#cyril sharps

[ljones41]

"OUR MUTUAL FRIEND" (1998) - Second Review

"OUR MUTUAL FRIEND" (1998) Second Review

Several years ago, I had written a review of "OUR MUTUAL FRIEND", the BBC's 1998 adaptation of Charles Dickens' 1865 novel. Needless to say, my opinion of it proved to be mixed. But after numerous re-watches of the four-part miniseries, I came to the conclusion that my views had undergone a tremendous change . . . as the following new review will convey.

During my recent re-watch of "OUR MUTUAL FRIEND", I continued to find it a complicated tale. It featured at least four subplots (and not three, as I had originally assumed). And they all stemmed from the alleged death of John Harmon, the estranged heir to a fortune created by his father, a former collector from London's rubbish. "OUR MUTUAL FRIEND" began with a solicitor named Mortimer Lightwood informing the circumstances on the death of his late client and the details of Mr. Harmon Sr.'s will to his aunt and a group of listeners at a London society party. According to Lightwood, Mr. Harmon made his fortune from London's rubbish. The terms of his will stipulated that his fortune should go to John, returning to Britain after years spent abroad. The will allowed John to inherit his father's money on the condition that he marry a woman he has never met, Miss Bella Wilfer. However, Lightwood received news that John Harmon's body had been found in the Thames River. He and his close friend, Eugene Wrayburn, head toward the river to identify the body. And it was this sequence that led to the following subplots:

*Mr. Harmon's employees, Nicodemus and Henrietta Boffin inherit the Harmon fortune and take Bella Wilfer on as a ward/companion to compensate for her loss, following John Harmon's "death".

*John Harmon fakes his death and assumes the identity of John Rokesmith, the Boffins' social secretary, in order to ascertain Bella Wilfer's character.

*Gaffer Hexam, the waterman and scavenger who found Harmon's "body", ends being accused of murdering "Harmon" by Hexam's duplicitous former partner, Roger "Rogue" Riderhood.

*While accompanying his friend, Mortimer Lightwood, to identify Harmon's body, Eugene Wrayburn meets and falls in love with Hexam's daughter, Lizzie.

*Bradley Headstone, the schoolmaster of Charley Hexam, Lizzie's younger brother, develops a romantic, yet violent obsession with Lizzie and a deep hatred of Eugene.

*Mr. Boffin hires a ballad-seller with a wooden leg named Silas Wegg to read for him. When he finds Harmon's will in one of the Harmon dust piles, Wegg schemes with a taxidermist named Mr. Venus to blackmail the newly rich dustman.

*Mr. and Mrs. Lammle, a society couple who had married each other for money and discovered that neither had any, plot to swindle Mr. Boffin of his money.

I have experienced a handful of movies, novels and television shows in which disparate subplots eventually form into one main narrative. A major example of this was the 2002 novel and its 2008 movie adaptation, "MIRACLE AT ST. ANNA". But I cannot recall any form of fiction in which a particular narrative divides into a series of subplots from one main action or character. When I first saw "OUR MUTUAL FRIEND", I found this narrative device not only original, but rather disconcerting.

The problem I initially had with "OUR MUTUAL FRIEND" was that I only enjoyed only one major subplot - the bizarre "love triangle" between Eugene Wrayburn, Lizzie Hexam and Bradley Headstone. I cannot deny that I found it very interesting and very tense. Yet another re-watch of the miniseries made me aware of the mistakes I had made in judgment. One, my views of the miniseries' other subplots turned out to be more interesting than I had initially assumed. It finally occurred to me how wealth, greed and/or class played major roles in Dickens' story. The Harmon fortune had attracted greedy types like Silas Wegg and the Lammles. Even Bella Wilfer was willing to use the Boffins to find a wealthy husband within London's high society. Gaffar Hexam's discovery of the fake John Harmon's body and the reward he had received led his greedy and jealous former partner to accuse him of murder.

John's deception also exposed a good deal of class bigotry in this tale. Upper-class types like Lady Tippins seemed appalled at the idea of lower-class citizens like the Boffins inheriting a large fortune. She seemed to harbor this attitude that attorney Mortimer Lightwood should automatically take control of the Harmon fortune. As the Boffins' protégé, Bella initially regarded John as beneath her, due to his position as the Boffins' social secretary, John Rokesmith. Class bigotry practically reeked throughout the love triangle between Lizzie, Eugene and Bradley. Despite being in love with Lizzie, the upper-class Eugene seemed more wiling to view her as a potential mistress, instead of a wife. Bradley Headstone, who came from the same class as Lizzie, seemed more than willing to marry her. Yet, he also regarded her as being socially beneath him, due to her lack of education. He seemed to believe Lizzie should be grateful to marry him and reacted with surprise when she rejected his offer. And Eugene not only regarded Bradley as a romantic rival, but also as a man who was socially beneath him. The miniseries ended with Mortimer Lightwood attending a society party aboard a River Thames steamer. He and a shy man named Mr. Tremlow defended a particular marriage that crossed class lines, despite the other partygoers' disapproval and contempt. This ending is one of the main reasons I truly enjoy this adaptation of Dickens' novel. I found it emotionally satisfying, yet very poignant.

Sandy Welch made some changes in Dickens' narrative. Instead of pursuing heiress Georgiana Podsnap and attempting to trap her into marriage with fortune hunter Fascinating Fledgby, Alfred and Sophia Lammles set their sights on the Boffins' money. Welch's screenplay had excluded Fledgby altogether, along with his moneylending business. These changes made sense to me, considering the Lammles' arc with Fledgby and Miss Podsnap had nothing to do with John Harmon or his fortune. The Lammles met a nameless heiress (a stand-in for Georgiana Podsnap?) at a rail station near the end, as they boarded a train for Dover and the English Channel. Due to Welch's erasure of the Fledgby character, she reduced Mr. Riah's character as a close friend of both Lizzie and her friend, dollmaker Jenny Wren. Mr. Riah only played a role by helping Lizzie find a job outside of London.

It seemed a pity that Welch had eliminated the Fledgby character and his arc with Mr. Riah. It would have given the miniseries a peek into Victorian anti-Semitism, something the novel managed to achieve on a small scale. But as I had pointed out - Fledgby and Mr. Riah's arc had no connection to John Harmon, his fortune and his deception. To understand what I am trying to say, let me clarify. All of the other arcs in "OUR MUTUAL FRIEND" either began with Mr. Harmon Sr.'s will or with John Harmon's actions following his arrival in London. The former's will led John to create and participate in his deception in order to judge Bella. If Mr. Harmon had not made that condition for John to marry Bella in order to inherit his fortune, chances are John would have never conceived his deception. He would have never been attacked by the man he had recruited to impersonate him. Hexam would have never found the impersonator's body and found himself falsely accused of murder by his former partner.

Even if Mr. Harmon's will had not changed, John could have simply adhered to and inherit his father's fortune, leading to a possible loveless marriage to Bella. With no body to find, Mortimer and especially Eugene would have never met Lizzie. As Charly Hexam's tutor, Bradley Headstone probably would have met Lizzie and fallen in love with her anyway. But I believe she still would have rejected him. It is possible the Lammles would have focused their attention on John. But I suspect they would have very little success in befriending him. If John had immediately inherited his father's fortune, the Boffins would have inherited one of the Harmons' dust piles. Does this mean Mr. Boffin would have hired Wegg as his reader anyway? I wonder.

I cannot deny that "OUR MUTUAL FRIEND" did such an excellent job in exploring the effects of wealth, greed and class in Victorian London. All or most of the subplots seemed to flow from John Harmon and his decision to fake his death. Like the River Thames that flows through southern England and London. Is it any wonder that Dickens had decided to set his novel along the river - even outside of London? The story began with Lizzie and and her father scavenging along the Thames and ended on that lovely moment when both Mortimer and a shy man named Mr. Tremlow defended a recent marriage that crossed class lines at a society party aboard a steamer on the river.

As for the production values for "OUR MUTUAL FRIEND", I still remain impressed as ever. David Odd's cinematography still strikes me as colorful and epic. I am not surprised that he had received a BAFTA Award nomination for his work. Malcolm Thornton won a BAFTA Award for the miniseries' excellent production designs. His recreation of mid-19th century London and the River Thames struck me as colorful, well-detailed and just outstanding. Mike O'Neil had earned a BAFTA nomination for his costume designs. A part of me wish he had won. I still find them beautiful and a near reflection of Britain in the 1860s, as shown in the images below:

My opinion of "OUR MUTUAL FRIEND" may have improved over the years, but I still have a few issues with it. One of those issues remained John Harmon's deception regarding his identity - namely how it affected Bella Wilfer. I still find it problematic that John did not reveal his true identity to her, until a few months after their wedding. And I found Bella's lack of hostility toward his revelation implausible. Although I found Silas Wegg's attempt to blackmail Mr. Boffin interesting, I found his constant complaints about his target and plotting with Mr. Venus rather irritating after two episodes or so.

The performances featured in the 1998 miniseries more than satisfied me. I found Harmon's gradual love for Bella very interesting to watch, thanks to Steven Mackintosh's subtle performance. And Anna Friel did a great job in developing Bella Wilfur from a materialistic and ambitious young woman, to one for whom love and morality meant more to her than material wealth. "OUR MUTUAL FRIEND" also featured excellent performances from Peter Vaughn and Pam Ferris as the Boffins, Kenneth Cranham as Silas Wegg, Margaret Tyzack as the imperious Tippins, and Dominic Mafham as Mortimer Lightwood. The miniseries also featured first-rate supporting performances from the likes of David Schofield as the no-nonsense Gaffer Hexam, Anthony Calf and Doon Mackichan as the Lammles, Paul Bailey as Charley Hexam, Peter Wight as Mr. Wilfer, Cyril Sharps as the kindly Mr. Riah, Linda Bassett as pub owner Abby Potterson, Edna Doré as the kindly, yet proud Betty Higden; and Robert Lang as the reserved and shy Mr. Tremlow, whom I believe provided one of the best moments in the series.

But there seemed to be performances that I believe stood above the others. Timothy Spall gave one of his more subtle performances as the enigmatic taxidermist Mr. Venus, who found himself drawn reluctantly in Wegg's scheming. Some have complained that Katy Murphy had been too old, as a thirty-something actress, to portray dollmaker Jenny Wren, a character in her late teen or early 20s. But the other two actresses I have seen portray Jenny were either 30 or older, so I do not understand the complaint. And Murphy did such an excellent job in conveying Jenny's emotional, yet blunt personality. I thought David Bradley did a superb job in his portrayal of the sly, yet malevolent waterman, Rogue Riderhood. Unlike other actors in the role, he did not succumb to occasional histrionics.

In my previous review of "OUR MUTUAL FRIEND", I had accused David Morrissey of engaging in histrionics in his portrayal of the violently jealous headmaster, Bradley Headstone. I had been wrong. Morrissey only did it once in a scene that featured Lizzie Hexam's rejection of his marriage proposal. Otherwise, I thought the actor gave a brilliant performance. One would think portraying the reserved Lizzie Hexam would be a walk in the park for any actress. Yet, I believe Keeley Hawes took the portrayal to another level by not only conveying Lizzie's dislike of Headstone, and her wariness toward Eugene Wrayburn's feelings for her; but also her streak of insecurity that led her to doubt her worthiness for someone like Eugene. I had earlier accuse the actress of being unable of to express Lizzie's true feelings for Eugene until the last episode. But I forgot that Hawes did convey moments of attraction toward Eugene. And in portraying a reserved character like Lizzie, she did an effective job of conveying the character's penchant for keeping such feelings closely to her chest. I have said this before and I will say it again - I believe Paul McGann gave the best performance in "OUR MUTUAL FRIEND", for his portrayal of the ambiguous Eugene Wrayburn. If one closely observe the character, he is not exactly a nice man. At least most of the time. McGann did a beautiful job in his portrayal of the indolent, yet patronizing attorney; conveying both the negative and surprisingly, the character's positive traits. And thanks to McGann's performance, one could see Eugene's struggle between his love for Lizzie and his wariness over her class.

Do I still believe "OUR MUTUAL FRIEND" was flawed? Well . . . I point out a few. As I had stated in my previous review, the 1864-65 novel is not considered among Charles Dickens' best works. But my opinion of the 1998 adaptation certainly has improved a great deal over the years. Screenwriter Sandy Welch and director Julian Farino did excellent jobs in translating Dickens' tale to the television screen. And the production not only featured first-rate work from the crew, but also superb performances from an excellent cast led by Steven Mackintosh. If I must be honest, not only has my opinion of "OUR MUTUAL FRIEND" improved over the years, I now consider it one of the best adaptations of any of Dickens' works.

[forensicated]

Smiffina Episodes - Episode 152

Eva is deep in shock after her suspect has fallen unconcious mid arrest. Smithy being the first officer on the scene has given the kid CPR before the ambulance arrives. Eva and the kid, Brad, have history and he has openly be racist to her in the station.

At the station when pressed by Adam and Jack, Smithy admits he heard Eva say something to Brad that sounded like a threat - 'This time you'll get what you deserve'. CID gather around Eva and promise to support her, but Smithy can barely meet her gaze, knowing what he's told the Super and DCI.

In the Sgt's office, Gina arrives to gee Smithy up for a meeting and he confesses what he heard Eva say. Gina tries to reassure him that it'll be ok, but Smithy confesses that he thinks the Super would rather he'd kept quiet. On cue, Adam appears in the doorway. He smiles as he says Gina's name - then his face falls a foot when he looks at Smithy.

He wants to go through Smithy's statement again "Dot a few I's, cross a few t's." He questions Smithy and asks again if he's certain that he heard clearly what Eva said. "I know what I heard." "Then we all know where we stand."

Smithy takes Eva aside later and tells her that he heard what she said. "Yeah, but they were just words... they didn't mean anything!" Smithy tells her he didn't tell Adam about the earlier altercation in the station where Brad gave her racist abuse and she called him a loser with no future. He's concerned that Adam has put a black mark against his name. "I'm sorry, should that be a mark of colour?"

Eva takes it to Adam and asks if he was trying to put pressure on Smithy to make out that he has an agenda. Adam insists he was just making sure Smithy could back up what he said - and that if Smithy has a problem he should take it up with him. However, later in conversation with Gina, Adam makes it clear that he is aware of what happened with Smithy and Gary McCann in A Gathering Storm where McCann was attacked by a racist gang and Smithy didn't answer his radio. "A black officer was attacked and Sgt Smith was found lacking!" They kindly forget that Smithy was completely cleared by an undercover officer who had infiltrated the racist gang who testified that Smithy's radio wasn't working like he'd said it wasn't at the time (He'd tried to call for an ambulance for an injured woman and back up to arrest two suspects and his radio was in a black spot) so I'm surprised that it was on his permanent record! In private with Gina, Adam makes it clear that yes, he does think that Smithy has his prejudices. Gina insists that that isn't Smithy and that he doesn't think like that.

[cinnxmxngxrl]

“Family”

Alfie Solomons x Shelby!Reader

Part seven and final of Camden’s sin

Check Alfie’s Masterlist here to read the previous parts

Summary: Just as tensions explode between your brother Tommy and the man you love, Alfie, the family begins to grow—you’re carrying Alfie’s child, and that could shift everything forever.

WC: 12k

Warnings/Tags: smut, minor DNI, dirty talk, unprotected piv, creampie, oral (f!receiving), breeding/pregnancy kink

It had been brewing for days—the suspicion curling low in your belly like the smoke from one of Alfie’s cigars. Your breasts were tender, your appetite unpredictable, and every morning the nausea hit you with the precision of a ticking clock. More than once, you’d caught yourself crying for no reason at all—over a burnt piece of toast, or the way Cyril tilted his head at you. It wasn’t just your body changing; it was the weight of what those changes meant, pulling you deeper into something both terrifying and wonderful. You knew your body. And you knew what this meant.

You’d made up your mind. Tonight. You would tell him tonight.

The night air seeped through the cracked window, heavy with the salt of the Thames and the faint tang of coal smoke. London’s quiet was always unnerving, more a prelude to chaos than peace. You lay curled in Alfie’s bed—your bed now, too—draped in one of his shirts that smelled of his cologne, the fabric soft and worn. Your legs were bare, tucked close to your chest. One hand rested lightly over your stomach, fingertips brushing against the still-flat skin. It didn’t feel different yet, but you knew it was. You could feel it. It was strange, knowing that something so monumental could exist without anyone noticing. Not even him.

The moonlight pooled on the bedspread, casting everything in soft silver. You rehearsed the words again in your mind, the ones you’d been repeating all day, the ones you’d whispered to Cyril when no one else was around. You’d burned toast pacing the kitchen, told the dog your secret like it was between you and God. It was easier to say in the stillness, without his intense eyes watching you, waiting for answers you weren’t sure how to give.

The sound of the front door slamming yanked you from your thoughts.

It wasn’t the usual slam. This one was different. Violent. Like a warning shot, rattling the walls and sending a stack of books tumbling from the desk. Cyril barked sharply, but then—silence. A tense, ominous silence. Your heart leapt into your throat. You sat upright, clutching the edge of the blanket as the sound of heavy footsteps began pacing below. Circling. Uneven. Like whoever they belonged to was trying not to break something.

Or someone.

The bedroom door flew open.

Alfie filled the doorway like a storm. His coat hung askew, as if it had been half-ripped off in a fit of rage. His hair was wild, and his eyes burned with a fury that made the air feel thinner. His fists were clenched, veins bulging against his skin, and his jaw worked furiously as though holding back words that might burn worse than fire. He looked like a man who had lost everything and couldn’t stop himself from taking it back.

“Alfie?” you whispered, your voice small, trembling. “What’s happened?”

He didn’t answer. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at you like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth. But his breathing was sharp, his chest rising and falling in jagged bursts, and the silence between you felt like it might shatter any second. The way he looked at you—raw, broken, furious—made your skin prickle.

“Warehouse,” he muttered at last, voice gravel-thick and slurred at the edges. “East End, yeah? Big bastard—loaded with the good shit. You know the one I’m talkin’ about?”

You nodded, your pulse thudding painfully in your ears.

“Gone,” he snapped. His voice cracked like a whip, harsh and unrelenting. “Set alight. Went up like a fuckin’ lantern.” He stepped further into the room, his shadow stretching long against the walls. “You know how I found out?” His voice rose, dangerous and biting. “Your dear brother Tommy. Left me a fuckin’ note, he did. Real polite, real proper. Like he was sendin’ condolences after a bloody funeral.”

Your breath hitched.

“Three of my men,” he hissed, shaking his head. “Trapped inside. They didn’t stand a fuckin’ chance. Burned to ash.” He made a harsh sound in the back of his throat, something halfway between a laugh and a growl. “And all my stock? Years’ worth of work? Gone. Just gone.”

You crossed the room carefully, the floor creaking beneath your steps. “Alfie—”

“Don’t,” he barked, his voice breaking. The word was sharp, almost a plea. “Don’t you start with that look. You didn’t see it. You weren’t there pickin’ teeth out of rubble, tryin’ to tell what bit used to be a man, smellin’ a man’s skin burnin’ off his back like meat on a spit. He’s started a fuckin’ war.”

He grabbed a bottle from the sideboard, yanking the cork out with his teeth before downing a mouthful. The burn made him wince, but he didn’t stop. You didn’t move to stop him either. Not yet. His boots left muddy prints on the rug, soot smudging the floorboards. You didn’t care. You only cared about the fire in his chest, threatening to consume him whole.

He paced like a caged animal, one hand dragging through his hair. “I’m going to return the favor.”

“No,” you said firmly, stepping in front of him. “No, you’re not.”

He stopped short, his eyes narrowing. “The fuck I’m not.”

You reached for him, your fingers brushing his wrist. His pulse was wild beneath your touch, like a drumbeat out of rhythm. “Alfie,” you murmured, softer now. “Please.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, with a shuddering breath, he let you pull the bottle from his hands. You set it down on the sideboard, ignoring the way his shoulders shook beneath your palms.

