" she begged, frantic now.

Rory groaned low. The sound of it, strangled and thick, ripped through Tommy like a blade.

“Medic!” Arthur yelled, closer now. “We need a fuckin’ medic!”

Tommy pressed a hand over the wound in Rory’s side, clamping down hard. “Stay with us, Rory,” he muttered. “Stay awake.”

Rory nodded weakly.

The sound of boots, fast and urgent, pounded against the floor. Men burst through the crowd, men who worked for Tommy and served with him in France. They moved with practiced speed, already calling out to each other, already kneeling at Rory’s side.

And then Mary’s voice tore through the chaos. “Rory!”

Tommy didn’t try to stop her, he couldn’t have if he’d tried. She broke through the stunned onlookers like a storm, hitting her knees beside her son, her hands already searching his face, his chest, his hand.

“Sweet Jesus, no, baby, stay with me...” Mary whispered. When her gaze landed on her daughter, he thought she'd faint. His girl just shook her head, pointing to Rory. 

Tommy was already moving, his arms going around his blood-covered wife. Her lips were parted, panic shining in her eyes. He crouched beside her, his voice low and steady. “Come here, love,” he said, reaching for her arms and gently pulling her back.

“But he’s...” She looked to Rory, torn. 

“He’s not alone,” Tommy said. “They’ve got him. They need room to work.”

She looked like she might argue, might crawl right back over. But her hands, still sticky with blood, trembled violently. Her breath came fast, shallow. Shock was setting in.

Tommy gathered her close. “You're alright. They'll take care of him." He eased her back just far enough for the medics to work, shielding her with his body. She buried her face in his shoulder, tears coming on.

Behind him, Mary sobbed her son’s name again. Polly knelt next to her. Arthur and Finn were clearing the space. The shooter lay slumped in a widening pool of blood. The man's eyes were glassy, the gun still loose in his hand.

His bride's gaze followed the line of his gaze, and she gasped. Tommy felt her body stiffen in his arms.

“I shot him, Tommy,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I... I shot him.” Terror cracked through the words like glass under pressure.

Tommy pulled her closer, one hand rising to cradle the back of her head, the other settling protectively at her waist.

“I know,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her temple. “I know you did.”

She flinched like she might break away, like she wanted to take the blame and the guilt and run with it.

He wouldn’t let her. “You saved my life,” he said, low and fierce. “You saved me. You saved Rory.”

“But I...” Her voice caught. “I didn’t even think, I just... his gun, it was there and...”

“Good,” his voice was harder now, but steadier. “That’s what you do when someone comes for your family. You don’t think, you protect them.”

He felt her breath hitch, felt the war between panic and reason. Tilting her face toward his, his gaze locked on hers. “You did what you had to do. And you’re alright. Rory’s going to be alright.” 

And that bastard got what he deserved.

He brushed a smear of blood from her cheek with his thumb. “Let me carry this, yeah? Just hold on to me.”

She didn’t speak again. But she clung to him like he was the only thing keeping her grounded. And in that moment, he was.

The study smelled of smoke and powder. Or maybe that was just in Tommy’s head. Sitting behind his desk, the crystal tumbler was warm in his hand. John was perched in the chair across from him, his coat draped over one side, blood on the cuff he hadn’t bothered to clean yet.

The wedding reception was over. The guests had been sent home. Most of them never made it past the panic, the gunfire and chaos. Some were still outside in stunned little clusters, trying to make sense of what they'd seen.

Tommy wasn’t sure he ever would. He took a slow sip of whiskey, the burn steady and grounding. His free hand tapped against the desk once, twice, then stilled.

Polly entered without knocking. Tommy looked up, instantly reading the angst in her expression. The quiet way she held herself. His heart kicked hard in his chest.

He stood, the tumbler thudding softly to the desk. “Pol?”

“He’s alright,” she said quickly. “Rory’s stable. The bullet didn't hit anything vital.”

For a moment, Tommy didn’t breathe. Then he exhaled slowly, sinking back into his chair as the relief he wouldn’t let show washed through him.

Polly continued, her voice softening just slightly. “Nadya’s upstairs with her.

His wife. Tommy nodded. “How are they?”

Polly didn’t smile, but her tone warmed. “Mother and baby are fine. Nadya said the baby kicked the hell out of her the whole time she was checking her over.”

Tommy let out a low breath and scrubbed a hand over his face. He felt older than he had that morning. Felt every one of his years, and then some.

The door swung open again, and in walked Arthur. He strode in like he owned the place, blood still crusted on one sleeve, his hair askew, breathing hard like he’d just come from shouting at someone.

Arthur spotted Polly, gave her a nod, then turned to Tommy with a grin that didn’t match the somber tone of the study. “It’s all anyone in Small Heath’s talkin’ about,” he announced, throwing himself into one of the chairs. “Your bride.”

Tommy arched a brow. “What about her?”

Arthur laughed, low and proud. “The way she took that bastard down. Everyone’s sayin’ it. Some even swear they saw it happen. Half of ’em didn’t even make it past the buffet, but now they’ve got a front-row seat in the story, you know what I mean?”

Polly folded her arms. “Of course they do. You give people a headline and they’ll write their own damn story.”

Arthur smirked. “Aye, but this one’s good. Someone sent a killer, the fuckin' Italians most likely, and she shot him dead at her own bloody wedding reception. Bang. They're all talking about it like a fuckin’ film scene.”

Tommy sat back, his fingers tightening around his glass, but his expression didn’t change.

Polly’s gaze moved to Tommy, then to the tumbler in his hand. Pulling down three more tumblers, Polly filled each with whiskey as she talked. “She didn’t freeze,” she said, almost to herself. Lifting a tumbler, she stepped closer, her voice lowering with something close to reverence. “She did what she had to do. That’s what it takes to survive in this family.”

There was a beat, and then a faint, proud smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She handed the other tumblers to Arthur and John. “I hate that she had to do it. Hate that the Italians will paint a bigger target on her back now. But damn it, Tom..." Polly shook her head slightly. “I'm proud of her.”

She raised her glass. “To your bride,” she said. “And to the poor bastard who didn’t live long enough to regret underestimating her.”

His brothers drank to that. 

Tommy stayed quiet for a beat longer, the voices around him fading into the hum of the fire and the ticking of the old clock on the mantel. Polly watched him, her eyes full of truths too heavy to speak aloud. He knew what they were thinking. Hell, he’d already thought it himself.

The first time you kill someone... it  stays with you. Even when it’s right. Even when it’s justified. He’d carried his first for years. Still did, buried under the others, but never gone.

And now she’d have her own ghost. One that wore a suit, crashed a wedding, and bled out on the floor just feet from where they danced. He sighed. 

And if she'd lost her brother because of him... That kind of loss, changed people. It hollowed them out. He’d seen it in trenches, in hospital wards, in his own bloody mirror. And if she’d lost Rory on what should have been the happiest day of her life because someone wanted to hurt him... It had bought them another chance. It didn’t make any of it right. But it justified her reason. For him, that was sometimes the closest thing to mercy the world ever offered.

She was upstairs alone, and he wasn’t there. Tommy drained his glass and rose from his chair without a word. John stepped back. Polly said nothing, but the smallest nod passed between them.

Tommy paused outside the guest room door, his hand resting on the frame. The hallway was dim, the house still finally quiet. The storm had passed, but the wreckage it left behind still hung in the air. He pushed the door open gently. Rory lay in the bed, still breathing, the bandages at his side stark against the white of the sheets. His chest rose and fell, slow and steady. The blood had been washed from his skin, but not from Tommy’s memory.

Mary was there beside him, seated in a wooden chair pulled close. Her hand rested lightly over her son’s, her eyes on him with a quiet intensity that hadn’t wavered since Tommy walked in.

When she looked up, Tommy waited. He braced for fury, for grief, for blame. He was prepared to take it.

But it didn’t come.

She glanced at him with the grace only years of heartbreak could teach. Her face was tired, lined with worry, but her voice was steady. “I lost my husband to the war,” she said softly, glancing back at her son. “I know you don’t always get another day.”

Tommy didn’t look away. “I never meant for this to touch them.”

Mary gave a small nod. “I know.”

A long pause passed between them. 

Tommy looked at Rory again, confirming to himself that the lad was still breathing. Still here.

He lingered at the door a moment longer before speaking. “How are you doing?” he asked quietly.

Mary let out a slow breath, the kind you take when your bones are tired and your heart's still catching up. “I’m… here,” she said finally, her voice a bit hoarse. “That’s enough for now.”

She looked back at Rory, brushing her fingers over his hair the way mothers do, no matter how grown their sons become.

“I had to make her leave the room,” Mary added after a moment. “Nadya wanted to look her over. I told her to rest. To sleep, if she could. But I doubt she’s doing either.”

Tommy wasn't surprised.

“She doesn't know how to handle this,” Mary continued gently, her eyes meeting his. “She's blaming herself for surviving. For pulling that trigger.”

Tommy didn’t speak, but considered her words and he headed for his own bedroom.

The bedroom was dim and quiet when he came in. You’d changed, wearing a modest nightgown. Someone had helped you out of the blue reception dress, but you didn’t remember who. The pale blue dress had been darkened with your brother's blood, and you'd asked someone to take it out of the room. You couldn't bear to look at it again. 

You sat on the edge of the bed, robe pulled tight around you, and your hands folded protectively over your belly. Your baby's movements were just now starting to slow after everything that had happened. You looked up when you heard the door close, and curled in on yourself a little. 

Tommy crossed the room slowly, like you might break if he moved too fast. When he sat beside you, you wanted to lean into him. But you didn't just yet.

“It was a beautiful day,” you said after a long moment, your voice hoarse. “We almost made it through without something happening.”

He took your hand in his. You turned your head, your gaze finding his.

“How do I tell him?” you whispered. “How do I ever tell my son that I took a life… while I still carried him?”

Tommy’s throat worked, but no words came out.

Looking down, you pressed your palm to the small swell of your belly, still tender from where you'd felt him move just hours ago. “He felt it,” you said softly. “The fear and the noise… all of it. I was shaking so badly, Tommy. My heart was racing, I couldn’t breathe. And he was right there.”

Your voice cracked, thick with guilt. “He felt it all, didn’t he?”

Tommy’s brow furrowed, folding your hand gently between both of his. “He felt you fight for him,” he said after a moment. 

You shook your head. “I don’t want him to be born into a world like this. I don’t want him born into violence and fear.”

There was silence for a moment. Then his thumb brushed gently over your knuckles, rough against soft. He exhaled, gaze moving briefly to your stomach, then back to meet yours.

“We’re all born into a world of violence,” he said quietly. “That’s just the way of it. Always has been. But the strong survive. The strong protect the ones they love. You did that today. You protected our family.”

Your heart squeezed in your chest at his words. 

“He’ll be strong,” Tommy said. “Because you are.”

You pressed your lips together, trembling under the weight of it. Then he reached for your face, thumb brushing away a tear, his touch gentler than it had any right to be from a man like him.

You searched his face. “But what if it’s already too late? What if it changed something in him because I...”

“You didn’t,” he said quietly but firmly. “That man was sent to kill me. He shot your brother. You put a stop to it. He felt that too.”

You let out a slow breath, but your eyes were still blurry with unshed tears. “Promise me something,” you said. “If something ever happens to me—"

“Don’t,” he said quickly, his voice rough. “Don’t talk like that.”

But you pressed on. “If something happens... you'll tell him who I really was. I'm more than what I did today.”

“I’ll tell him,” he said, voice low. “But nothing’s going to happen to you.”

You nodded slowly. Then, finally, you leaned into him, your forehead pressing against his shoulder. You welcomed the feeling of his arms around you.

“I didn’t think. I just... I saw you go down when the first shot came. Tommy, I thought I'd lost you. Rory fell after the second shot, and I saw the blood. I thought it was mine at first.” Your voice cracked. “I don't know what happened. Rory reached for his gun when... But I keep thinking about it now. I pulled the trigger. I didn’t hesitate.”

“You did what you had to do,” he said quietly. 

You shook your head. “I didn’t feel brave. I didn’t feel anything until it was done. What if I'd missed and shot some innocent person? What...”

Tommy’s eyes didn’t leave yours. He waited for you to finish, waited through the panic, the guilt, the what-ifs.

“You didn’t miss. And if you hadn’t acted, we’d be burying someone tonight. Maybe me. Maybe your brother. Or you and our child.” His arms tightened around you. “You were clear and focused. That’s not luck. That’s instinct. That’s love.”

He pulled you against him, your head against his chest as if he could absorb all of your guilt and fear, take your sins as his own. “Do you think I’ve never asked myself that? If I missed, if I hit the wrong man, if I ruined something I was trying to save?” His gaze found yours again. “But I know what I saw tonight. You didn’t panic. You protected your brother. You protected me.” He exhaled, slow and heavy. “And our son’s going to grow up with both of his parents. Because of you.”

Tommy was quiet for a long moment, still holding onto you. “There was a boy in France,” he said quietly. “Barely sixteen. He lied about his age so he could serve. He was scared of everything. Shells. Rain. Rats. Used to keep a photograph of his mum folded in his breast pocket, always touching it... One night, the trench got overrun. He froze, couldn’t move. I pulled him down, shouted at him to run... but he stayed frozen. So I shot the man charging him. Right over his shoulder.”

Easing back, his gaze met yours. “I’ve never forgotten the look on his face. Like I’d done something monstrous. Or maybe divine. I don’t know.” His voice dropped lower. “I didn’t feel anything at that moment. Not until after.”

You were silent, listening.

“I told myself it didn’t matter. That he lived. That was all that counted.” He hesitated. “But it did matter. Still does.” Then his voice gentled. “So when you talk about how to tell our son... maybe don’t tell him about the killing. Maybe tell him about the moment you saw someone you loved about to die, and you did what no one else could do.”

You burrowed into his warmth, giving yourself to his strength. You swallowed hard. “Maybe,” you whispered. “But I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”

Tommy didn’t argue. He didn’t offer some soft lie about time healing everything. He only nodded, because he understood. His breath was steady, the faint scent of smoke and whiskey and him wrapping around you like a cloak. And when he pressed the softest kiss to your temple, something in you finally let go.

You weren’t alright, and you might not be for some time to come. But you were safe and loved. 

And you weren’t carrying the weight of today alone.

You held onto Tommy a little tighter, still tasting the blood and fear on your tongue. The vows had been real, the love undeniable. But now you knew something else too.

This war wasn’t over. It had only just begun.

@outlanderuniverse @alyssajunelle @gothic-chinadoll @sparda1234 @mrsnms @alexakeyloveloki @theinheriteddutchess @wiseyouthingluencer @lovinglimerence @goldensunflowe-r @andydrysdalerogers @hellfirehopeless @wantedby-larry @mariaenchanted @moonbeamott @thetamtam9 @ayeeeitsmiracle @atlas-of-a-human-soul

[clancykolzig]

🥵🥵🥵🥵

The Arrangement ~ Chapter 10

Series Masterlist

Words: 9.2k

Pairing: Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders) x Reader F

Warnings: Misogynist insults, veiled threats, a war with the Italians, threats of violence with guns and knives, explicit sex, oral (m receiving)

The wedding draws closer, and preparations are being made. When a well-intentioned trip ends with your encounter with Angel Changretta, is it just an isolated incident? Or is it a match in a powder keg?

Tommy arrived late to the shop that morning, not by hours, but late enough to turn heads. His tie was slightly loosened, a rare thing for him. He couldn't get the sight of his beautiful fiancee out of his head. He wasn't sure how he'd even dragged himself out of his own bedroom with her still in bed, wearing only his shirt and her brand new ring. With her smiling at him like that... He'd really wanted to strip everything off her but the ring, and spend a couple of hours making her sing for him, beg for him. 

But there were things to be done now. There was security to plan, names to cross off lists. A wedding to finalize that would silence every voice in Birmingham daring to question who she was to him.

Still, as he pushed open the door to the betting shop and stepped inside, a ghost of a smile stayed with him. 

Arthur spotted him first. “Well, would you look at that,” he muttered, elbowing John. “He’s grinning. Poor bastard’s in love.”

John leaned back in his chair, boots on the table, hands behind his head. “So? Did she say yes?"

Tommy crossed the room like a man with a hundred fires to put out, but for once, he didn’t seem burned by it. He dropped a file onto the table with a quiet thud, glanced up, and smirked. “She said yes.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Arthur said with a grin, clapping a hand on his brother's shoulder. “We’re all done for.”

Even Rory cracked a smile from where he stood near the window, arms folded.

The jokes settled after a moment, replaced by the sound of pages turning and footsteps echoing down the hall. But Tommy didn’t sit. Instead, he glanced toward Rory.

“I need a word,” he said. Not unkindly.

Rory stepped forward without hesitation, and Tommy met him halfway. 

“I know your father’s gone,” Tommy said. “And I’d like to ask you to stand in for him.”

Rory’s brow furrowed.

“At the wedding,” Tommy clarified. “To give her away.”

Silence. Arthur went still, and even John lowered his boot from the table. Rory looked like the breath had left his lungs.

“I...” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “You want me to...”

Tommy nodded. “If you’re willin’.”

Rory swallowed hard. “Yeah. I’d be honored, Mr. Shelby.”

Tommy clapped a hand on his shoulder, firm and brief. “Good.” His grip lingered a second longer as his gaze met Rory’s. “And it’s Tommy,” he said quietly. “You’re family now. One of us.”

Rory stood a little straighter, as if the weight of the words hit him somewhere deeper than he expected.

Arthur gave a rough nod. “’Bout bloody time someone around here had some sense.”

John grinned, nodding his approval. Laughter loosened the tension in the room for a moment, but the meaning stayed. Rory wasn’t just marrying into this life through his sister. He was part of it. And from where Tommy was standing, Rory had bloody earned his place.

Flipping open the map of Birmingham laid out on the table, Tommy steered the conversation back towards business. “Now, security. I want every man on alert. We’ve got a week, and no surprises.” He jabbed a finger at the church, then the mansion, then a few key streets surrounding both. “Stationed here, here, and here. Anyone breathing the wrong way near the wedding party gets stopped. Ask questions later. I want eyes on rooftops. Intersections. Train platforms.”

Arthur leaned in. “You want snipers?”

“Don’t want  ‘em,” Tommy said. “Already called two. Lee boys. Trusted.” He looked up. “They’ ll be on rooftops."

John gave a low whistle. “All this for a wedding.”

Tommy looked him dead in the eye. “Not just a wedding. It’s a message to every family from here to Camden Town. I want everyone to know who my wife is, that she's mine to protect. That means something.”

Rory nodded his understanding.

That was when John shifted, clearing his throat. “On the topic of family… Lizzie’s still seeing Angel Changretta.”

Tommy’s brow lifted slowly. “Still?”

“Spotted  ‘em two nights ago, walking by the canal like they didn’t have a care in the fuckin’  world.”

Arthur scoffed. “Christ, she knows better.”

“She should,” John muttered, sharper now. “Should’ve known better than to get tangled with Italians. Especially that Italian.”

Tommy sat back slightly, eyes narrowing. “It’s a distraction. And worse, it’s sloppy. She knows who the Changrettas are.”

“She doesn’t care,” John bit out, then caught himself. “Or maybe she does. She’s always liked trouble.”

Arthur smirked. “Or maybe it’s you that cares, eh?”

“Shut up.” John shot him a glare.

Tommy raised a hand. “That’s enough. I’ll speak with Lizzie. She’ll end it.”

Rory hadn’t said a word, but he was watching them all with that quiet, calm read-the-room silence of someone new to the politics, but no less aware of the tension.

John huffed and sat back. “I’m just sayin’… if he keeps sniffin’ around, someone’s gonna have to put the bastard in his place.”

Tommy gave him a cold look. “Not until I say.”

John didn’t argue, but the heat in his eyes hadn’t cooled.

Tommy closed the map with a snap and leaned forward, voice low and final. “No fuck-ups this week. None. After the wedding, we can deal with any loose ends.”

Tommy’s fingers tapped against the edge of the table as the others started murmuring about routes and patrols. But his mind wasn’t on the map anymore. It was on John. On that twitch in his jaw, the low simmer in his eyes. John was going to be a problem. Not because he meant to be. But because when John got that way, jealous and wound too tight, he didn’t always wait for orders. No, he'd look for somewhere to bleed out that frustration.

Tommy's gaze landed on Rory across the table, still silent. But his eyes had shifted too, narrowed slightly, tracking John the same way Tommy was. Good. At least someone else saw the storm coming. And if it came to it, he might need Rory to help hold the line.

As the meeting wrapped, Tommy straightened, brushing a hand over the lapel of his coat. “I’ll be in London for a couple of nights if you'll remember for the expansion. I leave in the morning.” His voice was cool, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. “Until I’m back, I expect the house guarded. Eyes on her at all times. No risks.”

Arthur nodded immediately. “You don’t have to worry, Tom. We’ve got it covered.”

Rory nodded.

Tommy gave a short nod of approval, but his gaze lingered for a beat on John, who hadn’t said a word. John was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, jaw tight. Distracted. His foot bounced restlessly beneath the table.

Tommy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That clear, John?”

John snapped his head up, forcing a smirk. “Crystal.”

But Tommy didn’t buy it. Not for a second. He turned for the door without another word, but the thought stayed with him, pressing sharp against the back of his mind. Something was coming. And his brother John was going to light the bloody match.

The day Tommy was returning from London, he'd get there tonight, you sat quietly on the edge of the chaise lounge. You tugged the velvet cloak Polly wrapped you in a little tighter around your shoulders as the argument surged like a storm just across the room. 

Polly stood her ground near the mantle, her arms crossed. “We don’t have time to wait for Tommy to get back,” she snapped. “He wants this wedding perfect--his words, not mine--and she's not wearing those old shoes with that gown.”

Arthur paced like a caged dog, his jaw locked. “It's a bad idea, Pol. We’ve had threats. Italians are stirred up. The shoemaker won’t come here? Then he doesn’t get our fuckin’ business.”

Polly rolled her eyes. “Don't be so dramatic. It’s a pair of shoes, Arthur. We’re not dragging her through the bloody docks. It’s ten minutes in and out. She’ll be cloaked, face down, shadowed the whole time... Besides, Bram Sullivan isn’t the one refusing. He can’t leave. He’s been holed up at his daughter’s place since the Italians started sniffing around. They’ve made it clear he’s not welcome outside his own bloody neighborhood.”

John frowned, stepping back toward them. “They threatened a shoemaker?”

Polly shrugged one shoulder, too casual. “The Italians don’t need reasons. They don’t like that he does work for anyone tied to the Shelbys. It’s intimidation. Petty, but it works.”

John stood near the window, unusually quiet as he watched the back-and-forth with narrowed eyes.

And next to you on the lounge, Rory leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, glancing sidelong at the chaos. “They always like this?” he muttered under his breath.

You couldn’t help it, you cracked a tired smile. “Only when they care.”

He huffed something between a chuckle and a sigh, his gaze moving to you. “You alright?”

You nodded, but there was tension in your body that wouldn’t ease. “I’m not afraid of going to see a shoemaker, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Rory studied you for a beat, then nodded. “If we end up going, I’ll be glued to your side the whole time.”

You appreciated that more than you could say.

Across the room, Arthur hadn’t let it go. “Let me go instead of John,” he snapped, turning on Polly. “He’s distracted.”

“He’s not distracted, he’s annoyed," Polly argued. "There’s a difference.”

Arthur shook his head in denial. “He’s wound up tight over Lizzie and the Italian. Don’t pretend you haven’t seen it. I don’t want that temper flaring with her in the middle.”

“I’ve got it under control,” John said flatly, but the bite in his tone undercut the calm. “This ain’t about Lizzie.”

“No?” Arthur shot back. “Then what’s it about?”

Rory watched John. He wasn’t just listening. He was reading him, and he didn’t look convinced.

Polly raised a hand to cut them off. “Enough. Arthur, you’re staying behind to mind the shop. Tommy left you in charge, remember? And the accounts need going over, especially if the Italians keep tightening their grip on the London end. You know damn well we can’t let them see us flinch.”

Arthur muttered something under his breath but didn’t argue further.

Polly clapped her hands once, sharp and decisive. “Right, then. Let’s not drag this out. I’ll send word ahead to Bram that we’ll meet him at his daughter’s shop.”

John shoved his arms into his coat, still frowning.

Rory rose more slowly beside you, his fingers brushing your arm in a small gesture of reassurance. You stood too, gathering your cloak. But even as you did, a chill threaded down your spine.

Arthur cursed under his breath and stomped toward the door, yanking it open. “If one fuckin’ hair on her head is out of place when you get back--”

“She’ll be fine,” Polly snapped, already pulling her gloves on.

John grabbed his coat off the hook, still frowning. “Can’t believe we’re doin’ this over a pair of shoes.” His voice was rough with something deeper than annoyance. And maybe it wasn’t about the shoes at all. 

You noticed Rory watching him again, quiet. You saw something in his expression. Concern, maybe, or caution. You felt like Rory was measuring every movement John made, every shift in his tone. John did seem on edge. And Rory, who rarely missed a thing these days, was well aware.

Polly gave him a withering look. “You're not wearing the gown, John.”

You knew what you were supposed to do. Keep your head down, walk with purpose, speak to no one. You weren’t just stepping out for shoes. You were stepping into enemy-adjacent territory with a target on your back and the name Shelby stitched into your shadow.

“Stay close to me,” Rory said quietly, as the two of you approached the door, following John who ignored Arthur as he walked past him.

Arthur stopped you just beyond the door and you knew he didn't like this plan. At all. "You don't leave your brother's side," he said in a serious tone. "He tells you to do something, you do it."

You nodded. “I will. Thank you, Arthur.”

Arthur just nodded to Rory, a silent message sent between them. 

The car ride was uneventful at first. Polly sat stiff-backed beside you, murmuring final instructions about posture and pace, about how Bram would take measurements quickly and that they’d be in and out before anyone had time to whisper. John was driving and didn’t say much, his gaze surveying every alley, every face on the sidewalk, like he was spoiling for a reason to jump out and cause trouble. Rory rode next to him, also vigilant but for a different reason. 

The moment you stepped out onto the street, you felt it. You felt like someone was watching you. Polly must’ve sensed it too. She slid her arm through yours, her grip like iron under the delicate lace of her gloves. The shop was tucked beside a hatter and a bakery, inconspicuous enough. But when you reached the stoop, the door didn’t open right away. Rory stepped forward, knocked once, then again --sharper the second time.

The door opened slowly, just wide enough to reveal an older woman’s lined face, her eyes narrowing as they scanned the street behind you. "You’re late,” she said to Polly.

“We’re cautious,” Polly returned coolly. “Is your father in?”

The woman’s expression softened. “Back room. Come in, quick.”

The bell above the door gave a tiny chime as it closed behind you, but the unease clung to your shoulders like mist. Bram Sullivan’s shop smelled of leather and wood polish, familiar and comforting. But your eyes scanned the corners, the windows, and the shadowy back hallway. Polly brushed past you like nothing was amiss, greeting the elderly man behind the counter. Bram was as old as sin, hunched and narrow, with fingers like brittle twigs and eyes still sharp as tacks. He gave a grunt of greeting and a nod toward the back room where he’d set up a chair for you.

“She needs fitting for a wedding pair,” Polly told him. “Thomas Shelby’s bride.”

At that, the young woman behind the counter, his granddaughter, presumably, stilled. She stared at you, her eyes narrowing just slightly. “Isn’t that the girl who went missing?” she asked, not unkindly, but not kindly either.

Your stomach twisted.

Polly turned her head slowly, her voice cool but cutting. “She’s not missing, love. Just very well protected.”

Rory stood just behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, his presence grounding. John lingered near the front window, arms crossed, a scowl etched into his face as he watched the street. Bram didn’t waste time. His steps were slow but sure as he brought over a measuring stool and gestured for you to sit. He muttered a few pleasantries as he set to work, fingers surprisingly gentle as he measured your feet, ankles, and arches. A few sharp glances to Polly as he took notes, nodding occasionally.

Just like Polly promised, quick and professional.

Still, the granddaughter hadn’t stopped watching you. You were trying to ignore it but you had to stop and consider. Is this how everyone's going to look at me at the wedding?

“Won’t take long to finish them,” Bram said at last, scribbling down the final measurement. “I’ll send them ‘round before the week’s end. Tell Mr. Shelby not to worry.”

Polly thanked him with a nod, already guiding you back toward your cloak. But the unease hadn’t left. In fact, it was getting worse.

