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Heart, Body and Soul || Act Two

Tommy Shelby x Nina Ferrante Shelby (OC)

Where The Shadow Is Cast

CHAPTER 3 ~ Come Home to Me

Summary: The Garrison’s explosion puts everyone on edge. As Tommy prepares for the expansion, Nina confronts her uncle.

Warnings: mentions of death, mentions of killing, sexual situations, English is not my first language. Some dialogues are taken from the show, I do not claim them as my own.

A/N: The second act takes place during season 2. You can read it even if you haven’t read the previous one, although you might miss some information here and there. What you need to know for context, is that Nina Ferrante is Tommy’s Sicilian wife, and their marriage put an end to the war between the two families. They join forces against Sabini.

PREVIOUS CHAPTER || ACT TWO MASTERLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

“I promised my friend Freddy Thorne that I would say a few words over his grave if he should pass before me…”

Dark clouds were gathering over the graveyard. The wind blew cold, carrying the smell of rain and damp earth, making the communists’ red banners flutter in stark contrast to the grey sky. Someone shed silent tears, someone whispered a prayer.

Nina glanced over at Ada, who was standing at the grave’s edge with Karl in her arms. She was trying to keep herself together. For herself, for her child. She didn’t cry, she didn’t pray, but every now and then, the emotions she was trying to smother came to the surface, showing in the twitching of her eyebrows, in the trembling of her chin.

Her stomach churned at the thought she could ever be in her place.

Her gaze shifted to Tommy. There was no emotion on his face as he spoke, no quiver in his voice. It was hard to tell what it was that he was truly feeling. He never talked much about Freddie, their friendship had never completely recovered from all the things that had happened between them. Yet, of one thing Nina was sure: its roots were still planted deep inside both of them, though they were too stubborn, too proud to admit it. And now they never could, because Freddie was cold in a casket.

It unsettled her. Death unsettled her. Her brain had never been able to comprehend how someone who was living and breathing and feeling but a few moments before could just stop. Lay still, and empty. Looking the same but not quite.

Lost in her musings as she was, Nina didn’t even notice Tommy had finished his speech until he was by her side again. The grave started to be filled in, handful of dirt after handful of dirt.

“In the bleak midwinter.” Tommy’s voice was a little more than a whisper as he threw a clump of cold, wet soil onto the coffin.

When the congregation began to disperse, Tommy took Ada aside to speak to her. Figuring they might need some privacy, Nina decided to wait for him where he had left her. He hoped to have his sister back home, now that London was about to happen, but Nina sensed that wouldn’t be an easy conversation. Ada had never hidden her disapproval of her family’s new lifestyle.

“Thomas said your family will be helping us, when London happens.”

Polly’s voice cut through the silence. She came to stand beside her, her face covered by a black veil.

“Yes,” she confirmed.

“He also said your father’s coming.”

The mention of her father was enough to make her falter. She inhaled deeply, pondering her words. “My uncle won’t make a move without his counsel.”

“So it will be Italians against Italians. Who would’ve thought.”

The implications concealed in Polly’s remark hung heavy in the air between them.

Nina glanced briefly at her. She could glimpse a smug grin behind the laced material of the veil. However, the way she was playing with the Black Madonna around her neck betrayed a certain nervousness.

“You forget,” Nina said, “my family was already at war with Sabini.”

“I don’t forget anything, sweetheart.”

“Good to know.”

Whatever Polly was trying to say with that statement, Nina didn’t make much of it, nor did she bother to strike back. She had learned that letting the matriarch’s taunts roll off her shoulders was far more satisfying than any biting retort. Getting under her skin was what Polly aimed at, after all, so what better retaliation than making those attempts vain?

Their subtle quarrel was suddenly interrupted when Polly’s attention was caught by something in the distance. “Shit,” she spat out.

“What?”

Nina’s question was left unanswered. Without saying another word, Polly strode off in Tommy and Ada’s direction, leaving her standing on her own.

She shook her head, kicking a pebble resting in front of her shoe. Of all the things she could be reminded of, her father’s arrival was one of the worst. The last time she had seen him, he had made it clear he’d never be able to fully forget what she had done to the family. And Vincenzo Ferrante was not the kind of man to speak words in anger. If he said something, he meant it, and if he didn’t speak… that was a statement in itself.

A short, way too formal Christmas card was the only letter Nina had received since she had left home almost six months before. She even had to learn the news of his arrival from her uncle Antonio.

A small, hidden part of her wished he wouldn’t visit. She didn’t know if she could bear standing in front of his judgmental eye again.

It felt unreal. All her life, her father had been her safe haven, the place she’d seek refuge in when the world was too scary to face on her own. Then that shelter had crumbled into dust, and she had no idea how or when it had happened. Maybe when he had tried to give her to Spinietta, maybe before. It didn’t really matter. The only thing she knew was that she had been left exposed, abandoned by the one man she would never expect to turn his back on her.

She was once again pulled from her thoughts when the noise of a motorbike resounded into the cemetery. A young Peaky boy leaped from it and rushed to Arthur, eyes wide with panic.

“The Garrison,” he panted. “They blew it up.”

“Mr Shelby, do you have any idea who might’ve done it?”

Standing with Tommy and Moss in front of the Garrison — or rather, what was left of it —, Nina’s eye was caught by the wheel of a pram, standing out from a pile of rubble near the doors.

“I would say it was something to do with the gas.” Tommy cleared his throat, reaching for something in his pocket. He handed a roll of cash to the inspector. “It’s just been fitted.”

Moss took the money, not without a flicker of shame crossing his features.

Ducking under the rope, Polly stalked past them and toward the entrance of the pub, the broken glass cracking under her shoes.

“Madam, the structure is not yet declared safe,” Moss tried to warn her, but his words fell on deaf ears as Polly ventured into the debris.

Nina peered at the wheel again. She hesitated for a moment, then cautiously made her way to it to get a closer look. She inspected the rubble heap around it, but she couldn’t spot anything particularly recognisable, except for a broken handle and shreds of fabric.

“I think it was a woman,” she said quietly to Polly, who was standing in what used to be the doorway.

“How would you know?”

Nina jerked her head towards the wheel. “Look. How often do you see men pushing prams down the street?”

Polly looked at the remains of the pram, musingly.

“Chances are,” Nina went on, careful to speak in a low voice. “Whoever it was who gave the order, they sent a woman, so as not to arouse suspicion. No one would think much of a woman strolling with her baby. And they sure as hell wouldn’t check the pram for a bomb.”

“You may be right,” Polly murmured. “But it hardly makes a difference, whether it was a woman or a man.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But it’s a start, I suppose.”

If there was one thing that was sure, it was that they needed all the details they could gather.

Polly walked further into the pub. When she came out, she was holding something into her cupped hand. “This is all over the place,” she walked to Tommy. “Confetti.”

Tommy grabbed a piece of confetti and rolled it between his fingers. Nina could almost see his mind reeling, searching for all sorts of clues, all possible answers. Realising Moss was still standing next to him, he gave him a hard stare. “You can go,” he dismissed him.

Polly pursed her lips, waiting for the inspector to be out of earshot. One he was, she glanced at her nephew. “Who?” she asked. “Who did this to us?”

Tommy didn’t reply. Instead, he dusted the confetti off his fingers and put his hand on Nina’s shoulder, taking her attention away from the pub. “Nina, can we speak for a moment?”

Stunned and vaguely outraged by the realisation that she was, in fact, not going to be included in that conversation, Polly raised her eyebrows at him.

Nina would be lying if she said that the thing didn’t bring her a slight, twisted pleasure. She had never had any interest in taking part in the competition Polly had started, but being able to give her a taste of her own medicine without putting the slightest effort in it was quite satisfying. However, that was not the right time to bask in the small victory Tommy had just granted her.

She let him guide her away, feeling the older woman’s gaze burning through her back.

As soon as they were far enough from the rest of the family, Tommy’s steps came to a halt. “Call your uncle. Give him confirmation about tomorrow.”

Her stomach dropped. No one in his family knew the expansion process would start the following day. No one but her. She knew what was coming, and yet she had hoped he’d decide to put it off, even for a few days. But that was wishful thinking. Nothing could stop Tommy Shelby. Not a funeral, not an explosion.

She nodded, more to herself than to him. “You think this is Sabini’s doing?”

Tommy shook his head almost immediately. “No.”

“Then who?”

He exhaled deeply. For an instant, the fleeting shadow of an emotion undermined his stoic expression.

“Listen, there’s something I need to do. Go home, call your uncle…”

“Is everything alright?” Nina couldn’t hide the hint of worry in her voice.

Tommy’s gaze softened. His strong hands took ahold of her arms, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll talk when I get home, eh? Just do as I told you.”

“Fine,” she surrendered, her shoulders slumping.

Something told her Sabini was but a small part of a long list of troubles coming.

Nina impatiently tapped her finger on the telephone table, waiting for the operator to connect her call. After what seemed like an eternity, her uncle’s voice came to her ears.

“Hello?”

“Zio,” she said. “It’s me, Nina.”

“Nina, what a pleasure it is to hear from you. Is everything fine?”

She rolled her eyes, already fed up with the pleasantries her uncle was about to engage her in. The same story every time. As if she didn’t know it was his way to steer the conversation away from business — something he categorically refused to discuss with her.

“Tommy said tomorrow’s confirmed,” she got straight to the point.

“Tomorrow,” he hummed. “Good.”

Good? Just good?

She licked her lips, fidgeting with the telephone wire. “So are your men going with him, or…”

“Tomorrow he’s on his own. Our men won’t be able to get anywhere near Sabini’s pub without getting shot.”

Her fidgeting came to an abrupt stop, the nonchalant façade she had been trying to maintain starting to falter.

“So how are you exactly helping him?”

“Don’t concern yourself with this stuff,” her uncle said, not without a tinge of condescension in his tone. “I will discuss the details with your father when he gets here.”

That was all it took for Nina to drop the act. When she spoke again, her voice was low, steady. “My father won’t be here for at least another week. In the meantime, you speak to me.”

A deep chuckle erupted from her uncle’s throat. “You want to know our plans?”

“What I want to know is that my husband will have the backup you promised him, and that you’re not taking advantage of his war to let him do your dirty work for you.”

A long silence followed her words. It was bold of her to suggest such a thing, she was aware of it. But not considering the possibility would’ve been naive.

Her uncle sighed heavily from the other end.

“Non ti preoccupare,” he reassured her. “Our men will step in when the real war begins. I’m a man of my word.”

Only half-relieved by the piece of information, Nina leaned over the round table, resting her weight on her free hand. What her uncle had said was not much, but it was something. And it was something he couldn’t take back.

“Good.”

A bored sigh left Nina’s lips. Sitting at the table in the betting shop, she wondered when exactly Tommy had the intention to honour the family with his presence at the meeting he had called.

It was safe to say he had greatly exceeded the time frame for fashionably late.

In the meantime, everyone was trying to pass the time in some way. Esme was sitting on the stairs, reading a book. Polly was waiting by the window. Finn, who was new to being allowed in family meetings, paced around the room until Arthur sharply ordered him to sit down.

John was edgy. Too edgy. He couldn’t sit still for the life of him, and in the last ten minutes he had asked about Tommy like three times. The regular exchange of looks between him and his wife made it even more suspicious. It was starting to get on her nerves.

“While we’re waiting patiently…” Arthur pushed himself up from his chair to go grab a heavy box. “Whiskey,” he dropped it on the table. “Left over from the explosion.”

Charlie Strong grabbed one of the bottles and started filling a few glasses. Nina politely refused when he passed one to her. The knot in her stomach she’d had since that morning was too tight to even fathom the idea of putting food in it, let alone whiskey.

She glanced sideways at John, who was now standing behind the table, arms behind his back.

“Right,” he cleared his throat. “Before Tommy gets here, there’s a few things we need to get straight between us.”

Polly’s head snapped in his direction. “You think?”

“Yeah. Yeah I do.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Nina mumbled, unable to hold her tongue.

John shot her a nasty look. “I want to know,” he continued, “when did we all take a vote on this expansion south?”

Nina stared at him in disbelief. What did he want to do, take advantage of Tommy’s absence to get the family on his side and present a united front against him?

Polly crossed her arms over her chest, taking a few, slow steps towards the table. “You have anything to say,” she said sternly. “You wait for Thomas.”

Her admonition did not have the desired effect. Now that he had gathered the courage, John went on with his speech, unfazed. “The Shelby Company Limited has been making 150 pounds a day. Right? A fucking day. Sometimes more. So what I want to know,” he glanced up at Polly. “Is why are we changing things? Polly, look what’s happened already. We haven’t even set foot in London yet and they’ve already blown up our fucking pub.”

Nina shook her head, once again speaking before reason could stop her. “It wasn’t the Italians.”

A skeptical expression crossed John’s features. “Yeah if it’s you who says that, it has to be true, right?”

She squinted her eyes, slightly leaning forward. “Excuse me?”

“Alright, enough,” Arthur stepped in. “Who said anything about the Cockneys, or the Italians?”

“Who else?” Esme suddenly spoke.

Polly turned to John’s wife. “You know who did it, do you?”

“No, she doesn’t know who did it,” John started speaking again, only to be interrupted by a sound of footsteps.

The room fell silent as Tommy appeared in the doorway. He took a look around the room, feigning disinterest, but it was clear he had been listening for a while.

“I’m told only family are allowed to speak,” Esme went back to her book.

“Everybody’s allowed to speak,” Tommy said. “On your feet, Esme. Let’s hear what you have to say.”

John cleared his throat. “I speak for our household, so could…”

“John,” Tommy cut him off. “This company is a modern enterprise and believes in equal rights for women. On your feet, Esme.”

His words caused Polly to look at him in something that quite resembled surprise, then her gaze darted to Nina, as if adding two and two together.

Nina pursed her lips, holding back a smirk. Her eyes met Tommys’s for the first time since he had entered the room. He lit himself a cigarette, and playfully winked at her.

Esme rose to her feet. “I am not a blood member of this family, but perhaps indeed because I am not a member I can see things in a different light…”

Esme didn’t possess the gift of synthesis, that was sure. It was rather difficult to follow her through the string of longs sentences and digressions. However, Nina made a point to at least try and listen to her.

“I have kin in Shepherds Bush and Portobello. It's more like wars between armies down there. And the coppers fight side-by-side with them. And there are foreigners of every description and the use of bombs is the least of it.”

Nina didn’t miss the sympathetic looks the whole family gave Esme as she spoke. Some even tried to hold back a laugh. It made her feel bad for her. The Shelbys were a tight-knitted clan, reluctant to accept anyone outside their own circle, she understood it. But Esme had been John’s wife for what, two years? Yet she was still treated like an outsider. Even more puzzling was the fact that her husband never seemed to stand up for her.

It was a big change, from the family she had grown up into. Women might be confined in their role of wives and mothers, but when they joined the family, they became the family. No one would dare so blatantly disrespect them, and if someone did, their husbands wouldn’t just sit and watch.

“London is just smoke and trouble, Thomas. That’s all I have to say,” Esme concluded, sitting down again.

Arthur nodded to himself. “That was a lot of words, Tommy. A lot of words,” he grabbed a glass of whiskey and passed it to his brother. “Have a nice drink to wash them down.”

“Thank you Esme,” Tommy took a sip and placed the glass on the table with a thud.

“Firstly, the bang in the pub had nothing to do with London. The bang is something I’m dealing with on my own. Secondly, we have nothing to fear from the proposed business expansion. So long as we stick together. And Nina’s family,” he gestured towards her. “Will be of great help. After the first few weeks nine tenths of what we do down there will be legal. The other tenth is in good hands. Isn’t that right, Arthur?”

“That’s right,” Arthur confirmed.

“Some of you this room have expressed your reservations. Fair enough. Any of you who want no part in the future of this company,” he waved his cigarette. “Walk out the door.” He paused, setting his gaze on John. “Right now. Go and raise your chickens,” he taunted. “But those of you with ambition? The expansion process begins tomorrow.”

Tommy leaned against the bathroom door, allowing himself a moment to take in the sight in front of him. Nina was standing before the sink, twisting her raven hair into a braid. The light material of her nightgown fell smoothly over the slim curves of her body, stopping high enough to leave most of her toned legs uncovered. A few drops of water tricked down her cleavage, glistening on the tanned skin.

“You’re staring,” she murmured.

A sheepish smile formed on his face. “Yes,” he admitted.

“And you’re still dressed.”

“I’m going out.”

Her gaze met his from the mirror. “Out? At this hour?”

He walked up behind her and rested his hands on her hips, leaning to rub his face against her shoulder. Her skin was still warm from the bath. He began to leave a trail of kisses on the side of her exposed neck, her scent clouding his senses.

Now he really didn’t want to go.

He could feel her melting in his embrace, her back pressed against his front. His teeth gently nibbled at a particularly sensitive spot, causing her to let out a faint sigh that almost made his self control snap. His grip on her unconsciously tightened.

He still had a couple of hours before midnight. Perhaps he could take his time.

He took ahold of her nightgown, his knuckles brushing over her skin as he slowly started to lift it up, uncovering her thighs inch after inch, getting closer to the most intimate part of her…

“I didn’t like how Esme was treated at today’s meeting.”

Nina’s sudden words put an end to his fondling. He groaned in disappointment, raising his head just enough to look at her. “Why are you telling me, eh? I let her speak.”

“And everyone else treated her like a joke. And her husband let them, which is completely absurd and frankly unacceptable.”

Alright, maybe he knew where this was going.

She turned around, fixing her piercing brown eyes on him. “I can take your aunt’s provocations, and I can stand up for myself just fine. But if your family ever treated me like they treated Esme in front of you and you let it slide like John did, we’re going to have a problem.”

An amused smirk threatened to grow on Tommy’s face. It wasn’t like he expected anything different from her. She had a point, though. He would never let anyone speak to Nina like Polly and Arthur had spoken to Esme, and he sure as hell wouldn’t even try to shut her up in front of everyone.

“Got it, Sergeant.”

Her frown faded into a mischievous smile. “It’s General to you.”

“Ah,” he raised his eyebrows, nodding in fake recognition before cupping her face with his hands and pressing a kiss on her soft lips.

She would be the fucking death of him.

After a short while, Nina pulled away, depriving him once again of her warmth.

“Now, will you tell me what’s going on?”

Tommy didn’t need her to specify what it was that she was referring to. She had given him space all night. No inquiring, no questioning looks. But he knew the moment she’d demand answers would come.

“What happened with the pub is Irish business,” he explained.

“Irish business?”

“Yeah. But for everyone’s safety, it’s better that some things remain undisclosed. This is all I can tell you.”

For a few seconds, Nina simply stared at him.

“Well, you’ve given me a thorough and exhaustive explanation,” she said dryly.

“It’s for your safety, Nina.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Of course.”

“It’s for your safety,” he repeated, slightly raising his voice.

“Right.”

He sighed in frustration. Why did she have to be so stubborn?

“Oi, look at me,” he lifted her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s not just bad business, love. It’s serious. There are things I don’t even know yet, things they won’t share with me.”

Nina crossed her arms over her chest, still unconvinced.

He took her face in his hands, urging her to listen to him. To really listen to him. “I only want you to be safe, Nina. I need you to be safe. And if I tell you about it, you won’t be. I cannot risk it, you understand?”

She looked at him for a long moment, then her gaze softened, revealing a vulnerability that made him feel like he had just been stabbed. She placed her hands above his wrists, tenderly rubbing her thumbs up and down. “I’m just worried for you,” she whispered.

His heart clenched, and all the exasperation he had felt in those last few minutes faded into a poignant guilt.

“I’m worried you’re stepping into something bigger than yourself,” she went on. “And I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know what to expect.”

“Come here,” Tommy cradled her head against his shoulder, enveloping her in his embrace. She was right, deep down he knew she was. But the Irish business was something he had to deal with on his own.

Nina slid her arms around his waist, holding him tight. “Is tonight Irish business?”

Tommy inhaled deeply, searching for the right words. Maybe that he could tell her.

“Yes. There’s a man I have to kill,” he confessed.

He felt her stiffen in his arms. “Who?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Why?”

“Doesn’t matter either.”

Nina raised her head to look at him. There was a bitter resignation in her eyes, laced with an emotion he couldn’t decipher. Her hand lifted to gently stroke his cheek. “Be careful, alright? I need you to come home to me.”

He leaned forward to rest his forehead against hers, relishing the feeling of her warm hand on his face. That was a good reason to come home.

Her. Her touch. Her love.

He pulled her in and kissed her softly.

“I promise I’ll always come home to you.”

Please consider leaving a comment and/or reblog if you enjoyed this chapter☀️

Heart, Body and Sould tag list

@zablife @queenofshinigamis @raincoffeeandfandoms / @justrainandcoffee @call-sign-shark

@kmc1989 @babayaga67 @kmhappybunny240 @diorrfairy @mariaelizabeth21-blog1

@gaslysainz @brummiereader @loverhymeswith @fairypitou @prettywhenicry4

@mysticalbouquetwolf-posts @woofgocows @girlwith-thepearlearring @goblinjnr @outlanderuniverse

@citylights31 @neonpurplestars89-blog @outlanderuniverse @red-riding-wood @evita-shelby

@look-at-the-soul @gathania93 @wonderlanddreamer @thelastemzy @meadows5

@littlepeakydevil @seedlings-stuff @misslittlegetou @strangeobsessed

General Tag list: @iamngoclinh08 @lilywinchesterlove @fandom-puff @capitanostella @caelys @lucillethings @peakyxtommy @queenofkings1212 @lyarr24 @kmc1989 @call-sign-shark @jomarch-wannabe @ce1iat @areyenotfondofmelobster @red-riding-wood @optimisticsandwichgladiator @lunarubra @rangerelik

Tommy Shelby tag list: @50svibes @bellabarnes1378 @jbrownta

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donutloverxo · 10 hours ago

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Give Them Hell

Main Masterlist ❀ Soldier Boy Masterlist

⋆ ˚｡⋆ PAIRING Soldier Boy / Ben x fem!(supe)Reader

⋆ ˚｡⋆ CHARACTERS Soldier Boy, Kingsmen (OC), The Deep, Ashley, Also Ashley, Butcher and The Boys

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY America loves Happy Endings - and so does Vought! If you or a loved one is struggling with your supe life partner, call Happily Ever After® today at 1-800-122-8585. A proud subsidiary of the Sage Grove Center®, which is a proud subsidiary of Global Wellness Services®, which is a proud subsidiary of Vought International®. Don't let the intrusive thoughts win (this includes burning or decapitating your supe), because your supe-partner is only as strong as your love is for them!

WARNINGS / TAGS MDNI 18+! The Boys styled Canon-divergent (set after S3 - HL was iced instead of SB) | Alternating POV | Ending a toxic relationship The Boys-style | Soldier Boy misreads reader's cues until the penny drops | "Touch Her and Die"-Trope | Protective!SoldierBoy | Hint of Strangers to eventual Lovers? | Canon Dark / Morbid Humor ! | Canon Language / Sexual implications / Misogyny is strong | HEAVY implications of domestic abuse ( mainly reader's husband, but he’ll pay for it ! ) | reader shows signs of PTSD | Death / Canon Violence + Gore !! | Ben does not take well to domestic violence !! | Ben piñata's a skull 🪅 | Soldier Boy - and in this case every character - is a warning tag for themselves | No use of Y/N.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS …let’s just say it’s over 7k.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SONG PROMPT I'm On Fire by Springsteen

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES Thanks for the great song prompt, @zepskies! I tried something ...different with this fic (as you can already anticipate by "The Boys-version" summary 😂). And I am aware that I'm over the official wc limit and I am so sorry for that! It was meant to be an entry for your 5k Summer Writing Challenge and I really tried to cut it down, but eventually couldn't bring myself to do it… you'll just have to squint at those extra words and let Ben distract you. 😭

Also, a huge shoutout to @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth and @bettystonewell for your great support. <3

Final Warning: I cannot stress this enough, it's all 50 shades of fucked up and basically everyone’s being awful like we know it from the show and the misogyny is STRONG here. But it's also satisfying to see SB - out of all people - teaching reader's husband a lesson. 😉 For everyone who's still here, enjoy the ride!

Your husband's a supe. Goes by the name Kingsmen. Is good looking, caring and rotten to the core. Unfortunately, you only found out about one of these three traits after he'd put a ring on your finger. Mainly, because there's another, fourth trait, you didn't know about until it was too late;

He's an excellent liar.

And now he's burnt to a fucking cinder.

The melody of "I'm on Fire" by Springsteen is blasting through your home, the sound distorted by the hungry flames eating out the insides of the stereo system.

The tears that would've rolled down your cheeks and soaked the carpet of your shared penthouse evaporate before they can even leave your eyes. Not to mention the carpet's pricey material, which coats the hot air of the living room in a burnt stench. Embers swirl around your naked form. Your face, that you're used to being sticky and wet when you would have one of your breakdowns, is now sizzling.

Air scorching hot. On fire. Literally.

Flames lick at your skin, tender, like a pack of dogs trying to soothe their leader. The tip of the tongue follows the curves of your body, up the spine to the puncture where you'd placed that needle only 5 minutes ago.