Then you held him.

And he broke.

Not fully. Not loudly. But enough. His arms came around you, crushing you to him like you were the only thing keeping him upright. His breath was fast and uneven at your neck. You felt the rage, the grief, the vengeful weight of his anger cracking open in his chest. It wasn’t weakness; it was survival. A moment to breathe before the storm took him again.

“You don’t walk away from this kind of thing,” he said hoarsely, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Not now. He set fire to my house, love. And I ain’t lettin’ that go unanswered.”

“Alfie,” you said, your voice trembling. “I need to tell you something.”

His hand came up to the back of your neck, rough and shaking. He looked down at you, his eyes searching. “What is it?”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding. “I’m pregnant.”

He stilled completely.

For a full five seconds, he didn’t blink. His chest rose once, then again, slower this time. You could see it—the exact moment the words sank in, the rage bleeding out of his eyes and being replaced by something raw and electric.

“…Come again, yeah?” he rasped, blinking slow, like he couldn’t quite believe he’d heard you right. “Say that again for me, love. Nice and slow.”

You stepped closer, your voice steadier now. “I said I’m pregnant. You put a baby in me, Alfie.”

It hit him like a punch to the gut, all the anger from moments before completely forgotten. He staggered back a step, his mouth opening and closing as if he were trying to form words but couldn’t. Then, finally, a sound burst out of him—a half-growl, half-laugh that was so full of pride it sent a shiver down your spine.

His breath caught, voice going hoarse as the truth hit him like a punch.

“You—you’re tellin’ me you’re serious, yeah? That you got my fuckin’ kid in you?” His eyes searched yours, wild and glassy with disbelief. “Christ.”

You nodded, breathless from the force of him. “Yeah.”

His face lit up with something wild and primal. His mouth fell open—then came the laugh. Low and dark and utterly deranged with pride. It rumbled up from his chest like something that didn’t belong to the man but to the animal that lived just under his skin. He sank to his knees in front of you like you were royalty and pressed his face against your belly.

He let out a low, reverent groan, mouth dragging down your shirt, brushing skin, lips moving like he was whispering prayers straight into your belly.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, rough and raw. “Look at you, yeah? That’s mine, innit. My baby, right there. Growin’ in your sweet little belly like it belongs. Fuckin’ Proof, that is. Proof you’re mine.”

You carded your fingers through his wild curls, your breath hitching when he looked up at you with those blazing, filthy eyes.

There was hunger there, yes—but something else too. Worship. Terror. A kind of mad devotion that made your knees weak.

“Alfie…”

“I fuckin’ knew it,” he growled, voice turning darker, hungrier, as he pushed the shirt off you, kissing up your torso like a starving man. “Knew you’d keep it, love. Knew your little body’d take me—take all of me—like it was made for it.”

His mouth was everywhere, devouring the shape of you as if he could taste the future through your skin. Every kiss was a promise, every breath a vow.

He stood up and scooped you into his arms before you could argue. Carried you like a ragdoll to the bed, laying you down gently, like you were porcelain.

But there was nothing delicate in the way his eyes drank you in—dark, dilated, searing through layers of flesh and bone straight to your soul.

“You alright, yeah?” he asked roughly, like he didn’t trust his own voice. “Nothin’ hurtin’? ‘Cause I swear on every drop of blood in me—I’ll murder every fuckin’ doctor if they so much as look at you wrong. You’re royalty now, yeah? And they better treat you like it.”

His thumb stroked your cheekbone, trembling faintly—he was trying to control himself, to not fall apart entirely. You could see it in the way his jaw clenched, the way his lips parted like he couldn’t find enough air.

Your legs wrapped around his hips without thinking, dragging him in, anchoring him there like gravity had shifted just for you. You felt his cock already straining in his trousers, thick, hot, twitching with need, pressed right up against your soaked core like it knew exactly where it belonged.

The heat between you flared like a match to gasoline—raw, immediate, inevitable, a spark turned inferno as your soaked cunt clenched around nothing, already aching for him.

“Alfie—”

His tone shifted fast, low and guttural now, thick with want. “Nah. Nah, don’t stop me now, darlin’. Can’t. Not after what you just said. Can’t walk away from that. You don’t say shit like that to a man like me unless you want him inside you again immediately.”

He lowered his body onto yours, forehead against yours, his hips grinding slow, deliberate, right against your throbbing clit through the fabric.

The friction was maddening, even through the layers—like fire dragging against silk. You felt every ridge, every pulse of him—thick and leaking, trapped behind his clothes—your body already weeping, pussy so slick you could feel the mess soaking through your knickers and into his trousers.

“Fuckin’ bred you,” he whispered, voice ragged. “Put my seed so deep you’re still carryin’ it. Jesus Christ. Do you have any idea what that does to me? What that fuckin’ means to me?”

Your hips bucked up. “Tell me.”

His grin was pure sin. “Makes me wanna do it again. Right fuckin’ now. Deeper. Slower. Meaner. Make you drip for a week.”

He undid his trousers, the sound of his belt unbuckling sharp in the haze, shoved your knickers aside, and dragged the head of his cock through your wet folds—slow, reverent, almost shaking.

Your slick coated him instantly, strings of it clinging to his cock as he slid it through your folds, nudging your swollen clit with every pass.

His breath hitched like it hurt to touch you this way—like the sweetness of it was too much for his rough, bloodied world.

“Gonna fuck you,” he growled, “soft and deep, the way you like it, so it settles in even more. Gonna make sure you never forget who did this to you. Who got you like this.”

He slid inside you slow, with a deep, guttural groan—like it physically hurt him to go at anything less than brutal. But he did it. Because your body was different now. Precious now. His now.

And his rough hands moved with almost reverence over your hips, gripping you like you were a sacred thing as he pushed all the way in.

The stretch made your breath leave in a rush, your hands clutching at his back like lifelines. You could feel the thickness of him—every vein, every inch— the deliberate press of him splitting you open all over again, dragging against the swollen walls of your cunt like he wanted to leave a mark on your insides.

“There she is,” he breathed. “Sweet little thing all full of me—fuckin’ hell. You feel different, d’you know that? Already. Swear I can fuckin’ feel the change… can feel my baby inside you.”

You gasped as he bottomed out, thick and pulsing, so deep you swore you could feel him in your belly.

His slow rolls of his hips ground perfectly against the spot that made your spine light up, made your thighs tremble, your belly tighten.

Pleasure sparked up your spine like electricity. Your belly tightened, nerves blazing, the whole world narrowed down to the rhythm of his body inside yours.

The drag of his cock was sweet torment, every inch leaving you raw and wanting.

“You like that, yeah?” he murmured, watching your face. “Still takin’ me so sweet after I’ve already knocked you up. Jesus Christ, love… look at you. Look how you grip me—like your cunt knows I belong here. Like it’s never lettin’ me out.”

The words alone made your walls flutter around him, tight and wet and greedy.

Shame and heat flooded your chest, your whole body reacting to him like it was built for this. He did belong there. You didn’t want to imagine what it felt like not to have him inside you.

“It’s too much, fuck, but I don’t wanna stop—” you sobbed, overwhelmed by the pleasure. “Your cock feels so fucking good. So right.”

He dipped down, kissed your neck, your cheek, your mouth—then nuzzled your jaw as he thrust again, slow and deep. His cock dragged along every trembling inch inside you, painfully slow, like he was carving the shape of himself into your memory. Like he wanted to live there.

He grunted against your neck, hips rocking forward again, thick length pushing deeper than you thought possible. Every thrust was like a heartbeat—anchoring you, binding you, melting you into the sheets beneath.

“I’m gonna keep you like this,” he muttered, voice shaking with how fucking gone he was. “Gonna keep you barefoot and full of my fuckin’ baby, over and over. Yeah? One’s not enough. Wanna see you waddling, belly round as a moon, tits full of milk, so every bastard in Camden knows who ruined you.”

Your breath caught—because the heat in your belly said yes. Fuck yes. His filthy obsession was infectious, and it made your thighs tremble.

You could see it now—feel it: his hand on your belly, his cock buried deep, grinding slow and heavy into your overstretched cunt while his teeth dragged over your throat, his beard scraping your skin.

“Alfie… Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop. Just keep fucking me like this.” You breathed, voice thick with lust and something deeper.

“I’ll fuck you in the bakery,” he growled, voice going deeper. “On the rum barrels. On the fuckin’ counter. I’ll bend you over with flour still on your tits and cum inside you ‘til you’re drippin’ in front of everyone. I’ll take you everywhere, till the whole fuckin’ city smells of your cunt and my cum. I’ll be feedin’ you pastries while you ride my cock—big belly in my face—fuckin’ dream come true, that is.”

You clenched around him, moaning shamelessly. Your body sang for him, thrummed with need, already teetering on the edge. Your pussy pulsed around him like it was trying to milk him already.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” he grinned against your throat. “Yeah, you do. ‘Course you fuckin’ do. You’re mine. Mine to fill, mine to breed, mine to ruin.”

He braced one hand under your thigh, dragged it up high around his waist, angling his hips just right—and that was it.

Your nails raked down his back, dragging angry red lines as you came, gasping, your whole body locking up around his cock.

“Yes, yes, fuck—right there, Alfie, that’s it, gonna cum—” you cried, hips chasing every deep grind of his.

The orgasm tore through you like a storm, blinding and wet and violent. Your back bowed off the bed, mouth open in a silent cry, slick pouring down your thighs as your cunt spasmed around him, milking every inch.

Alfie’s face twisted like he was in pain. “Ffffuck—Jesus, darlin’—gonna make me do it again—gonna—shit—”

He pulled out just enough to watch himself disappear again into your slick, fluttering cunt—then slammed forward, one last thrust, and came with a hoarse groan that sounded half like a prayer and half like an exorcism.

His whole body shuddered, muscles locking, cock pulsing deep as he emptied himself inside you. Thick, hot ropes spilling into your cunt, so much you felt it dripping already, leaking from where you were stretched open around him.

He spilled deep inside you, trembling from head to toe, collapsing half on top of you as he breathed against your neck.

His heart pounded hard enough to rattle your ribs.

He pressed his forehead against your shoulder, lips moving in reverent, broken murmurs you could barely catch.

And even while still inside you, cock softening, he murmured:

“I’m not stoppin’, you know.”

You laughed weakly against his chest. “Stopping what?”

He raised his head, eyes wild, grin crooked. “Fillin’ you. Every fuckin’ week, I swear it. I’m givin’ it siblings. Six, maybe seven. Peaky fuckin’ brood, yeah? Little gang of curly-haired monsters.”

“Alfie—”

“Shut up, I’m talkin’. We’ll name the first one after me. Or maybe after you, if it’s a girl. She’ll be beautiful. Mean as fuck. God help us.”

You giggled, and Alfie leaned in to kiss you again, slow and filthy, his thumb sliding over your still-trembling cunt as if he couldn’t stop touching you.

The kiss was messy, desperate—full of tongue and need and too much love to fit between teeth. You whimpered into it, drunk on him, on the future he’d already built in his head.

“You,” he whispered, “are the best fuckin’ thing that’s ever happened to me. And now you’re makin’ more of you.”

His voice turned reverent again, a little cracked.

“Thank fuckin’ God for this miracle.”

The late afternoon was cloaked in a thick, gray sky that seemed to press down on the city like a weight. The streets of Birmingham smelled of rain and smoke, a constant reminder of what had been lost—and what might be lost still. The thick clouds seemed to echo the tension in your chest, heavy and unyielding, as though the city itself braced for what was to come.

You and Polly sat in the back room of the Garrison, the air thick with cigarette smoke and whispered tension. The wood paneling felt colder than usual, and every tick of the clock seemed amplified in the silence. The room, dimly lit by a single flickering gas lamp, felt suffocating. You ran your hand along the edge of the table, trying to ground yourself in something tangible, but even the rough wood felt distant.

“We need this to work,” Polly said quietly, her voice steady but serious. “This war… it’ll kill us all if it’s not stopped. And now that you’re carrying Alfie’s child—Tommy needs to know. Needs to understand there’s more at stake than just revenge.” Her voice softened slightly, the steel giving way to something more vulnerable. “We’ve lost too much already, love. This can’t go on.”

You swallowed hard. The truth felt like a weight in your chest, heavy and fragile all at once. You thought of the life growing inside you, a tiny spark of hope in the midst of all this chaos. It was too soon for you to feel it move, but sometimes, when you were alone, you placed your hand on your belly and whispered prayers for its safety.

“He won’t like it,” you said quietly.

“No, he won’t,” Polly replied, her tone clipped. “But he’ll listen. He’s still my nephew, and deep down, even Tommy Shelby knows when to shut up and take advice.” Her words were confident, but there was a flicker of doubt in her eyes that she couldn’t quite hide.

You weren’t sure if that was true. Tommy’s temper had only grown worse since he declared war on Alfie, and every action he took seemed more reckless than the last. The destruction left in his wake was a constant reminder that the brother you once knew was slipping further away, consumed by vengeance and pride.

“He’s a stubborn son of a bitch,” Polly added with a bitter smile. “But he’s not a monster. Not completely. We’ll see if he can still be reasoned with.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “When are we doing this?”

“Tomorrow night,” Polly said. “Neutral ground. Somewhere they can’t pull their guns without the whole city knowing.” Her lips pressed into a thin line as she exhaled sharply, flicking ash from her cigarette into the tray. “But don’t expect miracles. These are men we’re dealing with, not saints.”

…

Later that evening, you found Alfie in his study. He was leaning back in his chair, reading over some papers by candlelight. The room smelled of leather and smoke, the warmth of the hearth casting flickering shadows across his face. The glow softened the usual harshness in his features, though his furrowed brow made it clear his mind was far from restful.

“Alfie,” you said softly, stepping into the room.

He looked up, his eyes instantly softening when they landed on you. “Ah, look who it is—my little treacle and my tiny tot,” His voice, usually gruff and sharp, had an uncharacteristic warmth to it when he spoke to you. “What’s this then, eh? What’s got that pretty face lookin’ all troubled?”

You moved closer, sitting on the edge of his desk. He reached for you instinctively, his large hand covering yours. The callouses on his palm were rough against your skin, a stark contrast to the gentleness of his touch.

“I spoke to Polly today,” you began.

His brow furrowed. “Yeah, well, that don’t sound promisin’, now does it?”

“She wants to arrange a meeting. Between you and Tommy.”

The tension in his jaw was immediate. “No.” The single word hung in the air like a thunderclap, final and immovable.

“Alfie—”

“No, no, darlin’. No fuckin’ way am I sittin’ in a room with that fuckin’ cunt. Just so he can flap his gums and call it ‘negotiation,’ yeah?” He leaned back in his chair with a groan, crossing his arms like the decision was already carved in stone.

You leaned forward, gripping his hand tighter. “This war is going to destroy everything, Alfie. And not just for you or Tommy—for me, for our baby.”

“Don’t you bloody start bringin’ the baby into this,” he grumbled, his tone sharp, though his gaze briefly flicked to your stomach with a softness that belied his words.

“The baby has everything to do with this. It’s the reason this fucking war between you two has to stop!” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t care. If there was ever a time to fight for something, it was now.

His gaze dropped to your belly, and for a moment, the anger in his eyes dimmed. “And you think he’ll listen to reason, do you?”

“He’ll listen to Polly,” you said. “And you’ll listen to me.” Your hand rested protectively over your stomach, a silent reminder of what was at stake.

Alfie smirked, but there was no humor in it. “Oh, I always listen to you, don’t I, treacle? ‘Specially when you’re screamin’ my name and beggin’ me not to stop—”

“Alfie.” You cut him off with a glare, though your cheeks flushed.

“What?” He feigned innocence, his grin widening at your reaction. “S’true, innit? Maybe I should jog your memory later, yeah? Just so you don’t forget who’s runnin’ things ‘round here.”

You sighed, fighting a smile. “I’m serious, Alfie.”

“So am I,” he murmured, leaning forward until the rough tip of his nose brushed yours, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “But alright then. I’ll go. For you, right? And for this little one.” His hand rested gently over your stomach, his calloused fingers strangely tender. “But I’m tellin’ you now, treacle, if your brother so much as breathes wrong, I won’t be held responsible for what happens next, yeah?”

…

Alfie even promised he’d go unarmed. That, of course, had been a lie. You saw the glint of steel as he tucked his revolver into his coat before leaving the house. You begged silently that he wouldn’t have to use it, clutching your belly as if to shield the baby from the chaos brewing.

The warehouse Polly chose was abandoned and quiet, sitting on the outskirts of Birmingham. The air was cold and damp, carrying the faint metallic scent of rust and decay. The only sounds were the distant hum of the city and the occasional creak of the old building’s walls, like a living thing groaning beneath the weight of its history. It was an eerie kind of peace, the kind that pressed against your ears and made every breath feel too loud.

You arrived first with Alfie, his hand gripping yours as he surveyed the space with narrowed eyes. The weight of his presence was grounding, even as his tension radiated like heat. You could feel the restrained energy in him, the readiness to pounce, like a predator pacing the edge of its territory.

He glanced around the space, his nose wrinkling in disdain as the faint echo of his cane tapping against the floor punctuated the silence. “This?” he muttered, waving his free hand dismissively at the building. “This is what you lot are callin’ neutral ground, is it? Fuckin’ ‘ell. It’s a shithole, love. Thought the Shelby name carried more weight than this.”

“Behave,” you murmured, squeezing his hand. Your tone was soft, but there was a firmness beneath it that only he could draw out of you.

Before he could respond, the creak of the warehouse door interrupted. Tommy entered with Polly at his side. His sharp blue eyes locked onto Alfie immediately, his posture tense and coiled like a spring. It was the look of a man walking into a trap he’d already planned ten ways to escape. Polly walked slightly ahead, her heels clicking against the concrete with a deliberate rhythm, her presence commanding enough to keep the room from erupting—at least for now.

“Tommy,” you greeted softly, stepping forward.

Alfie straightened beside you, his posture loose but his presence commanding. The smirk tugging at his lips was deliberate, sharp, and as much a weapon as the revolver tucked into his coat. “Ah, Tommy-boy,” he drawled, the nickname stretched out with a mocking lilt. “Come to kiss and make up, have we? Thought you’d at least bring flowers.”

Tommy’s gaze flickered between you and Alfie, his jaw tightening. His hand moved like lightning, drawing his gun and pointing it straight at Alfie’s head. The air crackled with sudden, electric tension, every breath frozen in anticipation.

“Tommy!” you gasped, stepping between them. “Put that down right now.”

“Yeah, mate, go on then—put it down,” Alfie said, chuckling in that maddening, gravelly way of his, like he already had the upper hand. “Don’t wanna leave your niece or nephew without a dad now, do ya? That’d be a bit cold, even for you, eh?”

Tommy’s brow furrowed, his aim steady as a rock. His voice cut through the air like a blade. “What’s he talkin’ about?”

The question hung heavy in the air, the room shrinking around you as all eyes turned to you. Your heart raced, each beat reverberating in your ears as you swallowed the lump in your throat.

“There’s something you need to know,” you said, your voice trembling but determined. You took a steadying breath and said the words that could change everything. “I’m… pregnant.”

For a moment, time stood still. Tommy’s eyes narrowed, disbelief hardening into something colder. It wasn’t anger—it was worse. It was calculation, the quiet devastation of a man piecing together a puzzle he wished he hadn’t started.

“That’s right,” Alfie said, his grin growing wider, more brazen, as he pulled you closer with a casual arm around your shoulders. “Went and put a bloody baby in this one, didn’t I? Bound to happen sooner or later. Every time I tried to pull out, she dragged me right back in.”