Rory noticed first. He was by your side in an instant, his eyes narrowing as he studied your face. “What is it?”

You shook your head quickly, lips parting, but nothing came out. Polly’s gaze snapped toward you then, sharp and assessing. She didn’t speak, but her hand paused on your arm as she helped fasten your cloak. Her fingers tightened slightly. Something had shifted in your expression, and she saw it.

“Are you feeling sick?” she murmured, too low for the others. “Talk to me.”

You opened your mouth, unsure how to answer. It wasn’t the baby or the car ride or the shoe fitting. It was the air. The way the shadows outside seemed to stretch longer than they should. Before you could speak, the bell over the shop door jingled sharply. John stormed back in from the alley, fire already in his eyes.

“There’s Italians hangin’ about outside,” he muttered to Polly, his jaw tight. “Three of them. Lingerin’ near the end of the lane like they’re waitin’ on something.”

Polly tensed, eyes narrowing toward the front window. “Bram was right. They’re here to stir up trouble.

Color rose in John's face. “I’ll go have a word. Make sure they know we saw them.”

“John--” Polly warned, but it was too late.

He was out the door before she could finish, muttering something under his breath about “bastards with slick shoes and no manners.” Rory’s head turned sharply, eyes following John as he stalked across the street.

“Jesus Christ,” Rory muttered, already pushing the door open again. “I’ll get him back.”

And then they were both gone.

Polly cursed softly. “John is going to get us all killed.”

You turned toward the window, your heart picking up now. That’s when the hairs on the back of your neck rose. You weren’t alone.

You took one step out of the shop, your new measurements tucked neatly into Bram’s worn leather notebook, when Polly paused to speak with his daughter. Some offhand comment about the fabric needed for dye matching. So many details you couldn't get your mind around them. 

You turned to follow her back in the shop, but a hand caught your elbow. Not rough, not aggressive, but just firm. “You dropped this.”

The voice behind you was smooth, lilting with an accent you didn’t recognize right away. When you turned, a man held out a small, blank card. There was nothing written on it. The man smiled as his gaze raked over you, like he could see through you. Faster than you could think, he pulled the hood back from your head.

“I’ve been watching you,” he said, low and quiet. “You really are as beautiful as they say.”

You jerked back, but he moved with you, not threatening, just... blocking. Keeping you from the door. 

“Don’t scream,” he said, tone still pleasant. “Not here. People get nervous.”

Your heart thudded hard against your ribs. You tried to step back again, but your boot caught on the uneven threshold and you stumbled, just enough to give him an excuse to catch your wrist.

Now you were afraid.

“My name’s Angel,” he said, meeting your gaze. “And you must be the one the Shelbys are all so desperate to protect. But no one is safe from me." Angel leaned in, hisvoice colder now. “What a waste. An Irish girl like you, with the face of an angel… a whore in velvet.”

Your breath caught. Your hand was already tightening around the blank card when you felt it, the man's thick fingers curling around your wrist, anchoring you in place. The shop, the world, the sounds, it all receded. He leaned closer, breath warm and sharp. His free hand, slow as sin, drifted lower. Not quite touching your belly at first, just hovering, watching for a reaction. Then he pressed, deliberate and slow, against the swell that was barely visible beneath your cloak.

Your blood ran cold. You fought in vain to pull free of his grip. 

“I thought I saw it,” Angel murmured, almost with satisfaction. "He knocked you up.”

You flinched, pulling back, but his grip only tightened on your wrist. It hurt.

“Tell me, is that why Lizzie left me?” he asked, almost conversationally now, though the venom in his voice filled the air between you with poison. “Now that Tommy's got a kid on the way, he sent her to break things off with me. Not even a proper message. Just done.”

His gaze flicked over your shoulder, making sure you were still alone, still caught.

“See, I thought maybe it was love.” His smile twisted. “But it wasn’t, was it? Lizzie Stark’s been Tommy Shelby’s whore for years. Everybody knows it.”

Your heart hammered. Your pulse roared in your ears. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe as you listened.

Angel leaned in again, his voice a whisper now for you alone. “So if he’s picking back up with her now that he got what he wanted from you… well.” His dark eyes glinted. “Maybe once he gets you out of his system, you can be my whore.”

The man was forced to release you when Rory savagely gripped his arm, pushing himself in front of you. 

John Shelby’s voice, thick with rage, echoed through the narrow alley. “Get your fuckin’ hands off her!”

Angel he stepped back, nodding to Polly as she exited the shop to see what had blown up. His smile was polite and slick. “Just saying hello.”

The man turned, but not fast enough to miss the fist that drove into his face. John’s knuckles cracked against his cheekbone with a sickening snap, and Angel reeled back, crashing into the doorframe. 

While Rory stayed with you, John's face a mask of fury. His eyes locked onto the way you rubbed your aching wrist. “You touch my brother's fiancee?” he growled, low and guttural.

Angel’s lip was split and already bleeding, but even dazed, he smirked. “Bit late for that, boys.”

John lunged again, catching him by the coat and slamming him back against the wall hard enough to rattle the shop window. “You come near her again, I’ll cut off your fuckin’ hands.”

Angel laughed, blood in his teeth now. “Waiting for your brother's leavings? Like you did with Lizzie?”

Rory stepped forward, pushing John aside with a move that scary in its speed. Calm and deadly, your brother pulled a knife from inside his coat. The sharp blade was only inches from Angel's face. 

Angel's smirk faltered.

“Say one more thing,” Rory said, eyes burning.

Polly’s voice snapped from behind them. “That’s enough.” She moved like a stormfront, coat sweeping, eyes sparking. She took in the scene in a heartbeat, one hand pulling you protectively behind her, the other reaching out to shove John back by the shoulder.

Angel wiped his mouth, sneering. “Didn’t lay a hand on her.”

“Yes, you did,” Rory's voice was deadly calm.

Before anyone could move, the sharp crack of a gunshot echoed down the alleyway, then another, closer. Wood splintered just behind Rory’s head as a bullet hit the shopfront.

“Down!” Polly shouted, grabbing your arm and dragging you back toward the door.

John spun, drawing his weapon in the same breath. “Fucking cowards!”

More shots rang out, closer now, covering Angel as he took off down the alley, blood still dripping from his mouth. The men from the alley stepped from behind crates and rubbish bins, firing warning shots toward the shop, just enough to stall the pursuit.

Rory shielded your body with his, gun raised, eyes scanning for an opening, but Angel was gone. Slipped into the fog like smoke. The shots stopped as suddenly as they began, replaced by the distant screech of tires and fading footsteps.

“Jesus Christ,” John growled, storming after the trail, but Polly’s hand caught his sleeve.

“No,” she snapped. “He’s gone. And we’ve got bigger problems. There'll be hell to pay when Tommy gets home.”

She turned to you, her gaze sweeping over you, your trembling hands still clutched to your stomach.

“You alright?” Rory asked tightly, eyes hard and frantic.

You managed a nod, but your voice was shaking. “He knew. He knew I was--”

“We’ll deal with that,” Rory said, controlled on the surface. But you knew better. 

Polly looked toward the broken calm of the street. “We’re going back to home. Now.”

She didn’t wait for argument.

Tommy’s boots echoed sharply down the hall of the mansion. He’d just stepped in the door, loosened his tie, shrugged off his coat, ready to see her. He had his mind on supper upstairs, an early night with his girl. Everything else could hold until the morning.

But the silence that greeted him wasn’t what he expected, now was it comforting. There were no guards on post. No soft laughter from upstairs. No creaking floorboards from the sitting room where she liked to sew, nor the sound of her machine.

The house was empty.

Tommy's pulse spiked, slow and hot. 

The first person Tommy found was Arthur, back at the betting shop with his sleeves rolled up, tension coiled tight across his shoulders like a spring waiting to snap. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, and he was pacing behind the counter like a man waiting for bad news. He stopped cold when Tommy walked in, door swinging shut behind him with a soft click that might as well have been a gunshot.

Arthur turned. “Tom. You're back early.”

“Where is she?” Tommy asked, voice calm.

Arthurrubbed the back of his neck, avoided Tommy’s stare. “They’ll be back any time now. Just left an hour or so ago,” he said finally. 

Tommy took a step close. “Where. Is. She?”

Arthur let out a shaky breath. “Polly said they needed to get her to Bram Sullivan. He couldn’t come here, not with the Italians makin’ noise. Polly insisted it’d be quick, John and Rory were with her.”

“And you?” Tommy asked. “You just let them take her?”

“I argued,” Arthur said, hands going to his hips. “I even offered to go instead of John. Swore up and down it was a bad idea. But you know Polly when she makes up her mind. She pulled rank, told me to run the shop like you asked and let her handle it.”

Tommy stared at him, unreadable. “So you just stood there. Let ‘em take my fiancée out of our house while I was gone.”

Arthur’s guilt was thick in the air. “I didn’t want to, alright? I told her it was wrong. Said it was risky. But she said you’d want the wedding perfect, and that meant the right shoes. Thought it’d be nothing. Ten minutes in and out.”

Tommy’s voice was ice. “You know how long ten minutes can be when someone wants to make a point?”

Arthur went quiet because he fucking knew.

Tommy stepped back, pressing two fingers to his temple, trying to keep the fury at bay. “I’ll find them,” he said, already turning toward the door. “And if anything’s happened to her…”

Arthur just stood there for a beat, guilt chewing through him like acid. Then, without a word, he moved, snapping the ledger shut, tossing the keys to one of the boys behind the counter.

“Shop’s closed,” he barked, already grabbing his coat from the peg on the wall. “Let’s go.”

Tommy didn’t wait. He was already halfway out the door, fury simmering just beneath the surface. Arthur followed, locking up behind him with a heavy finality. 

The car hadn’t even fully stopped before you were pulling your cloak tighter around your shoulders, your heart thudding. It hadn’t slowed since Angel Changretta’s hand touched your wrist. Touched you. 

But it wasn’t just fear anymore. It was frustration. Bone-deep and rising like heat beneath your skin. You’d barely said a word the whole ride home, sitting between Polly and Rory, their voices hushed around you, everything softened like you were some fragile thing that might break with the wrong glance. Again. You were so tired of being hidden, watched, and guarded. Tired of going from one crisis to the next like that was just your life now. A loop of threats and reactions. 

From the moment your name left Sean O’Grady’s mouth in that pub, your life had stopped belonging to you.

And now? Now, even walking into a shop for something as simple as shoes ended in a sore wrist and strangers knowing your name, running their hands over your body. Angel hadn’t just touched you. He’d seen you. Talked about you like you were already owned, passed between men like a story told over whiskey. What if that never changed?

What if this was the cost of being Thomas Shelby’s wife?

Would people always look at you the way the shoemaker’s granddaughter had, all wide-eyed and whispering, like you were a scandal that stepped out of the papers? Could you live like this? Could you raise a child in this?

A bitter lump rose in your throat, and you swallowed it down hard, anger pushing at the edges of your fear. You didn’t know what you were more tired of -- being treated like porcelain, or being treated like property.

You sucked in a breath as the car rolled to a stop in front of the mansion. The familiar sight of the Shelby estate loomed before you, like a fortress. A cage.

Rory climbed out first, offering you his hand. Yours was shaking when you took it. 

For the first time in weeks, you weren’t sure if you wanted to go inside. Because what waited in there was more than just Tommy, it was this world. His world. And you were starting to wonder if you really belonged in it.

But the worst part, the part you couldn’t shake, wasn’t what happened. It was what could happen. Angel Changretta had scared you. Not just because of what he said or how he touched you, but because of what he represented. That wasn’t the worst man Tommy faced. He dealt with people like that every day, more dangerous ones, more cunning. And you were starting to realize just how many people would like nothing more than to take him out, to hurt him. The idea that something could happen to Tommy settled like ice in your chest.

Because if the cost of this life was living with that fear every time he walked out the door…Could you handle it?

The front door opened, and there he was. Tommy. He and Arthur had just beaten you home, standing like sentinels on the steps. Tommy’s coat was still buttoned, gloves in hand, but his eyes locked on yours instantly, sharp as ever.

Polly muttered a curse under her breath.

John stepped out, still flushed from the confrontation, strutting like a man who’d won something. “Little bastard had it comin’,” he barked, half to himself.

Rory glared at him, barely keeping himself in check. He walked next to you up the walk. No one said anything else right away, but you could feel the storm coming. It hung in the air like gunpowder.

Your fingers clenched the blank card tighter in your fist, nails digging into your palm. Your wrist hurt, and you were still shaking like a leaf. You couldn’t do this right now. You couldn't breathe...

Without a word, you pulled free of your brother, darting between Arthur and Tommy, past all of them and into the house. You made for the stairs, your boots striking the hardwood like distant thunder. Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of what just happened pressing down on your chest like stone. But you didn’t get far.

Tommy was faster than you expected, stepping forward and reaching for your arm, not roughly, but firmly, stopping you mid-step. His hand was steady, but his eyes... His gaze moved over you, taking everything in like he always did. The way you rubbed your wrist. The crumpled, blank card clutched tight in your fist.

And something in him shifted.

“Let me go,” you whispered, voice cracking as the tears welled again. “Please, just... just let me go right now.”

You couldn't have put any of it into words to save your life. It was in your voice, your posture, your trembling hands. You were barely holding yourself together. If he pushed, even a little, you’d shatter into a million pieces, and you didn't want to do that. Not in front of everyone. Rory came up behind the two of you. 

Tommy looked like he was fighting every instinct to press, to demand answers. Instead, his voice dropped low and calm. “Rory,” he said, not looking away from you, “take her upstairs. Then come back down.”

Your brother was already moving, his glare hard enough to cut steel at Polly and John when he glanced back over his shoulder. When he reached you, he didn’t say anything, just gently took the card from your hand and slipped an arm around your back, shielding you from the others. You didn’t resist.

You didn’t look at Tommy again. You just let Rory guide you away, silent as a ghost.

The door had barely shut behind Rory when Tommy turned. He didn’t yell or pace. Didn’t light a cigarette, pour a drink, or slam a fist into the nearest wall, though all three urges ran tight beneath his skin. They stood in the center of the foyer like a storm gathering strength. 

His gaze swept the room. First, it went to the stairs, to his fiancee who’d fled them. Something happened to her wrist, so many emotions flashing in her eyes. He hadn’t missed the way her voice shook when she asked him to let her go. Or the way she clutched that blank card like it burned. And she had run from him. That more than anything turned the knife inside him.

Tommy turned back to the others. Polly stood with her arms folded, chin raised, trying to look defiant, but she wouldn’t quite meet his gaze. John didn’t flinch or drop his gaze. He didn’t even look remotely sorry. Instead, he arrogantly marched past them into the sitting room, his boots heavy against the hardwood like he was daring someone to call him back.

Polly let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh, wasn’t quite a curse. They all followed him, wordless and tight-lipped, like they were filing into a courtroom instead of their own home. The air in the sitting room was thick before anyone said a word. Tommy followed them in, his hands clasped behind his back as he barely kept his wrath in check.

John, on the other hand, looked like he had a point to prove. And fool that he was, sat down like he had nothing to answer for. Arthur drifted in, staying behind Tommy, his face set in stone. 

Tommy’s stare zeroed in on him and Polly. His voice, when it came, was low and deadly even. 

“Which one of you,” he asked, “wants to explain to me why my fiancee just ran up the stairs?”

Neither of them answered immediately. He took a step closer. Still didn’t raise his voice. “You were supposed to protect her. That’s all. That was all I fuckin’ asked of you.”

Polly lifted her chin first. Her arms were still crossed, but it wasn’t defensiveness now. No, she was bracing. She knew she’d miscalculated. Badly. And though she wouldn’t shrink from him, her voice was quieter than usual. Steadier than John’s would have been, but still edged with regret.

“She was never out of our sight… until she was,” Polly said, carefully. “It was a mistake. I underestimated the risk, and I overestimated how quickly we could get in and out.”

Tommy said nothing. His silence wasn’t patience, it was pressure.

Polly went on. “It was Angel Changretta. He set up a diversion, and slipped past us. Caught her off guard and cornered her with all of us there.” Her gaze dropped. “We intervened fast. John bloodied him.”

Tommy’s mind went still. Not the kind of stillness that came with calm, but the kind that came with calculation. 

Angel Changretta. The name ignited a slow burn in his chest. But it was the rest of it, her wrist and her reaction to seeing him, that lit the fuse. He fought to avoid reacting outwardly. But inside, something shifted, hardened. There was violence in the silence between Polly’s words and his next breath. Not rage. No, Tommy was past rage. 

Angel hadn’t just crossed a line, he’d obliterated it. He hadn’t threatened Tommy Shelby’s empire. He’d touched what Tommy couldn’t afford to lose. What he’d kill to protect. He touched her. And John’s fists weren’t nearly enough.

Tommy’s eyes narrowed. “You brought her into his territory.”

“She was cloaked. You saw her wearing it. It was supposed to be safe, quick.” Polly’s voice hardened, just for a moment.

“And you took her out anyway,” he said, voice flat.

“I did,” Polly answered, without flinching. “I made the call. Don’t put this on Arthur, and don’t put it all on John. I made it... He'd been watching for her, Tommy. Knew what he was doing.””

Tommy weighed her words, running through every possible fallout already.

That’s when the door behind them creaked open, and Rory stepped in. His coat was still on, his expression unreadable until his gaze found Tommy. “She’s lying down,” Rory said, his voice rough with effort. Turning to Polly and John, what little control he had left began to crack. “She’s wrecked up there and was clutching this card like it's a bloody threat, and it is.” Rory held up the remains of it, Tommy took it from his hand. 

Rory's eyes burned into John next. “And you. You saw him coming. You had the angle.”

“I broke his fuckin’ face,” John snapped. “What more do you want?”

Rory took a step towards him and Tommy held up a hand. He didn't make a sound, but it cut through the room like thunder. Rory immediately stepped back, the fury still simmering behind his eyes, but he obeyed.

“She’s going to carry this,” Tommy said coldly. “Long after her wrist stops hurting. And now we're pulled into another fuckin' situation that we didn't need.” He looked at each of them in turn. 

John scoffed, rising from the chair, defiant. “What was I supposed to do, eh? Pretend I didn’t see it?” His hands cut through the air, jaw tight with the kind of anger that came more from wounded pride than guilt. “He grabbed her, Tommy. Said things I wouldn’t repeat in front of a fuckin’ priest. I did what you would've done.”

Tommy’s eyes didn’t move from him. “You did what I would’ve done?”

John faltered. Just a second. But it was there.

Tommy stepped closer, quiet as a blade unsheathing. “Because last I checked, I would’ve never taken her out of this house in the first place. I left her in your care.” His voice lowered further, more lethal with every word. “And instead of keeping her safe, you allowed her be cornered and touched.”

“She’s fine,” John muttered, tone defensive, but uncertain now. “Rory was there. Polly--”

Tommy cut in, deadly calm. “Don’t you dare hide behind them.”

Silence fell again. Polly didn’t interrupt. 

Tommy looked between her and John. “That girl upstairs, my fiancée, is up there because you lot decided to play fast and loose with the only person in this house you were supposed to keep safe.” He blew out an exhale, like he was holding back something far worse. “And now,” he added darkly, “you’ve drawn the Changrettas into this. So congratulations, John. You didn’t just throw a punch. You declared fuckin' war.”

You were sitting on the edge of the bed when you heard the door open behind you. The click of it was soft, deliberate. You didn’t turn. Your fingers were clenched in the hem of your skirt, your heart still pounding like it hadn’t stopped since Angel Changretta’s breath brushed your ear. Since his hand brushed your stomach. It made you feel ill just thinking about it.

The room felt too big and too small at once. It was too quiet, full of everything you hadn’t said yet. The tread of his boots on the floorboards was slow, like he was approaching a wounded animal.

Tommy said your name softly. There was no edge or command at all in his tone.

It nearly broke you, but you blinked back the tears you fought. 

He came closer, stopped a few feet away. "I came to see how you were."

You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek. How you were? You were...

Something in you snapped.

You stood, hands shaking. “Don’t,” you said, voice hoarse but sharp.

His expression was guarded. That was the thing about Tommy. His wore silence and stillness like armor. It unnerved people because it meant something was happening beneath the surface, and they’d never see it coming. But you were getting to know him, you saw it. There were tiny signs in the tightening around his eyes. He was keeping himself calm. You knew he was trying to figure out what you needed him to say, and how much of this was something he could actually fix.

You saw the turmoil behind his eyes. It wasn't rage, but something quieter and worse. Guilt. For him not being there? For dragging you into his world to begin with? Tommy was playing it carefully. Didn’t move to touch you, giving you space. It only made this so much harder.

“Don’t come in here and tell me everything’s going to be fine. Like I’m just something to be comforted, patched up and tucked away.”

Tommy blinked, caught off guard. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you think it,” you pushed. “That I can keep doing this. That I can keep standing in the middle of your world like it won’t swallow me whole.”

“That’s not what I think--”

You were already shaking your head. “That girl, at the shoemaker’s, she knew exactly who I was. She looked at me like I was something... ruined. Do you know what that feels like? Is that going to be everyone at the wedding?”

Tommy sighed, like he was choosing his words with the same precision he used when loading a revolver. “That’s why the wedding has to happen.” He took a step closer, careful. “They look at you like that now because you’re caught in the middle. Half-whispers, half-stories, no name, no place to stand. And people, small people, fill in the gaps with the worst they can imagine.” His voice didn’t rise. It deepened, low and steady. “But when you leave that church with my ring on your hand and my name, every doubt, every sneer, every sideways glance turns to silence. They’ll know without a doubt that you’re mine. And nothing touches what’s mine without consequence.”

You wanted to look away, but you couldn’t. Not from his voice and the fierce certainty it carried. “This isn’t about saving face,” he added. “It’s about ending the whispers before they become bullets.”

Your crossed your arms tight over your chest. “I can’t even go to a shoemaker's without it turning into some bloody crisis,” you muttered, more to yourself than him. “Polly wanted me to feel like a normal bride. And now I’m wondering if that means I'll be locked in this house for the rest of my life.” You turned away before your voice cracked again. “And now they’re all downstairs blaming themselves. Because of me. Every time something happens, someone ends up feeling like they failed. And then they’ve got to face you.”

Tommy’s expression didn’t change, but some emotion flashed in his eyes. Understanding? Or regret? “There’ll be moments like this,” he said finally, quiet but firm. “Not all of it, not always. But moments, yes.”

You didn’t answer. You moved to stand in front of the window, trying not to break.

“That’s why you trust me,” he added. “When those moments come, you don’t shoulder the weight. You lean on me. Let me carry it.” He took a breath, stepped closer. His gaze held yours, firm as steel and just as unyielding. “You’ve had to be strong for most of your life. But with me, you don’t have to be.”

You didn't know how to counter. Maybe you didn't know how to turn that part of yourself that survival built off. 

“John’s been off,” you said, trying to ignore the fact that you were shaking. “Rory’s noticed it too.”

Tommy took another step closer. “He’s had his sights set on Angel Changretta,” he said. “It’s not just the name, who the man is. It’s Lizzie.”

“Lizzie Stark?”

“She’s been seeing Angel,” Tommy explained. “Or was, until I told her to cut it off.”

Well, that part was true then. You opened your mouth but didn’t know what to say. The names, connections, amd the weight of everything pressing in on you.

“John’s never liked him,” Tommy continued. “But this? It’s jealousy. Lizzie’s always been close to the family, but… he’s always had a soft spot for her.”

You fought to keep your voice from shaking. “That man called me a whore... A whore in velvet.”

Tommy’s breath stilled.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. “He said Lizzie was your whore. That’s what he called her. Said you’d been with her for years. That you told her to break things off because of me. Now that I'm having your child, you could rekindle things with her. And he said that... maybe once you’ve had your fill of me... I could be his whore instead.”

Silence clamped down around you like a vise, it hurt to breathe.

Tommy didn’t move at first. Didn’t blink. His expression didn’t shatter, but it cracked, in the smallest, most dangerous way. The kind of fracture that came just before the fury. 

His voice was low and unshakable. “You are not anyone’s whore. Not his, nor mine... And I’m not going back to Lizzie. I was never with Lizzie the way Angel wants you to think.”

You didn’t know if it was anger or something deeper trembling in your chest. But it was the first time you saw something raw and dark bloom behind his eyes. It wasn't rage or possession. It was hurt.

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady, but it cracked anyway. “He grabbed my wrist… held me there and I couldn’t even move.”

Tommy’s eyes darkened instantly, his whole body stiffening. You saw it, that quiet, lethal shift. His hands curled slowly at his sides.

You rushed to clarify, one hand rising between you. “He didn’t… he didn’t hurt me much... He just... he moved his hand down... Over my stomach. He was verifying it,” you said, voice hollow. “That I was pregnant.”

Something in Tommy fractured. You could see it in his eyes. Something colder, deeper than fury... 

“That’s why he said Lizzie broke it off.” Your throat closed, but you forced the words through anyway. “Because you told her to. Now that I played my part... You could take up with her again."

Tommy moved then, a slow step forward. You thought he might explode, might throw something, might march straight out the door and finish what John started. But he didn’t. His voice, when it came, was barely controlled. “Do you believe that?” he asked. “That I’d go back to Lizzie. That I’d put you through all of this, just to--” He stopped himself.

You shook your head fast, tears finally breaking loose. “No. I don’t. I… ” Your shoulders trembled. “He got in my head.”

He reached you then, arms gathering you in like it was the most natural thing in the world. He was strong, grounding. He smelled like smoke and home, and it only made you cry harder.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his hand stroking down your spine. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

You buried your face in his chest, fists curling into his shirt, your voice muffled but urgent. “He scared me, Tommy.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “I know, love.”

“You face men like that every day,” you said, pulling back enough to look at him. “What if one day… what if something happens to you?”

The words hung heavy between you. For the first time, the real fear broke through. It was deeper than small injuries or insults. The fear of losing him. 

Tommy read that realization in your face, his expression softened. All that hard steel melted, just for a moment. And he kissed your forehead, his lips lingering at your forehead, his breath warm against your skin. You felt his arms tighten just slightly, but it was enough. Enough to let you know he understood. He just held you, like he could wrap himself around the worst of it and bear it for you.

Then finally, he whispered, “So that’s what this is.”

You nodded into his chest. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it. What if you don’t come home one day? What if someone else is faster or luckier? What if… I lose you?”

Tommy pulled back just enough to look at you, tracing his fingers over your face. Something in his gaze felt like it cracked open. “I’m not invincible,” he said honestly. “You know that.”

You nodded, lips trembling.

“But I am careful,” he added. “I don’t take chances anymore, not with you waiting on me. That life I used to live? I lived it like I didn’t care if I made it home or not. But now... I’ve got a reason. A bloody good one.” His thumb brushed your cheek. “You. Our child. That’s everything now.”

Your heart beat close to his, the tension and anxiety still flowing through you like a river in flood.

“I can’t promise you nothing bad will ever happen,” he went on, voice low and steady. “But I can promise you this, I’ll fight like hell every damn day to come home to you.”

You let the words settle in your chest. They didn’t fix everything. But they helped. They made it easier to breathe.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, softer now.

“I know,” he said. “So am I. That’s how I know it matters.”

He kissed you then, not with heat, but rare tenderness. A vow in the quiet. 

But you needed more than that after your trip to the shoemaker. Adrenaline still hummed through your body, amplifying your restlessness and need for comfort. Wrapping your arms around Tommy's neck, you deepened this kiss, pressing yourself against him. You knew he could taste your tears on his lips and you were still shaking from everything that you'd been through today, but you needed him. You craved that connection, wanting to lose yourself in him if only for a little while. 

Tommy picked up on the change, he never missed a thing. He didn't stop you with questions like "are you sure you're okay?" He let you steer him in the direction of the bed, let you shove him back onto it. Heat rose in those blue, blue eyes. Toeing off his shoes, he moved back from you, heading for the headboard. You climbed up the bed after him, enjoying being the aggressor for a change. Before he made it, you caught up with him, your hands frantically working his belt, the front of his trousers. His breath came fast as he watched you pull down his trousers, his briefs in a rush. You found him hard and ready for you, so you got your hands and mouth on him, remembering what he showed you he liked from before. 

Dropping onto his back, he let you have at it. He slid both hands into your hair as you worked his cock into your mouth, stroking his fingertips along your scalp which sent shivers down your spine. After a couple of minutes, one of his hands captured one of yours, moving it to his sac, showing you more of what he liked. His hips moved with you, a quiet plea for more. His fingers were clutching in your hair. Tommy was iron hard in your mouth and hands. 