5 fucking minutes and a shot of blue liquid was all it took to change your entire life and reduce everything to a molten mass.

With you sat in the middle of it, curled up, wheezing and sobbing tearless cries while the building around you was getting devoured by Hell.

What's going to happen to you now? Will you eventually burn as well? End up as a corpse next to your husbands? Beyond recognition? Like a burnt and shrivelled worm on the summer asphalt? Or will Vought show up and take you away? Lock you up in some kind of looney bin for supes out of control? Or will -

CRACK!

You startle - eyes snap up; One of the flames just tossed down a picture from your husband's secretary. The glass shattered, cracked the smile of yours in meringue, tore a rift across the strong arm that's slung around your waist, the fingers that dug into your side. A silent warning you had learned to take serious from that day on.

A low snarl of a bulkier blaze has your focus shift back to the crumpled heap of charcoal and black bones, a couple of feet away from you. The blaze stills and lets go of the corps when doubt begins to wash over your mind.

He deserved this, didn't he?

No… no how could he – he… he wasn't that bad, right?

Oh my God – I'm – I'm a monster.

Your arms tighten around your pulled up legs, and you burrow your face between your knees as you try to shield yourself from the roaring hellfire that has began to tear down the apartment building around you. Screams and agonizing cries echo through the walls, their sounds devoured by the howls of Hellhounds and the excited crackling of their fangs as they maul and gobble down everything in their way, barging down doors and snapping pillars in two, their charred paws scorching the floor and shredding the bodies they've pulled down into the flames.

A ball of fire suddenly drops off the ceiling and lands on the remote control on the coffee table before it rolls off and scurries away. The TV springs to life. Your eyes trail up to watch over the curve of your knees how the large screen flickers into a commercial;

Oh the fucking irony. Of course.

A medieval throne hall pops into view. Children fight with wooden swords in the foreground. On the throne is a crowned boy seated – bored, kicking his legs. His head suddenly perks up. Cut to a guy in a gleaming silver plated supe-suit, resembling a knight, entering the scene. His gait is confident, his wavy, raven hair slicked back, the light of the torches on each side contrast his icy blue eyes and contour his sharp jaws. He looks like freaking Baron Thomas Sharpe of Crimson Peak - a look that has all the girls swoon. But he only ever had eyes for you. A thought that always filled you with pride – made you feel seen and valuable. He walks up to the throne, drops to one knee, the crimson knight's cape ripples and pools at his sides as he reaches behind his back to pull out a golden goblet. He holds it up to the "king". The children play-fighting stop, some drop their swords and they all turn to face the supe with wide eyes. A dramatic pause. The crown-wearing boy nods. The knight produces a can of Cherry Coke – cracks it open in slow-motion with a sizzle and a close up of the red juice getting poured into the goblet. Cheering ensues, the kids swarm him. He picks up the smallest one – a little girl – lifts her onto his shoulders and smoothly turns to look at you – the audience. The slogan "Strength runs in the Blood" rolls onto the screen – the camera zooms in on Kingsmen, his robe flowing in the background. He smiles, humbly, and speaks in a soft, warm voice that sends a shiver down your spine. "Every drop makes a difference."

Then a voice over goes on; Every sip of Cherry Coke goes towards Kingsmen's Royal Blood Drive, bringing hope, healing and heroi-

The screen explodes - glass splinters; Where your husband's face has been moments ago, is now stuck a dagger.

What?

Your head whips around in panic. Breath caught in your throat as you watch a bulky figure emerge behind you in the hallway, engulfed by flames and smoke.

"That son of a bitch never knows when to shut up, does he?"

12 hours ago. Your POV.

"Cut! And that's a wrap!"

"Fuckin' finally. Somebody take this drool-bomb off me-"

Kingsmen turns and shoves the toddler into the next passing by lady who happens to be a set assistant. She wants to protest, fumbling with cables and the additional squirming child in her arms, but Kingsmen just pats her ass with a velvety "Thank you darling" and moves past her in quick strides, his attention quickly shifting to the other supe who'd just walked onto set and nearly stumbled over two kids running around with their wooden swords.

"The Deep!" Kingsmen calls out with a lazy wave of his hand, "What bestows me with one of the Seven? You got my invitation for tonight?"

The Deep jostles against a clothes-hanger – no wait, that was you – whatever, you're used to being ignored – as he walks up to him, followed closely by Ashley, CEO of Vought, who's flanked by her assistant, also called Ashley. Better known as "Also Ashley".

"Yeah, thanks bro! Got your application too." The Deep buddy-handshakes him with a grin before both supes take in hands-on-hips-macho-poses that has you mentally roll your eyes to the back of your skull. "I like it, we think it's very promising. And now that Homelander's – you know -" The Deep clears his throat "- gone, we could really use someone like you."

What he means is: Good looks. A Q-Rating of a whopping 86%. And a flawless reputation. You'd love to add your own experience but know better than to open your mouth. So instead you flash a proud smile and let the men do the talking.

"Ah- fret not my friend, I got your back. You also got my donation for your little fish friends?" Kingsmen says and pats his back. The Deep nods enthusiastically, starts to babble about some dolphin mating facts, while they continue schmoozing each other and Kingsmen starts steering The Deep and the two women off the fake medieval set. When you don't move straight away, your husband subtly beckons you to follow him with his index finger.

You hold back the sigh that's been stuck in the back of your throat for the past three hours and pad after him like the loyal wife you are.

Kingsmen wraps a loose arm around the other supe's shoulder. "Heard about your Ex" - he holds out his free arm for you to take off his leather glove while he keeps talking - "And that book of hers?" - he lets out a low hiss between his flashing teeth while waving you off dismissively again - "That must’ve stung." The Deep shifts awkwardly, trying so hard to act unaffected by covering it up with a chuckle.

Also Ashley whispers next to you. "She called him a squid-fucker and said he once ate out a dolphin."

Ashley's eyes bulge like she's recalling the moment she saw the interview. "Starlight leaked 'evidence pictures' of it"- she air-quotes dramatically -"Cost us a fucking fortune to proof them as deepfakes."

The Deep interjects. "That's not – Ambrosius is an octopus, it's –" Ashley gives him a pointed "zip-it" hand gesture "– all total bullshit, of course. She's trying to ruin me."

Supes. You'd fight the urge to gag now if it wasn't for the fact that you're used to this shit-talk by now. For the past 6 months it's always been either about someone who blew up something or someone - or someone who fucked someone or something they shouldn't, and how to wipe their plates clean again. Throw some charity party for sick children or animals in need, smack a "Vought approved" sticker onto their backs and continue the show like it's all a damn family commercial.

Kingsmen playfully elbows The Deep. "Looks like someone didn’t keep his lady in line, huh?"

The Deep snorts, still trying to play it cool. "She was a difficult one for sure."

"Tell you what, why don't you stay for the after party tonight? I invited some big names, even the American Legend himself." He pulls his cape off and tosses it your way without breaking eye-contact with The Deep. You catch it and add it to the rest of the things you're balancing on your arms. "I can also give you some advice in that department, if you know what I mean." His eyes flicker your way – just for a split second, but it's enough to burn the skin over your ribs – before they return to the Deep with a wink.

6 hours ago. Ben's POV.

Soldier Boy adjusts his shield in front of his chest, forces a smile for the photo-op with some supposedly important jock he couldn't care less for. He'd probably even enjoy this shitshow if it was about him – but unfortunately those times of him being in the spotlight are long gone. Now he's only invited to these parties as a guest, like when it's a charity event for blood donation and the guy hosting it is on the Boys' target list.

"Give 'em your best fuckin' smile, big boy," Butcher teases through the intercom in his ear, "Gotta sell it."

The cameras flash, he holds his iconic Soldier Boy-pose until the people move on and he drops the bottom tip of the shield into the red carpet with enough force to make a couple of women jump and one of them drop her clutch. His attention shifts to the woman dropping to her knees to follow it, when his view's blocked the same moment.

"There he is," Kingsmen opens his arms as he walks up to Soldier Boy, "America's long-lost Son."

Soldier Boy's eyebrows quirk. An amused expression melts over his face as his eyes flit across the supe's knight-like suit, red cape including.

Kingsmen holds out his hand towards him, chest puffed out like a fucking cock. "Glad you made it. You gotta know, I'm your biggest fan, watched all your movies." Soldier Boy's chin raises, takes his hand, grips it with a little too much force.

"And who are you again?" he answers with a subtle, mocking smile.

Kingsmen's smirk doesn't waver but instead widens to Soldier Boy's surprise. "I like your old humour." He gently pats the back of Soldier Boy's gripping hand with his other one like he's soothing some grandfather. "By the end of tonight, you'll remember who I am."

Soldier Boy forces a pressed smile. "Counting on it."

"Oh, I'll put a tenner on that," Butcher comments smugly from the sidelines.

They're still shaking hands for the cameras when Kingsmen suddenly turns halfway to pull you over by your waist. "What are you doing back there, darling? Come here-"

"Soldier Boy, this is my wife," Kingsmen introduces you. His grip on Soldier Boy's hand hardens, for a moment matching Soldier Boy's before he finally breaks the handshake. The unexpected force definitely throws him off but he doesn't have any time to think about it as his focus is drawn to the woman stumbling into his view.

"Nice to meet you, sir," you greet him softly.

His eyes flicker down to the clutch under your arm – you're the one who dropped it seconds ago. He takes note of the way your fingers curl around it, and how your pretty red lips click into place like the smile was fucking stapled there.

Once your eyes lock, they linger on you for a little too long – which doesn't go unnoticed by your husband. The hand on your waist begins to subtly draw circles up your side. Soldier Boy notices the small tremor that follows the slow, deliberate movements of his fingers. But before he gets to drop a smug comment, your focus suddenly snaps to the floor and he's forced into the next stupid photo-op pose.

4 hours ago. Your POV.

You check your makeup in the mirror of the lady's restroom. It stayed on well for the main event of the evening, and it showed in the way your husband looked proud and pleased with you when he'd called you up on stage to announce the grand number of children he'd already donated his own blood to by now.

People applauded. Journalists snapped their pictures. Kingsmen praised you with a kiss in front of the entire crowd. Everything went as planned.

But now you want to make sure you look just as flawless for the after party.

Your hands smoothen the folds of your red dress, move gently as they adjust the sleeves and the neckline. A hiss slips from your lips when you tug at the fabrics where you shouldn't and your fingers instinctively brush back the sleeve to reveal the contours of a bruise on your upper arm.

The tips of your fingers gingerly trace the blue outlines when the door next to you suddenly swings open; Ashley.

Her hand is wrapped around orange locks of her hair, tugging at it as she always does when she's stressed – but her hand drops to her side the moment she spots you.

You smile. She forces one back.

But then her focus darts down to your exposed arm - you tense up - swearing inwardly.

Ashley looks up at you again, and for a moment it seems like concern flickers across her eyes, but it quickly makes way for a scrunched up frown.

"Jesus Christ - cover that up," she hisses.

You flinch. Her tone came as sharp as the cuts below your skin.

"I-…" you start but she makes your mouth snap close when she continues in a hushed voice.

"You're the wife of Kingsmen for Christ's sake. What the fuck do you want people to think, huh?" She doesn't wait for an answer, of course she doesn't. You are not expected to. You are there for looks, for points and votes of female citizens. Not like emotions - real emotions - have a place in Vought International stock.

You bite your lower lip, hastily tug your sleeve back into place, head lowered in shame.

Ashley hustles past you and towards the last stall, mumbling something under her breath about 'being surrounded by idiots'. You sigh and turn to leave the restrooms when you almost bump into a guy coming your way. He's a small, round man, wearing square glasses – the CEO of Bankley Hospitals and main benefactor of Kingsmen's Royal Blood Drive.

"I – uh – got to check on my wife… this stays between us, right? Love what your husband has done for us so far."

He chuckles nervously as you move out of the way. You simply smile at him. You're used to this. Lies. And by now you swallow them like candy - in return, bestow them with your sweetest looks and a curt nod. He then squeezes past you and swiftly slips into the ladies restrooms behind you.

Actually, it's not just fucking supes. It's fucking everyone at Vought.

Just as you’re about to turn back, you collide with a wall. One made of military green fabrics, carved by muscles of steel and encased by a fragrance that fills your senses with the scent of cigars, a glass of hard liquor, pepper and a hint of something like vanilla bean.

"We can take the men's stalls." The chest rumbles with a gravel and yet flirtatious voice that has your eyes snap up and meet his.

Vibrant green and muddy brown at the same time, depending on how he tilts his head, the soft shadows frame his face and contour his neatly trimmed beard, while the typical hotel hallway light almost swallows the traces of freckles across his eyes and cheeks.

Soldier Boy.

Ben's POV.

Soldier Boy watches how your breath catches and you jump backwards when you notice how you've practically been nose up to his plated chest.

"I'm so sorry," you quickly apologize, the grip on your clutch growing tighter under his intense gaze.

"Nuthin' to worry 'bout, sweetheart," he chuckles with a flirty smile, "You couldn’t hurt me even if you wanna'd to."

There's a moment of tense silence - not that Soldier Boy takes any note of it - but if he did, he'd know the air feels suddenly thick and heavy. At least for you.

"You up for a round? Get a nice VIP-taste of the Legend?" he asks nonchalantly and tips his head towards the men's restroom as he takes a leisurely step closer.

You blink at him. "…what?"

Soldier Boy stops, places his hands on his canted hips, his cocky expression never wavering once.

"Would ya like that?" he goes on, flashes a crooked grin. Your eyebrows shoot up and he smoothly leans against the wall next to you, flexes his biceps while he continues in a low drawl. "You look a little tense, darlin'. Want me to take care of that?"

Your lips press into a thin line and Soldier Boy takes the cue to press on (yes, Ben's amazing at reading between the lines). His eyes flicker down to the ring on your wedding finger you keep subtly fumbling with. He jerks his chin at it. Silently amused.

"Daddy treat you well?" he asks, all lazy smiles and faux interest. You don't smile back. For a moment it even looks like your jaw clenches – eyes averting his as they drift to the ground like a flustered school girl.

Is she really that much of a prude?

The corner of his lips twitches for a second.

Playing hard to get, huh? Oh I'll have her drippin' down my hand in no time…

Soldier Boy leans in – and Christ on a Stake you look like Hughie when he tries to hide a boner in front of Annie. (Not really.) He has to bite back a chuckle.

"Y'know I could loosen you up, fuck you just right... And my dick can keep a secret between you and me," he purrs in a low rasp and winks at you. That tone usually tickles their skittle.

You take a silent breath, your eyes dart up to lock with his and the moment your pretty soft lips fuckin' finally part –

Your husband's voice suddenly tears through the hallway, calling out your name.

Soldier Boy groans on the inside, his eyes rolling to the side to check on how close the fucker already is. Ten more seconds and he would've had you bent over the next men's vanity, hands smearing the mirrors, whimpering his name while he'd fucked you 'til your legs gave in. What a fuckin' waste of pussy.

Annoyance spread all over his face, he turns back to face you and – huh?

You'd flinched. Benjamin clocks it.

It was only subtle and others would have definitely missed it. But Ben picked up on it. Not because he's sensitive to emotions – he's got the emotional capacity of a bullet shell and he knows it - but because he, even though he'd never admit it, has learned to spot the difference between surprise and induced fear.

His eyebrows furrow as he watches you excuse yourself and hurry down the hallway to where your husband's waiting for you.

Green eyes linger on your back.

Why the fuck did you just flinch?

2 hours ago. Ben's POV.

Soldier Boy's seated diagonally across of you. By now, the lighting has changed to golden, long palm leaves hang over the tables like garlands and the atmosphere has quickly turned into one of those unfiltered supe-gatherings as the ones who remain for the private after party are beginning to loosen up in every aspect. Drinks and plates are scattered across the table like wild animals ravaged it moments ago. Other supes, like The Deep, A-Train and some B-Class guys are loudly laughing along your husband, who's seated next to you, as always.

Ben's only paying half attention though. He has long noticed something's off about you and the way you act around your husband, the way you barely open your mouth, rather cover it up with a smile and a giggle like one of those pretty little housewife dolls.

He knows he shouldn't be checking on you every second as if you're the only fuckable thing in this room. But Ben's hooked now. He cannot help it but try to figure you out between the hollow laughs, the clinking of champagne glasses, the occasional waves of smoke that swallow your expressions and the boisterous pussy show your husband's holding across from him.

Kingsmen's hand once shoots out to brush your neck while he's telling something to that fish-fucker. You don't move. He pulls it back again, engulfed in the discussion.

It's all over in a beat.

But Ben recognized the signs. The way your entire body just tensed up, how your pulse had spiked, your breath stuttered before it turned ragged. How you – invisible to everybody else – are fighting whatever memory you'd just been thrown into the same torture chamber with.

Over the past hour he has filed away every single one of your cues. Recognising them as what they are.

What he can't wrap his mind around is, why.

It's the 'modern times', as everyone likes to remind him of all the fuckin' time.

Women today never listen and never shut the fuck up.

Like Annie – Christ – bitches at me like Gloria Steinem over every little fuckin' thing. Half the time I wanna smack her ass back to the goddamn '40s.

Soldier Boy has witnessed the beginnings of it in the 80s – but nowadays? It's like they've evolved into an entirely different species. They're "independent", mouthy, wear their tits like Deneux on the Penthouse cover while runnin' around like they've got balls. And some even do.

Point is, women these days are tougher than half the cocksuckers who call themselves strong just 'cause they're supes. They don't take shit from nobody. And a silent part of him respects that.

Then why do you react to your husband like he's some fuckin' Russian scientist about to tie you down again and have his way with you?

1 hour ago. Ben's POV.

Soldier Boy is lounging at the Golden Bar, a drink in his hand, eyes lingering on your back and how you've been listening intently to one of the few other girls at this party for the past half an hour. His attention is drawn away from you when a hand pats his shoulder and he glances sideways to meet your husband's knowing smile.

"Man, they don't make 'em like they used to, right? Back in your day, women knew their place. Didn't bitch about every little thing," Kingsmen comments as he rakes his slicked raven hair back and slides into the bar stool next to Soldier Boy. For a moment, Ben's eyebrows push furrows onto his forehead. But when he tilts his head to face him while leaning back, he plays it cool and snorts.

"Yeah, you didn’t have to listen to 'em talk about "finding themselves" or whatever the fuck. They – hell, they were like Donna Reed." He sticks out his lower lip like a grandfather and throws off a lazy "chefs kiss" gesture with his fingers along the name. "Cooked your meal, sucked your dick, didn't bitch about politics."

"My word!" Kingsmen nods and laughs.

Soldier Boy jugs his whiskey and tips his head to the side with a lazy smirk. "What about your girl? She's a pretty little thing. She a good fuck?"

Kingsmen chuckles, lips curled. "Oh she's good most days. Pretty face, knows how to keep her legs shut 'til you tell her otherwise…" He waves the bartender over for him to refill their whiskey glasses. He takes a sip, then leans in and continues in a lower voice. "But sometimes she forgets who she belongs to."

Ben holds his faint smirk, seemingly unperturbed, although the gloves over his knuckles go taut. "Oh yeah?" He jerks his chin once, encourages him to go on.

Kingsmen gladly takes the cue, his voice turned smug. "Yeh, like last week she mouthed off to me in front of a guest. So I reminded her who's in charge."

He turns sideways on his stool and leans against the bar counter, chuckling again. Scornful. The sound makes something boil under Ben's skin, but he pushes it back.

"But she's a quick learner," Kingsmen continues and he's got the audacity to playfully poke Soldier Boy in the side with his index, which makes his jaw tick in irritation.

Kingsmen goes on.

"Broke 'er a rib or two."

Soldier Boy's face twitches. Smile slipped right off his face.

He slowly wraps his hand around Kingsmen's finger before he can pull it back, then musters another smile. But it doesn't reach his eyes.

It's colder than a goddamn January day in Siberia. "…You fuckin' what?" he asks slowly.

Kingsmen laughs nervously, covering up the subtle wince from Soldier Boy's tight grip on his finger, threatening to snap it without an effort.

You must've picked up on the shift in air because the same moment you appear next to them. Your eyes wide like a deer in headlights, mouth parted.

"What's going on…?" you ask hesitantly. Soldier Boy ignores your question, but he clocks how your husband glances your way as he continues. Tone fucking condescending.

"What? You like it rougher, right darling?"

Ben watches your lips press. Without even thinking, they get forced into that trained smile of yours. Then you nod. Of fuckin' course you do. Kingsmen's eyes never waver from you.

"See? Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft, Soldier Boy. You, of all people, know wom– gaahk!"

Before he gets to finish his sentence, Soldier Boy flicks his wrist. The bone cracks like a tooth pick – he howls up but chokes on the sound when Soldier Boy's free hand lashes out to grab him by the mouth.

"Eyes on me, buddy," Soldier Boy growls.

You gasp – and just like a loyal dog, you follow your first instinct to protect your master and want to intervene. But you still in your movement when an arm shoots out.

Soldier Boy has let go of your husband's finger and instead blocks your way with his hand outstretched in front of you, his other one still digging its fingers into the hollow cheeks of Kingsmen who's choking on his words.

"Honey, don't," Soldier Boy warns you without taking his eyes off that fucker.

A visible shiver runs down your back. You swallow, hands shaking. But don't make any attempts to move.

"Stay here," he mutters and the next moment he sends Kingsmen head-first through the shelf behind the bar.

The bottles explode - the wall behind it collapses - a woman screams. You're frozen to the spot while nearby guests scramble out of the way when Soldier Boy smoothly follows him over the counter into the adjacent hallway.

Kingsmen meanwhile sputters and scrambles to his knees between shattered glass, dust swirling and rubble covering his face when suddenly a hand wraps around his throat and Soldier Boy picks him clean off the floor.

"So. You think hittin' a fuckin' woman makes you a big guy? Huh?" he snarls and holds him in the air like he just picked up the trash.

It all clicked into place now.

Her own goddamn husband.

What's all of this "modern women" crap worth when motherfuckers like this one still get away with it? He's supposed to protect his family, his wife, and not –

When Kingsmen opens his mouth to spit something back, he swiftly slams him into the opposite wall. Feet dangling in the air, pinning him there one-handed like he just nailed a life-sized doll in a knight-suit to the wall.

Soldier Boy chuckles. Low and cold.

"Jesus Christ, you're fuckin' pathetic. You ain't a man – you're a coward two-balled bitch hidin' behind spandex and a PR team with a hard-on for hittin' his wife."

Kingsmen tries, in vain, to push him off, with his hands clawing at his wrist. Even though he's a supe himself, it's like trying to move a friggin' tank.

Soldier Boy doesn't let up but instead shoves him into the brick wall again. Harder. This time the barely contained force shakes the hanging ceiling lamps, cracks the wall and dust rains down on them. The grey flakes get caught in Soldier Boy's neatly swept hair and settle on his broad shoulders, while his eyes have taken a deep night-forest green from the low hallway light flickering and buzzing above them.

Soldier Boy leans in, his teeth flashing at him dangerously.

"Now you listen to me, fuckface. You put your hands on her like that again, I'll fuckin' paint the walls with your pencil-dick and have you choke on my ballsack. You got me?"

Kingsmen sputters droplets of blood. Eyebrows pulled into a low frown. He looks genuinely appalled at the way Soldier Boy's daring to manhandle him, in front of everyone no less.

His eyes dart down; fix onto Soldier Boy's arm when a milky liquid swallows his pupils.

Below the sleeve of Soldier Boy's green suit, the blood begins to collect… until a vein bulges and the supe glances down at it.

A beat.

And… nothing. Soldier Boy's lips curl into a smile again.

"Y-you- you c-can't-" Kingsmen's eyes snap back to normal, voice faltered, breath squeezed into the sound of a hoarse little mouse when Soldier Boy's grip tightens around his windpipe like he’s bending a strawpaper. The corners of his lips pull further up into a cocky grin.

"Your little blood trick doesn't work on me, pal. Y'know I could drive you through every fuckin' wall of this building and not break a sweat," he chuckles. Digs his thumb into his throat until it begins to crackle under the slow and deliberate pressure. Kingsmen begins to choke, pats his wrist and wheezes like a broken pipe.

The hall has gone pin-drop silent, all eyes on the new hole leading to the darkened hallway.

"Soldier Boy… – Don't." Butcher's voice suddenly cuts through the tension as he warns him in his ear. "We need'm bloody alive."

Soldier Boy pauses his death-grip, then grumbles before he loosens his fingers. He gives Kingsmen one more pointed look before he drops him into the rubble and turns around. Kingsmen slides to the ground like a ragdoll, gasping for air, watches how Soldier Boy walks off like nothing happened.

"F'cking coward," Kingsmen spits under his breath.

Soldier Boy stops in his tracks. Turns slowly around again.

"The fuck did you just say?" Kingsmen smiles back at him. As if he'd just won a fucking prize. Soldier Boy's jaw flexes under his beard.

He marches over to him, licks his lips and leans in so that only Kingsmen can hear him.

A cold, lazy smile forms on his face.