He winked, eyes glinting with wicked delight, utterly shameless, enjoying the effect his words had on the room. “Can’t blame her though, right? Warm little thing like that? She was like ‘Please, Alfie, I want it insi—’”

Tommy’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his face ticking with barely suppressed fury. His tone was flat but dangerous. “I didn’t come here to listen to your bullshit, Solomons.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate, innit?” Alfie shot back when Tommy snapped, his tone a mockery of sympathy. “Real shame, ‘cause my mouth’s got plenty more to say. Like how while you’ve been busy throwin’ your little war games, I’ve been takin’ real good care of your sister. Knocking her up and all—seems I’ve been a bit more productive, eh?”

Tommy lunged, his gun lowering slightly, but Polly stepped between them, her voice cutting through the tension like a whip. “Enough!”

The room fell silent, the weight of Polly’s command pulling everyone to a standstill. Her eyes blazed as she turned to each man in turn, her sheer presence silencing even Alfie’s retort.

“We’re here to end this,” Polly said, her voice steel. “Not to throw punches like bloody children.”

Tommy’s gaze shifted to you, cold and hard, his disappointment barely hidden. “You had to get yourself pregnant, didn’t you?” The words were spat like venom, deliberate and sharp.

“You don’t know the half of it, mate,” Alfie cut in, grinning like the devil himself. “Beggin’ for it, she was. Practically pullin’ me into bed every night. What can I say? She knows what she wants. But I bet you remember my little letter too well.

“Alfie,” you hissed, your cheeks burning with mortification.

“What?” he said when your mortification bubbled over, his grin refusing to waver. “I’m just bein’ honest. Tommy oughta be thankin’ me, truth be told. His sister’s looked after. Gonna make her a mother, give her a family. Done him a favor, really.”

Tommy’s hand twitched, finger toying with the trigger, his fury threatening to boil over. You stepped forward, your voice breaking through the chaos. “Enough! Both of you!”

Tommy sneered. “You shut up. This is between me and him.”

“Oi, you watch your fuckin’ mouth when you talk to her,” Alfie growled, his voice low and razor-edged when Tommy barked at you. The shift in tone was immediate, dangerous, and unmistakably protective.

His head turned slightly, his icy stare fixed on you. “I’ll speak to my sister however I damn well please.”

Alfie took a step closer, his body taut with barely restrained violence. “Listen to me, you fuckin’ cunt—”

Screams, reproaches, and obscenities flew from one side of the room to the other like cannon fire, the echo of their voices bouncing off the walls, leaving no corner untouched. Alfie’s booming laughter and sharp retorts clashed with Tommy’s seething growls, creating a cacophony that rattled your bones. Polly stood to the side, her arms crossed and her face taut with frustration, her sharp eyes darting between the two men like a general assessing the battlefield.

It felt endless—a storm without a lull, a fight that would never find resolution.

“Fucking stop with this nonsense!” you yelled, your voice slicing through the chaos like a lightning strike. The force of your words silenced them, leaving an aching quiet in their wake. Even Polly turned to look at you, her expression unreadable.

You took a shaky breath, your hands trembling as you stepped forward. “I’m not asking for you two to be friends,” you continued, your voice cracking with emotion. “Not asking for family dinners, or for you to act like you don’t hate each other’s guts. I’m just asking for the man I love and my brother not to kill each other in front of me.” The words came out in a rush, a desperate plea that left your chest heaving.

Tommy’s cold eyes fixed on you, but the hardness in his gaze faltered for a brief moment. You pressed on, the weight of your desperation driving you forward.

“Please, Tommy,” you begged, your voice softening. “If you love me, if even a shred of that love still exists, and if you want to see me happy, you’ll put an end to this. Before it’s too late. Before I lose my brother and the father of my child at the same time.”

Your voice cracked on the last words, tears welling in your eyes as the raw emotion spilled out of you. The sight of your pain seemed to pierce through Tommy’s defenses. His jaw tightened, and his shoulders slumped slightly as if the weight of your words had landed squarely on his chest. He looked away, his mouth opening and closing like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

After a long, tense silence, he spoke. His voice was low, rough, but there was a heaviness to it that you hadn’t heard before. “You know I’ll never accept this decision you’ve made,” he said, each word deliberate and firm. “And don’t think for a second I’ll ever call this… dog family.”

“Don’t worry, mate,” Alfie interjected, his voice breaking through the solemnity like a crack of thunder. “The feelin’s mutual.”

Tommy’s head snapped toward Alfie, his glare sharp enough to cut, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned back to you. “But at the end of the day it’s your choice,” he continued, his tone softening ever so slightly. “And I’ll respect it.”

Your breath hitched, relief mingling with the ache in your chest. “You’ll stop with all this war nonsense?” you asked cautiously, your voice barely above a whisper.

Tommy nodded, the motion slow and deliberate. But his eyes shifted to Alfie, the tension between them still tangible. “You’re gonna marry her?” he asked, his voice low and controlled, though the simmering anger beneath was unmistakable.

You froze, the question hanging in the air like a challenge. Your heart pounded in your chest as you turned to Alfie, whose ever-present smirk softened into something more serious. He leaned slightly on his cane, his posture as steady as his voice when he spoke.

“Course I’m marryin’ her,” Alfie said plainly, as if the answer was obvious to anyone with a brain. “Ain’t that right, love?” His eyes softened just a fraction when they landed on you, but the intensity was still there, as unrelenting as ever.

“Ain’t about to let my kid be a bastard,” he added, his grin widening into a cocky laugh. “Just waitin’ to find the right bloody rock, yeah? Can’t propose to a woman like her with some cheap little trinket. She’s worth more than that.”

Tommy’s fists clenched, his knuckles whitening. “Good,” he said, his voice dropping to a near growl. “Because if you don’t—or if you hurt her—I will make you suffer in ways you can’t imagine. Doesn’t matter where you go or how many men you hide behind. I’ll find you. And when I do, you’ll wish for death long before it comes.”

Alfie’s chuckle then wasn’t warm—it was the sound of a man issuing a challenge, his words a provocation. “Oh, you’ll kill me, will you? That’s cute, mate. Real cute. But let me tell you somethin’, yeah?” He stepped forward, his grin turning razor-sharp, his voice dipping into that deep, rumbling mockery that made men uneasy. “I’m not the type to hurt her. Unless, of course, you’re countin’ all the times I’ve made her scream my name loud enough to wake the bloody dead.”

“Alfie!” you hissed, mortified, but he didn’t stop.

“See, Tommy,” Alfie continued, gesturing lazily with his cane. “Your sister—she’s happy with me. Proper happy. And if you’d just pull that stick outta your arse, you might just see it for yourself.”

Tommy’s hand twitched at his side, his restraint hanging by a thread. For a moment, you thought he might actually hit Alfie. But instead, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, forcing himself to step back.

“I don’t like you, Alfie,” Tommy said plainly, his voice cold. “And I never will. But for her…I’ll give you one chance. Just one.”

Alfie raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “How generous of you, mate.”

Polly, who had been silently fuming, finally stepped forward, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Enough of this back and forth,” she snapped. “You two are going to spit and shake on it like men, or not? Agree to keep out of each other’s business and leave it at that.”

The two men exchanged a long, loaded look. Then, with a reluctant grimace, Tommy spit into his palm and extended his hand.

“Fine,” he said curtly.

Alfie mirrored the gesture, his grip firm as he shook Tommy’s hand. “Fine,” he echoed, his tone laced with irony.

The handshake was brief, a brittle truce that felt more like a fuse waiting to be lit. But it was enough.

Polly let out a sharp exhale, muttering under her breath, “Men and their bloody pride.”

Two months later…

The sound of laughter and clinking glasses spilled out of the Shelby dining room before you and Alfie even made it through the front door.

The muffled din pulsed against the cold air outside, a boisterous warmth pressing against the quiet tension coiling in your growing stomach. Alfie’s large hand hovered protectively at the small of your back, radiating heat even through the fabric of your dress.

“Right, then,” Alfie muttered, glancing sideways at you, brows lifting. “What we reckon, eh? Who’s first to sling a bloody insult across the table? My money’s on Arthur—bloke’s wound tighter than a knackered watch.”

You sighed, already regretting this. “Please, Alfie, for once in your life, just try to behave.”

Your fingers twisted together at your side, the air sharp with the scent of roast meat and tobacco seeping from under the door.

“Behave?” He scoffed, tilting his head with that crooked grin, hand brushing gently over the small swell of your stomach. “Right, listen, yeah—if it’s quiet you lot wanted, then they shouldn’t’ve invited me, right? I’m not a fuckin’ church mouse, love, I’m Alfie fuckin’ Solomons.”

“I invited you.”

“Exactly.” He grinned. “You knew what you were gettin’.” His smile was crooked, dangerous, but softened when he glanced at the curve of your belly again, his thumb brushing there just long enough to make your breath catch.

Before you could respond, Polly’s voice rang out from the other side of the room. “If you’re going to stand in the doorway all night, Solomons, you might as well piss off now.”

With a low chuckle, Alfie strode into the dining room, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards.

He walked like he owned the house, his coat brushing the backs of chairs, his presence sucking the air from the room like a shifting tide.

“Lovely to see you too, Pol,” Alfie said, voice dipped in sarcasm and the ghost of affection.

The room went momentarily quiet as you stepped in, Alfie at your side.

The Shelby clan turned their heads in unison—like wolves scenting an intruder. A dozen eyes settled on you, cold, curious, calculating. Your spine stiffened.

Arthur pointed his fork at Alfie, eyes blazing. “Who invited this—”

“Arthur!” Polly’s voice cracked like a whip, silencing him before he could finish.

Your pulse thudded behind your eyes, the thick scent of whiskey and roasted meat suddenly cloying.

“Please sit down,” Polly asked you.

You joined the table with the rest of your family. Alfie beside you, his thigh pressing against yours beneath the table like a quiet promise of chaos.

Tommy’s eyes hadn’t left Alfie once. Ice blue, unblinking. Sizing him up like a gun with one bullet left. The air between them was electric, coiled like wire, and you could feel it crackle along your skin.

Ada broke the silence first. “So, Alfie. How’s the bakery?”

He took a sip. “Still full of flour and Jews, thanks. No shortage of either.”

Ada choked on her wine.

Arthur laughed, even if he tried not to. “He’s fuckin’ mental, innit.”

“Oi!” Alfie said brightly, gesturing with his glass. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not sittin’ right fuckin’ ‘ere, yeah? It’s rude. I’m sensitive, me.”

“It’s been a month since the wedding,” Ada said. “How’s marriage life going?”

“It’s goin’ very well, thank you kindly,” he said, eyes glittering. “Plan is I’ll keep shaggin’ her ‘til me legs give out, and if she still fancies me after I’m knackered and half-dead, I’ll let her chain me to a bloody chair and spoon-feed me soup ‘til I croak.”

Silence.

Tommy blinked.

Arthur spit his drink.

Ada was howling.

“Jesus Christ,” Polly muttered.

You just sighed, resting a hand on your forehead. Your cheeks were hot with equal parts exasperation and reluctant amusement. A flicker of warmth curled in your chest despite everything.

“That’s romantic for him,” you said.

Alfie turned to you, grinning like a man in love. “Ain’t no higher praise, is there, darlin’? You shagged the knees right off me.” His voice was rough velvet, eyes glittering with mischief and adoration that sent a flutter through your ribs.

Tommy’s voice cut through the laughter. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

Alfie didn’t even glance at Tommy. “I talk about my missus like I want every bastard in this room to know she’s mine. Because she fuckin’ is.”

“You’ve got a fuckin’ death wish,” Tommy said.

“It’s a family dinner,” you reminded everyone, though your voice was lost in the chaos. “Can we just… eat and have a good time?”

“No,” Tommy said, exhaling smoke in Alfie’s direction, “because your man here invites himself and thinks he can sit at this table, in my house, and pretend he’s anything more than a cocky little bastard with delusions of grandeur.”

Alfie smirked, leaning back in his chair now, his broad shoulders filling the space like he was born to it, chest broad, posture loud as a shout. “She invited me, didn’t she? And you, Thomas… you’re just a boy in a big bloody coat, marchin’ around like you’re Moses with a gin problem. You’ve got the charm of a wet sock and the temperament of a rabid dog.”

You groaned. “Alfie.”

“What?!” Alfie barked, gesturing toward Tommy like he was on trial. “I’m defendin’ meself, love! Man’s been givin’ me the stink eye since I walked in—like I pissed on his horse or somethin’.”

“That’s because you don’t belong here.” Tommy snapped.

“Don’t belong?” Alfie’s voice shot up, tone biting now as he gestured to you, eyes blazing. “I’ve got a baby on the way with your sister, mate. Your sister, yeah? The one I married. So if we’re talkin’ about who belongs, maybe it ain’t the geezer who tried to burn me out of business three months ago, eh?”

Tommy stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “And I’d do it again if it meant keepin’ you out of my family!”

He stood now too, chest puffed, voice booming. “Your family?” he sneered. “Hate to break it to ya, mate, but she’s mine now, right? That little one in her belly—also mine. So how about you sit the fuck down and stop actin’ like you’ve got exclusive rights to what’s best for her.”

Polly stood then, slamming her palm on the table so hard it silenced everyone. “Enough!” she roared, her eyes sharp and unforgiving. “Both of you, sit down and shut up before I knock your heads together!”

Alfie turned to you, his expression softening just slightly. “Love, I was just—”

“I don’t care what you were just,” you snapped, glaring at him. “I brought you here because I thought—God knows why—that we could try to be a family.”

“Family?” Tommy scoffed. “He’s not family.”

“Neither are you,” Alfie said coolly. “Not when you torched my fuckin’ warehouse.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” you yelled, throwing your napkin onto the table. “Can we get through one bloody night without bringing that up?” Your voice cracked with exhaustion, the words punching through clenched teeth.

Polly raised her glass, her voice cutting through the tension. “Here’s to family. Dysfunctional as it may be.”

Tommy and Alfie exchanged one last glare before reluctantly raising their glasses.

“To family,” Alfie muttered, though his eyes never left Tommy.

“To family,” Tommy echoed, his voice dry as ash.

The toast landed like a lead weight, the clinking of glasses little more than the sound of temporary truces. And yet you felt a flicker of triumph low in your belly. After everything that went down, after threats and near bloodshed, you had them both seated at the same fucking table without pulling their guns at the other. You knew the insults would always be there, but still… this was the closest you could be to a family.

The dinner began awkwardly, but as the whiskey began to flow freely, so did the shoulders loosen.

“Well, Alfie,” John drawled, his grin wide and mischievous as he leaned back in his chair. “The man, the myth, the legend. Didn’t think you’d have the bollocks to show up at a Shelby dinner.”

“This one…” He jerked his chin toward you, eyes gleaming with both admiration and amusement. “She’s got a knack, right? Twists a man’s arm without ever liftin’ a finger. Fuckin’ lethal, she is.”

“Twists a man’s arm or breaks his back,” John quipped, his grin wide. “Which, by the way, mate, I’m still strugglin’ to figure out how someone your age managed to, y’know, put a little one in her. Must’ve been a fluke.”

The table erupted into laughter, and you felt your cheeks burn as Alfie barked a laugh of his own.

“Ohhh, Johnny boy,” Alfie drawled, leaning forward, voice oily and smug. “You ever seen a bull past his prime, mate? Still fucks like thunder, doesn’t he? You think it’s a fluke, do ya? Nah, mate. That’s heritage, yeah? That’s lineage. Generations of Solomons. You won’t find stronger swimmers unless you dip your bollocks in the Thames and pray for divine intervention.”

You kicked him under the table, mortified, but Alfie only smirked, popping a piece of bread into his mouth as the entire table roared. He was impossible. Completely, delightfully impossible.

John snorted, lifting his glass with a grin that bordered on scandalous. “Well fuck me, old man’s got some kick left in him.”

As the night wore on, the barbs and jokes gave way to something softer. Alfie was still loud and impossible, but he made Arthur laugh so hard he choked on his drink, traded insults with Polly that left even her smiling, and somehow managed to charm Ada.

You watched him with something between awe and disbelief, the way he fit himself into this jagged puzzle of a family like he was always meant to be there.

Alfie behaved—for a bit. Ate with a knife and fork. Mostly. Chewed like a man forcing civility down with each bite. But beneath the table, his hand had other plans.

You felt it creep to your thigh, fingers rough and warm, dragging up the side of your leg with infuriating slowness. A warning. A promise. A test. You cleared your throat, shifting your legs, but his grip only tightened, thumb brushing maddeningly close to the seam of your underwear.

“You sittin’ there all proper, yeah? All neat and nice in that fuckin’ dress like you don’t know it’s killing me? That’s cruel, darlin’. That’s fuckin’ warfare, that is.”

“You’re at my brother’s table, Alfie.”

“I know exactly where the fuck I am,” he muttered, eyes fixed on you like a man possessed. “Right here, under your brother’s nose, with my hand halfway to heaven and my cock beggin’ for mercy.” His hand crept higher, fingertips brushing dangerously close to where you were now clenching around nothing.

“Then behave.”

“That dress, yeah?” His voice dropped even lower, “It’s murderin’ me. Gonna be the death of me. Hope you’ve got a fuckin’ black veil ready.”

You didn’t dare look at him. “Eat your roast, Alfie.”

“Can’t eat,” he said matter-of-factly. “Got a hard-on so big, I’m surprised the fuckin’ tablecloth ain’t risin’.”

Yo nearly dropped your fork.

He leaned in close—closer than necessary—his breath hot at your ear, his beard tickling your neck.

“I’ll behave,” he promised, low and wicked. “But after this, yeah? You’re sittin’ on my cock in the car. Legs wide, skirt up, not a single scrap between us but the sound of you moanin’ like a bloody hymn. My hands on your tits—big fuckin’ tits, yeah?—and you’re gonna take it like you owe me somethin’.”

Your face burned so hot you thought it might peel the paint off the walls.

Alfie, the bastard, was delighted.

Tommy’s voice sliced through your haze. “You alright?”

You cleared your throat, nodding too quickly. “Fine.”

Alfie popped a bite of roast into his mouth, chewing slow and smug. “She’s just eager to leave, ain’t she?” he said, voice syrupy with fake innocence. “Knows what’s waitin’ in the backseat, don’t she?”

“Alfie,” you hissed under your breath.

“What?!” Alfie barked, throwing his hands up in full theatrical disbelief. “We’re all bloody adults here, ain’t we? I’m givin’ her a compliment, right? That’s all. She’s divine, this one. Fuckin’ divine. Walks into a room and the walls start sweatin’. Can’t blame me for sufferin’ a bit.”

Tommy’s jaw locked, the muscle ticking in his cheek. “Keep your compliments off my fuckin’ dinner table.”

“Yeah, well that’ll be difficult now, won’t it, mate?” Alfie said, voice bright and bold. “She’s sittin’ right fuckin’ next to me. And I happen to like where she is.”

Tommy stared him down. “Not excited to hear the details about you sleepin’ with my sister.”

Alfie snorted. “Mate, I’m not sleepin’,” he said, casually reaching for another piece of bread. “You seen her? Ain’t no fuckin’ sleep happenin’. She’s like a fever dream with legs. Keeps a man up all night beggin’ for salvation.”

You kicked him under the table—hard.

Alfie didn’t even flinch. His smirk grew into something feral, victorious. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you, and he’d double it just for the thrill.

The table buzzed with tension, amusement, and the kind of dangerous energy that came right before someone either kissed or threw a punch.

And Alfie? He just chewed his bread like a king at a feast, hand still claiming your thigh like territory he’d conquered.

The front door barely shut behind you before Alfie had you pinned against it.

The slam echoed like punctuation to the hunger in his eyes—his body caging yours, heat rolling off him in waves. His chest heaved, breath ragged as his hands slammed flat against the wood on either side of your head, trapping you.

“Upstairs. Now.” His voice was a low growl, thick with something primal. He didn’t wait. Just grabbed your hand—hot, rough, shaking with restraint—and hauled you through the hallway like a man possessed.

The moment you reached the bedroom, he turned on you.