You stopped only long enough hike up your skirt, trying to work off your drawers. Tommy, as worked up as you were now, ripped the wet material away from you so you could straddle him, get what you both wanted. 

Tommy held himself up for you, his harsh breathing made it sound like he'd run a mile. "Get on my fucking cock," he rasped, watching you line yourself up with him, and slowly lower yourself onto him. 

But apparently he'd reached the end of his patience. Gripping your hips, he pulled you down where he wanted you and the quick stretch and burn hurt in the best way. It punched the air from your lungs. Tommy managed to move back to the headboard, still holding you impaled on him, to sit with his back against it. He started thrusting up into you and pulling you down on him at the same time, and he slid easily on your wetness. Adjusting your position, you moved with him, moving yourself up and down on him while he gazed up at you with that heated gaze, his lips parted.

"That's it, love," he purred. "Take what you need." 

Bracing your hands on the headboard on either side of his head, you started to move faster. You were so close, riding your soon-to-be husband with abandon while he watched you, looking just delighted at how things turned out. Your nipples ached and one hand left the headboard, moving to soothe that ache. 

Tommy startled you by ripping through the front of your blouse, sending buttons in flying in all directions, tearing through your chemise. He got his hands and mouth on your breasts and he was greedy about it, rough. That was all it took to send you over the edge, your pussy clenching around his cock as you rode him hard to finish yourself off. The world spun around you as Tommy rolled you under him, pumping into you hard and fast until he came, his face buried in your neck as he came down. 

The two of you stayed there for a moment, catching your breath. You ran your fingers through his hair. He captured your wrist, looking it over with a careful touch. 

Somehow he was still mostly dressed while your blouse was in tatters, your drawers a wet scrap next to you. A button stuck to the back of your arm. You started laughing. 

Lifting his gaze, Tommy's boyish smile surprised you, had your heart squeezing in your chest. "What?"

"I'm hungry," you whispered, still laughing. "But I don't want to get dressed and go downstairs."

Carefully, he lifted from you, tucking himself back into his trousers, tucking in his shirt. "Me either," he told you with a wink. "Dinner with all those sad faces will make me lose my fuckin'  appetite."

You tried to grab him before he made it off the bed to pull on his shoes. "Where are you going?" you whined.

"Going to have dinner sent up for us," he told you, standing and heading for the door. 

You grinned at him. His hair was spiked in all directions around his head. "Then you're coming right back?"

"Then I'm coming right back," he said before heading for the stairs.

@outlanderuniverse @alyssajunelle @gothic-chinadoll @sparda1234

@mrsnms @alexakeyloveloki @theinheriteddutchess @wiseyouthingluencer @lovinglimerence @goldensunflowe-r @andydrysdalerogers @hellfirehopeless @wantedby-larry @mariaenchanted @moonbeamott @thetamtam9

[clancykolzig]

Surveillance and Surrender

Characters/Pairings: Alpha!Ari Levinson x curvy Female!Reader Word Count: 10.5k Summary: In the five years since the virtual collapse of civilization, you learned to navigate the challenges of survival with precision and resilience. Challenges not only of survival, but solitude after you lost everyone you knew before. And you'd been fine before meting the enigmatic Alpha Ari. After multiple chance encounter, after a night spent together that you fled from the next morning, you tried to leave him behind, but something undeniable and surreal developed, and you can't ignore it any longer. Will you surrender and embrace a potential future with Ari? Or will your other instincts determine he's not safe, even if you do yearn for him?

Ignore the warnings if you want to avoid spoilers.

Content/Warnings: omegaverse (alpha and omega dynamics, biting/claiming, knotting); feels; angst; apocalyptic setting; explicit smut: oral (female and male receiving, unprotected vaginal intercourse, knotting)

Notes: Takes place directly after Maybe Not.

Part One: Waiting On One Look || Part Two: Maybe Not

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You arrive at Ari's hideout by nightfall, your body trembling with exhaustion and something like anticipation. But you don't approach the cabin. Instead, you find a vantage point in the woods, settling among some dense undergrowth with a clear view of his place.

The pain in your chest eases slightly just being near him, even without contact. You can breathe easier now, the fog lifting from your mind. But you need to be sure. Sure of him. Sure of yourself.

So you watch.

You tell yourself it's strategic—you need to ensure he hasn't invited others in, that his kindness wasn't a trap.

He emerges mid-morning, rifle slung over his shoulder. His movements are slower than you remember, less fluid. Even from a distance, you can see the tension in his shoulders. He checks the perimeter, refills water containers from the rain barrels, then disappears back inside.

The second day, you move closer, finding shelter in an abandoned shed at the edge of his property. Through a crack in the warped wooden slats, you watch him chop firewood, his muscles flexing with each swing of the axe.

He stops halfway through, leaning heavily on the axe handle, his head bowing. You watch as his shoulders rise and fall with deep breaths before he straightens and continues his task with renewed determination.

That night, you watch through the cabin window as he sits at a small table, a mug between his hands, staring at nothing. He doesn't eat, just sips occasionally from the mug. Your stomach growls in sympathy. The bond-pain has subsided to a dull ache with proximity, but hunger has returned with a vengeance.

On the third day, your resolve weakens. You've watched him long enough to know he's alone, that there's no trap waiting. You've seen the way he moves through his days—efficient but hollow, like he's going through motions without purpose. You recognize it because it mirrors how you've felt for years. How you felt until that night with him.

But still you keep your distance. You need to be sure he’s safe, smart. 

The fourth day, you follow him at a distance as he hunts. His movements are careful, practiced. He brings down a deer with a clean shot that drops the animal instantly. You watch as he field dresses it with practiced efficiency, his hands steady despite everything. There's something intimate about watching him like this—seeing his survival skills, the way he wastes nothing, the respect with which he treats his kill.

When he shoulders the dressed carcass for the trek back, you notice he stumbles slightly. The alpha who carried you to bed with ease now struggles under a weight he should handle without difficulty. Whatever is affecting you is affecting him too.

Through the window, you watch as he stores most of the meat but cooks a small portion. He sets two plates on the table.

Your breath catches. Two plates. Every night, you realize with a jolt, he's been setting two plates.

He's been waiting for you.

The realization makes your knees weak. You sink to the ground, back against a tree, and press your palms against your eyes. 

You've always lived by your own rules: though you’ve stayed in the region that you were familiar with before the world fell apart, you never stay in one place too long, never trust anyone fully, and above all, never get attached. Rules that kept you alive when the world fell apart. Rules that have kept you safe.

But here you are, watching an alpha set out a second plate night after night, hoping against hope for someone who ran away.

You correct your own thoughts, because that almost cheapens it, makes him seem pathetic when you know it’s not that. 

Your paths kept crossing. 

You instinctively trusted him and he proved he was a trustworthy ally in those scattered and short encounters. 

That he lasted that long, that he had the same strategic plans that you did, spoke to someone you could logically assume had skills as honed as your own. 

You’d been drawn to him in each of those encounters - nice moments, funny moments, moments you were sure of. 

You’re nearly ready to trust him, but you tell yourself if you’ve waited this long, a few more days won’t be unendurable just to hedge your bet - because it’s still an enormous gamble. 

The next day, you wake to the sound of his truck starting. You peek through the shed wall to see him driving away, dust kicking up behind the wheels. This is your chance to get into the cabin undetected, to search for any signs that will either confirm your worries or alleviate them.

You wait ten minutes to ensure he doesn't return for something forgotten, then approach the cabin cautiously. The door is locked—smart—but you find a window at the back that opens with minimal effort. Slipping inside, you're immediately enveloped in his scent. Cinnamon and cedar, earth after rain. The bond-pain in your chest transforms into something warm, something that spreads through your limbs and makes you feel lighter than you have in days.

The cabin is sparse but organized. A living area with a worn couch, the small kitchen table with its two chairs, a woodstove in the corner. You open cabinets, finding stored food—more than you expected, all carefully rationed and labeled. He's been planning for the long term. 

There's a bookshelf stocked with dog-eared paperbacks. The bedroom door stands ajar, and you can see the rumpled bed where you spent that night together, neatly made. 

You hesitate at the threshold, caught between the memory of that night and the reality of your return. Slowly, you step into the bedroom, your fingertips trailing over the quilt he's smoothed over the mattress. On the bedside table sits a small, framed photograph—a relic from before. You pick it up carefully, studying the image of a younger Ari. He stands with his arm around a smiling woman, both of them squinting in sunlight. His sister, maybe? The resemblance is there—same golden skin, same bright eyes. Behind them, a house you don't recognize.

The intimacy of this small piece of his past makes your throat tighten. He's kept this, through everything. A reminder of who he was, who he still is beneath the survival instincts and scavenged supplies. 

You set the photo down gently and continue your investigation, opening the closet door. His clothes hang neatly on one side—shirts, pants, a heavy winter coat. The other side is empty, cleared of whatever was once there. A space made for you, you realize with a shock.

Your heart hammers against your ribs. He's been preparing for a future that includes you, even after you ran. The realization is overwhelming—terrifying and comforting in equal measure. This doesn't feel like a trap anymore—it feels like hope. Dangerous, fragile hope. 

You close the door quickly, your heart racing. In the corner of the room, you spot a small desk. Papers are scattered across its surface, maps with routes marked in red. You recognize some of the locations—supply caches, safe water sources, places to avoid. His knowledge mirrors your own, confirming what you already suspected about his survival skills.

Under the maps, you find a journal. You hesitate, knowing this crosses a line, but your need to understand him overrides your hesitation. You flip it open.

Inside are drawings—detailed, skillful sketches of the landscape, of animals, of the cabin. And there, on the most recent pages, sketches of you. Your profile as you scavenged in that grocery store. You in the forest - his memory and view of the day you left. 

You are relieved the journal wasn’t full of any written thoughts - though you clearly hadn’t been able to help yourself, you are glad you didn’t violate a more private territory. 

The sound of an engine rumbling in the distance sends you scrambling. You replace everything exactly as you found it and slip back out the window, carefully closing it behind you. You retreat to your hiding spot in the shed, heart pounding. 

But it's not Ari's truck. The vehicle passes on the distant road, and silence returns. 

Your pulse returns to normal and your decision crystallizes. You've seen enough—more than enough to know he's been honest with you. Enough to confirm he’s the man you thought he might be - not all the details, but you don’t want to discover the details like this, you want to learn them from him. With him.

The decision made, you straighten the cabin, preparing to surprise him when he returns. You even find coffee beans in the pantry and figure out his hand grinder, setting up to brew a pot when he walks through the door.

So you wait. 

The sun climbs higher, then begins its descent. The shadows lengthen across the yard. Birds call their evening songs. 

You pace the small cabin, checking the window every few minutes. His truck should be back by now. You try to quiet the anxiety building in your chest—he's capable, experienced. Probably just extending his supply run.

As sunset bleeds into twilight, you position yourself by the window, watching the road. The coffee sits unbrewed, forgotten. You debate going to look for him, but fear of missing his return keeps you rooted in place.

Night falls completely. The woods around the cabin grow quiet, the natural world settling into its nocturnal rhythms. Your anxiety spirals, transforming into something cold and leaden in your stomach.

He should be back by now. 

You check his maps again, trying to deduce where he might have gone. There's a trading post marked about twenty miles east—far enough to warrant the truck, close enough to return before dark. Other locations are scattered across the paper, some crossed out with notes like "cleared" or "raiders." 

A sound outside sends you rushing to the window—but it's just a raccoon, waddling across the yard toward the trash bins Ari keeps secured against wildlife. 

You don't know when or how you fell asleep, but somehow you find yourself waking up on the couch, upper body slumped to the side. Despite your worry and waiting, your body must have been far more exhausted from the uneasy sleep you’d subjected yourself to hovering in the woods for the five days before while you watched your alpha. 

Your alpha.

The thought startles you fully awake.

You rise, stretching your stiff limbs, and move to the window again. Morning light filters through the thickly wooded forest.

Still no sign of Ari or his truck. Your stomach growls loudly, reminding you that you haven't eaten since yesterday. The anxiety of waiting makes you reluctant to touch his supplies, though you know he wouldn't mind. 

Instead, you retrieve your backpack from where you stashed it in the shed and rummage through the meager contents. A few protein bars, some dried fruit, half a bag of beef jerky—carefully rationed supplies you've been saving. You unwrap a protein bar and force yourself to eat it slowly, savoring each bite though it tastes like cardboard in your dry mouth. 

You wash it down with water from your canteen, rationing carefully even though Ari's cabin has a supply. Old habits. Survival instincts.

The food does little to settle your nerves. You pace the cabin, alternating between the window and the door, listening for the familiar rumble of his truck. Your mind conjures increasingly dire scenarios—mechanical failure, raiders, injury. The bond-ache in your chest pulses with each passing hour. 

You pace the cabin, checking and rechecking his maps, trying to piece together where he might have gone. Anywhere on these maps would have been a single-day trip. 

But you suppose he could have taken a different map with him with a destination such farther away. 

By midday, your patience fractures. You stand in the center of the cabin, fists clenched at your sides, torn between two impossible choices. 

Stay and wait, hoping he returns on his own. Or leave to search for him, with no vehicle and no clear direction. 

"Damn it, Ari," you mutter, kicking at the leg of a chair. "Five days I watched you, and the one day I decide to trust you is the day you disappear?" 

You return to his maps, spreading them across the table. Your fingers trace the routes he's marked, the notations in his neat handwriting. There are too many possibilities—the trading post, the abandoned hospital ten miles north, the small town to the west that might still have supplies. 

You drop into the chair at his desk, head in your hands. The rational part of your brain insists that leaving would be foolish. You have no vehicle. The trading post is twenty miles away—a full day's journey on foot, and that's if you encounter no trouble. Raiders are active in the area.

But staying means another day of uncertainty, another night wondering if he's injured somewhere, unable to return. Another day of that dull ache in your chest. 

You straighten, decision made. You'll search for him, but you'll be smart about it. You gather supplies methodically—water, food, medical kit, ammunition for the small handgun you've carried for two years. You find a spare knife in his kitchen and add it to your belt. 

As you prepare, a glint of metal catches your eye. Keys, hanging by the door. Not his truck keys—those would be with him—but something else. You approach, examining the small ring. There's a padlock key, what looks like a house key, and—your breath catches—a motorcycle key. 

You peer out the window, scanning the property. There, half-hidden beneath a tarp behind the woodshed, the outline of something that could be a motorcycle. 

Have you ever driven a motorcycle before? 

No. 

But how hard can it be? 

Not harder than staying here.

And really how hard can it be? Boys do it.

You’ve got nothing but time to kill waiting or time to kill figuring out how to operate a motorcycle anyway. 

You reach for the key ring, fingers just brushing the cool metal when the distant rumble of an engine freezes you in place. Your heart leaps into your throat as you recognize the sound—Ari's truck.

Without a second thought, you abandon the keys and bolt for the door. Your feet hit the wooden porch and then the dirt path as you sprint toward the approaching vehicle. The truck appears around the bend, dust billowing behind it. 

You see Ari through the windshield, his face tight with concentration—or pain. Your chest constricts at the sight of him. He's alive. He's here. 

The truck barely rolls to a stop before you're there, yanking open the driver's door. Ari's golden face breaks into a wide smile as he turns toward you, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. There's not a scratch on him, no visible injuries at all. He looks exactly as he did when you watched him leave yesterday, except for the layer of dust on his clothes from the road.

You urge him out of the truck, and he complies easily. "You're not hurt," you breathe, your hands instinctively patting his chest, shoulders, arms, checking for injuries you can't see. "I thought—I was worried—"

"I know," he says, still smiling that infuriating, beautiful smile. "I felt it."

"Felt what?" you ask.

"Felt you. Felt your worry." Ari's hand comes up to cover yours where it rests against his chest. His heart beats steady and strong beneath your palm. "The bond works both ways, ‘mega. I knew you were waiting."

"Then why didn't you come back sooner?" The words burst from you, part accusation, part relief.

"I could smell you for days," Ari says simply, his voice rougher than you remember. 

"You knew I was watching?"

He nods. "I figured you needed time." His eyes never leave yours. "I told you I would wait, and I meant it. And then yesterday, the pain just... shifted. Became something warmer. I knew you'd made your decision."

"But where were you?" you demand, more impatiently now.

Ari's expression softens as he takes your hands in his. "I go to see my sister and her family twice a year," he explains, squeezing your fingers gently. "They're about sixty miles north, in a little community they've built with some other survivors. I would have told you before I left, but..." He trails off, raising his eyebrows. "I was pretending to be oblivious to your proximity until you were ready to come out of hiding.”

You roll your eyes, but a small heat creeps up your neck. 

But you brush off the moment, processing this new information. "So your sister? She's alive?" 

"Yes. Her, her mate, and their two pups. They made it through the worst of it." Pride fills his voice. "They've got this whole setup now—gardens, livestock, even a school for the kids." He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small, worn photograph. "This is them." 

You take the photo carefully. It's the same woman from the frame in his room. 

“They've been trying to get me to join their settlement for years."

You study the image—the woman's smile, the children clinging to her legs, a tall alpha man with his arm around her shoulders. They look happy, healthy. Like a family from before.

"Why haven't you?" you ask, handing the photo back. "Joined them, I mean." 

Ari tucks the photo away carefully. "At first, it was because I was still looking for my parents. Never found them." His voice drops, old grief evident but weathered by time. "After that... I don't know. It felt too settled, too permanent. Like admitting the world wasn't going to go back to normal." 

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and you feel naked under his gaze. "And then I met you. Kept running into you. Started thinking maybe there was a reason for that." 

The honesty in his voice makes your chest ache. You swallow hard, the weight of his words settling in your chest, replacing the bond-ache with something warmer, something both terrifying and exhilarating.

"My sister wants to meet you," he adds, his lips quirking into a half-smile. "Eventually,” he clarifies. “There’s no rush, but I've mentioned you. After our... encounters."

You blink at him, startled. "You told your sister about me?" 

"Of course I did," Ari says, looking almost confused by your surprise. "Every time we crossed paths, it was the most interesting thing that had happened to me in months." 

Something warm unfurls in your chest. The idea that he'd been thinking about you, talking about you, even before that night in the grocery store—it changes something, shifts your understanding of what's happening between you. 

"And what did you tell her?" you ask, trying to keep your voice casual. 

Ari's smile turns almost smug. "That I kept running into this stubborn, resourceful omega who was too smart to trust anyone but too intriguing to forget." His thumb traces circles on your palm. "That I couldn't stop thinking about you between encounters. That I was starting to plan my scavenging routes hoping I'd run into you," he admits, not looking remotely embarrassed. "She started calling you 'the ghost omega' because you kept disappearing."

You laugh despite yourself. The sound feels foreign in your throat—when was the last time you genuinely laughed?

"She thinks I'm crazy for not tracking you down sooner," Ari continues, his thumb tracing circles on your palm. "Says I'm too patient for my own good."

"And what did you tell her?" you ask, your voice softer now.

"That some things are worth waiting for." His gaze holds yours, unwavering. "That forcing you to trust me would've been no trust at all."

Something warm unfurls in your chest at his words. He understood—has understood you all along. 

The weight of all your fears and doubts you had carried feels insignificant compared to the certainty in his eyes. This alpha—Ari—has been patient not because he's weak, but because he’s unbelievably strong, because he respects you enough to wait.

"I looked through your things," you confess abruptly, needing to start this—whatever this is—with honesty. "Yesterday, while you were gone. I came in through the window and searched the cabin." 

Ari doesn't look surprised or angry. He just nods. "Find what you were looking for?" 

"I think so." You take a deep breath. "I found the space you cleared in the closet." 

His cheeks darken slightly. "Ah. That." 

"That," you confirm, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. "Pretty confident, weren't you?" 

"Hopeful," he corrects, the word hanging between you like a promise.

Before you can respond, his hands are on your waist, pulling you against him. The movement is swift but gentle, giving you time to pull away if you wanted. You don't. Your bodies collide, your softness against his rugged frame. The bond-ache in your chest dissolves completely, replaced by warmth that spreads through your limbs like wildfire. 

His lips find yours, hungry yet tender. You melt into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, drawing him closer. The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting of dust from the road and something uniquely him. You whimper against his mouth, and he responds with a growl that vibrates through your connected bodies. 

When you finally break apart, both breathing heavily, he rests his forehead against yours. "No more waiting," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on yours again.

These kisses are different from those you shared that first night—less desperate, more deliberate. His lips move against yours with purpose, claiming you in a way that makes your knees weak. Your hands find purchase in his shirt, bunching the fabric as you press closer. 

His hands slide beneath your shirt, warm against your skin, and suddenly you're both moving backward toward the cabin. The journey is clumsy, neither of you willing to break contact long enough to walk properly. You stumble up the porch steps, laughing against his mouth when you nearly trip. 

Ari catches you easily, his strong arms keeping you upright. "Careful, 'mega," he murmurs, voice rough with desire. "I just got you back. Don't want to lose you to a porch step." 

The casual possessiveness in his words sends heat curling through you. He pushes the door open behind you, guiding you inside without breaking the kiss. The door slams shut, and suddenly you're pressed against it, Ari's body a solid wall of heat against yours. 

His eyes are dark with desire, and that licks through you, thrills you. 

"I need to know what you want, 'mega. Need to hear it."

You take a shaky breath, overwhelmed by his scent, his proximity, the intensity of his gaze. "I want to stay," you whisper, the words falling from your lips like a confession. "I don't want to run anymore. I want—" Your voice catches, decades of survival instincts warring with the truth burning in your chest. "I want you."

Ari's eyes darken further, his pupils dilating until only a thin ring of blue remains. "Say it again," he growls, one hand sliding up to cup your face. 

"I want you, Ari," you repeat, stronger this time. "I've spent years surviving. I think... I think I'm ready to start living." 

Something shifts in his expression—relief, joy, hunger—all making your heart race, all mirrored in you. He kisses you again, deeper, his body pressing yours more firmly against the door. His hands are everywhere, relearning the contours of your body as if committing them to memory. 

Ari lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you through the cabin. His mouth never leaves yours, alternating between deep, claiming kisses and softer, reverent ones that make your heart stutter.

He sets you down gently on the edge of the bed—the same bed you ran from days ago. But there's no panic now, no urge to flee. Only a bone-deep certainty that this is where you're meant to be. 

"I want to see you," he murmurs, his fingers finding the hem of your shirt. "All of you." 

You lift your arms in silent permission, and he peels the fabric away, exposing your skin to the cool air. His gaze traces over your exposed skin with reverent hunger. He looks at you like you're a miracle, something precious salvaged from the ruins of the world. It makes your chest ache and swell.

"Beautiful," he breathes, bending to press his lips to your collarbone. 

You reach for him, tugging impatiently at his shirt. "Your turn," you murmur. He obliges, pulling the dusty garment over his head in one fluid motion, revealing the golden expanse of his chest. Your fingers trace the lines of his muscles, the scattered scars that tell stories of survival. You want to know each one, to learn the history written on his skin. 

You press your lips to his stomach. Your fingers drift lower, tracing the trail of hair that disappears beneath his waistband. He watches you with hooded eyes. You can feel his muscles tense beneath your touch, his breathing growing heavier. Slowly, deliberately, you unfasten his belt, watching his face as you drag the zipper down, the sound deafening in the quiet cabin.

You slide down his body until you're kneeling between his legs. Tugging his jeans down his hips, you reveal him inch by inch, your mouth watering at the sight of him already hard for you. When you take him in your hand, he hisses, his head falling back. 

"Omega," he groans, the word filled with need. 

You wrap your hand around him, feeling the velvet-soft skin over steel hardness. You lean forward, maintaining eye contact as you take him into your mouth. His sharp intake of breath sends a thrill through you.

"Fuck," he whispers, his hand coming to rest gently on your head, fingers tangling in your hair. 

You take your time, exploring him with your tongue, learning what makes his breath hitch, what draws those delicious growls from deep in his chest. You hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, reveling in the weight of him on your tongue, the taste that's uniquely his. 

You work him slowly at first, learning what makes his breath hitch, what draws those delicious growls from deep in his chest. You discover he likes it when you use your tongue along the underside, when you hollowed your cheeks and suck harder. His fingers tighten in your hair when you take him deeper, and the slight edge of pain only heightens your own arousal.

You lose yourself in the rhythm, in the taste of him, in the sounds he makes. His breathing grows ragged, his muscles tense beneath your hands where they rest on his thighs. Your hands work what your mouth can't reach, twisting gently in counterpoint to your bobbing head. His thighs tremble beneath your free hand, muscles taut with restraint.

"That's it, 'mega," he groans, his voice strained. "So perfect."

His praise sends heat through you, your own arousal building with each moan you draw from him. You feel powerful like this, on your knees but completely in control, reducing this strong alpha to trembling need. 

His hips begin to move slightly, shallow thrusts that match your rhythm. His control is impressive, but you can feel it fraying at the edges.

"Stop," he finally gasps, gently pulling you off him. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide. "Need to be inside you when I come." 

He pulls you up, then pushes you back onto the bed. You land with a soft bounce, watching as he kneels to remove your boots, then your pants, peeling them slowly down your legs. When you're naked beneath him, he takes a moment just to look at you, his gaze traveling from your face down your body with such reverence it makes you shiver. 

Everything the two of you did that first night together was frenzied, desperate, pursuit of pleasure and a long-delayed gratification you’d been dancing around for months. 

But this time both of you know there’s not a question mark as to how long you have together, There’s still eagerness, need, and want, but the uncertainty has been erased. 

"Been dreaming about this," he murmurs, hands skimming up your calves, your thighs. 

His hands glide up to your thighs, gently pushing them apart. He settles between them, his breath hot against your inner thigh. "Need to taste you," he growls, and then his mouth is on you, tongue sliding through your folds. The contact sends electricity up your spine, drawing a gasp from your lips.

You arch into his mouth as he explores you with deliberate precision, learning what makes you whimper and shake. His tongue circles your clit before sucking it gently between his lips. Your hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the silky strands as you hold him against you.

Ari moans against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open as he devours you. The wet heat of his mouth is delicious against your heated skin. Your hips rock against his face, and you lose yourself in sensation, hips undulating against his skilled mouth, seeking more pressure, more friction.

"That's it," he murmurs against you, the vibration of his words sending ripples of pleasure through your core. "Let me take care of you."

His tongue delves deeper, tasting you thoroughly before returning to circle your clit. He alternates between broad strokes and pointed precision, reading your body's responses with uncanny accuracy. When he slides two fingers inside you, curling them to find that perfect spot, you cry out, back arching off the bed. 

"That's it," he murmurs against your sensitive flesh. "Let me hear you." 

He continues his sweet torture, his fingers working in tandem with his mouth. Your thighs begin to tremble as pressure builds low in your belly. Ari seems to sense your approaching climax, redoubling his efforts, his tongue flicking rapidly against your clit while his fingers maintain their perfect rhythm. 

"Ari," you gasp, the word half-warning, half-plea. 

"Come for me," he demands against your flesh, and the command in his voice combined with the relentless pressure of his tongue sends you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, your body spasming around his fingers as he works you through it, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure.

When you finally collapse back against the mattress, boneless and panting, he rises above you, his mouth glistening with evidence of your pleasure. The sight is enough to stoke the embers of your desire back to flame despite your recent release.

He moves slowly up your body and lowers himself over you, skin against skin. His weight feels right, grounding you in this moment, in this reality you've chosen. He kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. The intimacy of it makes your heart stutter.

He aligns himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your slick heat. His eyes lock with yours, searching for any hesitation. Finding none, he pushes forward slowly, stretching you deliciously as he fills you inch by inch. Your breath catches at the perfect fullness, the way your body yields to accommodate him.

"Fuck," he breathes, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "You feel like home," he murmurs, the words so quiet you almost miss them.

The sentiment strikes you deep in your chest, resonating with truth. After years of wandering, of surviving, this—his body joined with yours, his scent surrounding you—feels like the only thing you ever needed. This is what was missing, what you've been searching for without knowing. A place to belong. A person to belong to.

He begins to move, setting a languid pace that has you arching beneath him, seeking more. Your nails dig into his shoulders, urging him closer, deeper. He responds with a growl that vibrates through your connected bodies, his hips snapping forward with more force. 

"Mine," he murmurs against your neck, his breath hot on your skin. "Tell me you're mine." 

The possessiveness in his voice should frighten you—after years of fierce independence, of trusting no one—but instead, it ignites something primal within you. The omega in you preens under his claim, recognizing what your rational mind has been fighting: this connection between you is rare, precious. Worth the risk. 