"You think you're untouchable 'cause you throw parties and wear a fuckin' cape, hm? Well, let me tell you something, buddy..." – he dusts the rubble off Kingsmen's shoulders with a low, rumbling chuckle – "You're not. Not for me."

With that he straightens his back once more and without wasting another look, turns to step through the hole in the wall, his eyes immediately darting around in search of you.

A gaping crowd stares back at him. Some flinch and gasp when he looks their way.

But none of them are you.

10 minutes ago. Your POV.

You stumble out of the hallway of your home, skid around the corner with your heart in your throat and lungs burning. The voice of Kingsmen rings out behind you and you know he's taking his time, knows that you cannot escape. You drop to your knees, fingernails clawing at the wood at edge of the last stair when you scramble for your secret safe, hidden under a loose floorboard. It contains your only life insurance; A metal box with a single shot filled with a blue liquid.

Compound V.

Your only way out – either way.

You rip off the top of your dress, place the needle somewhere at your spine, as best as you can with your shaking hands. It's sloppy, but it doesn't matter. You hear your husband's voice again, his steps echoing down the hallway.

"Honey, you know you can't run," he coos before his voice turns colder, "You felt real clever back there, didn't you? If you thought even for a split second that he'd save you, you're even more naive than you look."

Your eyes water. Throat tightening. You lock eyes with him as he slowly steps into the room – they're milky white – your pulse spikes.

"S-stop- please- I- I don't-" the words cling to your insides, fear clouding your mind.

"You don't what? Look at you, begging again as always," he guffaws, runs one hand though his raven hair while he lifts his other to flick his wrist, "You know what, honey? I think you can do better. Let's try once more, and I'll pop a finger for every stutter, hm?"

You feel the blood in your veins shift. Pressure building, like your left arm is about to explode. Your other hand behind your back tightens around the cold syringe. Shaking.

Do it. You scream at yourself in your head. DO IT.

"You belong to me," he continues and ups the pressure enough to make you bite back a cry, "Don't you ever forget that."

It's now or never.

You inject the shot. The empty syringe clatters to the floor. Your body convulsing instantly.

The next moments pass by in a chaotic blur.

The moment the liquid penetrates your system, everything feels like it is on fire. Heat – not hot, not scorching hot, but melting hot – shoots through your veins. High pitched screams shatter your ears, drown out whatever Kingsmen's shouting.

Everything starts to drift away from you – the room tilts – your back collides with something – your hands blindly flail – music jumps on and blasts through the room – hands grab your throat and cut off your air supply – but all of this is the least of your concerns as you begin to feel your blood boiling in every literal sense.

Then excruciating pain. Cracking bones. The stench of burning hair and roasted flesh. Sound of sizzling, meat on a bonfire.

Once the world comes back into view, you are met with a heatwave that has you squint your eyes and hold your breath.

Silence.

No more pained cries. He doesn't move. For a moment you are not even sure those charred remains are your husband, but when you get a closer look at whatever is left of his face - panic takes over you.

Oh my God. What did I do?

Now.

The smoke hangs thick in the air, the room getting pumped with every exhale of the raging fire. Pillars of flames keep rolling off the dark figure that has appeared in the hallway, embers fly and melted glowing masses drip down from the ceiling, while he just keeps walking like he's strolling through the rain, one casual step after the other, until you recognize the familiar green uniform and his intense eyes.

Soldier Boy?

He stops. Looks down with an arched eyebrow at a particularly relentless flame which had latched onto his red glove like a small savage animal, trying to chew on its fabrics.

Soldier Boy raises his hand up to his mouth, slow and unperturbed, as if he'd want you to watch. And you do. Your eyes widen as you witness how he sucks in the flame through his mouth and goes on to swallow it as if he'd just taken a long drag of a blunt.

His eyes drift across the ocean of fire when they finally lock with yours. The corner of his lips curl up and his mouth parts again for the puffs of smoke he blows out.

"There you are."

Soldier Boy's voice is heavy, but at the same time smooth and oddly calm. Especially for someone who just walked into an ocean of fire like it was just another Tuesday.

He finally steps into the living room, his boots crashing through something on their way down to the floor. The sound crisp and blood-curdling. He purposely digs his heal further into the charcoal covered cracked skull.

Soldier Boy tilts his head down. Grins, like he'd just cracked open a piñata.

"Fucker's got less goo in his melon than my ballsack."

He steps out of the candy, his face grimaced, lips pursed in disgust when he continues to lazily wipe the back of his heel on the burnt carpet, muttering to himself. "Fuck, this shit's as sticky as a load of cum..."

You stare at him. Paralysed. What is he doing here? How is he – what is he going to think of me?

The words drop off your lips, that familiar sense of dread taking over.

"I – I didn't mean to-"

"Didn't mean to what? Huh?" his eyebrows knot, voice gruff and scolding, "You didn't mean to off that pathetic excuse of a wannabe husband? C'mon -" he scoffs "-That cum breathing pussy had it fuckin' comin'."

"But – but -" Your voice falters. Breath strangled.

Ben points his index your way and marches over towards you. "Don't you fuckin' dare feel sorry for that worthless piece of shit." He lowers himself to one knee, grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger to force your eyes to meet his gaze. "Ever. Understood?"

You hesitate. Then nod once. Shakily.

"C'mon, let's get you out of here." Before you get to protest, Ben scoops you up. One strong arm under your legs and one wrapped around your back. Panic takes over you when you see the flames covering your skin, latching onto his. But Ben doesn't seem to care. He tilts his head to smirk down at you, voice gravel like a strong shot of Jack Daniels.

"Don't worry, you couldn't even hurt me if you wanna’d to, sweetheart."

You're curled up in the corner of a shabby couch in a run down office. The TV runs in the background, the news blabbing about some poor kid found dead at the hospital, but you barely catch the gist of it as everyone's gathered around you and discussing the situation in a heated manner, while you're zoomed out and replaying the moment of your husband's death in your head. Over and over.

Your hands are still shaking when one of the guys gently shoves a hot mug of tea into them and snaps you out of your thoughts.

"You...you okay? I'm Hughie, by the way," he mutters and ignores Soldier Boy's pointed look as he slips into the chair close to you. You nod subtly and try to smile back, but your lips waver. MM glances at you while he snaps something at Butcher and it has you pull your feet up and under the hem of the way too big clothings you'd been wrapped up in.

The only other girl, Kimiko, gives you a sympathetic smile before her attention is suddenly drawn to the TV in the background. She blinks at it, then turns to hand-sign something to the French-guy, whose eyebrows jump in response.

"Uh, chérie, does your ex by any chance 'ave a twin brother..?" Frenchie asks, eyes glued to the TV screen.

"W-what?" your voice slams against the sharp intake of a gasp when you hear the familiar voice.

"Yes, not many know but… My wife has always been jealous and toxic. It is unfortunately not uncommon in supe-relationships." The sound of him has your guts drop and your heart stumble.

No. Fucking. Way.

Everyone's focus is now on the breaking news.

"Well, fuck me," Butcher scoffs in disbelief, "How the hell's he still so chipper? I thought you said you'd off'ed the cunt?"

Soldier Boy looks just as confused as you. His eyebrows furrow, then turns to face you seated on the couch next to him. "You sure you barbecued the right fucker?"

"I – yes – of course I am! It was my goddamn ex – I don't know what is going on but I – I know it was him!" you stammer in defence. Your voice bubbling up for the first time in a while before your mind starts to drown in questions.

How the hell did he survive? This is impossible, right? How can he possible be alive and unharmed after the flames ate him alive and Soldier Boy stomped his skull?

You don't get much time to focus on any of these questions, though. Because the interview on TV goes on, showing your griefing husband answering the reporters questions while the news cuts in wanted-snapshots of Soldier Boy and you.

"Ain't that just fuckin' fantastic," Butcher comments and he tears his eyes from the on-going TV-news to round on you, "We've not only got ourselves Missy Kingsmen 'ere -"

"Don't ever call me that name again," you cut him short. You did not stammer. Voice sharp enough to have Kimiko snap her head up with a concerned 'what's going on?' look.

"Ah, 'xcuse me, sunshine, did I hurt ya feelings? 'Cause you just got us into a shite load of trouble,” Butcher shoots back while sauntering around you behind the coffee table in a half-circle, gesticulating with his hands. "Everythin's goin' ass over tits thanks to your little stunt back there."

"Butcher... go a bit easy on her... she just-" Hughie pipes up but Butcher's having none of it.

"Oi, did I look like I was done? We 'ave fuckin' Mother Teresa over there" - he waves a hand towards the TV where Kingsmen's still being interviewed - "right up our ass, who - mind ya - turns out, has got some fuckin' powers we still know squat 'bout, 'cause Soldier Boy over 'ere has suddenly decided to go woke "- Ben's eyebrows raise and his eyes flicker your way, unsure whether he'd just been praised or insulted - "and is now all over the fuckin' news with his new vigilante friend who can turn anyone that just as much as looks at 'er the wrong way, into a scorchin' Hellfire!"

"She's a real firecracker," Ben chuckles, clearly the only one amused over the entire predicament. He nudges against you with his knee when he notices your lack of reaction.

Your eyes have drifted to the floor where Butcher's boots keep scrubbing the planks as he continues his speech above your head. But you're not listening anymore, neither do you pay any attention to the chaotic bickering that has ensued around you now... your mind circling around what he'd said last...

"can turn anyone into a scorching Hellfire"

Everyone who ever looked down on me... everyone who laughed at me... everyone who hurt me...

I could burn them all.

Something sizzles in your guts. Warm and comforting. Enticing. Powerful. A smoldering ember that threatens to ignite a wildfire.

"Hellfire."

You repeat the word in your mind and it spikes the heat in your bloodstream.

...I think... I like that name.

J/NOTES And this is how antihero!readers are born. 😄

Soldier Boy / Ben Tag List:

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@janessi1 @salemslostwitch @n-o-p-e-never @jc-winchester @multiversefanfics @youdontknowe @123passwort @sunnys-struggles @kimxwinchester @ladykitana90

@cupidluvzz @amethyst-bunny @pressedwater @lori19 @fleurenoir @alixxhere @royaler1999 @writtenbyhollywood @ralilda @theelephantroom4

@mostlymarvelgirl @deansimpalababy @globetrotter28 @suckitands33 @spnaquakindgdom @tinysnacklefan @thebestqueenoftheworld @ultimatecin73 @biscofflattes @hereswhatimyellingabouttoday

@velvetparkerx @wvffles @megara0224 @hobby27 @chaoticcreatorbluebird

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donutloverxo · 11 hours ago

Text

IF YOU LEAVE ME NOW

Pairing: Mark Meachum x F. Reader

Summary: After struggling not to “label it,” you and Mark come to an understanding about salvaging your relationship.

AN: Ahh couldn't help myself. Releasing this one a day early! This is a Gif Check requested by @spnwoman for the 5K Celebration — set shortly after Sister, Sister!

Song Inspo: Title inspired by the Chicago song.

Word Count: 4.9K

Tags/Warnings: [Set during 1x03] 18+ only! Heavy angst (medical, emotional, the works), but also hurt/comfort, implied smut (m. receiving oral), and actual smut

Series Masterlist

Mark popped two pills and took them dry. Even the motion of swallowing intensified the sharp pulsing in his skull.

Fuck. As bad as it was, he knew it was going to get worse. Not just headaches, the rest of the bullshit the doctor mentioned. Plus, Mark didn’t need his GED to scour WebMD with the best of them. Seizures, motor function, speech—what it all boiled down to was loss of control. The end of who he was.

He sighed, grimacing, shutting his eyes tight for a second.

He had less than an hour before he had to be at work. No time to go through this mental spiral (again).

He went for the edge of the bathroom sink in a familiar grip, and he stared at his reflection in the mirror, wet hair slicked back from the shower. Apart from the creases under his eyes from stress and intentional sleep deprivation, he looked normal. For now.

He heard the bedsprings creak, and one of the reasons for his lack of sleep came into view. You stepped into his bathroom, barefooted, wearing that old favorite college shirt that liked to slip off your shoulder. Except this time, he was willing to bet you had nothing on underneath. His fault.

Your arms wrapped around his waist from behind. A smile began to tug at his lips on reflex. He felt your head resting against his dewy skin. Your hands inched up his chest and playfully teased with your nails. Little sexy scratch. Little kiss between his shoulder blades.

“Go back to sleep, baby,” he said. A teasing note crept into his voice, “It’s too early for you.”

“You got in late last night.” Again. He’d been pulling late hours all week. Whatever case he was on, you had a feeling it was a big one. He still wouldn’t give you any details though. Not even when he was gone for almost two days, coming back smelling like a farmhouse and covered in grime.

“I want to see you,” you added softly. “Kinda the whole point of me being here.”

Mark grabbed one of your hands and brought it to his lips. He turned around in your arms, just so he could gather you up into his. Your fingers brushed the edge of the towel wrapped around his waist, a smile playing on your lips…until you noticed the open medicine cabinet, and the now familiar label of his prescription.

You glanced up at him, biting your lip. “Are you hurting?”

He gave a minimal shake of his head.

“I’m good.”

A lie, for your benefit. You were beginning to figure him out again, now with this new layer of uncharted no man’s land between you. You dropped a kiss onto his chest, but it couldn’t stop the lump of emotion rising in your throat, or the tears welling up in your eyes. None of this was fucking fair—to him or to you.

Mark sighed. He pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“All right. If we’re gonna do this, promise me no more tears, okay?” he teased lightly.

You shook your head, unable to smile.

“Sorry. Can’t promise that.”

Mark hummed. He released his hold on you, just to take your face in his hands. His thumbs gently brushed under your eyes and collected tears from your lashes.

“Well, then we’ve got a problem. ‘Cause the one thing I can’t fucking take, is seeing this,” he said with a sigh. “What’re we doing here, sweetheart?”

You grabbed onto his wrists and kept his hands in place. You even closed your eyes for a moment, reveling in his touch. You hadn’t had this in so long…

“We’re together again. That’s what’s important, right?” you said, eventually meeting his heavy gaze.

“We’ve still got the same problem,” he said. “I don’t want to see you tearing yourself up over something we can’t change.”

You stared up at him, willing yourself not to spark with upset. Wasn’t he the one who said he’d consider looking for a second opinion?

“Well,” you said, unsticking your tongue from the roof of your mouth. “I actually got you an appointment with another oncologist.”

Mark paused, pursing his lips, a subtle exhale. His hands fell back to his sides. “You did, huh?”

“Yeah, I did,” you said pointedly, “because it didn’t seem like you were in a hurry to do it yourself, and if we wait until you’ve wrapped up your case, it could be too late.”

Your voice broke a little on the end there. It took away most of your bravado, but it also cut through Mark’s annoyance. Just hacked it at the root, really.

“It’s my mom’s friend, Indira Rashid. She can see you on Monday,” you said.

He sighed through his nose. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Really? Your brows raised.

That one hurt. It was a gripping blow, shaking down to your foundations as you glared up at him.

“What do you want me to do, Mark? Walk away and not even fight for you, like you did to me?” you said, your tone as sharp as your words were cutting. He almost looked away, but he didn’t. He looked you in the eyes.

“You really want me to live my life and pretend I don’t know what you’re going through—alone?” you said, a little softer. “If this was the other way around, you’d be fucking pissed if I even suggested you leave me.”

Mark faltered.

Well, shit.

You had him there, and you both knew it too.

Another tear found a path down your cheek, but he swept it away. You took in a shaky breath.

“Tell me you don’t love me,” you said. You dared him with your eyes. “Tell me you don’t want me here.”

Mark quirked a smile. You should’ve been a goddamn lawyer, because there really was no winning against you.

He tilted your chin up to meet his kiss, slow and thorough.

“You know that’s never fucking happening,” he said.

Only then were you able to smile.

You rose up on your toes for a deeper kiss, luring his tongue into your mouth with a soft moan. He held you to him tightly, solid and strong. He still kissed you like this was the first and the last—like he was making up for lost time. He supposed he was, and he wouldn’t stop.

Until your hands slipped in between your bodies to start unraveling the towel from his waist.

“How much time you have before work?” you asked mischievously. You slid down his body, all the way down to your knees on the bathroom mat as you brushed your hair out of your face.

Mark grinned down at you, equally amused and aroused when you laid soft, purposeful kisses down his bare thighs. Your grip ensured that he wasn’t going anywhere, even if he wanted to.

“Uh, well, I’m thinking just long enough.”

Your sweet giggle was the best fucking thing—aside from the rest you could do with your mouth.

Mark whipped his Ford Bronco into the parking space. Thanks to you, he was running a few minutes late. Punctuality wasn’t usually one of the things he bent the rules on, but today, he didn’t give a fuck.

He’d seen a car bomb practically go off on his face last night. He’d knelt down over a cartel thug and gripped his shoulders while the guy choked out his last words. Volchek.

Mark had that name ringing in his ears all night, apart from the high-pitched whirring from, you know, being within blast range.

But you’d also sucked him off three ways to Sunday this morning, so today was looking up. He even smiled after getting out of his car. A real smile, not a maintenance mask. Because his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he saw the text from you.

What time you think you’ll be home tonight? I wanna cook for us.

Jesus, what he’d give to see you in his sad fucking kitchen. He’d been living off of Hamburger Helper and canned tuna ever since he got out of lockup.

Btw, you know all you have here is half of an old breakfast burrito and a jar of pickles. Pretty pathetic.

Mark smirked. He texted back:

Guilty. Can I put in a request for the Thursday Special?

Oh my God. Of course you remember that! 😂

How the hell am I gonna forget naked cooking? You still have those heels I got you? The red ones with a little bling on the side? Tall as fuck.

Maaaaybe…

Ooh, and the matching—

“Hey,” said Oliveras, who was getting out of her own car not far from his.

Mark gave her a distracted nod. “Hey.”

She soon rose a brow when she noticed the way he was texting, smiling to himself like a teenage girl. Considering the night they’d had, it was more than a little weird.

“What, got a match on Tinder?” she said, a small smirk curving her lips.

Mark quickly looked up, like he’d been caught. He put his phone away, his casual gait back in place.

“Nah, just some stupid Facebook meme.”

A snort escaped her. “Facebook? All right, granddad.”

He eyed her in amusement, but feeling his pocket buzz again, he took out his phone to keep texting you while he and Oliveras entered the Wilshire Federal Building and waited for the elevator. She watched him discreetly, her brown eyes perceptive.

“You know, you never said what happened after that night at the bar,” she said.

That definitely earned his attention. Whatever he was smiling at faded away when he met her gaze.

“I mean, it’s not really any of my business, but did you at least get her home okay?” she asked.

Mark's smile hinted back in place. “Yeah, I did. She was all right, just needed to sleep it off.”

Again, not much slipped by Oliveras. Her brows dipped, her head tilted in suspicion.

“Waaait, wait. Did you two actually hook up?” she said.

Mark debated on an answer for that one. The elevator finally dinged and opened up for them, giving him another beat to think.

“Well, technically not that night,” he said, inclining his head, “or the next day, but—”

Amber crossed her arms along with her duffel bag, absolutely beside herself. “How…the fuck did you finesse that?”

Mark’s lips twitched upward. He opened his mouth to reply, but she just waved her hand like a white flag.

“Jesus, don’t say anything,” she groused, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Unbelievable. I thought she was fucking smarter than that.”

Mark's amusement faded. “’Scuse me?”

It was a warning, subtle in his eyes.

Oliveras rolled hers. She wasn’t afraid of bruising his apparent fragile ego. Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe it was you he was defending.

Oliveras tempered what she wanted to say, even what she was thinking.

“Whatever. Forget I said anything,” she said. She did wonder if she should call you though.

She hadn’t spoken to you in months. You two had grown apart after graduating from college and diving head-first into your respective careers; you weren’t exactly friends anymore. Although Oliveras was of the mind that women should look out for each other, whenever possible, taking back the bastard who cheated on you and left you weeks before the wedding…

Well, if she didn’t know you personally, she’d say it was a weak woman move.

Matter of fact, she would’ve punched him in the trachea. She was kind of fantasizing about it now as she and Mark stepped off the elevator and made brusque steps toward the office.

“Look, it’s complicated,” Mark said, in a lowered voice. His gaze was straight ahead. She knew it was his way of saving face.

But what she didn’t know was that it was mostly a stoic front, weighed by thoughts of guilt, desire, regret, and deeper shit too—more complex than she gave him credit for.

“She’s a good woman," he said, "better than I fucking deserve.”

Something about that look on his face, the tone of his voice…it made Oliveras pause. She quirked a smile.

“On that, we actually agree.”

Was it normal for your heart to be close to shattering one moment, then damn near light and giddy the next? You didn’t think it was good for you. It was giving you whiplash, and possibly acid reflux.

But after you sent one last text to Mark, you ignored the flip-flop fluttery feeling of going too fast down a rollercoaster, and you smiled. More than giving him a “Thursday Special,” you were just looking forward to having a nice dinner together, not unlike the one you two shared with your mom on Tuesday. Not unlike countless other nights you and Mark used to have.

Again, your smile was short-lived. You stopped your car short at a red light, laying on the breaks harder than you should have. It earned you a blaring honk from the car behind you, but you didn’t even acknowledge it.

How could you have a honeymoon phase with what lied over the horizon? Every time you thought of making plans, it just reminded you that nothing could ever be set in stone. Nothing was in your control, and you fucking hated that.

When you eventually got to work, you ran through the motions of doing your job, making sure District Attorney Valwell made it to his appointments, making your calls and follow-up emails, filing the document, writing briefs, even grabbing Valwell’s lunch order (and yours). You ate at your desk and did one of the things you did best—research.

You didn’t trust WebMD. You went right to medical journals and clinical research, like you’d been doing for the past few days. You even called Indira again. You felt bad for taking away her own lunch hour with your questions, but you had to know.

What she told you about cases like Mark’s only made your heart bleed and your stomach rebel. After you got off the phone, you found yourself throwing up your $20 enchiladas in the restroom down the hall.

That was around the time you got an all too cheerful-sounding text. After rinsing your mouth out in the bathroom sink, you groaned and wiped your face with a rough paper towel. You grabbed your phone out of your pocket and checked the notification: from Mark.

Hey, baby. Sorry, need to raincheck dinner tonight. I’ll be home late.

You frowned in disappointment. If he was postponing the Thursday Special, then he really was busy. Your shoulders sunk, but you replied.

How late do you think?

…No response.

A heavy sigh fell from your lips. This was actually familiar territory. When Mark was at work, he was easily distracted and a terrible texter. Which, fair enough, considering he was usually running down leads and hopping fences and whatever other reckless shit he was bound to do.

Some things don’t change, you thought ruefully.

But it didn’t mean you couldn’t try to change them.

7:00 AM.

The next morning. You were almost dressed for work, still checking your phone, still out of your damn mind with worry because Mark never came home. He never checked in after around 2:30 PM yesterday, no matter how many texts you sent him.

You called his precinct, and Captain Victor Morales only told you that Mark was out on assignment. He wouldn’t tell you what that meant, or when Mark would be back. All you could do was wait.

Around twenty minutes later, it was about the time you absolutely needed to leave for work, or else you’d get caught in traffic again. But that was also when the front door lock twisted. The door itself creaked open, and there was Mark, looking exhausted and rough. He wore a strange gray jumpsuit, but your eyes were drawn to the bloodstains on the cuffs of his sleeves.

You tried to swallow your tears when you went to him, but relief hit you square in the chest. Mark took the impact of you in his arms with a soft grunt, but he held you on instinct. You wrapped your arms around his neck and shut your eyes against a salty sting.

“Where the hell were you?” You fingered the rough material of his collar. “What are you wearing? You smell like fucking gunpowder, and antiseptic—”

“Just,” Mark interrupted, squeezing your waist. “Just…give me a second.”

“What happened?” you asked, couldn’t help yourself.

Mark shook his head. Heavy sigh. He couldn’t tell you, he realized.

Just seeing your face was a relief, even creased with worry and tears. He felt guilty for that, and a fuck ton of other things, but he couldn’t tell you.

He couldn’t tell you that he lost a member of his team, or that he felt like he was the one responsible with his half-cocked scheme going shit sideways. He couldn’t tell you that his hands had been literally coated in Drew’s blood, or that Mark watched the man's eyes roll up and disappear behind his lids as blood continued to pour out of his chest.

Drew didn’t get to go home to his wife, but somehow, Mark was the son of a bitch who was allowed to come home and find you waiting for him.

“Sorry. Long night…can’t really get into it,” he rasped. You smelled good, like your face lotion and a hint of perfume. He was a mess, probably getting three flavors of grime on your nice silky blouse and black skirt.

You relented, nodding shakily and sweeping your hand over his greasy hair in a caress.

“You should get cleaned up,” you said.

After a beat, Mark nodded. Every muscle in his body protested, but he pulled away from you. It was hard to meet your gaze as he aimed for his bedroom. He disappeared into the adjoining bathroom and scrubbed himself in a shower so hot, he probably burned off a couple layers of skin. He still didn’t feel entirely clean when he walked out.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

While getting dressed in some old sweatpants, he caught sight of the time by the digital clock on his nightstand. He checked his phone too. Nothing from Blythe or the team. They would get eight hours of recovery before they were expected back, reporting for fucking duty.