“Get on the bed,” he rasped, already tugging his shirt over his head. “Let me see you.”

You backed toward the edge of the mattress, breath short, heart hammering, the look in his eyes making your knees weak.

You sat, slowly, spreading your knees apart just enough to tease, your dress riding up over your thighs. Alfie stood at the foot of the bed, his chest rising and falling like he’d run miles, one hand working at his belt, the other dragging through his beard.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered when he looked at you—really looked. “You know what you do to me lookin’ like that? Open for me with my fuckin’ baby in you?”

He tore the belt open, the buckle clattering to the floor. “All glowy an’ soft and full. S’drivin’ me outta my fuckin’ mind.” His voice cracked, throat thick with reverence and lust, eyes wide with something close to awe.

You didn’t have time to answer. He was on you. Lips crashing into yours like a man drowning, drinking you in with starved desperation.

“All night I’m sittin’ there watchin’ you—dress clingin’ to your belly, tits heavy, eyes on me like you knew exactly what you were doin’. You tryin’ to fuckin’ kill me?”

His mouth was on yours, kissing you like he needed you to breathe, hands everywhere. One gripped the back of your neck, the other palmed your belly with such aching reverence it made your throat tighten, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real—like worshiping something divine.

“Look at you,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to pant against your mouth. “So fuckin’ perfect. So round. Every part of you just beggin’ to be touched.”

He pushed you down onto your back, and hauled over you like a man possessed, settling between your legs, his mouth already working at your breast the second your bra was off.

His eyes drinking in every inch of you like you were the altar and he the worst kind of worshipper.

“These fuckin’ tits, swollen with milk already—Christ.” He cupped them, heavy and tender in his hands, thumbing your nipples until you whimpered. “So heavy for me now, yeah? Full and achin’. Like they know I’m gonna be suckin’ from ‘em every night.”

His thumbs rolled over your nipples with maddening slowness, watching your body shudder beneath him with unspoken satisfaction.

“Look at how they bounce when you breathe,” he muttered, voice thick with hunger. “Beggin’ for my mouth. My tongue.”

You moaned, arching into him, back bowing as he suckled at your breast like a man starved. His lips sealed around you with heat and pressure, drawing moans from deep in your chest, as if he could taste the shift in your body’s purpose.

“Could suck on these for hours,” he muttered, mouth already descending, tongue dragging over one aching bud. “Bet they’re sensitive, eh? Bet you like bein’ touched like this now.”

He latched harder, like he meant to draw every drop out of you, slurping noisily, tongue flicking over your nipple until it was red and glistening. His beard scratched at your skin, rough and possessive.

“You were leakin’ this morning,” he muttered, thumbing your nipple. “Nearly lost my fuckin’ mind. Want you like that again. Want milk in my mouth, my beard wet with it.”

You groaned as he licked a slow circle around your nipple, then sucked hard—drawing the softest taste from you with a guttural sound of approval.

“Fuckin’ sweet,” he groaned. “You were made for this. To be fucked, bred, worshipped. Gonna suck you dry one day, love. Gonna fuck you full while I drink from your tits, taste both ends of you at once.”

He let go of your nipple and dropped to his knees at the foot of the bed. Hands ran up your thighs, thumbs dragging up the insides until he reached your soaked underwear. He hooked a finger under the band and dragged them down, slow, keeping his eyes locked on yours the whole time. His breath hit your skin in hot, heavy bursts, lips parted like he was praying silently before a feast.

“Gonna worship this wet little cunt tonight,” he muttered, voice nearly broken with hunger. “Swear to God, gonna make you cum so hard you see stars.”

You whimpered his name, lifting your hips to help him, desperate for friction, for anything. Your thighs trembled as the cool air hit your slick folds, your body open, throbbing, already soaked just from the way he looked at you.

“You carryin’ life in you, and I still wanna fuck you into the fuckin’ mattress. What does that say about me, eh?”

“Says you’re a depraved old bastard,” you breathed, fingers threading into his hair.

“You carry it so good. You know that?” He looked up at you, eyes dark and full of something between worship and possession. “Tits full, belly round, cunt hot all the time—fuckin’ miracle, innit?”

He leaned forward and kissed your belly first. Soft. Devout. Then he dragged his tongue down over the curve of your skin, over your hip, and into the wet heat between your thighs. One lick, two—and you were already shaking.

His tongue parted you, slow and deliberate, licking from your hole to your clit with a long, obscene groan. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he muttered. “Your cunt’s fuckin’ singin’ to me, love.”

He groaned into your cunt like it fed him, mouth sealing over your folds with reverence, filth, and fire. The sensation was overwhelming—slick heat, obscene sounds, and the slow swirl of his tongue on your cunt that had your whole body locking up with need.

“Tastes sweeter now,” he groaned, pressing open-mouthed kisses against your swollen lips. “Your body knows, yeah? Knows it’s mine. Knows what it was fuckin’ made for.”

He sucked on your clit, loud and messy, pulling lewd little noises from your soaked flesh. “Fuck, you’re clenchin’ already,” he growled. “Like your cunt’s tryin’ to pull my tongue in deeper.”

He fucked you with his mouth like he meant it, like he’d die with your scent in his nose and your taste coating his tongue. Your hands twisted in his hair, moaning as he feasted like a man starving, the sounds vulgar and wet and perfect.

His tongue circled your clit with practiced filth, then sucked it between his lips, groaning into you. Your hips jerked but he held you still, thick arms locking around your thighs.

You thrashed beneath him, pleasure flashing hot and high, but he pinned you down like a predator savoring his kill.

“That’s it, treacle,” he murmured, breath hot against your folds. “Cum on my fuckin’ face—give me everythin’. Want it all, yeah?”

You shattered with a cry, hips arching off the bed, thighs trembling against his shoulders. The orgasm hit you like a wave, pulling sound from your throat you didn’t recognize, stars bursting behind your eyelids.

He held you through it, never stopping, licking you through every aftershock until you begged him to stop— but he didn’t. Not yet.

“Alfie—fuck—can’t—”

“Yes you can.” His voice was raw, ragged, wrecked with the kind of need that bordered on madness.

He pulled back finally, mouth wet, eyes blazing. His beard was matted with slick, chin shiny with the proof of how hard you’d cum.

He pulled down his pants and underwear at the speed of light and climbed up the bed, kneeling between your thighs, undressed and painfully hard, cock flushed and leaking.

His cock throbbed in his fist, flushed an angry red, veins bulging. The tip was slick, resting against your belly like he needed to mark you everywhere, he leaned down to kiss you again. You could feel it throb against your skin, searing heat, a promise of what was to come.

“Feel that?” he rasped, hips rolling as he dragged the thick, leaking head of his cock through your slick folds, grinding it slow and punishing against your clit before nudging down to your soaked entrance. “That’s need, love. That’s the kind of cock that doesn’t care you’re already full. Doesn’t care you’re stretched and stuffed. It wants to go deeper. Wants to fuck you to the womb.”

You whimpered, thighs trembling as your fingers gripped his shoulders, nails sinking into his skin. “Please, Alfie—inside. Now.”

“Look at this,” he breathed, cupping your stomach. “You carryin’ my fuckin’ child. My legacy. And you’re still the filthiest little thing I’ve ever known.”

He lined himself up, teasing the head of his cock against your soaked entrance. “I’m gonna fuck you slow first,” he said, dragging the tip just inside, watching your face twist in need. “Real slow. Wanna feel you stretch around me. Wanna watch your pretty tits bounce while you moan my fuckin’ name.”

You nearly sobbed when he pushed in—inch by inch, thick and unforgiving, until he was buried inside you, panting into your neck.

He groaned like it hurt. “Fuck, you’re tight—so tight now. Hotter too. That’s the pregnancy, innit? Your body knows it’s mine. Clings to me like it knows I put that baby there.”

“More, Alfie—” you sobbed, one hand clawing at his back, the other fisting the sheets. “More, please—”

“You feel that?” he rasped, voice wrecked with awe. “That’s me. All of me. Deep where I fuckin’ live now, innit? Right up against your womb—fuckin’ home now, yeah?”

You nodded, moaning against his shoulder. He thrusted once—hard, deep, slow—and you screamed.

“I’m in there already, buried so deep in this cunt,” he muttered, pressing his forehead to yours. “Laid the claim. Fuckin’ planted there. And now you’re carryin’ it. You’re mine, love. All the way.”

“Alfie—”

“Shh. Just let me fuckin’ feel it.”

He didn’t move, just held himself there, buried deep, letting your cunt flutter around him, adjust to the stretch, feel it all. Then he rocked—just a little. Slow. Rolling his hips until you gasped.

His rhythm was slow, deep. “Gonna fuck you soft, yeah? Real soft. But deep. Deep like I’m fuckin’ etchin’ my name in your womb.”

He rolled his hips again. Slow. Deep. One slow thrust that made you gasp, then another that had you clutching his shoulders.

“Every time I’m inside you now,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours, “I’m talkin’ to it. To them. Gonna make sure they know who I am, right? Who you belong to. From the fuckin’ start.”

The stretch burned, sweet and brutal, as if it was your first time all over again, your body yielding around him with aching slowness, every inch making your breath hitch.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned. “So warm. So full of me already, yeah? I can feel it. Can feel how different you are now. Grippin’ me tighter. Like your cunt knows I’m the one who knocked you up.”

His hips rolled more now, grinding thrusts that had you clawing at his back. You dug your nails in, dragged red lines across his skin, every movement pulling a needy moan from your lips.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels pressing into the backs of his thighs to urge him deeper. He obliged, growling.

“You want it deep, yeah?” His voice was ragged. “Want me fuckin’ that pretty little hole like I’m tryna put another one in you?”

You cried out—words lost to pleasure, head thrown back. He grabbed your thighs, pulled your legs up over his shoulders, shifting deeper, angling until you cried out and clenched hard around him.

“That’s it,” he grunted. “Give it to me. You take me so fuckin’ good, every time. Knocked up and still hungry for cock, yeah?”

You whimpered, nodding, breathless. “Y-Yes, Alfie.”

“Yeah, you like the sound of that. Takin’ cock like a good little mum. My fuckin’ girl. All round and swollen and—”

He was groaning now, nearly lost in it, sweat beading at his temple, eyes locked on the bounce of your tits, the movement of your belly. He looked ruined, feral—his body pounding into yours like it was the only way to stay sane.

“Makin’ me lose my fuckin’ mind,” he groaned, grabbing your hips, pushing your legs higher. “Can feel your cunt suckin’ me in like it wants another load. That it, love? You want more? Want me to fill you up again, right while our baby’s inside you?”

He started thrusting harder, faster, the headboard slamming against the wall. His hands found your tits, heavy and swollen, and he groaned into your mouth as he palmed them greedily.

“So big,” he panted. “So soft. Taste like fuckin’ honey, they do.”

He leaned down and took a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, and you swore you nearly came again.

“Mine,” he snarled against your skin. “Every fuckin’ inch of you. Mine to love. Mine to fuck. Mine to keep.”

He grabbed your hips harder, anchoring himself. “You wanna cum? You want your husband to make you cum on his cock like a good girl?”

You nodded, tears in your eyes, body too close to the edge.

“Then fuckin’ cum for me, darlin’,” he growled. “Cum while I fill you again, yeah? Fuckin’ perfect little wife.”

And then his hand—hot, wide, filthy—slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with terrifying precision. He rubbed in cruel, devastating circles, slick with your wetness, pressing just right, just hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

Your second orgasm tore through you like lightning—loud and shaking and too much. Your walls clenched around him and he lost it, roaring into your shoulder as he came, deep and endless, hips jerking wildly, flooding you.

His release was brutal and overwhelming, his whole body shuddering against you, the weight of it anchoring you both in something beyond words. His cock pulsing and spilling inside you like he was trying to breed you all over again.

He stayed there, buried deep, chest heaving, forehead resting against yours. His hand cradled your belly, thumb stroking over the curve of it like it was the most precious thing he’d ever touched.

“Never loved anythin’ more,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You, this—our baby. You make me fuckin’ feral, treacle. You know that?”

You stroked his back, his hair, pressing kisses to his temple as he finally started to calm. He didn’t pull out. Didn’t move. Just stayed locked to you, hand between your thighs, keeping every drop inside.

You lay there together, tangled in heat and sweat and sated silence. His hand rested protectively over your belly, thumb stroking slow circles as he caught his breath.

“Don’t think I’ve ever loved you more than I do right now,” he murmured. “You—all soft and full and mine. Gonna spend the rest of my life fuckin’ worshippin’ you, I swear it.”

You felt full in every sense—body, heart, soul—like the universe had collapsed to just this bed, this man, this love.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Strongest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen. Carryin’ a life in there. Carryin’ me, in a way, too.”

You blinked, the words catching somewhere in your throat. “You soft bastard.”

He looked up with a crooked smile. “Told you I ain’t soft, just possessive.”

He pulled the covers over both of you, dragging you into his chest with a grunt of satisfaction. One arm tucked around your shoulders, the other around your middle, hand still splayed over your belly.

“Oi,” he murmured finally, voice a low rumble in your ear. “You feel that?”

You nodded, not knowing if he meant his cock, his hands, the way your pulse was still racing—or all of it at once.

“That’s fuckin’ peace, that is,” he muttered, nose nudging against your shoulder. “Fuckin’ perfect,” he whispered against you. “Better than any deal, better than money, better than a whole empire full of posh cunts tryin’ to talk in circles. I’d trade all of it for this, right? Just this. You. Me. And that little thing you’ve got brewin’ inside you.”

“I think this little thing’s gonna be a boy,” you whispered after a while.

He hummed. “Yeah? That your sixth sense talkin’?”

“Mm-hmm. He’s gonna be loud. Just like his dad.”

That made him laugh, a warm rumble that vibrated through your back. “God help us both, then.”

You smiled against his skin. “You’ll be good with him.”

Alfie was quiet a beat too long. Then: “I’m gonna try. Try real fuckin’ hard, treacle. He’ll never go without. Not while I’m breathin’.”

“I know.”

“Gonna be good, I will,” he muttered. “For you. And ‘im. Or her. Or whatever the fuck we made. Long as it’s got your bloody eyes.”

His head dipped again—and this time, instead of mouthing at your tits like a feral thing, he just… rested there. Face pressed between them, beard scratching against your sensitive skin. His breathing slowed. Deepened.

Even in sleep, he held you there. As if some part of him—mad, possessive, and utterly yours—never truly shut off.

And you let him.

Because for all the filth and madness, the chaos and clawing need, Alfie Solomons was yours too.

And this? This was his version of love.

Epilogue

He stood in the nursery doorway like a man lost at sea, one large, calloused hand cradling something impossibly small and warm against his chest. The soft knit blanket—cream-colored, handmade, stitched with love and trembling hope—was wrapped tightly around the little bundle, only the top of his dark hair and the faintest trace of his nose visible beneath it.

And fuck, he was so small.

“Right, now, listen ‘ere,” he muttered under his breath, voice thick. “Didn’t even know they made ‘em this small, yeah? Like—fuck me, you’re not even a full loaf, are ya? Half a bloomin’ baguette, maybe, and already rulin’ my whole fuckin’ life.”

The baby yawned, his little fists flexing against his chest, and Alfie froze like he was made of glass. His heart thudded a little too hard.

“Nah, nah, I got you, alright?” he murmured. “You’re safe. That’s the fuckin’ arrangement, innit? You stay soft and small, and I… I stay close. Always.”

He walked the room in slow, measured steps, careful not to jostle him too much. The nursery was soft and sun-dappled, pale curtains swaying slightly in the breeze. The scent of powder and fresh linen hung in the air, mixed with the faintest trace of you—something warm and sweet that always made him think of home.

You stepped quietly into the room, barefoot, wearing one of his old shirts, eyes bright with exhaustion and affection.

“He settle?” you asked softly.

“Mm. He’s got his claws in me already, that one.” He glanced down at him, and his face changed in a way that still made your throat tighten. “Won’t sleep unless I’m holdin’ him, the little manipulative beast.”

“He’s a newborn, Alfie.”

“Yeah, well. He’s also a criminal mastermind already. I can feel it. Lullin’ me in with the cuteness and all that, but I see it. Fuckin’ schemin’, he is.”

You crossed to him slowly, resting a hand on his back, peering down at the baby nestled against his chest. His mouth was open in the faintest O, his breath coming soft and even. Alfie looked like he might crumble from the weight of him.

“He’s got your scowl,” you murmured.

“Oi. He’s beautiful. Don’t slander the boy already. I’m very expressive, thank you. This face won me wars. Got me outta a few, too.”

“I meant that lovingly.”

You kissed his bicep, and he turned just enough to press a kiss to your temple.

“He’s got your mouth too,” you added. “Your nose. Looks just like you.”

“’Course he looks like his fuckin’ daddy, don’t he?” Alfie said, puffing out his chest like he’d personally handcrafted the child with divine hands. “Strong jaw, big miserable eyes, bit of a frown goin’ already—yeah, that’s me, innit? Poor sod never stood a bloody chance.”

You leaned against him, both of you watching your son sleep. And for a long, quiet moment, everything stilled.

No violence. No fear. No war waiting at the doorstep. Just the three of you, wrapped in the silence of a warm afternoon, a love that had nearly destroyed you both—now rebuilt, tiny and pink and sleeping in Alfie’s arms.

He looked down at him one more time and whispered, “I’ll kill for you, alright? Anyone, anytime. I’ll die for you too, if that’s the ticket. But more than that—look—I’ll live for you, yeah? Which, let me tell ya, is harder some days. But I’ll fuckin’ do it. Every single one.”

And you believed him.

Because for the first time in his life, Alfie Solomons had something worth being soft for.

A/N: As you might know, this is the final part of this series—at least for now. You never know what the future might hold.

I’d truly love to hear your thoughts and opinions on the ending. I hope I didn’t let you down with this last part. I hope it met your expectations and gave the story the closure it deserved.

Thank you so much for sticking with me through it all. Your constant support and kind words have meant the world to me. You’ve made me so happy and inspired me to keep writing. Seriously, thank you.🥹🫶🏻

If you enjoyed it, don’t worry—I’ll be writing more stories for Alfie. And if you’re part of the hardy nation, I’m also writing for Harry Da Souza and planning something for Eddie Brock too. Let me know if you’d be interested in that!

That’s all for now. Thank you so, so, so much. I love you all.🩷

@rach5ive @namelesslosers @meetmeatyourworst @itisjustwhatitis

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

[uniquexusposts]

The politician's daughter

Main characters: James Beaufort x reader Genre: fanfiction, fluff, TV show  Word count: 1482 Requested by: @marjoriesemente Note: there will be a second part

Summary: Y/N is new to Maxton Hall and tries to start over again. But one person is making it difficult. What will happen next?

An unfamiliar black BNW stopped in front of the gates of Maxton Hall. It caught everybody’s attention since it didn’t belong to the Beaufort’s. Y/N L/N stepped out of the car. The driver, a very handsome man in a black suit, opened the door. Y/N took off her sunglasses and looked around; the school in the English countryside was a stark contrast to her former life in the bustling capital city. 

Her father, a prominent politician, insisted on this move since he was about to be elected president. He also hoped this elite school would provide a fresh start. 

Y/N took a deep breath, bracing herself for what was to come. She looked at her driver and gave him a nod as thank you. As she walked through the grand entrance, whispers followed her every step. Her unique beauty, sharp features, softened by a mysterious aura, captivated the students. Everybody knew who she was. Whispers about her father’s influence and her wealth swirled around, making her the centre of attention instantly. 

“Welcome, Miss L/N,” principal Lexington smiled and stuck out his hand. “It is a pleasure to have you here. I am direktor Lexington and I will show you around.” 

Y/N shook his hand with a polite smile. It looked like she had media training, she effortlessly spoke and moved. “Thank you, direktor Lexington. I appreciate it.” 