"Yours," you breathe against his lips. The word sparks something within you—a certainty, a decision. You want more than this passive surrender. You want to show him your choice is active, deliberate. 

You plant your hands against his chest and push. He looks momentarily confused, then understanding dawns in his eyes as you urge him onto his back. He goes willingly, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as you straddle him. You sink down on him in one fluid motion, taking him to the hilt. 

You roll your hips experimentally, and his hands find your waist, steadying you as you begin to move. The new angle sends him deeper, hitting spots that make your vision blur at the edges. You plant your palms on his chest, using the leverage to lift yourself before sinking back down. His eyes are dark with desire as he watches you take your pleasure from him, his golden skin flushed with want.

The intensity builds between you with each roll of your hips. His hands slide up your sides to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples. The dual sensation makes you gasp, your rhythm faltering momentarily before you find it again, more desperate now. 

"You're incredible," he murmurs, his voice thick with arousal. "Never thought I'd have this."

Something shifts inside you—a certainty so profound it steals your breath. This alpha beneath you, looking at you with such reverence, such need—he's yours as much as you are his. The realization crashes through you with startling clarity. This isn't enough. Skin against skin, bodies joined—it's good, it's perfect, but it's temporary. You want permanent. You want forever.

This alpha beneath you, looking at you with such reverence, such need—he's yours as much as you are his.

You lean down, pressing your chest to his, your lips finding the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder. His scent is strongest here, intoxicating, drawing you in. You inhale deeply, feeling his pulse race beneath your lips.

"Omega," he whispers, his voice strained with understanding. His hands slide up your back, one tangling in your hair, not pulling you away but holding you there, an invitation.

You scrape your teeth against his skin, testing, tasting. He shudders beneath you, his cock twitching inside you. A low rumble builds in his chest, vibrating against your chest like a purr. The vibration travels through your connected bodies, heightening every sensation.

In that moment, instinct takes over. You sink your teeth into the tender flesh of his neck, breaking skin. The metallic taste of blood floods your mouth as you claim him, marking him as yours irrevocably. 

The moment your teeth break his skin, something shifts between you—a connection snapping into place like the final piece of a puzzle. The bond you've been feeling fragments of solidifies, crystallizes into something unbreakable. You can feel his pleasure, his surprise, his overwhelming joy washing through you as if they're your own emotions.

He cries out, his body arching beneath you, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he bucks up into you, his release triggered by your claim.

You release his neck, licking the wound gently, tasting the copper of his blood mixed with the salt of his skin. When you pull back to look at his face, his eyes are wild, pupils blown wide with pleasure and something deeper—awe, devotion, completion.

"You claimed me," he breathes, voice hoarse with emotion. "You claimed me first."

The wonder in his voice makes your heart clench. You nod, unable to form words through the overwhelming sensations flooding your system—his pleasure washing through you, amplified by your own, the bond humming between you like a live wire.

"I want this," you murmur against his mouth. "I want you. All of you."

You kiss him fiercely. His arms tighten around you, rolling you both until you're beneath him again. The movement sends aftershocks of pleasure through your oversensitive body, drawing a soft moan from your lips. He's still hard inside you, his release apparently only fueling his desire rather than sating it.

He slides one hand beneath your neck, supporting you as he lowers his mouth to the juncture of your neck and shoulder. "My turn," he growls, nuzzling against your neck, his breath hot against your skin. His teeth scrape the sensitive spot over your pulse point. 

A needy whine escapes you, and you tilt your head to expose your throat to him, a gesture of submission and trust so profound it makes your heart race. "Make me yours, Ari."

His teeth pierce your skin in one swift motion, the sharp pain blooming into something transcendent as the bond between you completes itself. There is only Ari, only the connection forming between you, only the overwhelming sensation of belonging.

You feel his consciousness brush against yours—his joy, his relief, his utter devotion flooding through you. His hips begin to move again, thrusting into you with renewed purpose. Each movement sends dual waves of pleasure through your joined bodies, your sensations feeding his, his feeding yours in an endless loop of escalating ecstasy. 

His mouth leaves your neck, his tongue gently laving the mark he's made. You feel his satisfaction at seeing his claim on your skin, a primal pride that burns through your bond. 

"Mine," he murmurs against the fresh mark, his voice reverent. "Finally mine." 

You wrap your legs around his waist, drawing him deeper as he begins to move again. The sensation is unlike anything you've experienced before—it's not just physical pleasure but something transcendent. You can feel his emotions, his desire, his overwhelming joy at having claimed you, at being claimed by you. 

His thrusts grow more urgent, more powerful. The headboard knocks against the wall with each movement, the rhythm matching your racing hearts. Your body responds to his as if it was made for him, meeting each thrust, taking him deeper. The dual sensation of your physical connection and the newly formed bond between you pushes you toward a peak that promises to eclipse all others. 

"Ari," you gasp, clinging to him as the pressure builds. 

"Come with me," he commands against your lips, and you feel his hand slip between your bodies, finding your sensitive bud and circling it with practiced fingers. The dual assault—his cock filling you, his fingers working you, his presence in your mind through the bond—is too much. Your second orgasm crashes through you with unexpected force, your inner walls clamping down on him, milking him.

He follows you over the edge with a guttural cry, his hips stuttering as he empties himself inside you. His knot begins to swell, locking you together, anchoring him deep within you. The sensation of being completely filled, completely joined with him, sends aftershocks of pleasure rippling through your body.

He collapses on top of you, careful to distribute his weight so he doesn't crush you. You cling to him, unwilling to let even an inch of space come between your bodies while you're knotted together. His face is buried in your neck, his breath coming in ragged pants against your marked skin. 

"I can feel you," he murmurs in wonder, his lips brushing against your pulse point. "In my head, in my chest. Everywhere." 

You know exactly what he means. The bond thrums between you, a living connection that allows you to feel the contentment radiating from him, the wonder, the possessive satisfaction. You marvel at how complete it feels, how right, when just days ago you were running from the very possibility of it. You send back your own feelings, letting him feel your certainty, your relief at finding him, for coming back to him. 

With his knot still tying you to him, he shifts carefully to his side, bringing you with him so you're facing each other, legs intertwined. His arm drapes over your waist, and he traces idle patterns on your back as your breathing slowly returns to normal.

"I never thought..." he begins, his voice rough with emotion. "After everything fell apart, I never thought I'd find this. Find you."

You trace the lines of his face with trembling fingers, memorizing every detail—the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the slight asymmetry of his smile, the faint scar above his right eyebrow. 

"I was so scared," you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. "Not of you, but of this. Of what it meant to stop isolating." 

He captures your hand, bringing your fingertips to his lips. "I know," he murmurs against your skin. "I could feel it every time we met. The way you kept yourself just out of reach." 

"How did you know to wait?" you ask. "Most alphas would have..." You trail off, not needing to finish the thought. You both know what most alphas would have done—tracked you, claimed you without consent, taken what they wanted. 

"I didn't want a submissive, I wanted a partner," Ari says, his eyes serious as they hold yours. "Someone who chose me as deliberately as I chose them." His thumb traces over your bottom lip. "Someone strong enough to survive alone, smart enough to know when not to."

His words settle in your chest, warming you from the inside. This alpha—your alpha now—has upended everything you thought you knew about the world after the collapse. Where you expected brutality, he offered patience. Where you expected dominance, he offered choice. 

"I'm glad I came back," you whisper, the confession easy now with his mark on your neck and his knot still tying you together. 

His smile is radiant, transforming his face. "Me too, 'mega. Though I have to admit, I was tempted to hunt you down when I realized you were watching me. Four days of pretending I didn't know you were in my shed was... challenging." 

You feel heat rise to your cheeks. "You knew the whole time?" 

"Alpha senses , remember?" Ari chuckles, the vibration of it traveling through your connected bodies. "Your scent is distinctive to me. I could probably track you for miles now." His fingers trace the mark he's left on your neck, a possessive gesture that sends shivers down your spine. "And I definitely would have if you hadn't come back on your own."

"What would you have done?" you ask, curiosity getting the better of you. "If I hadn't come back?" 

Ari considers this, his brow furrowing slightly. "Given you another week. Maybe two." His expression softens. "Then I would have come looking for you. Not to force you back, but to make sure you were okay. To remind you there was a place for you here, if you wanted it." 

The certainty in his voice, the unwavering patience—it makes your throat tight with emotion. And there's no threat in his words, only wonder, as if the ability to find you is the greatest gift he's ever received.

And it is. 

Alphas and omegas claim and mate with each other as well as with betas, and they create strong relationships. 

But fated mates - the kind whose bond can develop before a claiming bite is even exchanged between two individuals? 

That was rare, something you only thought was lore, or simply lost to those with alpha or omega designations since alphas and omegas were becoming even more rare. You had never heard of anyone who had experienced it. 

Ari’s knot finally begins to soften, allowing your bodies to separate. He doesn't move away, though, keeping you wrapped in his arms as if afraid you might disappear again. Through the bond, you feel his contentment, his satisfaction, but also a thread of concern.

"What is it?" you ask, unable to ignore the slight dissonance in his emotions. You certainly hope he doesn’t harbor any fear of you leaving. 

Ari sighs, his thumb tracing the mark on your neck. "I just realized we did this a bit out of order. Most people discuss future plans before claiming each other for life." 

You laugh softly, the sound still unfamiliar after so many years of disuse. "I think we both knew what this was, Ari. What it would be."

Through the bond, you can feel his relief at your understanding. It's strange, this new awareness of another person's feelings alongside your own. After years of isolation, of trusting only your instincts, suddenly having access to someone else's emotions is overwhelming—but in the best possible way. 

"Still," he says, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin, "I should probably mention that I'd like you to stay. Permanently." His eyes meet yours, serious despite the lightness in his tone. "And not just because we've bonded for life." 

"Oh? Why else, then?" you ask, playing along, enjoying the way his scent shifts with his happiness. 

"Well, I've got this extra space in my closet that needs filling," he deadpans. "And it seems irresponsible to waste something like that.”

You laugh, pressing your forehead against his chest, breathing in his scent—your scent now mingled with his. The bond hums between you, warm and vibrant, a living connection that feels both ancient and brand new.

"I suppose I could help you fill that closet space," you murmur against his skin. "For practical reasons, of course." 

"Of course," he agrees solemnly, though you can feel his joy bubbling through the bond. "Purely practical." 

His fingers trace the curve of your spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Through the bond, you feel a flicker of something deeper—a hope he's trying to contain, not wanting to overwhelm you so soon. 

"What is it?" you ask, tilting your head to meet his eyes. 

Ari hesitates, then sighs. "I didn’t anticipate how telling this aspect of bonding is.” But there’s still a content curve to the line of his lips. “But I was just thinking about my sister. Her family." He trails off, but you can feel the direction of his thoughts through the bond—the possibility of children, of a family. 

After a few moments, he softly asks, “Do you want children? Would you want them with me?" 

The idea should terrify you, but instead, it fills you with a tentative hope you haven't allowed yourself to feel in years. In the old world, this would have been a standard conversation before commitment. In this new, broken world, it carries different weight.

"I never let myself think about it," you admit. "It seemed... irresponsible. Bringing children into this world."

Ari nods, understanding in his eyes. "I felt the same way, for a long time. But seeing my sister's pups, watching them grow up in their community..." He pauses, gathering his words. “Before I met you, I still didn’t think seriously about that kind of life. But being there yesterday after I already knew you had come back, even though that’s all it was at that point, it had me viewing it all differently.”

You can feel the sincerity in his words, the longing that he's kept carefully contained until now. Through the bond, his emotions wash over you—hope tempered with patience, desire balanced with understanding. He's not pushing, merely sharing, letting you see all of him.

"I'd want them to be safe," you say softly. "I'd want them to have more than just survival." 

Ari's hand comes up to cup your cheek. "My sister's community is growing. They have walls, gardens, livestock. The children there don't just survive—they play, they learn." His thumb strokes your cheekbone. "We could visit, see it for yourself. No pressure to stay or join. Just... see what's possible." 

You nod slowly, considering. "I'd like that." The words surprise you as they leave your mouth, but they feel right. 

"Not right away," he adds. "We have time. Time to figure us out first, time to see if we want to join a larger community, time to decide if we want to create life in this new world." 

Time. It's a concept that had lost meaning for you after the collapse. Days blended into weeks, weeks into months, survival the only goal. Now, with Ari's arms around you, the steady rhythm of his heart against your palm, time feels precious again. Something to plan with rather than just endure. 

"When I ran," you confess, "I wasn't just running from you. I was running from the possibility of having something to lose again." 

His arms tighten around you. "I know." 

"But I think..." you pause, searching for the right words, "I think not having anything to lose is its own kind of loss." 

Ari's smile is soft, his eyes understanding. You know - because you feel it - he used to feel much the same way you did, though he had worked to build a more permanent place to stay, where you had moved along from place to place after a few months. 

Through the bond, you feel Ari's joy at your new openness, tempered with his own caution. Neither of you wants to rush this fragile new thing between you.

"For now," he says, pulling you closer, "I just want to enjoy having you here. Learning you. Building something together that's just ours."

You nestle against him, fitting perfectly in the curve of his body. "I'd like that too."

Outside, the sky darkens with approaching clouds, promising rain. The soft patter begins against the roof of the cabin, a gentle rhythm that makes the shelter you've found in each other's arms feel even more precious. You listen to the sound together, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek. 

"I should check the rain barrels," Ari murmurs, though he makes no move to leave the bed. His fingers continue their lazy exploration of your back, tracing constellations on your skin. 

"Later," you reply, pressing closer, nuzzling your nose against his neck. "Rain can wait."

His chuckle rumbles through his chest. "Never thought I'd hear you prioritize comfort over practicality, 'mega." 

"I'm not," you counter, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. "I'm being extremely practical. Conserving energy." 

"Is that what we're calling it?"

“Mhmm,” you hum with contentment. He kisses you slowly, and you return the kiss, tongues tasting each other, orienting with each other, but this kiss is for kissing. For laying together with warmth, but not to stoke the fires again - not yet anyway. 

Your fingers trace idle patterns on Ari's chest, following the contours of his muscles, the scattered scars that tell the story of his survival.

"Tell me about before," you say softly, your curiosity about him growing now that you've decided to stay. "What did you do?"

Ari's chest rises and falls with a deep breath. "I was a park ranger," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Spent my days in the wilderness, teaching people how to respect nature, how to survive in it." His hand strokes your hair absently. "Ironic, isn't it? All those skills I taught as novelties became what kept people alive."

"And your sister?" you ask, nestling closer as the rain intensifies outside. "Was she a ranger too?" 

Ari shakes his head, his chin brushing against your hair. "Doctor. Pediatrician, actually. That's why their community has thrived—medical knowledge is rare now. People seek her out, bring supplies in exchange for care." 

You process this, picturing the woman from the photograph healing children in this broken world. Hope stirs in your chest, tentative but real. 

"What about you?" Ari asks gently. "Before." 

You hesitate, the memories of your old life like artifacts from another era. "I was a teacher," you admit finally. "High school English." 

His surprise ripples through the bond, followed by something like delight. "That explains all the books in your pack," he says, smiling against your temple. “What else?”

You tell him about your life before—the hobbies you had, the apartment you loved, the friends you'd meet for drinks every Friday. Simple things that seem impossibly luxurious now. As you speak, you realize how long it's been since you've talked about the past without pain clutching at your throat.

"I miss ice cream," you admit with a small laugh. "And hot showers that last more than two minutes." 

Ari grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I miss movies. And delivery pizza." 

"God, pizza," you groan dramatically, and his laughter fills the small bedroom, wrapping around you like another blanket. 

The rain continues outside, a steady rhythm on the roof. Inside, wrapped in each other's arms, you exchange stories—small pieces of yourselves that you've kept hidden away for so long. The easy intimacy of it—sharing memories without fear, laughing together at the absurdities of the old world—feels like another kind of revelation.

"What about your family?" you ask, tracing the line of his jaw with your finger. "Besides your sister." 

Ari's expression softens, tinged with old grief. "Parents were in Seattle when it hit hardest. Never heard from them again." His voice is steady, the pain weathered by time. "Tried to find them for almost a year before I had to accept they were gone." 

You press a gentle kiss to his shoulder, offering comfort without words. Through the bond, you feel his appreciation for the gesture, the way your touch eases the old ache. 

The rain becomes a lullaby, and you find yourself drifting, safe and warm for the first time in years.

"Sleep," Ari murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I'll be here when you wake up."

And for the first time since the world fell apart, you believe it. You let yourself sink into sleep without fear, without the need to stay half-alert. The bond hums between you, a reassurance more effective than any promise could be.

You dream of gardens and children's laughter, of a future you'd stopped believing was possible.

When you wake, the rain has stopped. Sunlight filters through the windows, casting golden stripes across the bed. Ari is still beside you, his breathing deep and even. You study his face in repose—the worry lines smoothed away, the slight part of his lips, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. In sleep, he looks younger, unburdened by the weight of survival that you've all carried for so long.

You trace the mark you left on his neck with gentle fingers, marveling at the physical evidence of your bond. It's already healing, but it will leave a scar—a permanent reminder of your claim on him. The sight of it fills you with a primitive satisfaction that surprises you. 

Carefully, you slip from the bed, wrapping yourself in Ari's discarded shirt. It falls to mid-thigh, enveloping you in his scent. You pad quietly to the window, drawing back the curtain to look outside. The world after rain always seems cleaner, more hopeful. Droplets cling to leaves and grass, catching the morning light like countless tiny prisms. 

"Stealing my clothes already?" Ari's sleep-roughened voice comes from behind you. You turn to find him propped up on one elbow, hair tousled from sleep, eyes soft as they take in the sight of you in his shirt. "Not that I'm complaining."

You smile, warmth spreading through your chest at the domesticity of the moment. You gesture toward the window. "The rain stopped."

"Mmm," he hums, stretching like a large cat before hefting his large body out of bed with surprising grace for his size. "Good. We should check the barrels after lunch, see how much we collected." His eyes never leave you as he speaks, drinking you in with an intensity that makes your skin prickle pleasantly. 

He walks toward you with purpose, golden skin glowing in the morning light. There's no self-consciousness in his nakedness, just the confident stride of an alpha who knows what he wants. Your breath catches as he approaches, his arousal evident.

"Turn around," he murmurs, his voice gentle but commanding. "Look outside." 

You obey, facing the window again. 

A shiver runs through you as he presses against your back, his arousal evident against the curve of your ass. His lips find the mark on your neck, kissing it gently before trailing down to your shoulder. One hand slides up to cup your breast beneath the shirt, thumb brushing over your nipple until it hardens beneath his touch.

"Ari," you breathe, leaning back into him.

His hands slide beneath the hem of his shirt that you're wearing, skimming up your thighs to your hips. The touch sends sparks across your skin.

"I want you to see it," he says, pressing against your back, his lips at your ear. "Our home. Our territory." 

His hands guide your hips, pushing you forward slightly until you're braced against the windowsill. The position makes you vulnerable, exposed, but there's no fear—only anticipation coiling in your belly. 

"Beautiful," he whispers, guiding your gaze outward while his hands work the shirt up your body. "All of this is ours now." 

His hand slides between your thighs, finding you already wet for him, and he growls approvingly, positioning himself at your entrance.

He enters you in one smooth thrust, filling you completely. You gasp at the delicious stretch, the perfect fullness. Ari's rhythm is deliberate, each thrust pushing you slightly forward, your fingers gripping the windowsill for support. His hands hold your hips firmly, guiding your movements to match his. You feel connected not just physically but through the bond that pulses between you with each movement, amplifying every sensation.

"Look," he murmurs against your ear, nipping gently at the lobe. "Look at our home, omega." 

Your eyes focus on the clearing beyond the cabin, the way the morning light catches on the rain-soaked leaves, transforming ordinary trees into something magical. This place that was just a shelter to him before is now something more—a beginning, a foundation for whatever you build together. 

He adjusts his angle, hitting a spot inside you that makes your vision blur. Your head falls forward, a moan escaping your lips. 

"No," he says gently, one hand leaving your hip to cup your chin, tilting your face back toward the window. "I want you to see it. See us. See the future we're building." 

His words, combined with the relentless rhythm of his thrusts, push you closer to the edge. The dual stimulation—physical pleasure and the emotional connection flowing through your bond—is overwhelming. 

"This is real," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire and something deeper. "You're here. You're staying." 

"Yes," you gasp, the word both confirmation and plea. "Yes, Ari." 

His pace increases, his control slipping as his own pleasure builds. You feel it through the bond—his mounting desire, his joy at having you in his arms, in his home, wearing his mark. It feeds your own pleasure, creating a feedback loop of sensation that spirals higher with each thrust. 

Your release hits you without warning, pleasure radiating outward from your core, making your legs tremble as your body clenches around him. Through the bond, your orgasm triggers his, and Ari buries himself deep within you with a final thrust, his release flooding you as his forehead drops to your shoulder.

For several moments, you both remain still, breathing heavily, connected in every possible way. His arms wrap around your waist, holding you against him. Through the bond, you feel his contentment, his satisfaction, and beneath it all, a profound sense of rightness.

"Good morning," he murmurs against your neck, pressing a kiss to the mark he left there. 

You laugh softly, turning in his arms to face him. "Good morning indeed." 

His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles down at you, a tenderness in his gaze that makes your heart swell.

"I should make us breakfast," he says, though he makes no move to let you go. "Protein. After last night and this morning, we both need it." 

You smile, tracing the line of his jaw with your finger. "Is that your way of saying I've worn you out?" 

His laugh is deep and warm. "Never, 'mega. But I also promised you coffee, if you want to start the day properly.”

“Mmmm, I like the other way we started it,” you say, impishly rutting your hips against his. 

He growls and laughs. “Can’t argue with that, but have to keep you properly nourished if we want to sustain that kind of healthy, active lifestyle.”

Heat rises to your cheeks despite everything you've already shared. "Is that a promise?" 

"Absolutely." He pulls on a pair of worn sweatpants, leaving his chest bare. The sight of him—casual, comfortable, marked as yours—fills you with a possessive satisfaction you've never experienced before. 

You follow him to the kitchen, still wearing his shirt, watching as he moves with easy confidence through the small space. He retrieves eggs from a small cooler—a luxury you haven't enjoyed in months—and sets a pan on the small propane stove. 

"Where did you get eggs?" you ask, settling onto one of the kitchen chairs, legs tucked beneath you. 

Ari cracks an egg into the pan with practiced precision. "Trade. There's a family about ten miles west with chickens. I fix their generator, they give me eggs." He glances at you over his shoulder. "We should visit them sometime. The alpha there makes this incredible cider from wild apples." 

We. The word settles in your chest, warm and unfamiliar. He's already making plans for a future together that extends beyond this cabin, beyond mere survival.

You watch him prepare breakfast, marveling at how natural this feels—sitting in his kitchen, wearing his shirt, planning small excursions together.

And nothing feels more right.

300 word drabble -> 2k one-shot -> 10.5k follow up

...I am so normal.

HOPEFULLY Y'ALL DIDN'T MIND! 🤣

and @stargazingfangirl18 I hoped you enjoyed how devoid of smut this was

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[clancykolzig]

I can’t say/see this without getting misty eyed/choked up.

LILO AND STITCH (2002) Dir. Chris Sanders & Dean DeBlois

[clancykolzig]

Omg omg omg omg omg omg it’s Friday! It’s here! It’s Friday omg omg omg!

The uncle got what he deserved. Little bitch.

And my two favorite lines?

1: Polly stepped closer, her voice softening just enough to cut past the steel. “You love her, I know that. But she’s not yours to fix. She’s hers to heal. Make room for that.” Preach, Polly! Preach!

2: Fucking idiot. Well said, Ada. 😂

The Arrangement ~ Chapter 8

Series Masterlist

Words: 10.4k (I'm SO sorry)

Pairing: Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders) x Reader F

Warnings: Angst, shaming someone with religion, oppressive historical views on women, pregnancy, arranged marriage to a stranger, references to depression, more angst, references to graphic violence, reference to arson and slaughter.

The stage has been set for your wedding to a farmer you've just met and you're on the edge of despair. Will Rory show up to save you? Will anyone?

You hadn’t slept in days. Even now, standing in the cold little room at the back of the church, you weren’t entirely sure you were awake. Everything felt insulated, blurry around the edges. Like you were watching it all happen to someone else. Just a few short weeks ago you were back at home, working for your mother and just trying not to get on the bad side of your stepfather’s temper. 

Your wedding dress clung heavy against your skin. It was adeep burgundy satin, carefully fitted and it did nothing to hide your swelling belly. It had been deliberately chosen. It was burgundy, not red. No, that would be too bold. It was deep and dark, a shade chosen deliberately, like a stain you weren’t allowed to wash away. Your mother had made you a flower crown of wild flowers with a small bouquet to match, tied in white ribbons. It was small but you were grateful for that small sign of dignity she’d given you. 

Your uncle said it was appropriate and it suited a girl with “experience.” Mature. He said white would’ve been mockery.

You’d wanted to be sick.

But you weren’t arguing. You were too tired and ill to fight much anymore. 

But as your shaking hand slid around that slight bump of your tummy,  you took a deep breath. You would fight for him or her. If you did nothing else with the rest of your life, you wanted to see to it that your son or daughter came into this world to do more than have a miserable existence. Especially if it were a girl. You were being married off to a farmer and expected to bear him sons and help work the land. How would he treat the child of a gypsy? The child of a gangster?

As sad as it made you, you would almost consider trying to get a word to Polly if the day ever arrived that your new jailer said a harsh word or raised a hand to your child. You’d give your child to the Shelbys and be parted from them if you knew they would be safe and loved. And they would be. You had thought more than once that Polly would likely kill someone she caught harming a child. And Tommy…

No, you couldn’t think about him right now.

Your hands trembled as you adjusted the hem of your dress in the mirror, your reflection gaunt and unfamiliar in the small, cracked mirror. Was this really happening?

Feeling dizzy again, you took a seat on the edge of the chair, your stomach churning. You hadn’t been able to eat. You hadn’t even kept water down that morning. The nausea hadn’t let up in weeks, but this was something else. Panic, or maybe despair. Looking back, night of the wager didn’t seem so bad compared to this. You’d do that all again if you could be spared this wedding you didn’t want. And…

No, I can’t think about Tommy… Now you knew for certain he was done with you. 

There had been no word from Rory. No note or knock on the door. Nothing. You’d thought he’d come. You’d honestly believed, with everything in you, that your brother would find a way to save you.

But as the morning slipped away and the minutes blurred together, those thoughts came back to prey on your mind… Did Rory tell Tommy? And if he had, did Tommy forbid him from coming? You wouldn’t have been surprised. Not with how things had been left between you. He’d said it was your choice, but maybe he’d meant it like a punishment. Maybe this was the cost of walking away from him. It was all your own fault. 

You swallowed the tightness in your throat and smoothed your hands down the front of the dress.The deep red caught in the light, casting shadows across the room like old blood. You would walk yourself down the aisle because your uncle refused. He said he wouldn’t escort a fallen woman. He said it would “send the wrong message.”

As if any of this sent the right one.

You were blinking back tears when the door creaked open softly, and your mother slipped inside. She didn’t say anything at first, just closed the door behind her and looked at you, eyes full of quiet worry. Looking up into her eyes you saw that same heartache you were drowing in. You stood when you saw her, hands still trembling slightly at your sides. She crossed the room and took them gently into her own, her thumbs brushing over your knuckles like she had when you were little and scared of storms.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said softly, for what felt like the hundredth time.

You closed your eyes. “Uncle’s not going to stop it, nor let me out of it.”

She didn’t argue because she knew you were right.

“I tried,” she whispered. “I begged him. Told him this wasn’t the answer, that this wasn’t you. But he wouldn’t hear it. He said what’s done is done, and this is how we make it right.”

“Make him feel better, you mean,” you muttered.

Her mouth pressed into a sad line. “Yes.”

You stepped away from her just enough to breathe. Your dress felt too tight suddenly, the room too small. It was hard to breathe.

“I don’t know if I can walk down that aisle,” you said, your voice breaking. “Not like this, and alone.”

She stepped closer again, brushed a hand over your cheek. “Maybe you won’t have to,” she said gently. “Maybe Rory will come yet.”

You looked at her. “Do you think Tommy told him not to?”

Her eyes softened with something like pity. “I don’t know. But I know Rory and so do you. And if there’s a way to be here, love, he’ll find it.”

You looked away, trying to hide the sting behind your eyes. “Feels like the world’s already made up its mind about me.”