Mark rubbed the aching space between his brows as he stepped out of the bedroom. He stopped short when he found you in his kitchen, scrambling up some eggs. You’d already kicked your shoes off, leaving you in just that flowy blouse and a tempting skirt, perfectly shaped around your ass and thighs.

It also looked like you went to the grocery store yesterday. He saw the evidence of it in the jumbo carton of eggs lying on the counter, the little cannisters of salt and pepper (the ones you had to hand-grind yourself, which only you would buy), and the slices of ham and deli cheese you were ripping up to add into the steaming pan. The smell wafted nostalgia up his nose and into his brain.

On any other day, he would’ve smiled.

On any other day, he would’ve sidled up behind you, dragging his hands, heavy with intention over your hips, playfully and possessively up your sides. Your body would respond before your head could catch up, arching up against his chest like a cat. He’d whisper only half of the filthiest ideas he had in your ear, just to see if he could break your concentration. Most of the time, he won.

Today, he paused in the doorway and watched you. In his mind, he still saw the barrel of a gun aimed between his eyes, thinking that narrow darkness was probably the last thing he was ever going to see.

Instead, he got to see you. That was the bleeding duality: a relief that clawed through his chest, and a guilt that sunk those claws deeper.

You glanced over your shoulder and aimed an attempt at a smile his way.

“This is almost done,” you said. The wooden spoon moved deftly in your hand.

“You’re gonna be late for work,” he said.

“I called out sick.”

He blew out a sigh, a shake of his head. “You didn’t have to do that.”

You turned off the stove, shifted the pan of eggs off to the side before your frown turned his way. Really? said your eyes.

Mark couldn’t hold your gaze for long. He escaped the inviting aroma in the kitchen and got as far as the living room. You followed him to the couch and took a seat right on the edge of it, beside him.

“I know you can’t tell me what happened, but I know this isn’t a routine case,” you said. You were almost hesitant when you reached out to caress his cheek, earning his carefully guarded gaze.

Whatever it was, he was trying hard to keep you out of it, which only gave you a deeper pit in your stomach. You were afraid for him in so many ways, but you knew there was probably nothing you could say to pull him out of what he was doing. It was his job, and if Mark took one thing seriously, regardless of the means, it was his fucking job. You knew it all too well.

You found the courage to ask him a question, even though the answer had the potential to cut into you again.

“What do you want, Mark? You want me to stay, or do you want to handle this by yourself?”

“I’m fine,” he said.

You shook your head. “That’s not what I asked.”

Mark’s lips twitched slightly. “It’s not about what I want.”

Your hand slid down to his chest, feeling the steady thrum underneath.

“Then what about what you need?” you asked. Like it was that simple.

What am I gonna do with you? Mark thought, smiling ruefully. After how thoroughly you’d hated him last week, it was like dousing ice-cold water over his head when you said shit like that. But his heart remembered, pulsing painfully, the way it all was before. He could have it again, at least for a little while.

He should’ve told you to go to work—that he’d be fine, just needed to sleep the night off.

He should’ve just let you go altogether.

Maybe he really was just a selfish asshole at his core.

He slid a hand behind your neck, through your hair, and guided you to him for a rougher kiss than he meant it to be. He swallowed the hint of your surprise and was satisfied when your body responded to him before your brain could catch up; your eyes fell shut, and the tension melted from your frame as you sunk against him.

You grabbed for his shoulders and straddled his hips when he hefted you into his arms. Mark slid his hands up your skirt until it bunched all the way up your waist, taking the opportunity to squeeze the plush of your ass. There was no part of you he didn't crave getting his hands full of.

You were of a similar mind as you tugged his gray henley up from the hem, soft hands burning up his stomach, chest, and shoulders. The solidity of his frame; you knew that when he held you, he had you.

Teeth clicked and tongues warred, tasted, devoured. His lips dragged down to the spot where your neck met your shoulder, teeth grazing, biting, his hands claiming your hip and tangling in your hair. Breaths panted hot in the small spaces in between moments.

You managed to slip a hand down into his sweatpants and palm over the growing bulge, smiling when he groaned into your mouth. You reached behind the band to find his cock, already hot and heavy and hard for you.

His resulting hiss was sharp behind his teeth, his grip on your bare thigh just shy of bruising as he throbbed in your hand. His voice devolved into a deeper, more guttural groan as his head tipped back against the sofa. You worked him over with a sensuous hand, using beads of his precum to stroke your thumb over the sensitive head.

You had half a mind to slide down between his legs like you did yesterday morning, but he had you gripped tight in his arms, like he didn’t want you going anywhere.

And he didn’t. He wanted your thighs spread for him, just like they were now. He slid your panties down as far as they’d go, and he ripped the black lace on either side, earning a small gasp from you.

“I liked those,” you said, nipping his lower lip in retaliation. Mark smirked against your pouting mouth.

“I liked ‘em too. But now they’re in my goddamn way,” he said, that trademark cockiness in his grin that made you want to slap him and kiss it off his lips at the same time.

He tugged the ruined fabric slowly, with purpose, letting it slide between your wet folds and brushing your clit. You clung to him with a quiet moan, especially when his long fingers found a familiar path into your slippery channel. The knuckle of his thumb pressed against your clit as well, making you whimper. A heady zing of pleasure sparked in your lower belly, reaching the very depths of you. It just wasn’t enough.

“Need you,” you whispered into his mouth. Your fingers ran through his hair, lovingly first, then scraping your nails along his scalp.

He groaned, nodding in agreement. His fingers withdrew from your core and spread some slick up to your clit. He drew circles with a firm, tantalizing pressure, enough to have your voice shuddering his name and your hips bucking into his hand. "Oh, fuck, please..."

"Good angle, right?" he teased. Smug bastard.

"Mhmm," you nodded, smiling into his lips. But all you could really do was cling to his neck while his fingers wreaked havoc on your pussy. Just when you began to taste that delicious edge, the crest of a tidal wave—he stopped.

He fucking stopped, withdrawing his fingers and moving his hands back to your waist. Your uneven breaths also accounted for your shock, and then your annoyance. But before you could even start to call him an asshole, he grabbed you up strong by your hips, just so he could all but impale you on his cock.

Choked of whatever words that might've slipped off your tongue, you gasped and cursed in the same breath. The inner walls of your pussy quivered around his length and thickness as he worked himself deeper inside. There was just so much of him, you sucked in deeper breaths just taking him, inch by inch.

But you led the rhythm, a rolling sway that built its momentum as you rode him. Mark tore through those last clinging buttons of your blouse and freed your breasts, snapping the bra open too. Straps and silky fabric got tossed to who gives a fuck where. All that mattered was his hands cradling you possessively, his beard rasping against your skin as his teeth dragged over the sensitive buds of your nipples.

There wasn’t any part of you he didn’t know, no square inch of supple flesh he hadn’t mapped out, devastated, and claimed. But it didn’t stop him from relishing the taste. Every sound out of your mouth was black velvet in his ears, adding to his satisfaction when your body practically hummed underneath his touch.

The bob of your hips faltered, distracted, your limbs trembling and your thighs burning.

“You close already, baby?” Mark rasped, deep and ragged in your ear. He was just as wrecked as you. The feeling of you, so goddamn tight and warm and wet—fucking perfect. Making him almost lose his goddamn sense of reality. He thrust up inside you, hard enough to knock a gasp out of you, feel you clench on him in response. Your nails raked down the back of his neck.

“You are, I can fuckin’ feel it,” he gritted out. Like his sixth fucking sense.

“Yeah,” you confessed, breathless and desperate. “Little more. Need your help, please—”

“I’ve got’cha,” he said. His hands tightened on your hips and gave you both what you needed, a few hammering strokes that hit just the right spot—that sensitive place inside that made your inner walls quiver and throb. A rush of heat and white spots on the edge of your vision, you buried your face into his neck and screamed your release.

Mark felt your inner walls pulse and tighten impossibly around his cock. He drove into you through the height of your orgasm, as long as he could hold out, until his body locked up on him too. He held himself inside you, nestled deep as he could until he was spent. You shuddered at the feeling of his warmth coating your inner walls. It soon began to leak out between your thighs.

Mark rolled his shoulders with a short wince at the sting your nails had left against his back. He didn’t mind though. He just smiled and rubbed a gentler hand up and down your spine, quelling the little goosebumps.

When you could even breathe, you slipped your fingers into his hair and drew him into a softer kiss.

It was a necessary grounding, a moment of peace after the storm.

He sighed, closed his eyes, and let his forehead rest against yours. He felt the tickle of your hair against his cheek, the rise and fall of your breaths evening out in a quiet room, blending with the low hum of the AC.

He could hear the faint sounds of cars passing by outside, another morning at full swing. He only had a few hours left to rest, but even these minutes were important. They were yours, and his.

“Thanks,” he said. “For, uh…staying.”

You blinked your eyes open and pulled back a little, prompting him to do the same. This part was important, and you wanted him to know that.

“I’m not leaving unless you tell me to,” you said.

Mark’s lips tugged at a tired smile. “Then buckle up, sweetheart.”

Once again, your soft giggles filled the room.

AN: The angst! You could bottle it. 😫💙 How do you like how they figured out this hurdle together?

...And are you ready for another one? lol

The next one-shot for this series is a fun little flashback to their first date! But what's also coming up in the future is very much inspired by “You’re Losing Me (From the Vault)” by Taylor Swift. Thanks again, @waynes-multiverse for that perfect - hella angsty - inspo! 😂

(Hint: The reader might finally find out what Mark's "special assignment" has been for the past couple of weeks.)

Until then, please let me know what you thought of this little angsty/smutty adventure! lol Your feedback fuels my creative spark! 🥰💜

⋆˙⟡ Keep Reading: Pedal Down

Summary: Mark’s idea of a first date isn’t exactly what you expected.

⋆˙⟡ Get notified when every new story drops! Add yourself to my Tag Lists ⟡ Follow my fic library blog - @zepskieswrites - with notifications on.

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donutloverxo · 12 hours ago

Text

soldier boy x fem! supe! reader

sing me under

description: after a mission gone wrong, you never imagined the night would end with ben coaxing you onto the couch, the glow of his corny old musical flickering across his face or that his voice, low and unexpected, would be the thing that finally lulls your restless mind to sleep.

flluff ๑ humor ๑ strong language ๑ ben being a bipolar queen ๑ 2.6k words

You’re so tired your bones ache, but you’ve learned not to complain.

Not when Ben’s in the room, he does enough bitching for the both of you.

“Christ on a cross, what a clusterfuck,” Ben gruffs, dropping onto the couch with a dramatic grunt. His shield lands on the floor with a heavy clunk.

He snags a beer from his six-pack, cracks it open with his thumb, flicking the cap onto the carpet without a second thought. “Whole goddamn day, and for what? A waste of fuckin’ time.”

You hum in half-hearted agreement, dragging your bag toward the bathroom.

Before the bottle even meets his lips, his hand freezes mid-air.

“Where the hell you goin’?” he asks, suspicion laced through his tone like you’re about to sneak out on him.

You pause, brow furrowing. “...The shower?”

He gives a single, sharp nod.

You huff, “You really need to lay off all the weed.”

“Don’t get fuckin’ smart with me,” he shoots back. Then, louder, as you step into the bathroom: “And hey—don’t use all the goddamn hot water!” You can practically hear him wagging a finger in warning.

By the time you emerge again, skin flushed from the steam and wrapped in your soft pajamas, you feel almost human, though every muscle still protests with a dull ache.

Ben’s gaze snaps to you the second the door clicks shut.

He drags his eyes from the water still clinging to your hair down the line of your legs, brows arching as though taking silent inventory.

Heat rushes to your face, and you quickly turn away, fiddling with your phone charger just to give your hands something to do.

Sometimes you just didn’t know how to weather that sharp stare of his.

“‘Bout fuckin’ time,” he finally says, voice rough. “Thought you went under and drowned yourself.”

You crawl onto your bed, brushing him off. “Sorry I like being clean.”

“Clean my ass,” he mutters into his beer.

Normally his barbs sink like knives, sharp enough to make Hughie flinch or Butcher bare his teeth.

But with you, they dull, softened and reshaped into something half hearted.

You snicker, and though he doesn’t look directly at you, you catch the little twitch of a smile tugging at his mouth before he squashes it down.

He stands and peels off his uniform, smack dab in the middle of the hotel room like you aren’t even there.

You sputter, yanking a pillow over your face. “Seriously? You can’t just change in the bathroom?” Your words come out muffled, half-groan, half-plea.

“Why would I?” He chuckles, awfully smug. “You know how many women’d pay good money for this view? Consider yourself lucky, sweetheart, you’re gettin’ the premium show for free.”

He disappears into the bathroom, the sound of running water following soon after.

Fifteen minutes later, he storms back out, shirt clinging damp to his chest, hair slicked back, a few unruly strands dripping onto his forehead.

You try not to stare, but your eyes betray you.

His hair, slicked back and dripping, gleams under the cheap light.

“Son of a bitch,” he growls, shivering slightly grabbing a towel to rub at his neck. “Froze my balls off in there. You drained every last drop of hot water.”

“Sorry,” You can’t help it, laughter bubbles up, muffled against your blanket. “didn’t know you were so high maintenance.”

He throws you a look sharp enough to cut steel, but it only makes you laugh harder.

“High maintenance…” He huffs, stomping toward the kitchenette. “I fought Nazis, Commies—every dickless son of a bitch Uncle Sam pointed me at. I earned hot showers and good booze.”

He yanks open a cabinet, pulls out a bowl, and tears the plastic off a packet of popcorn.

The bag gets tossed into the microwave, buttons punched in with the kind of brute force that suggests he’s trying to kill it.

“Least you could do,” he grunts, throwing you a sharp glance over his shoulder, “is leave me one of those fuckin’ luxuries.”

A drink follows in his hand, the hiss of the cap popping filling the silence.

The microwave dings. He pulls the bag free and shakes it like it owes him money, smug grin spreading as the smell of butter fills the room.

You smirk into your blanket. “Is shitty microwaved popcorn one of those luxuries?”

He narrows his eyes.

“I’m just surprised you know how to work one of those without blowing it up,�� you ponder.

He barks a laugh, sharp and loud, before it drops in an instant.

“Yeah, well blow me.” He mutters, tearing the popcorn open with his teeth and dumping it into the bowl.

He makes his way back to the couch, plopping down with his food, looking absurdly pleased with himself despite the shitty day and his earlier tirade.

“Hey,” he barks, cutting through your thoughts. “Don’t go playin’ corpse yet.”

Your eyes crack open, bleary, only to find him jerking his chin at the empty space beside him.

“C’mere. We’re gonna watch a movie.” His tone leaves no room for debate.

“A movie?” you yawn, incredulous. “You’re kidding.”

“I look like I’m fuckin’ kidding?” he deadpans. “Get your ass over here. It ain’t your bedtime yet.”

He’s more volatile than a teenager on her period. One second it’s the end of the world, the next it's movie night. It's not like you could've slept all that sound anyway, not after today's events.

So, with a weary sigh, you peel yourself off the mattress and shuffle across the room, sinking into the cushion beside him.

With a put-upon sigh, he shoves the bowl into your lap. “Relax, would ya? Heart’s beating faster than a fuckin’ jackrabbit in spring. It’s annoying.”

Heat floods your cheeks. “Oh.”

He side-eyes you, amused. "Oh?”

You shrug, trying to bury your crimsoned face in the popcorn. “Guess so.”

“So what’s got your panties in a twist, huh?” He all but pries, though there’s a hint of sincerity somewhere in there, “…Was it the mission? That little goat-fuck out there gettin’ to you?”

You nod, shaking off flashing images of all the innocent people that had passed earlier.

“Sometimes it’s just…hard to forget all the people I hurt. Even if it’s a mistake.”

He nods almost thoughtfully.

“I didn’t mean to hurt those people, in Midtown.” he admits suddenly, “...I’m not a bad guy.”

The vulnerability in his gaze shocks you, like he didn’t want you to think he was some monster like the rest of the crew does, but how could you?

You remember how weary you used to be around the poster boy. He’d try to get you to warm up, throwing you a few winks as he flirted with you shamelessly.

When that didn’t work he resorted to tearing you apart “as a joke” like he did everyone else, which failed too.

But as time went on, you adjusted to his strange behavior, grew to miss it when he was off on a mission without you.

“What do you do then? I mean–when you feel sad about all the…stuff you’ve done?” You ask, crossing your arms as a means to comfort yourself.

“Nothing,” He says flatly, bringing the bottle up to take another swig.

“...Nothing?”

“Yeah, cause I’m not a pussy.” He concludes as he presses on the remote.

You chuckle under your breath, shaking your head at the expected shift in demeanor.

The others warned you about this, asked you how you could bear being around the smug son of a bitch.

It’s not like they were completely wrong about him. He can be vicious, volatile, sharp-tongued to the point of cruelty.

But there’s something soft buried under there, even if he’d rather chew glass than admit it.

You like that about him.

The unpredictability.

How one moment he’s messing with you for sport, and the next he’s shoving a bowl of popcorn into your hands, insisting you sit through his excuse for “culture” like this was his idea of bonding.

The screen flickers to life, and there he is, a young Soldier Boy, square-jawed and coiffed within an inch of his life, belting out a tune in front of a sea of swooning women like he’s God’s own gift to musical cinema.

Any trace of drowsiness evaporates.

Your jaw drops. “Oh…my god.”

“Yeah,” he says smugly, tossing a kernel into his mouth. “That’s me. Handsome son of a bitch, ain’t I?”

“This is… awful,” you blurt, dumbfounded. “Genuinely, the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”

His grin collapses, replaced by a dark frown. He looks at you like you’ve sprouted horns. “The fuck it is. This was a masterpiece.”

“Sorry, it’s just—” you tilt your head, squinting. “Are you sure people actually liked this back in the day?”

“Sweetheart, this was peak American entertainment,” Ben scoffs, scandalized. “Had the whole country suckin’ my di—”

“Every woman in this movie looks like she was cast for her cup size,” you interrupt, pointing at the dancers flanking his younger self.

“Damn straight.” He doesn’t even blink. “That was the casting process. Tits and ass wrapped in a flag bikini.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “That’s exploitation.”

“That’s patriotism,” he corrects through a mouthful of popcorn, face set in stubborn certainty. “You think the Nazis gave their boys movies like this? Fuck no. That’s why we won.”

Your soft chuckling tears his gaze away from the screen, “The fuck are you laughing for? This shit ended the war.”

You double over, clutching your stomach as tears prick the corners of your eyes from how utterly serious he sounds.

He doesn’t snarl at you to shut up or gripe about your laughter.

Instead, he shakes his head, watching you for a beat too long, an amused grin tugging at his mouth before he turns back to the TV.

You finally catch your breath and sink back against the couch, sneaking a glance at him from the corner of your eye.

Your heart stutters, thudding harder in your chest at the way that small, unguarded smile stays, barely there, as if he forgot to cover it up.

You’d expected rage tonight, after the mission tanked, after the endless cursing and frustration.

But instead, you got this.

His hilariously absurd bravado, his shameless pride in the worst movie you’d ever seen.

Somehow, it made your night.

On screen, his younger self launches into another lavish number.

Ben sighs, head tilts back against the couch. He hums along, slipping into a lazy murmur of the lyrics.

You blink, stunned.

His voice isn’t polished, but it’s soft, smooth, and unexpectedly warm.

His humming carries you somewhere between waking and sleep, voice low and gravelly, weaving in and out of the movie’s tinny soundtrack.

Your head lolls against the couch cushion, eyelids heavy, the warmth of his body and the rhythm of his voice tugging you closer to unconsciousness.

Then—silence.

Your lashes flutter open.

The absence of his voice jolts you, pulling you back up.

You squint through the haze of half-sleep to find him switching off the TV, brushing popcorn crumbs off his lap.

He notices your glare instantly, smirk curling across his mouth.

“What?” he drawls. “You’re lookin’ at me like I just cockblocked you in dreamland. Don’t tell me you were mid-fuck.”

You groan, rubbing your face. “Why’d you stop?”

His wolfish grin widens, obscene amusement flashing his eyes. “So I was the one doing the screwin’, huh?”

You snatch the nearest throw pillow, hurling it at his head.

He swats it aside, chuckling too loud, for someone who should be dead tired.

“That’s not what I meant, asshole! I meant—why’d you stop singing?”

“Well,” He stretches, arms overhead, yawning obnoxiously. “Even Sinatra had to take a break sometimes, sweetheart,” He winks.

You roll your eyes so far back they nearly stick.

He grabs his drink, sets it down on the nightstand, and pushes to his feet.

He glances at you shifting sluggishly on the couch, clearly too spent to stand.

For a beat, he just stares, jaw ticking like he’s arguing with himself.

Then he rolls his eyes, and strides back over, grabbing your elbow.

“Up.”

You mumble something incoherent, ignoring him, sinking deeper into the cushions.

The next thing you know, the ground’s gone beneath you.

You jolt, a tiny gasp escaping as you feel yourself suspended in the air, cradled like you weigh nothing.

“Let me go! I was comfortable—“ you gripe, shoving against him to no avail.

Sure you were strong, even for a Supe, but he's literally the strongest man alive.

“Shut the fuck up before I drop you,” He grunts, hefting you like a sack of feathers and shifts his grip as if considering.

“Hm,” he muses, “Think I’ll just chuck you onto that bed from here—”

“What? No, wait!—“ you yelp, gripping his shirt as he swings you to gain momentum.

You peek one eye open when the drop never comes.

Instead, he’s hovering above you with that shit-eating grin stretched across his face, green eyes glittering with mischief.

For a man pushing a hundred, his skin looks shockingly smooth in the low motel light, strong cheekbones cut sharp, the lines around his mouth softened by something almost boyish when he grins like that.

“Relax,” he mutters, lowering you carefully, until you’re resting against the mattress. “I’m not lookin’ to get charged for breaking your neck.”

The gentleness in the way he sets you down is almost disarming.

“Thanks,” you whisper.

He hums in response, tugging the blanket haphazardly over your legs, grumbling something about how he, “didn’t wanna listen to you bitchin’ about a neck cramp in the morning.”

He turns like he’s about to walk away, but your fingers catch at his forearm before he can.

He pauses, eyes dropping to your hand. “…What?”

“Can you sing again?” Your voice is hesitant, fragile in the dark.

His brows lift. “Sing?…Like—sing you to sleep?”

“Yeah.”

A bark of laughter escapes him. “The fuck do I look like, your milkmaid?” His grin lingers. “I gotta say I’m flattered, but I’m tired as hell.”

You roll your eyes, pulling the blanket closer. “Fine. Goodnight, then.”

The words are soft, defeated. They hang there between you.

He lingers. Exhales hard through his nose. Then finally:

“Fine. One song.”

You quickly shuffle back when he nudges your hip roughly.

“Move.”

You scoot, and he climbs onto the bed, settling against the headboard, long legs stretching out, arms crossing like he’s daring himself not to get too comfortable.

“Which one?” he grumbles.

“The one from earlier.”

He huffs, adjusts himself, and after a beat, the low rumble of his voice fills the room.

Not the polished crooner on screen, but rougher, more human.

His voice rasps faintly with exhaustion, yet it’s steady, warm in a way that surprises you.

Your lashes lift, just enough to watch him, the way his head leans back against the wall, a few strands of dark hair slipping across his brow.

The slope of his throat as his Adam’s apple bobs, the rise and fall of his chest keeping time with the melody.

His lashes, long and dark, lower as he gets lost in the rhythm.

Your own eyes grow heavy, the edges of the world blurring, his voice pulling you down into drowsy warmth.

It was funny, if Butcher or Hughie were here right now, watching Soldier Boy of all people help you fall asleep, they’d ask if he had one too many blunts.

Just before you slip under, you feel a sudden weight shift closer, the brush of his coarse beard against your cheek, the warmth of his lips brushing your ear.

His voice drops into a hushed, sing-song murmur, low and teasing, rhymed just enough to blend with the tune.

“If you tell a soul, I’ll break your skull…” he croons softly.

Your lips curve in a drowsy smile as you mumble back, “Fuck off…” before sleep finally claims you.

165 notes · View notes

donutloverxo · 13 hours ago

Note

thankyou so much dear lovely writer 🖊️ for answering my follow up questions ❣️✨🫰.

About arrange marriage headcanon one last question that I tried asking last time but it wasn't clear 🤭 u are not at all obligated to answer but:-

What if - you close your eyes, turn your head away/ look away , glare or just refuse to give him a reaction at all while having S*x. Because it's an arranged marriage and because your not very happy with his imposing ways. I.e. trying to ignore him just tolerating it with a straight emotionless face or giving him nothing. technically u are not running or resisting just cold silence mental and emotional distance, I meant to say playing dead in that way😅. Although I assume it would be difficult technically speaking.

Tommy Shelby – Arranged Marriage Wedding Night Headcanon (Reaction Scenarios III)

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 of the headcanon.

Follow-up to the “playing dead” question (thank you for clarifying your request, lovely anon!)

What if she gives him nothing during s*x? Cold silence, no reaction, just enduring?