The first few hours of the day were a whirlwind of orientations and introductions. Principal Lexington navigated Y/N through the labyrinthine hallways. At the end of the tour, Y/N had to wait in front of Lexington’s office since he had to get some documents. 

Y/N was wandering around in the hallway, scanning everything. The old architecture impressed her. Her face softened; this felt like she entered a TV show or movie. If she was honest with herself, she didn’t mind being here. 

Just when Y/N turned around to walk back towards Lexington’s office, she bumped into James Beaufort. 

James, tall and striking with an air of confidence, looked down at her, irritation flashing in his eyes. His eyebrows raised. “Watch where you’re going,” he snapped, brushing past her. 

Y/N’s face straightened, and her eyes narrowed. “You bumped into me,” she retorted, her tone icy. 

Cyril, James’ best friend, snickered. “New girl with a temper. This will be interesting.”

The tension was palpable, setting the stage for their contentious relationship. 

Y/N sighed; it all was different from her previous school. She waited for Lexington, who quickly walked over to her. He led her to her new class and showed her the latest schedule. 

“I paired you with James Beaufort,” Lexington mentioned when he and Y/N were standing in the class, taking the attention for the moment. James slowly turned around on his stool, and he lowered his eyebrows. “He will be on your side for this week and guide you through the classes,” Lexington said, looking at James to make sure he would understand it. “You can sit right next to him, Miss L/N. Welcome, and have a wonderful time here.” He gave her a nod and walked away. 

The teacher warmly smiled. “Welcome. Please, take a seat. Mr. Beaufort will catch you up with the chapter.”

Y/N walked over to James, waiting for Cyril to pack his stuff and move to another table. Cyril raised his eyebrow, looking impressed and moved to the table behind them. Y/N hung her blazer over the chair and sat down next to James. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” James mumbled under his breath. 

Y/N clenched her jaw. “Trust me, I’m not thrilled either.” 

“You don’t even know me.”

“And you don’t even know me,” she whispered, getting her stuff from her bag. But the moment in the hallway said enough about him, Y/N thought. 

He sighed and focused on the class, pretending Y/N wasn’t even there. 

The hour went by, and it was time for lunch. Before Y/N could pack her bag and get up, James had already left with his friends. Y/N looked at how they left, pausing her packing. He was a douche, that was clear to her. Her eyes met a girl’s eyes, who walked up to her. 

“Don’t mind him,” she said. “He’s… just James Beaufort.” 

“He’s not interesting to me,” Y/N replied and carefully smiled. 

“Good,” the girl said. “I’m Amelia, by the way.” 

“Y/N.”

“I know,” the friendly-looking girl smiled. “I’ll show you around.”

Amelia and Y/N chatted about their lives and entered the grand dining hall. Y/N was aware of the eyes on her. She scanned the room, finding an empty sport at a table for her and Amelia. They got something to eat. Y/N learned about the school’s social hierarchy: James Beaufort was the unofficial king of Maxton Hall. His popularity and charm made him a leader, but his arrogance rubbed Y/N the wrong way. 

“So, what’s your story?” Amelia asked, curiosity in her eyes. 

Y/N hesitated. “My dad’s a politician, as you may know. And it looks like he will become the new prime minister.” She looked around, scanning the hall. “My dad didn’t want me to be in London anymore, something with security. So he sent me to my mum, and I moved to the countryside.”

Amelia nodded understandingly. “Must be tough.”

Y/N shrugged. “It has its moments. And what about you?”

“It sounds so awful, honestly, but my parents won the lottery, and they invested in big companies, so here I am.”

Y/N nodded impressively. “It’s the first time I’ve met someone who has won the lottery of her parents. What’s their secret?”

“If I know, I would tell.”

They shared a laugh, but they got overruled by a loud laugh from the table James Beaufort sat at. James was telling a story, and his friends were hanging on his every word. Y/N couldn’t help but feel a pang of irritation. 

“Don’t let him get to you,” Amelia said, noticing Y/N’s gaze. “He’s used to getting his way.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “I’m not worried. Giving those guys attention, makes them even worse.”

Amelia’s eyes squinted. “I like you,” she said like she wasn’t sure about it first. 

As the days passed, Y/N tried to settle into her new routine. Despite her best efforts to avoid James, their paths seemed to cross constantly. James didn’t want to be Y/N’s buddy, he didn’t want to be anyone’s buddy. Besides, other people were helping Y/N already. However, they met in classes, in the halls, and even during extracurricular activities. Each encounter was a reminder of the tension between them.

The first political debate about the presidency was on air during class. During lunchtime, everybody was watching and talking to Y/N since her father set up a very interesting debate. After lunch, Y/N’s class had an hour to spare. Y/N went to the library to study. She was struggling, deep in thought, when she heard a familiar voice. 

“Enjoying the attention?”

Y/N looked next to her; James Beaufort was standing against the stool next to her with his back. He didn’t bother to look at her, yet he was waiting for a reply. “I didn’t ask for it.”

“Clearly, you’re used to it,” he replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Whatever my dad has to do, is none of my business.”

James finally turned to face her, his expression unreadable. “Your dad’s a big deal, huh?”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “He’s just a politician.”

“Just a politician,” James repeated, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Must be nice.”

Y/N bristled at his condescending tone. “You think you know everything about me just because of who my dad is?”

James shrugged. “I don’t need to know everything. Just enough to know that you’re not as special as you think you are.”

Y/N’s jaw clenched. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Maybe not,” James admitted, his gaze piercing. “But I know enough.”

“And what exactly are you doing here? Can I help you?”

James paused, his gaze flickering with uncertainty momentarily before he regained his composure. “I was just passing by,” he replied casually, though there was a hint of defensiveness in his tone. “Thought I’d see what the new girl was up to.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, scepticism is evident in her expression. “Right,” she said, unconvinced. “Well, if you’re not here to help, then I suggest you leave me to my studies.”

James hesitated, his jaw tensing slightly. For a moment, it seemed as though he might argue, but then he simply nodded and turned to walk away. Y/N watched him go, a mixture of frustration and curiosity swirling inside her.

Click here to go to part 2

[blank-potato]

i don't want to fix him

Pairing: Ivan "Vanya" Zakharov x Reader

Warnings: 18+ smut, degradation kink, oral sex (male receiving), p in v sex

Summary: 

He could be so dismissive of you. You had never seen him look at you like that like you were nothing, like you didn’t matter. You kinda liked it. Or When he absentmindedly degrades you, you realise like it when he’s toxic and would do anything for it to happen again.

A/N:

He's toxic and I hate him but I also love him so I have to write about him and I have too many ideas. Enjoy the depravity :) Also, I google translated the Russian and put the transliteration of the Cyrillic script when he's speaking Russian so sorry to native speakers if it's gibberish

❤︎❤︎❤︎

You were his favourite toy. 

His prize.

You met at the strip club where you worked, and he made it clear from the start that he wanted you. And when Vanya wanted something, he got it.

It was easy to like him–he had this effortless, easygoing charm that made him so appealing. He was untouchable, like a rich kid in a candy shop, buying up everything he wanted because money was no object to him. You understood it. If the world was at your fingertips, if all you had to do was reach out and it was yours, you’d act like him too. Like you hadn’t a care in the world.

Now, his arms wrap around you, his head resting against your neck as you both stand in front of an opulent mirror in a Chanel boutique. The silk of a $10,000 dress clings to your body like it was made for you.

“Do you like?” Vanya says sweetly, his voice soft and indulgent.

You nod with a smile so big, you’re surprised you’re cheeks don’t ache. He loves spoiling you. Loves draping you in luxury, in proof of his devotion to you as well as his power over you and you loved it too. 

“No one compares to you,” he says, eyes drinking you in. “You’re like a… fucking masterpiece.”

“Oh yeah?” you reply, your voice laced with teasing defiance as he smirks down at you.

"Yes, like..." He pauses, glancing around as if deep in thought before flashing a grin. "One million percent, yes."

You giggle and he grips your waist, effortlessly spinning you around, he leans in, whispering sweet nothings into your hair. 

It was perfect. 

That’s not to say that he didn’t have his faults. He could be aloof, childish, unrealistic and … mean. 

You had been at his house one day, watching him play video games as usual. You didn’t really know why he’d have you over and then proceed to ignore you. All you’d do is sit in his lap or wander around until he eventually decided to fuck you.

Well, you stood in front of the TV one too many times so he died in his game, and he just sighed, jaw tightening as he finally looked at you–really looked at you. It wasn’t that he yelled or raised his voice, but that look in his eyes made something inside you twist.

"Chto za khernya? (What the hell?)," he huffed. "Trakhat'sya yedinstvennoye, na chto ty godish'sya? (Is fucking the only thing you’re good for)?”

It was an offhanded comment, something he hadn’t really thought about before saying. The words just slipped out, sharp and dismissive.

He barely glanced at you as he started a new game, but without a moment's hesitation, he stood up and pulled you back onto his lap, as if nothing had happened. When he spoke to you a few minutes later, he was all smiles and laughs, kissing all over your face when he eventually won but that little outburst had awoken something in you.

He could be so dismissive of you.

You had never seen him look at you like that like you were nothing, like you didn’t matter.

You kinda liked it.

The happy-go-lucky Vanya you know and love being so cold to you. It was something so rare but sweet. You simply needed more of it. More of him looking down on you, acting like you were nothing and everything all at once. You started to piss him off more often, you wanted to see him snap again. 

You pushed and pushed. You swiped his credit card to buy things you didn’t need and even “accidentally” scraped one of his cars, but nothing seemed to stick.

Then, at one of Vanya’s parties, when some guy came up to you, leaning in just a little too close, you saw it.

“Oh, I’m with–” You trailed off, catching the look on Vanya’s face.

If you didn’t know him, you’d think nothing was amiss. He was laughing with his friends, drink in hand, seemingly unbothered. But you knew better. His fists were slightly clenched. The smile didn’t reach his eyes.

So you placed your hand on the guy’s chest, pretending to be interested in whatever bullshit he was saying–just to see how far you could push. Finally having enough, he moved, slipping his arm around your waist.

“I gotta go,” you said to the guy, barely getting the words out before Vanya was already pulling you away. His grip was firm but not rough, fingers wrapping around your wrist as he led you through the familiar halls of his mansion, up the grand staircase, and into his bedroom.

The door shut behind you with a quiet click.

“What was that?” His voice was low, and controlled, but you could feel the tension radiating off him.

“I was just talking–”

“I told you. You and me, exclusive,” he cut you off. “So no talking to other guys.”

He runs his fingers through his hair frustrated and your blatant disrespect. 

“What don’t you understand? It’s simple. You’re mine and you can’t go around and flirt because you can’t help yourself. Zachem ya voobshche derzhu tebya ryadom? (Why do I even keep you around?)”

Amid his mocking, tearing you down, he catches it. Your thighs squeezing together, a desperate attempt to quell the intense, aching need coursing through you.

He lets out a laugh, low and sarcastic, dripping with amusement.

“Oh, fuck… you like this?”

His eyes darken as he tilts his head, studying you like he’s just uncovered your deepest, dirtiest secret.

“Hm? You like when I’m mean?”

You nodded slowly. There was that twisted, desperate part of you that wanted it. Wanted him to ruin you.

“Pathetic.”

You hoped he didn’t mean it.

But you also hoped he did.

Pushing you down until you're seated on the bed, your breath hitching, pulse-pounding, arousal at its peak. He takes your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up toward him, his grip firm, possessive. Then he kisses you roughly like he’s trying to devour you, to own you.

“Knees.”

He watches as you sink to your knees with obedience, eyes flickering up at him. He’s not used to submission, at least not this level, but he’s not complaining. The way you shamelessly enjoy it when he talks down to you, the way you’re perfectly happy being his doormat. Having you like this was doing wonders for his already massive ego. He bites his lip as you tug down his trousers, amusement and hunger flickering in his gaze.

You take him into your mouth, setting a comfortable pace and taking as much of him into your mouth as you can. You’re so eager to please him, each gasp and moan he makes acting as your source of motivation. You go deeper, hollowing your cheeks as you go down on him. Suddenly he pulls you down, his cock hitting the back your throat, his hands furling into your hair and he controls you, not letting you up. Every tug, every pull, every sharp snap of his hips reminds you, that you’re his.

He has no regard for you as you continue to gag and grip his thighs in desperation. Drool escaping your mouth and falling between your breasts when he slides your mouth up his shaft. The sloppy sounds of you attempting to swallow around him only make you more horny, as if it’s proof of your devotion to him. You're sure you look absolutely wrecked–mascara smudged, lips swollen, cheeks flushed with heat; an undignified mess. 

“Posmotri na menya, shlyukha, (Look at me, slut),” he says breathlessly.

Following his command, you look up at him, your vision hazy, lips parted as you meet his gaze. The handsome face looking back down at you is contorted with pure bliss, the sight of him so breathtakingly beautiful that you think it belongs in an art gallery. He then gives you an innocent little smile, like he isn’t currently ruining you. To think such awful things could come out of such a pretty mouth but you suppose that’s half the appeal. 

He pulls you down further until you’re deepthroating his cock and by the way his eyes light up you can tell he’s revelling in it. Revelling in the pleasure you’re giving him, in the way you submit without hesitation. He pulls back allowing you to breathe and you take in all the air you can get. He nods to the bed and you immediately catch on, crawling onto it as fast as you can. He takes his position behind you, admiring your body as he does so. He pulls up the bottom of your dress tugs your panties off and sees that you’re practically dripping.

“So desperate for me, aren’t you?” he comments amused at the state he has you in. He pouts when you don’t respond right away and decides to teach you a lesson. He slaps your ass, the sharp crack echoing in the room, making you jolt.

“Answer me.” His voice is light but commanding.

“Y-yes, I am,” you stammer, breathless, your body burning under his touch.

“Khoroshaya devochka (Good girl),” he says before sliding into your already wet pussy with ease.

He fucks you hard, pulling your hips back to meet his thrusts. You bury your face in the mattress as you cry out for him, you’re not sure if it’s doing a good enough job of muffling the sounds but you don’t care. The way he’s using you without abandon has you spiralling, barely holding on. Unsatisfied with how you were biting back your beautiful sounds, he grips your hair and yanks you up, forcing your head back.

“Need to hear you,” he murmurs, voice thick with hunger. His eyes darken as he leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin.

“Need everyone to hear you.”

The next few thrusts have you whimpering, screaming and crying as he fucks you so hard that you’re drooling. You’d be surprised if no one heard you over the club beats pounding downstairs.

He giggles, a sound so deceptively sweet, so much like the usual Vanya. But right now, he is anything but that.

From the way his hips start to stutter, you can tell he’s close. His moans grow louder, more desperate, losing his control. A few moments later, he shudders, gripping your hips tighter as he fills you up with everything he has. Your legs give up as he buries each shot of his load into you like you are nothing more than his fleshlight. As he starts to soften, he pulls out and you miss the feeling of him inside of you immediately.

“Wait, I didn’t–” you start to protest, but Vanya’s bored, unimpressed look stops you cold like he’s already tired of hearing your voice.

“Wait until after the party,” he says, already turning away. “Then I’ll let you finish.”

But just before he steps out, he glances back, his expression dark and amused.

“And this,” he says, fingers trailing lazily over your slick folds, making you shake, “you don’t touch until I get back.”

With that, he leaves the room, his cum still spilling out of you.

Masterlist

[redflagshipwriter]

Hot Ghouls in your area 7

masterpost

Chapter 7 

…Jason slowly put down the book and turned it cover up, shell-shocked from that interaction. He lifted his phone and took a photo. He sent it to Roy. 

“What do you see?” He typed. Jason bit his lower lip and tried not to scowl while he waited for a response. 

It wasn’t that Jason was unused to conflict. Jason was great at conflict. He won every conflict! (Almost.) But what the hell had this shit been? Why had that guy been so pissy about the book? What the hell was wrong with the book that Jason didn’t see?

“Gibberish?” Roy texted back a few minutes later. “It gives the impression of wonky Cyrillic to me. But it's got a terrible energy to it. The hell is that?”

Jason looked at the cover. To his eyes, there was a serif font declaring it Sense and Sensibility Universe D version 5. 

“Thanks,” he sent, ignoring the question and then the barrage of heart emojis. Shit, okay. 

That answered one question. But it didn't answer enough. What the fuck had that college kid been seeing that was so offensive? 

‘And why'd he think we would meet again?’ 

Jason pushed deep, deep down any awareness that he hoped it was true. That had been weird enough that it would bother him forever if he didn’t get answers.

He sort of hated the idea of getting his nosy family involved, but they would ask different and in some ways, less annoying questions than other groups he could poll. They'd know not to lie to him, at least. So he sent the picture on to the family group chat with the same question and grimly finished his tea. 

The elderly proprietor came out then and noticed that her other customer was gone. She looked confused for a moment, scanning the seat to see if his book bag was still there. She picked up the cash he'd left on the table and then started stacking dishes.

‘He’s a regular,’ Jason guessed, honing in on the opportunity to learn more. He flipped the book open but held the apparently offensive cover down towards the table, out of her line of sight. He needed to know what had gone so wrong. Jason wasn’t normally the kind of person that cute college kids had beef with.

He'd never been in this café before, his intuition had just told him to duck inside.

“I think he forgot something,” Jason offered casually, pretending to just look up from his book. “Ran out real quick in a panic.” 

The lady let out a soft “Ahhh,” of comprehension. “Something for his afternoon class, perhaps,” she agreed, looking a little happier. 

“Yeah, it looked like he was getting ready to settle in for a long study session and then he bolted,” Jason lied, watching her underneath his lashes. He had been paying a little more attention than he ought to when the guy came in. He was Jason’s type, aside from the thing where he’d hated Jason’s face for no apparent reason-

‘No, actually, everyone I’ve ever been into hated me on sight.’

Ouch. As Jason digested that embarrassing truth, the owner continued talking.

“He does that,” she agreed, apparently not thinking it was odd at all for them to talk about the habits of another customer. “Tuesdays and Thursdays. He's a sharp cookie, did you know that?” She continued, and oh, she had halfway adopted this college kid, huh? There was warmth and a hint of pride in her tone.

Jason valiantly swallowed the snort. “He looks familiar, but I don't think we have classes together,” he fished. 

“Mm, he's doing some kind of math and engineering,” the lady helpfully supplied. She gave Jason her full attention as she stood up from the table. “And you?”

“Modern language and literature,” Jason said, and sort of wished it was true. He didn't really have the time. Did he? Spoiler was a full-time student, wasn't she? …Huh.

While he chewed that over, the lady had drifted a couple steps closer.

“...Those are two meaningfully different courses?” 

“Modern language is learning additional languages, I'm doing Russian and Greek right now,” Jason lied easily. He was fluent in both already. “Literature is mostly classics, for my purposes. I'm focusing on Regency Lit.” 

She looked very interested, but she detoured away to deposit the dirty dishes behind the counter. They kept up a light conversation about books as she wiped off the table and reset for the next customer. 

When she left, he finally had the chance to check his messages. There was a full-on fight in the group chat. The last message was from Stephanie. She had tagged him and asked, “Is this an optical illusion??? Like that dress?”

Ah, fuck. Jason felt a rock settle in his stomach at the confirmation that something hinky was going on.

‘I can’t read this in public if it’s saying something I can’t control or even know.’

Fucking hell. Jason scrolled back up and checked. Damian listed the correct title. Dick saw what, ‘I thought was Greek at first.’ Stephanie might have been joking but she argued vigorously that it was pictographs that started with a bird. Drake had sent “You rediscovered Minoan Linear A? Cool.” and then not participated in any follow-up discussions. Duke had sent only a stream of confused and tearful emojis.

Cass had marked it read.

“Fair enough, I guess,” Jason muttered to himself. Resentfully he put the book back in his bag. 

What had that guy seen? If he’d just seen something foreign but illegible he wouldn’t have gotten so pissy about it. And who the hell had he been, anyway? Why was he so special?