“No,” she said, cupping your face, her voice trembling now too. “Just the wrong people. That’s not the same.”

You tried to hold onto her words. You were losing hope that someone, anyone, might still stop this. But the minutes kept ticking by and you were still wearing burgundy. You may have well just pinned a a scarlet letter to your dress to complete the look.

"Did you see him?" your mother asked.

And you knew who she meant. The farmer. You nodded.

You’d seen him, just briefly. A huge, burly man with rough, callused hands and a weathered face that made him look closer to fifty than the thirty-two your uncle claimed. He’d smelled like earth and pipe smoke, nodded politely without meeting your eyes. And all you could think was those hands were meant for labor, not tenderness. Not for you. Not for anything you still had left to give.

She hesitated. “He’s… polite enough, I suppose. Looked like he was trying very hard not to look at you.”

You glanced at her, and she gave a faint, apologetic smile. “He’s nervous. Said very little. Just nodded when your uncle introduced you. Didn’t even try to make conversation.”

You felt your chest tighten. “That’s the man I’m supposed to marry.”

She didn’t try to correct you nor did she tell you it wasn’t too late. She didn’t offer hope she didn’t have. She just reached for your hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I don't get the impress he’s a cruel man,” she said softly, “but he’s not for you.”

That single sentence hit harder than all the rest. You already knew it and you weren’t walking toward a new life.You were walking toward containment.

And suddenly, that burgundy dress felt like a prison.

Your mother Mary had only meant to slip off to the water closet before everything began. One last moment of calm before the storm she couldn’t stop claimed her daughter. But when she turned the corner, nearly bumping into someone tall, she gasped softly and froze.

“Rory?”

Her son looked like a ghost and a stranger all at once. Not the boy she’d kissed on the forehead a few nights ago, but a man in a fine dark suit, shoulders squared, eyes sharp. His overcoat was rich wool, something expensive, protective. And his cap--

Her breath caught. It was a Peaky cap. And yes, there it was. That glint because of the razors sewn into the seams.

Rory saw her staring, and gently grabbed her hand, guiding her into a quiet alcove behind the coatroom, out of sight.

“Mum,” he whispered, eyes scanning the hallway. “Listen to me. I don’t have much time.”

She blinked, her hand still caught in his. “What on earth--”

“She can’t know I’m here. Not yet. Not until it’s time.”

That stopped her. Mary was trying to keep hope from blooming in her chest. Today, she didn't really think she could handle more disappointment.

“Rory--”

“I’ve already been through uncle's house,” he said. “Packed what was hers. Yours too. It’s in the car. All of it.”

Mary just stared at him.

“We’re going home,” he said. “To Birmingham. Tonight.”

"Is he here?" she had to ask.

Rory knew exactly who she meant, answering that with a single nod. 

Mary's knees almost gave out. She had to grab the doorframe to stay upright. Her free hand pressed over her mouth, and her eyes burned before she could stop them.

Rory faltered. “Wait, are you crying?”

She laughed. It was one of those helpless, trembling laughs that sounded half broken and half like music. “Rory,” she choked, “thank God.”

He blinked. “I thought...” He looked at her, truly looked. “I thought you’d have a hard time with it. Me being a Blinder. With your daughter going back to the Shelbys.”

... your daughter going back to the Shelbys. 

The way he worded it got her attention. It was very much in the style of the Peaky Blinders, claiming what they wanted, however they had to get it. It was how all of this begin. Just now, she didn't have a problem with it at all. On top of everything, the man had come here to stop the wedding and take her daughter back. And for once in her life, she was just fine with it. Her daughter was far better off with a man who actually loved her, even if she didn't feel the same. But honestly, Mary was pretty certain she did have feelings for him. She'd come around to it.

She stepped forward, cupped Rory's face like she had when he was a child.

“Son,” she said, her voice thick, “after the hell we’ve lived in? After what your sister’s been through? Thank God you’re one of them.”

And just for a moment, Rory’s mask cracked. Not because she was disappointed. But because she was proud.

You moved like your body belonged to someone else. Your arm wasn’t looped through anyone’s. Your uncle refused to walk you down the aisle. Even the groom didn't offer you an arm which was just a hint about your life to come. So you followed the groom alone, head bowed, hands clenched so tight around the small bouquet in your fingers that your fingernails dug half-moons into your palms. The deep burgundy dress whispered against the polished stone floor with every step, trailing shame and expectation behind you like a veil of smoke.

The music rose with organ pipes thundering gently overhead. The small church was lit with mid-day light, but you felt none of it. Just the weight of the stares. The murmur of judgment all around you. You didn’t look left or right. You weren't about to acknowledge any of their faces. Not the women who’d whispered behind their hymnals, probably about the fact that you'd just begun to show. Not the men who wouldn’t meet your eyes, but would surely talk about you over ale by sundown. The pews were lined with people who didn’t know you and they didn't care to know. They’d heard enough to believe what they wanted.

The priest began the Introductory Rites, his voice solemn, echoing through the still church. There was no joy in the occasion and no warmth at all. Just formality, structure, and most importantly, containment. The groom, silent and massive beside you, didn’t even glance your way as you stood before the priest. 

You heard words about faith, and union, and forgiveness but none of them applied here. You thought about Rory, your mother... Tommy. And for one aching moment, you wished he’d lied. That he’d broken his word and that he’d come looking for you. Your throat was tight, and you were struggling to breathe. Your knees shook as you stood before the altar. And just as the priest’s voice moved into the Rite of Marriage, just as he asked the groom to step forward the church doors slammed open. The sound cracked like thunder, cutting clean through the liturgy.

Heads turned throughout the church as gasps echoed around you. The groom stiffened. And you turned slowly, heart hammering so loud in your ears it nearly drowned everything else out. 

There he stood, framed in light.

Thomas Shelby. 

His coat was flaring behind him like the wings of something unholy. His shoulders squared, boots echoing across the marble. You saw Arthur and John marching behind him, faces carved from stone, eyes scanning the pews with the kind of stillness that made people forget how to breathe. They were flanked by other men, each one built like they hadn’t come for prayer. Caps low. Posture deadly. A wall of calm, silent threat moving through a house of God like they owned it.

And behind them, Rory. Dressed like them. A fine dark coat hung from his shoulders, the Shelby cut unmistakable. His cap bore the same stitch of razor-threaded menace, and his steps fell in time with the rest. He didn’t look like the boy you’d grown up with, not in that moment. He looked like someone else now. Someone dangerous and respected.

But when his eyes found yours, everything softened. That familiar warmth cracked through the armor, just for you. His lips curled up in the smallest of smirks, and he gave you a wink, sharp and sure and quiet as a promise. Your mother was right, he hadn’t let you down after all. He never would.

You didn’t feel so alone. Not anymore.

The priest faltered and the room froze. The only movement you saw was Polly, she was here too, walking up to where your mother sat and stopping by her side. 

But you? All you could was stare. Because Tommy’s eyes weren’t on anyone else. Only you. You couldn’t breathe. For a second, you forgot how to breathe and the world tipped sideways. The pews, the altar, the candles... it all faded into nothing. 

Because it was him. Not a dream or a memory. Not in some fevered hope you’d barely allowed yourself to hold on to. And he stood in the doorway like the storm you always knew he was. All you could feel were his eyes on you, all heat and truth and reckoning. Your knees nearly buckled, but somehow you managed to stay upright. 

And all at once, the words from weeks ago came rushing back to you. If you walk away, I won’t stop you... But if you stay, you’re mine.

You had walked away. But he came anyway. And now you stood shaking, waiting like everyone else to see what he was here to do. 

Tommy Shelby didn’t knock. He walked into that church like he owned it. Because today, he did. The moment the doors flung open, silence rippled through the nave like a shot across no man’s land. Heads snapped toward him. Mothers gasped. The priest stuttered and froze mid-blessing.

He walked straight down the aisle, slow and measured, boots echoing across the stone, every step a promise. A warning. His brothers were behind him, so was her brother and more Blinders, walking like men who were ready to raise hell in a house of God. Liam stayed by the doors, to make sure no one was leaving. Not until he said so.

Tommy’s gaze never left her.

She stood like a statue at the altar. His girl, wrapped in burgundy, shaking like a leaf in a storm. Her eyes were wide, rimmed red from sleepless nights. Even from here, he could see the dark hollows beneath her eyes. And the dress--Christ. That fucking color. Like shame sewn into silk.

Tommy felt something claw up the back of his throat. Not nerves or hesitation. Rage, cold and poisonous. This was very fucking personal. What the fuck had they done to her? Her shoulders were drawn tight like she was bracing for a blow. Her lips were parted slightly, too stunned to speak. She looked like someone had drained the life right out of her and dressed her up for a burial instead of a wedding. 

Her hands clutched the bouquet like a lifeline, and as he watched, one hand dropped, slow and unthinking. It came to rest just below her ribs. A soft, protective curl of fingers over the slight swell of her belly. His child. It was instinct. She didn’t even realize she was doing it. But to him, it was louder than any vow or confession. It was truth and undeniably beautiful. And it split something wide open inside him. A fierce, unshakable need to get her out of this fucking church and make sure nothing and no one ever touched what was his again. Later, he’d reckon with the rest of it -- what it meant, what they’d lost, what they still had to fight for. But right now? She was standing there, carrying everything he never thought he’d have, and she hadn’t run yet.

Tommy was here to deal with them. Her uncle, the bloody farmer. Anyone who looked at her sideways. He was here for her, and nothing else up to heaven and down to hell mattered in this moment. 

They tried to stop him. The farmer stepped forward, puffing up like a man about to claim something he thought was his. The uncle rose from the front pew, already barking, indignant bluster spilling louder with every breath. And just behind him, the priest looked appalled, his lips pressed into a thin line of silent disapproval, as if the very presence of Tommy Shelby and his men had defiled the sanctity of his church.

Tommy just kept walking, shoulders squared, heart pounding like war drums beneath his ribs. He reached the front of the church and turned, slowly, to face them all. “This wedding’s not going to happen.”

The farmer muttered something and Tommy cut him off with a glance sharp enough to slice bone. "You paid,” Tommy said coolly, “to marry a woman who doesn’t even know you. A woman carrying my child.”

The gaps and murmurs were almost comical and he caught Polly's smirk when his gaze found hers, standing next to his girl's mother. The priest turned white as his chausible.

The uncle blustered, “This is my church! This is my--”

“That’s your niece, not your property,” Tommy said coldly. “And yet you still put a price on her. Took money from a man she’s never met and sold her like a broodmare to clean up your own shame.” 

“Is this true?” the priest asked, breaking the silence. His voice, once a calm guide through sacred vows, now trembled with righteous fury.

Tommy looked to the side--not at the priest, but at the uncle. “Tell him,” he said.

The uncle's lips parted, but no words came. His his eyes went wide, fists clenched, the veins in his neck straining under pressure he hadn’t expected.

“You accepted money for a sacrament?” the priest said, stepping forward now, eyes narrowing. “You lied to me and you lied before the Almighty.”

The groom took a step back, as if distance might save him from the weight of the scandal crashing down. People in the congregation were rising from their seats.

“Father, I--” the uncle finally stammered. “It’s not. It was a gesture of goodwill. A dowry of sorts.”

“A dowry requires consent,” the priest snapped. “From the bride. Did she consent?”

All eyes turned to her. Tommy didn’t. He already knew the answer. Her silence was the loudest sound in the room.

Tommy turned back to the uncle now, one hand in his coat pocket like he was debating something. “I’ve seen men do despicable things to protect their reputation,” he said calmly. “But selling your own blood? That’s a new kind of cowardice.”

The uncle opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Tommy stepped forward, just once, and the man stepped back without even realizing it. 

Tommy let the silence stretch, the words settle like dust.  Then he gave a slight nod to his men. "Take him.”

Two of his men moved instantly, Arthur and Rory, razor-laced caps winking in the light. The congregation flinched as they passed, but no one dared interfere.

The uncle sputtered, backing toward the altar. “I... I am a man of God...”

“No,” Arthur said flatly, gripping his arm. “You’re just a man. And you're leaving this house of God.” 

They grabbed him by both arms, dragging him down the aisle past the rows of stunned wedding guests. His feet scraped along the stone, his protests loud at first, but weakening with every step. When he started pleading with his nephew, Rory didn't even acknowledge him. The priest stepped aside then without a word.

And as the heavy wooden doors swung open to blinding daylight, the sound of them slamming shut behind him was final. Like a judgment.

Tommy shifted his attention to the groom, keeping his gaze sharp and emotionless. “And you. Paying to marry a pregnant woman,” he said, voice low, almost polite. The kind of polite that made men sweat.

The farmer stood frozen just beyond the altar, thick hands clenched awkwardly at his sides. His face was flushed, not from shame, but from fear. Tommy took a step closer, voice low and cold. “You didn't care that she didn't consent.” Another step. “And you still showed up to claim her like a prize pig.”

The farmer opened his mouth, but thought better of it.

Tommy didn’t blink.

"I suggest you return to your farm. Immediately." Tommy just wished he could be there to see the man's reaction at seeing his home and barn in ashes, his livestock slaughtered.  “If I ever lay eyes on you again,” Tommy leaned in slightly, “I will make sure you lose more than you already have.”

There was a spark of fear in the man's eyes because he caught the hidden meaning in Tommy's words. Tommy looked past him, toward John, who stood at the ready with a straightened spine and knowing nod.

“Escort him out.”

John grinned. “With pleasure.”

The farmer didn't resist when John moved forward. Not when two other Blinders flanked him.They didn’t drag him like the uncle. He walked out on his own. 

When the door opened and closed a second time, a hush fell so deep you could hear the creak of the old wooden pews as the people sitting shifted in place, unsure if they were supposed to stay or run. The rest were on their feet.

Tommy's hand remained in his coat pocket. He didn't have a gun there, but they didn’t know that. A few men flinched and a couple of the women looked near tears. Tommy smiled. 

“You can all sit,” he said, voice like velvet over steel, “or you can stand and pray that God Himself can pull me off whoever gets in my way.”

Nobody moved. So Tommy turned back to her. 

“You walked away from me,” he said quietly, the fight drained from his voice, leaving only something raw and real. “And I meant what I said. I didn't stop you. I didn't come after you.” He paused, his gaze didn’t leave yours. “But then your brother came to me. Told me what was happening. What they were planning.” Another beat. “And I couldn’t ignore that."

He stepped forward, slower now, voice low enough that only you could hear. “So tell me… do I leave this church with you, or without you? You know my terms.”

Tommy offered her his hand. That was it. No more threats or speeches.Just one choice and it was hers. He wasn't going to break his word now no matter how much he wanted to. He stood there, hand outstretched. Waiting along the rest of the church and it was silent. For the first time in a very long time, he didn’t know what would happen next. She hadn’t moved or spoken. Her hand was still pressed to her stomach, but her eyes were locked on his with a thousand emotions crashing behind them. 

Tommy Shelby, the man who always knew the next move… waited. Waited for her to run. Waited for her to turn away again, to choose safety or shame or silence over him. He wouldn’t stop her this time either. If she didn’t take his hand, he’d walk out of this church, let the door slam behind him, and bury this like everything else that had ever carved him hollow. 

Jesus Christ… he didn’t want to bury it. He wanted her. Even now, in that awful dress, looking as shattered as she did. He wanted her in his house, in his bed, under his protection and sharing his name. He wanted his ring on her hand. He wanted to be there when she woke up sick in the morning, to see the curve of her belly grow, to know--really know--he hadn’t lost everything he wanted so badly.

He’d never begged. Not once in his life. But right now, he was praying like a soldier under fire.

Her fingers moved, trembling and uncertain. She reached for him and when her hand touched his, just as timidly as she'd taken his hands the night he claimed her for the wager, the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding left him in a quiet, broken rush.

She looked up at him, eyes glassy, knees buckling, and just as his other arm moved to catch her she fainted. Right into his chest. He caught her before she hit the floor, one arm around her back, the other under her legs, pulling her up against him as gasps rippled through the room. She's so much lighter and she's pregnant. 

The priest started forward. Her mother did too. But Tommy just held her, gently cradling her. She’d chosen him.

He didn’t need permission, or to offer an explanation. Tommy didn’t look back. He just turned and marched straight out of the church with her in his arms.

Tommy slid into the back seat beside her, careful not to jostle her as Arthur closed the driver’s door and started the engine.There wasn't a spot of blood on him which meant Rory had the honor of removing his uncle's tongue and hands. He'd speak to him about it later. John was in the passenger seat up front, already lighting a cigarette, both of them quiet now that the tension had finally broken. 

She still hadn’t stirred, even when he'd pulled her into his lap. Tommy’s eyes never left her as he adjusted his coat around her, brushing his knuckles lightly across her hand. She looked so frail... but she was safe now, and now she could get better.

His rear door opened again, and Tommy was suprised when her mother appeared, standing by the car. The woman's face was calm, though her eyes shimmered with quiet emotion.

Tommy looked up at her. He straightened instinctively, unsure if she was about to slap him or sob. Instead, she met his gaze and said, “Thank you, Mr. Shelby.”

He held off saying anything until he knew where this was going.

She glanced briefly at her daughter, then back to him.“For dealing with my brother. And for the other one, too.” She blew out an exhale. “My second husband was a cruel man. I don’t mourn him. Not after what he did.”

Tommy watched her carefully.

She’d looked like hell at the safehouse, frail, bruises hidden under layers of pain and forced dignity. But now? She looked much stronger. Clear-eyed and grounded. The resemblance between mother and daughter was unmistakable. 

Mary noticed him looking her over.

"She took care of me. Nursed me back to health." She reached in to trace her daughter's cheek. "But now she needs the same chance."

"She'll have it," Tommy finally said. "Anything she needs."

"Thank you, Mr. Shelby."

Tommy shook his head. “Tommy.”

She smiled. “Mary.”

Mary continued, voice quiet but steady. “I'm going back home with my son.” Her mouth lifted, just a little. “It’s time, I can start working again.”

Tommy nodded once. “It’s under my protection now. You’ll never have to worry about safety again.”

Mary gave a quiet laugh, the sound low and knowing.“I guess not. Not now that my son’s a Blinder.”

There was no judgment in her voice, just acceptance. Tommy gave a small smile in return. “He’s a good one.”

Mary’s eyes softened. “Takes after his father.” She studied him for a long beat, really looking at him. Not like a gangster or a reviled gypsy. Not like the man who flipped her family’s life upside down. Just a man holding her daughter.

“I trust you’ll keep her safe now… properly safe.” There was no threat in her words, just the quiet, loaded plea of a mother who had already lost too much.

Tommy didn’t flinch. “With my life,” he said.

Mary's gaze moved to her daughter, resting so quietly now in his arms. "Let her know I’ll be by tomorrow.”

He gave a nod.

She didn’t linger. Just closed the door with a soft click, turned, and walked toward the second car where Rory and Polly were waiting. If Mary thought anything of the spray of blood on her son's crisp white shirt, she didn't react. They disappeared down the road seconds later, Arthur already pulling their own car into gear.

Tommy leaned back, eyes moving over the woman he held. And somewhere, buried beneath the weight of everything they'd experienced today... He actually felt hope. It was a fragile, flickering thing. But it was there.

The fire burned low in the hearth once they made it home to the mansion, throwing off the chill of the day and sending flickers of gold across the walls of the sitting room. The scent of smoke clung to everything--coats, skin, the air itself--like the aftermath of a battlefield.

Tommy sat back in the leather armchair with his shirt sleeves rolled up and the top button of his shirt undone. A glass of whiskey rested untouched in his hand, but for once, he didn't really feel like drinking.

Rory sat stiffly at the edge of the sofa, dried blood still dark on his shirt sleeve, his collar. It wasn't his own, Tommy knew, but it didn’t matter. His hands were clenched between his knees, elbows resting tight against his thighs like if he let go, something inside him might snap. He hadn’t said much since they got back. Just kept glancing toward the stairs, eyes flicking up every few seconds, like he was listening for a footstep, a voice, anything to tell him his sister was all right.

And Tommy understood. God help him, he understood. He wasn’t sure where the line between his worry and Rory’s began anymore. He only knew that the two of them were stuck in the same storm, both waiting on the same answer.

Arthur paced near the fireplace, still riding the high of adrenaline.“That priest nearly shat himself when we walked in,” he muttered, shaking his head. “And that poor sod of a groom. I’ve never seen a man go pale that fast without being shot first.” He huffed a dry laugh, but it lacked bite.

John was leaned against the sideboard, arms crossed, nodding slowly. “Felt good though, didn’t it?” he said, looking at Rory. “Giving the bastard uncle what was coming.”

Rory didn’t smile or smirk. Just looked back at John with steady, unreadable eyes. "He earned it.” His voice was flat, calm. 

It was the kind of answer that didn’t ask for agreement or approval. It simply was.

Tommy watched him closely, a flicker of something shifting in his chest. Something final. There was no doubt now. The boy was gone. The man who sat in front of him -- bloody shirt, steady hands, sharp edges -- was a Blinder. Not by name but by nature. And Tommy knew exactly what that meant. Rory could do anything he asked of him now. Whatever it took. But he’d also have to live with it.

Tommy exhaled slowly, tipping his glass in Rory’s direction. "You did right by her.”

And maybe, for the first time in days, Rory allowed the faintest smile in return.

Footsteps on the stairs drew their attention. Polly appeared, her expression unreadable but sharp as ever. Ada was still up there.

"The midwife's having a look at her," Polly said.

Tommy straightened instantly. “Who?”

“Nadya,” Ada replied, gently. “I called her when we got home.” 

That was all Tommy needed to hear.

“We figured you wouldn’t want a doctor,” Polly added.

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

He gave a sharp nod, no questions asked. If Polly had called Nadya, the situation had been taken seriously. The Lee midwife had a reputation stretching far beyond gypsy circles. She was trusted, capable, and silent as a grave. Exactly the kind of woman you wanted in moments like this. The kind Tommy trusted more than any bloody doctor in Birmingham.

Polly’s eyes landed on Rory, still perched at the edge of the sofa like he didn’t know how to sit still or breathe properly. His gaze stuck to the floor now, as if looking up might shatter him. She crossed the room slowly and placed a hand on his shoulder, light, but steady.

“She’s strong, love.” Her voice was quiet. “Takes after your mother that way. And she’s not alone, not anymore.”

Rory didn’t look up right away, but when he did, the fight in his eyes had softened. It wasn't gone, but it was banked.

Polly gave him a small nod, her hand squeezing once before letting go. “She’ll be alright.”

Then, as if nothing more needed to be said, she moved to the drinks cabinet and poured herself a brandy, business as usual. That was Polly’s way. Reassurance wrapped in calm certainty.

And in that moment, Rory sat just a little straighter.

Nadya came down the stairs a few moments later, the soft click of her boots nearly lost beneath the low rumble of conversation. Ada trailed behind her, arms folded, eyes locked on the midwife with an unspoken urgency.

The Romani woman’s face gave little away. It was lined with experience, calm in a way that only came from witnessing more pain and joy than most ever would. Her scarf was still tied tight around her dark hair, her hands scrubbed clean, but Tommy could smell herbs and smoke clinging to the folds of her coat.

She spotted Polly immediately. In Romani, quiet and clipped, she said: “I need to speak with you.”

The two women were heading for the side parlor. Tommy was already on his feet. Nadya’s voice was low, too low to catch through the door when he reached it. Polly’s murmurs rose once, then faded again. Whatever was being said wasn’t for him. That much was clear.

And Tommy wouldn't allow that.

Polly had barely shut the side parlor door behind them when Tommy crossed the hall and opened it without knocking. The hinges creaked like they wanted to stop him. They didn’t. Both women turned. Polly’s expression hardened in that way it always did when she was about to scold him. Nadya’s face didn’t change at all.

“This is private,” Polly warned.

Tommy closed the door behind him quietly. “There’s nothing about her that’s private from me anymore.”

That stopped Polly short, but not Nadya. The Romani midwife simply regarded him for a long, measured beat. Then she gave a small nod, as if she’d already known he’d come. She adjusted the scarf around her neck and folded her hands calmly in front of her.

Tommy didn’t sit. He stood there like a soldier at the ready, concerned about what he was about to hear.

“Then listen well,” she said in English this time, her accent thick but clear. “She’s underweight and exhausted.” She held his gaze without flinching.“In the shape she's in... there can be consequences. It can cause problems during the birth, if she makes it that far, for the mother and the baby. The child could be born early, be sickly.”

The words hit with the precision of a bullet. Tommy didn't hear much past if she makes it that far. He knew she wanted the baby. And if she lost it now, it would tear through her like a fatal wound. He'd do all he could to protect them both. But if something happened, they could have more children. He couldn't replace her.

So no, he didn’t flinch or panic. But every muscle in his body coiled tight as steel. “Tell me what she needs,” he said. “Whatever it is, she’ll have it.”

Nadya studied him for a long moment, testing the weight of his words, searching his face for even a flicker of doubt. She found none.

Her voice was quiet, but firm when she answered. “She needs nourishment, water, and deep sleep. No stress, no demands."

Tommy caught her meaning.

"I can visit each day," she offered. "Until she is better."

Tommy nodded. He'd pay her handsomely. 

With that, Nadya gave a small nod and stepped past him without another word. Her boots made no sound as she disappeared down the hall, the door clicking gently shut behind her.

Polly lingered. She watched Tommy a moment longer, arms crossed, her eyes sharp but tired. “You heard her,” she said quietly. “Now do it. No lectures. No hovering. Just let her breathe, Tommy.”

His jaw ticked once, but he gave a nod.

Polly stepped closer, her voice softening just enough to cut past the steel. “You love her, I know that. But she’s not yours to fix. She’s hers to heal. Make room for that.”

He didn’t respond. But the silence said enough. Polly nodded once, then turned and left, her skirts whispering down the hallway behind her.

Tommy stood still for a moment longer, letting her words settle where they needed to. When he stepped out of the parlor, he caught a punch to his arm, small and sharp. Ada stood glaring up at him. 

"Fucking idiot," she said before marching down the hallway to head home. 

She wasn't wrong.

Tommy turned toward the stairs. Each step up felt heavier than it should have, boots pressing into polished wood like the weight of the world was still draped across his shoulders. He hadn’t even reached the landing when he heard it, soft footfalls behind him. He didn’t have to look back to know who it was.

Rory.

Tommy didn’t stop him. If the lad wanted to see his sister, needed to, Tommy wasn’t going to stand in his way. And so they climbed the stairs together in silence, both men carrying different burdens for the same woman. When they reached the top, Tommy paused at the door to his room. The soft glow of candlelight leaked from beneath it. He turned the handle slowly and stepped inside, letting Rory follow behind him without a word.

She was awake when they stepped into the room. The candlelight cast a warm, flickering glow over the space, softening the sharp edges of everything. She looked so small in his bed. Fragile, even, curled slightly on her side beneath the quilt. But her eyes met theirs the moment the door opened. And despite everything, the weight of the day, she smiled. Just a little.

Tommy’s chest tightened at the sight of it. Like the air had turned to glass inside him. He crossed the room slowly, not saying a word, just… He sat at the edge of the bed next to her. Making sure she was really there.

Rory followed, quieter still, lingering just inside the door like he wasn’t sure he was allowed. 

"Rory," her voice was a raspy, tired. "Come here." 

Her brother stepped forward without hesitation, moving to the side of the bed. He came to a stop just next to Tommy, shoulders squared but eyes betraying the ache he carried with him.

Tommy didn’t say a word. Just sat there as her gaze moved over Rory, taking him in, like she hadn’t truly seen him until now. The fine suit. The blood on his sleeve, his shirt. The Peaky cap in his hand. She blinked, eyes glassy, but full of something deeper than fatigue. Recognition. Tommy could feel the moment she saw it, not just what her brother had become, but what he’d done to protect her. What he'd risked. Her fingers twitched slightly above the quilt, like she wanted to reach for him. But she didn’t yet.

And Tommy sat still between them, letting her take it all in, that fragile peace between them settling like dust in golden light. 

“You look… grown up,” she murmured, smiling. “And handsome. But don’t let it go to your head.”

Rory shook his head. “Don’t worry. Tommy’s already made sure I don’t forget who’s boss.”

Her gaze shifted to Tommy and back. She reached out, her fingers brushing her brother’s wrist where he stood beside the bed. “Where’s Mum?”

Rory’s voice softened. “Back home. Getting ready to take in some sewing."

She closed her eyes for a moment. "We missed you," she whispered.

Rory nodded, his throat bobbing with the weight of everything they weren’t saying. Then, with a glance to Tommy: “Now, you'll never get rid of me.”