At first, he thinks you’re shy (Inexperienced? He’ll fuck that out of you). But when the silence stretches on, when you keep your eyes fixed anywhere but on him, he realizes: You're not shy, you're deliberately holding back (To spoil his fun? He’ll fuck that out of you).

Tommy Shelby does not tolerate being shut out, least of all in his own bed. “You think you can lie here like a corpse and I won’t notice? I can feel every twitch of you. You can’t hide from me, love.”

If you glare at him, or keep your face blank, it only fans his fury. His hand seizes your jaw, forcing your head to turn until his eyes lock onto yours. “Look at me when I’m inside you. As my wife you should be clever and give me something, or you’ll regret it.”

The more you retreat into silence, the more relentless he becomes, even if he otherwise appears composed. His thrusts become sharper, his grip harder. “You think you can starve me of your sounds? I’ll drag them out of you.”

He’ll taunt you for every clenched jaw and swallowed whimper: “Holding back, eh? Go on then, fight yourself. But you won’t win. Your body knows who it belongs to.”

If you still won’t react, he shifts tactics, slows down, drags his movements out, forces you to change your position to get deeper into you, whispering: “I’ll make you feel it, inch by inch. I’ll break through that silence if it takes all night.”

Tommy’s obsession is not with cruelty, but with control. To him, your refusal to react is a challenge to his dominance. And he never loses. Especially not when it comes to such important things as setting the rules for your marriage.

You know he’s far too experienced not to use every weapon in his arsenal. He’ll tease you into craving, withdraw only to push back in where you feel him the deepest, reach for a toy to overwhelm you further, or drag his tongue across you in ways you never imagined, until the sheer overstimulation leaves you undone.

The first gasp he finally tears from you makes him smirk with dark satisfaction. “There it is. That’s mine. And you’ll keep giving me more until you forget how to stay quiet.”

From that moment, he won’t let up. Every touch, every thrust aims at cracking your facade, proving you can’t stay emotionless under him.

You liked that? Get more of this!

***

Taglist

@jbrownta @mythicalcowboyatheart @shelbybabysblog @simpfortoomanymen @moonbeamott @gothic-chinadoll @weaponizedvirtue @ashibairo @darkdaydreamer @kristinecharmm @thehanes22 @lanadeldoll0711 @zeeafton1123

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donutloverxo · 22 hours ago

Text

Bottoms Up

Summary: Lloyd celebrates your birthday with you, his gift giving skills are a little lacking.

Pairing: Lloyd Hansen x reader

Word count: 628

Warnings: Lloyd, swearing, and bad puns

Notes: this one is for @darkficsyouneveraskedfor 's birthday challenge! Short but hopefully still enjoyable. I hope you have a great day, Happy Birthday 🥳🧁🎁🎉🎊💐.

Prompts: Nothing wrong with being a bottom\Sweet cheeks

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

You might have not cared much about your birthday before, but after getting together with Lloyd it became downright insufferable. Dating for 2 years, you could not believe it yourself. He was not your type. His ridiculous hair and that trashy pornstache…it had been embarrassing to introduce him to your friends. Not only his looks but his attitude had upset most of them and they often asked you why you were with him.

You talked about how he was not so bad, he had a good job, he wined and dined you, he wasn’t as possessive as some of your other boyfriends had been. He did his own thing and he let you do yours. All he asked for was that you made time for each other.

Reality was that he did demand you come to him at the snap of his fingers and that, really, it was the sex that made you come back. You had always been a bit of a prude, but with him he somehow got under your skin. He poked and prodded until you stepped out of your comfort zone and he took you to heights you were not aware of before.

But his personality was off putting and you often found him exhausting. Sure he let you be if he was busy, but when he was free, he took up all your energy and sometimes you were glad his job seemed to be so demanding.

You didn’t celebrate his birthday, he found it unnecessary and didn’t even tell you the date. But yours…he had made special. In his own way. Last year he had taken you to stripper classes and it was not something you thought of and had fond memories of, but he had enjoyed it though. But this year…

“Why would you give me this?” As you held up the silicone for him to see and raised your eyebrows at him, he smirked, a pleased glint in his eyes.

“So you can have something to fondle when I’m gone.”

You did not know how to reply for a second.

“It’s a replica. Of my own. Now I know nothing will beat the superiority of the real thing, but judging by the nail marks in my cheeks after I plow you, you’re quite fond of it.”

You felt like melting with embarrassment, You did tend to fondle his butt during sex, but hated when he brought it up. You were eating pie right now, for fuck’s sake! And now you’d lost your appetite.

“This feels more like a present for you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Then I would have yours made, wouldn’t I?” He seemed to think for a minute.”Maybe I should, it sure gets lonely on the road.”

You pulled a face, not wanting to know what he would do with it. “You’re disgusting.”

“Nothing wrong with being a bottom, sweet cheeks.”

You were going to break up with him. You would. This was the worst present you had ever gotten. “You know, Lloyd. I don’t think-”

“That’s for the better, sweetheart, you’re not very good at it.”

The only consolation you had was watching the silicone monstrosity hitting his face as you grabbed your bag and walked out of the room. You had to be kind to yourself at some point in your life, and being with him was a form of self punishment your future therapist would have fun with.

“Don’t leave, baby, you know you won’t be able to stay away for long.” He called after you, not saddened at the least.

“We’ve hit rock bottom, and no, that wasn't a pun. Bye Lloyd, enjoy your own asshole.”

You walked out with a head held high, but you sure were going to miss that tight tooshy.

@darkficsyouneveraskedfor

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donutloverxo · 1 day ago

Text

Every time at the bakery

Fluff

plot:Every time he waits for her at the bakery, every time he is "irritated"

Thomas Shelby / Reader

Author's note: Hi, nice to see you again, hope you missed me!

One more note: I accept requests

In Birmingham, it was not often possible to see the sun — a rare phenomenon for this part of the city, which was always soaked in rain and dirt. Instead of proper asphalt, the roads often turned into muddy messes. The government kept assuring people that soon everything would be arranged, and the roads would once again be new, but the work had already been postponed for several months because of the bad weather. However, it was precisely today that they had promised to finally fix everything.

It was Thursday, which meant that children were in class, and work at the factory could not be postponed — if, of course, someone still had it. There were few people in the streets, which looked quite natural under the circumstances when one gang replaced another, and blood was shed without end. And only one man had to deal with it — but even he was not known for particular nobility.

It was ten o’clock in the morning. Tommy Shelby was standing by the bakery, and the light from the shop window fell on his face. He frowned slightly as he took a deep breath. He was wearing a light coat suited to the weather. He was waiting for someone inside. Taking a cigarette from his pocket, Tommy irritably brought it to his lips and lit it. His gaze caught on a familiar man passing by; Tommy gave him a short nod, receiving the same nod in return.

Then the gangster’s eyes returned to the bakery. He removed the cigarette from his mouth and noticed a woman coming out of the shop with a bag of buns in her hands. She pressed it to herself with one hand while holding the door with the other. The woman looked elegant: a dark green coat, a pencil skirt just below the knee, tights, gloves, and a white button-up blouse. With a habitual movement, she tucked a strand of her chestnut curly hair behind her ear.

Tommy sighed. Every time he grumbled, waiting for her like this — every day, exactly at ten o’clock in the morning, while she went into the bakery, bought her pies and coffee. And only then would she be ready to speak with him. He had to drive here especially for her, because she never showed up on time. He had to adapt to her rhythm of life, and that angered him most of all. It was not she who adjusted to him, even though he was her boss, but rather the opposite — he had to adjust to her.

-Why do I have to search for you all over the city every time? And every time at ten in the morning I find you right here — Tommy sharply snatched the bag of purchases from the woman. She frowned. This woman was even more stubborn than he was, and that was becoming a serious problem.

-In fact, this is your own initiative. And secondly, you know very well where I am every morning. Do not exaggerate, sir,- she replied coldly.

Tommy clicked his tongue in annoyance, exhaled a thick puff of smoke, and dropped the cigarette butt on the ground, crushing it with his heel.

“If it were up to me, I would have thrown you out of a fifth-floor window long ago,” the man rolled his eyes.

-…-sigh-… Nevertheless, sir, we have a small problem,- she said calmly, reaching toward the bag of buns. But Tommy pulled his hand back, raising it higher so that she would first speak, and only then get her pastry. The woman rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest.

-Campbell has found my man in the police. I fear that soon all my people will be caught-she explained with a frown. Her face looked worried: this was already the second spy who had been exposed. Clearly someone was betraying their people to that damn inspector.

-Do you think it is someone from our own? — Tommy immediately caught the point, lowering his hand and exhaling heavily. Another headache. But he knew: this miniature woman would not surrender her people so easily.

-Without a doubt- she nodded. At that moment a shout came from behind them — the woman flinched, and together they turned their heads. Arthur and John were waving their hands; both looked a little drunk but still managed to stand on their feet.

Tommy turned back toward the woman. A new cigarette slid between his lips.

-I need the documents on the inspector by Sunday. No delays- he said sternly. Then, after a pause, he added: -I will buy you the buns next time-

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donutloverxo · 1 day ago

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── · ˚ ୨୧ 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔. ⛥ — staring ! tommy shelby x afab!reader.

⊹𓈒˚ cw. nsfw. swearing, tommy being tommy (i.e. suffering from ptsd), reader is an orphan (most of her family died around the war time), tommy and reader have known each other since they were kids, alcohol consumption, smut. virgin reader. fingering, oral (f!receiving), p in v, tommy lowkey has a corruption kink and he loves missionary. wc. 6.9k (strap in folks, we're in for a long one) ── MDNI

req. Angsty/smut ending story of Tommy and his childhood friend where he's jealous af but he's too proud to admit his feelings for her, until he saw her with another man. Pretty please with cherry on top 🍒 xx — @mrkdvidal1989

Let it be known that it is a pain to witness two individuals pine over each other for so many years, ignorant of the way one looks at the other so fondly— adoringly, like they hung the stars up in the sky themselves... more so, when those individuals also happen to be childhood friends, thicker than thieves as some would say. The pain can, of course, be attested to by the spectators who find no qualms in voicing their suffering.

"Tommy, I swear to Christ himself if I have to watch you stare at the girl with lovesick eyes any longer I will gouge your eyes out and then me own." Polly, the lovely aunt of the Shelby family threatened one afternoon with a cigarette in hand and a good hearted glare “You know I’m good for it.” The man in question watched the woman he adores walk through the grimy streets of Small Heath with an easy smile plastered on her face, her beauty greatly contrasting with the filth of the street as she walked with her bag in hand, good naturedly greeting the people she passed by, an easy routine she followed in her every day life.

John snorted in response, his words coming out a little muffled due to the toothpick nestled between his lips "Now, Aunt Pol, we all know hell will freeze over before Tommy so much as thinks of doing anything about his boyish crush on his beloved sweetheart." He teased from his spot beside the board. With this contribution from his younger brother, Tommy finally directed his gaze away from the street (albeit quite unwillingly) to glare at his brother who revealed a thinly veiled smile.

"Well," Ada adds once she walks into the shop, leaving her place from the table in the kitchen "he better get on with it since I heard she's got a man wanting to properly pursue her."

The shelby family looked at Ada all at once and she stopped nibbling on her toast to send them a baffled expression "What?"

"Where'd you hear that from, Ada, love?" Arthur asked as he and John shared a knowing look.

"She had me over for tea yesterday, talked about this handsome man she met during work who's bought her flowers in an attempt to woo her." She says dreamily and Polly shakes her head with a smile on her face, lightly swatting her shoulder and flicking off ashes from her cigarette.

"And?" Tommy supplies impatiently when she doesn't continue, instead nibbling on another bite from her toast.

"'And’ what?" Ada retorts back, a smirk on her face at aggravating her older brother.

"Was she 'wooed'?"

Chuckles erupted in an instant at the way Tommy had phrased that, the way he mockingly emphasised the last word— and no matter how piercing his death stare was, his family remained unperturbed, laughing at him and his quite apparent jealousy. He sighs at last, the ghost of a smile hovering over his lips. He was aware he acting ridiculous (read: petty) but that mattered very little to him at the moment.

"In all honesty," Ada says after sobering up from her fit of giggles "I reckon she's bloody well warming up to him, so do with that as you wish."

“Just don't kill the poor man, Thomas." Tommy only rolled his eyes at his aunt’s unnecessary warning.

Tommy was reasonable, he wasn't going to kill him... at least not an unprecedented.

Around two days after the conversation with the Shelby family regarding Tommy’s sweetheart, Ada extended an invitation to you on behalf of them to attend a big celebration for the success of the business seen only a couple of months after it's opening. The invitation included a plus one which Ada encouraged you to use for the new man in your life.

"Come on it'll be fun, besides you'll get to see what he's like when he's drunk." Says Ada as she holds your hand in hers "It's never bad to know how a man acts when he's drunk."

"That's true," you nod, expression turned contemplative "but what about Tommy? He'll be there, no?"

Ada smirks in return "What have you got to worry about Tommy for? He's seen you with plenty of boys running after you."

"Ada!" The younger girl received a slap on her hand but she merely smiled, albeit a little mischievously.

"You've got nothing to worry about, love, Tommy's a grown man, he will be fine." She shrugged “And if he's not then that's not your problem... unless he makes it." Ada winced apologetically but then shook her head. You rolled your eyes and waved a hand in dismissal.

"It's not him I'm worried about, it's me." Ada's expression shifted into one of concern but also curiosity and she urged you to continue explaining with a nod of her head "I do like James, he's been nice and sweet but what if I go to the pub and speak Tommy again after so long and realise I'm still very enamoured by him?"

Ada let out a snort and you retracted your hand from her hold, a pout settling on your lips as you looked at the girl disapprovingly "Ada!" You chided again.

"Sorry, sorry, it's just you said James was 'sweet and nice' and Tommy is neither of those yet you might still be taken by him." She covered her mouth once more to stifle a giggle.

You pursed your lips at her "Your brother can be sweet and nice in his own way, Ada."

She shrugged her shoulders at you "Whatever you say," She surrenders before placing her forearms on the table again "this just makes going to the party all the more important, you'll either end up leaving with Tommy or James, your call."

You groaned at the implication of her words and felt yourself flush, covering your face with your hands as you mumbled "Whatever, yes, I'll go."

And that is how you found yourself in the infamous family owned pub with James by your side, smiling jovially at Ada and Polly who greeted him much better and more kindly as compared to John and Arthur who glared and sized up the poor man. You chose to ignore the two dunces (and you meant that entirely affectionately as you loved the Shelby’s).

"Congratulations!" You say with a tight-lipped smile, eager to walk off for a drink sooner than later "Where's the man in charge?"

"Oh, he'll be late," Polly supplies, already pulling out a cigarette to smoke "got caught up with some business but we'll be sure to let him find you when he's here."

You quickly raised your palm "Oh there's no need!" you smiled sheepishly and the Shelby's glance at you with concealed amusement "Just wanted to say congratulations but seeing as he's not here, I'll extend them to you once again on his behalf, congratulations..." You nodded before grabbing a hold of James’ forearm "We'll be getting some drinks, have a wonderful rest of the night!"

The Shelby family chuckled and raised their glasses in cheers when you glanced back at them as you settled onto the seats of the bar to order drinks and you returned a smile before focusing on james once more.

"They're a lovely bunch, aren't they?" James laughs and you take a sip of the alcohol that was presented to you rather quickly by the barman.

"Not the words often used to describe them," you giggle in response "they're gangsters but they are quite alright, grew up with them and all."

You watched James from the corner of your eyes in anticipation. You expected hesitancy, for his body to shift, find an excuse to leave but he just leaned slightly forward in curiosity.

"What was that like? Growing up with them?"

A smile broke through your blank expression and you grabbed his arm to lead him into a booth where you spent the rest of the night drinking and chatting away, getting to know him better than during any lunch break spent with him at work.

It must have been hours later when Tommy finally stepped into the pub, ridding himself of his cap and coat by hanging them onto the coat rack standing in the designated Shelby compartment. When he turned his head to the side he found his brothers seated "Good night, lads?" Tommy asks with a nod of his head as John and Arthur laugh over their glasses of alcohol, cigars held carelessly between their teeth.

"Bloody good night," Arthur smiles widely, handing Thomas the new bottle from the table for him to drink from, forgoing a cup. Tommy accepts it with an amused soft laugh and John cheekily smiles, and with a laugh he adds "An especially good one for our sweetheart!"

Tommy pauses mid gulp and furrows his brows at his younger brother who expands on it by sipping more whiskey "Second booth from the wall," he nods outside the room, prompting Tommy to exist with the bottle still gripped by his right hand.

Tommy's eyes flit over Ada and Polly who giggle, sipping from their glasses and he looks to where their gaze is focused to see you chuckling at something a random man said to you, a finger coming up to tuck a stray hair behind your ear as he whispers something into it, pressing soft pecks as well.

"Ladies," Tommy greets with a clearing of his throat and a serious expression, standing beside the women of his family seated at the bar.

"Tommy," Polly greets, pulling her hand away which was occupied with both a clove cigarette and a glass of gin "nice of you to finally show up..."

"Nice indeed, Pol!" Ada snorts, enjoying Thomas' expressionless face as he chugs from his bottle.

"Care to join us, Tommy?"

"Yeah, dear brother, we have an amazing view!"

Tommy takes another swig of his Irish whiskey, rolling his eyes at them he responds with a "Fuck off" but he sits beside them nonetheless. The three Shelby's sit with their eyes trained on you and your date, watching as you converse and laugh.

After a short while, Polly and Ada leave Tommy to continue his “creepy stalking” according to Ada and dance with random men instead, moving along to the jazzy tunes playing in the golden establishment.

He swirled the contents of the bottle around his tongue savouring the taste of it. For Tommy did not care for the bitter alcohol lingering on his tongue, it tasted much sweeter to him than the sight of his first love smiling brightly at a man who was not him.

He finally set the bottle down and stood up when he noticed the man accompanying you move his hand from your shoulder to your waist, pulling you closer to him so that he could press his lips against yours. Tommy’s heart dropped to his feet and he couldn’t stomach the sight anymore as the alcohol tasted almost poisonous in his mouth at this moment. He had to do something or he was going to be sick. With fluid yet commanding steps, he easily broke through the dancing crowd and stopped just by your booth. Hands in the pocket of his trousers, as he stands with his figure commanding attention and respect, per usual.

He calls your name in his typical deep, raspy, gruff tone. You instantly pull away from the man, scooting away from him as you turn to look at Tommy with an expression as though you’d been caught red-handed. He looks down at you with a blank expression but you know better than that, at least you should, his eyes betray him as he stares at you deeply, hurt flashes in them but you don’t notice it, not in your inebriated state.

"Tommy…" You breathe out, fixing your hair properly as you greet him. You tried to sober up but all the alcohol you’d been drinking during the night caused a small hiccup to escape your lips and Tommy notices your flushed cheeks from the booze and the ambiance "Congratsss…" you attempt to say but you slur the word and a giggle follows shortly after. You were clearly tipsy.

"Right, I think you've had enough celebrations for today." Tommy’s gaze travelled to the man who is most likely a light weight judging from the way he’s turned red and looking dazed as he turns his attention from you to the Shelby. The latter nods his head towards the door in an action that commands James to 'beat it' but he only scrunches his face in confusion, unable to fully comprehend what is going on. This elicits a rather sassy eye roll from Tommy who decides that it might all be easier if he takes matters into his own hands.

"Come on, love, I'll get you home."

"But I wuz—" Tommy’s hands grasp your elbows as he stands you up and steadies you when you stumble a little, feeling light headed all of sudden when his piercing blue eyes are inches away from your own. "Hullo," you whisper innocently, nose bumping into his.

Tommy, despite himself and his very serious demeanor whispers 'Hi' back in a soft tone. He pulls your coat that was hanging on the booth and fixes it onto your figure, making sure to close the buttons before grabbing your hat from off the table and placing it on top of your head "Let's go."

He notices you pout your lip when he grabs your bag, stepping further away from you in the process and Tommy fights the impulsive desire to press a kiss to them to make you feel better. He ignores James whose head has now fallen onto the table and is apparently snoozing as he leads you to the little room by the entrance to retrieve his coat and hat, his hand still holding onto your elbow.

"Leaving already?" Arthur asks, nursing his drink meanwhile John was knocked out on the couch, mouth open as he drooled.

"'e's forcin' me 'ome" You slur from your spot by the doorframe, leaning against it as Tommy gets dressed.

Arthur lets out a hearty laugh, alcohol spilling a little "You go right to bed, love!" He says, supporting his brother as he greets him goodbye.

"Alright,” Tommy appears by your side once more and wraps his arm around your shoulders, allowing your head to drop onto his collarbone “off we go now, love." you groan but let him lead you to his car regardless.

"I missed you, y’know." You mutter quietly once the cool air hits your face as he opens the car door for you, your back pressing against the freezing metal “’s like after the war, you didn’ wan’ no’in to do with me.”

Tommy paused, hand holding the car door open as he studied your serene face. You looked… fine but your slurred words sounded hurt. Tommy hated it when he made you hurt. He swallowed and with his free hand, he took a hold of your arm and helped you into the passenger’s seat “I’m sorry,” he whispered softly, so uncharacteristic of him as he tucked a stray curl behind your ear “I’m no good for you like this.”

A frown permeates your forehead, it is rather soft, like a miniscule annoyance popped before you which caused you to react. He knows you are barely conscious and that you probably will not remember this conversation tomorrow so his hand lowers to cradle your cheek, brushing his thumb gently against your flushed flesh “I’m so sorry, angel.”

You subconsciously lift your hand and hold his against your face, mumbling tiredly “I know.” Thomas almost startles, but instead he pats your cheek and releases you, watching your head softly knock against the head of the seat as you succumb to the sleep that has been fought off for a while.

He releases a sigh before buckling you in and gently closing the door, making his way to the other side to drive you home. The journey home was smooth, the so called “scary gangster” made sure to drive as slow as he could with minimal disturbances to ensure you continued to doze away while he got you home. He slowed to a stop once he arrived at the familiar house just down the street from his family home. Memories flooded his mind as he looked up, recalling all the times your mother would scold him for bringing you home with mud on your face and clothes, your brother would laugh from behind her as you glared at the little boy whilst simultaneously trying to defend Tommy (not that he needed it, your mother adored him)… It pained him to see the lights shut, the warm home being a ghost of what it was after the death of your mother a couple of years back. Tommy knew he was a bastard for leaving you alone to deal with the grief of your family but you never did blame him, despite him promising to take care of little Dani when they all got drafted—

You stirred in the seat beside him and he snapped out of his thoughts. There was no time to reminisce those gone, the war took away everything, even the living who returned. And so he turned off the engine, stuffing his keys in his pockets before he turned to you, he rummaged through your bag which he placed on the dashboard and retrieved your house keys. He exited the car, walking over to your side to unbuckle your seatbelt and carry you in his arms to your door. While still holding your sleeping figure, you nestled your face into the crook of his neck for warmth, Thomas slottled the key into its hole and turned it to the right as it clicked open for him. He ignored the warmth that seeped into his skin from your unconscious affection, choosing to instead focus on making his way to what he hoped was still your room. Luck seemed to be on his side because when he pushed open the door, he was met with the familiar sight of your cream painted walls, decorated with messy pink flowers that you insisted must be drawn on the walls when you were 5 (Tommy remembered dragging Arthur along with him to help your father out). He did not repress the small smile that bloomed at the memory, instead he tossed your bag on your chaise and carefully laid you on your bed.

Thomas stared down at you unsure of what to do now, you were still wearing your coat and heels which must be uncomfortable for you. He finally decided that he should probably strip you of them before heading back to the Garrison. With a determined knit of his brows, he got to work— Tommy sat you up gently, letting your head rest against his chest while his hands peeled off your coat. He let you rest back once more as he dealt with the buckles of your heels, smoothly unclasping the metal and popping it off her feet, setting them by your bed when he was finished. He looked at you once more, soft gaze following the soft breaths you took as you slept on your back. With a wistful sigh, he leaned down to press a kiss against the crown of your head to wish you a good night before leaving when all of a sudden you stirred in place, your hand reaching for his heavy jacket with a gentle grip.

“Stay.”

Your command was as mellow as your grip, almost imperceptible and yet Tommy felt the heavy weight of all the years of his yearning for you rooting him in place, lips parted and eyes wide as though he was his 12 year old self, blushing after you planted a kiss on his cheek before heading home. He found it extremely hard to do anything but comply and so he shook off his jacket along with his blazer and took a seat beside you on the bed, brushing your hair away from your face.

"You have no idea how much control you hold over me, angel." He whispers, watching you with adoring eyes as you snuggled into his torso. He kicked off his shoes and lied down on your large bed, adjusting so that you rested between his arms, with his arms slung around your waist and your hair wafting your shampoo into his nose allowing him the opportunity to smell the roses you were so fond off, he felt himself surprisingly drifting off to sleep.

You woke up with a fright the next morning. A screamed barrelled past your lips when you felt a body next to you in the space that was usually empty on your bed.