Well. That was something to do with his afternoon. Jason paid up his bill and gave Phyllis his well-wishes for her doctor’s appointment tomorrow on the way out. Phyllis was a good contact, he would definitely come back for more of her jasmine tea no matter how mad that guy got at him.

…Jason really needed a name.

And found…

He headed to Gotham University and used the student computers to look up departments and then hack into the registrar. Jason flipped through photos until he found his guy: Danny Fenton, 19, sophomore double-major in the Engineering department. Good grades, no notes on his account about academic dishonesty or conflict.

'Little weird to meet two Dannys in a 24 hour period.'

Jason searched the guy online and found…

He let his mouth drop open in disbelief at the batshit insane website design he had stumbled into. The Fenton family had a website, apparently, and they had maybe let a 7 year old design it in 2008. The colors… The lack of centering… The.. the neon choices.

His eyes watered. It took a while to fight down his aesthetic grief and actually start comprehending the text.

He had expected this to be like, an online family newsletter. And it was! The link he had followed detailed “Danno going to college in the big city!!!” The boy himself looked extremely resigned in the attached photo. Seriously, Jason had seen much less mortified mugshots. The thing was, that on the same page, alongside posts about other kids going college (Jazzypants!) and someone called Alicia recovering from “supergout!” with "her eight favorite toes remaining!!!", there was also a lot of mention of ghosts.

Like, a lot.

Jason scrolled in pained disbelief. There were photos that showed extremely weird and dismayed green people obviously flinching away from a camera. A beautiful green woman with her hair halfway over her face snarled through a flood of smoke under the title “Wishywish Ghostie Interviewed: Learn what drives her generous heart!” and an ugly robot motherfucker was seen fleeing under the caption, “Skalker indicates that spook is a GHOST SLUR!”

….Was it a shit post? Just one long shitpost? It had to be a joke site.

Well. No. Jason buried his face in his hands and came to terms with the horrible fact that not only were ghosts real, he was accidentally married to one and this bombastic midwestern family already knew about it. This was his best lead for getting that 'beyond death do you part' separation.

They had been blasting the existence of ghosts for all the world to read, and it hadn’t been news. The Justice League didn’t know about this whole society. The journalism done by– Jason lifted his head to check– Jack Fenton interviewing clearly very unwilling ghosts was the only primary source that he knew of. 

He took a few deep breaths. He came to terms with grief. He decided to block his family from any further involvement in this shitshow, for what remained of his dignity. And he grimly noted down Jack Fenton’s email.

Jason cleared this history and closed down his tabs, feeling a decade older than he had when he had entered the library. He ignored the sultry ‘come talk to me’ eye contact that the student worker was shooting him from behind the counter as he slouched out. 

He stopped for a moment on top of the stairs to watch campus move. He saw the theatre building and the modern language headquarters from his vantage point, along with about half of the student center. There was just a trickle of foot traffic between buildings along paved paths. A few people were hanging out on blankets in the grass. An old man in a suit was taking a phone call next to a crawling rose garden. 

‘Maybe I should go to school.’

Well. After this shit was sorted out. Obviously he could not go to school before he got divorced. It would be torturous to hang out with cute boys his age and be committed to some hot dead mermaid who didn’t even wanna make out with him sloppy. Loser shit on absolutely every level, goddamn.

Jason shoved his hands in his pockets and jogged down the stairs. He kept an eye out for Danny, but had no luck.  

Not that he cared. It was interesting that he had a lead: Danny clearly had some connection to ghosts, and he had been able to read… 

‘Maybe he realized it was a ghost’s property and he thought I stole it?’ Jason realized in a stroke of inspiration. That made more sense. If he knew enough to recognize it as ghost language or whatever, then he might have felt affronted about Jason having it.

He went through his mental checklist to pick out what he did and didn’t know. Once he felt he had a hang on his priorities, he beelined to his own laptop in his favorite safehouse and started looking into the Fentons in more depth.

It was a great lead. It was suspiciously good, in fact, he thought as he found Jack Fenton’s online family newsletter again. What were the odds that he would run into Danny Fenton in a cafe that Jason had never even been in before? It had been a total fluke that he’d entered. He’d been walking past to a favorite place and then just had the urge to try the dark little family cafe.

‘…Ah, fuck’, Jason sighed. More ghost shit. It had to be. Something about Danny Fenton’s ghost shit had registered to him now that he’d been exposed to ghost central.

[communicationthroughlyrics]

I Can't Hide The Way I'm Feelin' Pt. 1

You have a propensity for tardiness, and your new interim professor will have none of it.

Reader is Intersex- Smut to 'cum'

A/N: Thanks to @gswha for this request- it's kinda grown a bit so it'll be a two-part affair! We're basing this Nat interaction off of Natalie Rushman, since she was pretty 'professorly' XD

Word Count: 6.4k

"Shit," you mumble to yourself, hopping around your dorm room, trying to get yourself dressed as quickly as you could. Your leg got stuck in the material of your jeans, causing you to fall to the ground with a loud thud as you stared up at the ceiling. "Fuck." You had overslept. Again. But this time, you were late for your Slavic Studies class, and you knew you had a fill-in teacher today. They would be a long-term substitute, something about your primary teacher having a family emergency back in Europe. With luck, you would get a substitute that didn't care- but you knew you weren't that lucky.

As you rushed out of your building, the cold wind slapped you in the face, reminding you that you had forgotten your jacket. You quicken your pace, the chill of autumn making you shiver as you make your way to the lecture hall. The door was open a crack, and you could hear the muffled sounds of the class already in session. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the inevitable scolding that awaited you.

You pushed open the door, trying not to make it creak as you attempted to sneak into class. Your eyes darted around, finding your best friend, Steve, already in class. He normally looked disinterested, as this was his least favorite class in his schedule this semester, but he seemed to have a newfound excitement surrounding the class. You wondered what had changed, but that question was soon answered when your eyes landed on the figure at the front of the room.

Before the class was a toned figure, her curves accentuated by the black dress she was wearing. Her burnished copper hair was done in waves, cascading down her back, and moving like there was a gentle breeze through the lecture hall. Her eyes, a piercing shade of green, snapped to you as the door creaked shut. She was the new teacher, Dr. Natasha Romanoff. You had heard whispers about her, rumors of her sharp wit and strict demeanor, but you weren't prepared for the reality of her presence.

The room fell silent, all eyes on you as you stumbled over your own feet trying to get to your seat. Dr. Romanoff's gaze didn't waver, and you felt the weight of her stare like a hand pressing into your chest. She tapped her foot impatiently, the sound echoing through the room like a metronome counting down to your doom.

"Well, don't just stand there," she said, her Russian accent thick and commanding. "Take a seat and don't interrupt my lecture again." You heard a few snickers, and quickly made your way to sit next to Steve, the look on his face a mixture of amusement and cockiness.

Dr. Romanoff went back to her lesson, her voice firm and knowledgeable as she discussed the historical significance of the Cyrillic alphabet. You tried to focus, but your mind kept wandering as you watched the woman down below. Steve leaned over and whispered, "You really know how to make an impression." You shot him a glare, but his smirk only grew wider.

You smacked his forearm, a dull thud echoing throughout the silent hall. "Shut up, Steve," you whisper-yell at him, the thud again drawing the attention of your new temporary professor.

"Is my lecture disrupting you two?" Dr. Romanoff's sharp gaze swiveled from Steve to you. The room was so quiet you could almost hear the pages of the textbooks rustling with the tension.

"No, ma'am," Steve said quickly, his smirk replaced by a look of contrition. You nodded in agreement, feeling your cheeks heat up.

"No, Professor Romanoff." you echo, looking down at your books.

"Good," she turned back to the board, scribbling a few more things. "Oh, and Ms..." she turned around, her attention directed right at you.

"Y/N. My name is Y/N."

"Right, Ms. Y/N. I know you missed the beginning of class," she began, walking to the end of the riser that she was on down below. "But I go by Dr. Romanoff." She leaned against the podium, folding her arms across her chest. "I expect punctuality from all my students. This is not a high school hallway, this is a place of higher learning. I'm sure you can appreciate the difference, yes?"

You nodded, swallowing down the embarrassment. Steve was shaking with suppressed laughter next to you, and you shot him another glare.

"If you can't respect the rules of the classroom," Dr. Romanoff continued, her eyes boring into yours, "then maybe you don't belong in this class."

The sniggers echoed across the classroom, as your peers stifled thier laughter. The heat in your cheeks grew into a full-blown blush, spreading down to your neck. You knew Dr. Romanoff's words were a warning shot, and you weren't going to let it get to you. If she was going to call you out, you would make her regret taking this class on.

But as the day rolled into night, you found yourself back in your usual routine. Your friends dragged you out to the local college bar, the smell of stale beer and sweat already wafting through the door. You knew you should keep it light tonight since you had an early class tomorrow, which was your Slavic Studies course. But one drink turned into two, and before you knew it, you were three sheets to the wind. You woke up with a snoring, drooling mess of a woman naked on your chest.

Her hair was a tangled mess of blond, and she had the name of the bar inked on her lower back. You couldn't even remember her name. She was beautiful in the drunken haze of the night before, but in the harsh light of day, she looked like a college freshman who had gone wild on spring break. You gently peeled her off, noticing the time on the clock that read 9 AM.

"Fuck," you whispered, jumping out of bed and shoving your feet into your shoes. You had five minutes to get to class, and your head felt like it was going to implode. The room spun as you stumbled around, trying to grab your bag and jacket. The girl stirred, rubbing her eyes and looking around, bewildered.

"You're leaving?" she slurred, her voice thick with sleep.

"Yeah," you said, trying to sound nonchalant as you threw on your shirt. "I've got class."

The blond girl frowned, sitting up and crossing her arms. "Can't you just skip it?"

"Not if I want to pass," you replied, zipping up your jeans. "Besides, it's Slavic Studies with Dr. Romanoff. She's not the type to let you slide."

"Oh, the hottie professor," the girl said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Can't miss that."

You rolled your eyes, pulling on your shoes. "It's not like that," you mumbled, grabbing your keys and phone from the nightstand. "It's just that she's really strict. You can see yourself out, right...." you waited, not remembering the girl's name.

She rolled her eyes, standing up in her bare glory in the middle of your room. "I should have known you wouldn't remember a thing," she said, snatching her dress from the floor. "Figures you'd be that one."

Ignoring her, you dashed out of the room, the cool air outside a stark contrast to the warmth of the bed you had just vacated. You had never been so late for a class before, and the thought of facing Dr. Romanoff's wrath made your stomach twist into knots. Your feet pounded against the pavement as you sprinted towards the lecture hall, your heart racing in your chest. You weren't sure if you wanted to push her buttons, but yet, here you are doing just that.

You burst through the doors of the lecture hall, sweat beading on your forehead and your breath coming in gasps. The room was eerily quiet, the students all staring at you, and in the front, Dr. Romanoff had her arms crossed over her chest, her expression a storm of annoyance and anger.

"I see punctuality is not a concept you are familiar with, Ms. Y/N," she said, her voice as sharp as a knife. The class tittered again, and you felt your cheeks burn as she called you out. You took your seat, trying to ignore the snickers and smirks of your classmates. Steve was even stifling his laughter.

The lecture continued, but your mind was elsewhere. You couldn't focus on the intricate history of Eastern European linguistics when all you could think about was the woman in front of you. She was a force to be reckoned with, and you had never been one to back down from a challenge. You felt a strange thrill at the thought of pushing her buttons, of seeing how far you could take this game of cat and mouse.

Your mind drifted to picturing that red hair in a flaming halo around her head as she lay sprawled out on your bed, or what her raspy, thick accent would sound like moaning in your ear as you pounded into her. You felt a twitch in your pants and quickly shifted in your seat, hoping no one had noticed. Steve's elbow dug into your side, and you snapped your head towards him, only to find him grinning like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

"Earth to Y/N," Steve whispered, jolting you out of your trance. "You okay over there?"

You shot him a glare, trying to keep your face from giving away the embarrassing direction of your thoughts. "I'm fine," you hissed, turning back to the front of the class. Dr. Romanoff was still speaking, her eyes scanning the room as if daring someone to interrupt her again.

For the next few weeks, you managed to show up to class on time twice, but the rest of the days were a blur of oversleeping, forgetting your homework, and stumbling in late with a hangover. Each time, Dr. Romanoff's displeasure grew more palpable, her eyes narrowing at your disheveled state. You found yourself drawn to her, the challenge of getting under her skin becoming a thrilling game that you couldn't resist. The tension in the room was thick, a silent battle of wills that had the rest of the class either avoiding eye contact or eagerly awaiting the next confrontation.

One rainy afternoon, you sauntered into class, drenched from head to toe, your hair sticking to your face. You had been at the bar the night before, trying to dull the pain of your latest failed relationship. Dr. Romanoff's gaze followed you like a spotlight as you shuffled to your seat, the sound of your soggy shoes leaving wet prints on the floor.

"Is there a reason you feel the need to make such a grand entrance every day, Ms. Y/N?" she called out, her tone icy.

"I do it just to get your attention, Professor Romanoff," you emphasize the 'professor', saying it just to dig at her a little bit more.

Her eyebrow quirks up at your remark, but she doesn't respond. Instead, she turns back to the board, her hand gracefully writing out the day's lecture notes. The class shifts uncomfortably, the energy in the room charged with the unspoken tension between you two. You couldn't help but feel a twinge of satisfaction at getting a reaction out of her, even if it was just a minor one.

Days turned into weeks, and your little game of rebellion became the norm. You would show up late, sometimes smelling faintly of the bar, your eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, and she would give you that look—a mix of annoyance and something else you couldn't quite place. You knew you were pushing her buttons, and it was thrilling. Each time she called on you, you would give a half-hearted answer, just enough to get by, watching the frustration build in her eyes.

But as the days grew shorter and the leaves turned a fiery hue, Dr. Romanoff's patience grew thinner. One particularly dreary afternoon, you stumbled in, your breath reeking of last night's tequila, your eyes glued to your phone as you took your seat. The room was silent except for the steady patter of rain outside.

"Ms. Y/N, may I have your attention, please?" she said, her voice slicing through the air like a knife. You looked up, noticing the rest of the class had already settled in, their eyes on you. You felt a flash of annoyance, but also something else—desire. You had never been the rebellious type, but Dr. Romanoff brought it out in you.

You set your phone down with a clatter, smirking. "Sorry, Professor. Did I miss anything important?”

Her eyes narrowed, and you could see the muscles in her jaw tense. "Only your own dignity," she quipped, her Russian accent rolling off the words like a purr. The class snickered again, and you felt your cheeks burn with humiliation. But you weren't about to let her win.

"Is there something you'd like to share with the class, Dr. Romanoff?" you asked, playing coy. You knew you were playing with fire, but you couldn't help yourself. The thrill of the chase was too exhilarating to resist. Steve elbowed you in the side, making you let out a small grunt.

Her eyes narrowed even further, the storm clouds in her gaze hinting at the tempest brewing beneath her calm exterior. "No, Ms. Y/N, but I believe it's time we had a little chat after class."

The words hung in the air, electric with promise. You felt a mix of dread and anticipation, your heart racing in your chest. You had pushed her to her limits, and now you were about to face the consequences. The lecture dragged on, each second feeling like an eternity as you waited for the moment you'd be alone with her.

Finally, the bell rang, and the room emptied out, leaving only the faint echoes of retreating footsteps and the soft patter of rain outside. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the confrontation to come. Dr. Romanoff was still at the podium, her eyes never leaving yours as she packed up her things.

"Ms. Y/N," she called out, her voice as sharp as the click of her heels against the floor as she approached. "I've had enough of your disrespectful behavior. It's time you learned the importance of punctuality and respect."

You met her gaze, your heart racing as you felt a strange thrill at the promise of retribution. "What are you going to do, Professor?" you challenged, your voice steady despite the tremor in your hands.

"I'm going to teach you a lesson you won't forget," she said, her voice low and dangerous. She gestured towards the door at the end of the classroom. "Follow me."

You swallowed hard, feeling a mix of fear and excitement as you followed her into the empty hallway. The door to her office was slightly ajar, and she pushed it open, revealing a small, neatly organized space filled with the scent of old books and something faintly metallic. The rain outside had picked up, drumming against the windows like a serenade to your impending doom.

"Take a seat," she ordered, pointing to the chair in front of her desk. You obeyed, your legs feeling like jelly as you sat down. She closed the door with a firm click, and the room seemed to shrink around you. She moved around the desk, heels clicking as her hips swayed in a way that was both mesmerizing and intimidating.

"You've been testing my patience," she began her voice a soft caress that belied the sternness in her eyes. "It seems like you are a bit..." She paused, her gaze drilling into yours. "Distracted."

Your heart raced as you sat there, trying to come up with a witty comeback, but your mouth was as dry as the Sahara. You had never felt so...exposed in front of a teacher before. But there was something about the way she was looking at you that made you feel like she saw right through your bravado.

"I know college is a time for fun," Dr. Romanoff continued, her voice taking on a softer, almost...understanding tone. "But it is also a time for growth and learning. And your behavior suggests to me that you are not taking any of this seriously."

You opened your mouth to protest, but she held up a hand, silencing you. "Don't bother with excuses. I've heard them all before. Instead, I'm going to give you a chance to redeem yourself."

Her gaze was unyielding, and you felt a strange sense of anticipation. "I'm listening," you said, leaning back in the chair, trying to appear nonchalant.

"Good," she said, walking over to the bookshelf and pulling out a thick, leather-bound tome. "You will be staying after your last class every day this week to help me organize the library. And," she added, turning back to face you with the book in hand, "you will be completing all assignments due in the next two weeks by the end of the week. Along with showing up 10 minutes early to class."

Your jaw dropped at the severity of her punishment. "But-"

"No buts," she cut you off, her eyes flashing with a fiery determination. "You want to act like a child, I'll treat you like one. Now, get to work." She settled a stack of books into your lap, leaning back against her desk.

You took the books she handed you, feeling the weight of thier pages and the gravity of her expectations. The smell of leather and dust filled your nose as you looked down at the title of the first book: 'The Historical Significance of Slavic Mythology'. This was going to be a long week.

"But what if I don't finish in time?" You asked, the challenge in your voice clear.

Dr. Romanoff's smile was a sharp line. "Then you'll learn the value of time management," she said, her eyes sparkling with a hint of something that looked suspiciously like amusement. "But I suspect you'll rise to the occasion, Ms. Y/N. After all, I've seen the potential in you."

You scoffed internally at the idea of potential. You were just trying to get through the semester with decent grades and not too many awkward run-ins with your ex. But something in her tone made you want to prove her wrong. Or maybe it was the way she said your name, the way her accent rolled over the syllables that made your stomach flip.

You took the books and trudged out of the classroom, feeling the weight of her gaze on your back. The rain had picked up, soaking your clothes and making you shiver. As you walked to the library, you couldn't help but feel a strange mix of anger and excitement. You had never had a teacher who had affected you like this before. She was like a force of nature, and you had no idea how to navigate the storm she had just thrown you into.

The library was a quiet sanctuary, the only sounds were the occasional rustle of pages and the dull murmur of the rain outside. You found a secluded corner and began to organize the books, your mind racing with thoughts of Dr. Romanoff. Her stern demeanor was a stark contrast to the way she had looked at you, something in her eyes hinting at a deeper curiosity, a challenge that you hadn't quite figured out yet.

As you began to slot the leather-bound textbooks back into thier locations, the stark click of heels soon followed you into the library. Dr. Romanoff had slipped into a long black trench coat, shaking off an umbrella as she walked around to the back of the librarian's counter. She leaned against it, watching you with a curious expression, the material of her dress hugging her figure in a way that made you swallow hard.

"Ms. Y/N," she called out, her voice echoing through the vast, silent room. "You're going to need to focus if you want to get all of this done in time."

You glared at her over the stack of books, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. "Working on it," you muttered, trying not to let your annoyance show.