She looked between them, Rory’s hand still close, Tommy’s presence steady just beyond. “Will one of you do something for me?” Her voice was soft, but firm. 

Tommy gave the smallest nod. 

She exhaled slowly. “Burn that fucking dress.”

Rory huffed a laugh.Tommy’s jaw ticked just slightly, and he smiled. Not because it was funny, but because it was right. That dress had become a symbol of everything he hated about how she’d been treated. What he had done. Seeing her wear it in that church felt like watching her carry someone else’s shame.

But hearing her say it, demand it be destroyed, meant she wasn’t carrying it anymore. It wasn’t a surrender, but a choice. And Tommy, for once, didn’t want to control the outcome.

Gazing up at her brother again, her eyes were gentle. "Thank you for coming for me. For seeing me. For... everything."

Rory cleared his throat, rough around the edges.“You don’t have to thank me for that.”

Her hand squeezed his. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Rory hesitated before bending down and kissing her forehead. With a nod to Tommy, he quietly slipped out of the room, the door closing with a soft click.

The quiet pressed in, gentle but heavy, like the whole room had been holding its breath. 

You didn’t look at him at first. You weren’t ready. Your fingers curled against the edge of the quilt you remembered, still looking and feeling like it was barely used. The lamplight cast flickering shadows across the walls, dancing in time with the pulse pounding faintly in your ears. 

You could feel him. He sat next to you on the bed, still and steady. 

Finally, you took a deep breath and turned your head. Met his gaze.

Tommy looked exhausted, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and hands clasped loosely between his knees. Not just from the day, but from everything. The months and the lies, and the cost of it all. And still, still--he looked at you like you were the only thing that made sense.

“I should’ve known,” you said, pleading in your tone. Tears were already stinging the backs of your eyes. 

Tommy’s brow creased. “Known what?”

You let out a shaky breath. “That it was a lie. The maid and that message. Everything.” You blinked hard. “I walked right into it. Like a bloody fool.”

His whole expression shifted. Not in pity or disbelief. But something colder and dangerous. “The maid?” His voice was like gravel under ice.

You nodded slowly. “The new one. Fair hair, always nervous around you. I... I don’t even think she wanted to do it. She looked terrified when she told me. But she said… she said Mum was badly injured. She didn’t say how, just... gave me an address.” You swallowed, shame threading through every word. “I should’ve known better. After everything. I should’ve known not to trust someone.”

The muscles in his jaw flexed. “You’re not a fool,” he said, voice low. “But someone in my house is about to wish you were.”

The quiet in the room dropped another octave. His mind was already turning, you could see it behind his eyes. The machinery of his fury winding itself up like a slow-turning vice.

No, you were apologizing, not trying to get someone killed. You reached for his hand, taking it in yours. He stilled, it was like you'd temporarily disarmed him.

“She was scared,” you whispered. “My stepfather was responsible. Maybe he threatened her. I don’t know. But she didn’t look like someone trying to hurt me. Just someone trying to survive.”

His eyes stayed locked to yours, and for a moment, neither of you breathed. “That doesn’t mean she’s staying.”

You let that point drop. You knew the look in his eyes that now meant that girl’s fate was already sealed. No amount of mercy from you could unmake the choices she'd made.

But what you had to say next sat like a stone on your chest. Your gaze drifted past him for a moment, to the window. The memory of what happened on the front step, the blood that stained the stone.

“I’m sorry,” you went on, the words barely above a whisper.

Tommy’s brow furrowed. “For what?”

“For the man who died.” Your voice cracked, and you forced the rest out. “He tried to stop them. He died because of me.”

Tommy didn’t flinch, didn’t deny it happened. He moved closer to you. “His name was Ellis,” he said quietly. “He was loyal. Brave. And he died doing what I trained him to do.”

You shook your head, tears threatening to spill from your eyes now. “That doesn’t make it better.”

His gaze met yours, steady and calm in a way that almost made it worse. “It wasn’t supposed to make it better,” he said. “It’s the truth. Every man who wears the cap, including your brother, knows what it means. They make a choice. Same as I did.”

His words were solid and final.They should’ve helped, but they didn’t. He lived with that weight by turning it into steel and control and fury.

You? You just lived with it. And now Ellis's blood would never be anything but your burden to carry.

Tommy saw it in your face, how it still sat in your chest like it belonged there, and he didn’t argue with you. There was just warmth and the quiet promise that at least you weren’t carrying it alone.

Tommy squeezed your hand once, firm but careful, before letting go. “You need rest,” he said gently. “We’ll talk more when you’ve had some.”

You nodded, even though you felt more tired than you'd ever been in your entire life. Your mind hadn’t stopped spinning since the moment he burst through the church doors. But he wasn’t just placating you. There was a quiet worry lining the edges of his expression, tension in the way he watched your every movement, like he didn’t want to crowd you, but couldn’t help checking for signs you might shatter again.

He saw you were struggling physically, more than you were letting on. You saw it in his eyes.

Before he could say it aloud, before he could give voice to the thing that had haunted your sleep and made you curl protectively around your belly in the dark, you said, “I know I'm not... well, right now.”

His eyes softened, but his posture didn’t shift.

You reached for his hand, took it back. Then your voice cracked again, the tears came on. “I’m so sorry I left.”

That made his brow twitch slightly, the only betrayal of how much those words mattered.

You took a breath. “I didn’t know about the baby. Not until weeks later.” You looked down, ashamed.“I left to take care of Mum. That was all it was. My uncle was… he was so insistent. And I thought I was doing the right thing, that it’d only be for a little while. That I could-- But I could have said something and I didn't...”

You stopped. Your throat clenched too tightly to finish.

Tommy reached up then, brushing his knuckles gently against your cheek. “You don’t have to explain everything right now,” he said, voice low. “But I needed to hear that.”

Your eyes flicked to his. “That I wasn’t trying to leave you?”

He gave the smallest nod. “That you didn’t choose someone else. Something else. Over me.”

You swallowed hard. “My mother was in horrible shape. I was scared when I started piecing things together. But... I never stopped thinking about you.”

His thumb rested against your jaw now, steady as ever. “Love, this is all on me,” Tommy said softly, firmly. “Not you.”

You started to protest, to say something -- anything -- to shoulder your share of the wreckage, but he silenced you with the faintest shake of his head.

“You blame yourself for what happened… but I built the house.” A pause. His voice was quiet, full of regret. “I opened the door. And I never should’ve let you walk into it blind.”

More tears as you watched him. Tommy let his thumb brush along your jaw again, like he could ease the ache building behind your eyes.

Your gaze searched his face. “Tommy…”

He looked at you instantly, alert -- but not impatient. 

“The baby.” You hesitated. “Do you…”

His head tilted slightly, like he already knew where your mind had gone, but he let you finish anyway.

"Do you even want it?” Your voice was so soft it barely reached him. But the question stopped him cold.

Tommy stilled, eyes locked on yours. Not in confusion or hesitation. 

“It’s mine.” His voice was low, certain. “I knew it before Rory said the words. I knew it before I saw you today.” His gaze drifted briefly to your stomach, then back to your face. “This child is mine. And so are you.” The words weren’t possessive, not in the way men like Sean O’Grady twisted love into something cruel. Tommy’s voice held something different. A vow, a truth spoken plainly, without theatrics. “Family is sacred. What you give your life for. What you build everything around. It’s not something you toss away because things didn’t go to plan.”

His hand clutched your just a little tighter. 

“You gave me something I never thought I’d have. And now that I do, I’ll protect it, with everything I am.” Leaning forward, he kissed your forehead. “I want all of it. You. The child. The future we're owed, even if I burned the path getting us here.”

Your fingers curled slightly under his, not pulling away, but still unsure if it was real. Because people didn’t talk like that. Not to you or about you. No one had ever made you feel like you were anything special. Like your life -- your love, your child --  was something sacred. The ache in your chest swelled, sharp and unfamiliar. It burned, felt like hope.

You didn’t speak, couldn’t, not with your throat tight and your heart knocking against your ribs like it wanted to break free of your body. But your hand moved. You turned it under his and laced your fingers with his. It wasn’t a declaration, but it was something.

A beginning. A promise that just maybe, you were strong enough to try again with him. With all of it. 

The silence between you then was thick, but not cold. Just… full. Like there were too many words and not enough room to let them out. 

Finally, he spoke. “I’ve been thinkin’.” His voice was rough. “About how we got here.”

You didn’t interrupt, but your heart started flying. 

“All of it started as strategy. One more play on the board. I told myself I was in control.” He gave a bitter, quiet laugh. “And I was. Until you.” He turned slightly to look at you now, the lamplight casting long shadows on his face. 

“I never gave you a choice,” Tommy said quietly, eyes fixed on the space between you. “Didn’t expect to care as much as I did… but once you were here in my house, it stopped bein’ about power or vengeance.” He looked at you then, really looked. “Stopped bein’ about makin’ a point to Small Heath... It became just about you.”

He looked down at his hands for a beat, then back up.

“The war made emotions hard for me,” he admitted, like the confession itself was something fragile in his throat. “Expressing them harder. I made choices that left no room for softness. No time for honesty. Only angles and leverage. And I hate that it touched you, too.” He swallowed thickly. “But I’m not going to get this wrong again. Not with you.”

It wasn't just at the words, but the way he said them. Like they cost him something, scraped against old wounds just to reach you. Tommy wasn’t just apologizing. He was exposing parts of himself he never let anyone see. And for the first time, you realized… He wasn’t the only one who had been afraid. You’d both been surviving. But now, maybe, just maybe, you could start living.Together.

“I handled all of it wrong. I didn’t say the right things. Didn't give you truth when I should have.” A pause. “But I never lied about this -- how I feel about you. I didn’t know how to say it… so I tried to show it. Protecting you. Taking care of your mum. Bringing Rory in close.”

Your mother's words came back to you. The Thomas Shelby fell in love with my daughter. 

He had done those things. Even now, as his voice wavered and steadied, you could see the pieces of it. Nothing had been done out of obligation or strategy. It was something much deeper. Love, your mother had said.  You weren’t sure you could call it that yet. But maybe… maybe you were getting closer.

“You were never just a message, love. You were the moment the game stopped mattering... And I’d do anything to keep you from ever feeling like a pawn again.” The air hung heavy between you. “You’re not here because I won. You’re here because you chose to be." Some emotion flashed in his eyes. "And if you choose to stay… I’ll spend every day earning it.”

You held his hand tighter, just letting him get it out. He had to be able to hear the sound of your heart, racing, hoping. 

Tommy drew in a breath, slow and uneven.“I’ve spent my whole life building walls. Men like me… we don’t get to be soft. We don’t get to want things, not really.” His eyes met yours -- steady now, but tired. “But I wanted you. I did the first time I laid eyes on you... And it scared the hell out of me, how much.”

A silence passed between you, heavy with things neither of you had ever been taught how to say.

“I thought if I kept it all tight, you wouldn’t see the cracks. Wouldn’t see what the war left behind...” His thumb gently brushed away a tear that slid from the corner of your eye. "No more lies. No more silence.” A breath. “I love you.”

It wasn't an admission or a calculated risk. A vow.

Tommy went on before you could respond, your heart melting as he poured his feelings out. And you listened because you knew you weren't likely to see him vulnerable very often, if at all after tonight. But now you understood him. 

“You need to know,” he said, voice lower now, firmer.“I’m not easy. I won’t pretend to be.” He looked down for a moment, jaw working. When his eyes lifted again, they were clearer and his gaze locked with yours.“You’re as good as married to the devil himself. I’ve done things you’ll never want to hear about. I’ll make decisions that don’t always make sense to you. And I won’t be gentle all the time... But I will love you. And I will protect what’s mine.”

The hand at your cheek moved instinctively to your tummy, so carefully. Reverent. “You and this child… you’ll have everything I can give. Not just money or security, but respect. Legacy. A name no one will ever touch. But for that to happen…” he said slowly, “I need you to get well. Strong again. For the baby. For you. For what’s next.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. “What’s next?”

He didn’t hesitate. “A wedding.”

You froze at that word, especially given the day you had. 

“Tommy...” The word came with instinct, with nerves, and the hundred doubts spinning inside your head.“What about… what will people say?” You glanced down at yourself, the tiny curve barely noticeable now under his hand, but soon it would be obvious. “I’ll be showing. Everyone will know.”

He leaned in closer, his voice low and resolute. “Good.”

Your eyes shot back to his.

“Let them see. Let them talk.” His gaze never wavered. “They should know exactly who you are... my bride. My family. And they should know what happens to anyone who even thinks about layin’ a hand on what’s mine. You'll show in your dress, love. And I’ll stand beside you like I’ve never been prouder of anything in my goddamn life.”

Tommy smiled. With a dry edge to his voice, he added. “And no fucking red dress. I’ll burn it myself, if Rory doesn’t beat me to it.” 

You had to smile at that. Your brother would beat him to it.

A breath passed, and he softened slightly. “I know it’s the last thing you want to think about today.” His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles.“But it’s important. Not just for appearances. Not just for power or status or whatever they all think it means... It’s for us. For the life we’re going to build.”

His hand smoothed over your belly while your heart was crashing in your chest.“You won’t be hidden ever again. You won’t be whispered about. You’ll walk into that church like the woman you are, strong, beautiful, and mine.” He leaned closer, forehead nearly touching yours.“It won’t always be soft. But it will always be real. You have my word.”

You nodded, kissed him carefully on the lips. "Okay," you whispered. "And Tommy, I --"

His kiss cut you off, stopped you from telling him you loved him because he knew it was coming. "Not right now," he said meaningfully. "Tell me when you mean it. And I'll know it's true then."

For all that Tommy was, how did he know you weren't there now?

“Nadya’s coming back tomorrow. Every day, until you’re well.” His voice was quiet, but there was no room for negotiation in it. “And you’re to do whatever she tells you. No arguing. No trying to be strong when you’re not.”

You nodded without hesitation.“I liked her,” you whispered, meaning it. “She reminded me of Polly, a little.”

That earned the faintest ghost of a smile from him.“A bit more terrifying, if you ask me.”

“I’ll listen to her,” you promised. 

Tommy leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering for a beat. “Good.” He paused before adding,“Your mother’s coming tomorrow, too."

You hesitated, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before reopening. “My mother’s house…” you began softly. “Will it be safe? Will she be okay there?” You looked up at him, worry flickering in your expression. “Will Rory he be allowed to keep an eye on things? After all this is… settled?”

Tommy didn’t hesitate. “The house and your mother are under my protection,” he said firmly. “So is the shop. No one will lay a hand on either without answering to me.” He let his thumb sweep gently across your hand before continuing. “Rory’s a Blinder now. He’ll keep watch over her. Over both of you. I’ll see to it.”

A breath you didn’t know you were holding slipped from your lungs. Relief, warm and quiet, spread through your chest.

He saw it, felt it. "You’ve done enough worrying,” he murmured then.“Get some rest, love.”

And this time, you thought maybe you actually could.

You were already asleep as he quietly stripped off his clothes, had one last drink of whiskey. Tommy slid into bed and curled up behind you. You were sound asleep, hands tucked under your pillow as your breath came in shallow whispers. You'd chosen him and you were back where you belonged. He slid one arm under your pillow, his other hand draped over what the two of you made, holding you both.

@outlanderuniverse @alyssajunelle @gothic-chinadoll @sparda1234 @mrsnms @alexakeyloveloki @theinheriteddutchess @wiseyouthingluencer @lovinglimerence @goldensunflowe-r @andydrysdalerogers @hellfirehopeless

@wantedby-larry

[clancykolzig]

Diethylene glycol in an antibiotic instead of the GRAS glycerin.

Capitalism kills.

Republicans deregulating kills.

Anti-prevention reactionary ignorance kills.

[clancykolzig]

Part three of Simon Riley x Single Mother <3

Part one -- Part two

It rains the next day, and the day after, then Simon gets the orders — he’d be leaving on a mission for a week or two, maybe more.

While he’s away, he thinks of you more often than he’s comfortable with. He wonders if you had the baby yet, and if you did, if the delivery went smoothly. He thinks of how you’d told him that it was just you and Charlie, and how he hopes you’re managing everything on your own.

It’s too much and he knows it, but he thinks it all the same.

By the time he gets back home, it’s been a little over a month. A few days are spent holed up in his apartment, decompressing and trying to remember how to breathe, then he’s back to it.

To you.

More walks, by the park, around the perimeter then a lap through town and back again. Eyes scanning each time, ears perked in case the little boy comes calling.

No luck — at least, not for a while. But a week or so later, during one morning stroll, there you are.

Your big belly is gone, save for a tiny little swell, and in its place is a baby carrier, which seems to be securely strapped in place, but he sees you hold onto it anyway. Sticking out of the bottom of the carrier are two impossibly tiny socked feet.

If he thought you looked tired the first two times he saw you, it’s nothing compared to how you look now. You look exhausted, weary down to your bones, but you still smile as Charlie, energetic as ever, shows off on the monkey bars.

Simon slowly makes his way over, stopping a few feet away from you. The movement makes you notice him, and you give a small laugh.

“You sure like this place, huh?”

He shrugs, hands in his pockets, and says, “Trees are nice.”

There were a few cherry trees that were blossoming now, growing along the sidewalk by the street, and he did always think they were nice-looking. You didn’t need to hear, at least not yet, that he’d found something much more beautiful to see in the park now that he’d noticed you.

At the sound of Simon's voice, Charlie jumps down from the monkey bars and runs over, putting a hand on one of the baby's feet.

"This is my baby sister, Emma," he tells him. "She looks like me but you have to be careful with her because her head is soft and her neck doesn't work right."

He chuckles, then uses Charlie's introduction as an excuse to take a glance at the baby resting against your chest. He can't see much with the way the carrier is situated, just a tuft of hair sticking out of the top, then Charlie pulls his attention back to him.

"You never said your name," the boy points out.

"It's Simon."

"I'm Charlie."

"I know."

"This is Mum," Charlie says, tugging on the hem of your shirt. "She has a different name too though."

You laugh softly, and hold your hand out to Simon, telling him your name: it's your third time meeting each other, and finally, a proper introduction.

The morning goes by much the same as your last park playdate went. Charlie bounds from the jungle gym to the slides to the swings, demanding attention and applause. Simon keeps a bit of a distance and tries to ignore just how much closer he wants to be. But with how tired you are now, or perhaps now that you know Simon just the tiniest little bit better, you speak more freely.

It does absolutely nothing to stop his yearning.

Finally, Charlie starts showing signs of slowing down. He gets a little less talkative, doesn't have quite so many tricks to show Simon, and then he stands, going to you and grabbing one of your hands away from where it rests on the baby carrier.

"Can we go home now?"

You nod, smiling at the boy, and he lifts his arms expectantly.

Simon notices you frown, just a little, before telling your son, "Baby, you know I can't carry you, I've got your sister."

"But I'm tired."

"Can you walk for me?" you ask.

He sees Charlie look from you to the baby and back again, tears welling up in his wide bright eyes, and it's enough for him to speak up.

"I could carry him, if you like."

It would be a big step in your friendship, if you could even call it that at this point, him carrying your son home, but he's ready to take it. Moreso, he's ready to offer it -- he'd take so much more, anything you offered.

"... You don't mind?"

Soon enough, the four of you are on the sidewalk, with you leading the way. Charlie is already asleep on Simon's shoulder as he holds him in his arms.

"The baby woke him up early," you explain as you walk. "I thought he'd last till his afternoon nap, but then you showed up and he had to show out."

He smiles, and when he feels the warmth spreading through his chest, he knows he's in even more trouble than he thought. It was one thing, being interested in you, but it was another to be interested in the whole package.

But of course, he had been all along, hadn't he? You drew him in, something about you seeped inside him right away, digging in its claws and holding on tight, but he couldn't deny, at least not anymore, that there was something more, too. Charlie had been, every moment he'd seen him, sweet and precocious and disarming, and now the baby ...

"Everything go all right?" he hears himself asking, speaking softly as Charlie lets out a gentle snore by his ear. "The delivery and all."

"Oh, yeah," you answer, turning down a little residential street. "Quick and easy, or I guess as easy as birthing a human can be."

"You got someone helping you?"

You shake your head, smiling up at him.

"Nope, just us. We do all right though."

You guide him through a rickety little gate towards a house, cute but rundown, and unlock the door, stepping inside and letting him come in before closing the door behind him. You show him to Charlie's room, and he lays the boy down gently in his little twin bed.

"Want some tea?" you offer, and he agrees. Anything to just stay a little longer.

While you're filling the kettle, the baby starts crying. She'd fussed a bit here and there at the park, but this sounds more insistent, Simon thinks, and you sigh, the exhaustion clear on your face.

"What can I do?" Simon asks.

And before he knows it, he's in your kitchen, taking over the tea while you sit on the couch, feeding little Emma. He can hear you as he hunts through the cabinets for cups, can hear your quiet little shushes and her little coos and gurgles as she feeds, and it's easily the most domestic scene he's ever taken part of.

By the time he meets you in the living room, two cups in hand, the baby is resting in your arms. He can see her little face fully now. Charlie was right, she does look like him. And they both look like you.

You excuse yourself for just a moment to lay her down, then come back, baby monitor in hand. You set it on the coffee table, trading it for your cup of tea, and sit beside him on the couch.

For the first time, it's just the two of you.

"Can I ask you something?"

It's not the most reassuring way to begin the conversation, but he nods, having an idea of what you might have on your mind.

"What's all ... this?"

"All what?"

You give him a look -- he knows what, but he can't very well say it, so he hesitates, trying to find the best way out of this. But you, in another show of how perfect you could be for him, give him an out.

"Look," you begin, "my thing has never not been being unable to see red flags. My thing is actually kind of zeroing in on the red flags and running straight for them. And that's not you."

"... No?"

"No," you reply. "You're yellow at best."

He smirks. "I'm a yellow flag?"

You nod, smirking back, and god, he just wants you more.

"And how's that?"

"You've got ... something. You've got sad eyes. Like you've seen a lot of stuff and like you maybe don't know how to deal with it. Something to keep an eye on, but not something that's going to destroy someone else."

"You sure about that?" he asks.

"I wouldn't let you carry my kid home if I wasn't."

He nods, taking a sip of his tea. Just when he thinks he's in the clear, you say, "But that still doesn't answer my question."

Simon considers for a moment. He barely even understands the pull he feels towards you himself, how can he explain it? But you watch him with patient eyes, close enough to touch, and he knows that if he's ever going to have a shot at actually having this, for keeps, he's going to have to try.

"I ... has there ever been something that you've never had, but you still knew you wanted it?"

You give him a small smile, and there’s understanding in your eyes — of course you have.

“And what is it that you want?” you ask.

But it’s not really a question. You know, and he can see that. So he doesn’t answer, but keeps his eyes on you steady.

“Simon,” you begin, and he has to force himself not to focus on how sweet his name sounds on your lips so he can hear the rest of what you have to say. “I don’t … why?”

“Just hit me that day,” he explains, his voice low and quiet. “Don’t know why, but it hasn’t gone away.”

“And … Charlie? The baby?”

“Charlie’s a good kid. Can’t imagine the baby will be much different.”

You stay silent for a beat, then tell him that you need to go check on the kids. He’s alone again, and he’s on the cusp of something with you, he just knows it.

When you come back a few moments later, you sit a little closer, a look of resolve on your face, and he waits.

“I’m kind of a mess,” you tell him.

“That’s fine.”

“I have two kids, and their dad is … he’s not in the picture.”

“Doesn’t bother me.”

“… Simon, I have a newborn.”

“I know, I met her. Head’s all soft and neck doesn’t work right. I remember.”

You laugh, but it’s nervous laughter, your eyes darting around the living room like you’re trying to find more reasons for him to want to run, but with every passing moment with you, he’s more and more sure that he wants to stay.

Finally, you speak again, your hand coming to rest on his arm.

“Just … I don’t know, ok?”

“You don’t have to.”

You don’t have to know, he wants to say, because he does. He knows you fit, and that he could take care of you and your children. He could carry Charlie home when he gets tired from playing too hard, and he could make you tea while you feed Emma. He could paint the house, fix it up, replace the gate with something good and sturdy. He could fix that leak in your kitchen faucet and make your life easier and do the best thing he’d ever do, with you and your family.

But you’re not ready to hear that. And he’s a patient man. He can wait.

[clancykolzig]

Creamy or Crunchy

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky joins you grocery shopping to everyone’s surprise.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Bucky hovering; Bucky knowing his favorite people; little bit of protective!Bucky

Author’s Note: I don’t know what this is but I was in need of some silly fluff. Hope you enjoy! ♡

Masterlist

He’s been trailing after you since you left the tower, stuck to your side.

Not in an obvious way, not in a manner that would draw stares or second glances, but in that ever-present way of his - like a second shadow or an old instinct that never really shuts off.

You’ve barely gone five blocks to the nearest grocery store, and Bucky has stuck close the whole time, keeping pace without a word.

It caught everyone off guard when he volunteered to come with you.

He had been slouched in his usual spot at the kitchen counter, cradling a cup of coffee he never seemed to finish, and looking like he had nowhere in particular to be. So when he had straightened, eyes trained on how you pulled on your shoes and muttered a gruff “I’ll come with you,” there was a moment of pause in the conversation between Natasha, Steve, Clint and Sam lounging on the couch in the common room.

Even you had blinked at him, thrown off by the suddenness of it.

Still, you didn’t argue.

Normally, grocery shopping isn’t something that interests anyone in the tower. It is a mundane, civilian thing - something of a life most of you had long since left behind.

There are people who handle it, services that deliver whatever you need at the touch of a button. But you aren’t looking for efficiency. You are looking for something real - something that can make you feel like a human being again.

You’d just gotten back yesterday from a month-long solo mission in Vorkuta, Russia. It was rather harsh. You spent those weeks in the cold, in silence, every step a deliberate calculation, every breath rationed as if you weren’t entirely sure when you’d be allowed another. You operated alone, only allowed to talk to Tony once a week for updates. It was the kind of quiet that made a person feel less like a person and more like an echo.

So you need something normal now. Something unremarkable.

No mission, no intel, no carefully rehearsed exit strategies.

Just a trip to the store, because you want to pick out your own food instead of eating whatever shows up in the tower’s stocked fridge. You want to grab things impulsively - maybe a bag of chips you don’t need or a carton of juice just because it looks good.

You want the simple, stupid pleasure of choosing something, just because. Of standing under the fluorescent hum of grocery store lights and deciding between brands of cereal and coffee creamers like it actually matters.

And Bucky, for all his presence, says nothing.

He just walks with you, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes darting between the sidewalk and the people passing by. He is relaxed, but only just. There is tension in the way he moves, like he is running an assessment every few steps, tracking details of things you don’t care about at the moment.

The doors to the store slide open with a mechanical hiss, spilling warm, artificial air onto the street.

Inside, there is that familiar smell of waxed floors and cold produce, the sounds of shoppers, the beeping of registers.

A cart squeaks somewhere to your left. A child giggles near the bakery section. A bored-looking cashier stares blankly at the register screen. A tired-locking employee is restocking shelves.

It’s nothing special. But it feels real and humane in a way you need.

Bucky steps in behind you, scanning the store out of habit, then looking at you as if waiting for direction.

You grab a basket and move forward.

He follows without a word.

You walk through fruits and vegetables in bright, and glassy colors, stacked in neat abundance. The air smells like citrus, earth, the scent of misted greens, and something fairly plastic all slightly overwhelming your senses after a month of smelling mostly cold air.

You extend a hand toward the lemons, fingers brushing the textured skin of one when you feel the weight of the basket shift.

Bucky’s hand curls around the handle, pulling it from your grip and holding it himself.

Your gaze snaps up to him, but he isn’t looking at you. Not directly. His eyes are fixed on the rows of produce in front of you, his brows drawn together just slightly, his mouth set in that endearing little frown.

He stands close. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. Close enough that, if you shifted just an inch, the fabric of his sleeve would brush against yours.

It’s not intentional, this proximity - it’s more like a habit. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it, doesn’t notice the way his presence expands to fill the space between you until there’s almost nothing left.

He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly, eyes sweeping the fruit display as if it’s something to be figured out rather than casually shopping through.

His metal fingers whir slightly as he flexes his grip around the basket handle.

“This is a lot,” he murmurs, almost absently.

You keep glancing at him. It takes you a second to realize he is speaking at all, his voice being so quiet, a thought that accidentally made its way out.

“What?” you ask softly.