You had stirred awake due to the bright beams which appeared through the crack of your curtains. You stretched your arms out when all of a sudden, something solid materialised and you made contact with it. What you had failed to realise was that solid object happened to be a man you were well acquainted with. Of course, that did not register in your sleep-addled brain and so you did the only thing you could think of doing when dealing with foreign people in your bed. You screamed and pulled your pillow from behind your head and began to hit him with it.

“Get out, you pervert!”

Your scream and attacks startled Thomas out of sleep and his bleary gaze immediately found your own, his expression turned from fear (which he was accustomed to experiencing after being woken up with a fright) to exasperated amusement.

"What the actual fuck?" He grunted, grabbing the pillow from you and tossing it to the side to grab a hold of your wrists all while sitting up.

"Oh Tommy!" Your eyes lit up as you sat back on your feet “…What are you doing here?” You asked momentarily after, a little confused.

"You were drunk so I brought you back home, tucked you in and when I turned to leave, you told me to stay."

"Hmm." You hummed in response, getting off the bed “Sounds like something I would do.” You looked down at your fully clothed figure and then at Thomas and signalled between the two of you.

“We didn’t do anything, right?”

“And if we did?” Tommy asked with a hidden smirk, eyebrow cocked up in interest.

You snorted, moving around the room to gather your towel and change of clothes to take a much needed bath “I sure hope not, I’d hate for my first time to happen while I’m intoxicated.” You muttered playfully as you entered the bathroom connected to your room.

It appeared as though Tommy was still dreaming because you were gone in an instant, imparting him with the knowledge that you were still a virgin. He really does not know what is wrong with him but he needed to wake up before he headed back to the betting place, his job required a good head on his shoulders and he was quite sure that he was being delusional at the moment.

"You're still a virgin." He said the minute you stepped out of your steaming bathroom, his words almost like a declaration instead of a question. You are not too surprised to find him still seated on your bed, this time with a cigarette hanging from his lips, deep in thought.

"Hello to you too,” You humour him, the towel in your hand collecting the drops of water dripping from your freshly washed hair “Is that so surprising?” You ask in response to his statement, taking a seat in front of your vanity.

“’Suppose not.” He finally looks up from the floor to watch you through the mirror, taking a drag from his cigarette before blowing it into the air. His gaze travels from your face to your bare shoulders, drops of water clinging to them and your cleavage which he can sneak a peek of from your mirror.

“Don’t you have work, Thomas?”

He lets out a chuckle, close to a snort actually “You think I give a fuck about work right now? Besides, I’m the boss, it starts when I want it to start.”

You hum in response, applying your moisturiser to your face “That’s fair, I do however have to get dressed so—”

"What’s stopping you? I don’t mind." He leaned back, resting his weight on the palms of his hands as he watched you stand up to retrieve your articles of clothing from your cupboards and dresser.

“I wasn’t asking for your permission, Thomas.”

“No, but I’m used to giving it.”

You meet his gaze head on and purse your lips “So this is the Tommy Shelby everyone whispers about, huh?”

“Pleasure.” He drily responds, a nod of his head with his cigarette hanging from his lips looking so relaxed and in command causes you to scoff.

“Not sure if it is.” You retort and walk behind the divider that stands in the corner of your room. You throw your towel over it and pull on your underwear, tying your bra before dressing into your nightgown, stockings covering your legs.

"I’m sure it will be." The tension is palpable as his words linger in the room, settling around you like the smoke of his cigarette which he stubbed into the ground.

“What makes you think that?”

“I think,” he says, a small tug present at the corner of his lips “that’s what I’m good at.”

You bite back a smile eventually, a huff of air escaping your lips at his self-assuredness. He was right, he always was the “thinker” of the group “That did get you into fights often, you know?”

“It’s also got me a lot of what I’ve wanted.”

You cock your head to the side, arms crossing over your chest as you approach him “And what is it that you want?”

“You.” He says without pause, looking at you with a gaze so intense you almost fold “I’ve always wanted you.”

“And now?” You question, stopping in front of him to unfold your arms in order to reach a hand to his face, your finger caressing his soft yet sharp features, still your Tommy yet so changed.

“I still want you more than ever.”

Your hand holds his jaw and you lean down to press a kiss to his plump lips that look oh so inviting. It takes Thomas by surprise even though he has been craving it for so long. The feel of your mouth against his almost causes his heart to stop beating in his chest. Suddenly all white noise in the air disappears when your lips meet his. He does not even realise he stopped breathing until you pull away and he finds himself pathetically following your lips, lashes fluttering over his cerulean eyes.

“I’ve always been yours, Thomas,” You breath against his lips “It has always been you for me.”

Passion overtakes all of Tommy’s senses. He stands up and his arms immediately reach out for you, his hands hold your face and he crashes his lips against yours once more, addicted to the minty taste of your mouth. He presses you against the wall and you can’t hold back a moan.

“Say it again.” It was meant to come off as a command, however the desperation peeks through his words and it borders on a plea. He’s begging you to tell him you're his. Always have been, with nothing able to come in between you, not even a stupid war that took away your family and his light “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

He slips his tongue into your mouth the second the ‘s’ slides between your teeth, choosing to taste your words on his tongue instead. You grip onto the collar of his shirt, humming into his mouth as his tongue explores all the crevices of your mouth, eager to know what he’s been fantasising about for years, all within in the reach of his arm but so so far away in his mind’s eye. You taste the cigarette you became familiar with from a young age and find that it doesn’t bother you as much as you thought it would, in fact, the way it lingered on your taste buds felt delicious, probably because it came from Tommy and something you mostly associate with him.

He pulls away reluctantly to let you catch your breath, but not far enough as he indulges in pressing wet kisses along your jaw and down the bare skin uncovered by your clothes. “Tommy…” You sigh contently, head lolling against the wall as he sucks on a sweet spot right under your ear.

“Hmm?” You can tell he’s not actually listening to what you have to say, too occupied, too consumed with the essence of you, which… ultimately is good considering you have no clue what was going to come out of your mouth. You instead pressed his head deeper against your skin, holding him in place meanwhile his hands reached down to lift the hem of your slip upwards, revealing smooth skin which he so desperately wanted to mark. He wanted to leave a trace of himself on you and he was going to do it if that was the last thing he would do. His rough hands suddenly parted your legs to allow his knee to occupy the space between them, pushing you down onto his muscled thigh which in turn caused your breath to hitch.

You grasp onto the short hair at the top of his head and forcefully pull him away, looking down at his lust-filled eyes fluttering open in a daze, his pink plump lips glimmering with a coat of saliva, a mix of both your own and his, “I hope you’re not thinking you'll taking me against the wall.”

He seems to sober up a little, standing up straighter and fixing your clothes “Right,” he says with a clearing of his throat “it seems I got too excited.”

You crack a smile at that confession, tapping his cheek lightly with affection “There’s always time for that later.” You wink and his own expression turns light, a soft smile pulling at his lips. He suddenly plants both his hands on your bottom and hauls you up in his hold, prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist for security.

“I’ve run out of patience, love.” He lead you straight to bed, spreading you on your mattress and resting in between the gap left “I need to feel you, all of you.” He said, no room for hesitance and you pulled his face into a kiss, the palms of your hands splayed against the clean-shaven cheeks of his face. His hands roam over your thighs, pulling you closer so that your core pressed against his own, feeling more of him than you ever have before.

“Take it off.” You ordered, biting his lower lip. His hands move in an instant, eager as he pulls off your gown. You raise your arms, assisting him with a giggle. His face moves to your chest to pepper kisses down till he reaches your abdomen before he goes back up the way to connect your lips once again. “Now it’s your turn.”

You work the buttons on his waist coat, then his shirt all the while he watches you with an amused glint in his eyes, patiently waiting for you to rid him of his white undershirt. He was surprised when you did not stop there however, “Up.” You commanded, pushing him off the bed and sitting up to watch him get rid of his trousers, leaving him only in his drawers. Your eyes trailed over his figure, landing straight on the tattoos and scars that never used to be on his pale skin dotted with freckles in the past. They were from the war you concluded.

“Come here.” You say softly, switching your position so that you were now kneeling on the bed, inviting Tommy to do the same. He complies, something he has come to find himself easily doing when it’s with you. You fingers trail over his toned body, brushing over his biceps and finding the scar on his back. You gently trace it, not asking the story behind how he got it but meeting your eyes with his. Your gaze is soft and sweet and Thomas almost finds himself choked up facing your gentleness, it seemed so foreign to him. It has been years and he does not know why he has denied himself this when he needed it so long ago. You ghost over his military tattoo, acknowledging its presence despite not liking what it represented. Loss, grief, heartache, death… but it was ironically perfect because all you could do was move "forward", on with life because it waited for no one. Finally, your fingers splay over his chest next, over the tattoo covering his left pec. You chuckle a little, recognising the lack of an important figure intended to sit in the middle of the sunrays… It was so in character for Tommy to reject God but keep the symbolism of the religion he grew up with.

“Done enough sight-seeing?” He asks with a tilt of his head, staring fondly at you.

“I suppose I have.” No sooner does that last word roll of your tongue does Tommy knock you back into the mattress.

“Good, it’s time I have my way with you.”

He undoes your bra without second-guessing, reaching for the knot below your shoulders and releasing it with a gentle tug. He takes it off, discarding it somewhere on the floor before lowering his face to latch a nipple into his mouth, a hand coming up to tug at your free one. Your breaths turn shallow at his touch, legs wrapping behind his back as you arch into his mouth, wanting more.

His unoccupied hand slides down your tummy to meet the waistband of your cotton panties, meeting the lacy material. He slips a finger and pulls the elastic, pausing the swirling of his tongue to ask “Can I?” You strain to look up him, your head content on lying on the mattress but you nod down at him regardless, a soft plea tumbling past your lips.

“Please.”

He rolls off your panties down your thighs, then down your calves till he’s ridden you of them completely leaving you bare before him, completely nude for him to feast his eyes on. He sits back, looking at you with his pupils blown, barely any of that cornflower blue you’re so fond of peeking through, too consumed by desire and admiration “Beautiful...” He says quietly, more to himself than you. Heat flushes your entire body and you beckon him over with your hand on his shoulder.

He returns to hovering over you, lowering himself to press a soft kiss to your lips to distract you as his large hands glides down your right thigh before finding the centre between your legs. A gasp slips out when you feel him slide a finger, collecting your arousal and then placing his middle and ring finger on your most sensitive area, your legs falter at the touch from where they are bent on the mattress. He only bites his lip as his fingers take on a circular motion, watching and enjoying the soft moans that resound in the room at his ministrations.

“Tommy,” you whine and he shushes you by slipping in his middle finger, feeling more slick coat the digit and he grows tenser. He gulps as you writhe in front of him with the addition of his ring finger, the palm of his heel aiding his efforts in watching you come undone before him.

Your hips alternate between bucking into his hand and pushing into your bed, too overwhelmed by the pleasure coming from his touch but you do not back down, not when you feel too good from just his hand and you tell him as much “Don’t stop—”

Except he does stop when he feels the first squeeze around his fingers, a cruel (in your opinion) smirk on his face when you open your eyes in a huff “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Making sure you finish in my mouth.” He states and you falter, looking at him with a confused expression.

“What?” You ask, trying to make sure you heard him right but Thomas is a bastard and hates repeating himself so he only lifts you by the waist, sets you on your pink pillows and settles in between your thighs with his head diving in without out warning, licking a stripe up before swirling around. Your protests die the instant you feel his tongue and you instinctively spread wider for him, hand coming to keep his head in place because you’ll be damned if you don’t take Tommy up on his pearl diving skills.

He keeps you spread with his forefinger and middle finger, tongue focused on your clit meanwhile his fingers pump in and out of you at the same time. Your sanity slowly deteriorates as your senses are just full of him, mind empty, only thinking about good he’s making you feel.

“Thomas, I swear to God if you stop I will do what France has failed to do.” Your words are intended to be a threat but Tommy doesn’t know how seriously he can take you when you stop in between your words to catch your breath and let out tiny whines. It’s adorable though, so he decides he’ll play nice because this isn’t the first time someone has threatened to kill him, at least this time he knows it’s because he’s bringing his girl to her high.

Your legs almost shut around his head and suffocate him when you first begin to feel your orgasm approaching, Tommy actually wants to let you do it but you catch yourself at the last minute and hold onto his cropped hair instead (you really ought to get him to let it grow a little—), focusing on your pleasure as your vision turns black with sprinkles of white appearing. “Tommy, I’m—” he hums into you, his tongue and fingers turning rougher and you can’t hold back the mewl as you clamp down on his fingers, your hips jerking as you finally come. He releases his fingers, pops them into his mouth to clean it off before discarding his briefs.

You open your eyes, unfocused as you try to come back to your senses as you look at him. His intense gaze meets yours , you nod at him knowing what it is he wants. He can’t help the smile that graces his face and plants a kiss on your knee before parting your legs for him to fit snugly in between, the back of your thighs touching the front of his. One hand grips his length, you lower your hips to meet him as his slips in inch by inch.

Your immediate reaction to the intrusion is knitted brows, your eyes shut as he finally bottoms out after what you felt was an unnecessarily long time. You gulp when he hugs you, settled deep in you as you both wait. Tommy’s mouth hung open the entire time as he felt you engulfing him with your wet walls, head going light from this entire experience. You felt divine. He could almost cry, feeling you wrapped around, so snug and perfect…

“Move,” he says through gritted teeth, his voice cracks right by the pulse in your neck when he adds on “please, I need to feel you move.”

You throw your arms around his broad shoulders and rock your hips, prompting him to finally meet you in the middle, helping you find a rhythm against him. It does not take long as you work on the perfect symphony together, almost as though orchestrated by a brilliant maestro the way he moves into you, hitting all the right places while he pushes your knees up to your chest, ensuring he’s hitting deeper and you’re feeling all of him.

Thomas almost feels ashamed at the quickness with which his climax approaches, and he screws his eyes shut, tensing his jaw as he wills himself to hold out for longer but damn the way you feel when you pull him closer and kiss at his cheeks and nibble on his ear. You’re the virgin here, not him, and yet he’s almost emptying his balls out to match their record time. He groans and clears his throat as he tries to collect himself to tell you “I’m not going to last much longer.”

Your response chokes him when he feels you squeeze around him, he pulls his face away from over your shoulder to look down at you with an almost offended expression which turns exasperated when he sees your lazy grin “Oh so now you’re a minx?” His hand moves from your waist to your cheeks and he squishes them “Just you wait, love.” He spills into you after a few more thrusts before stilling, still nestled deep inside you.

You attempt to sit up but his hand stops you by firmly pushing you down, splayed over your sternum “We’re not done…”

⊹𓈒˚ ─ return to masterlist?

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donutloverxo · 2 days ago

Note

❛ say you love me. say it now — can’t you say it now? even if you don’t mean it? ❜ with Tommy please. Angst?

Thanks so much for sending this in @goblinjnr ! 🥰 I hope it’s as angsty as you were hoping!

A Waste

Tommy Shelby x fem!Reader

Summary: (Y/N) hopes that her love is requited. Tommy doesn’t give her that guarantee.

Warnings: mentions of prostitution

Word Count: 475

“Say you love me. Say it now—” (Y/N) paused, her eyes wide as she stared at the stoic man sitting across from her, waiting for him to say those three words. “Can’t you say it now? Even if you don’t mean it?” her asks turned to pleads as he stayed silent.

“There’s a lot going on at the moment, (Y/N),” Tommy’s voice was level, like he was conducting this as if it were nothing but another matter of business.

“So much that you can’t even say those three words?” she asked with furrowed brows, hurt present in her voice.

Tommy’s stare was blank. He couldn’t utter those words even if he wanted to. So much had happened in the last few months: from the stock market crashing in the United States, to the possibility of there being a turncoat within the family. No matter how much he enjoyed (Y/N)’s company—and boy did he enjoy it—he couldn’t commit himself in that way.

“So it was all a waste?” her question held a tone of anger mixed with betrayal. “All those days spent with you. All those nights I came the second you called…it was nothing but a waste.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, (Y/N),” he finally spoke, his voice gruff and dismissive. He fiddled with his thumbs as his hands sat clasped atop his abdomen. It was almost like he was impatient, and it seemed as though that, to him, what was supposed to be a serious, emotionally-charged conversation was actually just one that was taking up time.

“I want you to say that you love me!” she was borderline hysterical now. She couldn’t believe how crass he was being; how he was just dismissing her and her feelings…dismissing their relationship.

Tommy, again, went blank. He knew she didn’t care if he meant it or not, that she just wanted him to say those words. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Maybe it’d be better to ice her out rather than keep her around with false intentions. Any working woman in the city could give him what he needed without any of the additional, emotional baggage that was present right now. This was the best thing for him to do.

He didn’t speak a word, but still, (Y/N) had heard enough. She stood from the chair that she’d been sitting in, now towering over him where he sat at his desk. Her scowl was deep and, just about, made him shudder. “It was all a waste,” she muttered through gritted teeth, the anger now starkly present in her tone. “Goodbye, Tommy Shelby. I’d tell you to have a good life, but you don’t even deserve the sentiment.”

With that, she turned and exited both Arrow House and his life.

MASTERLIST

Tagged: @mystcldydrms @succubaby @cloudofdisney @look-at-the-soul @elenavampire21

@mrsalwayswrite @julkaamazing @theshelbyslimited @peakyswritings @just-a-blackhole

@watercolorskyy @strayrockette @peakyduchesss @alexxavicry @captivatedbycillianmurphy

@yummycastiel @dark-academia-slut @littlepeakydevil @stevie75 @lyarr24

@signorellisantichrist @zablife @anotherblinder @cillmequick @dandelionprints

@garrison-girl-08 @insanitybyanothername @depxiety @justrainandcoffee @dragons-are-my-favorite

@mrs-bond @cljordan-imperium @brummiereader @everythingelseisextra @little-diable

@thomashelbyswife @shaddixlife @ryecosse @padfootdaredmetoo @novashelby

@wonderlanddreamer

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donutloverxo · 2 days ago

Text

Headcanon: If They Ever Hurt You

Characters: Russell Shaw, Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy/Ben, Mark Meachum and Boaz Priestly

Scenario: Requested by @mishkatelwarriorgoddess:

'How do our boys handle whenever we've been hurt (verbally) by someone who we thought we could trust????? [Protectiveness]'

pairings: Russell Shaw x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader, Beau Arlen x Reader, Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader, Mark Meachum x Reader, Boaz Priestly x Reader

Russell Shaw

Humour

Colter had told you to stay at the motel, otherwise you’d ruin the plan. He probably hadn’t realized how sharp the words sounded, but they cut anyway. Worse, Russell had been right there to hear it. Not that you were about to show how much it stung.

You leaned against the motel wall, watching Colter climb into his car and drive off after the lead. The taillights disappeared, and you let out a long sigh just as Russell came up beside you. "Here." He held out a Styrofoam cup. "Fresh motel coffee. Only the best for you." You accepted it with a small smile, the steam curling between you. He took the spot next to you, both of you staring out over the parking lot.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yep."

Russell sipped his coffee, unconvinced. "He’s an asshole."

A scoff escaped you. "Yep."

Russell tilted his head, a glint of mischief in his eye. "You know, when he was a kid and Dad chewed him out, he’d march out into the woods and do this thing he called shadow karate. Like…fighting the air." He lifted his hands, chopping and punching clumsily, dead serious in the imitation. "Pretty sure the air won most of the time."

The image made you laugh, the sound bubbling out before you could stop it.

"He was a scrawny little thing too," Russell added, shaking his head. "Probably couldn’t karate chop a twig."

You laughed harder, the sting of Colter’s words easing away. "Thanks, Russell." You held up your cup, and he tapped his gently against yours.

"Anytime."

Dean Winchester

On Your Behalf

“Nobody talks to you like that.” Dean’s boots scraped against the motel’s threadbare carpet as he paced, shoulders tight, jaw working. You sat at the end of the bed, staring down at the garish pattern, too hollow to answer. Dean’s anger was loud enough for both of you.

"If I see him again, I swear...I’ll give him a piece of my mind. Hell, if he’s lucky my fist doesn’t meet his face first. What gives him the—" He stopped short.

You hadn’t moved. Your small frame was hunched in on itself, your gaze vacant. Trapped in the echo of words that refused to let go.

You don’t matter. You’re nothing. You’re a waste of space.

And the worst part, it hadn’t come from an enemy. It had come from someone you trusted.

Dean’s anger drained away in an instant. "Hey, sweetheart." His voice softened as he knelt in front of you, filling your blurry vision. Rough hands took yours, grounding you. "Don’t listen to them." Your eyes lifted, glassy and unsure. It nearly broke him. "You do matter. You matter a hell of a lot. To Sammy, to Bobby, and especially to me." His thumbs brushed over your knuckles, steady and certain. "You hear me? He was wrong. So damn wrong."

You blinked, a single tear slipping free. "Okay," you whispered, so faint he almost missed it.

Dean leaned in, resting his forehead lightly against your knees. His voice came low, fierce, almost a growl. "But if you want me to punch him, just say the word."

Beau Arlen

Affirmation

The whole precinct had seen Jenny Hoyt tear into you, and she hadn’t held back. When she stormed off, she left you stranded in the middle of the bullpen, every set of eyes on you, the weight of awkward silence pressing in.

Beau had seen enough. From across the room, he called your name, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Office. Now."

Grateful for the escape, you slipped inside. The door clicked shut, cutting off the stares. Beau stepped closer, big hands settling on your shoulders, grounding you. "Darlin’, look at me." Your gaze lifted from the denim stretched across his chest to meet his steady green eyes. "You didn’t deserve that," he said softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "You’re good at your job. You’re a good person. Don’t let her words stick—they’re just anger, and you were in the crossfire."

His palms slid up, cupping your face. Rough thumbs brushed over your cheeks, catching the shine of tears before they could fall. He studied you, like he was trying to read if it was hurt, anger, or embarrassment clouding your eyes.

"Look, let me talk to her, set this straight—"

"No." Your voice cracked but held. You drew a deep breath, shoulders squaring. "Please don’t. I can handle it."

Something shifted in his face then, pride softening the frustration. He smiled, gentle but certain. "There she is. There’s my girl."

He bent, pressing a firm kiss to your forehead, lingering just long enough to make the knot in your chest loosen.

Soldier Boy

Violence

"I told you to stay in the fucking car." Butch yelled at you as you entered the apartment. Hughie and Soldier Boy following behind you

"But he was right there! I could’ve helped you."

"I can’t risk you getting hurt!"

"I’m not a child, Butcher!"

"Then when are you going to STOP FUCKING ACTING LIKE ONE?!"

The words ripped out of him like shrapnel. You froze, mouth open, because Butcher had never raised his voice at you. Never talked to you like that before.

That was the spark.

America’s first Supe saw red. In a blur, Soldier Boy crossed the room and slammed Butcher against the wall, one massive hand clamped around his throat. Plaster cracked from the impact, the wall giving under the sheer force he didn’t bother holding back.

"Ben!" you gasped, shocked.

But Soldier Boy’s face was a mask of fury, teeth clenched, eyes blazing. He leaned into Butcher, voice low and lethal.

"What, you gonna kiss me?" Butcher rasped out, choking.

"You fucking talk to her like that again," Ben growled, his voice guttural, "I won’t hold back. I’ll put you through the fucking wall." He looked rabid; shoulders heaving, jaw tight, practically frothing with rage.

Then, just as suddenly, he released him. Butcher collapsed to the floor, coughing, dragging air back into his lungs. Soldier Boy didn’t spare him another look. He stalked down the hall, slammed his door hard enough to rattle the frame, and the silence that followed was deafening.

Mark Meachum

Distractions

Nathan chewed you out in his office, voice carrying through the thin walls like a megaphone. The floor-to-ceiling windows didn’t help either. Every eye in the bullpen flicked up, trying not to stare, trying even harder not to listen.

"Yes, sir," you mumbled, shrinking under the weight of it. You shuffled out, through the bullpen, and slipped into a back room, away from the curious glances.

Your fingers tangled in your hair as you paced, breath coming shallow. You shook out your hands, trying to expel the storm inside you, but it only rattled harder in your chest. You knew you’d earned the lecture, but knowing didn’t make hearing it any easier.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I got suspended from the LAPD?"

The low voice startled you. You spun, finding Mark leaning casually against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. He strolled toward you, his voice steady, unhurried. "We had a guy go undercover in the L.A. Mafia. Real piece of shit, so we knew he’d blend. Problem was, he blended too well. Beat a woman to ‘keep his cover.’" He bent his fingers in sharp air quotes.

"When we finally took the guy down, I didn’t care he wore the same badge. I went straight for him. Punched his lights out. Took three guys to pull me off. Everyone thought I snapped ‘cause he’d gotten the job I wanted. I never told them what he did." He gave a dry chuckle. "Got reamed out in front of the whole precinct. Suspended two weeks. Best two weeks of my life."

You blinked up at him, caught somewhere between confusion and reluctant amusement. "What was the point of that story?"

Mark shrugged, easy. "Dunno. Figured it might distract you."

A laugh broke out of you—small, shaky, but real. "Thanks Mark."

He smiled, slipped an arm around your shoulders, and pulled you into his side. A gentle kiss landed on the crown of your head. "Anytime, sweetheart."