"Good," she said, her eyes scanning the rows of books. "Remember, Ms. Y/N, this isn't just busywork. It's an opportunity for you to show me that you're capable of taking responsibility for your actions."

You bit your tongue, resisting the urge to snap back. Instead, you focused on the task at hand, meticulously placing each book in its rightful spot. Hours passed, and the library grew darker as the rain outside turned into a full-blown storm. The only light was the dim glow of the pendant lamps that hung from the high ceiling, casting eerie shadows across the bookshelves.

"Is this really necessary?" you complained, your voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "I'm going to be here all night."

"Well, if you're here all night, I guess you can't be whoring yourself around at the campus bars." Dr. Romanoff's voice was as sharp as the crack of thunder outside. You whipped your head around, glaring at her.

"Excuse me?"

Dr. Romanoff didn't flinch at your outrage. She leaned over the counter, her elbows resting on the cool wood as she studied you. "I know your type, Ms. Y/N. You think you're above this all, that you can just skate by without any real effort." She paused, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. "But I see through your facade."

Her words stung, and you felt a surge of anger at her accusation. "You don't know me," you snapped, slamming a book down on the counter. "You're just a teacher, not my mother."

Dr. Romanoff's smile grew wider, as if she enjoyed your defiance. "And yet, I see more of you than you think," she said, her voice dropping to a murmur that sent a shiver down your spine. "I see the potential, the intelligence, buried beneath your carelessness. Maybe you should quit acting like a child, and I wouldn't have to watch you like your mother."

You felt your cheeks burn with indignation. "I don't need a babysitter," you spat out, crossing your arms over your chest.

"No, you don't," she agreed, her eyes still piercing into yours. "But what you do need is discipline."

You rolled your eyes, but something in her tone made you pause. There was a command there, one that resonated deep within you, stirring a part of you that you had buried under layers of carefree college debauchery.

"Is that what you think you're doing?" you asked, trying to keep the anger out of your voice. "Disciplining me?" You set the books down, stalking over to the counter she was leaning against.

Her eyes never left yours as she straightened up. "Maybe that's what you need," she said, her voice low and measured. "Someone to push you to be better than you are. Someone to show you that you can't just glide through life without consequences."

You scoff at her implication. "Yeah, right, Romanoff. That'll show me."

Her expression turns serious. "It's Dr. Romanoff to you, and I mean every word."

You leaned forward, inching your face closer to hers. You were taken aback slightly by the appearance of slight freckles on her face, and how deep her eyes truly were. "You think you can just tell me what to do and I'll listen?" You challenged, your voice low and steady.

Her gaze never wavered. "If you want to pass my class, yes," she said firmly. "But I suspect it's more than that. You crave structure and guidance. Perhaps even...punishment."

"Well, Dr. Romanoff, I would like to see you try." You said, your voice was full of bravado. You were tired of her judgments and her constant needling. You were an adult, capable of making your own choices. You pretended to not notice her breath hitching slightly, and her pupils dilating at your challenge.

"Very well," she said, straightening up. "If you wish to push this, I will give you a taste of what you're asking for." She stepped around the counter, and for a moment, you felt a twinge of fear. But then she opened the drawer and pulled out a stack of index cards. "These are the dates and times of all the assignments due in the next two weeks. You will write them down, and I will check in on your progress every day after class."

You took the cards with trembling hands, the weight of her expectations suddenly feeling very real. "Is this really necessary?" you asked, trying to keep the sarcasm out of your voice.

"You want to see me try, then this is what you asked for, Y/N. And if you still feel the need to spend the night in between someone's legs while blitzed out of your mind, and show up late to class, you will really, truly feel the weight of the consequences of your actions." Her eyes bore into yours, and you felt the challenge in her words.

You turned, walking towards the exit as she called back to you. "Ms. Y/N?" she called out over the books on the counter. You stopped your hand on the doorknob. "Don't forget, I expect to see you promptly in the morning. And don't forget, all those assignments will be double credit whether you do them or not."

Her words hung in the air as you stormed out, the rain now coming down in sheets. Did you feel a strange mix of anger and...excitement? The thought of her waiting for you, watching your every move, was surprisingly thrilling. You didn't know if you were more annoyed at her for making you feel this way or at yourself for letting her get to you. But, if you complete all these assignments with a decent enough grade, you may not have to step foot in her class the rest of the semester.

The next day, you show up to class early, a miracle in itself. After the night you had, drinking yourself into a stupor, and banging some random in the bar bathroom. You groan as you sit in the same seat, feeling the dread of Dr. Romanoffs arrival like a tight coil in your stomach. When she walks in, she doesn't even look at you, but you know she's aware of your presence. You're determined to prove her wrong, to show her that you can handle the work, that you don't need her to babysit you.

The week passes in a blur of early mornings and late nights, your eyes glued to textbooks and your hand cramped from writing notes. You're surprised to find that you're actually learning something, that the Slavic myths and histories are more interesting than you had ever given them credit for. But every time you start to feel a sense of pride in your work, you remember her words—how you're just doing this to avoid her wrath.

On Friday afternoon, you drag yourself into the library, the anticipation of the weekend a distant mirage. Dr. Romanoff is already there, her office light shining like a beacon in the otherwise empty room. She looks up as you approach, her expression unreadable.

"Did you complete the assignments?" she asks, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife.

"No, I've been running myself ragged for my own entertainment," you reply, sarcasm thick in your voice as you dump the completed assignments on her desk. She takes them without a word, flipping through each page with a critical eye. The tension in the room is palpable, making it difficult to breathe. You can't tell if she's impressed or if she's just biding her time before delivering the next round of punishment.

Her eyes finally meet yours, and you see a flicker of something else. "You've done well," she says, her voice devoid of any warmth, her eyes running up and down your frame. "But this isn't over. I will grade these tonight. But, your behavior in class needs to improve."

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. You felt a strange sense of accomplishment, but also a weird anticipation for what she had in store for you next. "What do you want from me?" you ask, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

"Nothing," she says, her voice cold as ice. "Except for you to start acting like an adult. Your education is not a game to be played with. Have a good weekend, Y/N."

You leave the library feeling both relieved and disappointed. You hadn't realized how much you had been looking forward to the confrontation, the way her sternness made you feel...alive. As you walk back to your dorm, the rain has stopped, leaving the world feeling fresh and clean. You decide to take the long way home, needing the time to clear your head. The less-than-holy thoughts that had been running through your mind about the woman had been all-consuming, and lately, they had begun to affect your... performance with others.

Your Friday night comes and goes, a blur of partying and regret, but you can't shake the feeling that Dr. Romanoff's punishment has changed something within you. You find yourself craving the structure she had imposed, the way she had made you feel...seen.

Saturday was more of the same, you woke up around midday, and your head was a pounding reminder of how you spent your Friday night. The silence of your room was broken by the incessant buzzing of your phone. It was Steve, asking if you were going to make it to the party tonight. You groaned, wondering if your body could take another night like last night.

You rolled out of bed and stumbled to the shower, you couldn't help but think about Dr. Romanoff. Her eyes had been haunting what little dreams you had been having the last week, a mix of curiosity and desire swirling in your subconscious. You felt a strange sense of excitement at the prospect of seeing her again, of feeling her gaze on you in class. You shake your head, trying to dislodge the thoughts. Your efforts were futile, however, and your thoughts soon trailed down a dark and dirty path.

You couldn't help the arousal that coursed through your veins at the thought of your professor begging for her punishment, instead of being the one to dish it out. The water cascading over your body did little to cool the heat that had built up within you. As your shower continued, you began to stroke your length, imagining what it would feel like to sheath yourself inside her. The way she would grip the edge of the desk, her knuckles turning white as she took your punishment with every thrust.

You groaned, the water now turning cold, as you reached your climax. The image of her, begging for more, was burned into your mind as you stepped out of the shower. You had to get dressed and get out of there before you did something stupid, like go to her office and bend her over the desk she so often chastised you behind.

You had never had a teacher affect you so deeply, and it was driving you crazy. You tried to shake the thoughts as you got dressed, but they lingered like the scent of her perfume in the library. The party was in full swing by the time you arrived, the bass thumping through the walls and the air thick with the smell of cheap beer and sweat. Steve was already there, his arm around some girl you didn't recognize.

"Hey, you made it!" he shouted over the music, a grin on his face. You nodded, trying to push aside the thoughts of Dr. Romanoff. You grabbed a beer and let yourself be pulled into the sea of bodies, dancing and shouting. The party was the same as every other one, but you felt...different. More aware, more alive. The way you had felt in the library, under her watchful gaze. You continued to drown your thoughts, trying to wash them out of your mind completely.

Losing count of how many drinks and shots you had, you stumbled past the various half-clothed couples making out, the drunken antics, and party games as you made your way out the door of the house you were at. The cold night air slapped you in the face, an attempt by Mother Nature to sober you up a bit as you walked back towards your dorm. You couldn't get the image of Dr. Romanoff out of your head, even amidst the chaos. Deciding that you didn't want to face your dorm just yet, you meandered your way to an off-campus bar up the road.

Inside, the warmth of the bar was a stark contrast to the cold outside, and the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke was oddly comforting. You found a quiet corner and slumped into a chair, ordering a whiskey neat. The bartender, a burly man with a thick beard, gave you a knowing look but said nothing as he slid the drink over to you. You took a sip, the burn of the liquor doing little to numb the arousal you felt about your teacher.

As you sat there, the whiskey warming your belly, you couldn't shake the feeling that you were being watched. You glanced over your shoulder, expecting to see Dr. Romanoff standing there with a disapproving look, but it was just the usual college crowd, too absorbed in their own drama to notice you. But the feeling remained as if her eyes were on you even when they weren't. You continued to drink, your eyes darting around the room until you finished.

"Well, I wish I could say I'm surprised to see you here," a familiar, smoky voice came from behind you. You whipped around, and there she was, Dr. Natasha Romanoff, in a pair of tight black jeans and a leather jacket that hugged her body in all the right places. She took a seat next to you, her eyes never leaving yours.

"What are you doing here?" you asked, trying to keep the shock out of your voice.

"I might ask you the same question, Ms. Y/N," she replied, her voice filled with a hint of amusement. "This is hardly the place for someone who's supposed to be studying."

You felt your cheeks heat up at the rebuke, but she wasn't wrong. You took another sip of your whiskey, the liquid burning a path down your throat. "I needed to try and erase some thoughts," you mumbled, not quite meeting her gaze.

Dr. Romanoff leaned in closer, her eyes searching yours. "Thoughts about what?" she asked, her voice dropping to a murmur that seemed to resonate through your entire body. She slowly slid in next to you, her glass sliding on the table before you.

You swallowed hard, the alcohol doing little to ease the sudden dryness in your throat. "Just...about someone I'm trying to forget," you lied, hoping the dim light of the bar would hide your blush. "They're a bit...intense, and out of my league."

Dr. Romanoff's smile was knowing. "Intense, huh?" she said, her voice low and teasing. "Sounds like a challenge you're not quite ready to handle." She leaned closer, her floral perfume slowly overtaking your senses. "But I suspect you enjoy the thrill of the chase."

"Yeah, I do, at times." You replied, the whiskey loosening your tongue. "But sometimes the chase isn't worth it." You took another sip, trying to keep your cool. Her proximity was unnerving, and the way she leaned into you made it difficult to think straight.

"Is that so?" She leaned back in her chair, her eyes never leaving yours. "And what makes you think you're not capable of handling something intense? From what I have overheard, it sounds like you're...very, capable." The way she said "capable" had your heart racing, and you knew she wasn't just talking about schoolwork anymore.

You tried to play it cool, shrugging nonchalantly. "I can handle myself," you said, your voice steady despite the tumult of emotions swirling inside you. You couldn't help but feel a thrill at her interest, her curiosity about you. "But sometimes, I just want to cool my jets, you know?"

Her gaze was piercing, as if she could see right through your bravado. "I know all about wanting to cool off," she said, her voice taking on a seductive tone that sent a shiver down your spine. "But sometimes, the heat is what makes us grow."

You didn't know how to respond to that, so you took another gulp of your whiskey, the liquid burning a path down your throat. She leaned in even closer, her breath hot against your ear. "But if you truly want to escape your troubles, I can offer you something that might help."

Her hand reached out and brushed against yours, sending a bolt of electricity through your body. You felt your pulse quicken, your heart hammering in your chest. "What are you talking about?" you managed to ask, your voice hoarse.

"Well, Y/N," she began, her voice low, not helping your brain try to forget what she may sound like in bed. "I will miss seeing you in the library, helping me out." She took a sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving yours. "Maybe if you can show up on time, I can help you out."

Your thoughts raced. Did she just offer you a deal? Did she just flirt with you? "What do you mean?" You asked, trying to play it cool, even though your heart was racing.

"Well, Y/N, you'll just have to wait and find out." Dr. Romanoff's smile was enigmatic, her eyes gleaming with a hint of mischief. She leaned back in her chair, the leather squeaking slightly as she put some distance between you. "I'll see you on Monday, Y/N." she winked before she got up, leaving you sitting there, dumbfounded.

The weekend dragged on, filled with a mix of anticipation and dread. Monday couldn't come soon enough, yet you wished it would never arrive. You found yourself both terrified and thrilled by the prospect of what she had in store for you. You tried to distract yourself with friends and more partying, but the thoughts of her kept creeping back in, unbidden and unwelcome.

[bubblegumrabbitwriting]

Do you have any physical description for the ROs?

Thank you for the ask, the descriptions are below -

Echo -

A short woman with warm, light brown skin, dark brown, messy curls, and similarly dark brown eyes. Angular facial features still carrying a hint of youthful softness at the edges, siren eyes, and a button nose. With a dusting of freckles along the bridge of their nose and under her eyes. Contrasted with golden nose and ears piercing. They have an average build.

Cyril/Cynthia -

Cyril: A tall man with olive skin, short wavy black hair, and amber/orange eyes. Diamond face shape with chiselled, sharp features and upturned eyes. They have no piercings and an athletic build. Cynthia: A very tall woman with olive skin, shoulder-length wavy black hair, and amber/orange eyes. Diamond face shape with chiselled, sharp features and upturned eyes. They have no piercings and an athletic build.

Achille/Aimee/Avril -

Achille: An average-height man with fair skin, short, straight, pale blond hair, and grey eyes. With a heart-shaped face and soft, pronounced features with hooded eyes. They have a single ear stud and a toned, lean build. Aimee/Avril: An average-height woman/person with fair skin, back-length, straight, pale blond hair, and grey eyes. With a heart-shaped face and soft, pronounced features with hooded eyes. They have a single ear stud and a toned, lean build.

Salem -

A tall woman with cool black skin, back-length, loosely curled hair, and light hazel eyes. Rectangle face shape with broad, well-defined features and almond-shaped eyes. They have a small scar cutting vertically up along their jaw on the left side of their face and a beauty mark under her right eye. They have small studs in both ears and a muscular build.

Harper -

An average height person with pale skin, chin-length shaggy auburn hair, and light green eyes. Heart face shape with delicate, soft facial features and round eyes. They have freckled cheeks and no piercings. With a lanky, slightly toned build.

[ronearoundblindly]

Wednesday ask!

Kinda silly, but do the guys have a game (uno, poker... etc) that they're good at?

-👜

Gang, I might be wrong on some of these, so be sure to tell me if there are other games you think the boys enjoy!

James Mace

Not for nothing but Mace loves solitaire. He does enjoy classic poker, of course, but he likes having a card game he can do alone with some thought and strategy. It's like therapeutic background noise: the order, the matching, the planning. Tons of different games are great, and he'll play whatever with anybody. Solitaire is what he wants to be good at consistently though.

Curtis Everett

OK honestly? He has the most fun with Uno. Good for all ages. Can get competitive but still light-hearted. Starts the stupidest, most hilarious fights among participants. Curtis loves it.

Jimmy Dobyne

Horseshoe or cornhole or maybe even axe throwing? Whatever it is, it's probably got to do with aim and is definitely outdoors. Helps that he can hold a beer in the other hand the whole time if he wants.

Johnny Storm

Twister, but not with Reed because he ruins it. Johnny likes the excuse to get handsy and stay nimble. Richards is both a killjoy and a showoff in that game. If Reed has to be there, then Dance Dance Revolution is the way to go because his brother-in-law may be flexible but he is not coordinated at all. Bonus points that Ben Grimm was always terrible at both of those games.

Jake Jensen

That's...not a video game??? Or Dungeons & Dragons?? Those are giveaways, really, but beyond that is probably Settlers of Catan (does not want to just call it just 'Catan'). Plays Risk, sure, though he grew up with Settlers and then later on found Risk.

Lloyd Hansen

Russian roulette lol, or rather, strip poker but sometimes the person he's playing with gets shot in a different appendage each time they lose. Lloyd still just strips. If he's feeling frisky, he takes out his switchblade and marks himself with a notch.

Ari Levinson

Chutes and Ladders or Yahtzee. Had both since he was a kid. Sticks with the classics. Doesn't necessarily play a lot of games anymore.

Ransom Drysdale

Cards Against Humanity. Ran is basically, genuinely 'against humanity' so no surprise there. Sneaks the most offensive of cards into stuffy bitches' purses just to mess with them. Nothing so satisfying as knowing a 60-some-year-old woman clutched her pearls after finding "three big black dicks" in her bag at the end of the night... It's the little things in life.

Andy Barber

Kinda...dislikes games in general??? He'll play them, but Andy would rather be watching a movie, a show, or a sports game (in person or on TV) then play any sort of board game. Knows how to play poker, etc, but not much of a betting man. Also not a fan of using skills of lying, bluffing, and hiding (aka having a poker face) outside of what's absolutely necessary for work.

Steve Rogers

Scrabble, the dweeb, because he both has a large vocabulary and always wants to increase his vocabulary. Knows a stupid amount of words with silent letters, X-s, Q-s, and Z-s. Will attempt to play with Cyrillic letters as a way to use Bucky's knowledge for good, clean fun. Is...not very good with Russian.

Bucky Barnes

Any sharp-shooting or precision game. Duck Hunt. Those water-gun things at carnivals. Air-gun stuff at the fair. Bucky was a sniper in the army before anything technically bad happened to him, and it's actually a skill he likes to keep honed and show off. Hope you like stuffed animals because you're getting won nine of them every date out!

[Main Masterlist; Who Would...Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[harrietwritesstuff]

Please, Zecron❤️ Maybe, Manu confesses his feelings to Ze, nervous, can you write this?

Hello anon! I hope you end up seeing this; I'm sorry it took me so long! Here's just short of 700 or so words. ❤️

-----

The noise of the train rattles through him, his body swaying gently with the movement of the carriage. The compartment feels impossibly small somehow, narrowed to a point, to the one man who sits opposite him who seems to fill every moment that drifts by, his every thought and feeling.

He had felt this once before - with Brigitte - but, this is new, strange - wonderful. It had come upon him, suddenly and unexpectedly ripping the breath from his lungs, his heart pounding. Could he pinpoint the moment? No. It had been, he presumes, just one second in a thousand- perhaps a glance or a touch. It had been a spark, his whole self set alight.

He never wants to be extinguished.

Emmanuel cannot look away, even as Vova's attention is taken by something on the page before him, the text large but the cyrillic still mostly incomprehensible to Emmanuel. He watches as Vova cocks his head to one side, taps a pen against his bottom lip. His gaze shifts to the sprinkling of grey in his beard - more than last time; older, more tired, more wondrous.

This shard of knowledge surprises him with its sharpness. 

He swallows, his mouth dry. Vova glances up at him and smiles. 

He looks beautiful, the sweet golden light from the window floods his face as the train rattles onwards. 

“Have you tried the tea?”

Emmanuel shakes his head - still mute and wonders briefly if clairvoyance is one of Volodymyr's innumerable talents.

“It's good. Here.”