His eyes fall to you briefly, then back to the fruit. His mouth tightens, jaw working, debating whether to explain it or just let it drop.

“Back then,” he says, still not quite looking at you. His eyes scan the apples, the oranges, the rows of neatly stacked avocados and kiwis and papayas flown in from places he never got to see. “You had your basics. Apples. Pears. Some oranges, if you were lucky. But this?” He tilts his head slightly. “This is a lot.”

He doesn’t say it with wonder. He says it with assessment, categorizing this excess, measuring it against whatever memory of the past lingers in the spaces of his mind. Like he is trying to decide if this abundance is a good thing or just another shift in the world that changed without him.

For a second you wonder, if he is talking to you at all - or just thinking out loud, caught between time periods, a man stretched across decades that won’t quite line up.

Your fingers brush the lemons again, grabbing one and carefully putting it in the basket Bucky is holding. “Well,” you mumble, keeping your voice light. “You should see the cereal aisle.”

Bucky huffs out something that’s almost a laugh, something genuine and his eyes land on you again.

You move and pluck what you need. Apples, zucchini, a handful of bright bell peppers. A bundle of fresh basil, its scent still on your fingertips - something Wanda has been asking for. Some mangoes, ripe and golden, the kind Sam offhandedly mentioned craving the other day.

Bucky watches.

He doesn’t reach for anything himself, just keeps his grip on the basket as you fill it and trails closely after you.

His eyes track every motion - the way your fingers test the hardness of an avocado, the way you turn a tomato in your palm, the way you pause just a second before deciding on a bunch of grapes.

He simply observes.

You step over to the plums.

Their deep purple skins glisten under the lights, some nearly black, some streaked with dusky red. You pick one up, pressing it lightly with your thumb, feeling the faint give beneath your touch. Satisfied, you reach for more, slipping them into a paper bag one by one.

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

But you feel him.

The attention he gives you.

His face is unreadable, expression carefully neutral, but there is something behind his eyes - something considering, something caught between memory and recognition.

You don’t know if he realizes you are getting them for him.

You don’t know if he remembers, or if it is just something subconscious, some buried instinct nudging at him in a way he can’t understand.

But you remember. You remember the way he stared at the heap of plums on the kitchen counter weeks ago, the way his fingers had twitched with a want to take one, but he hadn’t. And the way he watched Wanda as she used them to make a pie he didn’t end up eating.

“Do you want some more?” Your voice is casual, warm. And when you glance up at him, he is already looking at you.

Then, almost abruptly, he clears his throat, dropping his gaze. The fingers of his metal hand flex once around the basket handle. He shifts his stance slightly but does not move away from you. When he speaks, his voice is low, almost careful, almost bashful.

“S’ fine.”

But you catch the almost-question in the way his eyes move around, how his fingers tighten and release.

So you grab a handful more and drop them into the bag without a word. Then you fold the top down and place it into the basket.

Bucky doesn’t look away this time.

And he continues wandering along with you through the aisles.

The plums sit among other products and you catch him glancing at them once or twice.

You reach for a carton of eggs when there is a shift.

Not in the air, not in the store itself, but in Bucky.

His posture tightens, his grip on the basket adjusts slightly. You don’t immediately know why, but then you turn your head and see a man standing a few feet away, watching you.

It’s not overtly threatening, not enough to draw attention, but something about his gaze lingers too long, too deliberate. His eyes trace the shape of you, moving slow, assessing. He isn’t leering, isn’t smirking, but the way he looks makes your skin prickle.

He seems to debate if he should say something. Waiting for an opportunity.

You barely have time to move away before Bucky does.

He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t say a word, just shifts seamlessly into place - between you and the man.

It’s not a dramatic gesture. No sudden motions, no confrontational stance. Just his presence - him planting himself in the way, broad shoulders squaring, jaw setting, scowling.

That man takes his brown eyes away from you and meets Bucky’s gaze, and whatever he sees there - whatever lives behind those icy blue eyes - is enough to make him rethink his interest. He looks away, scratching the back of his head, shuffling back a step, and seems suddenly far more interested in bread.

You exhale softly. Bucky doesn’t move.

He stays right where he is, a silent wall between you and whatever attention you haven’t wanted. His scowl lingers for a second longer before he glances back at you, eyes sweeping over your face as if he is making sure you are fine.

You tilt your head, offering a small, gentle smile. “Everything good?”

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how to form those words.

“Yeah,” he mutters, swallowing.

But his stance is still slightly stiff, his fingers can’t stay calm around the basket handle. And he glances, just once, in the man’s direction - making sure he stays gone.

Something warm fills your chest.

You missed him, while you were gone.

He’s always such a grounding presence at your side.

You missed his dry, reluctant commentary whenever the team does something ridiculous.

You missed walking into the common area with him brooding in his usual chair, pretending not to listen to conversations he’d eventually grumble his way into.

He was there when you stepped off the jet yesterday.

It wasn’t necessary for him to be there, it was six in the morning, after all, but he was.

He hadn’t said much - he never says much - but his eyes ran over you in a way that told you he had been waiting. That there was something heavy underneath that furrowed brow and the almost too casual nod he gave you. Something like relief. Satisfaction. And something much more profound.

You remember how he was when you left.

Standing off to the side of the hangar, arms crossed, jaw pressed tight as you made your final checks. It also wasn’t necessary for him to be there, but, again, he was.

He said goodbye briefly, wished you luck, but in the way you felt him watch you board the jet it seemed there was more he wanted to tell you.

And when the engines had roared to life, when the ground beneath you had begun to shrink, you caught the last glimpse of him - standing stiff, pensive, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Now, he walks beside you, trailing just a half-step behind, his grip steady around the basket that should be in your hands, watching you more than anything you’re planning to buy.

Maybe that’s why he came with you.

Maybe that’s why he hasn’t strayed, why he hovers close, why his eyes find you like he is memorizing something he doesn’t want to lose track of again.

Maybe he missed you, too.

He is not grumpy, but there is still a tension in him. Something wound too tight in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the way he glances at you like he wants to say something and then doesn’t.

You can’t have that.

Your eyes scan the shelves as you walk further along, knowing that Bucky will follow.

“What kind of soup does Steve eat?”

Bucky’s brows pull together at your casual question, as if he can’t believe that’s what you asked. “Soup?”

You nod, dead serious. “Yeah. I mean, does he have a favorite? Chicken noodle? Tomato? Something tragic, like plain broth?”

Bucky exhales sharply, almost a laugh and something in him relaxes ever so slightly. He tilts his head back a little as if this is the most absurd thing anyone has ever asked him, but he humors you.

“Steve doesn’t eat plain broth,” he says in that low rasp that sometimes sends a shiver down your spine. Now is sometimes. “He’s got more sense than that.”

You hum thoughtfully, reaching for a can on the shelf, inspecting it like it holds the answer to some great mystery.

“So what is it, then? Something classic? Or does he secretly go for the weird gourmet stuff?”

Bucky steps closer, peering over your shoulder. The fabric of his jacket brushes against your back.

You glance up at him, arching your brow.

“You don’t know, do you?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but his face is soft. The scowl has faded. There is a tug at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, I know.”

“Uh-huh.”

He huffs, reaching past you to grab a can from the shelf, fingers brushing yours briefly. “Clam chowder,” he utters. “There. Happy?”

You blink, genuinely caught off guard. “Wait. Really?”

Bucky smirks, just a little, just enough to be real.

“Yeah,” he says, voice a bit quieter. “Really.”

“Well, then,” you quip, taking the can off his hands and putting it in the basket. “He shall have it.”

Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.

You walk a little slower now, Bucky falls into step beside you. He seems lighter now, his face softened as he watches a little boy excitedly run off to a certain aisle while his mother calls out for him.

You plan on keeping him that way.

You spot a ridiculously, colorful display stacked high with an array of different kinds of peanut butter.

“Creamy or crunchy?”

Bucky blinks, turning to look at you. “What?”

You gesture toward the display like it’s obvious. “Steve. What kind of peanut butter does he eat? Creamy or crunchy?”

There is a beat of silence. Then, something seems to turn alive in Bucky’s expression. His lips twitch as if he suppresses a smirk and doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction.

“You serious?”

“Deadly.” You fold your arms, tilting your head. “I feel like he’s a creamy peanut butter guy, but I could be wrong.”

Bucky is hovering again, looking at the shelves like this is suddenly a debate worth considering. His arm brushes against your side, but he doesn’t move away.

“You’re wrong.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

“He’s a crunchy guy,” Bucky says, reaching for a jar with his flesh hand and inspecting it like proof. “Says the creamy stuff’s got no texture. No character.”

You snort.

Bucky hums, still holding the jar, rolling it absently in his hand. He looks at ease. The basket dangles from his metal fingers as if it weighs nothing, even though it is filled with products.

You watch him.

The tension in his shoulders is practically gone and you know you should probably leave it there, but you don’t.

Because you want more.

More of this, more of him, more of that unguarded space where he forgets to be closed off.

So, you bite your lip and tilt your head at him before asking carefully. “What about you?”

Bucky glances at you, a small crease forming between his brows. “What about me?”

You gesture vaguely. “What kind of peanut butter do you like?”

For a moment, he just stares at you, like the question has never occurred to him before. Like no one’s ever bothered to ask.

You can almost see the gears turning in his head, his fingers tightening slightly around the jar. The hesitation is there. He doesn’t know how to answer. Perhaps he doesn’t know if he has a preference. Or it’s just been a long, long time since someone cared enough to ask.

You wait, patiently.

Finally, he lets out a cough, looking back at the display as if searching for an answer among the shelves. “…Crunchy,” he mutters. “I guess.”

You gin. “Yeah?”

He shifts his weight, looking rather uncomfortable but not in a bad way. Just unsure. This is unfamiliar ground for him, not knowing what to do with the attention.

You reach forward and pluck the jar from his hand before he can second-guess himself.

“Alright,” you say, dropping it into the basket with a decisive little thud. “Crunchy it is.”

Bucky observes you do it, something shimmering in his expression - something soft, a little hesitant, but warm. Like this tiny, seemingly meaningless choice holds a weight to him.

His jaw flexes slightly, as if he is about to say something, but he just exhales through his nose and shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

But there is no bite to it.

And this time, he is the one to start walking, making sure you come along, staying just a little closer than before.

You are nearing the checkout registers when Bucky suddenly stops walking. It’s so abrupt that you almost keep going, but the absence of him beside you makes you pause.

You turn, finding him standing in front of a shelf, scanning its contents with a strange kind of focus, considering something.

You wait, watching the way his eyes search the options, his brows furrowing slightly. There is no tension in his posture, no obvious reason for the sudden stop - just deliberation.

Then, without a word, he reaches out, grasps a familiar-looking package, and drops it into the basket.

A soft thud.

Your gaze falls down, and your stomach does something strange when you realize what it is.

Chocolate-covered almonds.

The ones you always grab when you’re wandering the tower’s kitchen late at night, mind still wired from a mission, too awake to sleep but too tired to focus on anything real.

The ones you mindlessly snack on when you’re curled up on the couch, half-listening to, half-joining a conversation, or watching a movie.

The ones you didn’t even realize you had a thing for until you see them sitting in the basket between his plums, Steve’s soup, and the peanut butter Bucky prefers.

Your lips part slightly, surprised, searching his face. “You- Why’d you grab these?”

Bucky doesn’t even hesitate.

“Because you like them.”

Matter-of-fact. Simple. As if it’s obvious.

Just a fact.

Like it’s something he has known all along, something he has cataloged somewhere deep in that careful, quiet mind of his without ever making a big deal of it.

The realization unsettles you - not in a bad way, but in the kind of way that makes your chest feel suddenly too full.

You swallow, the corners of your lips twitching slightly, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.

“How do you know that?”

The words leave your lips lightly, bright with curiosity, playful in their demand. But beneath it, there is something you don’t quite let slip.

Something about the fact that he’s been watching.

That he’s noticed.

That he has paid attention in a way you didn’t think anyone has.

His grip on the basket adjusts for the hundredth time, but not because it’s heavy, he just seems to need something to do with his hands.

He schools his expression into something nonchalant, something careless, but it’s betrayed by the hint of warmth dusting across his cheekbones.

“You’re always munchin’ on ‘em,” he says, a teasing edge lacing his voice. He tries to sound smug, like it is an observation, just a simple fact, but there is something softer beneath it. Something like fondness.

You don’t even know if it’s been that obvious. If you truly eat these things out in the open that often.

Or if he just really is that observant.

That realization settles deep in your chest, warm and startling all at once.

So you just huff, pretending like your heart isn’t skipping beats, like his answer isn’t winding around something tender inside you.

“Well,” you remark, nudging his arm as you start walking again, “now I feel self-conscious about my snacking habits.”

Bucky lets out a soft chuckle. And when he falls into step beside you, he leans in slightly, voice just low enough for you to hear.

“Don’t.”

“The most sincere compliment we can pay is attention.”

- Walter Anderson

[clancykolzig]

Pit of Hell

dark Alpha!Ari Levinson x omega female reader

summary: You only wanted to go one level deeper into the circles of Inferno. Just one step to secure yourself a stable life. But you're unexpectedly thrown into the lowest level. The pit of hell itself. Where a beast awaits.

warnings: dark!Ari; A/B/O; secret society; semi-dystopian; heavy dub-con; coercion; entrapment; power imbalance; breeding kink; virginity kink; rough sex; dacryphilia; branding; light exhibitionism (forced); degradation; very light blood kink (in reference to virginal blood); oral (m receiving); forced deep throating; dirty talk; no knotting

word count: 7k

Author's Note: I gave you some options in the polls and the results were... meh? Lol, I mean I always love Alpha Ari and breeding is forever my on brand kink, but honestly it was just a little disappointing, because I already have alpha Ari with a breeding kink. So I had to come up with something new. Something interesting. And it steered me toward really dark waters 🫢 What you should be aware of, is that I made it a different kind of Alpha/Beta/Omega universe. I made it semi-dystopian, where the dynamics and physiological details usually associated with the omegaverse are extinct. Or are they...? 👀

As I was writing it, thoughts of making it into a series and introducing more dark Alphas appeared. So it's officially the first installment in the universe called Inferno. Aaand I may have already decided on who the other animals are and how depraved they will be 👀

Special shout out and thanks to @buckets-and-trees for dancing with me around the fire of secret society trope and to @stargazingfangirl18 for whoreheartedly supporting the most unhinged list of warnings

Ari Levinson Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Heart pattering, you looked at the glass case filled with rows of colorful cards. Most were gone already, but the one you waited for at the moment was still there. And was about to end up in your hand. 

Magenta. 

While colours used to be rather indifferent to you, being accepted into Inferno taught you to crave certain shades. Not for their pretty looks, but because each was a key.

Inferno was officially named a private club, but was in fact the only place Omegas were able to earn exorbitant sums of money. Well, not exorbitant if seen from the Alphas point of view, but considering how the crumbled society worked it was the best an Omega could make in the broken world. 

Different kinds of service were expected of Omegas at each level of the Inferno. The first circle of the so-called hell was for simple waitressing and it paid the lowest. If an Omega was accepted by the Inferno, they started at that level and had to prove themselves to be allowed into another floor. 

For the past eight months you rolled your hips in the third circle where Omegas were dancing on platforms and in cages, while the Alphas carried their business meetings, or leered at them without being allowed to touch. 

You were about to exchange your blue key card for the magenta one, descending into another level where the dances would be private, with some touching allowed. It meant the standard paycheck would be higher, plus the tips you might earn from any Alpha who asked for a dance from you. And those tips wouldn’t be in money only, but also certain passes or favors that were incredibly valuable in the cold, harsh world. 

Days of cushioned lives that Omegas led once upon a time were long forgotten. They sounded like fairytales when compared to the harsh reality of the past century. Omegas were at the bottom of the food chain now. Not even coveted as much by the Alphas as they used to be. Very few were swooped up and mated, most going through their lives scrambling to stay afloat and perhaps meet a nice, hardworking beta to form a relationship with. 

As you waited for Astoria (the woman who was possibly the most powerful Omega in the city, since she was the one managing Inferno and the Omegas working in it), your eyes scanned the colourful cards behind a reinforced glass case. 

Magenta was your goal from the very first time you were explained the rules of this place. For now, any colour assigned to deeper levers was too scary, because they meant less control over what happened to you. For example, the red that was appointed for the fifth level meant limited sexual acts. 

You didn’t want that. Even if the paycheck would make your life so much more comfortable. 

As much as you recoiled from the prospect of deeper circles of hell, you couldn’t help your gaze zeroing in on the single golden keycard. It was displayed in that glass cage at the very top, purposely making the lowest circle of hell appear as the highest advance. 

Neither the introduction to the club rules, nor the rumour mill among the Omegas gave away what happened on that level. 

Since from levels six to eight Omegas were giving their bodies for all sorts of sexual play, each more debauched and scary, you couldn’t even imagine what happened in the darkest pit. It was too terrifying to even think about. 

“It’s best you not consider earning it.” Astoria’s smooth, tinkling voice startled your attention away from the glass cage. 

The look she gave you wasn’t a reprimand, but rather a warning. From one Omega to another. 

While Astoria was a strict employer, a stickler for rules, she truly looked out for the Omegas. When you were developing a cold two months ago, she slipped you a package of meds which you wouldn’t be able to get yourself.

“Has anyone ever gotten it?” You asked, nodding toward the golden card. 

“No.” Astoria shook her head, then paused. “Though… There was an incident a year ago.”

“An incident?” You’ve been working at the Inferno for about a year and a half and you haven’t heard of any incident. They had to keep it secret, if there wasn’t even the briefest rumour about it.

“Someone stole it.” Astoria’s voice lowered into a hush. “Reckless girl was too curious for her own good. She wanted to see…”

Your stomach tightened in dread. The complete unknown was more terrifying than if you had an inkling on what could’ve happened to her down there. 

The golden card glimmered enticingly, undoubtedly luring many of the Omegas (especially those who already worked the lowest levels and their boundaries were partially blurred), but your interest in it disappeared immediately. 

“What happened to her?” You asked, nervously picking at the fringes of your white, short dress. 

Astoria opened her mouth, but before she could say anything another voice interrupted.

“She bore the consequences of her actions.”

It was a male voice. Deep, low and smooth in a way that felt like a thick drop of something sweet, like honey, slowly sliding down your body. It licked you with its timbre from your sternum to the valley below your belly button. 

As pleasant as it was, it also scared you with its dangerous potency.

Beside you, Astoria straightened like a string in a violin, her earlier open softness disappearing behind a well practiced mask of professionalism. And obedience, which you never saw in her posture at any other time. 

The man who walked in wasn’t only an Alpha. No, Astoria dealt with those without flinching. But there were Alphas and then there were Alphas. 

The true apex predators. 

There were very few of them, but they were rumored to be able to dominate other Alphas without much effort, as if they were meager Betas. 

“I’d say that her curiosity served Rogers well.” He added with a dark sort of amusement.

Your instincts shook in alarm. Any Alpha insinuating an Omega served them well was repulsive, but when it came from a predator like this one it evoked thoughts of complete ruin, of being forever broken. 

“Mr Levinson.” Astoria politely bowed her head. 

You knew you should drop your gaze down, too, but couldn’t help yourself but look at the Alpha that strode in. 

His big, beefy body was fitting for an Alpha of his power. Everything about him looked thick and imposing, even with the seemingly relaxed stance he presented. Golden rings glinted on his fingers as he combed them through his lush hair. As he swiped his hand over his beard, you saw a glimpse of a bleeding sun tattoo on the back of his hand, ink dripping onto his knuckles. 

When he moved forward, you tensed in fear, finally tilting your chin down and staring at the floor. 

Levinson. It finally ringed in your head with recognition. 

One of the four men owning the Inferno. 

Perhaps, it was more fitting to name them the four horsemen, considering they created this hell. 

“What’s in store for this sweet Snowdrop, Astoria?” Ari asked, circling your shivering form. 

You didn’t dare to ask if the unexpected petname came from your white dress, or because he deemed you so fragile and crushable. 

“She’s worked blue level for the past eight months.” Astoria’s voice was back to her unwavering, professional tone. Detached from any protectiveness or sympathy she might’ve felt for you. “She’s been promoted to magenta, supposed to start tonight.”

Levinson hummed behind you. Though he didn’t lean over, nor touched you, a jolt of unwanted caress slid down your spine. If that Alpha chose to really touch you, not only you wouldn’t be able to fight him off, but your body would give in at the snap of his fingers; that’s how powerful his Alpha aura was to your Omega hindbrain. 

Slowly, Ari circled you again. His gaze swiped over every inch of you, mapping out your curves, each dip and roll. 

When he tucked a finger beneath your chin a hot jolt started your heart into a frenzy. The merest touch, but it filled you with terror. He tilted your chin up, forcing your head to lift and give him a full, unobscured view of your face. 

“No.” He said unexpectedly, releasing you. 

Taking a step back, he turned to Astoria and declared: “She stays on the blue level.” 

Without waiting for any counterargument, he walked out of the office. He knew there would be no arguing. Astoria wouldn’t plead for you. Hell, you wouldn’t plead for yourself. 

Well, inside of you there was this fussy, outraged voice demanding you be given the opportunity, but you also knew that clashing with this Alpha would be like scratching at a wall. If he didn’t find you annoying to the point of breaking your neck, he’d be at least completely unbothered. Merciless. 

Heartless. 

Astoria muttered a quiet sorry, which you welcomed with a small, sad smile. Clutching your blue keycard in your hand, you returned to your former level, telling yourself it was at least something you knew well and felt comfortable with. Besides, you were still employed. That was a big win every day. 

By the time you returned to your home in the early morning hours, you felt calm and content. Yes, there was still the lingering disappointment at being denied promotion, but you anchored yourself to the stability you still had. 

As you walked into your apartment building, you reminded yourself it was the blue level at the Inferno that allowed you to move out of the shitty, very dangerous block you used to live in and into this place. Which still was on the poorer side, but at least the entrance doors were locked and the intendant living on the ground floor was a very sweet, protective Beta who looked out for his tenants. 

You paused, after walking into your small apartment and closing the door. Something felt slightly shifted, as if a streak of something not quite familiar lingered in the air. 

You gulped, clutching your keyes between your fingers as you moved further inside. 

Nothing was moved, not even an inch. There was no one lurking inside as you turned on the lights. Even a few tiny leaves that dropped from your fern were drying on the same spot on the floor. 

You shook your head, accepting that your exhaustion and the unexpected interaction with the most powerful Alpha have simply made you more jumpy. 

Besides, you told yourself as you started taking off your clothes, Jake - the Beta intendant - wouldn’t let anyone break in. He was a sweetheart, but he once kicked the ass of a piece of shit wet cat Alpha who came drunk to harass his ex-girlfriend.

Placated by self-reassurance, you continued your usual routine. Snack, shower, sleep. 

For the next few weeks your life continued the same. At some point you even stopped longingly thinking of the magenta level, though it still popped occasionally into your mind when your knee acted up and reminded you that a doctor’s appointment or physiotherapy would be wonderful, if you could afford it.

Nothing suggested your life was about to change. Not in a big way. 

Until the evening two guards intercepted you at the employees entrance to the Inferno to relay the request that you go into Astoria’s office. Which in itself wouldn’t be much alarming, if they didn’t insist you give them your blue keycard. 

Were you being fired?

With your heart in your throat, you stepped into the office. Into an empty office. Astoria wasn’t inside. However, there was an envelope on her desk propped against a vase with a single white flower, with your name written on the back of the stationary. 

Inside was a simple direction to get into the private elevator. 

Surely, you wouldn’t be given permission and code to that elevator, if she wanted to fire you. Inferno had three elevators to take participants to each level - one was for employees, you included, a second one for the patrons, and the third one was for Astoria and possibly the four owners. 

With trembling fingers, you hit the provided code on the lock and walked into the elevator. The door slid shut behind you silently. Ominous semi-darkness engulfed you. Inside, there were no buttons, no panel to control where the elevator went, no way to stop it, or open it yourself.

There was, however, another envelope with your name on it attached to the wall. 

When you opened it and looked inside, your knees nearly gave away. 

The golden keycard glinted at you.

That one mysterious card, which you learned two months ago was best to never be given. To never desire it. 

“Oh God!” You cried quietly, dropping it onto the floor and huddling in the corner of the small space. 

The elevator was still going down. It felt like being dragged to the literal pit of hell. 

When it finally stopped and the door slid open, you stayed plastered with your back to the elevator wall. Perhaps, if you pretended you weren’t there, if you didn’t step outside, you’d be taken back upstairs. 

But the elevator remained open. Soft, dimmed light of the bottom floor didn’t feel inviting at all. Not to you. 

Long minutes passed and nothing happened. The elevator didn’t close, but also no one barged in to drag you outside. Restlessness increased, pumped by your growing nervousness and fear. You were scared of the rage that could greet you the longer you stayed hidden. And you became more convinced that the elevator wouldn’t be your return to safety. 

Maybe that floor would provide you a different route of escape?

After all, each level had three elevator shafts - private, for guests, and for employees. 

Swallowing nervously, you tried to remember at what angle the other two elevators should be once you entered the floor. If you ran fast towards one of them, you could get yourself to the ground floor and run the fuck outside. 

Your steps were hesitant as you shuffled to the exit and took first glimpses inside the lowest level of the Inferno. What you saw made your heart drop.

It wasn’t a grand, wide space like it was with all the other levels. 

It was a round chamber, with marble floor, stone walls reaching high to an intricate ceiling from which dropped a huge iron chandelier. There was a large round table in the middle of the chamber. Four chairs stood at it like four points on a compass, directing north, south, east and west.

Each chair had a different crest carved on it. 

Lion. Wolf. Bull. Serpent.

No other elevator shafts were visible. Only a closed double door above which a sign ominously warned:

Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate.

Abandon all hope, you who enter.

Though you thought your own hope to have evaporated as the elevator descended, the last remnants of it died this very moment. As you stared at the chamber with no visible escape route and the famous words of final doom. 

“Don’t worry, Snowdrop. You won’t be pushed through that door.” 

Your head turned to the side, only now noticing the familiar, imposing silhouette of the Alpha. Ari Levinson was leaning against the wall right next to the elevator, with his arms crossed over his chest and his head tilted to the side as he watched you tether on the edge of the floor. 

“The darkness behind it is not in my tastes,” he explained casually, like he was talking about not being a fan of whiskey compared to red wine. 

“Wh- why am I here?” You asked, twisting your fingers in front of you and eyeing him warily. 

“I didn’t apply for the golden card!” You rushed to express.

“No one does.” Ari shrugged. “Or, well, those who apply don’t ever get it. Only one person before got it, as you know, but that was because she dared to steal it.”

“So why?” You feared hearing horrifying promises of spilled blood in slow, painful murder. 

“Because you lured the beast.” His eyes ignited with dark hunger and you felt the lick of it between your thighs. 

Ari moved and you took an instant step back, slamming your back against the edge of the elevator door frame. But he wasn't prowling your way. Instead, he lazily walked towards one of the chairs. 

The one with the lion crest.

He draped his forearms against the backrest of the chair, intertwining his inked fingers in a loose grip. That's when you noticed the golden glint of his rings, from which one presented a lion's head.

“Four beasts rule this world.” His words could be a fascinating tale, if he wasn't speaking the dark, ugly truth of what laid beneath your reality.

“In Inferno we provide the opportunity for some to sate their desires, but we don't participate. Meetings in this chamber aren't focused on our personal lust, but on deciding whose blood to spill and which power to snatch.”

“However-” he paused to lick his lips and you couldn't help but chase that micromovement. “Each of us has cravings that we know would demand satiating at one point. Hence the golden card. It was never going to be earned. It's decided individually by each of us when to play that card, because it's a game that won't be repeated.”

“Won't be repeated?” You echoed, trembling as the terrifying vision of death loomed over you.

“Meaning, my innocent Snowdrop, that once one of us gets someone down here they never return to their previous life.” 

Tears welled in your eyes, your breath choking on a sob. Your life wasn’t grand, but you still liked it. You wanted it to continue, despite the hardships you endured.

“It means you're mine now.” Ari's voice deepened into a hungry growl. “Your virginity is mine to take and your womb mine to fill with seed.”

His words tipped your world on its axis. A hot wave of shame that his crude words evoked dropped into ice cold dread as you realized the fate he spun for you.

He wasn't going to murder you. But he was about to break you and bind you to him forever. 

“No!” You shook your head, clenching your hands into fists. 

Ari wasn't bothered by your reaction, like he knew it didn’t matter because he'd get what he wanted anyway.