Boaz Priestly

Silent Comfort

"At least I can get a guy." Tish snapped. You froze, warning her with your eyes not to go further.

Don’t.

Not here.

But she did.

"And I don’t pine over some guy who doesn’t even know I exist." The words hit harder than a slap. Worse, she gestured right at Priestly.

The air left your lungs. Your stomach dropped. And the secret you’d only ever whispered to her, the crush you’d confided in her, now hung in the air for everyone to see.

Her face shifted the second she realized what she’d done. Eyes wide. Hand lowering like it might erase the betrayal. "Y/N, I—"

But you were already moving. The Grill fell into a silence so heavy you could feel it pressing against your back as you shoved through the door.

Outside, the night air was sharp against your burning cheeks. Tears broke free before you could stop them, spilling fast as you staggered to the alley behind the shop. You pressed your back to the brick wall, curling into yourself, wishing you could disappear.

A touch landed on your shoulder, gentle, steady. Then hands turned you, pulled you forward, and you crashed into a solid chest.

The breath you let out was half relief, half dread. Priestly.

He didn’t say a word. He just held you. Strong arms anchored you while you cried, while your secrets and shame poured out, and for once, you didn’t have to pretend to be okay.

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donutloverxo · 3 days ago

Note

more dark!tommy smut!!!! 🥹❤️🙏

Yup! Wasn't so sure if you wanted the same trope as the previous fics I wrote so I tried something else. 🥰

His fookin' wife

◇ Pairing: Dark!Tommy Shelby X wife!reader

◇ Warnings: heavy DUBCON, angst, Tommy being mean and a man of that period, MISOGYNY, arranged marriage, curses and violence, age gap (both off age).

◇ Summary: Tommy reminds his wife of her place.

◇ Note: Sorry for the mistakes and the English. Honestly... I hate the way I'm writing so I will apologise for my writing as well. Hope you enjoy 🙇🏼‍♀️.

All his thoughts came to an end as soon as she almost reached the front door.

His big calloused hands moved on their own grabbing quickly but firmly her waist from behind, so to pull her body back and grip her thighs tighly.

A deep inhale followed his actions, making the younger woman shiver as his warm breath brushed teasingly the shell of her ear.

Different emotions kept swirling inside of Tommy, his breath became heavier as his low and seductive voice interrupted the silence in the entrance to their house. Their... since it was hers as well, as soon as he put a ring around her finger three years ago, because of an arranged marriage.

The man could feel his wife's body tensing at his touch, but it just sent a shiver down his spine. His primal instincts kicking in fast, getting into him like a bullet.

"W-What are you doing?" Y/n's weak and panicked voice asked in a whisper, making a small smirk appear on his handsome face. His tongue dared out to wet his lips before he could place them on her neck, feeling her quick pulse against them.

"What do you think I'm doing?" He purred out, inhaling her scent before continuing to speak... his voice way lower and predatory than before. "I'm not going to let you leave the house until I'm finished with you, love—"

" —Or would you rather just leave and go and talk to those Italian lads again?" He mocked, anger and jealousy clear in his tone while his grip tightened at the mere movement of hers... causing the young woman to get even more scared of what was happening.

The prospect of being intimate with her arranged husband sounded... weird to her; he never acted like that with her, just once when he was drunk. Besides that night, their honeymoon of years before had been pretty much cold and calculated, he simply prepared her before stealing her virginity with a harsh thrust and little conversation.

No love or emotions besides lust present in that moment of their life.

The panic and fear made her try to escape his grip, just wanting to leave the house already to mind her own business and not discover this more carnal side of her man. A bad idea since Tommy reacted quickly, now holding her closer against his chest, his hips pressing harder against the soft curves of her covered ass while his cock reacted positively at the situation.

"Oh no, you're not getting away that easily... There's no escaping me, darling. I'm going to keep you right here with me so there's no point in trying to free yourself." His low and threatening voice informed her before continuing after a soft growl caused by the wiggling of her body.

"I'm not going to let you leave unless I say so, and I'm going to keep you here all for myself, as your husband.... as your man."

It has been too long since he had been with his Y/n like that, and the fact that she was fighting him caused him to crave her even more. Her teasing and panicked movements were driving him crazy with lust, the way her curves kept pressing back against his front... brushing his now rock-hard cock just made the blue eyed man want to slam her against the nearest surface and take her like he was craving since a while.

Y/n was sweating cold, her heart beating crazily as her mind raced with lots of different thoughts... her body jolted again at his touch and he pressed her harshly against the cold front door of their house.

A breathy groan left the dark haired man's body as he pinned her against the wood, his hips now grinding against her ass... as his left hand held tightly her wrists together so that his free one could raise up the fabric of the dress she was wearing.

"Fucking hell, luv" Tommy cursed at the view of her exposed lower half, his hand colliding with her right ass cheek, making her whimper at the stingy sensation and whine when he knealed harshly her reddening skin.

"Missed your damn body" he added with a breathless growl, position his bulge between her legs as he pulled roughly her underwear up and leave place to his boner to rub on her butt, nudging her sacrum with each movement.

Y/n's body kept hitting softly the door as Tommy made her move with his tempo, his breath getting heavier and faster just like his thrusts.

His free hand, which had reached for her chest without success, moved now down her spine till his fingers could start to undo his belt and pants... sending a shock of fear in the young woman's body.

At the sound of the belt hitting the floor, her eyes widen and her feet moved on its own, stepping on Tommy's and catching him off guard for a couple of seconds. Allowing her to try to run away, heading quickly upstairs as he just watched her with a predatory smirk on his face... his hand picking up the belt from the ground before he rushed behind her.

"It's useless, I told you already... such a-fiesty-little-wife" Tommy spat with gritted teeth as his hand grabbed a firm hold on her ankle before pulling and making her fall down the stairs so that his body could be pin hers easily.

His broad chest now pressing against her small back as his hand pulled her hair so that her face was tilted towards him

"Don't you wanna be a good wife for your husband, luv?" The older man purred against her jaw, leaving wet kisses as his other hand traveled between her breasts to undo her dress and let easier access to her chest.

"I think we need to revise your duties as a wife and... as a woman.... my woman" Tommy spat out, before pressing her head against the moquette of the stairs, unbothered by the discomfort he was causing her by holding the soft skin of her cheek against that material.

His hold on her hair got tighter as his other hand traveled down, between her legs... moving skillfully aside her panties before thrusting one finger in while he circled roughly her clit.

His eyes closed and he groaned softly at the small thrusts of her hips cause by the jolts of pleasure he was giving her. All rubbing against his aching cock so well.

As Thomas opened his mouth again his tone was more dominating and demanding even if it was breathless

"Just like that... fuck" he cursed softly, opening his pants quickly to pull out his lenght and start grinding roughly against her lower back... his fingers still working their magic.

Y/n's whimpers and muffled cries didn't stopped his monologue after he started it. Telling her what she should have known already... how it was her duty as a wife to stay home, to keep the house in order for her husband. To listen to her husband and to be faithful to him. To support him in his business and to satisfy his needs whenever he wanted... since he was her husband.

Each point of the list was followed by a thrust of his hips and a soft groans of pleasure.

"You need to keep the home clean, to cook meals, and being faithful to your husband... you fookin'— need to look presentable and appealing at all times, making sure to be feminine and seductive for your husband whenever he wants it. Fookin' need to make sure the children are always kept up and taken care of, and you need to take— care of your husband's emotional needs as well" he continued, his groans interrupting his monologue a couple of time as he slowly approached his peak.

His cremaster muscle contracted and his jaw clenched as a soft hiss escaped his lips... his grip tightened around her hip and on her hair, making her scalp burn. Till a couple of thrusts later when he came with a low groan of her name... his cum landing on her precious dress and bare ass.

Y/n's body kept trembling due to the pleasure and the little act he was playing, teasing her cunt since he started to speak to make her desperate and needy for him.

"Understood, love?" Tommy's sweet tone, boomed in her empty head as tears kept wetting her cheeks. A soft yelp escaping her mouth when his hand slapped her pussy, hitting her clit harshly to make her squirt on him and the fabric of the moquette.

The young woman was breathing heavily, a soft sob interrupted the silence followed by a playful slap on her cheek as she kept nodding at what he asked her.

"That's a good woman, eh" Thomas hummed in a mocking tone, before getting carefully up... his icy stare remaining on her as he pumped his softening cock a couple of times

"Now up, on your feet" his business voice kicked in, more authoritarian and dominant than before. His heart was beating fast and his lust was growing even more as the time passed.

Y/n did as he said, forcing herself up on trembling legs; the shock of intense pleasure still making her head feel light and relaxed but exhausted.

As the soft, low voice of her husband smoothed her... his tender praises working as soft caresses after a harsh slap.

"That's a good little wife" he hummed out again, leading her to their bedroom as his lips kept brushing against the side of her bare neck.

"Get undressed for your husband, love" Tommy demanded, stroking her hip as he took care of his own clothes. His eyes never leaving her body as she did what he asked her, looking at him still scared but eager to feel such a surprising sensation again.

The older man's big hands pushed her softly down on the bed by the shoulders, before letting them travel softly up to her face... cupping her cheeks to make her look directly in his eyes "That's way better, isn't it, love?" He asked in a whisper, leaning down to kiss her and let her desire win over her negative thoughts.

A deep sigh left her mouth as a ticklish sensation formed on her skin while Tommy's hand traveled and explored it just like his lips. Resting tenderly against her sternum to place a hard kiss on it... a kiss that started the path of more kisses around her chest and ended with his lips wrapped around her erect nipple.

His calloused hands spread carefully his wife's bare legs, allowing him to move between them with ease while his warm tongue swirled and his lips sucked sensually, moving away with a soft pop.

"Been dying to feel your pretty warm mouth around my cock, honey" he murmured softly, brushing his nose against her jugular up to her face

"Or to feel your hands... breasts.... ass... squeezing me till I'm satisfied—" he continued, stopping just to let a throaty groan leave his body as his tip got squeezed by Y/n's cunt.

Her eyes closed quickly at the feeling of his thick lenght forcing itself inside of her tight pussy... causing a burning sensation that was eased down by the quick movements of Tommy's fingers on her clit

"Fuckk... darlin', if you keep squeezing me like this it won't last long" he murmured through a hiss, snapping his hips forward so that his cock was now fully swallowed by her pussy which held him like a vice.

Her juices started to wet his thighs shamefully as he pressed himself as close as possible to feel the bulge caused by his cock in her lower belly.

"You fookin' loving it, eh?" Tommy asked teasingly, sloppy kissing her lips as she tried to say 'yes' after a choked moan.

And it was true, she was loving it... her body was loving it.

When her husband started to move inside of her, she felt tears gathering in her eyes at the contrast of his firm and quick but still sensual thrusts and his tender, loving kisses.

It was different from the quick fuck on the stairs or the cold sex they had during the honeymoon, he wanted to show her and make her take the right choice... either be fucked like a useless whore or like his wife.

The message was clear and his demeanour was really fucking with her mind just like his body was doing to hers.

She was his wife... his wife.

He kept repeating it as he slowly reached his peak again, his firm but loving grip forced her to look him in the eyes as her back arched and a silent moan left her body. Her toes curled against the cold sheet of their bed, making her realize how warm her body actually was at that moment.

"Fookin' hell, cream around my cock, love" Tommy ordered, lost in pleasure... snapping his hips forward a couple of times before going for a deeper one and stop right there.

His sharp jaw dropping as a moan left his mouth, his seed shot inside of her cunt as curses and praises joined the moment. She could feel it and she was sure that it would have caused consequences as well as a drastic change in their life.

Y/n Shelby... was Tommy's wife.

Only his, his damn property and.. woman. Not anyone else's and he had just proved his point.

2K notes · View notes

donutloverxo · 4 days ago

Text

LOVE ITT

✨Lesson taught - Pt. 2/2✨

Summary: You spent years loving a man who slowly turned into a threat you had to survive, hiding your fear behind silence and small smiles. When you finally ran, you thought you’d escaped for good... until he found you again.

-requested-

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader (kinda dark)

Warnings: Mention of rape, Language, Angst, Hurt, Manipulation

Word Count: 5824

DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.

"Relax", he said, voice low, too steady. “You’re okay”.

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Your fingers gripped the blanket tighter, chest rising and falling in uneven waves. You felt trapped. Caged. And worse, seen.

His eyes dropped for just a second, to your swollen belly, half-covered by the thin hospital sheet. He stared at it like it was some sacred relic… or maybe a bomb.

Then, finally, he spoke again.

“Is it mine?”.

Your lips trembled. Everything in you screamed don’t answer. Don’t feed the fire. Don’t give him anything. But the truth had already arrived. It was carved into your body. It was kicking inside you.

And maybe some part of you — exhausted, broken — knew there was no use lying now.

You nodded. Just once.

Ben exhaled, slow. You expected something, rage, shouting, gloating. But instead, he just leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling like the air had been knocked out of him.

“Seven months”, he muttered. “Seven fucking months”.

He dragged a hand through his hair, jaw clenched, and for the first time… you saw something strange in his face.

Hurt.

Not the kind he turned into violence. Not yet. Something deeper. Something human.

“You were gonna let me go my whole life not knowing?”, he asked, voice rougher now.

“You weren’t supposed to find me”, you whispered. “You weren’t supposed to know”.

He looked back at you. Eyes sharper now. “But I did”.

Ben stared at you, and for a moment—just one stretched, dangerous second—you thought he might explode.

Then he did.

His arm shot out suddenly, knocking the little hospital table next to your bed clean off its wheels. It slammed into the wall with a metallic crash, scattering a plastic pitcher, your cup of water, and a tray of untouched food across the floor. The sound made you flinch so hard the heart monitor spiked again.

Your breath caught in your throat. Every nerve in your body screamed brace for impact.

But it didn’t come.

Ben didn’t come at you. Didn’t yell. Didn’t move any closer.

He stood there instead, chest rising and falling like a war drum. Shoulders tight, fists clenched at his sides. You could see the fight trying to break through him, fury twisting in his gut, clawing for the surface.

But something stopped it.

He looked at you again, and for the first time since he’d walked into that room… he saw you. Really saw you. Pale. Shaking. Terrified. Hooked up to machines. Carrying his child.

His lips parted, and he took a step back, as if the sight of you physically knocked the wind out of him. His hands opened and closed like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like he couldn’t punch this problem into submission. Couldn’t bend this into obedience.

Then he took one shaky breath. And another. And another.

And instead of spiraling, he stopped.

He dropped into the chair again like the strength had left his body all at once. Shoulders slumped. Elbows on his knees. His head hanging low. His voice, when it came, was hoarse, not broken, not loud, just… bare.

“I thought I was going crazy”, he muttered. “Woke up every day thinking I’d see you walk in. Dreamed it. Had nightmares about it”.

You didn’t speak.

Then he looked up at you and there it was. Something you’d never seen before. Tears. In his eyes. Not crocodile tears. Not a performance. But real, raw, stunned grief swimming behind those usually unshakeable eyes. He looked lost. Like the world had finally caught up to him.

“I wanted you to be okay”, he said, voice cracking at the edges. “Even when I was furious. I just wanted to know you were alive. And then I see you in a hospital bed? Alone? And pregnant?”.

He swallowed, jaw tightening, as one tear finally slipped down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away.

“What the fuck did I do to you?”.

You stared at him, stunned. Not by his strength, you’d seen that. Lived in its shadow. But by this: the unraveling of it. The falling apart of the man who once made you small.

And for the first time… you didn’t know what to feel.

You swallowed hard, throat dry, mouth frozen somewhere between a breath and a scream. You didn’t know what you were supposed to say. What do you say to the man who broke you… and is now crying at your feet?

Ben stared at the floor, chest still heaving slightly, fists limp between his knees like he didn’t trust them anymore. That tear still lingered on his cheek, drying slow in the hospital air.

What the fuck did I do to you?

The question echoed, bouncing off the sterile walls and into the hollow space between you. You could’ve lashed out. You wanted to. You wanted to scream everything. To remind him of the bruises, the begging, the silence he wrapped around your throat. To say, You hurt me. You shattered me. You made me run like a fugitive.

But all you could do was stare.

“I didn’t want this”, you finally whispered.

His head lifted, slowly. His eyes locked on yours, rimmed red, damp and unfamiliar.

“Not like this”, you added. “Not hiding. Not scared to sleep. I didn’t want to bring a baby into that kind of world. Into your world”.

Ben didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Didn’t posture. Just sat there.

You kept going, voice thin but steady. “But I couldn’t… I couldn’t get rid of it. Them. I don’t know what it makes me—stupid, maybe. But they’re still mine. Even if they’re part of you”.

A long silence stretched between you, filled only by the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor and the quiet hum of fluorescent lights.

Ben leaned back in the chair, running both hands down his face like he was trying to scrape the emotion off. Then he looked at you again.

“I didn’t come here to take the kid”, he said, his voice raw. “I didn’t even know if I’d find you, or what I’d do if I did. I just… I needed to see you”. He paused. “I needed to know I didn’t kill the last good thing I ever had”.

Your breath caught. Not because it was sweet — it wasn’t. It was tragic. And selfish. And painfully human. And it wrecked you.

You turned your head, blinking hard at the tears gathering in your own eyes. “You did kill something”, you said, voice shaking. “Not all of me. But… a lot. And I’m still trying to get those pieces back”.

Ben nodded slowly, that storm behind his eyes settling into something quieter, heavier.

Then he stood.

And even though you knew he wasn’t going to hurt you — not now, not like this — your body flinched anyway. Instinct. A reflex carved into your bones over years of being close to someone too strong, too unpredictable.

His face crumpled at the sight of it. Not in anger. Not even in shame. Just pain. Pure, hollow, devastating pain. Like your reaction struck deeper than any wound he’d ever taken in combat.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Exhaled like it hurt.

You couldn’t breathe.

He reached into his coat pocket, slowly and pulled something out.

He stepped closer, but not too close, and gently placed two things on the blanket across your thighs: a small, familiar bar of chocolate — your favorite, the one he used to toss to you during movie nights — and beneath it, a sleek black credit card.

Your fingers didn’t move. You just stared at them, heart in your throat.

Ben didn’t meet your eyes. “Let me know”, he said, barely above a whisper. “When it´s born”.

His voice cracked, just a little. And before you could say anything, before you could even think, he turned and walked out of the room.

No threats. No grand speech. Just silence trailing behind him like a ghost.

The door clicked shut. And suddenly, the room felt colder.

You stared at the chocolate and the card, both resting on your stomach now, right over where the baby was gently pressing against you from inside, like they could feel the weight of the moment too.

You weren’t sure if you wanted to cry… or finally exhale.

The next two months were a blur of chaos—but not for you. For him.

Ben spiraled.

He didn’t come back to the hospital. He didn’t call. He didn’t so much as try to check on you. Not directly. But his face was everywhere.

Your cracked TV flickered with his image almost daily. Red-eyed, stumbling out of nightclubs, lipstick on his neck, clothes rumpled, sometimes missing entirely. The headlines were relentless:

SOLDIER BOY GONE ROGUE? FROM WAR HERO TO HOLLYWOOD’S WORST NIGHTMARE. SIX WOMEN IN ONE NIGHT? ‘I DON’T EVEN REMEMBER THEIR NAMES,’ SAYS ONE.

And always the photos, grainy, grotesque, tabloid gold. Ben with a bottle in one hand and a woman in the other. Sometimes more than one. Drugs. Fights. Allegations that didn’t stick, but burned just the same.

He was destroying himself publicly. Loudly. Like he wanted the world to know how far he could fall before it stopped pretending he was human.

And you? You were alone.

Your belly had grown heavy, stretching your skin, your breath, your strength. Every day hurt in a new way, your back, your hips, your heart. The clinic said the baby was healthy, but big. “Stubborn”, the nurse had joked, smiling like she didn’t notice the fear in your eyes.

You had one week to go.

One week until you’d bring this life into the world. A child who hadn’t asked for any of this. A child whose father was unraveling across every television screen in America.

And still, you hadn’t called him.

You could’ve. The credit card was untouched, tucked into the drawer with your fake ID and a single ultrasound photo. You could’ve picked up the phone and told him.

But you didn’t.

Because Ben had made his choice. And you were too busy surviving to beg for help from someone who didn’t know how to love without leaving bruises.

It was two days before your due date. The air was thick with summer heat, clinging to your skin, making it harder to breathe than your already-cramped lungs could handle. Your ankles were swollen, your back ached, and every movement felt like hauling two versions of yourself, the woman you were, and the one you were about to become.

You were sitting on the edge of your worn couch, trying to coax a sip of lukewarm tea past the weight pressing against your ribs, when a knock came at the door.

Not loud. Not urgent. Just… there.

Your heart stopped. Because even before you opened it, before you moved, you knew.

You stood slowly, cautiously, one hand at your lower back, the other curled protectively under your belly as you walked to the door. You opened it halfway, the security chain still in place.

And there he was. Ben. Looking nothing like the tabloid monster that had haunted your tiny screen these past weeks.

He was sober, or close to it. Face tired. Beard unkempt. Eyes bloodshot not from a high, but from the kind of exhaustion that comes when someone’s been at war with himself and hasn’t won a damn thing.

He didn’t say your name. Didn’t try to force the door. He just looked at you.

No — not you. Your belly.

His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking as he stared.

You weren’t sure how long the silence stretched before he finally spoke, voice low and even, but raw at the edges.

“I bought a house”.

Your breath hitched.

He continued, gaze still locked on your stomach, not brave enough to meet your eyes. “Near the old place. Not in the tower. Not with Vought. Just… a house. Backyard. Two bedrooms. Quiet”.

You stared at him, too stunned to speak.

He shifted his weight, the silence getting heavier by the second. “It’s for you. And… the kid”.

Not our kid. The kid.

You noticed that. So did he.

Still, he pressed on. “I’m not asking for… anything. I just—”. He cleared his throat. “It’s got a nursery. Figured you’d need that. Figured you’d want… something better than this”.

You flinched without meaning to, eyes flicking to the cracked paint of your doorframe, the water stain on the ceiling behind him.

He saw that. Didn’t comment.

Just stood there, finally dragging his eyes up to meet yours and you hated that he looked like this. Like he was the one breaking.

You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t even know what you felt. Grief? Anger? Relief? Resentment? Hope?

Maybe all of it. Maybe too much.

And all Ben did was stand there in the hall, hands in his jacket pockets, voice quieter now.

“If you don’t want it, fine. I’ll walk away”. A beat passed. “But it’s there. For both of you”.

Ben reached into his jacket pocket with slow, deliberate movements, no sudden motions, no bravado. Just quiet exhaustion. He pulled out a folded slip of paper and two keys on a plain silver ring.

No words. No pressure. He held them out, and you took them with trembling fingers.

Then he turned. Didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t ask for anything else. Just turned on his heel, like he’d planned to leave the second the keys changed hands. Like that was all he came to do.

But your voice stopped him. Calm. Measured. And devastating.

“It was rape that night”.

He stopped mid-step. Froze.

You could see his shoulders lock up. Could see his spine stiffen like the words had hit him physically. But he didn’t turn. Didn’t speak.

So you kept going, even though your throat was tight, even though it felt like you were pulling the words up from somewhere deep, a place inside you that still bled.

“That night after the club”, you said, softer now, but every syllable sharp as glass, “when I just wanted to dance. And you got mad because I danced with someone else”.

Your voice broke — just for a second — but you pushed through it.

“You raped me”.

Still, he didn’t turn. He stood there like a statue, like if he moved, the whole building might collapse.

You swallowed hard, your hand curling protectively around your belly.

“You hurt me, Ben. Not just physically. You broke things I didn’t even know could break. You made me feel like I didn’t matter. Like my body, my choices, me — none of it belonged to me anymore”.

Silence pressed in so thick it felt like the air had been sucked from the room. And still, he didn’t say a word.

You could see his jaw twitching from behind, the way his fists clenched at his sides. Whatever was happening inside him was violent, not in action, but in reckoning.

The truth had landed. And for once, he had no weapon to fight it.

“I’m still crawling out of what you did”, you whispered. “And I’m doing it for this baby. For myself. Not for you”.

He nodded. Just once. Slow. Mechanical. But still… he didn’t turn around.

He opened the stairwell door with a shaking hand and walked through it like the weight of your words would follow him down every step for the rest of his life. And maybe they would.

You hadn’t wanted to. Not really.

But as the hours passed that night, and the baby kicked against your ribs like a clock counting down, something shifted in you. Something quiet. Steady. Maternal, maybe. This wasn’t about pride anymore. Or fear. Or the broken mess between you and Ben.

This was about the baby.

They deserved better than a moldy apartment with paper-thin walls and no lock that worked right. They deserved a crib that wasn’t cracked and a roof that didn’t leak when it rained. They deserved a chance.

So the next morning, you went.

You packed everything you owned, two battered suitcases and a tote bag that held everything that still mattered. A few clothes, the file of clinic paperwork, a faded ultrasound photo, and the soft, folded baby onesie that made your throat ache every time you touched it.