He places his pen down, busies himself then with the minutiae of a small packet of tea, a glass cup full of steaming water. An utterly mundane action, and Emmanuel can do nothing but watch, enraptured; Vova carefully practiced, brewing the tea as he narrates softly in loosened English - glimmers of his childhood gently shared, long train rides full of books, chatter, tea in the same glass mugs. 

“Look - you see the metal holder, the podstakannik?” Vova beckons him to look closer; he does - but his attention is snared not by the intricate design but by Vova’s steady, careful hands. His own shake as he reaches out, curves his hand around Vova's smaller one, his heart thumping.

This seems different to all the other times their hands have brushed, fingertips grazing, tangled sometimes, hands on biceps, pressed against the others back - hold on, to be held.

“Hm?”

Vova looks up, his head on one side, patiently waiting.

“I–”

“We will be in Kyiv before you continue talking,” the joke is light, affectionate even - Emmanuel has not moved his hand, but then neither has Vova, a light in his eyes that has nothing to do with the reflection from the windows, the sunlight still streaming in.

“I-I love-”

The way you laugh, as rare as it is - how your whole face is brimful of light, your soul eased for a moment, your eyes crinkled at the edges. I love when I can make you laugh.

The way you listen - with your whole self to the most mundane things I have to say; when I tell you about the journey here and you listen with the same patient intensity as the time I told you about the coalition of the willing.

How deeply you feel, even now when you could have barricaded yourself against it; that you still remain open to joy, hard to find though it often is, but grief too, entwined with your people as they mourn.

“I love– you-” the last word comes out as a breath and he feels a tremor flicker through Vova's fingers, nestled beneath his.

“I know.”

His reply is simple, quiet - as though there could be no question about it, no hesitation or nerves.

After the reply then, his heart thumping, hands shaking - Vova leans forward, a free hand finding Emmanuel's cheek, cupping his face, tilting it - just so, and then- ah.

The light floods in.

[harbinger-0f-spring]

Do you have any hcs about Corvus Lestrange I and Falco's mother?

Corvus Lestrange (I) was the brother of Cyrille Lestrange (I). The first named Falco Lestrange was the son of Corvus.

Personally, I believe Corvus and Cyrille’s mother was Nozéa Trouche. There have been a couple mutuals of mine who have thought the same, so I kinda just went along with the idea.

Nozéa tended to adorn herself in gothic attire, taking comfort in a wardrobe that consisted of dark-colored gowns. Appearance-wise, she was a maiden with hair of a starless night, purely black like a raven’s feathers. Nozéa bore sharp blue eyes that assessed her acquaintances with such intensity, it made them go weak in the knees, but in which held much wisdom born from tragedy.

Lady Trouche was a true beauty. It is noted that her descendant, Nozéa Lestrange, looks much like her.

[evilasiangenius]

Sneak peek of a human au where Aziraphale works at a university and Crowley works in a corporate office down the street and there is genderfuckery and Crowley is already engaged to be married to someone else and

On the way back, heavy dark clouds that had threatened the skies all morning finally yielded to rain. A lovely, warm rain, as if a lukewarm shower and Mr. Fell immediately unfolded his umbrella and briskly walked back through the city-embedded campus, humming pleasantly to himself.

And there, sitting on the edge of the great fountain outside the library was the mysterious woman in her neat black suit standing in the warm rain and if he didn’t know better, she was crying.

“Goodness,” Mr. Fell whispered to himself and he hurried over to her side, covering her with his umbrella.

“It’s fine,” the woman said, automatically, as he stood over her with his cream-colored umbrella that shielded her from the rain. “I’m fine, you don’t need to do that.”

“Erm,” Mr. Fell said, fumbling for his handkerchief and handing it over to her. “Please, you’re all wet from the rain.”

She took the handkerchief from him and carefully dabbed at the corner of her eyes before dabbing at her hair and her face, the neat-tailored shoulders of her suit.

“Are you all right, Miss…?”

“Crowley. And I’m fine. And you are?”

“Senior Archivist, Specialist in Classics,” he said reflexively. “I’m technically faculty too, sometimes.”

“Your name?” Crowley asked, eyebrow arched.

“Oh. Erm, you can call me Mr. Fell. I work in the university library. Though I dabble in Sanskrit texts sometimes. And Old Church Slavonic. And…”

“Cyrillic?” She smiled. “Coptic? And demotic Greek?”

“How did you know?” Mr. Fell brightened up.

“Anything derived from a Greek alphabet, I imagine.”

“Yes, actually,” Mr. Fell said, impressed. “Did you study Classics too?”

“No, I just pay attention,” Crowley shrugged and gestured for him to sit, which he did, shrouding them from view with his big umbrella. “Your handkerchief smells nice.”

“Thank you. It’s an–”

“An old custom. Scenting handkerchiefs with perfume.”

“Yes, quite. Aqua di Parma, Colonia. If you like it, you may keep the handkerchief,” Mr. Fell said, in a moment of inspiration.

“No. It wouldn’t be wise,” Crowley said, handing him the handkerchief back. “Thank you for letting me use it. I would have had it cleaned for you, but there are some reasons that it would be better and safer in your hands. It smells nice though. Very fresh, very pretty.”

“Funny, I wouldn’t call it pretty.”

“No? What then?”

“Practical, I think. Invigorating? Aromatic. If your nose is very close, I find the citrus is actually quite sharp, almost offensive. As if to say, keep me at arm’s length, or else beware!”

Crowley laughed, a little, and he was unreasonably cheered that she thought him funny.

“Are you all right?”

“Of course,” she smiled, though there was a sadness in her eyes that disappeared from sight once she put on her sunglasses.

“Erm, if you like,” Mr. Fell said, reaching into his other coat pocket and bringing out a paper napkin-wrapped package. “I took some extra biscuits from the lunch lecture for our student workers; perhaps you’d like one?”

He unwrapped the package, and from the stack of cookies she took a single chocolate chip cookie, which he then rewrapped and slid back into his pocket.

“Thank you,” Crowley said, taking a small, hesitant bite before sighing as the taste of the food filled her mouth. She ate the cookie in quick delicate polite bites, before licking her fingertips clean, careful not to smudge her pink-hued lipstick.

“Would you care for another one?”

“No, I’m all right, thank you. Save them for your students.”

“University catering bakes excellent biscuits but they’re wasted on the faculty and staff. We can hardly eat all of them so most of us take stacks of them back to our offices for the kids.”

“You are very kind and thoughtful, Mr. Fell,” Crowley began but then straightened up stiffly, nothing like that comfortable and cozy sprawl that he had seen in the back study room. She glanced at her watch, it was a delicate affair, black with crimson hardware, studded with tiny diamonds, and he noticed that she wore a striking platinum ring upon her left ring finger gleaming with rubies and a substantial, ostentatiously beautiful diamond in the center.

A very different world, Mr. Fell thought.

“I had better go, my break is almost over. I’m sorry to have kept you, Mr. Fell. A pleasure to meet you,” Crowley smiled, cool and polite.

“Take my umbrella,” Mr. Fell suggested. “It’s only a few steps from here into the library, I’ll be fine. But you have something more of a longer walk, don’t you?”

“I’m fine, I have one of my own,” Crowley said, and she unfolded a parrot-headed umbrella that he had not noticed; it was black and nondescript, but for a silvery interior lining that seemed to reflect upon and brighten her beneath its protective dome.

[dysphanic-redshift]

Hi,

Conlangs. More stuff below

An example. Coil's phinisher in playish

Its uh. Really simple actually. The conlangs that is. It's mostly just.. symbol ciphering them. But I also applied different pronunciations to everything. And latinization so it can be typed. But that hasn't been unlocked yet so

All the symbols and such are based off actual languages!

Blackrockian - Cyrillic + runic. Sharp angles that'd be easy to carve into stone

Templian - coptic, demotic, & arabic. I was thinking smth you could engrave in clay and such

Thievian - japanese/chinese. I tried to make it look like smth you could carve into wood or tree bark bc I like to think that's how written thievian began

Playish - sanskrit but very specifically what you find on palm-leaf manuscript. Bc I think etching msgs into leaves could be neat

[dailydemonspotlight]

I'm so so so in love with the content you make on this blog, thank you so much for all the effort you put into researching each demon!

Is it possibile to ask for some insights on muu shuwuu?

Have a nice day!

Muu Shuwuu - Day 85

Race: Raptor

Arcana: Temperance

Alignment: Dark-Law

August 2nd, 2024

The obscurity of several demons throughout the SMT series isn't often a point of contention- most demons, barring a few (cough, cough, Arahabaki,) have rather open-and-shut cases, and their origins are easily able to be traced, as are their stories. However, sometimes, it's not that easy, and sometimes the source mythology itself is so obscure it's hard to get a grasp on. We've already seen this with poor ol' Porewit, but another case of this lies in the somewhat off-kilter religion of Tengrism, and, more specifically, a rather bizarre spirit from said religion. Today's Demon of the Day is that creature, one created out of a dead woman who never got to experience love, Muu Shuwuu.

Sources and stories relating to this demon are scant, even for this series- as an obscure monster from an already obscure religion, Mu Shuvuu (also referred to as Moh Shuvuu, Maγu Sibaγu, Moshobo, or Muu Shubuu in several different sources) is a tough nut to crack. Almost all sources about this bird are in different languages, whether it be Japanese, German, or Russian, and as such it'll be hard to get direct quotes for a lot of sources. Given the hellish mixture of a lack of primary/secondary sources, Google Translate having to try its damndest to translate the few articles I can track down, but I've managed to get a general idea of what it's going for thanks to the Internet Archive.

Mentioned within the text 'Demonology, Ritual Principles, and Worship Grimoires,' Muu Shuvuu makes an appearance concretely in English. Thank YHVH. In the text, the Tengri demonness appears listed as an example of an evil spirit from another culture. Her name literally meaning 'evil bird,' the spirit is noted as being dangerous to entire groups of people, though especially so to lonesome travelers or those with soft hearts. Appearing as a kind, lonely young girl, she'd always be hiding her mouth out of fear of revealing her beak...

According to the text, Mongolian principles state that a person has two or three types of souls within them, and Moh Shuvuu is made up of that third kind of soul- the type that can form into a spirit after death. A Muu Shuwuu specifically seems to form from a combination of factors, namely being a young girl who either died without ever experiencing love, died and had their father place a flint into her hand posthumously, or experienced a violent death. This would eventually lead to their spirit growing restless and rising from their corpse, forming into, what else, but a Muu Shuwuu itself. The bird would then go around seeking vengeance for its lack of love, proceeding to seduce men who would approach, or pretend to be a lost little girl in order to get the man to let his guard down. Then, after bringing the man to a safe location, she would proceed to kill him and suck his brain out of his head with her sharp beak. Again, a lot of this is hard to prove confidently, given that I'm mostly working off of wikipedia articles and spotty translations- most sources are exclusively either Japanese or use Cyrillic, which I can't translate due to not having a keyboard for either alphabet- but for the most part, I can glean that she sucks out the brain for sustenance.

I think, and this is based mostly off of speculation from the articles referenced above, that Muu Shuwuu actually isn't a mix of a bird and girl like in SMT- no, apparently she is able to shift between the two forms, the young girl's form being a disguise so she can then slaughter the man later on as a bird. This seems to make Muu Shuwuu less of a harpy and more of, well, a bird! That aside, though, I do have to admit that the design in SMT works very well- to an extent, this is what I wish Hua Po actually looked like, given the bird theming throughout her original story, but I might be asking for a bit much here. Still, if any of you can find any further sources on this demon, I'd happily take them, as I'm not quite satisfied with this simple of a rundown. Regardless, though, I have to thank SMT for making a demon from such an obscure concept, even if that would eventually down the line lead me to a strange, bottomless spiral of research.

Tengrism is fucking weird, man.

[put-me-out-of-my-destiny]

Today, I'm making another Devil May Cry OC post. Though, depending on how you look at them, this post is actually about three OCs.

The OC in question is a human/demon hybrid similar in nature to Dante and Vergil, though their demon parent is actually a Cerberus. They weren't conceived the good-old-fashioned way, but through artificial insemination facilitated by the Antagonistic Military Organization I've mentioned before (in a series of posts linked in my pinned post, under "The Machiavelli Duology").

While the AMO doesn't covet demonic power the way the Order Of The Sword did, I don't think they're squeamish about using demonic power or even demonic labor, so long as it can be done safely (for themselves, of course, not for the demons involved).

This character's purpose is to be some kind of bodyguard. For what or for whom, I haven't decided.

Generally, they appear as a human, with the only abnormal traits being very dark green hair, sharp canines, and very unnatural eye colors (though they are rather tall at 1.996 meters, or 6 feet and 6.6 inches). While they do not have three heads like a full-blooded Cerberus, they are essentially three beings sharing a single body. They are about 21 years old as of the events of Devil May Cry 5.

While the AMO generally just refers to this character as "dog", each "head" does have their own name they use for themselves.

Chase (He/Him/His)

Chase is the head most useful to the AMO. He, as is tradition, can conjure and command ice to fire ranged attacks, to create armor for himself, and to slide around in a fashion similar to Dante's Trickster style, or perhaps like V's 'run' where he rides on top of Shadow.

He isn't necessarily loyal to their cause, in fact he doesn't ask questions about it at all. He's acutely aware that he was created to serve them, and views them as his purpose. Outwardly he's very cold and stoic, but privately he's very sad and angry about his lot in life. He can be arrogant due to his power, but he would graciously accept defeat if he lost in a fair fight.

When he is in charge, his irises are cyan.

Clementine (She/Her/Hers)

Clementine is very inconvenient for the AMO. She conjures and commands water to attack with energy waves like those produced by Drive/Overdrive/Showdown, to trap enemies in bubbles similar to those created by Geryon demons or Ragtime, and to Air Raid as though she's swimming through the air.

Clementine is strongly opposed to the AMO's cause, and wishes to stop them and secure independence for herself. She has compassion for demons and humans alike, and this includes herself and her fellow heads. She has a fun-loving attitude, and lives in the moment rather than regretting the past or worrying about the future (which may lead her to be reckless).

When she is in charge, her irises are a very deep blue.

Her body does alter itself to reflect her gender, as it belongs to her just as much as it does to Chase. This, along with her outspoken attitude, led to the AMO quickly discovering her existence.

This motivated them to engineer a collar, which suppresses Clementine, prevents Chase from accessing restricted locations or attacking AMO personnel, and can suppress his powers with the press of a button.

Cyril (They/Them/Theirs)

Unlike Clementine, the AMO doesn't know Cyril exists, as they've made a point to stay under the radar. They conjure and command vapor to scald enemies with hot steam, to shock them with storm clouds, and to Air Hike around by forming clouds beneath their feet.

Cyril is motivated mostly by self interest, and cooperates with the AMO because they're a consistent source of food and security, though perhaps they're just biding their time hatching a plot of their own. Unlike Chase, who does feel some remorse for the cruel acts he commits for the AMO, Cyril doesn't have much regard for beings they see as weaker than themselves, as is typical for demons. However, they won't go out of their way to be cruel, and wouldn't be as reluctant to turn on the AMO as Chase.

When they are in charge, their irises are pure white.

Their body usually stays in whichever form the previous head to be in charge left it in, as they have no strong preference between the two states (though they do get a kick out of having boobs).

Cyril and Clementine would be willing to cooperate to resist the AMO, and Clementine could convince Chase to act on his conscience rather than his loyalty. She's sort of a mediating force between the two, and is the best head to be considered "in charge".

Besides the trio's command over water in its various states, I can imagine they can transform into a large demonic dog (still with just one head) at will for an alternate set of attacks. On top of this, I like the thought of them having access to a Doppelganger-like state where all three "heads" can be active at once (perhaps attained with a shard of Yamato's original blade, like the one Balrog used to enter the Human World?). Their ultimate power would be their "true form", where they essentially become a werewolf that can access their human and dog movesets with the benefits that would be expected from a standard Devil Trigger.

As for their power level, I think they can defeat King Cerberus, though not as easily as Dante, mainly due to the advantage of formal combat training. They'd ultimately lose if they challenged Trish or Lucia (and even Lady if she knew what she was up against), and they wouldn't stand a chance against Nero, let alone Dante or Vergil.

All that's left to answer is, how would the trio get along with the main cast?

Dante would really feel for chase. He knows what it's like to feel unworthy of love or happiness. At the same time, he wouldn't hesitate to kill him if it proved necessary. Clementine would admire Dante a lot, and I think he and Cyril could hang out (though perhaps they'd challenge Dante's appetite, hogging the pizza is a grave offense to him).

Trish and Clementine would get along, and Trish wouldn't mind Cyril so long as they behaved themself. She would probably have the most patience for Chase, given that she also used to be on the wrong side, and changed her path because someone showed her compassion.

Lucia would be vehemently opposed to the AMO, in part due to their association with the Uroboros Corporation, and like Dante, she'd be willing to kill Chase despite her sympathy for him. Clementine would also admire her, though she'd be saddened by her anxiety about her demonic nature. I think Lucia would dislike Cyril for leaning into such a demonic "might-makes-right" attitude.

Lady and Chase could work well together if they were on the same side. Clementine would feel really gay for her. Cyril would dislike her, she's a hardass like everyone in the AMO, but she has a strong (and annoying) moral compass too.

Cyril's selfishness would remind Vergil too much of his youth, it would make him cringe. He and Chase could comfortably coexist in the same space without making conversation. I don't think there'd be any strong feelings, positive or negative, between him and Clementine.

Nero and Chase would initially butt heads, but I could see them finding common ground and growing to be close friends over time. He and Clementine could also get along, they're both rebels. Cyril is on very thin ice with him, Cyril thinks he's a hardass.

Chase would remind Kyrie a little bit of Credo. Not sure if that means she'd like him or if that means she'd be cautious around him. He'd like her, though, Nero's a lucky man. Clementine and Cyril would be good influences on her, encouraging her to think, speak, and act for herself.

Nico and Clementine would get along really really well. Dream blunt rotation. She and Cyril could hang out too, and she'd even get a kick out of pushing Chase's buttons (he'd warm up to her with time, though).

And, as a bonus, how they'd get along with my other OCs:

Slink (see this post) would find Chase very intimidating. He'd get along with Cyril at first, but they exhibit a lot of the attitudes that made living in the Underworld a nightmare for Slink. Clementine's the only one who Slink would really like, but even then he'd be worried about her leading trouble to his doorstep.

Bhumi (see this post) would relate strongly to Clementine, being the big sister who had to step up and take care of her little brothers. She'd be more tolerant of Cyril's flaws, due to just how common they are in the Underworld. I don't think she'd feel very strongly about Chase.

Varuna (see the post linked with Bhumi) would get along really well with Clementine, their personalities match up just like their elements. He could have fun with Cyril too. He and Chase would clash, though, he's kind of a stick in the mud.

Aphrodite (see this post) could get along with anyone Nico can get along with. Though, perhaps Chase would side with Lady when she questions Nico's choice to date a devil arm, let alone one created by the same guy who created Artemis, which possessed Lady for a whole month (and that's not to mention Machiavelli's involvement with the AMO). Clementine would encourage Nico to follow her heart and not to judge Aphrodite for where she comes from, and Cyril simply wouldn't give a shit.

Kyrie's minions (look under "The one where Kyrie gains her own demonic minions, like V's familiars, but based on bosses from Devil May Cry 4" in my pinned post) would generally share Kyrie's feelings toward the trio, and would agree with Clementine and Cyril that Kyrie should be a little more selfish.

[strawberrypinky]

"Aesop Cyril Sharp. Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife? To live together in the holiest state of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her in sickness and in health and forsaking all other keep thee only unto her, for as long as ye both shall live?"

No words had ever spilt from his lips with as much ease as the ones that followed – a reverent promise, a vow, his eyes meeting hers, his voice strong and assured.

"I will."

❀

all your loving (all or nothing) part three - coming very soon

❀

part one ❀ part two

— moodboard curtesy of @legacygirlingreen

❀