“If it's your poor attempt to lie to me about your innocent state, I'll remind you I have free access to your medical file.” He sent you a knowing look.

Inferno provided Omegas with an annual check up that included gynecological examination. It wasn't because they cared for Omegas, it was to provide clients with the best quality entertainment. If Omega's results turned out bad, they were dropped immediately and left to fend for themselves. 

“If you're fighting the inevitable,” a dangerous smirk curved his lips, “I could give you a good, scary chase and fight. But, honestly, that's not my taste.” 

Slowly, Ari straightened to his full height. He rolled his shoulders and clenched his fingers around the corners of the sturdy, carved chair.

“I want you to give yourself to me. You're going to splay yourself on that table and welcome my fat cock into your tight, virgin cunt.”

Another spike of heat unfurled in your belly and chest, shocking and scaring you more than the Alpha's words did. 

Was his Alpha power influencing you so much, or was there a part of you that wanted his brutal promise to become reality?

“You wanted to get onto magenta level because it pays better.” Ari pointed out. “It's also why a golden card is a mad dream for many. ‘Cause they imagine the paycheck and comfort it could provide for them and their families.”

“But there won't be a one time pay for this. No more paychecks anymore. Instead, you'll have all the care and comforts daily. You'll have that knee of yours checked. Regular physio. Stocked fridge, nice clothes, your sister and her Beta husband's molded apartment dried.”

“All of that for being my good Omega, taking my cock and bearing me children.” 

Your core filled with heat as your mind bent under the weight of filthy images. Trying to shake it away didn’t work. Your usual numbness to Alpha’s presence and your own basic instincts was frayed at the edges, crumbling the more time you stood there trapped with the Alpha. 

What he promised for the doom couldn’t be overlooked, either. If not for your own health, then for your sister. They had a baby who was constantly sick, because of the moldy walls and malfunctioning heat. Levinson had near limitless resources, so fixing someone’s apartment would for him be like spending pocket change.

Unrushed, he moved from behind the chair to stand next to the table. He tapped his fingertips against the painted wooden surface. 

And waited, watching you with all the patience in the world. 

“It’ll happen, Snowdrop.” He said it with no malice, but there was an unyielding force behind it. As calm and soft he appeared to treat you, his darkness wouldn’t recede. No mercy awaited.

“And yes, it will hurt your virgin pussy when I split it on my dick.” You didn’t take your eyes off his face, so you didn’t see how his cock twitched in his pants at the mere thought of breaking you. “But if you make me go there for you and take what I already declared mine, it will hurt more. So be a good Omega and come here.”

You never liked pain. All your struggles, while you dealt with them, never honed you into someone immune to suffering. No, you were still very human and fragile, and if there were ways to limit your pain, you were going to take it. 

So despite sniffling on another sob, you shuffled your feet forward. Tiny step after another. Ari didn’t rush you. Quite the opposite, watching you walk to him heightened his hunger. It was like a foreplay increasing his arousal close to the tipping point. 

“ ‘Atta girl,” he praised when your toes touched his boots. 

Then big, strong hands were gripping your hips and hoisting you onto the table. One gasp of surprise transformed into a yelp when Ari gripped the fabric of your dress and ripped it apart with his bare hands. Your bra followed. Then your underwear. 

You were bared to him completely. Breath quickened and body trembling as he towered over you. 

“Lie back.” Ari ordered.

Your heart pounded in your chest, echo of it resounded in your ears and fingertips, pulsing wilder and wilder. The table beneath you didn’t feel that bad, but it was the Alpha in front of you, devouring you with his gaze that promised bad things happening. 

Bad, scary things, yet still some deep, primitive part of you roused at the prospect. There was an ache low in your belly, making your pussy walls clench as you watched Ari loom over you. 

A jolt made your body spasm when his fingers brushed your naked skin. A tender brush over your knees teasing upwards, along your thighs, over your belly, across your breasts. He skimmed them down again and back up, rousing your body into response beyond your control. 

“Spread your legs.” He growled another command, landing a slap to your thigh when you didn’t comply immediately. 

It was so humiliating. Baring your most intimate part to a ruthless Alpha. 

“Such a pretty pussy,” he splayed his hands on the inside of your thighs and rubbed his thumbs along the outline of your folds. “It’s going to look even prettier hugging my dick.” 

He didn’t outright stimulate your folds or clit, just teased the nerves around. Then his palms smoother upwards, fingers spread wide over the curve of your belly.

“You’ll be so full of me. Grow round with our children.” 

As he looked at your naked body in dark victory and hunger, you trembled at the image of his face glowing in malicious triumph when he stared at your pregnant form. 

Reduced to the object of an Alpha’s wicked desire, yet some deeply hidden satisfaction, almost rusted like a forgotten, ancient treasure, stirred from the shadows. 

Through the past century the designations have crumbled from the once admirable and coveted. As the world turned cold, jaded and brutal, certain traits started disappearing. Like the DNA of the people itself had receded, instead of evolving. Though, perhaps, it was an evolution towards the harsh reality you now lived in. 

Legends of Alphas’ instinct to protect and provide seemed laughable, since you hadn’t met a single Alpha who would even be kind. There were no alluring scents, unless someone soaked themselves in perfume. Ruts and heats have devolved - which was praised as something that rooted out primal behaviors, but on the other hand seemed to turn everyone unresponsive. 

You didn’t need to worry about going into an unexpected heat, or having to splurge on suppressants, but you never felt desired. Nor felt a craving so deep it messed with your own mind.

However, as you laid spread on the table like a sacrifice for the lion, a lick of something heady and scorching hot stirred the latent Omega inside of you. 

As terrifying Ari’s plan for your future sounded, a part of you snuggled into that prospect as if it was a safe cushion in the most luxurious bed. 

“Suck.” Ari tapped your lips with two of his fingers.

Your mouth opened instantly and his digits slid in, pressing against your tongue. Your pupils widened when a shot of intense pleasure zapped through your body and hardened your nipples as Ari’s purred, pleased that you started sucking instinctively.

“Such a good Omega.” He praised. “Keep sucking. You better get them really wet, since it’s going to be the only prep that you get before I give you my cock.” 

With his whole frame being so massive, you could only imagine how proportionate his dick was going to be. It would be a struggle if you were dripping, but with just a brief preparation he was going to tear you. 

“Don’t worry, Snowdrop.” Ari chuckled darkly, slipping his fingers out of your mouth and pressing them against your clit. “I can’t wait to turn you into a soaked mess with my mouth and fingers, but for our first time I want those sweet whines and cries as you stretch painfully around every inch.” 

Circling your clit a few times, to heighten the first stirring of fire, Ari used his other hand to unbuckle his belt and lower the zipper in his pants. He thrust a single digit into your channel, groaning obscenely at the tight resistance. 

“You’re going to feel so fucking good.” He growled, pumping his finger in and out of your pussy a few times.

He withdrew much too soon. You were wet, but definitely not enough for that first slide of cock to be easy. Which Ari evidently loved. His grin was predatory when he pressed the head of his dick at your opening and you couldn’t suppress the sharp whimper at the first inch opening you wide. 

Bracing one hand on your hip, Ari reached his other arm to curl his ringed fingers around the front of your neck. 

Then he began sliding in. 

A firm, languid stroke; merciless against the physical resistance of your inner walls. 

You tensed as the pain increased. It was confusing, too, because you expected excruciating pain. Instead, it was a new kind of suffering that ignited overwhelming, heavy pleasure. Nothing similar to the light, bubbly pleasure you felt when touching yourself. No, this was powerful and scary, but made you crave more. 

Still, tears welled in your eyes as Ari broke into you and rooted himself deeply. Your mouth opened on a helpless cry.

His gaze was hungrily focused on your face, delighted in the shimmer of your tears. But then, as he slowly withdrew, his eyes flicked down to where his cock was easing out of your pussy. 

“Fucking perfect.” He groaned in pleasure at the sight of dark pink smears - your virginal blood mixed with strings of your wetness.

“Your sweet cunt got a first taste of the cock that owns her now.” He pushed back in. “No one else will ever fuck it, or fill it. Only your Alpha.”

“Say it!” The hand on your throat tightened and he snapped his hips into you in a harsh thrust, causing your body to jerk.

“O-” you gasped, tears trickling from the corners of your eyes as pain and pleasure flared low in your belly- “Only you!” 

More tears flew with the next rough thrusts, but they began drying as sensations blurred into something intense and unrecognizable. Ari’s cock was splitting you with each slide, your pussy unable to adjust fully to his size, yet it was becoming addictive. A part of you hoped it would never end, chanting prayers for more torment. More pleasure. More dominance. 

For his cum.

Your pupils blew wide as your pussy clenched around Ari’s cock when that thought unexpectedly echoed in your head. 

“That’s it, Snowdrop.” Ari grunted, fucking you ruthlessly. “Show me how greedy that cunt is for my cock and seed.”

Ari’s sharp bark of laugh resounded at your pitiful whimper when you spasmed around his dick again. Shaking your head side to side (as much as Ari’s grip on your throat allowed), you scratched your fingers against the table. You shouldn’t be feeling like this! There should only be fear and disgust, not a warm fluttering of something soft and vulnerable beneath the primal arousal. 

Was Levinson’s Alpha power truly so apex that it drew out a response from a stagnant, latent particle of your Omega designation? 

On a particular rough thrust, Ari pressed against a spot that had stars bursting under your eyelids. Your body tensed and arched then suddenly the coil was snapping and you were coming with a hoarse cry. 

He fucked you through it, his pace never easing. The hand on your hip moved to splay low on your abdomen, thumb wedging between your folds to torment your clit. The zap of stimulation was borderline painful as you were still quivering in the remnants of climax and it brought more tears. It was too much!

You shook your head. Your fingertips barely reached Ari’s abdomen, your touch more of a caress to him then your attempted fight against the onslaught. 

“Fuck!” Ari groaned, moving his hand away from your clit. But only to use his hands to reposition your legs - placing both of your ankles on his shoulders as he bore more weight onto you.

His fat cock seemed to plunge even deeper and an unexpectedly lewd moan spilled out of your mouth. 

“Your pretty tears turn me on as much as your virgin blood staining my cock.” 

Ari swiped a streak off your temple before wedging his hand between your tightly pressed thighs, again aiming for your swollen clit. His low chuckle at your hitched cry when he started rubbing it anew transformed into grunts of pleasure when your pussy clenched around him so hard he could barely move. 

You thought he was unrestrained before, but your body’s reaction provoked the truly primal, unhinged side of the Alpha.

He snarled, teeth bared, as his hips snapped into you so hard you felt the jolt of it reverberate up your ribs. The table in the chamber was exceptionally sturdy, but it moved as the animal ravaged you. 

The growl he let out when he reached his own peak seemed to sink into your very bones, binding your cells to him on some incomprehensible level. 

And when the hot flood of cum filled you, a deepest, darkest particle in your brain ignited with a thousand lights. 

It was a new sensation. Not because you were a virgin who was never fucked and filled. As much as that filthy side had you embarrassingly turned on, that feeling regarded something else. As if there was a second entity beneath your skin and it was finally stirred awake. 

For over a century it was believed that designations have regressed so much there was nothing left of the former reactions, or even former physical traits like knots, yet you sensed (and feared) that somehow this Alpha has broken through the iceberg of latency and found the ruins of ancient civilization; stirring some curses to life. 

Your breath was ragged, each gulp intermixed with tiny gasps and whimpers as you felt Ari’s cock throb inside of you, spilling more and more. You never thought that a man could cum so much. It felt endless. And the longer it lasted the more it had your core tingling with need for more. 

Slowly, Ari eased your legs down. They hung limply over the edge of the table, bracketing Ari’s hips that were still pressed against you. Your arms dropped down, too. One onto the table, the other across your belly, a mere inch above where Ari’s hand was still resting on your lower abdomen. 

His hand on your throat loosened its grip. He swept his fingers through the remnants of the tears drying on your face, then down across your body.

“I stake claim.” Ari’s voice resounded firm and unyielding, sending a chill down your spine. 

His blue eyes were on you. His face slightly flushed, a vein in his neck protruding and pulsing from the pleasant strain. But his words sounded like they were directed at somebody else, not just at you.

Long seconds passed before you sensed the change in the air. A gentle current, as if a draft got in. You tensed, head turning to the side as you felt another presence in the chamber. 

Ari pressed his hand over your sternum and pushed you down when you made a move to get up. He pressed on your belly with his other hand, as well. Which not only served to keep you in place, but also reminded you that his softening dick was still inside you and his cum was overfilling your pussy. 

Your heart rate increased as you watched three silhouettes emerge from who the fuck knows where. Big, intimidating, undoubtedly Alphas. 

Probably the other three horsemen. Owners of hell itself. 

They were wearing dark silver masks. Each depicting an animal. Each matching the crests carved into the chairs at the table. A wolf. A bull. A serpent.

They took their places at the table and looked down at you. Then, as if you weren’t interesting, they lifted their heads to look at Ari. 

“What bond do you choose?” Asked the wolf. 

His voice was as cold as it was smooth; like a chill one might feel when walking into the woods late in the evening - comforted by it, but sensing impending danger creeping in to strike.  

“A brand,” came Ari’s swift reply. “My crest.”

They all gave their nods. Then the bull moved closer to where Ari stood between your spread legs. A flicker of blue flame from a lighter made you whimper in fear, but none of them reacted. The bull held the lighter in his tattooed hand, his wrist encompassed in a thick leather bracelet. Ari lifted one of his hands, closed it into a fist, and brought it to the flame.

They were heating up his ring with the lion’s head. 

His crest. 

“No,” a weak sound left your lips when you understood the intention. 

There was no fight left in you. Besides, you had no chances against Ari alone, much less against four Alphas. 

“Shh.” Ari cooed, keeping the hand on your chest in place and rocking his hips into you gently. “You’re already mine, Snowdrop. This will merely be a short sting. Just like your virgin cunt breaking on my cock.” 

His blue eyes returned to yours, holding your gaze as he pressed the hot ring to your abdomen. You cried out in pain as it seared your skin, burning a permanent brand on the belly that was marked from the inside with his seed. 

“Claim witnessed.” 

It was repeated three times, by three different voices, but it barely reached your consciousness as your mind fumbled with processing pain and sinking in unfamiliar contentment. 

Ari kept touching you, stroking your sides and your thighs softly as he continued to coo. There was an additional vibration to his tone every few shushing words, comforting in a way that had your body truly relaxing despite the terror it was just put through. 

Once you settled down, only looking up at Ari with tear-brimmed eyes, he leaned down. And kissed you. 

It wasn’t as soothing as the last few touches and sounds, but brand nearly as hot as the ring burned into your skin. 

He straightened, staring down at you as conqueror at the empire he just crushed and obtained. His gaze traveled down your body to where his mark scorched over your mound, then lower, to where your bodies were joined. 

Slowly, he pulled out and watched as your glistening pussy gaped and pulsed. A heartbeat later his cum trickled out. Dark hunger was still alight in his eyes. Perhaps, it would never leave. Not when it came to you and owning your body. 

You trembled, covering your face with your hands as you felt the mess leak out of you. You saw the sticky combination of your juices, his spend and your blood coating Ari’s cock, and couldn’t comprehend why that unnerving part of you was thrilled about the sight. It made no sense and warred with the appalled and terrified part of your brain. 

“Don’t worry, Snowdrop.” Ari sounded amused as he watched you. “I don’t mind the mess. I’ll fuck you so often and thorough that my seed takes no matter how much of my cum leaks out of your poor, little cunt.” 

He gripped your wrists and forced your hands away from your face, then placed them on his shoulders. He felt warm and secure under your trembling fingers. 

You hated how he anchored you while being the one to break you. 

Ari lifted you off the table and set you onto your feet to the floor. His hold remained on your waist for long enough moment that you didn’t topple down on your weakened legs. 

Yet, as soon as he was sure you wouldn’t drop down, he guided you onto your knees himself. Making you kneel in the sticky mess that dropped from between your thighs onto the marble floor. 

A hand slid into your hair, tangling it in a tight grip. He tilted your head back. 

“Clean your Alpha’s cock, Omega.” He ordered. “Open your pretty mouth and taste us.” 

You tried to keep your lips pressed, refusing to do something so lewd. There was a flash of displeasure at your defiance and you expected Ari to force your jaw open, or to pinch your nose closed so you had to gulp for breath. 

Perhaps he would do that, if your mouth didn’t open on its own volition when he tapped the head of his cock against your lips. Musky saltiness smeared on your bottom lip, somehow provoking an instant reaction beyond your control. It was that new part of you, unearthed by the brutal Alpha. 

She made you open eagerly, tonguing the underside of Ari’s thick cock as he pushed into your mouth. 

“Good girl, Snowdrop.” He praised, rubbing against your tongue in shallow thrusts. “Get it clean of all the mess you made. Do you like how your Alpha tastes?”

He wasn’t really waiting for your reply, but he enjoyed the garbled sound you made as you tried to deny it and he pushed deep in your throat, cutting off your denial. 

He held you there, staring down at you struggling and choking. He delighted in the tears reappearing in your eyes. 

“Swallow around it.” He was merciless. “Oh, I know it’s hard and scary, but be a good girl and swallow down my cock. Close that little throat around it, so I can come down it like I did your pussy.” 

Tears poured down your cheeks as you finally managed to swallow and it caused your throat to constrict so tight you nearly blacked out. 

Ari grunted loudly in pleasure. 

With his free hand he tugged one of your hands that was resting against his thigh and guided it under his cock. He made you cup his heavy balls, forced your fingers to tighten and massage them.

Spurts of thick, salty warmth trickled down your throat. You panicked, fearing you’re going to choke to death as you hurriedly gulped it down. 

“Fuuuuck.” Ari was watching you with his own lips parted and glistening with saliva. “I’d love to fuck your sweet mouth for hours, teach you how to suck and tongue, but having you just simply choke and cry on my cock might be my new favorite version of a blowjob.”

When he finally let you go, after making sure the very last spurt went down your throat, you were coughing and wheezing. Your hands clutched Ari’s thighs as you slumped forward, resting your head against his leg and breathing heavily. 

Naked, filthy and broken, you rested at his feet. Leaning into him like he was your lifeline. 

Ari caressed the top of your head then stepped away for a moment. You fell forward, bracing yourself on your hands on the marble floor. A few seconds later something very soft, very warm, and surprisingly heavy, was draped over your naked form. 

In your peripheral you saw a glimpse of white with streaks of silver. 

Ari covered you with it, then effortlessly picked you up into his arms. Defenseless, exhausted and confused, you simply sank into his embrace. Resting your cheek against his chest, you glanced at the softness wrapped around you. A white fur. 

Because you were his Snowdrop.  

[clancykolzig]

Simon Riley appreciates a healthy routine.

Neither Gaz nor Soap can quite tell what is stranger their Lieutenant declining to go for a pint after touching ground back on base or the sight of him furiously typing away on the cracked screen of his phone since they got some proper cell service.

They keep sitting in their respective seats on the plane, quietly observing Ghost and Captain Price for the past hours like they're some nearly extinct animals they shouldn't dare to startle; trying to gauge the latter's reaction, though that hint of a knowing smile barely hidden behind a coarse beard is only confusing them more.

It's as if Price has found the answer to a riddle that his Sergeants aren't even fully aware of.

Almost immediately, they lose sight of the sneaky Lieutenant as soon as the plane lands on the tarmac and once the tired soldiers receive permission to sign out for a long weekend after spending the last eight weeks deployed, travelling places no one else wants to go.

And of course, the lads think that Ghost has simply had enough of their bullshite, that the naturally aloof man is feeling too agitated and overwhelmed to linger, even though the mission was finished successfully. Perhaps he made arrangements with some working lady to get it out of his system (Soap's words, "Who else would the bloody geezer be textin' to, eh?"), or perhaps he's already being called in for a single op by Laswell.

They don't see the signs their Captain has picked up on a while ago when it comes to the closed-off Lieutenant.

The hushed phone conversations behind a closed office door, the more frequent rummaging for a phone that he usually didn't spare a glance at for hours on end, a spring in his step after suddenly spending more weekends off base, eating homemade biscuits from a Tupperware box that surely isn't his while doing his paperwork, pushing himself harder at the gym with a kind of natural energy that comes with higher testosterone levels, humming on his way back from a terrible training session with a squadron of rookies.

Yes, the signs are all quite obvious to a happily married man like John Price, because he remembers the honeymoon phase with his wife in the beginning of their relationship all too well.

Meanwhile, Simon manages the one hour long drive from base to your flat downtown in 37 minutes, and he takes the fact that he got caught speeding in stride. And what if he loses his driver's license? He's broken much worse laws in his lifetime than driving without legal documents.

The spare key to your home that you've gifted him with, feels heavier than all his tac gear combined as it rests in his jeans pocket heavy with meaning and responsibility, a reminder that he's found a new purpose in his life.

He sheds and leaves his gear and dirty fatigues in his truck, and he takes three steps at once as he rushes upstairs to your flat with single-minded focus, excitement and adrenaline equally coursing through his veins as if he's about to seize a hostile target by himself.

The familiar front door closes behind him with a soft click, and then he's greeted by peace and quiet.

Instead of finding fear or annoyance, Simon is met by raw happiness and adoration as he watches your eyes light up once you notice his presence all curled up and cozy on your couch.

"Hi!"

His socked feet make no noise as he approaches you over the carpeted floor.

"I didn't expect you for another hour," you tell him, even though he very well remembers what time he'd told you he'd arrive, though he had added two hours to that time frame just so he wouldn't disappoint you if he didn't make it.

"Your dinner is ah!"

Simon picks you up with practiced ease, and your little shriek of surprise dissolves in a fit of melodic giggles. Bulky arms wrap around your body and cradle you to his chest bridal style as he carries you towards the bedroom with simmering urgency.

The words he mumbles as explanation come out gruff and harsh, oafish even, but you can't help and feel utterly smitten by them: "Bed. Now."

You're dropped onto the mattress without warning, and the way you laugh again makes Simon's chest hurt with how hard his bloody heart flutters.

And then you're already reaching out for him right when he joins you, mattress dipping beneath his added weight as he drapes himself over the full length of your body; slotting his meaty thigh between your legs until he can lay down more comfortably on top of you like a weighted blanket.

"Can you rub my shoulders? Please?"

His voice is muffled as he nuzzles his flushed face in the crook of your neck. Sometimes, it still feels forbidden to ask for something so mundane from the person he would die for.

"Yeah, sure. Can I take off your mask?"

You can carve out his heart with a butter knife if you'd like, but he chooses to keep that to himself for now while the fact that you're asking for his consent again makes his head feel fuzzy and his arms tighten around your warm, welcoming frame reflexively.

Simon nods. "Aye, take it off f'me."

The cloth is gently removed when he manages to lift his head up before letting it drop back into the crook of your neck, and then your fingers card through his short, disheveled strands of dirty blonde hair; blunt nails scratching lightly at his skull until a full-body shudder runs along his spine.

It's heavenly.

It's more than he ever wanted and everything he never even dared to wish for.

It's a routine he's managed to build up with you from scratch.

Strangers to lovers, and he will never let you go now that he's sunken his sharpened claws into your willing flesh.

Yet he is but a tamed kitten in your tender embrace. Just a man enjoying and craving the simplest and purest form of affection right in this moment, stripped bare from his demons as you keep them off his back with your sheer, golden presence.

"You're safe now, Si. I missed you so much, baby," you coo into his ear, and his brain fills with cotton while he noses along your pulse point, breathing in your calming scent.

Then he feels the gentle press of your lips against his temple while your warm palms stroke and rub along his back, and he melts into a vulnerable puddle, exhausted eyes finally fluttering shut.

"Missed ya, too, pet," he murmurs gruffly, chapped lips brushing over your sensitive skin. "M'not gonna move f'a while, yeah?"

And Simon barely registers your answer when he's already drifting off into a dreamless slumber, allowing himself to cling to your body like a needy child while soaking up the warmth and comfort you're giving him oh so willingly.

He's home.

[clancykolzig]

kinda interested in #9 with Frankie or Joel hehe feel like it’s one you’d usually see with Javi so I’m going Frankie or joel!

frankie morales x f!reader

prompt: revenge sex

--

"Just a fuck," he called you last week, when you pressed to define what you were to each other. "Just having fun," he said.

Your stomach sank, but you didn't let him see it. Instead, you took that hurt and disappointment and turned it into calculating fury.

A fixture in their group since Benny had brought you along one night to hang, you got on fast that night with Will and Santi, but it was Frankie who held back; those dark eyes under the brim of his cap flitting over to you every now and then.

He was the quiet one that night at the bar, but he was far from quiet when you got him alone later.

It was all "tell me how you like it" and "fuck, you're so tight" and "you take it so fucking good". Filth poured out of his mouth until you were rung out and sprawled across his bed, his warm spend sliding down the inside of your thigh.

When being desperately manhandled and pounded into the mattress one night a week wasn't cutting it for you anymore, he pushed away your attempt at defining what you were to each other out of some sort of fucked up self-loathing. Forcing distance, "for the good of you".

Well if he wanted to play a game, you'd play it. If he wasn't going to stake claim on you, then you'd give someone else a shot.

Never mind that you didn't really want anyone but him.

You felt his eyes on your back when you sat at the bar instead of their usual table. You felt the heat of his constant, burning gaze when you were approached by a stranger. You felt the tension he radiated from the other side of the room every time you did your best fake laugh.

When you placed your hand on the thigh of the man who had been talking at you for the last fifteen minutes and when he responded with a sly smile of his own and an offer to pay the tab so you could get out of there, his vacated stool was immediately occupied by someone else.

"What are you doing?" he seethed, low, under his breath.

Your heart hammering at his proximity and your panties a damp cling at his warm, familiar scent, you kept your face cool and collected when you turned to meet Frankie's eyes.

"Just having fun," you replied, the picture of nonchalance.

His eyes flashed under the brim of his cap, and he leaned in closer.

"Does he know you aren't going home with him?" he pressed.

"Who says I'm not?" You pretended to pick a piece of lint off your jeans, and he snatched your wrist. His hold was firm, yet delicate enough not to hurt -- a picture of his entire personality.

He used his grip to tug you close.

"Me."

--

You don't know what happened to the man you left at the bar, and you don't care.

All you care about is getting Frankie's belt buckle open in your frantic fumbling, the rough fabric in the bench seat of his truck scratching your back, the hot, solid press of his body on top of yours and the slide of his tongue in your mouth.

He kisses you like he owns you, like he can't stop until he's consumed you, and with the anger simmering between your bodies, it ratchets the heat even higher. You claw into his shoulders, and he grinds his hips harder between your thighs. You dig your heels into his back, and he circles your wrists in a one-handed hold to trap above your head.

"Why do you even fucking care?" you pant between his kisses.

He groans deep when he tugs his zipper down, pulling the heft of his cock out. "Because you're mine. You go home with me."

"I thought I was just a fuck," you mock, your words losing their edge as he slides the thick tip of his cock along your soaked seam. "I thought --"

Pushing the air from your lungs with a filling surge forward, tandem sounds of pleasure sound through the small truck cabin, the air humid with lust.

"You thought fucking wrong, okay?" His confession should sound sterner, but the desperation in it pairs with the groan he lets out with every rock forward. "You're mine. This is mine."

"Don't say it if you don't mean it," you whine, your jaw clenching as he forces himself deeper. He's always a lot to take, but he's fucking you like he needs to merge your bodies together, like he'll die if he doesn't burrow under your skin.

He sucks on the length of your neck, scraping the delicate skin with his teeth. His hips never ceasing in their roll, you match his rhythm with your own, relishing the stretch of his cock inside.

"I'm sorry, baby," he confesses. His voice is softer, low, for your ears alone. "I didn't mean it before. I never should have -- fuck, you feel so good," his eyes clenched tight, "I never should have said that."

The words and the sentiment are more romantic than your location: the parking lot of a shitty bar, sprawled out inside the cab of his truck -- and yet it's his eyes that make you forget it all.

Those eyes. Those beautiful, doleful eyes, so full of depth from the very first time you met.

The previous anger in them has melted away, leaving behind hooded lust, rich with promise.

"You gonna come, baby?" His mouth presses along the center of your chest, and your fingers thread through his thick curls. His back rounds with every stroke of his hips, and you cling to him, opening your thighs wider. "My pussy gonna come for me?"

His.

It is his. It's been his since that first night, and it's his tonight.

"Yours?" you ask, the one-word question holding your heart and everything else along with it.

He makes sure your eyes are on his before he answers; a plead within his own one word response.

"Mine."