You took a cab, giving the address Ben had scrawled on that little piece of paper. The driver didn’t say much, and you were grateful for that. You spent the whole ride with your hand resting over your belly, breathing through the tight, uncomfortable pressure that came with every bump in the road.

The house was quiet when you arrived.

It was smaller than you expected. Modest. Set back from the street with a little yard and a porch. But when you unlocked the door and stepped inside, it didn’t feel like something out of a story Ben would’ve told about himself.

It felt… warm. Lived in.

The furniture was simple, neutral tones, clean lines. The couch was soft. The kitchen was stocked, actual food in the fridge, not just protein bars and vodka. There was even a kettle. You stared at it like it was a miracle.

He’d thought of you.

You made your way up the stairs slowly, one hand on the banister, the other gripping your suitcase handle. Your body protested with every step, your back screaming, your belly heavy, your legs swollen, but you pushed through it.

Because you had a goal. The nursery.

The moment you pushed open the door, your breath hitched.

It wasn’t flashy. No Vought branding, no cartoon superheroes. Just soft, pale walls. A crib with clean sheets. A dresser. A glider chair by the window. A mobile hanging above the bed that swayed gently in the draft of the open window.

You stood there for a long moment, hand over your heart.

Then you dropped the bag on the floor, knelt beside it with slow, deliberate care, and pulled out the few baby clothes you’d been able to buy. Folded onesies, little socks, a tiny hat. They looked even smaller now.

You opened the dresser drawer and began to put them away, one by one. Each motion grounding you. Centering you.

You didn’t know if Ben would show up again. You didn’t know what came next. But for now… you were building something.

It was deep into the night, the kind of dark that swallowed everything, even sound. The house was still, the soft hum of the fridge the only thing breaking the silence. Outside, the world was sleeping. And so were you.

Well… almost.

You were drifting in and out, your body too heavy to rest fully, too uncomfortable to stay still. Sleep came in shallow waves now, broken up by sharp twinges and the weight of your swollen belly pressing against your spine. Still, it was quiet. Safe.

What you didn’t know, what you couldn’t know, was that just a few feet away, Ben sat on the porch, swallowed in shadow.

He had been there for hours. Not knocking. Not calling. Just… there. Elbows on his knees, head bowed. He’d smoked half a pack and crushed the empty beer can in his palm without ever drinking it. And the whole time, he listened.

To your breath through the open window. To the creak of floorboards as you turned in bed. To the soft, restless sighs you made in your sleep.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even look at the door. He didn’t deserve to. Not yet.

But he needed to be close.

And then, inside, a sound. A sharp inhale. A rustle of blankets. Then footsteps. Slow. Unsteady.

You’d woken with the pressure in your pelvis so intense it took your breath away. You thought it was just another bathroom trip, just another middle-of-the-night struggle to pee. You pushed yourself upright with a groan, shuffled toward the bathroom, one hand on the wall to steady yourself.

And then, halfway across the hallway… it happened. A sudden warmth flooded down your legs. You froze. Your heart skipped. Then hammered.

You looked down, blinking at the spreading wetness across your thighs and the floor. Your bladder hadn’t failed you. Your water had just broken.

You gasped, your hand flying to your belly as a cramp—a contraction—rolled through your body, so much stronger than anything before. Sharp. Low. Real.

You fumbled toward your phone, panic blooming in your chest as the pressure doubled. You had a plan. A clinic. A bag by the door. You were ready. You were supposed to be ready.

But in that moment, all you could manage was one whispered word: “Shit…”

And downstairs, on the porch, Ben sat up straight. He heard it. He felt it.

Without thinking, without hesitation, he stood and moved toward the door, slow at first, like he wasn’t sure if he should, but then he heard you call out again, voice cracking: “Help—”.

And he was through the door in seconds, his boots hitting the stairs before your name even left his lips.

You were gripping the banister, knuckles white, breath shaky, when you heard the front door slam open.

And then Ben.

You barely got the words out, voice raw from panic and pain. “Up—upstairs, Ben—my water broke. The bag’s by the door, I—”.

“I got it”, he said immediately. His voice was calm. So calm. No panic. No barking commands. No sarcasm. Just steady, focused Ben, a version of him you’d never seen before.

“I’m right here”, he said again, climbing the stairs two at a time. “Just tell me what to do”.

You blinked at him, dazed, bracing against another contraction as he reached you. His hand hovered for a second before gently touching your back.

“Where are your shoes?”, he asked. “Jacket? You need anything else?”.

Another contraction hit, sharp and unforgiving, and you doubled over, moaning low in your throat. Ben moved instantly, one hand bracing your shoulder, the other around your waist to steady you.

“You breathe”, he said, his voice like iron wrapped in velvet. “Don’t think. Just breathe. I’ve got everything else”.

And he did.

In the next five minutes, you watched him move like a machine. He helped you into clean clothes without hesitation or comment. Slid on your shoes. Grabbed the bag and had it in the car in under thirty seconds. He knelt in front of you, laced your coat for you, and helped you to your feet like you were made of glass.

He didn’t touch your belly. Didn’t try to speak to the baby. Didn’t make it about him.

Ben helped you into the seat of his car, adjusted the belt, and climbed in beside you. You looked over at him, eyes wide and wet, and saw it, the tension in his jaw, the effort in his calm, the way his hand trembled just once before he clenched it into a fist on his thigh.

The hospital room was a blur of motion and harsh light, nurses moving like shadows, machines beeping, voices echoing, a dull, suffocating ache building into waves that crashed through your body.

You were soaked in sweat, hospital gown sticking to your skin, your hands clenched into the sheets as another contraction ripped through you like fire. You screamed, not from weakness, but from truth. From years of pain that had never found a voice until now.

Ben was there. Beside the bed. Silent.

“Don’t you dare fucking touch me”, you spat through your teeth, the pain white-hot in your spine.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just nodded.

The next wave hit harder. You bit down a cry, and then it came out like venom.

“All this — all this pain — this is what you left me with!”, you screamed, your voice cracking, raw. “Not just this baby, Ben. Me”.

Ben’s hands were clenched around the metal rail of the hospital bed, knuckles white.

You didn’t stop.

“You broke me. When I said no and you kept going. When I cried and you didn’t stop. You told yourself it was passion, didn’t you?”.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

“You controlled everything — what I wore, who I talked to, when I breathed around you. You said it was love, Ben”. You gasped for air, a sob slipping loose as the pain doubled. “But it was fear. I was afraid of you. Every. Single. Day”.

Ben stood, completely still, eyes locked on yours, not wide with shock. Not hardened with denial. Just… devastated.

“I ran to survive, and you chased me”.

Tears streamed down your face as you choked on the next contraction, and the nurse’s voice tried to cut through — “You’re almost there, one more push, you’re doing great—”.

But you weren’t done.

“You don’t deserve to be here right now”.

Ben’s voice was barely audible when it came. “I know”.

That stopped you, not the pain, not the pushing, but those two words.

He wasn’t defending himself. He wasn’t offering excuses. He was just listening. For once.

Another contraction surged, and you screamed, body arching as the nurse shouted, “That’s it! Baby’s crowning!”.

Ben stepped back. He didn’t try to hold your hand. Didn’t try to be the man in the movie who gets the redemption arc. He just stood by the wall, eyes red, fists clenched, watching the mother of his child fight like hell, not just to give life, but to reclaim her own.

And then, a cry. A sound so piercing, so pure, it shattered everything.

You collapsed back into the pillows, sobbing. Not from pain. From everything else.

The nurse swaddled the tiny newborn with practiced hands, her voice soft as she murmured congratulations you could barely hear. Your head was spinning, your chest still heaving from the pain, but through the fog of exhaustion and adrenaline, one word made it through:

“It’s a boy”.

Your eyes blinked open wider, and your gaze locked on the little bundle in her arms, pink, squirming, loud. So small and yet so impossibly real. A life you had carried through hell and still managed to protect.

You reached out with shaking arms, and she laid him gently against your chest. The second his skin touched yours, everything inside you cracked open and what came pouring out wasn’t pain this time.

It was love. Raw. Terrified. But so deep it hurt.

You cradled him, sobbing quietly, your fingers brushing over his damp dark hair, over the tiny fist pressed to his cheek. “Hi”, you whispered, voice breaking. “Hi, baby…”.

And across the room, Ben didn’t move. He stood exactly where he’d been. Silent. Rigid. But his eyes, his eyes were wet again.

For the second time in your life, you saw Soldier Boy cry.

Not because he wanted to be seen. Not for manipulation. Not to win you back. He was crying because this was something he couldn’t fight, couldn’t control, couldn’t undo.

His son. His blood. Right there in your arms. And for the first time in a very, very long time… Ben looked afraid. Afraid to step forward. Afraid to ruin it. Afraid you’d tell him to leave and never come back.

So he stayed back. Watching. Tears rolling down his face in silence. Hands trembling slightly at his sides. And still, he didn’t say a word. Because this moment wasn’t his to claim. It was yours.

For twenty full minutes, Ben didn’t move.

He stood there like a statue carved from guilt and awe, watching the two of you — you and the baby — as if afraid he’d break something just by breathing too loudly. He didn’t wipe his tears. He didn’t try to speak. He didn’t take a single step forward.

You held your son close, his tiny chest rising and falling against yours, his newborn cries softening into sleepy hiccups. Every now and then, you glanced toward the corner where Ben stood, his silhouette stiff in the pale hospital light. He looked more like a ghost than a man, haunted, hollow, completely out of his depth.

And then the nurse returned, her tone gentle, respectful, but clearly practiced in moments like this. “We’re going to need to clean you up”, she said softly. “And baby needs his first wipe-down too”.

You nodded, still dizzy, still raw.

The nurse hesitated, then glanced toward Ben, then back to you.

“I can have someone from the nursery handle him”, she offered, “or, if you’re okay with it… the father can help. Just for the basics”.

The room went still.

Ben finally blinked, the faintest flicker of breath catching in his throat. But again, he didn’t move. He didn’t assume. He waited. For you.

Your eyes met his. Red. Glassy. Shattered. And you saw it again, not the supe, not the soldier, not the monster who had once wrapped love in violence. You saw the man. The man who, for once, didn’t feel entitled to a damn thing. Not even his own son.

You looked down at your baby, his tiny fist curled against your chest, then back at Ben. You didn’t trust him. Not yet. Maybe never the way you once did.

But this moment… wasn’t about trust. It was about giving your son a world where fear didn’t always win.

So you nodded. Once. Small. Barely perceptible.

The nurse caught it. She smiled gently and looked toward Ben. “Come here, dad”.

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for an hour. And then, slowly, carefully — like he was approaching sacred ground — Ben stepped forward.

He didn’t look at you. Not directly. He kept his eyes on the baby, whose face was just starting to wrinkle into a quiet protest at the cold air. You handed your son to the nurse, and she transferred him gently to a small basin nearby, where warm water and soft towels waited.

Ben hovered beside the nurse, stiff and uncertain.

The nurse guided him gently. “Hold under his neck — that’s it. You can use the cloth now”.

Ben nodded, wordless, his massive hand awkward next to the impossibly tiny frame of his son. He moved slow. Intentional. Reverent. As if he still didn’t believe he had permission.

And as the water touched your son’s skin, and your baby flinched, then calmed, Ben let out a breath you could barely hear.

Like maybe… just maybe…he’d found the first piece of the man he wanted to be.

Evening came slow and soft, like the world knew you needed the quiet. The hospital room dimmed to a warm low glow, and for the first time all day, there was peace. The machines were quiet now. The nurses had come and gone. The adrenaline had burned itself out, and now all that remained was the three of you.

You didn’t throw him out.

You’d thought about it. God, you had. A part of you still ached to. But there was something about the way Ben had moved — quiet, small, careful — that made you hold your fire. Not forgive. Not forget. Just… wait.

He hadn’t said much after helping clean the baby. He hadn’t made any grand speeches or begged for anything. Instead, he sat down at the foot of your bed when the nurse brought your son back, shirt off, chest bare, so the baby could lay skin to skin against him.

And he stayed like that. For hours.

One of his hands cupped the baby’s tiny back, barely more than a feather’s touch. The other rested over his chest, like he was afraid the child might vanish if he wasn’t holding on in every way he could. Your son slept on him like he knew no danger, like the whole world was warm and steady.

And Ben didn’t move. Not once.

You watched him from your pillow, exhausted but awake, your body broken and sore and hollowed out by everything you had endured and given. You didn't speak at first. Neither did he.

But eventually, he did.

His voice was quiet, low, like it wasn’t even meant for you. Just meant to be said. “I don’t have a word for what I did to you".

You didn’t respond. He didn’t expect you to.

“I told myself it was love. That what I was giving was good enough. That being wanted meant being good”.

He looked down at the baby then, not you. Still not you. “But I see him, and I feel like… if anyone ever treated him the way I treated you—”.

His voice cracked. He shut his eyes, swallowed hard. “I’d kill them”.

The silence that followed wasn’t angry. Just real.

“I didn’t come here hoping for a second chance”, he said after a while. “Didn’t expect you to ever look at me again. Hell, I still don’t think you should”.

You shifted slightly, wincing, your body reminding you of all it had been through. And he finally looked at you. Really looked.

“I just wanted him to know me”, he added, quieter now. “And for you to know that I’m not running from what I did. I’ll carry it. Forever”.

You didn’t say yes. You didn’t say no. You didn’t have to. Because he didn’t ask.

You looked at your son, sleeping peacefully on Ben’s chest, the same chest that had once been a battlefield, now quiet, now soft, now trying. And you felt something you couldn’t name.

Not trust. Not forgiveness. But maybe… the beginning of truth. And truth, after everything, was enough for tonight.

So you closed your eyes. Not to shut him out, but to finally rest.

And Ben didn’t move. Because for once, he knew this wasn’t his story to finish.

It was yours.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

Taglist: @blackcherrywhiskey @baby19sthings @suckitands33 @spnfamily-j2 @lyarr24 @deans-baby-momma @reignsboy19 @kawaii-arfid-memes @mekkencspony @lovziy @artemys-ackles @fitxgrld @libby99hb @lovelyvirtualperson @a-lil-pr1ncess @nancymcl @the-last-ry @spndeanwinchesterlvr @hobby27 @themarebarroww @kr804573 @impala67rollingthroughtown @deans-queen @deadlymistletoe @selfdestructionandrhum @utyblyn @winchesterwild78 @jackles010378 @chirazsstuff @foxyjwls007 @smoothdogsgirl @woooonau @whimsyfinny @freyabear @laaadygisbooornex3 @quietgirll75 @perpetualabsurdity @pughsexual @berryblues46 @deanwinchestersgirl8734 @kr804573 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @barnes70stark @roseblue373 @shanimallina87 @ascarriel @deanwinchesters67impala @thebiggerbear @quietgirll75 @barnes70stark @kellyls04 @spxideyver @ralilda @americanvenom13 @ozwriterchick @lmg14

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donutloverxo · 4 days ago

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Tommy Shelby – Arranged Marriage Wedding Night Headcanon (Reaction Scenarios II)

Part 1 / Part 2 of the headcanon. Thank you for interacting, so here’s another scenario.

@lynx8lynx asked “What if she was scared and cried?”

Here we go:

He notices the emerging tears immediately, but they don’t stop him – if anything, they challenge him to put you in your place as his obedient little wife.

At first, he tries to ignore your expression, focused only on his own satisfaction.

When he realizes you won’t stop, his voice drops into that calm, unyielding tone: “A Shelby is not weak. Pull yourself together. It will be good, you’ll see.”

He keeps your chin lifted with rough fingers, forcing your eyes to meet his while you cry.

Then he presses a handkerchief into your hand. “Didn’t your mother teach you a good wife should look pretty while addressing her husband’s needs?”

Every glance, every gesture tells you he thinks you’re being dramatic. “What’s wrong with you? Most women would be glad to finally serve their husbands. The physical part belongs to every marriage. And you’ll get used to it.”

He just continues to invade your personal space. His touch is not gentle, but demanding, unmistakenly meant to make you clear: resistance won’t matter. “You’re mine now. Cry if you need to – it changes nothing.”

There’s no cruelty for cruelty’s sake. Just the unyielding demand of a man used to getting what’s promised.

If you admit you’re afraid of the pain, he’ll emphasize it’s part of the act, something that passes – and that soon enough, you’ll learn to take pleasure in the size of him.

He unbuttons his trousers, and his length springs free. “Does that look like something to be afraid of? I promise you, you’ll look good wrapped around it.”

As he pushes into you, he swallows your cries with a rough, passionate kiss.

He gives you a moment to take his size, to grow used to the weight of him inside you, before gradually building a slow, steady rhythm.

The instant he hears the first soft moan slip from your lips, he murmurs with quiet satisfaction: “There. I knew you’d like it. This will be part of your life from now on.”

You liked that? Get more of this!

***

Taglist

@jbrownta @mythicalcowboyatheart @shelbybabysblog @simpfortoomanymen @moonbeamott @gothic-chinadoll @weaponizedvirtue @ashibairo @darkdaydreamer @kristinecharmm @thehanes22 @lanadeldoll0711

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donutloverxo · 5 days ago

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A Touch That Mends

Pairings: Thomas Shelby x Female Reader

Warnings: period pain, menstrual cramps, emotional vulnerability, crying, romantic intimacy (non-explicit).

Summary: Y/N battles painful cramps and loneliness until Thomas returns home, showing the rare tenderness he saves only for her.

A/N: I need Thomas so bad right now i am literally craving him 😭

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The dim light of the gas lamp flickered across the walls of their bedroom in the sprawling house, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts from the past. It was a cold evening, the kind where the Birmingham fog clung to the windows like a shroud, muffling the distant clamor of the city. Y/N lay curled up in the massive four-poster bed, the silk sheets twisted around her slender frame as if they could somehow shield her from the relentless ache gnawing at her lower abdomen. Her period had hit harder this month than usual, cramps that twisted like a knife in her gut, and emotions that bubbled up unbidden, turning her into a storm of tears and frustration.

She'd tried everything to distract herself: a hot water bottle pressed against her belly, a cup of tea gone cold on the nightstand, even flipping through an old novel Polly had lent her. But nothing helped. Thomas was out on business, as he so often was these days, dealing with the races, or the distilleries, or God knows what else that kept the Shelby empire running. He'd kissed her forehead that morning before leaving, his blue eyes sharp and unreadable as always, promising he'd be back late. "Don't wait up, love," he'd said in that low, gravelly voice of his, the one that still sent shivers down her spine after all these years.

But waiting was all she could do. What she craved most was him, his presence, his strength, those large, calloused hands that could make the world feel smaller, safer. She imagined them now, warm and steady on her aching stomach, easing the pain like nothing else could. Her hand drifted to her waist, thin and fragile under her nightgown, but it wasn't the same. A wave of loneliness washed over her, and that's when the stupid thing happened. She glanced at the clock on the mantel—half past nine—and realized he'd forgotten to wind it that morning. It had stopped at noon. Such a small oversight, but in her heightened state, it felt like a betrayal. Tears pricked her eyes, hot and insistent. He doesn't even care enough to keep the bloody clock running, she thought irrationally, the sobs building in her chest until they spilled over. She buried her face in the pillow, muffling the sound, her body shaking with the force of it.

The front door creaked open downstairs, followed by the familiar thud of boots on the wooden floor: Thomas, home earlier than expected. His footsteps were deliberate, unhurried, as he climbed the stairs, pausing briefly outside the door as if sensing the turmoil within. He pushed it open, his silhouette filling the frame, coat still on, cap in hand. The faint scent of cigarette smoke and whiskey clung to him, remnants of whatever meeting he'd cut short.

"Y/N?" His voice was calm, laced with that Birmingham drawl, but there was a note of concern beneath the steel. He hung his coat on the hook, his eyes, those piercing blue eyes, scanning the room before settling on her huddled form. "You alright sweetheart?"

She didn't look up, wiping her eyes furiously with the back of her hand, her voice muffled against the pillow. "Nothing. Go away, Tommy."

He stepped closer, the floorboards groaning under his weight. He lit a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, the match flaring briefly before he shook it out. "Nothing, eh? Doesn't sound like nothing." He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under him, and reached out to touch her shoulder. She shrugged him off, sitting up abruptly, her dark hair tousled, cheeks flushed and tear-streaked.

"It's nothing, I said!" Her words came out sharper than intended, fueled by the irrational anger bubbling inside her. "You're never here anyway, are you? Always out there with your bloody business, your meetings, your… whatever it is you do that keeps you away from me. Do you even love me anymore, Tommy? Or am I just another thing on your list, like the horses or the guns?"

Thomas exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his expression unchanging, but his eyes softened just a fraction: the way they did only for her, or for Charlie when the boy was upset. He'd seen this before, the monthly tide that pulled her under, making her words cut like razors even when she didn't mean them. The cramps, the moods, he'd learned to read the signs early in their marriage, back when she'd first confided in him during one of those rare quiet nights by the fire. He didn't flinch at her accusations; he knew they weren't the truth, just the pain talking.

"Love," he said quietly, stubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray on the nightstand. His voice was steady, like the anchor he always was. "You know that's not true. Come on, now. Tell me what's really got you like this."

She crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at him through fresh tears, but her resolve was cracking. "You don't care. If you did, you'd be here more. Instead, I'm alone in this big empty house, hurting, and you… you just waltz in like nothing's wrong."

Thomas sighed, a soft, almost imperceptible sound, and removed his waistcoat, folding it neatly over the chair. He kicked off his boots, the leather thudding softly to the floor, and slid into bed beside her without another word. The bed was warm from her body, and he could feel the tension radiating off her like heat from a forge. Gently, he pulled her closer, his arm wrapping around her shoulders. She resisted at first, stiff as a board, but he didn't push, just held her there, his presence a quiet force.

"Alright, alright," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "I'm here now, aren't I? Business can wait. It always can, for you." His free hand moved slowly, deliberately, slipping under the hem of her nightgown to rest on her lower abdomen. His palm was broad and warm, calloused from years of hard living, fists clenched in fights, reins gripped on horses, triggers pulled in the dark, but in this moment, it was impossibly gentle. Y/N was slender, her waist narrow enough that his fingers nearly spanned from hip to hip, his thumb brushing the curve of her belly button as he pressed lightly, the heat seeping through her skin like a balm.

The instant his touch connected, a flutter erupted in her stomach, not the cramps, but something softer, like butterflies waking from sleep. His skin against hers was electric, grounding her in a way nothing else could. He began to stroke slowly, his thumb tracing lazy circles over her lower abdomen, easing the tight knots of pain with each pass. His other fingers splayed out, covering her waist, his hand so large it seemed made for this, for holding her fragile form together when the world felt like it was falling apart.

"Shh, love," he whispered, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. "I've got you. Just breathe with me, eh? In… and out." He demonstrated, his chest rising and falling steadily against her back. "You're not alone. Never have been. This business… it's what keeps us safe, keeps the wolves from the door. But you—you're the reason I come back every night. The only reason."

She sniffled, her body starting to relax into his, the anger melting away under the warmth of his hand. "It hurts so much this time, Tommy. And I… I miss you when you're gone. Feels like you're slipping away."

His thumb paused for a moment, then resumed its gentle rhythm, pressing a bit firmer where he knew the cramps were worst, from the times she'd shown him, guiding his hand herself. "I know it does. I see it in your eyes every month, the way you curl up like this. But I'm not slipping anywhere. You're my wife, Y/N. My anchor in this mad world. Without you, I'd be lost in the trenches again, hearing the shells in my head." He kissed the top of her head, his lips lingering. "Tell me what you need. More pressure here?" He adjusted his hand slightly, his fingers kneading softly along her waist, the warmth spreading like whiskey through her veins.

A small sigh escaped her, the butterflies intensifying as his touch sent tingles up her spine. "Just… stay like this. Your hands… they're perfect. Make it better."

He chuckled softly, a rare sound that was just for her, deep and warm, without the edge he showed the world. "Perfect, eh?" He didn't move them, instead pulling her closer, his body curving around hers like a shield. "You remember that time in London, after the races? You were like this then, too. I canceled the whole meeting with Solomons just to sit with you in that hotel room." He tapped his fingers lightly for emphasis. "Didn't regret it for a second."

She turned her face toward him, her tears drying as she met his gaze. "You did that for me?"

"Course I did." His eyes held hers, unflinching, the intensity there softened by affection. "I'd do it again. Burn the whole empire down if it meant easing this for you. Now, close your eyes, love. Let me take care of it."

As the minutes stretched, his hand continued its soothing work, stroking, pressing, warming, while he murmured reassurances in that measured tone, stories of their early days to distract her: the first time he'd seen her across the Garrison, how she'd stood up to him when no one else would, the quiet wedding in the chapel with just the family. Her breathing evened out, the cramps dulling to a manageable throb, the emotional storm fading into calm. In his arms, with his big, warm hand anchoring her, she felt small but cherished, the weight of the world lifting just enough to let her rest.

By the time the clock downstairs struck ten, wound now by his earlier handiwork, the room was quiet, save for their shared breaths. Thomas Shelby, the man who commanded fear in the streets of Birmingham, held his wife with a tenderness few ever saw, proving once more that beneath the razor blades and the ruthlessness, there was a heart that beat fiercely for her.

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